MRS. O'MARA'S CORRESPONDENCE
_Letter from Lady Ingleby to the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain._
The Moorhead Inn,
Tregarth, Cornwall.
MY DEAR JANE,
Having been here a week, I think it is time I commenced my first letter
to you.
How does it feel to be a person considered pre-eminently suitable to
minister to a mind diseased? Doesn't it give you a sense of being, as it
were, rice pudding, or Brand's essence, or Maltine; something essentially
safe and wholesome? You should have heard how Sir Deryck jumped at you,
as soon as your name was mentioned, tentatively, as my possible
correspondent. I had barely whispered it, when he leapt, and clinched the
matter. I believe "wholesome" was an adjective mentioned. I hope you do
not mind, dear Jane. I must confess, I would sooner be macaroons or
oyster-patties, even at the risk of giving my friends occasional
indigestion. But then I have never gone in for the rôle of being helpful,
in which you excel. Not that it is a "rôle" with you, dear Jane. Rather,
it is an essential characteristic. You walk in, and find a hopeless
tangle; gather up the threads in those firm capable hands; deftly sort
and hold them; and, lo, the tangle is over; the skein of life is once
more ready for winding!
Well, there is not much tangle about me just now, thanks to our dear
doctor's most excellent prescription. It was a veritable stroke of
genius, this setting me free from myself. From the first day, the sense
of emancipation was indescribable. I enjoy being addressed as "Ma'am"; I
revel in being without a maid, though it takes me ages to do my hair, and
I have serious thoughts of wearing it in pigtails down my back! When I
remember the poor, harassed, exhausted, society-self I left behind, I
feel like buying a wooden spade and bucket and starting out, all by
myself, to build sand-castles on this delightful shore. I have no one to
play with, for I am certain the Miss Murgatroyds--I am going to tell you
of them--never made sand-castles; no, not even in their infancy, a
century ago! They must always have been the sort of children who wore
white frilled bloomers, poplin frocks, and large leghorn hats with
ribbons tied beneath their excellent little chins, and walked demurely
with their governess--looking shocked at other infants who whooped and
ran. I feel inclined to whoop and run, now; and the Miss Murgatroyds are
quite prepared to look shocked.
But oh, the freedom of being nobody, and of having nothing to think of or
do! And everything I see and hear gives me joy; a lark rising from the
turf, and carolling its little self up into the blue; the great Atlantic
breakers, pounding upon the shore; the fisher-folk, standing at the doors
of their picturesque thatched cottages. All things seem alive, with an
exuberance of living, to which I have long been a stranger.
Do you know this coast, with its high moorland, its splendid cliffs; and,
far below, its sand coves, and ever-moving, rolling, surging, deep green
sea? Wonderful! Beautiful! Infinite!
My Inn is charming; primitive, yet comfortable. We have excellent coffee,
fried fish in perfection; real nursery toast, farm butter, and home-made
bread. When you supplement these with marmalade and mulberry jam, other
things all cease to be necessities.
Stray travellers come and go in motors, merely lunching, or putting up
for one night; but there are only four other permanent guests. These all
furnish me with unceasing interest and amusement. The three Miss
Murgatroyds--oh, Jane, they are so antediluvian and quaint! Three ancient
sisters,--by name, Amelia, Eliza, and Susannah. Their villa at Putney
rejoices in the name of "Lawn View"; so characteristic and suitable;
because no view reaching beyond the limits of their own front lawn
appears to these dear ladies to be worthy of regard. They never go
abroad, "excepting to the Isle of Wight," because they "do not like
foreigners." A party of quite charming Americans arrived just before
dinner the other day, in an automobile, and kept us lively during their
flying visit. They were cordial over the consommé; friendly over the
fish; and quite confidential by the time we reached the third course.
