The Empire Trilogy Part 20

"Don't talk such utter bilge, boy!" snapped Edward, a purple flush rising to his cheeks. "I know a murderer when I see one! If you'd lived in Ireland as long as I have you wouldn't talk such drivel. You talk as if they're patriots when they're just a stupid and vicious rabble, out for what they can get!"

"Well, I don't know that I can altogether agree with you there," replied Danby with an irritating smile. "Shall we think of a few examples? How about that Lord Mayor of Cork chappie?"

"I know who you mean," piped Hall-Smith. "The one with the gorgeous name. What was it? MacSwiney..."

"That's the fellow. Went on hunger-strike and starved himself to death for the cause he believed in. To say that he was out for what he could get is absolute tommy-rot, sir, if you'll excuse me saying so."

"A fanatic! His head had been turned by the priests. Bleeding hearts and crucifixes!"

"That sounds suspiciously like bigotry to me, sir," intervened Maitland, sweetening his impertinence with a dimpled smile.

"Bigotry be d.a.m.ned!" roared Edward in a voice that made the windows rattle. "What's your name, you ill-mannered pup?"

"Maitland, sir."

Tight-lipped in an effort to prevent themselves smiling, the undergraduates exchanged covert glances. With a trembling hand Edward reached out for a gla.s.s of water and gulped it noisily. n.o.body said a word or looked in his direction. Presently he dropped his eyes and seemed surprised to find a plate of roast beef in front of him. Slowly he began to chew it. The meal proceeded in silence except for the c.h.i.n.k of plates and cutlery. The blood had drained from Edward's cheeks. His rasping breath was clearly audible.

Little by little, however, casual conversation grew up over this violent outburst like a benevolent cloak of gra.s.s and weeds hiding some unsightly abandoned object. The weather was discussed. Miss Archer pa.s.sed along a message from the far end of the table to inquire whether the young men had had good weather so far during their stay in Ireland. Yes, on the whole, reasonable enough, the answer came back. And soon the other ladies were pa.s.sing their inquiries along, like so many lavender-scented handkerchieves for the poor undergraduates to wipe their bleeding lips on and return. And then, when this had taken some of the chill from the air and the line of communication had become clogged with too many questions and answers coming and going, they began to sing out their questions directly, person to person. Even some of the ladies at the other table (where the Major sat like a block of salt in front of his untouched plate) were unable to resist carolling a question or two across the intervening s.p.a.ce-balm to the wounds of the nicely-spoken young men who had just suffered Edward's boorish outburst. In no time the cacophony had rendered even this method of communication uncertain. "It sounds like the parrot-house at the zoo," mused the Major grimly. And he glanced at Edward, who was staring straight ahead, features still set in a mask of rage from behind which, for the moment, the fire had consumed itself.

Besides, it was quite plain that the ladies had got the whole thing wrong-that far from being wounded the undergraduates were absolutely delighted with Edward's outburst and were thinking: "What a perfectly splendid old Tory! What a rare find!" The whole thing was priceless: the old ladies, the revolvers (what a shame they weren't loaded!), the decrepit palace around them-and brooding in the middle of it, John Bull! Never-say-die in person! The evening would make a rare saga when retold over beer-mugs in the b.u.t.tery next term. It might be ent.i.tled: "How Maitland Put His Cherubic Head In The British Lion's Mouth...And Got It Bitten Off!" Only Captain Roberts, who had lost his taste for battles of any description (even verbal), felt uncomfortable and heartily wished the meal were at an end.

Coffee, these days, was no longer served in a separate room but wheeled in tepid and acid to the tongue on a trolley by Murphy, who confected it himself out of heaven only knew what ingredients in some little alcove reserved for the purpose. The bright chatter of questions and answers had continued to ring undiminished throughout the dessert of apple fritters and Edward, brooding at the end of the table, was all but forgotten. But hardly had the first acid fumes of coffee from the approaching trolley reached the nostrils of the diners when he spoke again.

His words were lost in the hubbub to everyone except Danby, to whom they had been addressed. A chilled hush fell on the two long tables as Danby, smiling faintly, prepared to reply. At length, flicking aside the long lock of hair that drooped over one eye, he said: "That all depends, sir, from which side you look at it. From the point of view of the Volunteers the Easter Week rebellion must seem incredibly heroic and patriotic. As for being stabbed in the back, I'm afraid I don't quite see how you can justify that as a description of the situation."

