Part 5

Kington has grown very little. There are new houses near the station and we have a municipal park! That is about all. But it isn’t what it was—probably no English town is since the motor car came into being. Some may be better, but I think that Kington has deteriorated and very few of our friends remain. Mr. and Mrs. Grace are still living at the Tower, but alone and very old; all the family has dispersed. One thing that has not changed is the temperature of the church; which is still cold. But there is a long—too long—Roll of Honour in the porch. How you must have regretted that lameness of yours when the War broke out!

I manage to keep in touch with most of us, chiefly through their children. Letitia I never see. I should like to, but she is not strong, and Tunbridge Wells is a long way off, and it is impossible to detach her from her husband, whom we rather avoid. I am afraid she is not happy, but I can do very little to help. Clara’s son and daughter—Roy and Hazel—are very lively correspondents, and Evangeline, their youngest, seems a thoughtful child; but I fear that Hector Barrance can be rather difficult at times. Theodore’s only girl is just eighteen. Anna’s boy Horace is a rather serious young man at the Bar. Lionel is still unmarried; he was made a C.B.E. in the War. Ronald is also unmarried and I hear from him now and then, but his duties keep him very close in Edinburgh. Every one is very kind to me in my illness, Richard Haven—you remember him?—writing every day. He is fixed in London. Nellie Sandley, whom you were so sweet upon that summer at Lyme Regis, died last week, poor girl, of pneumonia.

I wonder if all this interests you in the least, or if your new life in your new country is all-absorbing. It would be delightful to see you again. But at any rate do write and send some photographs if you can. Write directly you get this and then a longer letter later.—Your loving sister,

VERENA

_P.S._—I often wonder if you would not like the series of hunting scenes by Alken that used to be in the dining-room. Let me know and I will send them.

LXII

VERENA RABY TO THEODORE RABY

MY DEAR THEO,—How very delightful to hear from you—even though it is such a tale of woe. I don’t want you to have more of such perplexities, but I do want to have another letter. It was odd too because I was just beginning a long one to Walter asking for his news and telling him mine.

If Josey writes to me, you may be sure I will be on your side—but can’t you get her something to do? It is idleness and enough money to buy new frocks that lead to these problems. I should like her to come here, but, as you say, she wouldn’t accept just now.—Your very loving

V.

LXIII

EVANGELINE BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—I hope you are better. I told you some time ago that we were preparing a great surprise for you to cheer you up on your bed of sickness and pain. Well, it is now ready and I send the first number. If you get well quickly there will never be another. It is called _The Beguiler_ and has been written for you chiefly by the girls here. I am the editor. My great friend Mabel Beresford copied it all out. Doesn’t she write beautifully? I hope you will like it. Roy has read it and he says it ought to deliver the goods.—Your loving

EVANGELINE

No. 1. May, 1919

THE BEGUILER OR THE INVALID’S FRIEND

_A Miscellany_

COMPILED BY EVANGELINE BARRANCE

ASSISTED BY A BUNCH OF FLOWERS

PEOPLE WHO REALLY DESERVE THE O.B.E.

I. COOK

If ever there was a heroine in real life it is Cook. She has to be all the time in the kitchen even when the sun shines and the birds are singing. The kitchen must be hot or the things wouldn’t be properly done for dinner.

She is always cooking things for other people and she doesn’t get anything to eat till they have finished, although of course she can taste as she goes along. This is a delicious thing to do, and when she is in a good humour she lets us dip our fingers in, but usually she says “Don’t stop here hindering me.”

She never goes out except to see if there is another egg or to pick mint or parsley or to talk to the butcher’s boy, who is terrified of her. Sometimes she has to catch a chicken and kill it and afterwards she has to pluck it.

Our cook is very fat and when she goes upstairs she holds her side and pants. On Sundays she doesn’t go to Church but to Chapel and she wears very bright colours. She had a lover once but he died. His portrait is in her bedroom with his funeral card under it. She says that her troth is in the tomb with him and never can she marry another. She also says that the talk about cooks and policemen having a natural attraction for each other is nonsense.

