Part 11

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