"The British Army fought to defend Ireland against the Kaiser while the Catholics stayed at home safe and sound. Justify that if you can! And then...and then...and then they attacked the very lads who were giving their lives to save them! If that isn't treachery, I'm d.a.m.ned if I know what is!" And Edward sat back quivering with righteous indignation.

"But you don't even know your facts, sir...You don't even know your facts!" cried Danby, raising his voice to the thrilling pitch that had so often brought him deserved applause from the Oxford Union. "I say again, you don't even know your facts...Do you realize that there were a hun-dred thousand, I repeat, a hundred thousand Catholic Irishmen fighting in the British Army? There was no question of treachery at all. The war against the Kaiser had nothing to do with the fight for Ireland's freedom."

"Pacifists! It's all very well for you lily-livered youngsters who were hiding at home behind your mother's skirts. Think of the men who were risking their lives in France and risking them for you you! Major, you were risking your life in France... Perhaps you'd tell these young pacifists whether it was treachery or not!"

The Major sat dumbly at the end of his table. There was a long, an interminable silence. Even Murphy, carrying round the cups of coffee, froze in his tracks and arrested his laboured breathing. At length the Major heaved a sigh and said, softly but audibly: "You're perfectly right, Edward. I think we all felt we'd been stabbed in the back."

"There, you see," cried Edward triumphantly.

"What did I tell you? Treachery!"

But Danby, his eyes twinkling with the pleasure of doing battle with this redoubtable old juggernaut, appeared not in the least abashed. He smiled impishly at his friends and then said: "Really, sir, you can't cla.s.sify us all as cowards quite as easily as that. My friend Captain Roberts here, for example, served most heroically in France and I believe he feels, as we all do, that the Easter Week affair was perfectly justified. How about it, Roberts?"

Once again there was a pause and a seemingly interminable silence while everyone held their breath. Captain Roberts blinked and licked his lips. His balding undergraduate head was a great ma.s.s of wavy wrinkles as he contemplated the toad which had been put on his plate. For a moment even Danby wondered whether he might not have been over-confident. But then at last Captain Roberts cleared his throat and murmured hoa.r.s.ely: "Perfectly justified...We all thought so..."

He had opened his mouth wide. He had swallowed the toad. "Good old Roberts!" the undergraduates were thinking and, beside him, Bunny Burdock surrept.i.tiously gave his arm an encouraging, comradely squeeze. But Captain Roberts was careful to avoid the Major's eye.

A thunderous crash cut short the undergraduates' jubilation. It came from Edward's heavy oak chair, which had flown back ten feet and overturned. He was on his feet, his face white and working with fury, glaring at Roberts. But then, without a word he turned and strode out of the room.

The Major, who had glimpsed the expression on his face, hurried after him, napkin in hand-but when he reached the door he thought better of it. He listened to the diminishing echo of Edward's heavy footsteps on the tiles of the corridor and then, folding his napkin, returned to his place.

It was at this moment that Maitland, who had taken a sip of Murphy's bitter brew, took the lid off the sugar-bowl in front of him. Instead of lumps of sugar it contained a pile of dully glistening metal lozenges...revolver bullets! Making a droll face he picked one up, dropped it into his coffee and began to stir it with the barrel of the revolver beside his plate.

This was altogether too much for the undergraduates. They had been close to bursting all evening. Now all they could do was throw back their heads and howl with laughter till their ribs ached.

This great gale of youthful laughter filled the dining-room and echoed away down dim, empty corridors, ringing faintly through all the familiar sitting-rooms, dusty, silent and forgotten; penetrating to the floors above with their disused bedrooms and dilapidated bathrooms and to the damp, sleeping cellars, quiet now for eternity, unvisited except by the rats. It was such healthy, good-natured laughter that even the old ladies found themselves smiling or chuckling gently. Only Captain Roberts at one table and the Major at the other showed no sign of amus.e.m.e.nt. They sat on in silence, chin in hand, perhaps, or rubbing their eyes wearily, waiting in patient dejection for the laughter to come to an end.