But, alas, these delightful cousins from the other side, were considered
"foreigners" by the Miss Murgatroyds, who consequently encased themselves
in the frigid armour of their own self-conscious primness; and passed the
mustard, without a smile. I felt constrained, afterwards, to apologise
for my country-women; but the Americans, overflowing with appreciative
good-nature, explained that they had come over expressly in order to see
old British relics of every kind. They asked me whether I did not think
the Miss Murgatroyds might have stepped "right out of Dickens." I was
fairly nonplussed, because I thought they were going to say "out of the
ark"--you know how one mentally finishes a sentence as soon as it is
begun?--and I simply dared not confess that I have not read Dickens!
Alas, how ignorant of our own standard literature we are apt to feel when
we talk with Americans, and find it completely a part of their everyday
life.
But I must tell you more about the Miss Murgatroyds--Amelia, Eliza, and
Susannah. When quite at peace among themselves, which is not often, they
are Milly, Lizzie, and Susie; but a little rift within the lute is marked
by the immediate use of their full baptismal names. Poor Susannah being
the youngest--the youthful side of sixty--and inclined to be kittenish
and giddy, is very rarely "Susie." Miss Murgatroyd--Amelia--is stern and
unbending. She wears a cameo brooch the size of a tablespoon, and lays
down the law in precise and elegant English, even when asking Susie to
pass the crumpets. Miss Eliza, the second sister, is meek and
unoffending. Her attitude toward Miss Amelia is one of perpetual apology.
She addresses Susie as "my dear love," excepting on occasions when
Susie's behaviour has put her quite outside the pale. Then she calls her,
"my _dear_ Susannah!" and sighs. I am inclined to think Miss Eliza
suffers from a demonstrative nature, which has never had an outlet.
But Susie is the lively one. Susie would be a flirt, if she dared, and if
any man were bold enough to flirt with her under Miss Amelia's eye. Susie
is barely fifty-five, and her elder sisters regard her as a mere child,
and are very ready with reproof and correction. Susie has a pink and
white complexion, a soft fat little face, and plump dimpled hands; and
Susie is given to vanity. Jim Airth held open the door of the coffee-room
for her one day, and Susie--I should say Susannah--has been in a flutter
ever since. Poor naughty Susie! Miss Murgatroyd has changed her place at
meals--they have a table in the centre of the room--and made her sit with
her back to Jim Airth; who has a round table, all to himself, in the
window.
Now I must tell you about Jim Airth, and of a curious coincidence
connected with him, which you must not repeat to the doctor, for fear he
should move me on.
Let me confess at once, that I am extremely interested in Jim Airth--and
it is sweet and generous of me to admit it, for Jim Airth is not in the
least interested in me! He rarely vouchsafes me a word or a glance. He is
a bear, and a savage; but such a fine good-looking bear; and such a
splendid and interesting savage! He is quite the tallest man I ever saw;
with immense limbs, lean and big-boned; yet moves with the supple grace
of an Indian. He was through that campaign last year, and had a terrible
turn of sunstroke and fever, during which his head was shaved.
Consequently his thick brown hair is now at the stage of standing
straight up all over it like a bottle-brush. I know Susie longs to smooth
it down; but that would be a task beyond Susie's utmost efforts. His
brows are very stern and level; and his eyes, deep-set beneath them, of
that gentian blue which makes one think of Alpine heights. They can flash
and gleam, on occasions, and sometimes look almost purple. He wears a
heavy brown moustache, and his jaw and chin are terrifying in their
masterful strength. Yet he smokes an old briar pipe; whistles like a
blackbird; and derives immense amusement from playing up to naughty
Susie's coyness, when the cameo brooch is turned another way. I have seen
his eyes twinkle with fun when Miss Susannah has purposely let fall her
handkerchief, and he has reached out a long arm, picked it up, and
restored it. Whereupon Susie has hastened out, in the wake of her
sisters, in a blushing flutter; Miss Eliza turning to whisper: "Oh, my
dear love! Oh Susannah!" I try, when these things happen, to catch Jim
Airth's merry eye, and share the humour of the situation; but he stolidly
sees the wall through me on all occasions, and would tread heavily on
_my_ poor handkerchief, if I took to dropping it. Miss Murgatroyd tells
me that he is a confirmed hater of feminine beauty; upon which poor Miss
Susannah takes a surreptitious prink into the gold-framed mirror over the
reception-room mantelpiece, and says, plaintively: "Oh, do not say that,
Amelia!" But Amelia _does_ say "that"; and a good deal more!
