On the 28th of June, four letters came to Lucy by the first delivery:—
I.
My dear Lucy,
Pray do not think me thoughtless if I once more ask whether you will
sanction an extension of our holiday. Mrs. Tyke presses us to remain
with her through July, and Dr. Tyke is no less urgent. When I hinted
that their hospitality had already been trespassed upon, the Doctor
quoted Hone (as he said: I doubt if it is there):—
‘In July
No good-bye;
In August Part
we must.’
I then suggested that you may be feeling moped at home, and in want
of change; but, of course, the Doctor had still an answer ready:—Tell
Lucy from me, that if she takes you away I shall take it very ill, as
the homoeopath said when his learned brother substituted cocoa-nibs
for champagne.’ And all the time Cousin Lucy was begging us to stay,
and Jane was looking at me so earnestly: in short, dear Lucy, if ‘No’
must be said, pray will you say it; for I have been well-nigh talked
over.
And, indeed, we must make allowances for Jane, if she seems a little
selfish; for, to let you into a secret, I believe she means to accept
Mr. Durham if he makes her the offer we all are expecting from him.
At first I was much displeased at her giving him any encouragement,
for it appeared to me impossible that she could view his attentions
with serious approbation: but I have since become convinced that she
knows her own mind, and is not trifling with him. How it is possible
for her to contemplate union with one so unrefined and ostentatious I
cannot conceive, but I have no power to restrain her; and when I
endeavoured to exert my influence against him, she told me in the
plainest terms that she preferred luxury with Mr. Durham to
dependence without him. Oh, Lucy, Lucy! have we ever given her cause
to resent her position so bitterly? Were she my own child, I do not
think I could love her more or care for her more anxiously: but she
has never understood me, never done me justice. I speak of myself
only, not of you also, because I shall never marry, and all I have
has been held simply in trust for her; with you it is, and ought to
be, different.
But you must not suffer for Jane’s wilfulness. If you are weary of
our absence I really must leave her under Cousin Lucy’s care—for she
positively declines to accompany me home at present—and return to
every-day duties. I am sick enough of pleasuring, I do assure you, as
it is; though, were Mr. Durham a different man, I should only
rejoice, as you may suppose.
Well, as to news, there is not much worth transmitting. Jane has been
to the Opera three times, and to the English play once. Mr. Durham
sends the boxes, and Dr. and Mrs. Tyke never tire of the theatre. The
last time they went to the Opera they brought home with them to
supper Mr. Tresham, whom you may recollect our meeting here more than
once, and who has lately returned to England from the East. Through
some misunderstanding he expected to see you instead of me, and
looked out of countenance for a moment: then he asked after you, and
begged me to remember him to you when I wrote. He appeared much
interested in hearing our home news, and concerned when I mentioned
that you have seemed less strong lately. Pray send compliments for
him when next you write, in case we should see him again.
Mr. Hartley I always liked, and now I like his wife also: she is an
engaging little thing, and gets us all to call her Stella. You, I am
sure, will be fond of her when you know her. How I wish her father
resembled her! She is as simple and as merry as a bird, and witnesses
Mr. Durham’s attentions to Jane with perfect equanimity. As to Mr.
Hartley, he seems as much amused as if the bulk of his wife’s
enormous fortune were not at stake; yet any one must see the other
man is in earnest. Stella is reckoned a clever actress, and private
theatricals of some sort are impending. I say ‘of some sort,’ because
Jane, who is indisputably the beauty of our circle, would prefer
tableaux vivants; and I know not which will carry her point.
My love to Miss Drum. Don’t think me selfish for proposing to remain
longer away from you; but, indeed, I am being drawn in two opposite
directions by two dear sisters, of whom I only wish that one had as
much good sense and good taste as the other.
Your affectionate sister, CATHERINE CHARLMONT.
II.
My dear Lucy,
I know Catherine is writing, and will make the worst of everything,
just as if I was cut out to be an old maid.
Surely at my age one may know one’s own mind; and, though I’m not
going to say before I am asked whether I like Mr. Durham, we are all
very well aware, my dear Lucy, that I like money and comforts. It’s
one thing for Catherine and you, who have enough and to spare, to
split hairs as to likes and dislikes; but it’s quite another for me
who have not a penny of my own, thanks to poor dear papa’s blindness.