The body might well have been left in the potting-shed where it had first been carried, or dragged rather, and laid out on a pile of old potato sacks. But the shed was a damp and draughty place, smelling strongly of earth and rotting vegetation. Gardening implements hung from nails, some of them so rusty that they were now only skeletons of themselves: a spade with its broad face eaten away, a rake with its teeth flaked into threads as thin as needles, all thanks to some gardener who in happier times had been too idle or trusting to oil the metal. Not so long ago, perhaps only two or three years earlier, some lazy person had dumped a pile of gra.s.s under the work-bench, the mowing from one of the lawns. In the interim it had turned into a yellowish, putrid ma.s.s with a hard outer crust indented with the print of a boot.

Altogether the potting-shed had seemed to the Major too stark and comfortless a place to leave a young man's body, even for so short a time. So with the help of Sean Murphy he had carried it into the house and placed it on a side table in the gun room. Here at least one could be fairly sure that the sight of it would not disturb the ladies. All the same, once it had been laid out on the table and Sean Murphy had retired, his friendly face still registering shock at this sudden contact with mortality, the Major found himself wondering whether it might not have been better to have left it where it was. The ragged clothes of a labourer, the muddy boots laced with string, the threadbare jacket and patched trousers-all this seemed out of keeping with the gracious oak panelling and the antlers on the walls, even when stretched horizontal with death on a side table. It was almost as startling, mused the Major, as finding a chimney-sweep lounging on the sofa in one's drawing-room. Now that it was here in the gun room the body seemed to have been more at ease in the potting-shed.

He stood back, head on one side and finger to his mouth. Well, it would be absurd to have it carried back to the potting-shed now. He would have done better to leave it as it was, perhaps, but there was no point in worrying about that. His eye fell on another incongruity: above the body on a shelf there were a great many tarnished silver cups, for Edward had been a marksman in his day. Still was, apparently, in spite of his shaking hands. But the less one thought about that the better.

Shaking his head wearily he looked round for something to throw over the dead man. But there was nothing, so he left the room for a moment and returned with a clean tablecloth which he unfolded and threw over the body, taking another look as he did so at the young man's white face and bright red hair, at the bluish eyelids which he had closed himself. The mouth was hanging open, however, and this gave the face an imbecile appearance. Turning, the Major's eye at this moment encountered the resentful, open-mouthed pike in the gla.s.s case over the mantelpiece and he thought: "That won't do at all. I must close the poor lad's mouth before it gets too stiff."

Touching the face gave him an unpleasant shock. The skin was still soft and pliable to his fingertips. It so obviously belonged to someone belonged to someone! He shuddered as he gently squeezed the chin until the lips closed.

But when he took his hand away the mouth fell open once more. He tried again and the same thing happened. The position of the head was wrong, that was the trouble. On the shelf below the silver cups he found a copy of Wisden's Almanac Wisden's Almanac for 1911 which he judged to have the right thickness. He blew the dust from it and slipped it under the boy's head. This time the mouth stayed closed. Taking a deep breath, the Major went to sit down in one of the armchairs by the empty grate. for 1911 which he judged to have the right thickness. He blew the dust from it and slipped it under the boy's head. This time the mouth stayed closed. Taking a deep breath, the Major went to sit down in one of the armchairs by the empty grate.

He sat for five minutes without moving a muscle. Then there was a knock on the door and Edward came in, somewhat apologetically.

"Ah, there you are, Brendan. I was wondering where you'd got to."

He looked round the room and gave a slight start when his eye fell on the bulging tablecloth. But he made no comment as he came to sit down opposite the Major. Nor did the Major speak.

Presently Edward, with his head tilted back and mouth open in a way that strangely resembled the corpse's att.i.tude of a few minutes earlier, said: "My nose has been bleeding... divil of a time trying to get it to stop. They say you should put a cold key down the back of your shirt, don't they, Brendan? Or is that collywobbles, I can never remember ?"

The Major made no reply. Edward sighed faintly and his uptilted gaze wandered around the panelled walls at the various antlers, at the winter forest of stags, at the ibex and antelope and zebra watching the men with calmly accusing gla.s.s eyes. For an instant the dreadful thought occurred to the Major that Edward had now gone completely insane and was looking for a place on the wall to mount the Sinn Feiner. But no, Edward had tugged a bloodstained handkerchief from his pocket and was patting his nostrils gingerly. His face had a.s.sumed a faintly martyred expression.

"What you don't realize, Brendan, is that we're at war...If people come and blow things up they must take the consequences! They must be taught a lesson!"

"Oh, Edward, these are our own people! They aren't the Germans or the Bolshevists...This is their country as much as it is ours...more than it is ours! Blowing up statues is nothing!" than it is ours! Blowing up statues is nothing!"

