Part 9

And here is the poem: something lighter for a change:—

I recollect a nurse called Ann Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fair young man Came up and kissed the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection, Thinks I “Ha ha! When I’m grown up I’ll tell mamma.” And that’s my earliest recollection.

That is a poem by a man pretending to infancy. Here is a genuine child-product, one of the lyrics of a little American girl named Hilda Conklin. Don’t you think it rather beautiful?

WATER

The world turns softly Not to spill its lakes and rivers, The water is held in its arms And the sky is held in the water. What is water, That pours silver, And can hold the sky?

Good night,

R. H.

CXIII

VERENA RABY TO NICHOLAS DEVOSE

DEAR,—They are beautiful, and so like you. I shall set them up daily, one by one, as you wish—and it is a charming idea and will make the nights so exciting, for some one else will choose them for me and it will be all a surprise! But I had to go through the whole sixty first. How could I wait? Why, I might die!

How wonderful a world it is, and how fortunate are those who can travel about and feast their eyes on it—and yet how sad you rovers must be! Especially at sunset! Some of your painted sunsets are almost more than I can bear, but what they must have been to you I can only guess. And how more than fortunate are those, like you, who can capture so much of all this beauty and preserve it for others!

None the less I don’t envy the traveller. “East, west, home’s best”; and yet perhaps home should rightly be where oneself is; perhaps we are too prone to surround ourselves with comforts in one spot and disregard the big world. But after lying here so long it seems as if there would be no joy in any travel to equal one brief walk round the garden.—Thank you again.

SERENA.

CXIV

HORACE MUN-BROWN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR AUNT,—You will begin to think of me as a business man and nothing else, even although so many of my schemes have come to nothing. But I assure you I am quite human too and often think of your illness with sincere regret. If I have had bad luck with my schemes, it is due to the fact, which is no disgrace, that they are before their time. I have been, in a way, too far-sighted. I have seen the public needs too soon, before even the public is conscious of them; which commercially is a mistake. One cannot, however, change one’s nature. My great distress is that I have as yet failed to convince you of my general acuteness, at any rate to the point of support. Without a little capital a young experimentalist can do nothing, and I have only my brains.

The project which I am now about to lay before you is, however, so different from the others, and so romantic and picturesque, that I feel sure you will be interested. It also offers chances of rich returns.

There is somewhere in Mexico a lake with which is associated a very remarkable religious ceremony. On a certain day in the year the priest of the community, accompanied by thousands of worshippers, proceeds to the shore of this lake, where, after some impressive rites, he enters the water. The others remain outside. The priest wades steadily out into the lake, the bottom of which slopes very gradually, until his head alone is visible.

(All this may sound very odd to you, but you must remember, dear Aunt, that the Mexicans are a strange race and that foreign religions can often appear grotesque to us. My informant, a very cultivated man, assures me that, in this lake business, the comic element is lacking, such is the fervour of the multitude.)

Very well then, the priest, having reached the farthest point, remains standing there while the people set to work to tear off their jewels and ornaments, which were brought for the purpose, and to fling them at him. The idea is that if the article thrown reaches him or goes beyond him, the thrower’s sins are forgiven. _But the point for you and me is that whether you throw far or throw short, the jewels and ornaments fall into the water and sink._

Now this has been going on for ages, and since it would be impious for the Mexican believers to attempt to recover any of the treasure it follows that it is there still. My plan is very simple—merely to form a small company and to drain the lake. I can give you no particulars at the moment—I have not even ascertained how big the lake is—but I am being very active about it and am already on the track of a first-class engineer. As he, however, requires a financial guarantee, I am hoping that you will see your way to invest, say, £1000 at once and perhaps more later.—I am, your affectionate nephew,

HORACE MUN-BROWN

_P.S._—How interesting it would be if I could spend my honeymoon visiting the place with Hazel and making inquiries! But alas! that is probably too rosy a dream.

CXV

ANTOINETTE ROSSITER TO HER MOTHER

DARLINGEST MUMMY,—Thank you for being such an angel about the cod liver oil. I like Ovaltine much better but Daddy says it is to make you lay eggs.

Sarah was so funny yesterday. Daddy told her to bring him last week’s _Punch_ from the library and she brought a much older one. When he was cross with her she said “O I never look at dates.” You should have seen Daddy’s face. And to-day when she was telling us about the butcher being rude to her she said “But I don’t mind, I always treat him with ignorance.”

