“We haven’t a leg to stand on.”
“Not a leg.”
“Still,” said Ridley, “the advertisement isn’t libel, and Vambrace’s lawyers won’t advise him to go ahead on that line.”
“Of course not,” said Mr Marryat, “but if they ever find out that there was any carelessness here they’ll make our lives miserable. So I’m taking these papers out of the files and putting them in the safe till we know what’s going to happen.”
“I’ve got to see Mr Warboys this afternoon about another matter. Should I mention this to him, do you think?”
“What for? It won’t come to anything. I wouldn’t bother him.” And after a few more reflections upon the untrustworthiness and tearfulness of girls Mr Marryat withdrew.
It was half-past three, and Mr Ridley was to see his publisher at half-past four. At four o’clock he received a call from the legal firm of Snelgrove, Martin and Fitzalan, asking that he see Mr Snelgrove at ten o’clock the following morning.on a matter of urgent importance.
Clerebold Warboys was not primarily interested in the publication of the Salterton Evening Bellman; he had been born wealthy, and in the process of becoming much wealthier he had acquired several properties, of which The Bellman was one. It had come upon the market as an ancient and almost bankrupt newspaper, and he had bought it because he did not want to see an institution which was so much a part of his native city disappear from that city’s life; he also thought that the application of business acumen to the newspaper might improve its fortunes. He was right, as he usually was about such matters, and Mr Marryat and Mr Ridley had made The Bellman not only a very much better paper than it had been before, but a profitable business, as well.
Mr Warboys never interfered with the paper, and this was a source of disagreement between himself and his daughter-in-law, Mrs Roger Warboys, who lived with him and was his housekeeper and hostess. Mrs Roger Warboys, who had been widowed before she was forty, had a great store of energy which was not fully absorbed by her stewardship for Mr Warboys and the many women’s causes into which she threw herself. Her dearest dream was to “take over” The Bellman and to give it a policy more in line with her own opinions. She had a passion for crusading, and she felt that with a newspaper at her command she could do tremendous things to defeat juvenile delinquency, the drug traffic, comic books, immodest bathing suits and other evils which were gnawing at the foundations of society; she would also be able to do much to improve the status of women which, in her view, was unsatisfactory. But her father-in-law, who had passed the greater part of his life in public affairs and had acquired a considerable store of worldly wisdom, refused to pay any attention to her wishes. He was wont to say, “Nesta, you have what most of the world wants: leisure and the money to enjoy it; why don’t you relax?” But for Mrs Roger Warboys there could be no happiness which was not also turmoil and the imposition of her will upon other people. Perhaps twice a year she renewed her attack upon her obdurate father-in-law, and the rest of the time she seized what opportunities she could to call his attention to what she believed were fatal weaknesses in the editorship of Gloster Ridley.
It was with no quickening of the spirit, therefore, that Ridley found Mrs Roger Warboys in the publisher’s study, pouring tea.
“Ridley,” said his employer, “I’ve got the title for my book, at last.”
“Splendid!” said Ridley, with false enthusiasm.
“Yes. Politics: The Great Game. What do you think of that?”
“Absolutely first-rate!”
“Really? Don’t give a snap decision. Do you really think it’s what I want?”
“It’s very original,” said Ridley.
“It sounds well. But of course most people won’t hear it. They’ll read it. How do you think it would look? Nesta, give me that dummy.”
His daughter-in-law handed him a book from the desk. Upon it Mr Warboys had put a piece of white paper, to resemble a dust jacket, and had crudely lettered Politics: The Great Game, by Clerebold Warboys, across it.
“Very fine,” said Ridley: “it has a kind of ring about it, even in print.”
Conversation as they drank their tea was all about Mr Warboys’ book. This work had been in utero, so to speak, for eight years, but even at the age of seventy he could not find time to write it. Instead, he made copious notes for it, which he revised whenever a political contemporary died; when they were all dead, and the decks cleared, he might actually write it. Meanwhile he sustained the enthusiasm of an author at a remarkably high level, year in and year out, and Ridley rarely visited him without being asked for advice on some point relative to the great work. But at last the moment came when Ridley was able to raise the question of Mr Shillito.
