miles trevor to his mother.

dearest mater,—a merry christmas to you all! i can hardly believe it is nearly four years since i said good-bye and came out here, though there are times, when i am down on my luck, when it seems more like a hundred. one doesn’t have much time for moping during the day, but the evenings are the trying times, when one wonders what on earth made him such an idiot as to leave the dear old country. in saner moments i’m precious glad i did, for i shouldn’t have had half the chance of getting on at home. the manager went off for a holiday last week and left me in charge, and i’m thankful to say all has gone well. it was my chance of showing what i could do, and i was determined to make the most of it. all the same, i am sorry at times that i did not go in for mining, as i once thought of doing, you remember. my chum gerard is going ahead at a great rate. he came out here without a penny, and has simply worked his way through the different processes in the big aladdin mine with which we are connected. he took the most profitable stages first, and when he had saved up a little money went in for the ones which paid least, until he had a real practical working knowledge of everything from start to finish. of course he had had no training at home, or this would not have been necessary, but as he is a beggar to work, and a genius at making other people work too, he has risen to the post of sub-manager, and as soon as he has saved enough money is going prospecting on his own account. he has promised me a share in his gold-mine when it is discovered, and you may trust gerard to find one if it is in existence, so you may see us home together some fine day to float our company.

the sooner it comes the better, or everything and everyone will be changed out of knowledge! it is beyond my imaginative powers to think of jill as a young lady with her hair up, and jack at oxford, and betty “an old maid.” (there’s not much of the old maid about that photograph she sent out last mail!) all the fellows admire it tremendously, and it gives quite an air of beauty and fashion to my little cabin. i never thought betty would turn out so pretty, but there’s no denying that she looks a lot older. tell pam not to grow up if she loves me! i want to find someone the same as when i left!

glad to hear the general and mrs digby are still happy and satisfied with each other, and that pretty mrs, vanburgh’s little boy is all right again. remember me to them, and to cynthia alliot when you see her. is she well? you have not mentioned her lately.

many thanks to father for the papers; you can hardly imagine how welcome they are out here, or how eagerly one looks forward to mail days. tell that lazy jill to write to a fellow now and then. she shall have no nuggets out of my el dorado if she doesn’t. yes, i’m all right! don’t worry about me, dear. i had a bit of a breakdown a month or two ago, but gerard nursed me almost as well as you could have done yourself. he is the best chum a man could have. love to everybody, and most of all to yourself, dearest mater.—from your son, miles.

betty trevor to her brother miles.

dearest old lad,—i missed the last mail, so i must send you an extra long scrawl to make up. thanks so much for your last batch of photographs. i am glad you marked the names on the back, for really it is difficult to believe that that ferocious-looking bearded person is really you! i am glad you have promised to shave it off before you come home, for—honestly speaking—it’s not becoming! mr gerard looks just a shade less disreputable than yourself, but i like him because he is nice to you. you can give him my kind regards.

i’ve had ever such a good time since i wrote last, staying with the rendell girls—nan vanburgh’s sisters, you know, whom you met at that first historic party. they are dears, and so amusing that it’s as good as a play to be with them. elsie is married, and lilias, the beauty, is engaged—to a clergyman, if you please. everyone is surprised, for she has always been rather selfish and worldly, and cared only for people who were rich and grand, and mr ross is not like that. he is rather old, nearly forty, i think, and rather delicate, and very grave, and not a bit well off, and he thinks lilias a miracle of goodness and sweetness, and the nice part is that she really is growing nicer, because she likes him so much, and doesn’t want him to be disappointed. they are all awfully pleased, and agatha and christabel think it will be great sport to be the only girls in the house, and have no elder sister left to rule over them. the brother, ned, is in love with the girls’ great friend, kitty maitland, but she snubs him, though the girls say she likes him all the time, and only does it to pay him back for the way he used to snub her as a child, and because he is so conceited that she thinks it will do him good. he really is a good deal spoiled by all those six sisters.

you see everybody seems to be falling in love and getting married except me, and i shall be an old maid. i don’t like anyone, and i don’t like anyone to like me. i feel quite angry if anyone pays me the least attention, and yet i’m lonely inside. oh, miles, why did you go so far away, and turn into a great bearded stranger, when i wanted you at home to talk to every day? i hate mexico, and the valley, and the mine, and “my chum gerard”—“my chum gerard” most of all, because i’m so jealous of him. what business had he to nurse you, i should like to know! but i pity him, if you were as cross as you used to be when you had a cold in the old days, and had to put your feet into mustard and water! how well i remember it! first the water was too hot, then it was too cold, and in the end there, was no water left in the bath, and the furniture was afloat. jack is not half so difficile as you used to be! he has grown such a dear old thing, just as merry and mischievous as ever, but so kind, and thoughtful, and nice all round. father is very proud of him, and he is the old general’s special pet, and half lives there when he is at home. as for jill, she is a minx in capital letters. so pretty and gay, and funny and charming, and naughty and nice, and aggravating and coaxing, and lazy and reckless, and altogether different from everybody else, that my poor little nose is quite out of joint, and i heard an impertinent young man speaking of me the other night as “jill trevor’s sister”! that’s what i have descended to, after all my lofty ambitions—jill’s sister! how furious i should have been in the old days, but now i don’t seem to mind. are you changed very much, old miles? inside, i mean, i’m not thinking of the horrid beard. you are such a reserved person that your letters leave one in ignorance of the real you. “my chum gerard” knows you better than i do nowadays. what an awful thought! life seems so different now from what it did at eighteen, and all one’s ideals are changed. i had my usual yearly “token” from my friend of the fog this spring—just a newspaper posted from new york, as before, so that i know he is alive and well, but i long to know more, and sometimes it seems as if i never should. sometimes—when i am in the blues—i feel as if that night was the only time in my life when i was really and truly of use. i suppose that’s what makes me remember it so well, and think so much of the poor man. i can remember his face still—so distinctly! poor, poor fellow! father says it’s more difficult than ever to make money nowadays. he may work all his life, and never be able to pay off his debts.