Now do be a dear, and tell sister she is welcome to stay this one
month more; for, to confess the truth, if I remain here alone I may
find myself at my wit’s end for a pound or two one of these days.
Dress is so dear, and I had rather never go out again than be seen a
dowdy; and if we are to have tableaux I shall want all sorts of
things. I don’t hold at all with charades and such nonsense, in which
people are supposed to be witty; give me a piece in which one’s arms
are of some use; but of course, Stella, who has no more arm than a
pump-handle, votes for theatricals.
The Hartleys are coming to-day, and, of course, Mr. Durham, to take
us after luncheon to the Crystal Palace. There is a grand concert
coming off, and a flower-show, which would all be yawny enough but
for the toilettes. I dare say I shall see something to set me raving;
just as last time I was at the Botanic Gardens, I pointed out the
loveliest suit of Brussels lace over white silk; but I might as well
ask Catherine for wings to fly with.
Good-bye, my dear Lucy. Don’t be cross this once, and when I have a
house of my own, I’ll do you a good turn.
Your affectionate sister, JANE.
P.S. I enclose Mr. Durham’s photograph, which he fished and fished to
make me ask for, so at last I begged it to gratify the poor man.
Don’t you see all Orpingham Place in his speaking countenance?
III.
My dearest Lucy,
You owe me a kindness to balance my disappointment at missing your
visit. So please let Catherine know that she and Jane may give us a
month more. Dr. Tyke wishes it no less than I do, and Mr. Durham
perhaps more than either of us; but a word to the wise.
Your affectionate cousin,
LUCY C. TYKE.
P.S. The Doctor won’t send regards, because he means to write to you
himself.
IV.
Dear Lucy,
If you agree with the snail, you find your house just the size for
one; and lest bestial example should possess less force than human, I
further remind you of what Realmah the Great affirms,—‘I met two
blockheads, but the one sage kept himself to himself.’ All which sets
forth to you the charms of solitude, which, as you are such a proper
young lady, is, of course, the only anybody you can be in love with,
and of whose society I am bent on affording you prolonged enjoyment.
This can be effected, if your sisters stay here another month, and
indeed you must not say us nay; for on your ‘yes’ hangs a tale which
your ‘no’ may for ever forbid to wag. Miss Catherine looks glummish,
but Jenny is all sparkle and roses, like this same month of June; and
never is she more sparkling or rosier than when the master of
Orpingham Place hails her with that ever fresh remark, ‘Fine day,
Miss Jane.’ Don’t nip the summer crops of Orpingham Place in the bud,
or, rather, don’t retard them by unseasonable frost; for I can’t
fancy my friend will be put off with anything less than a distinct
‘no;’ and when it comes to that, I think Miss Jane, in her
trepidation, will say ‘yes.’ And if you are a good girl, and let the
little one play out her play, when she has come into the sugar and
spice and all that’s nice, you shall come to Notting Hill this very
next May, and while the sun shines make your hay.
Your venerable cousin’s husband (by which I merely mean),
Your cousin’s venerable husband,
FRANCIS TYKE, M.D.
N.B. I append M.D. to remind you of my professional status, and so
quell you by the weight of my advice.
Lucy examined the photograph of Mr. Durham with a double curiosity,
for he was Mr. Hartley’s father-in-law as well as Jane’s presumptive
suitor. She looked, and saw a face not badly featured, but vulgar in
expression; a figure not amiss, but ill at ease in its studied
attitude and superfine clothes. Assuredly it was not George Durham,
but the master of Orpingham Place who possessed attractions for Jane;
and Lucy felt, for a sister who could be thus attracted, the sting of
a humiliation such as her own baseless hopes had never cost her.
Each of her correspondents was answered with judicious variation in
the turn of the sentences. To Jane she wrote dryly, returning Mr.
Durham’s portrait wrapped in a ten-pound note; an arrangement which,
in her eyes, showed a symbolic appropriateness, lost for the moment
on her sister. Catherine she answered far more affectionately,
begging her on no account to curtail a visit which might be of
importance to Jane’s prospects; and on the flap of the envelope, she
added compliments to Mr. Tresham.