Once he is asleep no noise in this world can wake him, and as for getting
things, he can get nothing. He is a pet, but no one ever took such
advantage of that aloofness from domestic co-operation which so many men
consider their right. In his attitude to the children he is a mixture
of a connoisseur and a comedian. He is either admiring them—against
backgrounds, æsthetically, as though they were porcelain or almond
blossom, or physically, as though they were prize puppies—or he is using
them as foils for his jokes. It is all very delightful and we are a happy
family, but it makes me smile when you suggest that he could take the
place of Emily in any capacity whatever. Children, he thinks, should be
both seen and heard, which shows that he is a modern enough parent, but
they should be seen only when they are picturesque and heard only when
they are gay. This being so, please go on trying to find a nurse. There
is always one leaving. Every day hundreds of children must grow out of
nurses.—Yours,
NESTA
CXXXV
BRYAN FIELD TO CLEMENCY POWER
[_By hand_]
DEAR MISS POWER,—I must confess that I had hoped to get to Herefordshire,
but no more. The rest is Chance, dear beautiful Chance.
And how did I discover that you were here too? I saw you in the garden
from Miss Raby’s window and asked. Please send me a word of pardon. I
should never try to influence Destiny.—I am, yours sincerely,
BRYAN FIELD
CXXXVI
CLEMENCY POWER TO BRYAN FIELD
[_By hand_]
DEAR MR. FIELD,—I am glad that Herefordshire is so small and that the
long arm of coincidence has not shortened. I am even more glad that it is
you who are to take care of Miss Raby.—I am, yours sincerely,
CLEMENCY POWER
CXXXVII
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
MY DEAR, I have no posthumous activities to recommend to-day, having just
returned from a temple consecrated to youth, where, but for its antiquity
and its Roll of Honour, no one would think of death. I mean Winchester.
My sister’s boy is there and I went down for the day to see him: a nice
candid jolly boy.
I came to the conclusion that there is a charm about an old public
school greater than that of a university. The boy is more engaging than
the youth: he may have “side” and affectation among his contemporaries,
but with a much older man such as I am he is himself in a way that the
undergraduate seldom is. The undergraduate’s whole desire is so often
to be taken for a man, whereas the schoolboy at most would like to
approximate to an undergraduate.
Of all the schools that I know none is so attractive as this. Its age,
its traditions, its beauty, alone would single it out: but I am taken
with its spirit too. When I go to see Dick I naturally meet many of his
school-fellows; and I find a candour and friendliness which is a strange
contrast to the social reserves of boys from other schools I could name.
I don’t know whether the whole school is similarly fortunate, but in
Dick’s house there is a door-opening, door-closing and passing-the-salt
tendency which I fancy is often bad form elsewhere. To talk with the
immature man is never easy, wherever you find him, and my inclination
would always be to jump the gulf that is fixed between real childhood and
real manhood; but Dick’s companions are easier.
Nephews and uncles go through strange vicissitudes. At first the uncle
is an imposing creature who appears but rarely and when he does must
be treated with respect and called Uncle on every occasion. And then
as the boy grows older and understands the powers and possibilities of
half-crowns the uncle takes on a god-like mien. And then, older still, he
meets him on more equal terms; which get more and more equal until the
time comes when he discovers that this once remarkable person is nothing
but a fogey and a bore. Some uncles, before this last stage is reached,
attach themselves to their nephews as satellites or boon companions and
vie with them in youthfulness, but I am not likely ever to do that.
The relations of son and father have somewhat similar stages, but there
is as a rule too close a tie there to permit of the half-contemptuous
easy terms on which nephew and uncle often rub along. Dick is a good boy
and should do well. I watched him this afternoon longing to hit out but
knowing that the game demanded self-repression, and admired him and saw
earnest of sound citizenship in it.
The next thing is to make sure he gets into my dear Bannister’s College
at Cambridge.
But, Verena, how glorious to be a boy! And yet how comforting, now and
then, to be old enough to be useful to the young—when they will let
us!—Good night,
R. H.
The poem:—
Why do our joys depart
For cares to seize the heart?
I know not. Nature says,
Obey; and man obeys.
I see, and know not why
Thorns live and roses die.
