Letter from Lady Ingleby to the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain.

My dear Jane,

Having been here a week, I think it is time I commenced my first letter to you.

How does it feel to be a person considered pre-eminently suitable to minister to a mind diseased? Doesn’t it give you a sense of being, as it were, rice pudding, or Brand’s essence, or Maltine; something essentially safe and wholesome? You should have heard how Sir Deryck jumped at you, as soon as your name was mentioned, tentatively, as my possible correspondent. I had barely whispered it, when he leapt, and clinched the matter. I believe “wholesome” was an adjective mentioned. I hope you do not mind, dear Jane. I must confess, I would sooner be macaroons or oyster-patties, even at the risk of giving my friends occasional indigestion. But then I have never gone in for the rÔle of being helpful, in which you excel. Not that it is a “rÔle” with you, dear Jane. Rather, it is an essential characteristic. You walk in, and find a hopeless tangle; gather up the threads in those firm capable hands; deftly sort and hold them; and, lo, the tangle is over; the skein of life is once more ready for winding!

Well, there is not much tangle about me just now, thanks to our dear doctor’s most excellent prescription. It was a veritable stroke of genius, this setting me free from myself. From the first day, the sense of emancipation was indescribable. I enjoy being addressed as “Ma’am”; I revel in being without a maid, though it takes me ages to do my hair, and I have serious thoughts of wearing it in pigtails down my back! When I remember the poor, harassed, exhausted, society-self I left behind, I feel like buying a wooden spade and bucket and starting out, all by myself, to build sand-castles on this delightful shore. I have no one to play with, for I am certain the Miss Murgatroyds—I am going to tell you of them—never made sand-castles; no, not even in their infancy, a century ago! They must always have been the sort of children who wore white frilled bloomers, poplin frocks, and large leghorn hats with ribbons tied beneath their excellent little chins, and walked demurely with their governess—looking shocked at other infants who whooped and ran. I feel inclined to whoop and run, now; and the Miss Murgatroyds are quite prepared to look shocked.

But oh, the freedom of being nobody, and of having nothing to think of or do! And everything I see and hear gives me joy; a lark rising from the turf, and carolling its little self up into the blue; the great Atlantic breakers, pounding upon the shore; the fisher-folk, standing at the doors of their picturesque thatched cottages. All things seem alive, with an exuberance of living, to which I have long been a stranger.

Do you know this coast, with its high moorland, its splendid cliffs; and, far below, its sand coves, and ever-moving, rolling, surging, deep green sea? Wonderful! Beautiful! Infinite!

My Inn is charming; primitive, yet comfortable. We have excellent coffee, fried fish in perfection; real nursery toast, farm butter, and home-made bread. When you supplement these with marmalade and mulberry jam, other things all cease to be necessities.

Stray travellers come and go in motors, merely lunching, or putting up for one night; but there are only four other permanent guests. These all furnish me with unceasing interest and amusement. The three Miss Murgatroyds—oh, Jane, they are so antediluvian and quaint! Three ancient sisters,—by name, Amelia, Eliza, and Susannah. Their villa at Putney rejoices in the name of “Lawn View”; so characteristic and suitable; because no view reaching beyond the limits of their own front lawn appears to these dear ladies to be worthy of regard. They never go abroad, “excepting to the Isle of Wight,” because they “do not like foreigners.” A party of quite charming Americans arrived just before dinner the other day, in an automobile, and kept us lively during their flying visit. They were cordial over the consommÉ; friendly over the fish; and quite confidential by the time we reached the third course. But, alas, these delightful cousins from the other side, were considered “foreigners” by the Miss Murgatroyds, who consequently encased themselves in the frigid armour of their own self-conscious primness; and passed the mustard, without a smile. I felt constrained, afterwards, to apologise for my country-women; but the Americans, overflowing with appreciative good-nature, explained that they had come over expressly in order to see old British relics of every kind. They asked me whether I did not think the Miss Murgatroyds might have stepped “right out of Dickens.” I was fairly nonplussed, because I thought they were going to say “out of the ark”—you know how one mentally finishes a sentence as soon as it is begun?—and I simply dared not confess that I have not read Dickens! Alas, how ignorant of our own standard literature we are apt to feel when we talk with Americans, and find it completely a part of their everyday life.