When first I saw Jim Airth, I thought him a cross between a cowboy and a
guardsman; and I think so still. But what do you suppose he turns out to
be, beside? An author! And, stranger still, he is writing an important
book called _Modern Warfare; its Methods and Requirements_, in which he
is explaining and working out many of Michael's ideas and experiments. He
was right through that border war, and took part in the assault on
Targai. He must have known Michael, intimately.
All this information I have from Miss Murgatroyd. I sometimes sit with
them in the reception-room after dinner, where they wind wool and
knit--endless winding; perpetual knitting! At five minutes to ten, Miss
Murgatroyd says; "Now, my dear Eliza. Now, Susannah," which is the signal
for bestowing all their goods and chattels into black satin work-bags.
Then, at ten o'clock precisely, Miss Murgatroyd rises, and they
procession up to bed--ah, no! I beg their pardons. The Miss Murgatroyds
never "go to bed." They all "retire to rest."
Jim Airth and his doings form a favourite topic of conversation. They
speak of him as "Mr. Airth," which sounds so funny. He is not the sort of
person one ever could call "Mister." To me, he has been "Jim Airth," ever
since I saw his name, in small neat writing, in the visitors' book. I had
to put mine just beneath it, and of course I wrote "Mrs. O'Mara"; then,
as an address seemed expected, added: "The Lodge, Shenstone." Just after
I had written this, Jim Airth came into the hall, and stood quite still
studying it. I saw him, from half-way up the stairs. At first I thought
he was marvelling at my shocking handwriting; but now I believe the name
"Shenstone" caught his eye. No doubt he knew it to be Michael's
family-seat.
Do you know, it was so strange, the other night, Miss Murgatroyd held
forth in the reception-room about Michael's death. She explained that he
was "the first to dash into the breach," and "fell with his face to the
foe." She also added that she used to know "poor dear Lady Ingleby,"
intimately. This was interesting, and seemed worthy of further inquiry.
It turned out that she is a distant cousin of a weird old person who used
to call every year on mamma, for a subscription to some society for
promoting thrift among the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands. Dear
mamma used annually to jump upon this courageous old party and flatten
her out; and listening to the process was, to us, a fearful joy; but
annually she returned to the charge. On one of these occasions, just
before my marriage, Miss Murgatroyd accompanied her. Hence her intimate
knowledge of "poor dear Lady Ingleby." Also she has a friend who, quite
recently, saw Lady Ingleby driving in the Park; "and, poor thing, she had
sadly gone off in looks." I felt inclined to prink in the golden mirror,
after the manner of Susie, and exclaim: "Oh, do not say that, Amelia!"
Isn't it queer the way in which such people as these worthy ladies, yearn
to be able to say they know us; for really, when all is said and done,
we are not very much worth knowing? I would rather know a cosmopolitan
cowboy, such as Jim Airth, than half the titled folk on my visiting-list.
But really, Jane, I must not mention him again, or you will think I am
infected with Susie's flutter. Not so, my dear! He has shown me no little
courtesies; given few signs of being conscious of my presence; barely
returned my morning greeting, though my lonely table is just opposite
his, in the large bay-window.
But in this new phase of life, everything seems of absorbing interest,
and the individuality of the few people I see, takes on an exaggerated
importance. (Really that sentence might almost be Sir Deryck's!) Also, I
really believe Jim Airth's peculiar fascination consists in the fact that
I am conscious of his disapproval. If he thinks of me at all, it is not
with admiration, nor even with liking. And this is a novel experience;
for I have been spoilt by perpetual approval, and satiated by senseless
and unmerited adulation.