W. S. LANDOR
CXXXVIII
HAZEL BARRANCE TO NESTA ROSSITER
MY DEAR NESTA,—I have had a brain-wave. Why should not I go down to
Combehurst until you are free again and sleep near the children and let
Emily go on attending to them by day, as she suggests, and keep an eye
on her? I am willing to. This would also liberate Fred for his Dormy
House, whither he could lug his clubs with a clear conscience. If you
accept this offer, don’t overwhelm me with gratitude, because I shall be
pleasing myself more than anything else, this abode being at the moment a
most suitable one to leave.
Father’s sarcasms have had very high velocity of late. He said this
morning, for example, apropos of a very harmless young man who brought
me back from the theatre and whom I was foolish enough to ask in for
a whisky and soda, that if girls looked at men with the eyes of men
the world would come to an end, because there would be no marriages. I
replied that I supposed the effect would not be far different if men
looked at women with the eyes of women; which he would of course have
himself included if he was not eager to score off me. Not that this
young man had any more designs on me than the rest of his sex. (I don’t
count Horace.) Never was a girl so unembarrassed by suitors as I or more
willing to be so. But it is part of father’s humour to pretend that I
hunt them and that I catch only the most detrimental. How he would behave
if I really got engaged I often wonder. Probably he would play the game.
Write as soon as you can—or telegraph if you like.—Yours,
HAZEL
CXXXIX
NESTA ROSSITER TO HAZEL BARRANCE
DARLING HAZEL,—You are an angel to come to the rescue like this and
I accept gladly. Fred will be so much relieved too, and I am sure he
deserves his holiday.—Yours,
NESTA
_P.S._—Quite a lot of young men have, from time to time, been seen in
the neighbourhood.
CXL
NESTA ROSSITER TO LADY SANDYS
DEAR AGATHA,—My cousin Hazel Barrance is going to look after the children
and Emily—who, as you probably know, is about to marry Urible—until I
come back. (Fred is off to his golf.) It is very sporting of her and I
want you to see that she has a little amusement. She plays tennis too
well and pretends to hate men, so everything is easy for you. I long to
get back again. Kiss your fat Barbara for me.—Yours,
NESTA
CXLI
LADY SANDYS TO NESTA ROSSITER
DEAR NESTA,—I will do what I can for your cousin. Jack is bringing
several of his friends down for a home-made lawn-tennis tournament
next week-end; and that will be a start. Two or three of the Wimbledon
tournament players will be among them, we hope.
Your Tony and Cyril were here yesterday, and in consequence the garden
hasn’t a single trace of fruit left.—Yours,
AGATHA
CXLII
ROY BARRANCE TO CLEMENCY POWER
DEAR MISS POWER,—Please don’t be angry with this letter, but I can’t
help writing it. I can’t think of anything but you, and above all the
London traffic, even the motor buses and the W.D. lorries, I hear the
music of your lovely Irish voice. I want to say that I worship you and if
you care the least little bit about me I am yours at your feet to do as
you like with. I haven’t been much of a success so far, but with you to
help me and order me about I could do anything. Aunt Verena is buying me
a share in a new concern directly, and I am sure she would adore it if
you were her niece, though only by marriage. Don’t answer this at once,
but give me the benefit of thinking me over from every point of view. Of
course you may be engaged already, or you may actively dislike me, and
in this case I must ask you to forgive me for writing, but I couldn’t
help it. If you could see yourself and hear yourself speak you would
understand why.—Your abject admirer,
ROY BARRANCE
_P.S._—Please answer at once and put me out of my misery.
CXLIII
ROY BARRANCE TO CLEMENCY POWER
[_Telegram_]
Don’t reply to letter am coming by afternoon train.
