There’s quite a lot of Irish blood in our family, some way back, and I
always feel drawn to the Irish and sorry for them. As for wet weather I
love it when I’m prepared for it; and I’ve got a topping Burberry. I got
that book you mentioned, _Mary of the Winds_, but it’s a little off my
beat. I would give anything to hear you read it, it would be just too
lovely, and better than any music. I hope you don’t mind my saying that
I think your ordinary voice absolutely top-hole, the most ripping thing
I ever listened to. There isn’t any music, not even “You’re here and I’m
here,” to touch it. Most people have to sing to be musical, but all you
need to do is to talk and it beats a concert hollow. I would love to have
it on a gramophone.—I am, yours sincerely,
ROY BARRANCE
CXIX
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
DEAR VERENA, you ought perhaps to know about the St. Ethelburga Society
School, where 36 boys and 20 girls were educated, and fully re-clothed
once a year—being taught reading, writing and arithmetic and the
catechism, with Lewis’s explanation—and all for £1400 permanent funds and
occasional subscriptions and donations. But of course money was worth
more then than in our reckless post-War day. For example, at the St.
Bride’s School 80 boys and 70 girls were educated, of whom 40 boys and 30
girls were also clothed and apprentice fees of £3 given with certain of
the boys—and this on an income of £375.
I have long thought that a handbook should be compiled for the benefit
of persons, like yourself, who are philanthropically disposed but don’t
know what to do. It might have some such title as “Philanthropic Hints to
Those about to Make their Wills,” or “The Inspired Testator,” or “First
Aid to Imaginative Bequest” or “The Prudent Lawyer Confounded” or “How
to be Happy though Dead.” In this book an alphabetical list would be
given of the less fortunate ones of the earth and suggestions offered
as to what a little money could do towards a periodic gilding of their
existence. No one could compile it without the assistance of my London
Charity report or similar works.
For a change let me give you a poem in prose:—
FATHER-LOVE
One hears so much of mother-love.
The phrase alone is expected to touch the very springs of emotion.
There are songs about it, set to maudlin music; there is, in America, a
Mother’s Day.
God knows I have no desire to bring the faintest suspicion of ridicule
to such a feeling, even to such a fashion;
The stronger the bonds that unite mothers and children the better for
human society;
The more we think of and cherish our mothers the better for ourselves.
We owe so much tenderness to them not merely because they gave us life,
but because they are women and as such have a disproportionate burden of
drudgery and endurance and grief.
All the same, why was it that when, the other evening, I saw a
grey-haired father—my host—thinking himself unobserved, stroke the head
of his grown-up son (a father too) and the son lay his hand on his
father’s with a caressing gesture for a moment, but with a slightly
guilty look—why was it that something melted within me (as it never does
when I watch the embraces of mothers and sons) and my eyes suddenly
dimmed?
Good night,
R. H.
CXX
LOUISA PARRISH TO VERENA RABY
MY DEAR VERENA,—I have just returned from the funeral of my brother
Claude, one of the most beautiful interments I was ever privileged to
attend. With great forethought he had himself selected the site when the
cemetery was first laid out, choosing a spot between two lovely firs on
the high ground where the view is so extensive. He always was so careful
in his ways, and this is but another example of his kindly consideration
for others. By the blessing of Heaven the day was fine, but the mourners
were protected from the sun by the grateful shade of the trees—exactly, I
feel sure, as my dear brother had planned. Now and then, when I was able
to raise my eyes, there lay the wonderful panorama before me.
The funeral attracted a large concourse, Claude having been a public man
held in the greatest esteem and affection, and there were few dry eyes.
The coffin was very plain, for he always held that it was a waste of
money to spend it lavishly on the trappings of mortality.
Forgive me if I write no more this evening, for I am tired with
travelling and sad at heart. But I wanted you to hear of the success of
the day. I often spoke to Claude about you.—Your truly affectionate
LOUISA
CXXI
EVANGELINE BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY
DEAR AUNT VERENA,—I am sending you the second number of _The Beguiler_
and we all hope it will amuse you. We also hope that no other number
will be needed, not because we are tired, but because we want you to be
well.—Your loving niece,
EVANGELINE
No. 2. September, 1919
THE BEGUILER
OR
THE INVALID’S FRIEND
_A Miscellany_
COMPILED BY
EVANGELINE BARRANCE
ASSISTED BY A BUNCH OF FLOWERS
THE TEST
A STORY
There was once a girl named Philippa Barnes whose father and mother
died when she was seventeen. As she was too young to be married and was
very rich, she had to have a guardian, and in reply to an advertisement
a number of candidates for that position came forward. They were all
handsome elderly men of nearly forty, and when Philippa saw them she
liked most of them a good deal, but as their references were all perfect
she was puzzled how to choose. Being very fond of Shakespeare she had
read _The Merchant of Venice_ and she decided that she must devise a
test, as Portia did, but as it would be foolish to borrow the idea of the
three caskets, which most people know about, she had to invent a new one.
