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
O foolish virgin, how little you know of men, or at any rate of Fred! 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
Brian 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.
P.S.—You must not any longer be at the pains of writing to me so often, and I cannot allow you to be at the expense of Clemency any more. I am now (alas!) independent of all these kind amenities; and my dear Nesta goes home to-morrow. I have kept her too long from her home. I shall feel lost indeed, and am wondering if health is worth such a breakup.
CLIV
Richard Haven to Verena Raby
[Telegram]
Although it is forty shillings a bottle I drink champagne to-night.
CLV
Richard Haven to Verena Raby
My Dear, the news is terrific and I sent you a telegram at once. I am rejoiced, and yet—what is to become of me now? I had formed habits of talking to you every day which I greatly prized and now they are to be broken. The young doctor is certainly a gift from heaven and I should like his permanent address. As to Miss Power, I have not any intention of giving her the sack but if she sends in her resignation I must accept it. I think, however, that you make a mistake in demobilizing the staff so rapidly. These things are best done by gradations and I, for one, intend to remain on duty for some little while yet. I hear so many things that have only half their flavour until they are passed on to you. You will therefore oblige me by issuing a reprieve in so far as my poor pen is concerned and allow it to continue in your service. The moral seems to be: When one is really ill, present one’s regular doctor with a fishing rod.—Yours ever,
R. H.
P.S.—I was writing about “Father-Love” the other day; and now here are some lines of a small boy in praise of his mother, which recall the day of Solomon. The last line—after so many exalted attempts!—is very sweet?
MY MOTHER
My mother stood in the candlelight,
With a red rose in her hair,
And another at her throat.
Her face is delicately molded,
With coal black eyes that seem
To smolder, like fire far into the night.
Her cheeks are a gorgeous red,
Her lips curved in a smile
That seem like the morning dawn itself.
Her neck is soft and slim
Like a swan floating down o’er the river.
I love her, for she is my mother
And I love no other.
She shares my joys and sorrows, my mother—
Her heart is kind and true,
Her hair is black and glassey,
I can’t describe my mother’s beauty.
Edward Black.
CLVI
Antoinette Rossiter to Verena Raby
Dear Aunt Verena,—Mother asks me to write to say that she has got home safely. It is heavenly to have her here again. I am so glad you are getting well. Hazel is going to stay with us a little longer. She has a friend at Lady Sandys’ who is a champion tennis player. He is teaching us to juggle. He can keep four balls in the air at once and lay down and get up with a croquet mallet balanced on his forehead. He is very nice. He calls us his pupils and we are named Apter and Aptest. Cyril is Apter and I am Aptest. Lobbie is to be taught too and her name at present is Apt. Emily comes to us every day. She is now Mrs. Urible and she usually brings vegetables. Hazel’s friend sings too and Hazel plays for him and we all dance. He is teaching us the Highland fling. He says I have light fantastic toes. Hazel is teaching him hesitation which he never knew before. Mother is fatter. She says it is because she has not had us to worry her, but as she has had Lobbie it must be your nice things to eat. It is lovely and enchanting to have her back. I am so glad you are well again.—Your loving
Tony
CLVII
Sinclair Ferguson to Verena Raby
Dear Miss Raby,—I rejoiced to have Mr. Field’s very favourable report—surprisingly favourable—even though it reflects a little on my own want of intuition and skill. But I will not develop that theme, for I too was once young and cleverer than my elders, and yesterday I caught a twenty-one lb. salmon and the divine glow still warms me and makes me tolerant to all men. Seriously, my dear friend, this news of your sudden improvement has relieved me profoundly, for it has been a constant grief to me to see you so helpless and to be able to do so little.
It is as Field’s locum, so far as your own case is concerned, that I shall consider myself when I return, which will be in about three weeks. I wonder if he has left me anything in the place to do? I quite expect to find that old Withers has grown another leg.—I am, yours sincerely,
Sinclair Ferguson
CLVIII
Verena Raby to Sinclair Ferguson
My Dear Doctor,—Thank you for your very kind letter, so very like you. Both Mr. Field and I agree that probably the pressure was something new, a development which could not be foreseen. I would not change my doctor for any one, and though I am delighted to think of him happy in the Highlands catching mammoth fish, I hope he will soon return.