Nurse’s young man, Bert Urible, has been here. He has come back from Messupotamia. Cyril saw him kiss her in the kitchen. He bought us some pear drops and nurse took some of his War relics upstairs to show Daddy and Daddy sent for him and gave him a whisky and soda. When I asked him if he had killed many Turks he said “Not half.”—Your loving

TONY

x x x x x x x x

CXVI

ROY BARRANCE TO CLEMENCY POWER

DEAR MISS POWER,—I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to write to you but you were saying the other day that you wondered if it was necessary to get a passport to go to Ireland now. I thought you would like to know that it isn’t. I inquired about it at Cook’s. But I hope you are not going home just yet, for I am sure my aunt can’t spare you. I wish all the same that when you do go I could be there, for Ireland is one of the places I have always wanted to see, and I have always felt that the only decent thing to do is to give them Home Rule and have done with it. A fellow I know in the Air Force who came from Kerry says it is ripping.—I am, yours sincerely,

ROY BARRANCE

_P.S._—If you are going to Ireland and would send me a wire I would meet you and help you through London.

_P.S. 2._—The evening papers are full of more Irish outrages. I don’t think you ought to travel alone.

CXVII

CLEMENCY POWER TO ROY BARRANCE

DEAR MR. BARRANCE,—It was very kind of you to trouble about the passport. I hope not to be leaving Miss Raby until she has really done with me, but my Mother, who lives near Kenmare, is sometimes not very well and I might be sent for and should not like to have to be delayed by red tape. Yes, Kerry is very lovely and I find myself longing for it most of the time. But I doubt if you would care for a country that is so wet. English people are so often disappointed to find only grey mists and rain. For fine weather June is the best month in our parts, but I like it all—grey mists and rain hardly less than the sunshine. Lobbie has been very naughty since you left and goes to bed in the dumps instead of in the highest spirits. I am reading Miss Raby the loveliest Irish book—indade and it’s more than that, it’s a Kerry book—just now, called _Mary of the Winds_, and sometimes I am so homesick I can’t go on at all at all. It’s destroyed I am with the truth of it!—I am, yours sincerely,

CLEMENCY POWER

CXVIII

ROY BARRANCE TO CLEMENCY POWER

DEAR MISS POWER,—Please don’t think of me as nothing but English. There’s quite a lot of Irish blood in our family, some way back, and I always feel drawn to the Irish and sorry for them. As for wet weather I love it when I’m prepared for it; and I’ve got a topping Burberry. I got that book you mentioned, _Mary of the Winds_, but it’s a little off my beat. I would give anything to hear you read it, it would be just too lovely, and better than any music. I hope you don’t mind my saying that I think your ordinary voice absolutely top-hole, the most ripping thing I ever listened to. There isn’t any music, not even “You’re here and I’m here,” to touch it. Most people have to sing to be musical, but all you need to do is to talk and it beats a concert hollow. I would love to have it on a gramophone.—I am, yours sincerely,

ROY BARRANCE

CXIX

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

DEAR VERENA, you ought perhaps to know about the St. Ethelburga Society School, where 36 boys and 20 girls were educated, and fully re-clothed once a year—being taught reading, writing and arithmetic and the catechism, with Lewis’s explanation—and all for £1400 permanent funds and occasional subscriptions and donations. But of course money was worth more then than in our reckless post-War day. For example, at the St. Bride’s School 80 boys and 70 girls were educated, of whom 40 boys and 30 girls were also clothed and apprentice fees of £3 given with certain of the boys—and this on an income of £375.

I have long thought that a handbook should be compiled for the benefit of persons, like yourself, who are philanthropically disposed but don’t know what to do. It might have some such title as “Philanthropic Hints to Those about to Make their Wills,” or “The Inspired Testator,” or “First Aid to Imaginative Bequest” or “The Prudent Lawyer Confounded” or “How to be Happy though Dead.” In this book an alphabetical list would be given of the less fortunate ones of the earth and suggestions offered as to what a little money could do towards a periodic gilding of their existence. No one could compile it without the assistance of my London Charity report or similar works.

For a change let me give you a poem in prose:—

FATHER-LOVE

One hears so much of mother-love.

The phrase alone is expected to touch the very springs of emotion.

There are songs about it, set to maudlin music; there is, in America, a Mother’s Day.

God knows I have no desire to bring the faintest suspicion of ridicule to such a feeling, even to such a fashion;

The stronger the bonds that unite mothers and children the better for human society;

The more we think of and cherish our mothers the better for ourselves.

We owe so much tenderness to them not merely because they gave us life, but because they are women and as such have a disproportionate burden of drudgery and endurance and grief.