Oh Jane! As I walk along these cliffs, and hear the Atlantic breakers
pounding against their base, far down below; as I watch the sea-gulls
circling around on their strong white wings; as I realise the strength,
the force, the liberty, in nature; the growth and progress which
accompanies life; I feel I have never really lived. Nothing has ever felt
_strong_, either beneath me, or around me, or against me. Had I once been
mastered, and held, and made to do as another willed, I should have felt
love was a reality, and life would have become worth living. But I have
just dawdled through the years, doing exactly as I pleased; making
mistakes, and nobody troubling to set me right; failing, and nobody
disappointed that I had not succeeded.
I realise now, that there is a key to life, and a key to love, which has
never been placed in my hands. What it is, I know not. But if I ever
learn, it will be from just such a man as Jim Airth. I have never really
talked with him, yet I am so conscious of his strength and virility, that
he stands to me, in the abstract, for all that is strongest in manhood,
and most vital in life.
Much of the benefit of my time here, quite unconsciously to himself,
comes to me from him. When he walks into the house, whistling like a
blackbird; when he hangs up his cap on an antler a foot or two higher
than other people could reach; when he ploughs unhesitatingly through his
meals, with a book or a paper stuck up in front of him; when he dumps his
big boots out into the passage, long after the quiet house has hushed
into repose, and I smile, in the darkness, at the thought of how the
sound will have annoyed Miss Murgatroyd, startled Miss Eliza, and made
naughty Miss Susannah's heart flutter;--when all these things happen
every day, I am conscious that a clearer understanding of the past, a new
strength for the future, and a fresh outlook on life, come to me, simply
from the fact that he is himself, and that he is here. Jim Airth may not
be a saint; but he is a _man!_
Dear Jane, I should scarcely venture to send you this epistle, were it
not for all the adjectives--"wholesome," "helpful," "understanding,"
etc., which so rightly apply to you. _You_ will not misunderstand. Of
that I have no fear. But do not tell the doctor more than that I am very
well, in excellent spirits, and happier than I have ever been in my
life.
Tell Garth I loved his last song. How often I sing to myself, as I walk
in the sea breeze and sunshine, the hairbells waving round my feet:
"On God's fair earth, 'mid blossoms blue,
Fresh hope must ever spring."
I trust I sing it in tune; but I know I have not much ear.
And how is your little Geoffrey? Has he the beautiful shining eyes, we
all remember? I have often laughed over your account of his sojourn at
Overdene, and of how our dear naughty old duchess stirred him up to rebel
against his nurse. You must have had your hands full when you and Garth
returned from America. Oh, Jane, how different my life would have been if
I had had a little son! Ah, well!
"There is no room for sad despair,
When heaven's love is everywhere."
Tell Garth, I love it; but I wish he wrote simpler accompaniments. That
one beats me!
Yours, dear Jane,
Gratefully and affectionately,
MYRA INGLEBY.
--------------------
_Letter from the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain to Lady Ingleby._
CASTLE GLENEESH, N. B.
MY DEAR MYRA,
No, I have not the smallest objection to representing rice pudding, or
anything else plain and wholesome, providing I agree with you, and
suffice for the need of the moment.
I am indeed glad to have so good a report. It proves Deryck right in his
diagnosis and prescription. Keep to the latter faithfully, in every
detail.
I am much interested in your account of your fellow-guests at the
Moorhead Inn. No, I do not misunderstand your letter; nor do I credit you
with any foolish sentimentality, or Susie-like flutterings. Jim Airth
stands to you for an abstract thing--uncompromising manhood, in its
strength and assurance; very attractive after the loneliness and sense of
being cut adrift, which have been your portion lately. Only,
remember--where living men and women are concerned, the safely abstract
is apt suddenly to become the perilously personal; and your future
happiness may be seriously involved, before you realise the danger. I
confess, I fail to understand the man's avoidance of you. He sounds the
sort of fellow who would be friendly and pleasant toward all women, and
passionately loyal to one. Perhaps you, with your sweet loveliness--a
fact, my dear, notwithstanding the observations in the Park, of Miss
Amelia's crony!--may remind him of some long-closed page of past history,
and he may shrink from the pain of a consequent turning of memory's
leaves. No doubt Miss Susannah recalls some nice old maiden-aunt, and he
can afford to respond to her blandishments.