Her masterpieces are apple charlotte, bread-and-butter pudding, and Lancashire hot pot. She also makes delicious stews, which are better than other cooks’, mother says, because she fries the vegetables first.

Her name is Gladys Mary but we call her Cook. She says that after a certain age, cooks have the right to be called Mrs., but that she is a very long way from that age herself.

We are all horribly afraid that she will give notice, because a new one would be so hard to get. There is nothing we wouldn’t do for her. She could cook as badly as she liked and no one would dare to say anything. But she cooks beautifully.

She truly deserves the O.B.E.

“ROSE”

HISTORICAL RHYMES

I. QUEEN ELIZABETH AND SIR WALTER RALEIGH

It was a wet and windy day The ground was damp and dirty But yet the Queen she would not stay. They pressed her, she grew shirty.

“A murrain on you,” she replied “_I_ care not for the weather.” And she went forth in all her pride In silk and ruff and feather.

Beside her walked her courtiers gay Although with cold they shivered; How cold they were they dared not say Lest with a glance be withered.

Look! in the middle of the road A puddle wide and frightening. “Wait, Madam!”—forward Raleigh strode His satin cloak untightening.

Down in the wet he flung his cloak, She stepped across quite dryly, Then with her sweetest smile she spoke, Commending him most highly.

“PANSY”

RULES AS TO BIRTHDAYS

FOR THE BENEFIT OF PARENTS

The person whose birthday it happens to be should be allowed to get up when they choose. There should be sausages for breakfast.

It seems hardly necessary to point out that there should be no lessons, and no walk.

Lunch should be chosen by the birthday person.

Sample Menu for a Birthday Lunch:—

Roast Chicken. Bread Sauce. Green Peas. Squiggly Potatoes. Trifle, with chocolate éclairs as an alternative.

In choosing birthday presents people should remember that the whole point of a present is that it is an extra. Clothes should never be given for birthday presents, because one _has_ to have clothes and it is not at all exciting to be given a pair of stockings. Handkerchiefs do not count as clothes because they are pretty.

Some really good entertainment should be arranged for the afternoon. If in London a matinée is suggested, followed by tea at Rumpelmayer’s. Bedtime should come at least two hours later than usual. If only these few simple rules could be committed to memory by those in authority what completely satisfactory occasions birthdays would be.

“CHRYSANTHEMUM”

A FABLE

There was once a pine wood on the slope of a hill, and in the middle of the wood was a lovely silver birch which could not grow as it should because the pine trees were so closely packed about it.

Instead of being sorry for it, the pine trees were insulting.

“What are you doing here anyway?” they said. “You weren’t invited. This is a pine wood. Why aren’t you out there on the common, among the brake fern, with all the others of your finicking useless tribe? Who wants silver birches? They do no good in the world.” And so on.

The silver birch, who was a perfect lady, made no reply.

And then a war came and it was necessary to get timber for all kinds of purposes, and all over the country the woods were cut down, among them this pine wood, for pine is very useful for planks for building huts.

The men came with their axes and felled tree after tree, but when they reached the silver birch they said, “We’ll leave this—it’s no good for timber, and when all these others are gone it will have a chance.”

And so it was left, and soon it stood all alone and very beautiful, surrounded by the dead bodies of the unkind pine trees, absolute queen of the hill.

Being a perfect lady it still said nothing to them, nor had it even smiled as they tottered and fell.

The moral is that every one’s good time _may_ come.

“CARNATION”

STRAY THOUGHTS ON PARENTS

Parents are always saying that they once were children too, but they give no signs of it.

It is a peculiarity of parents that they always want you to change your boots.

Parents have several set forms of speech, of which “You seem to think I’m made of money” is one, and “I never did that when I was your age” is another. They also wonder “What the world is coming to.”

Parents live in houses, usually in the best rooms. They can’t bear doors either to be left open or shut with a bang.