All the same, why was it that when, the other evening, I saw a grey-haired father—my host—thinking himself unobserved, stroke the head of his grown-up son (a father too) and the son lay his hand on his father’s with a caressing gesture for a moment, but with a slightly guilty look—why was it that something melted within me (as it never does when I watch the embraces of mothers and sons) and my eyes suddenly dimmed?

Good night,

R. H.

CXX

LOUISA PARRISH TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR VERENA,—I have just returned from the funeral of my brother Claude, one of the most beautiful interments I was ever privileged to attend. With great forethought he had himself selected the site when the cemetery was first laid out, choosing a spot between two lovely firs on the high ground where the view is so extensive. He always was so careful in his ways, and this is but another example of his kindly consideration for others. By the blessing of Heaven the day was fine, but the mourners were protected from the sun by the grateful shade of the trees—exactly, I feel sure, as my dear brother had planned. Now and then, when I was able to raise my eyes, there lay the wonderful panorama before me.

The funeral attracted a large concourse, Claude having been a public man held in the greatest esteem and affection, and there were few dry eyes. The coffin was very plain, for he always held that it was a waste of money to spend it lavishly on the trappings of mortality.

Forgive me if I write no more this evening, for I am tired with travelling and sad at heart. But I wanted you to hear of the success of the day. I often spoke to Claude about you.—Your truly affectionate

LOUISA

CXXI

EVANGELINE BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—I am sending you the second number of _The Beguiler_ and we all hope it will amuse you. We also hope that no other number will be needed, not because we are tired, but because we want you to be well.—Your loving niece,

EVANGELINE

No. 2. September, 1919

THE BEGUILER OR THE INVALID’S FRIEND

_A Miscellany_

COMPILED BY EVANGELINE BARRANCE

ASSISTED BY A BUNCH OF FLOWERS

THE TEST

A STORY

There was once a girl named Philippa Barnes whose father and mother died when she was seventeen. As she was too young to be married and was very rich, she had to have a guardian, and in reply to an advertisement a number of candidates for that position came forward. They were all handsome elderly men of nearly forty, and when Philippa saw them she liked most of them a good deal, but as their references were all perfect she was puzzled how to choose. Being very fond of Shakespeare she had read _The Merchant of Venice_ and she decided that she must devise a test, as Portia did, but as it would be foolish to borrow the idea of the three caskets, which most people know about, she had to invent a new one.

All the applicants for the post of guardian were told to be at her family mansion at ten o’clock in the morning, and when they were assembled Philippa sent for them one by one and told each that he must recount to her some anecdote in which he had taken part with some person of inferior position—such as a bus-conductor or a taxi-driver or a railway porter or a waiter or a char. When they had all finished Philippa made her choice, which fell upon a candidate named Barclay Pole who was not so tall as the others and not so well dressed, although his references were beyond dispute.

“But,” said her old nurse, who had been standing by her side all through the interviews, “why do you choose him when there are all those handsome ones at your disposal?”

“Because,” Philippa said, “he was the only one who when he told the story did not make the other person call him Sir.”

Barclay Pole thus became her guardian and carried out his duties with perfect success until it was time to give her hand in marriage to Captain Knightliville of the Guards.

“HEARTEASE”

PEOPLE WHO REALLY DESERVE THE O.B.E.

II. THE POSTMAN

When my brother was small he wanted to be a postman because he wanted to knock double knocks; but no one who is grown up would want it, because there is no fun in spending your life in delivering letters to other people, other people’s letters are so dull.

Other people have such odd ways with their letters. Father even is cross when there is a letter for him and says “Confound the thing!—why can’t they leave me alone?” But my eldest sister waits for the postman and is miserable if he doesn’t bring her anything.

Some people lay their letters by their plates and go on eating. This seems to me extraordinary.

Some of our visitors who get letters say “Excuse me” before they read them, but others don’t.

When I think of the postman going on for ever and ever taking letters to other people I am convinced that he ought to have the O.B.E.

“ROSE”

THE CINEMA

One of the strange things to reflect about is what people did before the cinema was invented. My father was an old man before he ever saw a moving picture and when he was a boy there were none. He does not like them now because he says he always comes away with either a headache or a flea, but I like them excessively.

I like the serious ones best, but my brother Jack wants the comic ones. He can walk like Charlie Chaplin. He likes Mutt and Jeff too. I know a girl who was photographed by a cinema man while she was at Church Parade in the Park and the next week she saw it at a Picture Palace and recognized herself.

