“To Miss Martha Rutherford, Sponge Department, British Museum, London.
“My dear Miss Rutherford—Having promised to write you the dénouement, I do, of course; though the delay is longer than I expected when promising. It was most exciting. Peter Walsh upset theTortoise—on purpose I now think—but no one else has said soyet—and Lord Torrington swam for his life while his lovely daughter wrung her lily hands in shrill despair, this being the exact opposite of what was the case with Lord Ullin’s daughter. Joseph Antony Kinsella and Jimmy and I rescued the drowning mariner in your boat. Frank would have done so too, for he says he never rescued any one from a watery grave—though he won a prize for life-saving in his swimming bath at school and I think he wanted to get a medal—but none of us have as yet, nor won’t—but he couldn’t get down the hill quick enough on account of his sprained ankle, so we were off without him. I jolly well ballyragged Joseph Antony Kinsella until he opened his last cask of illicit whisky. ‘Illicit’ is what both father and Lord Torrington called it and at first I didn’t know what that meant, but I looked it out in the dict. and now do know, also how to spell it, which I shouldn’t otherwise. Then we had a most frightful scene in Joseph Antony Kinsella’s cottage. Lady Isabel was splendid. I never knew any one could be in love so much, especially with Barnabas. The salt sea was frozen on her cheeks (it had been raining hard), and the salt tears in her eyes. Sylvia Courtney told me that that poem was most affecting, so I read it. Have you? Lord Torrington was frightfully stony-hearted at first and finished two mugs of illicit whisky (with hot water), coughing and swearing the whole time. Barnabas crawled. Then Mrs. Kinsella made tea and hot pancakes in spite of the baby, which screamed; and all was gay, though there was no butter. Peter Walsh came in while we were at tea, having righted theTortoiseand bailed her out, but he and Joseph Antony Kinsella went off together, which was just as well, for there weren’t too many pancakes, and Lord Torrington, when he began to soften down a bit, turned out to be hungry. In the end we all went home together in Joseph Antony Kinsella’s big boat, Lord Torrington having put on his clothes again and father’s oilskins, which were providentially saved from the wreck. Lady Isabel and Barnabas held each other’s hands the whole time in a way that I thought rather disgusting, though Cousin Frank says it is common enough among those in that state. I hope I never shall be; but of course I may. One can’t be really sure beforehand. Anyhow I shan’t like it if I am. Lady Isabel did, which made it worse. Father met us at the quay and said he didn’t believe there was a single grain of shot in the whole of Timothy Sweeny’s fat body and that the entire thing was a plant. I didn’t understand this at the time, though now I do; but it’s too long to write; though it would interest you if written.
“For days and days Lady Torrington was more obdurate than the winter wind and the serpent’s tooth. She said those two things often and often, and the one about the winter wind shows that she has read ‘As You Like It.’ I don’t know the one about the serpent’s tooth. It may be in Shakespeare, but isnotin Wordsworth’s ‘Excursion.’ I think she meant Lady Isabel, not herself. Barnabas slept in the Geraghtys’ gate lodge, a bed being made up for him and food sent down, though he was let in to lunch with us after a time. There were terrific consultations which I did not hear, being of course regarded as a child. Nor did Cousin Frank, which was rather insulting to him, considering that he can behave quite like a grown up when he tries. But all came right in the end. We think that Lord Torrington has promised to make Barnabas a bishop in the army, which Cousin Frank says he can do quite easily if he likes, being the head of the War Office. Father kept harping on, especially at luncheon, when Barnabas was there, to find out why they fled to Rosnacree. Rose, the under housemaid, told me that it came out in the end that Lady Isabel simply went to the man at Euston station and asked for a ticket to the furthest off place he sold tickets to. This, may be true. Rose heard it from Mrs. Geraghty, who came up every day to hook Lady Torrington’s back. But I doubt it myself. There must be further off places than Rosnacree, though, of course, not many. At one time there threatened to be rather a row about our not giving up the fugitives to justice, and Aunt Juliet tried to say nasty things about aiding and abetting (whatever they mean). But I said that wouldn’t have happened because we didn’t particularly care for Lady Isabel and simply loathed Barnabas, if it hadn’t been for the dastardly way Lord Torrington sprained Frank’s ankle, so that they had no one to blame but themselves. Lord Torrington, who isn’t really a bad sort at times, quite saw this and said he wouldn’t have sprained Frank’s ankle if he hadn’t been upset at the time on account of Lady Isabel’s having eluded his vigilance and escaped. This just shows how careful we ought to be about our lightest and most innocent actions. No one would expect any dire results to come of simply spraining a young man’s ankle on a steamer; but they did; which is the way many disasters occur and often we don’t find out why even afterwards, though in this case Lord Torrington did, thanks to me.
“Joseph Antony Kinsella and Peter Walsh and Timothy Sweeny and Patsy the smith came up one day on a deputation with a donkey load of turf for father and Lord Torrington, which seemed curious, but wasn’t, really because there were bottles and bottles of illicit whisky under the turf. Lord Torrington made a speech to them and said that all would be forgiven and forgotten and that he would leave the whisky in his will to his grandson, who might drink it perhaps; which shows, we think, that he is taking Barnabas to his heart, or else he would hardly be saving up the whisky in the way he said he would. So, as Shakespeare says, ‘All’s well that ends well.’
“Your affect, friend,
“Priscilla Lentaigne.”
“P. S.—I couldn’t write while they were here on account of the thunderous condition of the atmosphere and not knowing exactly how things would turn out, which is the cause of your not getting this letter sooner. Since they left, Barnabas and all, Aunt Juliet has dropped being a suffragette in disgust (you can’t wonder after the way Lady Isabel turned out to have deceived her) and has taken up appendicitis warmly. She says it’s far more important really than uric acid or fresh air, and is thinking of going up to Dublin next week for an operation. Father says it was bound to be either that or spiritualism because they are the only two things left which she hadn’t tried. It’s rather unlucky, I think, for Aunt Juliet, being so very intellectual. I’m glad I’m not.”
THE END