A funny thing about parents is that they can find interesting reading in newspapers.

“TULIPE NOIRE”

CORRESPONDENCE

DEAR EDITOR,—You did me the honour to ask me to contribute to your magazine, but as I am no writer I can send you nothing of my own. But I have arranged for a very nice piece of nonsense to be copied out for you. It was written by a mathematician and philosopher named W. K. Clifford and was published years ago but seems now to be forgotten. It was Mrs. W. K. Clifford who wrote a delightful book for children called _The Getting-well of Dorothy_ and a delightful book for grown-ups called _Aunt Anne_. Wishing every success for _The Beguiler_ in its most admirable campaign,—I am, yours faithfully,

RICHARD HAVEN His mark X

THE GIANT’S SHOES

BY W. K. CLIFFORD

Once upon a time there was a large giant who lived in a small castle: at least, he didn’t all of him live there, but he managed things in this wise. From his earliest youth up his legs had been of a surreptitiously small size, unsuited to the rest of his body: so he sat upon the south-west wall of the castle with his legs inside, and his right foot came out of the east gate, and his left foot out of the north gate, while his gloomy but spacious coat-tails covered up the south and west gates; and in this way the castle was defended against all comers, and was deemed impregnable by the military authorities. This, however, as we shall soon see, was not the case, for the giant’s boots were inside as well as his legs: but as he had neglected to put them on in the giddy days of his youth, he was never afterwards able to do so, because there was not enough room. And in this bootless but compact manner he passed his time.

The giant slept for three weeks at a time and two days after he woke his breakfast was brought to him, consisting of bright brown horses sprinkled on his bread and butter. Besides his boots the giant had a pair of shoes, and in one of them his wife lived when she was at home: on other occasions she lived in the other shoe. She was a sensible practical kind of woman, with two wooden legs and a clothes-horse, but in other respects not rich. The wooden legs were kept pointed at the ends, in order that if the giant were dissatisfied with his breakfast he might pick up any stray people that were within reach, using his wife as a fork. This annoyed the inhabitants of the district, so they built their church in a south-westerly direction from the castle, behind the giant’s back, that he might not be able to pick them up as they went in. But those who stayed outside to play pitch-and-toss were exposed to great danger and sufferings.

Now, in the village there were two brothers of altogether different tastes and dispositions, and talents and peculiarities and accomplishments, and in this way they were discovered not to be the same person. The elder of them was most marvellously good at singing and could sing the Old Hundredth an old hundred times without stopping. Whenever he did this he stood on one leg and tied the other round his neck to avoid catching cold and spoiling his voice; but the neighbours fled. And he was also a rare hand at making guava dumplings out of three cats and a shoehorn, which is an accomplishment seldom met with. But his brother was a more meagre magnanimous person, and his chief accomplishment was to eat a wagon-load of hay overnight, and wake up thatched in the morning.

The whole interest of this story depends upon the fact that the giant’s wife’s clothes-horse broke in consequence of a sudden thaw, being made of organ pipes. So she took off her wooden legs and stuck them in the ground, tying a string from the top of one to the top of the other, and hung out her clothes to dry on that. Now this was astutely remarked by the two brothers, who therefore went up in front of the giant after he had his breakfast. The giant called out “Fork! fork!” but his wife, trembling, hid herself in the more recondite toe of the second shoe. Then the singing brother began to sing: but he had not taken into account the pious disposition of the giant, who instantly joined in the psalm, and this caused the singing brother to burst his head off, but, as it was tied by the leg, he did not lose it altogether.

But the other brother, being well thatched on account of the quantity of hay he had eaten overnight, lay down between the great toe of the giant, and the next, and wriggled. So the giant, being unable to bear tickling in the feet, kicked out in an orthopodal manner: whereupon the castle broke and he fell backwards, and was impaled upon the sharp steeple of the church. So they put a label on him on which was written “Nupides Giganteus.”

That’s all.