But I must tell you more about the Miss Murgatroyds—Amelia, Eliza, and Susannah. When quite at peace among themselves, which is not often, they are Milly, Lizzie, and Susie; but a little rift within the lute is marked by the immediate use of their full baptismal names. Poor Susannah being the youngest—the youthful side of sixty—and inclined to be kittenish and giddy, is very rarely “Susie.” Miss Murgatroyd—Amelia—is stern and unbending. She wears a cameo brooch the size of a tablespoon, and lays down the law in precise and elegant English, even when asking Susie to pass the crumpets. Miss Eliza, the second sister, is meek and unoffending. Her attitude toward Miss Amelia is one of perpetual apology. She addresses Susie as “my dear love,” excepting on occasions when Susie’s behaviour has put her quite outside the pale. Then she calls her, “my dear Susannah!” and sighs. I am inclined to think Miss Eliza suffers from a demonstrative nature, which has never had an outlet.

But Susie is the lively one. Susie would be a flirt, if she dared, and if any man were bold enough to flirt with her under Miss Amelia’s eye. Susie is barely fifty-five, and her elder sisters regard her as a mere child, and are very ready with reproof and correction. Susie has a pink and white complexion, a soft fat little face, and plump dimpled hands; and Susie is given to vanity. Jim Airth held open the door of the coffee-room for her one day, and Susie—I should say Susannah—has been in a flutter ever since. Poor naughty Susie! Miss Murgatroyd has changed her place at meals—they have a table in the centre of the room—and made her sit with her back to Jim Airth; who has a round table, all to himself, in the window.

Now I must tell you about Jim Airth, and of a curious coincidence connected with him, which you must not repeat to the doctor, for fear he should move me on.

Let me confess at once, that I am extremely interested in Jim Airth—and it is sweet and generous of me to admit it, for Jim Airth is not in the least interested in me! He rarely vouchsafes me a word or a glance. He is a bear, and a savage; but such a fine good-looking bear; and such a splendid and interesting savage! He is quite the tallest man I ever saw; with immense limbs, lean and big-boned; yet moves with the supple grace of an Indian. He was through that campaign last year, and had a terrible turn of sunstroke and fever, during which his head was shaved. Consequently his thick brown hair is now at the stage of standing straight up all over it like a bottle-brush. I know Susie longs to smooth it down; but that would be a task beyond Susie’s utmost efforts. His brows are very stern and level; and his eyes, deep-set beneath them, of that gentian blue which makes one think of Alpine heights. They can flash and gleam, on occasions, and sometimes look almost purple. He wears a heavy brown moustache, and his jaw and chin are terrifying in their masterful strength. Yet he smokes an old briar pipe; whistles like a blackbird; and derives immense amusement from playing up to naughty Susie’s coyness, when the cameo brooch is turned another way. I have seen his eyes twinkle with fun when Miss Susannah has purposely let fall her handkerchief, and he has reached out a long arm, picked it up, and restored it. Whereupon Susie has hastened out, in the wake of her sisters, in a blushing flutter; Miss Eliza turning to whisper: “Oh, my dear love! Oh Susannah!” I try, when these things happen, to catch Jim Airth’s merry eye, and share the humour of the situation; but he stolidly sees the wall through me on all occasions, and would tread heavily on my poor handkerchief, if I took to dropping it. Miss Murgatroyd tells me that he is a confirmed hater of feminine beauty; upon which poor Miss Susannah takes a surreptitious prink into the gold-framed mirror over the reception-room mantelpiece, and says, plaintively: “Oh, do not say that, Amelia!” But Amelia does say “that”; and a good deal more!

When first I saw Jim Airth, I thought him a cross between a cowboy and a guardsman; and I think so still. But what do you suppose he turns out to be, beside? An author! And, stranger still, he is writing an important book called Modern Warfare; its Methods and Requirements, in which he is explaining and working out many of Michael’s ideas and experiments. He was right through that border war, and took part in the assault on Targai. He must have known Michael, intimately.

All this information I have from Miss Murgatroyd. I sometimes sit with them in the reception-room after dinner, where they wind wool and knit—endless winding; perpetual knitting! At five minutes to ten, Miss Murgatroyd says; “Now, my dear Eliza. Now, Susannah,” which is the signal for bestowing all their goods and chattels into black satin work-bags. Then, at ten o’clock precisely, Miss Murgatroyd rises, and they procession up to bed—ah, no! I beg their pardons. The Miss Murgatroyds never “go to bed.” They all “retire to rest.”

Jim Airth and his doings form a favourite topic of conversation. They speak of him as “Mr. Airth,” which sounds so funny. He is not the sort of person one ever could call “Mister.” To me, he has been “Jim Airth,” ever since I saw his name, in small neat writing, in the visitors’ book. I had to put mine just beneath it, and of course I wrote “Mrs. O’Mara”; then, as an address seemed expected, added: “The Lodge, Shenstone.” Just after I had written this, Jim Airth came into the hall, and stood quite still studying it. I saw him, from half-way up the stairs. At first I thought he was marvelling at my shocking handwriting; but now I believe the name “Shenstone” caught his eye. No doubt he knew it to be Michael’s family-seat.

