THERE are only two short months between the first of May and the first of July; it follows therefore that there were only two short months between the publication of “The Dowager Marchioness doesn’t Think” and that of “The Earl’s Own County.” Every one who had been shocked by the title of “The Dowager Marchioness doesn’t Think” had become quickly calmed upon discovering that it concerned nothing nearer home than the French Revolution, and so could not have meant anything invidious in relation to either our particular dowager marchioness, or yet her times, or yet her class. But there was quite another tale to tell about “The Earl’s Own County,” and both the earl and his county were so well known and so dreadful, the description of them was so vividly accurate, and the language so painful and so glowing, that those who knew the whole truth stood open-mouthed and aghast, wondering what the noble father would do with his noble daughter now.
The noble father was off yachting and thus altogether removed from the field of immediate retribution. But his noble brother, the bishop, came trundling up from his bishopric as fast as, first, a pair of cobs, second, a first-class ticket, and third, a taxi, could be induced to bring him. Arriving at Veritas House, he found his sister-in-law, the countess, laid up with her head, as usual; but the youthful culprit received her uncle with an outstretched hand and a beaming smile. It was hard to believe her so great a sinner as she had proved, but the bishop was ready to believe anything of a daughter and an aristocrat who would write “The Earl’s Own County.”
“Verita,” he said at once and gravely, “this is no light matter. This cannot be overlooked. Your own ancestral acres! It is really most dreadful. You have absolutely identified the place by your detailed description of the thatches and the drains. Thatches and drains are no longer mere impersonal matters of picturesque possibility, as in the past. The low-lying politics of the present government have unduly exalted the drain and all but carried off the thatch. To write lightly of the matter is the reverse of pardonable. Indeed, I may say without fear of prevarication that it is a very serious offense. Statements such as yours, put in the peculiarly unfortunate manner which you have somehow hit upon, stir people up beyond all reason. You remember that American book about the pigs in the jungle near Chicago? Do you recollect that it nearly wrecked the whole slaughtering industry? These things are better left alone. There is no knowing to what end they may lead. You might bring about a question in the House. Consider that possibility. Such fearful issues have arisen out of most trivial matters. In the present state of German tiles, we must put down with a hand of steel all reference to English thatches. I trust that you are following me?” The bishop paused, quite out of breath.
“But I have a purpose,” said Lady Verita. “Have you read my story?”
“In part—only in part; vespers intervened to spare me useless pain. But that little was enough—too much, in fact. It is pulling the very foundations from under our civilization to write as you have written. I cannot in justice deny that your description of life among the poor is a remarkable piece of work, but no good can come of descriptions of life among the poor. Indeed, in my estimation, it is a thing that never should be done. We have our master’s own warrant for the continual existence of the poor, and we may not question his statement. ‘Always with you,’ he said. What could be clearer? In my estimation, their elimination would undermine the whole foundation of that crown of virtue, Christian charity.”
“But I don’t agree with that view,” said Lady Verita; “I disagree with it completely. I think that the situation of the poor can be vastly improved; in fact, it is being improved; which absolutely proves that it can be. That’s logic.”
“Not at all,” protested the bishop; “on the contrary, it’s altogether the opposite of logical. I have it on the authority of nearly all who view the matter as I do, that things are getting continually worse. And with things getting continually worse, the case is proved in opposition to all law and all your so-called logic. I must decline to argue the matter, for the simple reason that the only side to take is mine. Therefore, do not let us go into it. Nothing can be gained by discussing. No one denies that the country has fallen on evil days, but that is a mere trifle compared to the horror of what you have written—and to think that it should have been written by one in the lofty station of your father’s daughter!” Again the bishop paused for breath.
“I’m interested in the poor,” said Lady Veritas, meditatively.
“Perhaps we had best leave the poor out of the question,” said the bishop, who was noted for the firmness with which he adhered to any ground that he had once taken. “As a churchman of more than ordinary weight, I may say that I have ever deprecated the wasting of words as to the economic position of the poor. The poor, in my opinion, are becoming far too prominent. They occupy at present a position never intended in that divine order of things to which I have already referred. It is a position that even the most casual observer must admit is far beyond their limited capabilities to hold. Much of the provision which is needed—and I may say even bitterly needed—by the church is now being diverted to what may well be denominated as the bottomless pit wherein dwell the poor. The poor are fast becoming the rich. The rich are rapidly being pauperized for the unreasonable aggrandizement of the poor. The situation will all too soon become completely unbearable. Now, I put it to you,”—the bishop warmed suddenly in his most persuasive pulpit manner,—“why make it worse? A story like yours is to all intents and purposes a suggestion as to making everything better, and what could be worse? I may say without fear of prevarication that this is a serious matter. It is a very serious matter. Here in your story you have your childhood home desecrated! Our old ancestral acres stripped for the popular gaze! Why did you do it? Or, if an unconquerable longing to perpetuate them in print obsessed you, why did you not perpetuate the beeches or the wild boar or one of the sweet old stories of dole and dungeon? Why drag forth into the fierce light of the present unfortunate tendency to look into matters which, after all”—
“Dear uncle,” said Lady Verita, quite wearied by the length as well as the breadth of her right reverend relative’s scope, “to say the truth, the story is about Ireland. Any one who reads it carefully through to the end sees that. The difficulty is that no one reads anything through to the end nowadays. They skip all but the love scenes. There isn’t a word about any of us or our own wretched belongings in the whole thing. It is all about County Mayo.”