Chapter 12 Some Letters For Ginger

    Laurette et Cie,Regent Street,London, W.,England.

　　January 21st.

　　Dear Ginger,--I'm feeling better. As it's three months since I lastwrote to you, no doubt you will say to yourself that I would be a poor,weak-minded creature if I wasn't. I suppose one ought to be able to getover anything in three months. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I haven'tquite succeeded in doing that, but at least I have managed to get mytroubles stowed away in the cellar, and I'm not dragging them out andlooking at them all the time. That's something, isn't it?

　　I ought to give you all my impressions of London, I suppose; but I'vegrown so used to the place that I don't think I have any now. I seem tohave been here years and years.

　　You will see by the address that Mr. Faucitt has not yet sold hisinheritance. He expects to do so very soon, he tells me--there is arich-looking man with whiskers and a keen eye whom he is always lunchingwith, and I think big deals are in progress. Poor dear! he is crazy toget away into the country and settle down and grow ducks and things.

　　London has disappointed him. It is not the place it used to be. Untilquite lately, when he grew resigned, he used to wander about in adisconsolate sort of way, trying to locate the landmarks of his youth.

　　(He has not been in England for nearly thirty years!) The trouble is, itseems, that about once in every thirty years a sort of craze for changecomes over London, and they paint a shop-front red instead of blue, andthat upsets the returned exile dreadfully. Mr. Faucitt feels like RipVan Winkle. His first shock was when he found that the Empire was atheatre now instead of a music-hall. Then he was told that anothermusic-hall, the Tivoli, had been pulled down altogether. And when on topof that he went to look at the baker's shop in Rupert Street, over whichhe had lodgings in the eighties, and discovered that it had been turnedinto a dressmaker's, he grew very melancholy, and only cheered up alittle when a lovely magenta fog came on and showed him that some thingswere still going along as in the good old days.

　　I am kept quite busy at Laurette et Cie., thank goodness. (Not being aFrench scholar like you--do you remember Jules?--I thought at first thatCie was the name of the junior partner, and looked forward to meetinghim. "Miss Nicholas, shake hands with Mr. Cie, one of your greatestadmirers.") I hold down the female equivalent of your job at theFillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd.--that is to say, I'm asort of right-hand woman. I hang around and sidle up to the customerswhen they come in, and say, "Chawming weather, moddom!" (which isusually a black lie) and pass them on to the staff, who do the actualwork. I shouldn't mind going on like this for the next few years, butMr. Faucitt is determined to sell. I don't know if you are like that,but every other Englishman I've ever met seems to have an ambition toown a house and lot in Loamshire or Hants or Salop or somewhere. Theirone object in life is to make some money and "buy back the old place"--which was sold, of course, at the end of act one to pay the heir'sgambling debts.

　　Mr. Faucitt, when he was a small boy, used to live in a little villagein Gloucestershire, near a place called Cirencester--at least, it isn't:

　　it's called Cissister, which I bet you didn't know--and after forgettingabout it for fifty years, he has suddenly been bitten by the desire toend his days there, surrounded by pigs and chickens. He took me down tosee the place the other day. Oh, Ginger, this English country! Why anyof you ever live in towns I can't think. Old, old grey stone houses withyellow haystacks and lovely squelchy muddy lanes and great fat trees andblue hills in the distance. The peace of it! If ever I sell my soul, Ishall insist on the devil giving me at least forty years in some Englishcountry place in exchange.

　　Perhaps you will think from all this that I am too much occupied toremember your existence. Just to show how interested I am in you, let metell you that, when I was reading the paper a week ago, I happened tosee the headline, "International Match." It didn't seem to mean anythingat first, and then I suddenly recollected. This was the thing you hadonce been a snip for! So I went down to a place called Twickenham, wherethis football game was to be, to see the sort of thing you used to dobefore I took charge of you and made you a respectable right-hand man.

　　There was an enormous crowd there, and I was nearly squeezed to death,but I bore it for your sake. I found out that the English team were theones wearing white shirts, and that the ones in red were the Welsh. Isaid to the man next to me, after he had finished yelling himself blackin the face, "Could you kindly inform me which is the Englishscrum-half?" And just at that moment the players came quite near where Iwas, and about a dozen assassins in red hurled themselves violently ontop of a meek-looking little fellow who had just fallen on the ball.

　　Ginger, you are well out of it! That was the scrum-half, and I gatheredthat that sort of thing was a mere commonplace in his existence.

　　Stopping a rush, it is called, and he is expected to do it all the time.

　　The idea of you ever going in for such brutal sports! You thank yourstars that you are safe on your little stool in Fillmore's outer office,and that, if anybody jumps on top of you now, you can call a cop. Do youmean to say you really used to do these daredevil feats? You must havehidden depths in you which I have never suspected.

　　As I was taking a ride down Piccadilly the other day on top of a bus, Isaw somebody walking along who seemed familiar. It was Mr. Carmyle. Sohe's back in England again. He didn't see me, thank goodness. I don'twant to meet anybody just at present who reminds me of New York.

