_St. Albans_, _June_ 14_th_.
MY DEAREST FRANK,—What a dreadful thing it is to have your name shouted
out in public! And what a voice the man had! He simply bellowed ‘Maude
Selby of this parish’ as if he meant all this parish to know about it.
And then he let you off so easily. I suppose he thought that there was
no local interest in Frank Crosse of Woking. But when he looked round
expectantly, after asking whether there was any known cause or just
impediment why we should not be joined together, it gave me quite a
thrill. I felt as if some one would jump up like a Jack-in-the-box and
make a scene in the church. How relieved I was when he changed the
subject! I sank my face in my hands, but I know that I was blushing all
down my neck. Then I looked at you between my fingers, and there you
were sitting quite cool and cheerful, as if you rather liked it. I think
that we shall go to evening-service next week. Papa has given up going
altogether since the new organist came. He says he cannot face the
music.
What a sweet time we had together. I shall never, never forget it! O
Frank, how good you are to me! And how I hope you won’t regret what you
are doing. It is all very well just now, when I am young and you think
that I am pretty. I love that you should think so, but I am compelled to
tell you that it is not really so. I can’t imagine how you came to think
it! I suppose it was from seeing me so often beside papa. If you saw me
near Nelly Sheridan, or any other _really_ pretty girl, you would at once
see the difference. It just happens that you like grey eyes and brown
hair, and the other things, but that does not mean that I am really
pretty. I should be so sorry if there were any misunderstanding about
this, and you only found out when too late. You ought to keep this
letter for reference, as papa always says, and then it will be
interesting to you afterwards.
I should like you to see me now—or rather I wouldn’t have you see me for
the world. I am so flushed and untidy, for I have been cooking. Is it
not absurd, if you come to think of it, that we girls should be taught
the irregular French verbs, and the geography of China, and never to cook
the simplest thing? It really does seem ridiculous.
But it is never too late to mend, so I went into the kitchen this morning
and made a tart. You can’t imagine what a lot of things one needs even
for such a simple thing as that. I thought cook was joking when she put
them all down in front of me. It was like a conjurer giving his
performance. There was an empty bowl, and a bowl full of sliced apples,
and a big board, and a rolling-pin, and eggs, and butter, and sugar, and
cloves, and of course flour. We broke eggs and put them into a bowl—you
can’t think what a mess an egg makes when it misses the bowl. Then we
stirred them up with flour and butter and things. I stirred until I was
perfectly exhausted. No wonder a cook has usually a great thick arm.
Then when it had formed a paste, we rolled it out, and put the apples in
the dish, and roofed it in, and trimmed the edges, and stuck flat leaves
made of paste all over it, and the dearest little crown in the middle.
Then we put it into the oven until it was brown. It looked a very nice
tart, and mamma said that I had made it very solidly. It certainly did
feel very heavy for its size. Mamma would not taste it, because she said
that she thought Dr. Tristram would not approve of her doing so, but I
had a piece, and really it was not so bad. Mamma said the servants might
have it at dinner, but the servants said that the poor window-cleaner had
a large family, and so we gave it to him. It is so sweet to feel that
one is of any use to any one.
What do you think happened this morning? Two wedding-presents arrived.
The first was a very nice fish slice and fork in a case. It was from
dear old Mrs. Jones Beyrick, on whom we really had no claim whatever. We
all think it so kind of her, and such a nice fish-slice. The other was a
beautiful travelling-bag from Uncle Arthur. Stamped in gold upon it were
the letters M.C., I said, ‘Oh, what a pity! They have put the wrong
initials.’ That made mamma laugh. I suppose one soon gets used to it.
Fancy how you would feel if it were the other way about, and you changed
your name to mine. They might call you Selby, but you would continue to
feel Crosse. I didn’t mean that for a joke, but women make jokes without
intending it. The other day the curate drove up in his donkey-cart, and
mother said, ‘Oh, what a nice tandem!’ I think that she meant to say
‘turn-out’; but papa said it was the neatest thing he had heard for a
long time, so mamma is very pleased, but I am sure that she does not know
even now why it should be so funny.
What stupid letters I write! Doesn’t it frighten you when you read them
and think that is the person with whom I have to spend my life. Yet you
never seem alarmed about it. I think it is so _brave_ of you. That
reminds me that I never finished what I wanted to say at the beginning of
this letter. Even supposing that I am pretty (and my complexion
sometimes is simply awful), you must bear in mind how quickly the years
slip by, and how soon a woman alters. Why, we shall hardly be married
before you will find me full of wrinkles, and without a tooth in my head.
Poor boy, how dreadful for you! Men seem to change so little and so
slowly. Besides, it does not matter for them, for nobody marries a man
because he is pretty. But you must marry me, Frank, not for what I look
but for what I am—for my inmost, inmost self, so that if I had no body at
all, you would love me just the same. That is how I love you, but I do
prefer you with your body on all the same. I don’t know how I love you,
dear. I only know that I am in a dream when you are near me—just a
beautiful dream. I live for those moments.—Ever your own little