The Letters of her Mother to Elizabeth Part 1

The Letters of her Mother to Elizabeth.

by Elinor Glyn.

LETTER I

MONK'S FOLLY, 27th July

DEAREST ELIZABETH:

I am glad you reached Nazeby without any mishap. Your letter was quite refreshing, but, darling, do be more careful of your grammar. Remember, one never talks grammar now-a-days in Society, it isn't done; it is considered very Newnham and Girton and patronising, but one should always know how to write one's language. Because the fashion might change some day, and it would be so _parvenu_ to have to pick it up.

As I told you before you started on your round of visits, you will have a capital opportunity of making a good match. You are young, very pretty, of the bluest blood in the three kingdoms, and have a fortune--to be sure this latter advantage, while it would be more than a sufficient _dot_ to catch a twelfth-century French duke, would be considered by an impecunious British peer quite beneath contempt. Your trump card, Elizabeth, is your manner, and I count upon that to do more for you than all the other attributes put together. Nature and my training have made you a perfect specimen of an _ingenue_, and I beseech you, darling, do me credit. Please forgive the coa.r.s.eness of what I have said, it is only a little plain speaking between us; I shan't refer to it again; I know I can trust you.

{_These Horrid Smiths_}

From what you write I gather that the Marquis of Valmond is _epris_ with Mrs. Smith. Horrid woman! the Chevingtons have met her. Mrs. Chevington was here this morning to enquire after my neuralgia. She said that Mr.

Smith met his wife in Johannesburg five years ago before he "arrived."

He used to wear overalls, and carry a pick on his shoulder, and spent his days digging in the earth, but he stopped at sunset, as I should think he well might, and invariably went to the same inn to refresh himself, where Mrs. Smith's mother cooked his dinner and Mrs. Smith herself gave him what she called a "corpse-reviver" from behind the bar.

At night, a great many men who dug in the earth with Mr. Smith would come for "corpse-revivers," and they called Mrs. Smith "Polly," and the mother "old girl." And one day Mr. Smith found a nugget as big as a roc's egg when he was digging in the earth, and after that he stopped.

The funny part was that "Polly" always said he would never find anything, and he had a wager with her that if he did she should marry him. So that is the story of their courtship and marriage, and they have millions. Mrs. Chevington vouches for the truth of it all, for Algy Chevington was out in Johannesburg at the time, and he dug in the same hole with Mr. Smith and knows all about him and "Polly," only Algy never found anything, for the flowers in Mrs. Chevington's hat were in the bonnet she wore all last spring. But let us leave these horrid Smiths; I am sure they are horrid. I can't understand how Lady Cecilia puts up with them. Mrs. Chevington says she hears Sir Trevor is one of the directors in the Yerburg Mine. Algy called him a guinea-pig, and said he wished he was one.

{_An Eligible Parti_}

Lord Valmond has fifty thousand a year and six places besides the house in Grosvenor Square. You will hardly meet a more eligible _parti_; I hear he is very fast; they say he gave Betty Milbanke, the snake-dancer at the Palace, all the diamonds she wears. If he is anything like his father was, he must be both good-looking and fascinating. The late Marquis was the handsomest man save one that I have ever seen, and could have married any of the d.u.c.h.ess of Rougemont's daughters if he had been a valet instead of a marquis, and the d.u.c.h.ess was the proudest woman in England. The girl who gets this Valmond will not only be lucky but clever; the way to attract him is to snub him; the fools that have hitherto angled for him have always put cake on their hooks; but, if I were fishing in the water in which My Lord Valmond disported himself, I should bait my hook with a common worm. It is something he has never yet seen.

{_The African Millionaire_}

Tell me more about Mr. Wertz, the African millionaire; is he the man who is building the Venetian _palazzo_ in Belgrave Square? If so, it was rumoured last season that he was to be made a baron. They blackballed him at the Jockey Club in Paris, and even the Empire n.o.bility who live in _appartements_ in the Champs elysees refused to know him; that is why he came to England. He is a gentleman, if he is a Jew; the family belong to the tribe of Levi. Algy Chevington, who knows everything about everybody, says his Holbeins are priceless, and that the Pope offered to make him a Papal Count if he would part with a "Flight into Egypt" known as the Wertz Raphael. But of course even a knighthood is better than a Papal Count, and if Mr. Wertz gives his Holbeins to the National Gallery he is sure to be created something.