　　Thanks for telling me all the news, but please don't do it again. Itmakes me remember, and I don't want to. It's this way, Ginger. Let mewrite to you, because it really does relieve me, but don't answer myletters. Do you mind? I'm sure you'll understand.

　　So Fillmore and Gladys Winch are married! From what I have seen of her,it's the best thing that has ever happened to Brother F. She is asplendid girl. I must write to him...

　　Laurette et Cie..

　　LondonMarch 12th.

　　Dear Ginger,--I saw in a Sunday paper last week that "The Primrose Way"had been produced in New York, and was a great success. Well, I'm veryglad. But I don't think the papers ought to print things like that. It'sunsettling.

　　Next day, I did one of those funny things you do when you're feelingblue and lonely and a long way away from everybody. I called at yourclub and asked for you! Such a nice old man in uniform at the desk saidin a fatherly way that you hadn't been in lately, and he rather fanciedyou were out of town, but would I take a seat while he inquired. He thensummoned a tiny boy, also in uniform, and the child skipped offchanting, "Mister Kemp! Mister Kemp!" in a shrill treble. It gave mesuch an odd feeling to hear your name echoing in the distance. I felt soashamed for giving them all that trouble; and when the boy came back Islipped twopence into his palm, which I suppose was against all therules, though he seemed to like it.

　　Mr. Faucitt has sold the business and retired to the country, and I amrather at a loose end...

　　Monk's Crofton,(whatever that means)Much Middleford,Salop,(slang for Shropshire)England.

　　April 18th.

　　Dear Ginger,--What's the use? What is the use? I do all I can to getright away from New York, and New York comes after me and tracks me downin my hiding-place. A week or so ago, as I was walking down the Strandin an aimless sort of way, out there came right on top of me--who doyou think? Fillmore, arm in arm with Mr. Carmyle! I couldn't dodge. Inthe first place, Mr. Carmyle had seen me; in the second place, it is aday's journey to dodge poor dear Fillmore now. I blushed for him.

　　Ginger! Right there in the Strand I blushed for him. In my worst dreamsI had never pictured him so enormous. Upon what meat doth this ourFillmore feed that he is grown so great? Poor Gladys! When she looks athim she must feel like a bigamist.

　　Apparently Fillmore is still full of big schemes, for he talked airilyabout buying all sorts of English plays. He has come over, as I supposeyou know, to arrange about putting on "The Primrose Way" over here. Heis staying at the Savoy, and they took me off there to lunch, whoopingjoyfully as over a strayed lamb. It was the worst thing that couldpossibly have happened to me. Fillmore talked Broadway without a pause,till by the time he had worked his way past the French pastry and waslolling back, breathing a little stertorously, waiting for the coffeeand liqueurs, he had got me so homesick that, if it hadn't been that Ididn't want to make a public exhibition of myself, I should have brokendown and howled. It was crazy of me ever to go near the Savoy. Ofcourse, it's simply an annex to Broadway. There were Americans at everytable as far as the eye could reach. I might just as well have been atthe Astor.

　　Well, if Fate insists in bringing New York to England for my specialdiscomfiture, I suppose I have got to put up with it. I just let eventstake their course, and I have been drifting ever since. Two days ago Idrifted here. Mr. Carmyle invited Fillmore--he seems to loveFillmore--and me to Monk's Crofton, and I hadn't even the shadow of anexcuse for refusing. So I came, and I am now sitting writing to you inan enormous bedroom with an open fire and armchairs and every other sortof luxury. Fillmore is out golfing. He sails for New York on Saturday onthe Mauretania. I am horrified to hear from him that, in addition to allhis other big schemes, he is now promoting a fight for the light-weightchampionship in Jersey City, and guaranteeing enormous sums to bothboxers. It's no good arguing with him. If you do, he simply quotesfigures to show the fortunes other people have made out of these things.

　　Besides, it's too late now, anyway. As far as I can make out, the fightis going to take place in another week or two. All the same, it makes myflesh creep.

　　Well, it's no use worrying, I suppose. Let's change the subject. Doyou know Monk's Crofton? Probably you don't, as I seem to rememberhearing something said about it being a recent purchase. Mr. Carmylebought it from some lord or other who had been losing money on the StockExchange. I hope you haven't seen it, anyway, because I want todescribe it at great length. I want to pour out my soul about it.

　　Ginger, what has England ever done to deserve such paradises? I thought,in my ignorance, that Mr. Faucitt's Cissister place was pretty good, butit doesn't even begin. It can't compete. Of course, his is just anordinary country house, and this is a Seat. Monk's Crofton is the sortof place they used to write about in the English novels. You know. "Thesunset was falling on the walls of G---- Castle, in B----shire, hard bythe picturesque village of H----, and not a stone's throw from thehamlet of J----." I can imagine Tennyson's Maud living here. It is oneof the stately homes of England; how beautiful they stand, and I'm crazyabout it.