CXLIV
SEPTIMUS TRIBE TO VERENA RABY
MY DEAR SISTER,—It is seldom enough that we hear from you direct, but
news gets into circulation in very curious ways and it was the oddest
chance which informed me that you may be losing the services of Nesta as
a companion during your very regrettable indisposition. Letitia is so
much stronger than she was, thanks to the nourishing delicacies which
the strictest economy in my own personal needs has made it possible for
me to obtain for her, that she is now perfectly fitted to be at your
side—where, being your sister, she ought to be—and I hereby offer our
services. I say “our” for she would not care to come alone, and I could,
I am convinced, be useful and stimulating in very many ways. I am not
surprised that Nesta should be leaving you. If the stories that I hear of
the wildness of those unmothered children of hers are true, it is more
than time that she returned to her home. A mother’s first duty is to her
brood. The ties uniting aunt and niece are of, comparatively, negligible
slenderness. Where there is, as alas! in your case, no husband, a sister
has the first claim to nourish and protect. Awaiting your reply,—I am,
your affectionate brother-in-law,
SEPTIMUS TRIBE
CXLV
NESTA ROSSITER TO SEPTIMUS TRIBE
DEAR UNCLE SEPTIMUS,—You will be pleased to know that I have arranged
to stay on with Aunt Verena. Please give my love to Aunt Letitia.—Yours
sincerely,
NESTA
CXLVI
ROY BARRANCE TO HIS SISTER HAZEL
DARLING HAZEL, OLD THING,—Wish me luck because I am starting out on the
biggest enterprise of my life. What a pity we are not Roman Catholics and
then you could burn candles for me. I am going down to Aunt Verena’s to
propose to Clemency Power, that divine Irish girl. I wrote to her last
night but I’m such a rotten letter-writer that I’m going down to see her
in person and learn my fate. I even tried to get the letter back, but
postmen are so rottenly honest. I waited for hours in the rain for the
pillar-box to be emptied and offered him two pounds and an old overcoat,
but all he did was to threaten to call a policeman. If she accepts me
I shall be the luckiest man on earth and there’s nothing I shan’t be
able to do. You’ll see. But if she turns me down I don’t know what will
happen. I shall probably become a film-actor in broken-hearted stories.
Lots of people have said I have the right kind of mobile face for the
movies, and really there’s nothing _infra dig_ in it. Clemency is two or
three years older than I am, but I think that’s all to the good. What I
need is a steadying hand. You will adore her.—Yours ever,
ROY
CXLVII
ROY BARRANCE TO HIS SISTER HAZEL
DARLING OLD THING,—It is no good. I am down and out. The whole thing
has been a failure. To begin with, I had a hell of a journey, full of
hopes and fears alternately. In the taxi at Paddington I felt full of
buck and then while waiting for the train to start I knew I was a goner.
At Reading I began to have hopes again and at Swindon I wasn’t worth
two-pence-halfpenny. At Newport I nearly got out and came back and at
Hereford I had a big whisky and soda and was confident once more. But all
the way from the station to the house I just sweated.
The very first thing I saw as I came up the drive was Clemency playing
tennis with the new Doctor, and my heart sank like a U boat into my
socks. I knew in my bones that everything was up; and I was right.
Whether or not Clemency is booked, I don’t know, but she won’t have me.
She was as nice as she could be, and her voice drove me frantic every
time she spoke, but she held out no hope. I expect the sawbones will
get her, he’s the kind of quiet, assured, efficient card that a flighty
blighter like me would never have a chance against. And he’s nobbled the
whole place. Aunt Verena thinks he’s It.
I stuck it for two days and then I made an excuse and came away.
And now, what do you think I’m doing? I’m a railway porter. I carry
people’s luggage at Paddington and tell them when the train starts
for Thingumbob—if ever it does—and what time the train comes in
from Stick-in-the-mud. I was going to Ireland to fish and try to
forget—Clemency told me of a place called Curragh Lake—but the strike
came and put the lid on that for the moment. The joke is that the old
ladies all want to know what lord I am—as the papers have given them
the idea that at Paddington there are only noblemen helping.—Your
broken-hearted
ROY
CXLVIII
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
MY DEAR VERENA, I think that we may all feel happier than we were doing.
Even if Old England stands not quite where she did, the bulldog breed is
not extinct. The way in which the nation has taken the railway trouble,
and the lightning efficiency of the food distributing arrangements,
should put dismay into enemy hearts—and under the word enemy I include
Allies and rivals—and renew our own individual and corporate ambition
and national spirit. In that way the Strike may be said to have been a
blessing in disguise, although industrially it has been a calamity. It
may also make people look a little more narrowly at their pence, which is
what we shall all have to do before long.
The oddest things happened, not the least of which I heard of yesterday,
when one of the few K.C.’s whom it is my privilege to know showed me on
his watch chain the shilling which had been given him, in his capacity as
a porter at Victoria, by his butcher, all unconscious of his identity, as
a tip for helping with the family luggage on their return from the South
Coast. The K.C. said nothing at the time, except Thank you, but when
things are a little quieter he is going to show it to his purveyor of
indifferent Peace-time joints and enjoy a good laugh with him.