All the applicants for the post of guardian were told to be at her family
mansion at ten o’clock in the morning, and when they were assembled
Philippa sent for them one by one and told each that he must recount to
her some anecdote in which he had taken part with some person of inferior
position—such as a bus-conductor or a taxi-driver or a railway porter or
a waiter or a char. When they had all finished Philippa made her choice,
which fell upon a candidate named Barclay Pole who was not so tall as
the others and not so well dressed, although his references were beyond
dispute.
“But,” said her old nurse, who had been standing by her side all through
the interviews, “why do you choose him when there are all those handsome
ones at your disposal?”
“Because,” Philippa said, “he was the only one who when he told the story
did not make the other person call him Sir.”
Barclay Pole thus became her guardian and carried out his duties with
perfect success until it was time to give her hand in marriage to Captain
Knightliville of the Guards.
“HEARTEASE”
PEOPLE WHO REALLY DESERVE THE O.B.E.
II. THE POSTMAN
When my brother was small he wanted to be a postman because he wanted to
knock double knocks; but no one who is grown up would want it, because
there is no fun in spending your life in delivering letters to other
people, other people’s letters are so dull.
Other people have such odd ways with their letters. Father even is cross
when there is a letter for him and says “Confound the thing!—why can’t
they leave me alone?” But my eldest sister waits for the postman and is
miserable if he doesn’t bring her anything.
Some people lay their letters by their plates and go on eating. This
seems to me extraordinary.
Some of our visitors who get letters say “Excuse me” before they read
them, but others don’t.
When I think of the postman going on for ever and ever taking letters to
other people I am convinced that he ought to have the O.B.E.
“ROSE”
THE CINEMA
One of the strange things to reflect about is what people did before the
cinema was invented. My father was an old man before he ever saw a moving
picture and when he was a boy there were none. He does not like them now
because he says he always comes away with either a headache or a flea,
but I like them excessively.
I like the serious ones best, but my brother Jack wants the comic ones.
He can walk like Charlie Chaplin. He likes Mutt and Jeff too. I know
a girl who was photographed by a cinema man while she was at Church
Parade in the Park and the next week she saw it at a Picture Palace and
recognized herself.
One kind of a film is always very dull and that is the kind that shows
the King shaking hands with the Lord Mayor and people coming away from
football matches. It is a very curious thing but nearly always when I
get into a cinema this kind of film happens at once and goes on for a
long time, so that it is very often too late to stay to the end of the
story-film.
I wish they would turn more books into films. A girl I know lived in
Paris and saw _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and it was splendid. Lots of
books would make good films. The other day we all said what books we
would most like to see on the movies. Two girls came to tea and one said
_The Black Tulip_ and the other _Little Women_. Jack wanted _Twenty
Thousand Leagues under the Sea_ and I think one of Mrs. Nesbit’s books
like _The Enchanted Castle_ would be splendid.
One thing that I don’t like about the movies is that they give you too
much time to read the short sentences in.
It is funny how a high wind always blows in American drawing-rooms in the
cinema.
M.P.s when you see them on the movies going to the opening of Parliament
always walk too fast.
“DANDELION”
[Illustration: UNFORTUNATE MISUNDERSTANDING NEAR CHELSEA HOSPITAL]
HISTORICAL RHYMES
II. LINES ON THE LANDING OF KING JOHN AFTER A CERTAIN TRAGIC EVENT
“Long live the King” the people cried
And cheered with all their might.
They crowded to the vessel’s side
To see King John alight.
“Will he be clad in gold and silk?”
The children, wondering, said.
“Yes, and in ermine, white as milk
With gold upon his head.”
“Will he wear gems about his neck
And hold a sceptre rare?”
“Yes, when he stands upon the deck
You’ll see them flashing fair.”
But lo! whose is that skimpy form
All bare and shivering?
