Lalage's Lovers Part 3

"Very," said my mother. "But I thought the Archdeacon went to Dublin yesterday. He certainly told me he was going. Did he come back at once?"

"So far as I know he hasn't come back."

"Then when did he say----"

"He didn't actually say it at all. He hardly ever says anything to me. I so seldom see him, you know."

This at least was true. Although the seat of the archdeaconry is in Drumbo, a town which contains our nearest railway station and which is our chief centre for local shopping, I had not spoken to the Archdeacon for more than three months. My mother seemed to be waiting for an explanation of my original remark. I gave her one at once.

"But it's exactly the kind of thing the Archdeacon would have said if he hadn't been in Dublin and if I had met him and if our conversation had happened to turn on Lalage Beresford."

My mother admitted frankly that this was true; but she seemed to think my explanation incomplete. I added to it.

"He went on to speak at some length," I said. "That is to say he would have gone on to speak at some length about the great importance of a mother's influence during the early years of a girl's life."

My mother still looked at me and her face still wore a questioning expression. It was evident to me that I must further justify myself.

"So I'm not doing the Archdeacon any wrong," I went on, "in putting into his mouth words and sentiments which he would certainly approve. I happen to have forestalled him in giving them expression, but he would readily endorse them. You know yourself that he's great on subjects like the sacred home influence of a good woman."

"I suppose," said my mother after a pause, "that you want to hear the whole account of Lalage's latest escapade?"

"Miss Battersby's version of it," I said. "I heard the Canon's after luncheon."

"And that story of yours about the Archdeacon----"

"That," I said, "was my way of introducing the subject without displaying what might strike you as vulgar curiosity. I have too much respect for you to heckle you with aggressive inquiries as if you were a Chief Secretary for Ireland and I were a Member of Parliament. Besides, I don't like the feeling that I'm asking blunt questions about Miss Battersby's private affairs. After all, she's a lady. I'm sure you'll appreciate my feelings."

"Lalage," said my mother, "is an extremely naughty little girl who will be a great deal better at school."

"But have you considered the plan from the point of view of the school you're sending her to?"

"Miss Pettigrew is an old friend of mine and----"

"Is she the schoolmistress?"

"The princ.i.p.al," said my mother, "and she's quite capable of dealing with Lalage."

"I wasn't thinking of her. As I told the Canon this afternoon, Lalage will probably be very good for her."

"She'll certainly be very good for Lalage."

"I'm not saying anything the least derogatory to Miss Pettigrew.

Schoolmasters are just the same. So are the heads of colleges. The position tends to develop certain quite trifling defects of character for which Lalage will be an almost certain cure."

"You don't know Miss Pettigrew."

"No, I don't. That's the reason I'm trying not to talk of her. What I'm considering and what you ought to be considering is the effect of Lalage on the other girls. Think of those nice, innocent young creatures, fresh from their sheltered homes----"

"My dear boy," said my mother, "what on earth do you know about little girls?"

"Nothing," I said, "but I've always been led to believe that they are sweet and innocent."

"Let me tell you then," said my mother, "that Lalage has a career of real usefulness before her in that school. Most girls of her age are inclined to be sentimental and occasionally priggish. Lalage will do them all the good in the world."

I wonder why it is that so many able women have an incurably low opinion of their own s.e.x? My mother would not say things like that about schoolboys, though they are at least equally sentimental and most of them more priggish. She is extremely kind to people like Miss Battersby, although she regards them as pitiably incompetent when their cosmetics are used on stable-boys. Yet she would not despise me or regard it as my fault if some one took my shaving soap and washed a kitchen maid's face with it.

"So," I said, "Lalage is to go forth as a missionary of anarchy, a ravening wolf into the midst of a sheepfold."

"The Archdeacon was saying to me this morning," said my mother, "that if you----"

"May I interrupt you one moment?" I said. "I understood that the Archdeacon was in Dublin."

"This," said my mother, "is another of the things which the Archdeacon would have said if he had been at home."

"Oh," I said, "in that case I should particularly like to hear it."

"He said, or would have said, that if you allow your habit of flippant talking to grow on you you'll lose all hold on the solemn realities of life and become a totally useless member of society."

"I quite admit," I said, "that the Archdeacon would have put it in pretty nearly those words if he had said it. I particularly admire that part about the solemn realities of life. But the Archdeacon's a just man and he would not have made a remark of that kind. He knows the facts.

I hold a commission in the militia, which is one of the armed forces of the Crown; auxiliary is, I think, the word properly applied to it. I am a justice of the peace and every Wednesday I sit on the judgment seat in Drumbo and agree with the stipendiary magistrate in administering justice. I am also a churchwarden and the Archdeacon is well aware of what that means. He would be the first to admit that these are solemn realities. I don't see what more I can do, unless I stand for Parliament. I suppose a const.i.tuency might be found somewhere which would value a man with a good temper and a little money to spare."

"Perhaps," said my mother smiling, "we'll find that const.i.tuency for you some day."

This was the first hint I ever got of my unfortunate destiny. It gave me a feeling of chill. There is nothing I want less than a seat in Parliament; but nothing seems more certain now than that I shall get one. Even then, when my mother made her first smiling reference to the subject, I knew in my heart that there was no escape for me.

CHAPTER III

Lalage's departure from our midst took place early in September and happened on a Wednesday, the day of the Drumbo Petty Sessions. Our list of malefactors that week was a particularly short one and I was able to leave the court house in good time to see Lalage off at the railway station. I was in fact, in very good time and arrived half an hour before the train was advertised to leave. Canon Beresford and Lalage were there before me. The Canon, when I came upon them, was pressing Lalage to help herself to chocolate creams from a large box which he held open in his hand. He greeted me with an apologetic quotation:

"Nunc vino peilite curas Cras ingens iterabimus sequor."

"When you come home for the Christmas holidays, Lalage," I said, "you'll be able to translate that. In the meanwhile I may as well tell you that it means----"

"You needn't," said Lalage. "Father has told me four times already. He has been saying it over and over ever since breakfast. It means that I may as well eat as much as I can now because I shall be sick to-morrow any way. But that's all humbug, of course. I shouldn't be sick if I ate the whole box. Last Christmas I ate three boxes as well as plum pudding."

I felt snubbed. So, I think, did the Canon. Lalage smiled at us, but more in pity than in balm.

"I call this rather a scoop for me," said Lalage.

"I'm glad of that," I said, "for I've brought a bottle of French plums from my mother and a box of Turkish Delight which I bought out of my own money."

"Thanks," said Lalage. "But it wasn't the chocolates I was thinking of. The scoop I mean is going to school. It's a jolly sight better than rotting about here with a beastly governess."

"You can't expect any governess to enjoy being robbed of her glycerine and cuc.u.mber," I said. "You wouldn't like it yourself."

"That wasn't the real reason," said Lalage. "Even Cattersby had more sense than that."