Part 10

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

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.