Part 4 — LETTERS (continued 4)

I hope your wedding went well to-day. My sister's—is postponed till the 28th—for the convenience of the best man. If by Thursday (you must be a full two days' post from a Yorkshire country place) the Master had one or two Bouquet D'Or or other white or yellow roses not very fully blown—and your handy Meta would wind wet rags about their stalks and put them in an empty coffee-tin and despatch them by parcels post to Miss Gatty, Ecclesfield Vicarage, Sheffield, Yorks, they would be greatly welcomed to eke out the white decorations of my Mother's grave for the wedding-day. I am wildly watering my Paris Daisies—and hope to get some wild Ox-eye daisies also—as her name was Margaret (and her pet name Meta!). I am applying prayers and slopwater in equal proportions—like any Kelt!—to my Bouquet D'Or and other white and yellow roses! I shall have some double white Canterbury Bells, etc.—but there is coming a lull in the flowers, and they won't re-bloom much till we have rain.

Please give my love to all your party, not forgetting the house dove and the dog—

I reproach my Rufus with his tricks and talents!

I have had great benefit in a fit of neuralgia from your chili paste.

Yours, dear Mrs. Going,

Sincerely and affectionately,

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

To Mrs. Jelf.

November 3, 1884.

Dearest Marny,

Enclosed is "Daddy Darwin"—for Richard!—and two of the Verse Books for the two dear Queers I had so many luncheons with!

You know I risked printing 20,000 D.D.D. on my own book to cheapen printing—so you'll be glad to hear that after ordering 10,000 at the beginning of last week—S.P.C.K. have ordered another 10,000 at the end of it!! But I've been having such "times" with the printers' and publishers' dæmons!!

I must not write, however, for I have been ill also!! A throat attack. We were afraid of diphtheria—but if it were that I should not be writing to you as you'll guess. There has been another outbreak of it just round us, and a good many throats of sorts in its train, but Dr. L—— does not seem to think mine due to much more than exhaustion—and he seemed to think nursing the dog had not been very good for me. He says distemper is typhoid fever!

We had a very jolly little visit from Colonel C——. He was at his very funniest. Mimicked us both to our faces till we yelled again! As Rex said—"Not a bit altered! The old man! Would any other play the bones about his bedroom in his night-shirt?"

He went off waving farewells and shouting—"We'll both come next time—and rouse ye well."

Your loving, J.H.E.

Saturday.

Dearest Marny,

You have indeed the sympathy of my whole heart!

God bless and prosper "Old Father" on the war-path and bring him home to his Queers and to you full of honour and glory and interesting experiences!

I know Mr. Anstruther—he is charming. I cannot say how I think it softens one's fears if Richard's strength were still a bit unequal to the strain—to know that he has such a subaltern—adjutant—and C.R.E. He could not have gone arm-in-arm with better comrades—unless the Giant had been ready as sick-nurse in case of need!

But I do feel for you, dear—you are very gallant.

I am not fit to write yet—my head goes so—but I will write you next week about Gordon Browne (a thousand thanks!) and see if I possibly could. Thank you so much.

The drummer's letter is charming. I must copy the bit about tip-toe for Sir Evelyn Wood! I got the enclosed from him—also from Wady Halfa—and I wanted you and R—— to hear the weird drum-band drunkard tale! and see how he likes "Soldier's Children."

Can you kindly return it, dear?

Your most loving, J.H.E.

[In pencil.]

Where does R—— sail from?

I see by to-day's Times the others have sailed from Dartmouth. My dear Marny—can't you and R—— come here en route if only for a night? It would be so nice! It would be such a pleasure to Rex and me to Godspeed him—and he would feel quite like Gladstone if he had an ovation at every stopping point on the Flying Dutchman!

To Colonel Jelf.

November 18, 1884.

Dear Richard,

I wish you could have paused here—I wish that you were even likely to run through Taunton station in the Flying Dutchman, and that we could have run down to head a cheer for you!—But Gravesend is handier for Marny.

She's a real Briton—and it is that "undaunted mettle" that does "compose" the sinews of "peace with honour" for a country as well as war!

Indeed I'm glad you have your chance—or make a very respectable assumption of that virtus! and I take leave to be doubly glad that it is in a fine climate and with good shoulder to shoulder comrades.

