Chapter I: Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh (3)

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.