Old friends are best.—Yours sincerely,
Verena Raby
CLIX
Louisa Parrish to Verena Raby
My Dear Verena,—I was both surprised and delighted to receive your great news. It removed a heavy burden from my mind, for it has been a grief all these months to think of you lying there. To be frank, I never expected you to leave your bed again, and have often said so, and even now I am fearful that there may be danger of a relapse. There are such things as false recoveries. But I shall hope for the best. I was embroidering a counterpane for you with “Resignation” on it (a favourite word with my dear mother) but I shall not go on with it.—Yours always affectionately,
Louisa
CLX
Evangeline Barrance to Verena Raby
The editor of The Beguiler, or The Invalid’s Friend presents her compliments to Miss Raby and begs to announce that the last number was the last. Hurrah!
CLXI
Bryan Field to Sir Smithfield Mark
Dear Sir Smithfield,—You have played, all unknowingly, such a leading part in my recent life that I must tell you the latest development. When you arranged for me to take over Dr. Ferguson’s patients at Kington, you did not expect that one of the inmates of Miss Raby’s house was the same Irish girl whom I found working in the French village where the hospital was situated to which—through your influence—I was appointed. Having done so much, although unconsciously, to throw these two people together again, you will be prepared to hear that they—that is to say, we—are now engaged to be married. My gratitude to you cannot be expressed in words. Believe me, yours sincerely,
Bryan Field.
CLXII
Sir Smithfield Mark to Bryan Field
My Dear Field,—I appear to be a very remarkable and meddlesome person, and your case is yet another reminder of how dangerous it is to be a human being. However, I cannot consider that any harm, but much the reverse, has been done this time; although your letter has made me nervous!
Seriously, my young friend, I congratulate you with all my heart and wish for you a full measure of professional success and domestic happiness. If there is anything at any time that I can do for you, let me know; or, no, on second thoughts don’t let me know—there is clearly no need to! I am, yours sincerely,
Smithfield Mark
P.S.—Don’t talk about gratitude. Go on making remarkable cures, for the honour of Bart’s. That would be far more pleasing to me than any words.
CLXIII
Richard Haven to Clemency Power
My Dear Miss Power, I enclose a cheque to settle our little account, and if you notice a discrepancy between the amount which you thought was owing and that for which it is made out you must devote the difference to the purchase of a wedding present for Mrs. Bryan Field, who has been such a boon and a blessing in the house of my friend. I shall never cease to be thankful that it was you who accepted the post, for I cannot conceive that even this great world could provide anyone else half so desirable.
May you be very happy with your brilliant husband, and live long, and see him rise from honour to honour. I am glad you are going to marry so soon, because then he will be able to play cricket with his sons.—I am, yours sincerely,
Richard Haven
CLXIV
Horace Mun-Brown to Verena Raby
Dear Aunt,—The news of Hazel’s engagement has prostrated me and also filled me with a kind of despair about life in general. That a lawn-tennis player should, for a permanency, be preferred to a man of ideas is so essentially wrong that one is left gasping. Lawn-tennis is a frivolous capering game for a few fine days in summer and then not again till next year, while ideas go on for ever.
Now that you are so much better again, you will probably be intent upon spending your superfluity in your own way, but I want you to listen to one more project of mine. It will show you too how my mind has been working. You know the old joke about men going out fishing or shooting and expecting to bring trout or game back to their wives, but, through want of sport, having to stop at the fishmonger’s or poulterer’s on their way home? Well, it suddenly occurred to me while I was shaving yesterday that here is the germ of a very successful business. You know how every traveller promises his family or his friends that he will bring back something. If he is going to the East, he generally promises a parrot or a shawl or a string of amber beads. If he is going to Africa, he promises, say, ostrich feathers or assegais. But in any case he promises something and—this is the point—probably forgets, and therefore comes back empty-handed and is in consequence despised. Now, my idea is that great emporiums should be stocked and opened somewhere near the points of disembarkation from abroad. The ships from foreign parts disgorge their passengers at Liverpool or Southampton or London, and I should establish a great bazaar close to the harbour at each spot where everything that had been promised and forgotten could be purchased—parrots, shawls, beads, ostrich feathers, assegais, everything. The returning traveller would see it, his face would brighten, he would dash in and buy and be no longer ashamed or afraid to meet his wife. Don’t you think that a good notion?