Tell Marny, Colonel Y. B—— in a letter about "Daddy Darwin" is very sympathetic. Another "old standard"—Jelf, he says—is going, and "Mrs. J—— puts a good face on it."

What will the theatricals and the Institute do?—

"Do without," I suppose! I am a lot better the last two days—and struggled off to the town to-day to a missionary meeting! It was a most unusually interesting one about the South American Missions. I must tell Marny about it.—However—at some tea afterwards, I was "interviewed" by one or two people—and one lady asked to introduce a "Major"—whose name I did not catch—as being so devoted to "Soldier's Children." I created quite a sensation by saying that "Old Father" was ordered to Bechuanaland—"Oh, how old are the Queers? Are they really losing Old Father again so soon?"

I feel, by the bye, that it is part of that fatality which besets you and me, that I should have stereotyped you in printers' ink as Old Father!!!

Good-bye.—Godspeed and Good luck to you.

Your affectionate old friend,

J.H.E.

To the Rev. J. Going.

December 3, 1884.

Dear "Head Gardener,"

I think there is a blessing on all your benevolences to me which defies ill luck!

After I wrote to Mrs. Going we'd a frost of ten degrees—and I got neuralgia back—and made a dismal picture in my own mind of your good things coming to an iron-bound border—and an Under Gardener deeply died down under eider down and blankets—(even my old labourer being laid up with sore throat and scroomaticks!—but lo and behold, on Monday the air became like new milk—I became like a new Under Gardener—and leave was given to go out. (I am bound to confess that I don't think rose-planting was medically contemplated!) Fortunately the border was ready and well-manured—I only had to dig holes in very soft stuff—but I am very weak, and my stamping powers are never on at all a Nasmyth Hammer sort of scale—but—good luck again!—Major Ewing's orderly arrived with papers to sign—a magnificent individual over six foot—with larger boots than mine and a coal-black melodramatic moustache! Had the Major been present—I should not have dared to ask an orderly in full dress and on duty to defile his boots among Zomerset red-earth, but as I caught him alone I begged his assistance. He looked down very superbly upon me (swathed in fur and woollen shawls, and staggering under a full-sized garden fork) with a twinkle in his eye that prepared me for the least taste of brogue which kept breaking through his studied fine language—and consented most affably. I wish you'd seen him—balancing his figure with a consciousness of maids at the kitchen window, his cane held out, toeing and heeling your roses into their places!! He assured me he understood all about it, and he trode them in very nicely!

How good of you to have sent me such a stock,—and the pansies I wanted. The flower of that lovely mauve and purple one is on the table by me now. One (only one) of your other roses died—the second Gloire near the front door—so when I saw it was hopeless I had that border "picked" up—a very rockery of rubbish came out—good stuff was put in, and one of the Souvenirs de Malmaison is now comfortably established there I hope. This wet weather keeps me a prisoner now—but it is good luck for the roses to settle in. I have had some nice scraps and remains of flowers to cheer me indoors—there are one or two late rosebuds yet!

They are such a pleasure to me—and I am indeed grateful to you for all you have done for my garden! Some of those roses I bought have thrown up hugely long shoots. They were all small plants as you know—so I cut none of them in the autumn. I suppose in the spring I had better cut off these long shoots from the bushes in the open border away from the hedge?

I must not write more—only my thanks afresh. With our best regards.

I am very gratefully yours,

J.H.E.

[Written with a typewriter.]

To Mrs. Jelf.

Taunton. December 23, 1884.

Dearest Marny,

My right arm is disabled with neuralgia, and Rex is working one of his most delightful toys for me. He says I brought my afflictions on myself by writing too prolix letters several hours a day. I've got very much behindhand, or you'd have heard from me before. I must try and be highly condensed. Gordon Browne has done some wonderful drawings for "Lætus." Rex was wild over a "Death or Glory" Lancer, and I think he (the Lancer) and a Highlander would touch even Aunty's heart. They will rank among her largest exceptions. I can't do any Xmas cards this year; I can neither go out nor write. I hoped to have sent you a little Xmas box, of a pair of old brass candlesticks such as your soul desireth. D. and I made an expedition to the very broker's ten days ago, but when I saw the dingy shop choke-full of newly-arrived dirty furniture, and remembered that these streets are reeking with small-pox—as it refuses to "leave us at present"—I thought I should be foolish to go in. D. knows of a pair in Ecclesfield, and I have commissioned her to annex them if possible; but they can't quite arrive in time. In case I don't manage to write Xmas greetings to Aunty and Madre, give them my dear love; and the same to yourself and the Queers. I am proud to tell you that I have persuaded my Admiral to put the Soldiers' Institute on his collecting book of Army and Navy Charities; and when I started it with a small subscription he immediately added the same.