Whose are those thin and naked legs?
It is—great Heavens!—the King!
Why doth he cower beneath a sack,
As cold as lemon-squash?
The regal panoply, alack,
Is missing in the Wash.
“PANSY”
A VISIT TO THE ZOO
Last Saturday we all went to the Zoo. There were no lion or tiger cubs,
but we went behind the cages in the reptile house and the keeper showed
us some baby crocodiles and let us hold one. It had the funniest little
teeth like a tiny saw, and a white throat which it can close up in the
water, and a film comes over its eyes when it likes just like the shutter
of a Brownie. The keeper said it was a few months old but would very
likely live to be a hundred.
Then he hooked a boa constrictor out of its cage and asked us to hold
it. I was frightened at first but after Jack and the others had held it
I tried. Its body feels terribly strong and electric and all the time it
is coiling about and darting out a little forked tongue. I was very glad
when the keeper took it away.
We saw the diving birds being fed in their tank. There are two of them,
one in a cage at each end, and the keeper throws little live fish into
the tank and lets out one bird at a time. At first we were very sorry for
the poor little fish, which swim about frantically in all directions to
escape from the terrible great bird who dashes after them like a cruel
submarine; but after a while we began to want the bird not to miss any.
Isn’t that funny? And my brother Jack got so excited that he pointed out
to the bird where one of the little fish was hiding and cried out “Here
he is, look, down here! Look, in the corner!”
“CONVOLVULUS”
A FABLE
There was once a garden path paved with flat stones, and in between the
stones were little tufts of thyme and other herbs.
On each side of the path were beds full of gay flowers, among which was
a very vain geranium, who, when no one was about, used to mock the thyme
because it was in such an exposed spot and liable to be walked on.
“The proper place for plants,” the geranium said, “is in a bed where they
are safe from people’s feet and are treated with respect. Look at me!”
“Yes,” said the thyme, “but the more I am trampled on the sweeter I
become and the more the lady who planted me likes me. Haven’t you seen
her squeezing me with her beautiful hands and then inhaling my fragrance,
whereas if anything hits you you are done for for ever.”
And at that moment a tennis ball, struck out of the court near by, fell
on the geranium and broke it in two.
The moral is that every one has his own place in life and we should mind
our own business.
“CARNATION”
CORRESPONDENCE
I
_To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_
DEAR MADAM,—You ask me to tell you what is the most depressing thing
I ever heard. It was this. I was crossing the Channel on a rough day,
feeling more miserable than I can describe and clinging to my deck-chair
because I knew that to move would be fatal, when two young men passed me,
in rude health and spirits, both smoking large pipes, and I heard one
say, “Personally, I’ve got no use for a smooth sea.” I can conceive of
nothing more offensively depressing than this.
Hoping you can find a place for the “anecdote” in your bright little
periodical,—I am yours faithfully,
HECTOR BARRANCE
II
_To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_
DEAR MADAM,—I am glad to hear that you approved of my contribution to
your last number. Being still unable to write, I again send you something
copied from the works of another. It is a poem by Joyce Kilmer, a young
American killed in the war.
Believe me, your admiring subscriber,
RICHARD HAVEN
X His mark
TREES
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
_End of Number 2 of THE BEGUILER; or, THE INVALID’S FRIEND_
CXXII
VERENA RABY TO EVANGELINE BARRANCE
MY DEAR EDITOR,—Having read your second number I feel so much better that
I am confident—to my distress—that a third will not be needed. And yet I
should so much like to read many more. I have been moved to become a poet
myself and write you a testimonial. After hours of thought in the watches
of the night I produced this couplet, which even though it is not worthy
to stand beside Pansy’s historical ballads is sincere:—
There was once a successful _Beguiler_
Which turned a sad dame to a smiler.
You are at liberty to quote these lines in all your advertisements,—I am,
yours sincerely,
CONSTANT READER
CXXIII
VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN
DEAR RICHARD,—I am rather upset by a piece of news this morning. Dr.
Ferguson came in to say that he is going away next week for a month’s
holiday, and I can quite believe that he needs one, for I alone must have
been a great source of anxiety to him—but it was rather a shock. He went
on to say that he has found a very good _locum_; but none the less I am
terrified. I can’t bear the thought of a stranger.
Forgive this peevishness, but I am so tired of being helpless.—Yours,
V.