“It is by no means easy,” he explained, “because Mr Shillito is in a sense a legacy from the former management. He is a link with the past of the paper. But the sort of thing he writes no longer has a place in The Bellman, and I feel that it is not in the best interest of the paper to postpone his retirement.”
“There’s no doubt about it that he’s a bloody old nuisance and not worth his keep,” said Mr Warboys, who was only eight years younger than Mr Shillito and felt no need to beat about the bush. “Well; we’ve got a pension scheme. What’s it for? We’ll bounce him with all honours, as you suggest.”
“Mr Shillito never subscribed to the pension scheme,” said Mrs Roger Warboys, unexpectedly.
“How do you know?” asked her father-in-law.
“He asked me to tea on Sunday last. The poor old man is getting very frail, Father, and he has some nice things he wants to see in good hands before he dies. He was really very touching about it. He gave me the loveliest little bronze bowl—Chinese, and very good; I have it in my sitting-room. He hasn’t much in the way of money, he says, but he has a few treasures, and he doesn’t want them to go to just anybody when he dies. He told me that he had never felt able to contribute to the pension scheme.”
“I don’t know how that could be,” said Ridley. “Miss Ellis has always been very good about arranging payment plans for anybody who needed special help.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand Mr Shillito’s way of looking at things, Mr Ridley,” said Mrs Roger Warboys, quietly censorious. “He’s one of those proud old Englishmen who would rather die than ask anybody for help.”
“Then why didn’t he take advantage of the pension scheme?” asked Mr Warboys.
“Because he didn’t think he would ever live to enjoy it,” said his daughter-in-law. “He told me that he worked himself so hard in the last few years before you took over The Bellman that he never expected to reach his present age. He has always expected that he would drop in harness.”
“Well, let him have the good sense to get out of harness,” said Mr Warboys, “and he needn’t drop so soon.”
“I know I have no right to interfere,” said Mrs Roger Warboys, in the tone she always used when she meant to do so. “I think Mr Shillito should have every consideration. His judgement alone should be worth something. Even if he simply stays at The Bellman to keep an eye on things in general, he would be valuable. His knowledge of the city and its people is surely the most extensive of anyone now on the staff. For instance, I’m sure he would never have passed that ridiculous engagement notice about Pearl Vambrace and young Bridgetower.”
“That matter is in hand,” said Ridley, turning white.
“That’s just as well,” said Mrs Roger Warboys, smiling unpleasantly. “For Professor Vambrace phoned me about it this afternoon, just to make it clear that if he has to take it to law, there is nothing personal intended toward myself. I have worked very closely with him for years,” she explained, “on the Board of the University Alumni.”
It was then necessary for Mr Ridley to explain to Mr Warboys what the dispute was between The Bellman and Professor Vambrace. Mr Warboys was not inclined to pay too much attention to it. “These things soon blow over,” said he.
“Nevertheless, I th
ink my point about Mr Shillito is well taken,” said Mrs Roger Warboys. “The Professor was hardly off the phone before Mr Shillito called about it. He said that the minute he saw it he knew there had been some dreadful blunder, for the feud between the Vambraces and the Bridgetowers dates from when Professor Bridgetower was alive. He just wanted me to know that he would never have permitted such a thing to appear in print, but of course his power on the paper is very limited—at present.” These last words were directed with a special smile to Ridley.
“The damned old double-crosser,” said Mr Warboys, who understood these matters very well.
Ridley could think of no comment save lewd and blasphemous variations on that of his publisher, so he held his peace, and soon returned to his office.