Edward's face darkened and he said bitterly: "I always knew you were on their side, Brendan. I'm only thankful that poor Angie didn't live to see it. A man of your background, I'd have thought you'd have been more loyal."

"Oh for G.o.d's sake shut up, Edward."

"I caught them at it red-handed. I don't shoot innocent people from behind hedges. It was perfectly fair."

"For days you've been waiting for them to come!" Edward grunted but made no attempt to deny it. In any case it was now clear to the Major why he had been spending so much time up on the roof. For days Edward had been using the statue of Queen Victoria the way a big-game hunter uses a salt-lick in the jungle, knowing that sooner or later it would become too much for them to resist. And what was the difference, he wondered, between shooting someone from behind a hedge and shooting them from a roof?

"It was perfectly fair!" Edward repeated, cracking his knuckles.

True, the Major was thinking. Edward probably did not see Sinn Feiners as people at all. He saw them as a species of game that one could only shoot according to a very brief and complicated season (that is to say, when one caught them in the act of setting off bombs).

"It was perfectly fair!" Edward said for the third time and the Major thought: "No, it wasn't that at all. It was an act of revenge. Revenge for his piglets. Revenge for Angela. Revenge for a meaningless life. Revenge for the accelerating collapse of Unionism. Revenge for the destruction of the sort of life he'd been brought up to. Revenge for the loss of Ireland." He didn't see Sinn Feiners as human beings at all. And after all, would the Sinn Feiners be any more likely to see Edward as a human being and take pity on him?

Edward was frightened, the Major realized abruptly. The man was terrified! That bullet-proof waistcoat had not been an idle whim, it had been a desperate measure to sh.o.r.e up his crumbling nerve. Suddenly this was so clear to the Major that he wondered why he had not realized it before.

"You'd better go upstairs and go to bed," the Major said, not unsympathetically. "You're exhausted. I'll see to the doctor and the D.I. when they get here."

But when Edward had left him alone with the presence bulging under the tablecloth all the horror returned. He saw Edward triumphantly dragging the dead Sinn Feiner across the gravel. He closed his eyes...Edward comes nearer and nearer, one of the dead man's ankles gripped under each armpit like the shafts of a hand-cart. Behind him the heavily muscled shoulders and lolling head leave a long trail on the dew-laden gravel and the friction causes the arms to spread out wide into the att.i.tude of crucifixion. Released from somewhere inside the house, the Afghan hound comes bounding up and whisks cheerfully around the body which Edward is dragging towards the potting-shed.

"Thank heaven I sent the twins away. Edward will go too now. Today or tomorrow. As soon as possible."

The Major underwent a craving to light his pipe, but respect for the dead young man across the room prevented him. Thwarted, the craving for tobacco transformed itself into a craving for something else that was normal-anything: to go fishing, to watch a cricket match, to take tea with his aunt in Bayswater. He couldn't, of course. Everything had to be settled in Kilnalough. Besides, his aunt was dead also-for a moment he found himself thinking of her with great sadness and love. But then the bulging tablecloth restored him to that morning's tragedy.

He looked at his watch and was astonished to see that it was not yet eight o'clock, scarcely breakfast-time. Had his watch stopped? No. Which meant that little over an hour had elapsed since he had been woken by the explosion which had preceded the firing of a single shot.

At first, examining the body in the potting-shed, he had been unable to find any trace of a wound and had wildly hoped that he had been deceived, that there had been no shot from the roof, that the lad had been killed in some other way-by the blast from the explosion, perhaps. But then, looking more carefully at the lolling head he had seen the widened, blood-rimmed hole in the ear, which the bullet had exactly entered. Suddenly the head moved. Balanced on folded potato sacks, it had rolled a little to one side. Now, from that neatly circular but too large hole in the young man's ear, liquid began to well up-slow and thick, like dark oil from the neck of a bottle. The Major had watched it drip from the ear to the work-bench and from the work-bench to the putrid mown gra.s.s. Presently, however, it diminished and stopped.

"Who is it?"