Dear Xmas wishes to you all, and a Happy New Year to Richard also from us both.

Your loving, J.H.E.

[In typewriting.]

To Miss K. Farrant.

Taunton. January 4, 1885.

Dearest Kitty,

I should indeed not have been silent at this season if I had not been ill, and I should have got Rex to print me a note before now, but I kept hoping to be able to write myself, and I rather thought that you would hear that I was laid up, either from D. or M. I have not been very well for some time more than yourself, and I am afraid the root of this breakdown has been overwork. But the weather has been very sunless and wretched, and I have had a fortnight in bed with bad, periodic neuralgia, which has particularly disabled my right arm and head—two important matters in letter-writing. It put an entire stop to my Christmas greetings. I made a little effort for the nephews one day, and had a terrible night afterwards. The lovely blue (china) Dog, who reminds me of an old but incomprehensible Yorkshire saying, "to blush like a blue dog in a dark entry,"—which is what I do when I think that I have not yet said "thank you" for him—is most delightful. You know how I love a bit of colour, and a quaint shape. He arrived with one foot off, but I can easily stick it on. Thank you so much. I must not say more to-day, except to hope you'll feel a little stronger when we see more of the sun; and, thanking you and Francie for your cards—(I was greatly delighted to see my friends the queer fungi again)—and with love to your Mother—who I hope is getting fairly through the winter.

Yours gratefully and affectionately,

J.H. Ewing.

To Mrs. Jelf.

January 22, 1885.

Dearest M.,

I am so pleased you like the brazen candlesticks.

I have long wanted to tell you how lovely I thought all your Xmas cards. Auntie's snow scene was exquisite—and your Angels have adorned my sick-room for nearly a month! Most beautiful.

I know you'll be glad I had my first "decent" night last night—since December 18!—No very lengthy vigils and no pain to speak of. No pain to growl about to-day. A great advance.

Indeed, dear—I should not only be glad but grateful to go to you by and by for a short fillip. Dr. L—— would have sent me away now if weather, etc. were fit—or I could move.

After desperate struggles—made very hard by illness—I hope to see "Lætus" in May at one shilling. Gordon Browne doing well. Do you object to the ending of "Lætus"—to Lady Jane having another son, etc.? Do the Farrants? My dear love to them. This bitter—sunless, lifeless weather must have tried Kitty very much.

Your loving,

J.H.E.

[In typewriting.]

Taunton. February 16, 1885.

My Dearest Marny,

Rex is "typing" for me, but my own mouth must thank you for your goodness, for being so ready to take me in. By and by I shall indeed be grateful to go to you. But this is not likely to be for some weeks to come. You can't imagine what a Greenwich pensioner I am. I told my doctor this morning that he'd better send me up a wood square with four wheels, like those beggars in London who have no limbs; for both my legs and my right arm were hors de combat, and to-day he has found an inflamed vein in my left, so that has gone into fomentations too.

But in spite of all this I feel better, and do hope I shall soon be up and about. But he says the risk of these veins would be likely to come if I over-exerted myself, so—anxious as I am to get to purer air, I don't think it would do to move until my legs are more fit. May I write again and tell you when I am fit for Aldershot? Dr. L—— highly approves of the air of it, but at present he thinks lying in bed the only safe course. Do thank dear Aunty next time you write to her for her goodness, and tell her that in my present state I should make her seem quite spry and active. A thousand thanks for the Pall Mall. I do not neglect one word of what you say; but I need hardly say that I can't work at present.

The illustrations for "Lætus" are going on very well. I hope to send Richard a copy for perusal on the homeward voyage.

I daren't write about Gordon. Certainly not the least strange part of his wondrous career is this mystery which persists in clouding his close. I feel as if he would be like Enoch or Moses—that we shall never be permitted to know more than that—having walked with God—he "was not—for God took him," and that his sepulchre no man shall know.

Your loving,

J.H.E.