You cannot be too careful of the unmarried girls you know; Miss La Touche is certainly not the sort of person for you to be intimate with.

The Rooses, of course, are quite correct, they will make capital foils for you; beside Jane Roose is amiable, and has been out so many seasons that her advice will be useful. Be sure, however, to do the very opposite to what she tells you.

{_Lady Beatrice Carterville_}

If the weather is fine to-morrow, I am going to drive over in the afternoon to call on Lady Beatrice Carterville. She has a house-party, and the people who come to her are sure to be odd and amusing. My neuralgia has been better these last few days. The things I ordered from Paquin have come at last; the mauve crepe de chine with the valenciennes lace flounces is lovely; the hat and parasol are creations, as the Society papers say. Love to Lady Cecilia and the tips of my fingers to Sir Trevor.--Your dearest Mamma.

LETTER II

MONK'S FOLLY, 29th July

DARLING ELIZABETH:

{_Lady Beatrice's Tea_}

{_A Live Auth.o.r.ess_}

I felt so well yesterday that I drove over in the afternoon to Lady Beatrice's to tea. I felt I must show myself as Paquin made me to someone. It was so warm that tea was served on the terrace; the view of the Quantocks steaming in the distance over the tops of the oaks in the park was charming. There were a great many people present, and when I arrived, Lady Beatrice exclaimed at the courage I showed in coming when the sun was so hot and the road so dusty. She presided at the tea-table in white pique and a sailor hat which rested on the bridge of her nose.

She is as fat as Lady Theodosia Doran and plays tennis; the rouge on her neck had stained her collar, quite a four-inch collar too, and there were finger marks of rouge on her bodice. She introduces everybody, which, while it is not the thing, certainly makes one more comfortable than the fashion at present in vogue. I always like to know the names of the people I am talking to. Everybody talked about the weather and the dust, and it was deadly dull till Lady Beatrice said she wanted to play tennis. She went off to play singles with Mr. Frame, the Low Church curate, and looked so funny, bounding about the lawn like a big rubber ball, that I nearly screamed. Most of the people strolled up and down the terrace, or leaned over the bal.u.s.trade above the lake. I sat under my parasol in a Madeira chair, and was talked to by such a curious woman, a Mrs. Beverley Fruit. It was interesting to meet a real live auth.o.r.ess after having read her works. I remember when Mrs. Fruit's first novel came out ten years ago it created a great sensation, but I must confess the sensation was confined to middle-cla.s.s people and the Universities. Of course, everybody in Society bought it. It was all about Radicals and a silly Low Church curate who threw up his living because he didn't believe in G.o.d, and went to London and lived in the slums. Mr. Gladstone wrote a review of it, and they dramatised it in America. Mrs. Fruit has since written several other books, and each one is more bitter against Society than the last, so you may fancy how nervous I felt at being left with such a woman. But, darling, she isn't at all like her books. I was quite charmed with her; she was dressed so well, and looked quite like a lady; she lives in Berkeley Square and has a place in Ess.e.x. In the last election she canva.s.sed the county for the Conservatives, and the d.u.c.h.ess of Rougemont is very, very fond of her.

Lady Beatrice tells me that Mrs. Beverley Fruit's son, who is private secretary to a Cabinet Minister, is actually going to marry one of the d.u.c.h.ess's daughters, Lady Mabel, the one with the projecting teeth and the squint. And I am sure I think it is very brave of Mr. Fruit Junior, for Lady Mabel is both ugly and stupid. However, the connection is a good one for the Fruits, who have made their fortune out of books, which I think is decidedly less vulgar than pale ale or furniture. Mrs. Fruit is staying with Lady Beatrice.

{_Lady Ann Fairfax_}

Lady Ann Fairfax, the _Daily Sensation's_ War correspondent, is also stopping at Braxome Towers. She told me that she had been through three sieges, and never felt happier than when "sniping," whatever that may be. She lived three months in a bomb-proof shelter on quarter rations, was once taken prisoner, and when exchanged was sent through the lines barefoot and with only a blanket round her. She is bringing out a book to be called "What I have been through," and I shall certainly buy it.

She is rather pretty and dresses beautifully, and is very amusing; you could listen to her for hours; her stories are like shilling shockers, with a bit of Henty thrown in to give them style. She was quite breezy, and I was sorry when Lady Beatrice shouted triumphantly, "Six love, Mr.

