Mrs. Adister O'Donnell, in common with her family, had an extreme
dislike of the task of composing epistles, due to the circumstance that
she was unable, unaided, to conceive an idea disconnected with the main
theme of her communication, and regarded, as an art of conjuring, the
use of words independent of ideas. Her native superiority caused her
to despise the art, but the necessity for employing it at intervals
subjected her to fits of admiration of the conjurer, it being then
evident that a serviceable piece of work, beyond her capacity to do, was
lightly performed by another. The lady's practical intelligence admitted
the service, and at the same time her addiction to the practical
provoked disdain of so flimsy a genius, which was identified by her
with the genius of the Irish race. If Irishmen had not been notoriously
fighters, famous for their chivalry, she would have looked on them as
a kind of footmen hired to talk and write, whose volubility might be
encouraged and their affectionateness deserved by liberal wages. The
promptitude of Irish blood to deliver the war-cry either upon a glove
flung down or taken up, raised them to a first place in her esteem: and
she was a peaceful woman abhorring sanguinary contention; but it was in
her own blood to love such a disposition against her principles.
She led Patrick to her private room, where they both took seats and
he selected a pen. Mr. Patrick supposed that his business would be to
listen and put her words to paper; a mechanical occupation permitting
the indulgence of personal phantasies; and he was flying high on them
until the extraordinary delicacy of the mind seeking to deliver itself
forced him to prick up all his apprehensiveness. She wished to convey
that she was pleased with the news from Vienna, and desired her
gratification to be imparted to her niece Caroline, yet not so as to be
opposed to the peculiar feelings of her brother Edward, which had her
fullest sympathy; and yet Caroline must by no means be requested to
alter a sentence referring to Adiante, for that would commit her and the
writer jointly to an insincerity.
'It must be the whole truth, madam,' said Patrick, and he wrote: 'My
dear Caroline,' to get the start. At once a magnificently clear course
for the complicated letter was distinguished by him. 'Can I write on and
read it to you afterward? I have the view,' he said.
Mrs. Adister waved to him to write on.
Patrick followed his 'My dear Caroline' with greetings very warm,
founded on a report of her flourishing good looks. The decision of
Government to send reinforcements to Ireland was mentioned as a prelude
to the information from Vienna of the birth of a son to the Princess
Nikolas: and then; having conjoined the two entirely heterogeneous
pieces of intelligence, the composer adroitly interfused them by a
careless transposition of the prelude and the burden that enabled him to
play ad libitum on regrets and rejoicings; by which device the lord of
Earlsfont might be offered condolences while the lady could express her
strong contentment, inasmuch as he deplored the state of affairs in
the sister island, and she was glad of a crisis concluding a term of
suspense thus the foreign-born baby was denounced and welcomed, the
circumstances lamented and the mother congratulated, in a breath,
all under cover of the happiest misunderstanding, as effective as
the cabalism of Prospero's wand among the Neapolitan mariners, by the
skilful Irish development on a grand scale of the rhetorical figure
anastrophe, or a turning about and about.
He read it out to her, enjoying his composition and pleased with his
reconcilement of differences. 'So you say what you feel yourself, madam,
and allow for the feelings on the other side,' he remarked. 'Shall I
fold it?
There was a smoothness in the letter particularly agreeable to her
troubled wits, but with an awful taste. She hesitated to assent: it
seemed like a drug that she was offered.
Patrick sketched a series of hooked noses on the blotter. He heard a
lady's name announced at the door, and glancing up from his work he
beheld a fiery vision.
Mrs. Adister addressed her affectionately: 'My dear Jane!' Patrick was
introduced to Miss Mattock.
His first impression was that the young lady could wrestle with him
and render it doubtful of his keeping his legs. He was next engaged
in imagining that she would certainly burn and be a light in the
dark. Afterwards he discovered her feelings to be delicate, her looks
pleasant. Thereupon came one of the most singular sensations he had
ever known: he felt that he was unable to see the way to please her. She
confirmed it by her remarks and manner of speaking. Apparently she was
conducting a business.
'You're right, my dear Mrs. Adister, I'm on my way to the Laundry, and
I called to get Captain Con to drive there with me and worry the
manageress about the linen they turn out: for gentlemen are complaining
of their shirt-fronts, and if we get a bad name with them it will ruin
us. Women will listen to a man. I hear he has gone down to the city. I
must go and do it alone. Our accounts are flourishing, I'm glad to say,
though we cannot yet afford to pay for a secretary, and we want one.
John and I verified them last night. We're aiming at steam, you know.
In three or four years we may found a steam laundry on our accumulated
capital. If only we can establish it on a scale to let us give
employment to at least as many women as we have working now! That is
what I want to hear of. But if we wait for a great rival steam laundry
to start ahead of us, we shall be beaten and have to depend on the
charitable sentiments of rich people to support the Institution. And
that won't do. So it's a serious question with us to think of taking
the initiative: for steam must come. It 's a scandal every day that it
doesn't while we have coal. I'm for grand measures. At the same time we
must not be imprudent: turning off hands, even temporarily, that have to
feed infants, would be quite against my policy.'