　　You motor up from the station, and after you have gone about threemiles, you turn in at a big iron gate with stone posts on each side withstone beasts on them. Close by the gate is the cutest little house withan old man inside it who pops out and touches his hat. This is only thelodge, really, but you think you have arrived; so you get all ready tojump out, and then the car goes rolling on for another fifty miles or sothrough beech woods full of rabbits and open meadows with deer in them.

　　Finally, just as you think you are going on for ever, you whizz round acorner, and there's the house. You don't get a glimpse of it till then,because the trees are too thick.

　　It's very large, and sort of low and square, with a kind of tower at oneside and the most fascinating upper porch sort of thing withbattlements. I suppose in the old days you used to stand on this anddrop molten lead on visitors' heads. Wonderful lawns all round, andshrubberies and a lake that you can just see where the ground dipsbeyond the fields. Of course it's too early yet for them to be out, butto the left of the house there's a place where there will be about amillion roses when June comes round, and all along the side of therose-garden is a high wall of old red brick which shuts off the kitchengarden. I went exploring there this morning. It's an enormous place,with hot-houses and things, and there's the cunningest farm at one endwith a stable yard full of puppies that just tear the heart out of you,they're so sweet. And a big, sleepy cat, which sits and blinks in thesun and lets the puppies run all over her. And there's a lovelystillness, and you can hear everything growing. And thrushes andblackbirds... Oh, Ginger, it's heavenly!

　　But there's a catch. It's a case of "Where every prospect pleases andonly man is vile." At least, not exactly vile, I suppose, but terriblystodgy. I can see now why you couldn't hit it off with the Family.

　　Because I've seen 'em all! They're here! Yes, Uncle Donald and all ofthem. Is it a habit of your family to collect in gangs, or have I justhappened to stumble into an accidental Old Home Week? When I came downto dinner the first evening, the drawing-room was full to burstingpoint--not simply because Fillmore was there, but because there wereuncles and aunts all over the place. I felt like a small lion in a denof Daniels. I know exactly now what you mean about the Family. They lookat you! Of course, it's all right for me, because I am snowy white clearthrough, but I can just imagine what it must have been like for you withyour permanently guilty conscience. You must have had an awful time.

　　By the way, it's going to be a delicate business getting this letterthrough to you--rather like carrying the despatches through the enemy'slines in a Civil War play. You're supposed to leave letters on the tablein the hall, and someone collects them in the afternoon and takes themdown to the village on a bicycle. But, if I do that some aunt or uncleis bound to see it, and I shall be an object of loathing, for it is nolight matter, my lad, to be caught having correspondence with a humanJimpson weed like you. It would blast me socially. At least, so I gatherfrom the way they behaved when your name came up at dinner last night.

　　Somebody mentioned you, and the most awful roasting party broke loose.

　　Uncle Donald acting as cheer-leader. I said feebly that I had met youand had found you part human, and there was an awful silence till theyall started at the same time to show me where I was wrong, and howcruelly my girlish inexperience had deceived me. A young and innocenthalf-portion like me, it appears, is absolutely incapable of suspectingthe true infamy of the dregs of society. You aren't fit to speak to thelikes of me, being at the kindest estimate little more than a blot onthe human race. I tell you this in case you may imagine you're popularwith the Family. You're not.

　　So I shall have to exercise a good deal of snaky craft in smuggling thisletter through. I'll take it down to the village myself if I can sneakaway. But it's going to be pretty difficult, because for some reason Iseem to be a centre of attraction. Except when I take refuge in my room,hardly a moment passes without an aunt or an uncle popping out andhaving a cosy talk with me. It sometimes seems as though they wereweighing me in the balance. Well, let 'em weigh!

　　Time to dress for dinner now. Good-bye.

　　Yours in the balance,sally.

　　P.S.--You were perfectly right about your Uncle Donald's moustache, butI don't agree with you that it is more his misfortune than his fault. Ithink he does it on purpose.

　　(Just for the moment)Monk's Crofton,Much Middleford,Salop,England.

　　April 20th.

　　Dear Ginger,--Leaving here to-day. In disgrace. Hard, cold looks fromthe family. Strained silences. Uncle Donald far from chummy. You canguess what has happened. I might have seen it coming. I can see now thatit was in the air all along.

　　Fillmore knows nothing about it. He left just before it happened. Ishall see him very soon, for I have decided to come back and stoprunning away from things any longer. It's cowardly to skulk about overhere. Besides, I'm feeling so much better that I believe I can face theghosts. Anyway, I'm going to try. See you almost as soon as you getthis.

　　I shall mail this in London, and I suppose it will come over by the sameboat as me. It's hardly worth writing, really, of course, but I havesneaked up to my room to wait till the motor arrives to take me to thestation, and it's something to do. I can hear muffled voices. TheFamily talking me over, probably. Saying they never really liked me allalong. Oh, well!

　　Yours moving in an orderly manner to the exit,sally.