A maid was standing timidly at the gun room door saying that the doctor and the man from the police...But they had already edged past her and entered the room, the doctor struggling forward with his frail, white head on a level with his shoulders. It was intolerable, thought the Major, that an old man should be got out of bed at such an hour of the morning. His shoelaces were undone and a spa.r.s.e frost of white beard showed on his cheeks. As he came forward he glanced once, briefly, at the Major with eyes that were alert and curiously full of sympathy, as if this body under the tablecloth were in some way related to the Major instead of a complete stranger.

"When you've finished here I shall go back with you into Kilnalough. I must speak to the boy's father..."

"That would be absurd, Major."

The Major pa.s.sed a hand over his brow, which was damp with perspiration. "Of course he must have been told by now. There's nothing I can say to console him, I realize that. All the same I must speak to him. He must be told that Edward acted only for himself. What he did was inhuman and intolerable...I tried to get him to leave with the twins but he refused, yet perhaps I didn't try hard enough to persuade him. I should have realized what he was up to, but I never thought...For the past few weeks he has been full of hatred and despair. I tried to get him to leave...He's a little mad, I'm sure. Why should I be responsible for everything he does? The man is no concern of mine. This morning he accused me of being disloyal! It's intolerable...and yet what can I do? People must be told that Edward is no longer able to control himself. I'll see that he goes away, of course, whether he wants to or not. Clearly he can't stay here. The boy's father mustn't be allowed to think of his son as a martyr of the British, that would be unjust. What hope is there for Ireland if people are allowed to behave in this way? That poor boy was the victim of a private hatred and despair...I'm sure you understand me, Doctor. If you don't understand me, n.o.body will!"

The old man sighed and shook his head, raising a feeble hand to pat the Major's arm. But he had nothing to say.

Later, while waiting for the doctor, the Major stood beside the shattered statue of Queen Victoria and talked with the D.I., whose name was Murdoch, a curiously dry, pedantic man with a crooked smile which lit up one side of his face in wrinkles, leaving the other perfectly smooth. He had reacted to the death of the Sinn Feiner with equanimity, if not indifference. At most he had betrayed a mild, as it were, official satisfaction that a criminal had received punishment. The Major conceived a dislike for him and turned his attention to the statue.

It had been damaged but not completely destroyed. Although a gaping hole had appeared in the horse's flanks, the august cavalier had managed to remain in the saddle, leaning acutely sideways in the manner of a bareback rider in a circus ring. The blast had immodestly lifted her steel skirts a few inches, he noticed.

"Gelignite and a coffee tin," explained Murdoch at his elbow. "A temperamental explosive which kills the Shinners and British with perfect impartiality. In Irish they call the stuff 'Bas gan Sagart'-'Death without the priest.'" And while one half of Murdoch's face remained smooth and solemn, the other half lit up with wrinkled glee.

Later again the Major sat for a long time in the room of the priest, Father O'Byrne, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence. The room was very small, dark and cluttered with books. The Major was abominably tired. He frequently looked at his watch, but the hours of the morning refused to pa.s.s.

"Edward Spencer is a coward and a murderer, Major... You're a poor sort of man that you'd take it on yourself to make excuses for him."

The Major was abominably tired. Yet he was fascinated by the priest's threadbare ca.s.sock and by the hatred in his eyes. At length he lifted his eyes from the Major's face to the crucifix on the wall. To the Major the steadiness of this gaze on the crucifix seemed blind, inhuman, fanatical. The yellowish naked body, the straining ribs, the rolling eyes and parted lips, the languorously draped arms and long trailing fingers, the feet crossed to economize on nails, the cherry splash of blood from the side...

"That boy got what he deserved," he said harshly. "I only hope it may serve as an example to some of the other young cut-throats who are laying Ireland to waste!"

And with that he turned and strode out of the house, slamming the door with a crash.

In the weeks which had elapsed since the night of the ball the health of Mr Norton had declined steadily. It was hard to say whether this was because the poor man had over-exerted himself on the dance-floor or whether it was merely a natural and inevitable decline of the faculties. In any event, he was now confined to bed, his mind wandering indiscriminately between mathematics and the boudoir, sometimes chuckling to himself, sometimes in tears, but constantly demanding company and attention.

Their sense of duty overcoming their distaste, the ladies would sometimes take their knitting and climb the stairs to the first floor to sit with him. And while they knitted he would gabble long, incomprehensible equations interlarded with scarcely more intelligible descriptions of his encounters with that s.e.x to which, all his life, he had devotedly attempted to unite himself (only to finish his days, old and alone, between these chilly, rumpled sheets). The Major was sorry for him but glad, on the whole, that his reminiscences were so difficult to fathom...The s.n.a.t.c.hes that one could could understand were extraordinarily indecent, even to the Major's hardened military ears. understand were extraordinarily indecent, even to the Major's hardened military ears.