One kind of a film is always very dull and that is the kind that shows the King shaking hands with the Lord Mayor and people coming away from football matches. It is a very curious thing but nearly always when I get into a cinema this kind of film happens at once and goes on for a long time, so that it is very often too late to stay to the end of the story-film.

I wish they would turn more books into films. A girl I know lived in Paris and saw _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and it was splendid. Lots of books would make good films. The other day we all said what books we would most like to see on the movies. Two girls came to tea and one said _The Black Tulip_ and the other _Little Women_. Jack wanted _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_ and I think one of Mrs. Nesbit’s books like _The Enchanted Castle_ would be splendid.

One thing that I don’t like about the movies is that they give you too much time to read the short sentences in.

It is funny how a high wind always blows in American drawing-rooms in the cinema.

M.P.s when you see them on the movies going to the opening of Parliament always walk too fast.

“DANDELION”

HISTORICAL RHYMES

II. LINES ON THE LANDING OF KING JOHN AFTER A CERTAIN TRAGIC EVENT

“Long live the King” the people cried And cheered with all their might. They crowded to the vessel’s side To see King John alight.

“Will he be clad in gold and silk?” The children, wondering, said. “Yes, and in ermine, white as milk With gold upon his head.”

“Will he wear gems about his neck And hold a sceptre rare?” “Yes, when he stands upon the deck You’ll see them flashing fair.”

But lo! whose is that skimpy form All bare and shivering? Whose are those thin and naked legs? It is—great Heavens!—the King!

Why doth he cower beneath a sack, As cold as lemon-squash? The regal panoply, alack, Is missing in the Wash.

“PANSY”

A VISIT TO THE ZOO

Last Saturday we all went to the Zoo. There were no lion or tiger cubs, but we went behind the cages in the reptile house and the keeper showed us some baby crocodiles and let us hold one. It had the funniest little teeth like a tiny saw, and a white throat which it can close up in the water, and a film comes over its eyes when it likes just like the shutter of a Brownie. The keeper said it was a few months old but would very likely live to be a hundred.

Then he hooked a boa constrictor out of its cage and asked us to hold it. I was frightened at first but after Jack and the others had held it I tried. Its body feels terribly strong and electric and all the time it is coiling about and darting out a little forked tongue. I was very glad when the keeper took it away.

We saw the diving birds being fed in their tank. There are two of them, one in a cage at each end, and the keeper throws little live fish into the tank and lets out one bird at a time. At first we were very sorry for the poor little fish, which swim about frantically in all directions to escape from the terrible great bird who dashes after them like a cruel submarine; but after a while we began to want the bird not to miss any. Isn’t that funny? And my brother Jack got so excited that he pointed out to the bird where one of the little fish was hiding and cried out “Here he is, look, down here! Look, in the corner!”

“CONVOLVULUS”

A FABLE

There was once a garden path paved with flat stones, and in between the stones were little tufts of thyme and other herbs.

On each side of the path were beds full of gay flowers, among which was a very vain geranium, who, when no one was about, used to mock the thyme because it was in such an exposed spot and liable to be walked on.

“The proper place for plants,” the geranium said, “is in a bed where they are safe from people’s feet and are treated with respect. Look at me!”

“Yes,” said the thyme, “but the more I am trampled on the sweeter I become and the more the lady who planted me likes me. Haven’t you seen her squeezing me with her beautiful hands and then inhaling my fragrance, whereas if anything hits you you are done for for ever.”

And at that moment a tennis ball, struck out of the court near by, fell on the geranium and broke it in two.

The moral is that every one has his own place in life and we should mind our own business.

“CARNATION”

CORRESPONDENCE

I

_To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_

DEAR MADAM,—You ask me to tell you what is the most depressing thing I ever heard. It was this. I was crossing the Channel on a rough day, feeling more miserable than I can describe and clinging to my deck-chair because I knew that to move would be fatal, when two young men passed me, in rude health and spirits, both smoking large pipes, and I heard one say, “Personally, I’ve got no use for a smooth sea.” I can conceive of nothing more offensively depressing than this.

Hoping you can find a place for the “anecdote” in your bright little periodical,—I am yours faithfully,

HECTOR BARRANCE

II

_To the Editor of THE BEGUILER_

DEAR MADAM,—I am glad to hear that you approved of my contribution to your last number. Being still unable to write, I again send you something copied from the works of another. It is a poem by Joyce Kilmer, a young American killed in the war.

Believe me, your admiring subscriber,

RICHARD HAVEN X His mark

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