It was after six o’clock when he reached it. He stopped in Miss Green’s office, and after some rummaging, he drew a sheet of paper from a file and took it to his desk. It was an obituary, prepared some years before and kept up to date, for use when it should be needed. It read:
Vambrace, Walter Benedict, b. Cork, Eire, March 5,1899 only son Rev. Benedict V. and Cynthia Grattan V., a second cousin to the Marquis of Mourne and Derry; Educ. at home and Trinity Coll. Dublin. (MA.) Emigrated to Canada 1922 joined classics dept. Waverley as junior professor. Married Elizabeth Anne Fitzalan dr. Wolfe Tone Fitzalan, June 18,1925, one daughter Pearl Veronica b. 1933. Full professor 1935; head classics dept. 1938. Supported for Dean of Arts 1939 but defeated by one vote by the late Dean Solomon Bridgetower. Did not stand again after Dean Btwr’s death in 1940. Author: Contra Celsum with Notes and Commentary 1924; Enneads of Plotinus Newly Considered 1929 (Times Lit. Supp. says “valuable though controversial” in review which might have been by Dean Inge); Student’s Book of Latin Verse 1938 (sold 150,000).
Professor Vambrace was no austere scholar, but a man who gave richly of himself to a variety of worthy causes. Always accessible to his students, he opened to them the stores of scholarship which he brought from famed Trinity College, Dublin. Graduates of Waverley will long remember the rich and thrilling voice in which he read Latin poetry aloud, seeming to—as one graduate put it—”call Horace smiling from his tomb and Vergil from the realm of the shades.” This same noble organ was for years to be heard in performances given by the Salterton Little Theatre, of which Professor Vambrace was at one time Vice-President. His most notable performance by far was as Prospero in The Tempest, of which The Bellman critic of that time, Mr Swithin Shillito, wrote: “It was said of Kean’s Shylock, ‘This was the Jew, That Shakespeare drew’; still borne aloft upon the wave of poetry evoked by Walter Vambrace (away with all Misters and Professors in the presence of Genius) your annalist can but murmur, ‘This is the Mage, From Shakespeare’s page.’ “
After fifteen minutes’ careful work Ridley had revised this paragraph to read thus:
Professor Vambrace, an austere scholar, was associated with many causes. To his students he brought a store of scholarship from famed Trinity College, Dublin. Graduates of Waverley will long remember the voice in which he read Latin poetry aloud, seeming, as one graduate has put it, to call Horace from his tomb and Vergil from Hades. The late Professor Vambrace had a strong histrionic bent and was for some years an amateur performer with the Salterton Little Theatre.
It was not much, and it might be years before it bore fruit, but it made him feel a little better.
Two
It was not for Gloster Ridley only that November 1st was embittered by the incident of the fraudulent engagement notice. The first person, who was in any way concerned with that notice, to read it in The Bellman was Dean Jevon Knapp, of St Nicholas’ Cathedral. Returning to the Deanery at half-past five on October 31st he picked up his copy of the evening paper, and having prudently brought his handsome wrought-iron footscraper indoors so that naughty boys would not run off with it in celebration of Hallowe’en, he went into his study to read the news. It was his professional habit to turn first to the column of Births, Marriages and Deaths—Hatch, Match and Dispatch as he called it when he was being funny—to see if there was anything there which called for his attention. He read of the engagement of Pearl Vambrace and Solomon Bridgetower with annoyance; if people proposed to be married in his church it was the least they could do to tell him before announcing it to the world. He spoke to his wife about it during dinner.
“I resent the casual assumption that I shall be on call, and the Cathedral ready, whenever anyone chooses to be married,” said he. “And how stupid to announce a marriage for November 31st; everybody knows that there is no such day.”
“The Vambraces are very odd people,” said Mrs Knapp. “Mrs Vambrace is a Catholic, I believe; I never knew that he was anything. Of course it is Mrs Bridgetower who wants the marriage to be in the Cathedral.”
“Then why has not Mrs Bridgetower said so to me?” asked the Dean. “I called on her only last week, and she did nothing but moan about Russia and her heart. She gave me to understand that unless the Russians change their tune at UN she will have a heart attack, presumably to spite them. She never breathed a word about her son’s marriage. And nobody has booked the Cathedral for the last day of November, which is presumably the day they mean. I will not be taken for granted in this irritating way.”