Do you know, it was so strange, the other night, Miss Murgatroyd held forth in the reception-room about Michael’s death. She explained that he was “the first to dash into the breach,” and “fell with his face to the foe.” She also added that she used to know “poor dear Lady Ingleby,” intimately. This was interesting, and seemed worthy of further inquiry. It turned out that she is a distant cousin of a weird old person who used to call every year on mamma, for a subscription to some society for promoting thrift among the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands. Dear mamma used annually to jump upon this courageous old party and flatten her out; and listening to the process was, to us, a fearful joy; but annually she returned to the charge. On one of these occasions, just before my marriage, Miss Murgatroyd accompanied her. Hence her intimate knowledge of “poor dear Lady Ingleby.” Also she has a friend who, quite recently, saw Lady Ingleby driving in the Park; “and, poor thing, she had sadly gone off in looks.” I felt inclined to prink in the golden mirror, after the manner of Susie, and exclaim: “Oh, do not say that, Amelia!”

Isn’t it queer the way in which such people as these worthy ladies, yearn to be able to say they know us; for really, when all is said and done, we are not very much worth knowing? I would rather know a cosmopolitan cowboy, such as Jim Airth, than half the titled folk on my visiting-list.

But really, Jane, I must not mention him again, or you will think I am infected with Susie’s flutter. Not so, my dear! He has shown me no little courtesies; given few signs of being conscious of my presence; barely returned my morning greeting, though my lonely table is just opposite his, in the large bay-window.

But in this new phase of life, everything seems of absorbing interest, and the individuality of the few people I see, takes on an exaggerated importance. (Really that sentence might almost be Sir Deryck’s!) Also, I really believe Jim Airth’s peculiar fascination consists in the fact that I am conscious of his disapproval. If he thinks of me at all, it is not with admiration, nor even with liking. And this is a novel experience; for I have been spoilt by perpetual approval, and satiated by senseless and unmerited adulation.

Oh Jane! As I walk along these cliffs, and hear the Atlantic breakers pounding against their base, far down below; as I watch the sea-gulls circling around on their strong white wings; as I realise the strength, the force, the liberty, in nature; the growth and progress which accompanies life; I feel I have never really lived. Nothing has ever felt strong, either beneath me, or around me, or against me. Had I once been mastered, and held, and made to do as another willed, I should have felt love was a reality, and life would have become worth living. But I have just dawdled through the years, doing exactly as I pleased; making mistakes, and nobody troubling to set me right; failing, and nobody disappointed that I had not succeeded.

I realise now, that there is a key to life, and a key to love, which has never been placed in my hands. What it is, I know not. But if I ever learn, it will be from just such a man as Jim Airth. I have never really talked with him, yet I am so conscious of his strength and virility, that he stands to me, in the abstract, for all that is strongest in manhood, and most vital in life.

Much of the benefit of my time here, quite unconsciously to himself, comes to me from him. When he walks into the house, whistling like a blackbird; when he hangs up his cap on an antler a foot or two higher than other people could reach; when he ploughs unhesitatingly through his meals, with a book or a paper stuck up in front of him; when he dumps his big boots out into the passage, long after the quiet house has hushed into repose, and I smile, in the darkness, at the thought of how the sound will have annoyed Miss Murgatroyd, startled Miss Eliza, and made naughty Miss Susannah’s heart flutter;—when all these things happen every day, I am conscious that a clearer understanding of the past, a new strength for the future, and a fresh outlook on life, come to me, simply from the fact that he is himself, and that he is here. Jim Airth may not be a saint; but he is a man!

Dear Jane, I should scarcely venture to send you this epistle, were it not for all the adjectives—“wholesome,” “helpful,” “understanding,” etc., which so rightly apply to you. You will not misunderstand. Of that I have no fear. But do not tell the doctor more than that I am very well, in excellent spirits, and happier than I have ever been in my life.

Tell Garth I loved his last song. How often I sing to myself, as I walk in the sea breeze and sunshine, the hairbells waving round my feet:

I trust I sing it in tune; but I know I have not much ear.

And how is your little Geoffrey? Has he the beautiful shining eyes, we all remember? I have often laughed over your account of his sojourn at Overdene, and of how our dear naughty old duchess stirred him up to rebel against his nurse. You must have had your hands full when you and Garth returned from America. Oh, Jane, how different my life would have been if I had had a little son! Ah, well!

Tell Garth, I love it; but I wish he wrote simpler accompaniments. That one beats me!

Yours, dear Jane,

Gratefully and affectionately,

Myra Ingleby.