CXXIV
NESTA ROSSITER TO RICHARD HAVEN
DEAR “UNCLE,”—Aunt Verena has got it into her head that the _locum_ who
is coming next week to take Dr. Ferguson’s place will not understand her
case and she is working herself into a fret over it. Dr. Ferguson assures
me that he wouldn’t allow anyone to take his place who is not qualified
in every way, and he says too that Aunt Verena ought for every reason to
be placid. Do please write to her to help soothe her down again.—Yours
sincerely,
NESTA
CXXV
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
DEAREST VERENA, I quite understand your nervousness about this new
doctor, but I think you should be more of a gambler over it all. You
should be more trustful of your star, which, though it (to my mind, very
reprehensively), allowed you to have a horrid fall, has made things as
comfortable as possible since. Until I hear to the contrary I intend to
think of the new doctor as a godsend, and a very agreeable change to old
Ferguson, who struck me as a prosy dog. Be an optimist, my dear.
The more I think of your money and your character, the more I incline
towards alms-houses, which, in a human non-Nietzschean country like ours,
I consider to be among the most satisfactory forms of sheer benevolence.
But I am not wholly convinced, and I should hate to see the interest
on £50,000 going in any way astray. Meanwhile I have made notes on the
alms-houses in this book. But what perplexes me is that these benevolent
people wait till they are dead. It would be far more fun to have
alms-houses while one was alive and watch them at work.
Here is an essay on the death of an imaginary grandmother which little
Mary Landseer has produced. The death of one’s grandmother had been set,
by an almost too whimsical instructress, as the subject of a composition:—
“One day, I think it was the hapiest day in the world for me. My
Granmother died and left me £50. Without waiting to morn or wait for her
funral I was walking along Oxford St. in surch of things to buy. My heart
was as light as a feather as I walked and my boots were up in the ere.
“First I thought of what my Husband would like me to have, then with a
suden thought I turned my steps home-would, and that night I went to a
play, the next a nother, and so I went on till I had only 10s. left. Then
how I wished my other Granmother was died, but it was no good. And when I
had children I wished I had not been so rash as to spend it on abusments,
but had saved it, but it was gone for ever and my other Granmother never
died, to my grat misfortune.”
It was Mary’s father who wrote that exquisite thing to a Vicereine in
India. “I wash your feet with my hair,” he said at the end of a letter,
employing an Indian phrase of courtesy, adding, “It is true that I have
very little hair, but then you have very little feet.”
Behold the punctual poem:—
There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you—
Heartsease—of all earth’s flowers most rare;
Bring it; and bring enough for two.
Good night,
R. H.
CXXVI
EMILY GOODYER TO NESTA ROSSITER
DEAR MADAM,—This is to let you know with my respects that the children
are quite well and happy. The puppy which Mr. Hawkes gave them takes up a
deal of their time and Miss Tony is busy collecting flowers for a prize
which her uncle has offered her. Master Cyril is not biting his nails so
much since I tried the bitter aloes.
I am sorry to have to incommode you, but I wish to give a month’s
notice, not through any fault that I have to find with the place, which
has always been most comfortable and considerate, but because Mr. Urible
has now come back from Mesopotamia and been demobbed and he wants to be
married at once. I should have preferred to walk out a little longer, as
I feel I should like to know more of Bert now he has been in the Army,
as soldiers can be so different from greengrocers, which is the way I
used to know him before the War, but he is very firm about it and I don’t
feel that I have the right, after being engaged so long, to refuse. That
is why dear Madam I have to give notice and not through any complaint or
dissatisfaction.