One day, afraid lest Mr Norton's ramblings should offend the ladies (particularly those whose honour had remained unimpaired by marriage), the Major brought him an arithmetic textbook belonging to the twins which he had happened to come across in a waste-paper basket unemptied since the previous winter. Mr Norton seized it with delight and in the few days that remained to him (before his rela-tions whisked him away to a more suitable inst.i.tution) recited mathematical problems without pausing for breath, answering each one promptly before proceeding to the next. The Major sometimes paused to listen to this litany, and one of the problems, in particular, remained in his mind. It concerned a man who was unable to swim and found himself in a leaking rowing-boat so many hundreds of yards from land. He was faced with the alternative of baling rapidly with a tin cup (volume so many cubic inches; maximum rate of baling movement so many times per minute), the water entering at such-and-such a speed; or of ignoring the leak and rowing furiously (at so many miles per hour) for the nearest land... or, of course, a combination of now one, now the other. How should this man best proceed?

"Can he make it?"

"Afraid not quite, old chap," replied Mr Norton with unexpected clarity.

"Ah," said the Major absently and wandered off puffing his pipe.

The Major was working hard these days, helped by Mrs Roche, Miss Archer and some of the other ladies. Edward's frame of mind had improved to some extent since he had killed a Sinn Feiner. An abscess had been lanced and a quant.i.ty of poison had been allowed to escape. Nevertheless the Major was aware that it would fill up again, given time.

Surprisingly docile at first, Edward had agreed to go to England and spend some time with the twins. He had even shown one or two faint traces of remorse. The Major had come upon him cleaning the congealed blood from the work bench in the potting-shed. On seeing the Major, however, he had stopped and walked out into the light drizzle, a hat-less and derelict figure. Latterly the Major had detected signs of renascent fear and bitterness. He was watching him more carefully now and it soon became clear that Edward was preparing plans for the defence of his estate. One evening when, in spite of the Major's absolute refusal to accommodate them, a frighteningly determined and aggressive young schoolmistress had succeeded in installing a brood of girl guides at the Majestic for the night, Edward, incoher-ent with whiskey and raddled with anger over the loss of Ireland, had discoursed to his t.i.ttering young guests and the gloomy, silent Major on fields of fire, enfilading machine-guns, flanking attacks and suchlike. It all boded ill. One must work quickly.

The explosion and the shooting had had at least one good effect: it had caused three of the less important ladies to leave immediately and had decided the others that they too must find a place to go. There was considerable distress, of course, in the residents' lounge, much weeping and sniffing of salts. But the Major was doing what he could to counter this despondency. He had written to the Distressed Gentlefolk's Aid a.s.sociation and was considering other possibilities. There must be girls' boarding schools in Egypt, India and other places (remote, certainly, but where the natives were better behaved than the Irish) whose dusky little pupils would benefit from the dignity and moral rect.i.tude of an elderly English lady, even an impoverished one. The trouble was that the ladies greeted this suggestion with further despondency and alarm, convinced that the Major was planning to send them off alone to some tropical knacker's yard.

Amid all this distress Mrs Roche was a great help and comfort. She encouraged the ladies, made practical suggestions, helped them to compose appealing yet dignified letters to more fortunate relations. She even took Edward in hand, telling him briskly that he shouldn't drink so much (which n.o.body else had dared do) and sewing a b.u.t.ton on his jacket. The Major at this time entertained a faint hope that Mrs Roche might at last discover a romantic interest in Edward-after all, he was still, with his ma.s.sive, handsome face and commanding presence, an imposing figure in his own way. But Mrs Roche had more sense and presently she left with her mother, Mrs Bates, for some happier destination. She left the Major wondering whether Edward could be relied on to look after Mrs Rappaport, since no inst.i.tution was ever likely to accept both her and the hideous marmalade cat, not to mention her revolver.

Miss Staveley, who, having the money, could have left, surprised everyone by remaining stalwartly where she was. Indeed, once Mrs Roche had left she took on her role of comforter and adviser, becoming, in her rather muddled way, a tower of strength. In general, after the first despondency had worn off morale was excellent. The ladies, in adversity, were determined to show "the stuff they were made of," which turned out to be a very tough weave indeed.