_End of Number 1 of THE BEGUILER; or THE INVALID’S FRIEND._

LXIV

VERENA RABY TO EVANGELINE BARRANCE

MY DEAR EVANGELINE,—_The Beguiler_ is by far the best magazine I ever read. I prefer it to all others, and if I were allowed to get up I should try it in my bath; but I can’t yet and therefore have to be washed by a nurse. I never knew before that flowers wielded such graceful pens and the next time I go into the garden—which I hope will be this year—I shall walk up and down the borders with a new respect for them.

_The Invalid’s Friend_ has served its purpose wonderfully. I have read it three times with delight. It has made all its rivals on my table here look very foolish—the _Nineteenth Century_ is conscious, beside it, of being too wordy, and _Blackwood’s_ of being without method, and the _Cornhill_ of coming out too often, with a vulgar frequency, and the _Strand_ of being too serious.

I am very proud of having a niece who is also such an editor. The only reason in the world why I don’t want to get well instantly is because I want to read the next number.—Your affectionate and grateful aunt.

VERENA, B.I.

(_Beguiled Invalid_)

LXV

JOSEY RABY TO VERENA RABY

DEAREST OF AUNTS,—Now you are up to writing letters, I do wish you would send a line to father to try and make him more reasonable. He actually takes up the line that no girl should marry under the age of twenty-one and then not before she has known the man for a year. Just think of being so out-of-date as that! And he is so sensible in almost every other way, except about ices.

There are some men of course who need time for knowing, but Vincent is not one of them. I feel that I have known him all my life, although it is really only two months, but then he is so simple and open. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t call me his Sphinx, would he? For there is nothing mysterious about me really.

Don’t you think that our first duty is to ourselves and that the fulfilment of ourselves is sacred? I do, and I can fulfil myself only by marrying Vincent. Do, do help me!—Your loving

J.

LXVI

VERENA RABY TO JOSEY RABY

MY DEAR JOSEY,—I am sorry for all your perplexities; but I can’t offer any help. Your father probably knows best, but even if he doesn’t, he must be considered too, because he is your father and you are a child. Besides, I find myself agreeing with what he says. Since you have asked my advice you must listen to it, and my advice is to obey your father and tell Vincent that you intend to do so. Your father has been very understanding. He has not forbidden you to see Vincent at all, as many fathers would have done; he has merely said that there are certain rules between you and him which must be respected. I think he is right, for two reasons. One because it is his house and he must be the head of it, and the other because you would be losing such a lot of your young life if you had your way and married now. Girls should be engaged; women married. To leave school and come into a world such as yours and then miss all the fun of it between your age and twenty-one, is to be very foolish. It is throwing away a very delightful freedom.

Another thing—don’t you owe anything to your father? You say that our first duty is to ourselves. I am not sure that we can always separate ourselves. Very often, and usually while we are living under other people’s roofs and taking other people’s money, we are not ourselves but a blending of ourselves and themselves. Aren’t you and your father a little bit mixed up like that? Isn’t he entitled a little longer to the company of the daughter he is so fond of? Think about it from his point of view.—Your loving

AUNT V.

LXVII

VINCENT FRANK TO JOSEY RABY

JOSEY PET,—My own sphinxling, I adore having your letters, but don’t you think it might be best to put all three or four each day into one envelope and post them. With special messengers so constantly coming, the fellows here get to suspect things and are so poisonously funny about it. There is no chaff I wouldn’t stand so long as you loved me, but now and then too much chipping gets on one’s nerves, darling. I shall be at the Pic. on Saturday at 7.5 and have taken our usual table.—Yours ever,

VIN ORDINAIRE

LXVIII

SIR SMITHFIELD MARK TO BRYAN FIELD

MY DEAR FIELD,—By a most extraordinary chance, I do know of a man in the country—and the desired country at that—Herefordshire, in fact. He is a Bart’s contemporary and a very old friend, and he not only needs a holiday but is going to take one with me. Everything is arranged. I have secured him by holding you out as the best possible substitute. I am grateful to you for writing to me, for it is too long since we went away together and too long since I threw a fly in Sutherland, where we are going.