Frame!" and came up puffing like a porpoise, her hair soppy on the temples and gutters on her cheeks.

Lady Beatrice was in an awfully good humour, for Mr. Frame beat the Somerset champion last week, but, poor man! he would not dare to even dream of beating Lady Beatrice. She only suffers him to eat her cuc.u.mber sandwiches and drink her Mazawattee for the pleasure of beating him.

The drive home in the twilight was very pleasant. I brought Captain Bennett of the Coldstreams and the Earl of Mortimer as far as the Club in Taunton. They are playing for Gloucester, but, as I dislike cricket as much as you do, I shan't go to see the match. I know my frock was admired at Braxome to-day; poor Mr. Frame, who sat and ate ices near me after his thrashing, would never meet my glance directly, and I overheard Lady Beatrice tell Mrs. Beverley Fruit that I spent altogether too much on dress, while Lady Beatrice always looks as if she considered the expenditure of a five-pound note on her person an extravagance.

Dear, dear Paquin!

{_The Missing Handkerchief_}

I am awfully provoked with myself, the lace handkerchief I wore to-day is missing. I am sure it was in my hand when we left Braxome, for I remember sniffing "parfum d'Arabie" in the carriage. It is really quite provoking.--Your dearest Mamma.

{_The Handkerchief Found_}

_P. S._--I have just received a note from Captain Bennett saying he found my handkerchief sticking to his coat when he got into the Club, and asking if he may restore it to me in person to-morrow.

LETTER III

MONK'S FOLLY, 1st August

DEAREST ELIZABETH:

{_A Mature Young Man_}

_L'ingenue va bien._ I am so glad you managed to put that odious Mrs.

Smith in her place. It is really too revolutionary to be forced to accept such people, but what you tell me about her and Lord Valmond surprises me. I can quite understand a woman of her stamp liking the admiration of Valmond, for he is young and good-looking, and a marquis, but what can he see in her? He is one of those young men who mature quickly; at fifteen he could tell whether a woman put on her chemise or her petticoat first, and at one and twenty he knew the Rake's Catechism by heart. But I have always heard that he was intelligent, and his people were never afraid of his doing something foolish. He takes his _menus plaisirs_ like a gentleman, but why he should be so devoted to this Mrs. Smith I cannot conceive. She is not pretty, she is not witty; Lord Valmond is rich, surely he does not want to borrow money from her.

I shall be glad when you leave Nazeby Hall; it is one thing to catch a marquis, and another thing to get scratched in the effort. You must leave at once, otherwise you will be forced to play your trump card--the art of being an _ingenue_. Leave at once, Valmond will be sure to follow. The slap on the cheek was excellent; no man ever forgets a woman who has left the print of her fingers on his face, he will either hate her or love her. If the man _is_ a man and was in the wrong, he will be forced to admire the woman who could protect herself against him. Leave Nazeby, Elizabeth; Valmond is a man and a gentleman, let him know that you are a lady and virtuous.

{_The Handkerchief Returned_}

{_Captain Bennett_}

This morning, just before lunch, Fifine and I were dozing on the lawn under the big j.a.panese umbrella, when James came to tell me that Captain Bennett was in the drawing-room. Of course he came to return my handkerchief--it was very polite of him to bring it himself, especially as he rode all the way from Taunton in a blazing sun, along a road lying under nearly a foot of dust. Naturally, I could not let him go back without lunch, and afterwards, when I thought he would go, he asked me to let him look over my songs, as he wanted something to sing at a smoker to-night, which the Yeomanry are giving for him and the Earl of Mortimer. He tried nearly all, and tea was brought in before he got one to suit his voice, which is really a very good one. He is a very gentlemanly man, and has a shy way of looking at one, that is quite nave in a soldier. He wouldn't believe me when I told him I had a daughter seventeen, until I showed him your photograph. He seemed so astonished that I was obliged to tax him with being extremely ungallant.

I asked him if he expected a woman to be old at thirty-five because she happened to marry at seventeen, and he gave me such a look that I felt quite uncomfortable. His eyes were not at all shy, but looked like sparks of blue fire. Just then there was the sound of a carriage driving up, and Mrs. Chevington and the Blaine girls rushed into the room. Fell in would be more correct, for so few Englishwomen know how to enter a room quickly and gracefully. They didn't know Captain Bennett, and as I thought I had had enough of him for one day, I wouldn't introduce him.