This was fortunate, because standards had yet again (and for the last time) begun to decline at the Majestic. By now most of the servants had vanished. From the day of the explosion they had gradually melted away, as native bearers on safaris are reputed to melt, one by one, into the jungle, taking with them anything of value that did not happen to be nailed down (not, however, that there was a great deal of value at the Majestic, nailed down or otherwise). Among the many objects whose disappearance for the most part went unnoticed the following items were seen to be missing: two of Edward's sporting rifles, his hunting pink, his velvet smoking-jacket, most of his fishing rods, a carved ivory chess-set from the residents' lounge, approximately half of the pile of stone hot-water jars on the first floor, a hundred weight of embossed cutlery and china (very popular), a portrait in oils of a former manager of the hotel clad in Napoleonic uniform, sheets, pillow-cases and blankets (also very popular), the unfortunate dog Foch (who had always been a great favourite with the kitchen staff) and the stuffed pike from the gun room.

One morning, returning up the drive from an early walk through the grounds, the Major was astonished to meet the cook, clad in a fur coat several sizes too big for her, with unlaced men's shoes on her feet, and pulling a hand-cart piled high with gilt chairs from the writing-room. At the sight of the Major she gave a shriek of fear and cried what sounded like: "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" But the Major averted his eyes and walked past her without even noticing, thereby proving to the cook the efficacy of prayer.

The cook was the last of the servants to go. Presently only Murphy remained, muttering to himself and haunting the staircases as he had always done. These days, of course, he was never asked to do anything, for his reason was quite clearly unhinged. He was merely there there, a cadaverous relic of a happier time. Occasionally someone might glance at him curiously and wonder why he did not leave too. But he didn't. He remained to lurk in the company of the silent, prowling cats in the shadowy upper storeys. People were too busy to bother about him.

There was the cooking to be done, for instance. Miss Johnston had taken charge of the kitchens and established a hierarchy of helpers whose jobs diminished gradually in importance from her own to that of poor Mrs Rice who was considered only capable of washing the dishes. Strangely enough, the food was better in these last few days of the Majestic's existence than it had been for many years-indeed, since the hotel had reached its zenith in the 1880s.

The ladies tied ap.r.o.ns round their waists and put their diamond rings in a saucer on the sideboard while they kneaded the dough for apple pies or disembowelled chickens with trembling fingers. How exciting it was! If only the future had seemed less uncertain how they would have enjoyed this challenge to abilities which since girlhood, throughout all their long, dull and genteel lives, had lain dormant! Moved, the Major watched them at work, Miss Bagley's rheumy eyes blurred by incipient cataracts, Miss Devere's head permanently bent to one side, Miss Johnston unable to stand up for long because her ankles would swell, Mrs Rice stooped over the sink with the steam clouding her pince-nez, and all of them, without exception, forgetting things ("Now what was it I was going to do?") and losing things ("Now where on earth did I put...?") which very often turned out to be in front of their noses.

But then with a start, the Major would remember that he had letters to write, that he must telephone Dublin, that he must put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Irish Times Irish Times...and many other things. In short, that he must continue to row furiously for the nearest land, for the boat continued to settle lower and lower in the water.

Unsavoury characters were noticed lurking among the trees (the Major remembered with nostalgia the "unsavoury character" they had hunted chuckling through the park on the afternoon he had first arrived). Worse, the ceiling of the writing-room descended with an appalling crash, ridden to the floor by the grand piano from the sitting-room above. For hours afterwards a thick white fog of plaster hung in the corridors, through which the inhabitants of the Majestic flitted like ghosts, gasping feebly.

PREMIER'S BID FOR PEACE Proposed Conference in London Following The King's Appeal for Reconciliation De Valera Invited by Lloyd George to LondonReuter's Paris Correspondent telegraphed yesterday: "Commenting this morning on the letter addressed to Mr De Valera inviting him to attend a conference in London with Sir James Craig to explore to the utmost the possibility of a settlement of the Irish question, Le Pet.i.t Parisien Le Pet.i.t Parisien lays special stress on the conciliatory and even friendly tone of the letter, which, in its opinion, marks a great and praiseworthy effort on the part of the British Government." lays special stress on the conciliatory and even friendly tone of the letter, which, in its opinion, marks a great and praiseworthy effort on the part of the British Government."