Communicate with him direct: Sinclair Ferguson, Kington, Herefordshire.—I am, yours sincerely,

SMITHFIELD MARK

LXIX

HORACE MUN-BROWN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR AUNT,—You will remember my failure to establish a business-man’s cinema in the City. I may have been discouraged but I was not dismayed, because I am convinced that there is still an enormous field for picture palaces and that the industry will increase rather than decay. I have now hit upon another and more practicable scheme and that is to build picture palaces just inside the great London termini. The idea came to me while waiting at Paddington the other day after just missing my train. The next train was not for two hours, and meanwhile I had nothing to do. The thing to remember is that every day crowds of people are in the same position as mine, while there are countless others with time to kill for different reasons. If a cinema theatre were adjacent, with a continuous performance, it could not but be a very popular boon and should pay handsomely. Even the staff would probably often steal a few minutes there; I don’t mean the station-master, but certainly the porters, and the inhabitants of the neighbourhood would come too.

All that is needed is to obtain permission from the various Railway Companies to erect the buildings on their premises and then collect the capital; a mere trifle would be needed, because the site would be either free, or negligibly cheap. If you agree, would you invest, say, £1000 in it?

If I do not mention Hazel it is not because I have ceased to love her, but because I have nothing to report. I wish she could be got away from her father, whose cynical influence is bad for her. Detached, she might soon come to see things more romantically and then would be my chance.—I am, yours sincerely,

HORACE MUN-BROWN

LXX

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR, I am deeply interested in your desire to spend money at once, while living. Personally, I expect you do a great deal more with it than you know, or at any rate than you led me to understand. I happen to be acquainted with your character.

The question is, are you strong enough to go into this matter?—for the best almsgiving, I take it, is that which has not been asked, but comes unexpectedly, dropping like gentle dew from a clear sky; and this needs imagination and the willingness to enter into all kinds of investigating trouble. It is in essence the very antithesis of facile cheque-writing; but so irksome, and unlocking so much distress and squalor, that most of us shy at it and reach for the cheque-book again in self-defence. My friend Pagnell, who is all logic, insists that philanthropists are of necessity busy-bodies, and mischievously self-indulgent ones too, and that the broken and the helpless should go to the wall. That, he holds, is Nature’s plan, which meddling man disturbs and frustrates. But the English character is not sufficiently scientifically de-sentimentalized for that.

One of the things that I should like to see done with money is to reform education. This you could easily do at a very trifling cost, at once,—and have the fun of watching it go on—by endowing certain experiments in your own village. If they were successful there, their fame would be noised abroad and others would copy and gradually the seed would fructify. The smallness of the seed never matters. The interest on a thousand pounds would do it—fifty pounds a year to an associate teacher whose duty it was to fit the children for the world they are to live in. Reading, writing and arithmetic would go on as usual, but concurrently with them there would be instruction in life: directed chiefly at the girls, who are to be the wives and mothers and home upholders of the future. If the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, the hand should be better trained. One of the first things to be taught is the amount of tea required in a tea-pot. The old story about the wealth of mustard-makers being derived from our wastefulness with their commodity is probably far more true of the wealth of tea-merchants.

The difficulty would be to find the teacher. That always is the difficulty—finding the right person to carry out one’s ideas. And, imagination being the rarest quality in human nature, the difficulty is not likely to decrease. The best way would be to interest some cultured and well-to-do resident to take it on—someone like your Mrs. Carlyon—but, then you would be up against the village schoolmaster, who, not having any imagination, would resent her rival influence, and so the scheme would end where so many others equally sensible have ended; in the realm where, I am told, the battles of the future are to be fought—in the air.

One of the reasons why progress is so piecemeal is that the thinkers have to delegate, whereas it is usually only the man that thought of a thing who is really capable of carrying it out. We saw enough of that in the War, where most of the muddles and scandals were the result of delegation; and most of them, for that reason, were unavoidable.

R. H.