I am very sorry for it, because I am very fond of the children and I know
that it is difficult to find nursemaids now, but Mr. Urible is so firm
that I can’t do anything else. I think you would like to know that he has
grown much broader while in the Army and is a far finer figure of a man
than he was when he joined up. He has two medals.—I am, with respect,
your faithful servant,
EMILY GOODYER
CXXVII
NESTA ROSSITER TO EMILY GOODYER
DEAR EMILY,—Your letter came as a surprise: not because I was not
expecting you some day to marry, but because I was trusting to you to
keep everything at Combehurst going until Miss Raby was well enough to
spare me. Believe me that I am very glad that you have Urible safely back
again, but without wanting for a moment to interfere with your plans I
do most earnestly wish that you could postpone your wedding for a few
weeks. Having waited so long would not Urible—and you—be willing to wait
a little longer? Would not you? You have been such a comfort to us for so
long, being so trustworthy and understanding, that I am distracted when I
think of finding anyone else, especially in these times. Miss Raby still
needs me constantly and I cannot bear to abandon her now. May I think of
you as being prepared to stay another three months?—I am, yours sincerely,
NESTA ROSSITER
CXXVIII
EMILY GOODYER TO NESTA ROSSITER
DEAR MADAM,—I have read your letter several times and I have shown it to
Mr. Urible. We both feel the same about it; we feel that we have waited
long enough, especially Bert with all the dreadful things in Mesopotamia
to put up with, the thermometer sometimes being over 120 and sometimes
below freezing in a few hours. But we want to do what is right and what
Mr. Urible suggests with his respects to you Madam is that we should
be married as soon as possible, as arranged, but that, until you come
back in three months or before, I should continue to be the children’s
nurse by day. Mr. Urible is taking over Parsons’s shop and garden in the
village and we should live there. There are three nice rooms and a good
kitchen and scullery, and no doubt a neighbour will cook Bert’s meals for
him. Dear Madam we are very wishful to oblige you but Mr. Urible feels
that after all he has been through in Mesopotamia it isn’t right that he
should be kept waiting any longer.—I am, yours respectfully,
EMILY GOODYER
CXXIX
HERBERT URIBLE TO NESTA ROSSITER
DEAR MADAM, MRS. ROSSITER,—Pray excuse me writing but I wish you to
understand my position with regard to Miss Goodyer, who has been a good
nurse to your children. It is not as selfish as you think. Miss Goodyer
and I were to have married four years ago but then came the conscription
and it was impossible. While I was away she promised to marry me directly
there was Peace, but I couldn’t get demobbed till a little while ago,
which means further delay, and now she says that you have asked her to
put me off again. Pray pardon me, dear madam, but I don’t think this is
fair of you, or that it shows the right feeling for a soldier who comes
out of the War a good deal worse off than he went in. While I have been
away fighting for my country my business has gone to other people and
now I am asked to wait longer for my wife. Pardon me, madam, but I don’t
think it is fair. A man has his feelings and rights.
Awaiting your reply,—I am, yours respectfully,
HERBERT URIBLE
CXXX
NESTA ROSSITER TO HERBERT URIBLE
DEAR MR. URIBLE,—I quite understand and agree. Perhaps you could lend
me Mrs. Urible by day just a little while until Miss Raby is well. That
would be very kind of you.
I hope that you and Emily will be very happy.—Yours sincerely,
NESTA ROSSITER
CXXXI
NESTA ROSSITER TO HAZEL BARRANCE
DEAR HAZEL,—I am in a bother over our nice faithful Emily, who wants
to be married but is willing to go on looking after the children by
day until I can leave Aunt Verena. I don’t care about that kind of
arrangement very much; a nurse with a husband living near by is a nurse
spoiled, I should guess; but it is better than nothing. As, however, the
children might need things in the night, I am hoping you can find me
a new nurse at once. You are always so clever. I wrote to our regular
Registry Office, of course, but they tell me that there isn’t anything
on their books at the moment. Could you possibly go round to some of the
other places?—Yours distractedly,
NESTA
CXXXII
VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN
DEAR RICHARD,—I am prepared to wear a white sheet and eat humble pie,
great slices of it and a second helping. The terrible _locum_ arrived
this morning and I like him and feel that he is clever and to be trusted.
His name is Field and he is young, not more than twenty-six I should say.
He is a Bart’s man, like Dr. Ferguson, and has been in France, doing
excellent work.—Yours,
V.
CXXXIII
HAZEL BARRANCE TO NESTA ROSSITER
You simpleton, thinking you can get a nurse in Peace-time. There isn’t
such a thing in the world—not under £50 a year. How silly we all were
not to take a leaf out of the Darlings’ book and train Newfoundland
dogs!—only they would have to be muzzled to-day. If I were you I should
let your Emily have her way—it’s only for a few weeks—and make Fred do
more. Surely if the children want anything in the night, he could get
it.—Yours always,
HAZEL
_P.S._—Father is rejoicing in a séance story which was told him at the
Club. Communication was at last set up with the spirit of an old Ceylon
judge whose life had been by no means one of restraint. All that he would
say to the medium was, “I’m a dashed sight more comfortable than I ever
expected to be.”
CXXXIV
NESTA ROSSITER TO HAZEL BARRANCE