All that is needed is a clever fellow—an ex-P. & O. officer, say, who knows the world and travellers’ ways—to be put in control, and enough capital to give the show a real start, and the result would be easy. Would you not care to invest?—I am, yours sincerely,
Horace Mun-Brown
CLXV
Roy Barrance to His Sister Hazel
Blow the cymbals, bang the fife, I’m so bucked I don’t know what to do. I’m engaged to the sweetest creature you ever saw or dreamed of—Clemency’s sister Pat. You see, Clemency gave me a letter of introduction to her people, and the fish took such a dislike to me that one day I got a car and went over to see them. They’ve got a jolly place not far from Kenmare—the post office is at Sneem—and the old lady, who’s not old at all and no end of a sport, and her two other daughters, Patricia and Adela, live there, all among little cows and chickens and bamboos and tropical plants. You see, the Gulf Stream comes in here and makes delicate things grow like the very devil. Clemency is a peach, but you should see Pat, and, even more, you should hear her! Clemency’s voice laid me out flat enough, but Pat’s is even more disastrous, begorra! You should hear her say “I will” where you and I and other dull English people would say “Yes,” or “I will not” when we should say “No,” or “I won’t.” The word “will” as she says it is like something on a lovely flute. She’s younger than I am too. I think a husband should be older than his wife. Clemency was just the other side, you know. Anyway, she has said “I will” to me, and the old lady is agreeable provided I can show some signs of responsibility and so I am bucketing back on Sunday to begin work in earnest and be worthy of her.
It’s wonderful how everything works out for you when you let it. I go cold when I think of how awful it would be to marry Clemency and then meet this angel-pet. I should probably have seen her first as a bridesmaid, and then—but it won’t bear thinking about. The Fates sent Field down to Kington just in time. I am coming back next week to go seriously into this motor transport affair that Aunt Verena is helping to finance for me, and as soon as it gets started I’ll begin to arrange to marry. No man is worth a damn till he’s married. With Pat to help I could do what that old Greek johnny was going to do with a fulcrum or something—move the earth. Cheerio!—Yours,
Roy
P.S.—Why don’t you find some decent fellow, Hazel? There’s nothing like it.
CLXVI
Verena Raby To Nicholas Devose
I want you to know that I am going to get well. The new temporary doctor here has done wonders and I can even totter beside the flower beds again. It is too much yet to realize, but it is true.—Your friend,
Serena
CLXVII
Nicholas Devose To Verena Raby
[Telegram]
I am so glad. May I come to see you?
N. D.
CLXVIII
Verena Raby To Nicholas Devose
Dear Nico,—No, please, do not come. After all the years that have passed, and the eight months and more that I have been thinking doubly—having so little else to do and believing that life was over—you must not re-enter my heart. It is sealed against you—at least so long as you keep away. How I should feel if I saw you, I cannot say; but I daren’t experiment, nor must you ask. You were to have given me so much; you took so much; you even, I confess, still hold so much—how dare I then see you, and even more, how dare I let you see me? You could never bear the thought of age, of life’s inevitable decline. So many artists cannot: it is part of the price they pay for their gifts—and no small price too, for it makes them a little inhuman and to be inhuman in this strange wonderful world is terrible. No, dear, do not come or again suggest it. My Nicholas Devose must be as dead as your Serena. The two who would now meet are strangers and they will be wise to remain so. But my Nicholas—I have him here and shall never forget him, and over him I often cry a little.—Your friend,
Serena
CLXIX
Septimus Tribe to Verena Raby
Dear Verena,—Your letter of good news to my poor Letitia has made us extravagantly happy—or at least it would have done so had any form of extravagance not become impossible. I am not in the habit of criticising those in authority; I think it a bad habit to which the facile grumblers, who form a large majority in this country generally, and particularly in towns such as this, where most of the residents live on pensions or fixed incomes, are too prone. None the less, I cannot conceal my chagrin and surprise that the Government cannot do more towards lowering the cost of living. Our weekly bills become more formidable every week, without any apparent reason. Why, for example, should a remote war in Europe increase the price of butter and eggs? The cows were not belligerents; there were no casualties in the poultry yards. As for coal, I am in despair, and the thought that your poor sister may be without the comfort of fires this winter fills me with a profound melancholy.