What you say of the way in which Americans know our standard authors,
reminds me of a fellow-passenger on board the _Baltic_, on our outward
voyage--a charming woman, from Hartford, Connecticut, who sat beside us
at meals. She had been spending five months in Europe, travelling
incessantly, and finished up with London--her first visit to our
capital--expecting to be altogether too tired to enjoy it; but found it a
place of such abounding interest and delight, that life went on with
fresh zest, and fatigue was forgotten. "Every street," she explained, "is
so familiar. We have never seen them before, and yet they are more
familiar than the streets of our native cities. It is the London of
Dickens and of Thackeray. We know it all. We recognise the streets as we
come to them. The places are homelike to us. _We have known them all our
lives._" I enjoyed this tribute to our English literature. But I wonder,
my dear Myra, how many streets, east of Temple Bar, in our dear old
London, are "homelike" to you!
Garth insists upon sending you at once a selection of his favourites from
among the works of Dickens. So expect a bulky package before long. You
might read them aloud to the Miss Murgatroyds, while they knit and wind
wool.
Garth thoroughly enjoyed our trip to America. You know why we went? Since
he lost his sight, all sounds mean so much to him. He is so boyishly
eager to hear all there is to be heard in the world. Any possibility of a
new sound-experience fills him with enthusiastic expectation, and away we
go! He set his heart upon hearing the thunderous roar of Niagara, so off
we went, by the White Star Line. His enjoyment was complete, when at last
he stood close to the Horseshoe Fall, on the Canadian side, with his hand
on the rail at the place where the spray showers over you, and the great
rushing boom seems all around. And as we stood there together, a little
bird on a twig beside us, began to sing!--Garth is putting it all into a
symphony.
How true is what you say of the genial friendliness of Americans! I was
thinking it over, on our homeward voyage. It seems to me, that, as a
rule, they are so far less self-conscious than we. Their minds are fully
at liberty to go out at once, in keenest appreciation and interest, to
meet a new acquaintance. Our senseless British greeting: "How do you
do?"--that everlasting question, which neither expects nor awaits an
answer, _can_ only lead to trite remarks about the weather; whereas
America's "I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Dalmain," or "I am pleased to
make your acquaintance, Lady Ingleby," is an open door, through which we
pass at once to fuller friendliness. Too often, in the moment of
introduction, the reserved British nature turns in upon itself,
sensitively debating what impression it is making; nervously afraid of
being too expansive; fearful of giving itself away. But, as I said, the
American mind comes forth to meet us with prompt interest and
appreciative expectation; and we make more friends, in that land of ready
sympathies, in half an hour, than we do in half a year of our own stiff
social functions. Perhaps you will put me down as biassed in my opinion.
Well, they were wondrous good to Garth and me; and we depend so greatly
upon people _saying_ exactly the right thing at the right moment. When
friendly looks cannot be seen, tactful words become more than ever a
necessity.
Yes, little Geoff's eyes are bright and shining, and the true golden
brown. In many other ways he is very like his father.
Garth sends his love, and promises you a special accompaniment to the
"Blackbird's Song," such as can easily be played with one finger!
It seems so strange to address this envelope to Mrs. O'Mara. It reminds
me of a time when I dropped my own identity and used another woman's
name. I only wish your experiment might end as happily as mine.
Ah, Myra dearest, there is a Best for every life! Sometimes we can only
reach it by a rocky path or along a thorny way; and those who fear the
pain, come to it not at all. But such of us as have attained, can testify
that it is worth while. From all you have told me lately, I gather the
Best has not yet come your way. Keep on expecting. Do not be content with
less.
We certainly must not let Deryck know that Jim Airth--what a nice
name--was at Targai. He would move you on, promptly.
Report again next week; and do abide, if necessary, beneath the safe
chaperonage of the cameo brooch.
Yours, in all fidelity,
JANE DALMAIN.