Her age struck Patrick as being about twenty-three.
'Could my nephew Arthur be of any use to you?' said Mrs. Adister.
'Colonel Adister?' Miss Mattock shook her head. 'No.'
'Arthur can be very energetic when he takes up a thing.' 'Can he? But,
Mrs. Adister, you are looking a little troubled. Sometimes you confide
in me. You are so good to us with your subscriptions that I always feel
in your debt.'
Patrick glanced at his hostess for a signal to rise and depart.
She gave none, but at once unfolded her perplexity, and requested Miss
Mattock to peruse the composition of Mr. Patrick O'Donnell and deliver
an opinion upon it.
The young lady took the letter without noticing its author. She read
it through, handed it back, and sat with her opinion evidently formed
within.
'What do you think of it?' she was asked.
'Rank jesuitry,' she replied.
'I feared so!' sighed Mrs. Adister. 'Yet it says everything I wish to
have said. It spares my brother and it does not belie me. The effect of
a letter is often most important. I cannot but consider this letter very
ingenious. But the moment I hear it is jesuitical I forswear it. But
then my dilemma remains. I cannot consent to give pain to my brother
Edward: nor will I speak an untruth, though it be to save him from a
wound. I am indeed troubled. Mr. Patrick, I cannot consent to despatch a
jesuitical letter. You are sure of your impression, my dear Jane?'
'Perfectly,' said Miss Mattock.
Patrick leaned to her. 'But if the idea in the mind of the person
supposed to be writing the letter is accurately expressed? Does it
matter, if we call it jesuitical, if the emotion at work behind it
happens to be a trifle so, according to your definition?'
She rejoined: 'I should say, distinctly it matters.'
'Then you'd not express the emotions at all?'
He flashed a comical look of astonishment as he spoke. She was not to be
diverted; she settled into antagonism.
'I should write what I felt.'
'But it might be like discharging a bullet.'
'How?'
'If your writing in that way wounded the receiver.'
'Of course I should endeavour not to wound!'
'And there the bit of jesuitry begins. And it's innocent while it 's
no worse than an effort to do a disagreeable thing as delicately as you
can.'
She shrugged as delicately as she could:
'We cannot possibly please everybody in life.'
'No: only we may spare them a shock: mayn't we?'
'Sophistries of any description, I detest.'
'But sometimes you smile to please, don't you?'
'Do you detect falseness in that?' she answered, after the demurest of
pauses.
'No: but isn't there a soupcon of sophistry in it?'
'I should say that it comes under the title of common civility.'
'And on occasion a little extra civility is permitted!'
'Perhaps: when we are not seeking a personal advantage.'
'On behalf of the Steam Laundry?'
Miss Mattock grew restless: she was too serious in defending her
position to submit to laugh, and his goodhumoured face forbade her
taking offence.
'Well, perhaps, for that is in the interest of others.'
'In the interests of poor and helpless females. And I agree with you
with all my heart. But you would not be so considerate for the sore
feelings of a father hearing what he hates to hear as to write a
roundabout word to soften bad news to him?'
She sought refuge in the reply that nothing excused jesuitry.
'Except the necessities of civilisation,' said Patrick.
'Politeness is one thing,' she remarked pointedly.
'And domestic politeness is quite as needful as popular, you'll admit.
And what more have we done in the letter than to be guilty of that? And
people declare it's rarer: as if we were to be shut up in families to
tread on one another's corns! Dear me! and after a time we should be
having rank jesuitry advertised as the specific balsam for an unhappy
domesticated population treading with hard heels from desperate habit
and not the slightest intention to wound.'
'My dear Jane,' Mrs. Adister interposed while the young lady sat between
mildly staring and blinking, 'you have, though still of a tender age, so
excellent a head that I could trust to your counsel blindfolded. It is
really deep concern for my brother. I am also strongly in sympathy
with my niece, the princess, that beautiful Adiante: and my conscience
declines to let me say that I am not.'
'We might perhaps presume to beg for Miss Mattock's assistance in the
composition of a second letter more to her taste,' Patrick said slyly.
The effect was prompt: she sprang from her seat.
'Dear Mrs. Adister! I leave it to you. I am certain you and Mr.
O'Donnell know best. It's too difficult and delicate for me. I am
horribly blunt. Forgive me if I seemed to pretend to casuistry. I am
sure I had no such meaning. I said what I thought. I always do. I never
meant that it was not a very clever letter; and if it does exactly what
you require it should be satisfactory. To-morrow evening John and I dine
with you, and I look forward to plenty of controversy and amusement. At
present I have only a head for work.'
'I wish I had that,' said Patrick devoutly.
She dropped her eyes on him, but without letting him perceive that he
was a step nearer to the point of pleasing her.