I have been wondering if alms-houses for the rich are not more important
than for the poor. On all sides I hear of old widowed ladies who, needing
homes, or companions, spend their time in visiting one married daughter
or married son after another, when they would be far happier in a little
colony like Hampton Court. Couldn’t you do something for them? But you
would have to be very careful. If any suspicion of charity got about,
the whole scheme would fail. So you could not put them together, even in
the most exquisite little garden-village homes. They would have to be
isolated. At what point in the social scale a necessitous old lady ceases
to be willing to have her necessity known, I cannot say; but certainly
those who suffer most from it would least like it published.
Old gentlemen don’t mind becoming Brothers of the Charterhouse, but what
about their Sisters? I doubt it.
Only therefore by the exercise of great secrecy could you benefit them.
And have you ever thought of the men who are tossed up and down all day
and all night on light-ships? To keep others safe. What a life and what
opportunities to the philanthropist!
Here is the poem, which, I trust, is not too sad:—
You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day,
And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play;
Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear,
And if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not here.
Always “_à votre service_,” as the nice French officials say in the South,
R. H.
CXLIX
HAZEL BARRANCE TO NESTA ROSSITER
MY DEAR NESTA,—You needn’t worry about things here. They are going very
smoothly. Little stomach-aches and trifles like that; nothing more.
I had an unexpected and not too welcome visitor yesterday in the
somewhat Gothic shape of Horace Mun-Brown, who had discovered from
Evangeline where I was. He stayed to lunch—_your_ food and drink—and
talked exclusively of himself and his creative brain, both of which he
again laid at my feet. I suppose some men like the sensation of being
turned down, but I feel somehow that I should hate it. I mean as a
habit—and by the same person. Perhaps the shock to Horace’s egoism is
a kind of stimulant and he goes off and is more creative than ever. At
any rate he went away with his absurd head high in the air and what is
called a confident tread, and this morning came a long letter about his
latest scheme, which is to run a theatre called The Polyglot for plays in
foreign languages, in order to get the patronage of the various foreign
residents in London. One week a Greek play, for the Greek colony, then an
Italian, for the Italian, then a Russian, then an American, and so forth.
But he can carry this fatiguing project through successfully only if he
has my wifely co-operation and, I suppose, the necessary capital. But it
is the wifely co-operation that he insists upon and that I most cordially
resent.
Mrs. Urible is now more punctual and does not leave so early.
Poor Roy has just written to me about his broken heart. O that Irish
syren! But his heart mends very quickly.
I am bidden to tennis at Lady Sandys’ on Sunday. Some real Wimbledon men
who have engaged in mixed doubles with the marvellous Lenglen. This is
too exciting.—Yours,
HAZEL
CL
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
Now I am going to tell you the ghost story that the distinguished
Orientalist told Bemerton and Bemerton told me. I shall tell it as though
I myself were the owner of the fatal jewel—for that is the _motif_.
We begin with the Indian Mutiny, when a British soldier broke into a
temple and wrenched the jewel from the forehead of a god. This jewel
passed into the hands of my grandfather and then my father and gradually
reached me. It was of a remarkable beauty—a huge ruby—but beyond keeping
it in a box in the dining-room and showing it occasionally to guests, I
gave little thought to my new possession.
Neither my grandfather nor father had been too prosperous, and from
the moment the stone became mine I began to experience reverses—not
very serious, but continuous. It was a long time before I suspected any
connection between these little calamities and the jewel, but gradually
I began to do so. One evening I received a shock. Several people were
dining with me and suddenly the servant put a piece of paper in my hand
on which one of the guests had written “Am I dreaming, or is there really
a Hindoo sitting on the floor behind you? Nobody else seems to notice
him.” On my asking him about it afterwards he said that the Hindoo was
scrabbling on the ground as though digging a hole with his nails and that
he had a very malignant expression. From time to time two or three other
people, all unaware of the legend, wondered if there was not a figure of
this kind in the room, and I began to get nervous. I told the story to
a friend who knows more about India than any one living. “I should get
rid of that stone,” he said. “It’s dangerous. But you must be quit of it
scientifically.”
I must take it, he told me, to one of the Thames bridges and throw it
into the river at dead low tide.
With the assistance of the almanack we ascertained the exact moment and I
dropped it over. Then I went home with a light heart.
Three months later a man called to see me. He knew, he said, that I was
interested in Oriental curiosities and he had a very remarkable one to
show me. A ruby. It had been dredged up from the Thames and he had heard
of the workman who had found it and had bought it and now gave me the
first offer. It was, of course, _the_ stone. Well, I recognize fate when
I meet it, and I bought it back. Kismet.