I wonder if you could get your friend Mr. Haven to help me to some task. I know him to be an influential person and I know myself to be capable. Although over age—not in fact but through a ridiculous rule of the Civil Service—and therefore disqualified to continue my labours for my country, I am still sound in mind and body. Indeed my intellect was never brighter, as many of my Tunbridge Wells friends with whom I am in the habit of discussing public affairs every day, would, I flatter myself, assure you. There is I believe a new public functionary called a Censor of Films. I feel that I could be very useful in such a capacity, if what is needed is a man of all-round sagacity and some imagination. But I would leave the nature of the post to your friend.
Such a task might bring in enough extra revenue to make all the difference to poor Letitia’s life.
Meanwhile I rejoice in your recovery, trusting fervently that there is nothing illusory about it. Unhappily I have known cases of spinal trouble improving only to return with more severity; but I intend to fight against harbouring such fears for you. Letitia would send her love but she is engaged at the moment in making a fair copy of an address which I am to deliver at our Social Circle on the credibility of present evidence on the persistence of our daily life’s routine after death. It is a labour of love to her, which is fortunate as I cannot afford an amanuensis.
I am,
Your affectionate brother,
Septimus Tribe
P.S. I wonder if you would care to have my address set up as a pamphlet for private distribution. Although I am its author, I feel at liberty to say without presumption that it is a very thorough presentation of the case both for and against, and every one is interested in such speculations just now. There is a most worthy little printer near the Pantiles who deserves encouragement.
CLXX
Horace Mun-Brown to Verena Raby
(Two months later)
Dear Aunt,—I am deeply gratified to hear that your recovery is complete and that you have all your old and beneficial activity again.
After so long and costly an illness I am sure that, wealthy as you are, you would not, in these very expensive times, wish to lose any opportunity of adding to your fortune; and such an opportunity now occurs. You have heard of the paper shortage? Owing to the war only a small proportion of the paper needed for journals and magazines and books is now being made. The problem then is, how to supply the deficiency? And it is here that my scheme comes in.
If new paper cannot be manufactured from wood pulp—owing to the scarcity of labour in the forests—it must be made in other ways. Now the best of these is from old paper. Now this can be done satisfactorily only if the printed words on it can be removed; in other words (to be for a moment scientific) it must be “de-inked.” De-inking is a mysterious business, but Sybil, who took a course of chemistry at Newnham, has hit on a process which cannot fail. She has tried it in the kitchen of her flat with an old copy of the Nineteenth Century and After and found it perfect. Our plan then is to buy up thousands and thousands of the largest papers, such as the Daily Telegraph and the Queen and the Field—the paper for each copy of which now probably costs more than the price it is sold for (this discrepancy being made possible by the wealth of advertisements)—de-ink them and sell the new paper at a considerable profit. All that is needed is the capital for the erection of the de-inking plant. Speed is of course imperative. If you are interested—and this cannot fail—please telegraph.
Ever since the day when I first met Sybil in the Egyptian Room at the British Museum my life has been a whirl of joy and intellectual stimulus. We are both convinced that we lived and loved before, in a previous existence, and Sybil even goes so far as to believe that as ancient Egyptians we were instrumental in overcoming a papyrus shortage in the days of the Ptolemies. Personally I think this a little fanciful, but it might be true. Who can say? And women have wonderful intuition.
We both long to be united. Lack of pence is our only obstacle.
Please telegraph, dear Aunt Verena, to
Yours sincerely,
Horace Mun-Brown
CLXXI
Walter Raby to his sister Verena
(Six Months Later)
Dear Old Girl,—I was surprised to have your long letter. You seem to have been having a pretty thin time, but I hope you’re all right by now. We have some fine cattle coming along. Keep fit, it’s the only way. Yours ever,
Walter