“Well, if you don’t lose that you’ll lose Muriel.” The Rev. Peter lowered his voice. “Look here, I want you two to fix things up. I’ve just been to see her—she looks unhappy—she’s lonely, I believe, with that damned old mother of hers. But you can’t expect her to marry you with this sort of thing going about uncontradicted.”
And at that John wavered. But he thought of Margery and his knightly vow, and he thought of the witness box; of himself stammering and shifting hour after hour in that box; of pictures in the Press; of columns in the Press; of day after day of public wretchedness—the inquest over again infinitely enlarged. And he thought of the open, perhaps inevitable, ignominy of losing a libel action. And he was sure that he was right.
They argued about this for a long time, and the Rev. Peter yielded at last.
But he bellowed then, “Well, you must write them a letter at once. Sit down now, and I’ll dictate it. Sit down, will you? By God, it makes me sweat, this!”
John sat down meekly and wrote to the editor of I Say, as the Rev. Peter commanded. The Rev. Peter dictated in round tones of a man practising a speech:
“ ‘Dear Sir:
“ ‘I have seen your infamous article. It is a cruel and disgusting libel. I wish to state publicly that I had nothing to do with the death of Emily Gaunt; that so far as I know no suspicion does rest upon me here or elsewhere; and that, if indeed there is suspicion, it is not in the minds of anyone whose opinion I value, and I can therefore ignore it. In any case I should prefer to do without your dirty assistance.’ ”
“Can’t say ‘dirty’—can we?” said John.
“Why not? They are dirt—filth—muck! Well, then—put ‘dishonouring’—‘your dishonouring assistance.’ Go on:
“ ‘I am not a rich man, and I cannot afford to bring an action for libel against you. A successful suit would cost me far more money and trouble than I should like to waste upon it. You, on the other hand, could easily afford to lose and would probably be actually benefited by a substantial increase in your circulation.
“ ‘I must ask you to print this letter in your next issue and insist also on an unqualified apology for your use of my name.
“ ‘I am sending this letter to the local Press.’ ”
The editor of I Say did not print this letter, as the Rev. Peter had fondly imagined he would, but he referred in his second article, which was similar to the first, only more outspoken, to “the receipt of an abusive letter from the suspected person.”
Slowly that week a copy of I Say found its way into every house in The Chase; and the article was read and discussed and argued about, and the whole controversy of , which had been almost forgotten, sprang into life again. And the following week the local papers were bought and borrowed and devoured, and John’s spirited and courageous letter was admired and laughed at and condemned. The Chase fell again into factions, though now the Whittaker (pro-John) faction was the stronger. For nobody liked I Say, though it was always exciting to read when there was some special excuse for bringing it into the house. Besides, the honour of The Chase was now at stake.
John and the Rev. Peter had reckoned without the generosity and communal feeling of the people of The Chase. They were never so happy as when they had some communal enterprise on foot, a communal kitchen, or a communal crèche or a communal lawsuit, some joint original venture which offered reasonable opportunities for friendly argument and committee meetings and small subscriptions. This spirit had of course unlimited scope during the war, and perhaps it was the communal Emergency Food-Kitchen that had been its most ambitious and perfect expression. But it lived on vigorously after the war. Several of the busiest and earliest workers among the men shared a communal taxi into town every day. There was a communal governess, and one or two semi-communal boats. There was also a kind of communal Housing Council, which met whenever a house in The Chase was to be let or sold, and exerted pressure on the outgoing tenant as to his choice of a successor. Outside friends of The Chase who desired and were desired to come into residence were placed upon a roster by the Housing Council, and when the Council’s edict had once gone forth, the outgoing tenant was expected at all costs to see that the chosen person was enabled to succeed him, and if he did not, or if he allowed the owner of the house to enter into some secret arrangement with an outsider, unknown and unapproved by the Council, it was a sin against the solidarity of The Chase.
And there had already been a communal lawsuit, that great case of Stimpson and Others versus The Quick Boat Company—an action for nuisance brought by the entire Chase, because of the endless and intolerable noise and smell of the defendant company’s motorboats, which they manufactured half a mile up the river and exercised all day snorting and phutting and dashing about with loud and startling reports in the narrow reach between the Island and The Chase.
Nine gallant champions had stood forward with Stimpson for freedom and The Chase. But all The Chase had attended the preliminary meetings; all The Chase had subscribed; all The Chase and all their wives had given evidence in Court; and before this unbroken, or almost unbroken, front (for there were a few black sheep) the Quick Boat Company had gone down heavily. Judgment for the plaintiffs had been given in the early spring.
So that when it was widely understood that for lack of money John Egerton, a member of The Chase, was unable to defend himself from a