“Well, Jevon,” said his wife, “why don’t you call up Professor Vambrace and say so?”
“I shall call him after dinner,” said the Dean, though he did not relish the idea. He hated wrangles. But at eight o’clock precisely he was on the telephone.
“Good evening, Professor Vambrace, this is Dean Knapp of St Nicholas’ speaking. I hope you are well?”
“Good evening, Mr Knapp.”
“I saw the notice of your daughter’s engagement in The Bellman this evening, and I wished to speak to you about it.”
“You are under some misapprehension, Mr Knapp; my daughter is not engaged.”
“But her engagement is announced in this evening’s paper, and her wedding is said to be at St Nicholas’.”
At this point the Dean’s telephone clicked, and a steady buzzing told him that his communication with the Professor had been cut. So he patiently dialled the number again, and heard Vambrace’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“This is Dean Knapp of St Nicholas’ speaking. We were cut off.”
“Listen to me, whoever you are, I consider your joke to be in the worst of taste.”
“This is not a joke, Professor Vambrace. I am Dean Knapp—”
“Dean Humbug!” roared the Professor’s voice. “Do you suppose I am not aware, whoever you are, that this is Hallowe’en?” And the line began to buzz again.
The Dean was angry, but he was not one of those lucky men who are refreshed and stimulated by anger; it shook his self-confidence and upset his digestion and put him at a disadvantage with the world. He was ill-prepared, therefore, when the telephone rang a few minutes later and Professor Vambrace’s angry voice roared at him.
“So there was a notice of my daughter’s engagement in the paper!”
“Yes, of course, Professor Vambrace, that was what I called you about.”
“And what do you know about this outrage, eh?”
“I know nothing about it. I wished to know more.”
“What? Explain yourself.”
“That is what I intended to do, but you rudely rang off.”
“Never mind that. What do you know of this?”
“I saw the notice. I had heard nothing of any such wedding, and I called to make inquiries.”
“What about?”
“Well, I am Dean of St Nicholas’ and when a wedding is announced there I feel that I should be informed first.”
“The whole thing is an outrage!”
“To what do you refer, Professor Vambrace?”
“My daughter is not engaged to anyone. Least of all is she engaged to that yahoo of a Bridgetower.”
“Indeed. Then how do you explain the notice?”
“I don�
�t explain it! How do you explain it?”
“What have I to do with it?”
“Isn’t your church mentioned?”
“Yes, and that is what I called you about in the first place.”
“I have nothing to do with it, I tell you!”
“You need not shout, Professor.”
“I do well to shout. What do you know about this? Answer me! What do you know?”
“I only know that if you did not authorize the announcement, and it is dated for an impossible date, it looks as though the whole thing were a practical joke.”
“Joke? Joke! You dare to call this dastardly action a joke?”
“Professor, I must ask you to moderate your tone in speaking to me.”
There was an angry howl from the other end of the line, and the communication was cut for the third time, presumably because the Professor had slammed his telephone down in its cradle. Dean Knapp’s evening was ruined; for an hour he expostulated with his wife, whom he tried to cast in the role of Professor Vambrace, but she sustained it so poorly that he sank into silence and pretended to read a book. But all the while he was thinking up crushing retorts which he should have made when the opportunity served. There is nothing worse for the digestion than this, and before he went to bed the Dean took a glass of hot milk and two bismuth tablets.
He was in his first sleep when the telephone bell rang, and after a little prodding from his wife the Dean trudged downstairs to answer it, sleepily counting over in his mind those among his parishioners who were so near death that they might need him at this hour. But the voice on the telephone was tremulous with life and excitement.
“Mr Dean! Mr Dean!”
“Dean Knapp speaking. Who is it?”
“It is I, Mr Dean. Laura Pottinger.”
“What is the matter, Miss Pottinger?”
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