Every now and then, just for a moment, the Major would rest on his oars, lost in thought. It was early summer, a delightful season. The smell of gra.s.s and wood lingered delightfully under the mild sky. On his way to fix a FOR SALE notice to one of the gateposts he strolled through a grove of silver birches; it was hard to believe that there was any malice in Ireland. For a moment he felt almost at peace; but then it occurred to him that a few inches below where he was standing the rotting carcase of Rover sat up and begged, encased in earth.

A letter arrived from Faith with the news that Charity had fallen in love with Mimi's butler, Brown. But this was swiftly followed by a letter from Charity saying that it wasn't true. Besides, Brown was a Socialist and had ideas above his station and would the Major send her some money (it was hopeless asking Daddy) as she desperately needed some new clothes? She and Faithy were ashamed to be seen out of doors in their dreadful Irish rags and tweeds and all the men they met absolutely had fits when they saw what scarecrows they were. Also could the Major afford to buy them a motor car? In London a motor car was ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY! Just a small one would do as they didn't need anything big and it would only cost more. Mimi (Aunt Mildred) had crashed hers into a wall and the bally thing wouldn't work any more. A frightful bore! But the clothes were the most important because they simply couldn't wait and would he write back immediately sending a cheque.

The Major did write back immediately, sending a cheque for fifty pounds together with the news that Edward would be setting out for London in two days' time. He himself would follow when he had made final arrangements with an estate agent in Dublin. By now it was the end of June and almost everything had been settled. The dogs had been sent to a kennel while preparations were made for their new home. The ladies' trunks had been packed and delivered to the station, labelled for various destinations (those of Miss Bagley, Miss Porteous, Miss Archer, Mrs Rice and Miss Staveley all bore the address of a boarding-house on the Isle of Wight purchased expressly by Miss Staveley to give shelter to her friends, a most satisfactory conclusion). Old Mrs Rappaport had been dispatched to London, still armed to the teeth and the wonder of her fellow-pa.s.sengers, carrying the marmalade cat in a wicker basket. She was accompanied on her journey by an indigent cousin of Edward's, specially hired for the purpose.

In the course of Edward's last afternoon at the Majestic he and the Major took sledge-hammers and rained blows on Queen Victoria and her horse in an attempt to restore her to a more vertical position. For half an hour they hammered away at her shoulders, her head, even her bosom, the sound of their blows ringing cheerfully over the countryside. As they worked, her delicate green metal became pocked with brown marks... but little else was achieved. She was still leaning drunkenly sideways. At most they had managed to correct her position a few inches by the time they retired, perspiring, to drink some tea (in plentiful supply now that the old ladies commanded the kitchen). After tea they returned to hammer down her ruffled skirts. That was all they could do for her.

"I shan't be leaving tomorrow, Edward. There are still a number of things I have to do here." The Major had delayed informing Edward of his decision to stay for fear that Edward too might change his mind. This fear had been illusory, he decided, seeing the stricken, anxious expression that appeared on Edward's face.

"But you must must leave! It's dangerous here." Calmly, but feeling that he hated Edward, the Major said: "I don't intend just to walk off and leave the place to the b.l.o.o.d.y Shinners." leave! It's dangerous here." Calmly, but feeling that he hated Edward, the Major said: "I don't intend just to walk off and leave the place to the b.l.o.o.d.y Shinners."

"But Brendan, you must face reality. You've read the newspapers. You know as well as I do that it's all over here. It's finished. Any day now that blighter Lloyd George is going to throw in the sponge and then there'll be h.e.l.l to pay for people like you and me who've been loyal."

"I'm d.a.m.ned if I'm going to take to my heels, Edward, just because there's a possibility of trouble. If I go at all I shall go in my own good time."

"But good G.o.d, Brendan! Things are bad enough already. When they send the army home it'll be the law of the jungle. Every Unionist in the South will have his throat cut. Go to Ulster if you want to stay in Ireland."

"I've made up my mind that I'm staying, Edward. At least for a while."

"But you can't stay here. here. The old place is falling to pieces. It's dangerous. You've been telling me for months how dangerous it is...Think of the writing-room ceiling! That could happen anywhere at all in the building, anywhere." The old place is falling to pieces. It's dangerous. You've been telling me for months how dangerous it is...Think of the writing-room ceiling! That could happen anywhere at all in the building, anywhere."