But although I was willing still to own it, if such was the notion of
destiny, I was against keeping it at home any more. So I procured a metal
box and wrapped up the jewel and sealed it and locked the box and sealed
that and deposited it at my Bank in the City, where it was placed in one
of the strong rooms. That was only a little while ago.
Last week I had occasion to visit the bank to consult the manager on some
point of business. After we had finished we chatted awhile. Looking round
at the girls at the desks—all called in to take the place of the male
clerks who had gone to the War, and many of them kept on,—I asked him how
they compared in efficiency with the men.
He said that generally they were not so good. They were not so steady and
were liable to nerves and fancies.
“For example,” he said, “it’s impossible to get some of them to go to the
strong room at all, because they say there is a horrible little Hindoo
squatting there and scrabbling on the floor.”
There is no news and here is the poem. You must recover very quickly now,
under the Paragon’s treatment, because the supply of verses is running
short:—
Oh, Cynicism, let them bleat and sigh,
Their own hearts hard, belike, and chill as stone;
Give me the soul that’s tinged with irony,
For then I know that it has felt and known.
CLI
PATRICIA POWER TO HER SISTER CLEMENCY
DEAREST CLEM,—We have had a visit from your young friend, who is a great
lark. He is coming again. Indeed I believe that if Herself had asked him
to stay he would be here for ever. He thinks there is no country like
Ireland and no part of it like Kerry; which is true enough. We are very
much obliged to you, I’m sure, for sending a male thing to this nunnery.
Herself wants to know if readers to invalid ladies never get a week’s
holiday. She pretends to want to see you. Mr. Barrance says that he
doubts if you can get away before her regular doctor returns. Don’t
forget us.—Your devoted
PAT
CLII
RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY
DEAR VERENA, one final word about your money. I have, I think, a really
good suggestion at last; at any rate it is one which I myself, in your
position, should follow. Not only as a valuable gift, but as a well
merited stroke of criticism, it would be a fine thing if you were to
leave the money to the Prime Minister of the day, not for his own use
but to increase the paltry £1200 which is all the money for new Civil
List pensions that this great nation can find every year. Every year the
number of claimants for its miserable little doles is far in excess of
those that can be helped, and the help is therefore of the most meagre,
and often, I should guess, useless kind. A pension of £50 a year to the
widow of this eminent but unfortunate man, £70 to the daughter of that,
and so forth—always “In consideration of his distinguished services to
Science, Literature, Art or to his country” and of “the necessitous
circumstances” of those whom he has left behind. If some of these fifties
could be turned into hundreds it would be an act of benevolence indeed.
What do you say? Alms-houses are excellent, but somehow I feel that this
is better.
Little Mrs. Peters amused me yesterday with one of her remarks. Speaking
of the impending visit of her sister-in-law, she said, “I want to give
her a decent lunch but I don’t want to appear well off. Don’t you think
an old partridge stewed is the thing?”
Here is the poem:—
We wagered, she for sunshine, I for rain,
And I should hint sharp practice if I dared;
For was not she beforehand sure to gain
Who made the sunshine we together shared?
Meanwhile there is every sign of the coming winter here. Falling leaves
everywhere.—Good night,
R. H.
CLIII
VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN
DEAREST RICHARD,—Forgive me for not answering sooner, but serious things
have been happening.
I am entirely with you about the Civil List. I cannot believe that the
superfluity of the estate could be devoted to any better purpose and I
am arranging it at once. But there is not the urgency that there was,
because _I’m going to get better_. Mr. Field found something pressing
somewhere and removed it and I am already able to stand. Think of that!
He says that all I need now is to get some bracing change of air and lose
the weakness that comes of lying down so long. And to think that once I
was grumbling to you about his coming here at all! We never recognise,
until after, the messengers of the friendly gods. It is really a kind of
miracle and I’m so sorry about dear old Dr. Ferguson, who was always,
although the kindest thing on earth, a little gloomy and pessimistic
about me, and who will, although pleased—because his heart is gold—be
also a little displeased, by the younger man’s triumph—because his heart
is human as well. That is all, to-day, but when I tell you that I am
writing this at my desk in my bedroom—the first letter to any one under
such novel and wonderful conditions—you have got to be very happy and
drink my health. And now I half want not to get well because I shall miss
all my kind friends’ kindnesses and solicitous little acts.—Your very
grateful
V.