cynthia! no; cynthia is not well. we didn’t tell you before, because it’s horrid to write bad news, and you two were good friends. besides, we hoped she would get better. it began six months ago with an attack of influenza. she did not seem to throw it off, but grew thin, and coughed—a horrid cough! they took her away, and did everything they could, but so far she is no better, and i’m afraid there’s no doubt that her lungs are affected. mrs alliot is awfully anxious, and so is her father, who has retired now, as you know, and is home for good. they have taken her away to the sea, and she lives out of doors, and has a nurse, and everything that can possibly be got to make her better. she is very thin, but is quite bright and cheerful, and thinks about everybody in the world but herself. they hope she will get better; she must get better—she’s so young, and dear, and lovely, and everything that’s sweet. i can’t tell you what cynthia has been to me all these years! pray for her, miles—pray hard! i rend the heavens for cynthia’s life.

that’s all, old boy—i have no more news. bother the nuggets! come home the instant you can. father doesn’t believe in gold-mines. don’t let “my chum gerard” lead you into any wild-goose chase!—always your lovingest sister, betty.

from general digby to jack trevor.

my dear boy,—if you were my own son (which i wish you were!) i could not have felt happier and prouder than i did on the receipt of your letter this morning. to hear that you have decided to read for the ministry, and that you attribute the origin of this choice to some chance words of mine uttered years ago—that is indeed an unexpected joy! this tongue of mine has uttered so many foolish sayings in its time, and got me into so much trouble, that i am thankful beyond expression to know that in this instance it has done some good for a change. thank you, my boy, for giving me the satisfaction of knowing as much. i know it is hard for you young fellows to speak out. you might easily have kept it to yourself, and left me a poorer man.

no! since you ask my opinion, i’m convinced that it would be a thousand pities to drop any of your athletic interests. i’d rather advise you to put more grist into them, and come to the front as much as possible; short, of course, of interfering with your studies. when you have a parish of your own, or assist another man in his parish, you will have a big work to do among the boys and young men, and how do you think it will affect them to hear that you have pulled stroke in your boat, or played for the ’varsity in football or cricket? will they think less of you, or more? if i know masculine nature, it will give you an immediate influence which scarcely anything else could command. they will know you for a man, and a manly man into the bargain, a man who has like interests with themselves, and is not merely a puppet stuck up in the pulpit to babble platitudes, as so many fellows do nowadays—more shame to them! play with the young fellows on saturday;—let them feel that you understand and enter into their interests, and my name’s not terence digby if your serious words don’t have a tenfold influence on sunday.

we must have a good talk on this subject when you come home. it is one on which i feel very strongly. let me know at any time if you want help as to books, or any other expenses. your father has enough to do with the rest of the family, and it is a pleasure to me to pretend now and again that you belong to me.

all goes well at brompton square. your mother wears well—a wonderful woman! none of her daughters will ever equal her, though betty is twice the girl she used to be, and mademoiselle jill makes havoc among the young fellows. my dear wife looks after me so carefully that my gout is steadily on the decline, and i grow younger year by year. get the right woman for your wife, young fellow! i waited twenty years for mine, and she’s cheap at the price.—your friend, terence digby.

christabel rendell to her sister nan vanburgh.

dearest mops,—i am in a state of abject collapse after rushing after the beagles yesterday, tearing all over the countryside, and leaping wildly over mountainous barriers, so i think i might as well spend my time writing to you, as you have been hurling reproaches at me for my silence. i couldn’t possibly attempt letters while betty was here, for we only had a fortnight, and i didn’t get through half what i wanted to say. we enjoyed having her immensely, she’s a perfect dear, and very pretty when she takes enough trouble, which isn’t by any means always the case. i read her a severe lecture on the subject, and retrimmed her blue hat. i’m sure you’ll think it improved. talking of hats—i can’t understand why i am not a lunatic, after all i’ve experienced with my clothes this spring! agatha and i went to a tailor’s at hertford and ordered coats and skirts for morning wear. she wasn’t in a hurry for hers, but i was simply panting for mine to take to the goodmans’ the next wednesday, so it was arranged that he should rush on with mine, and that i should go over for a fitting on monday. my dear, on monday i was a wreck!—toothache in every joint, chattering with cold, and the rain descended in floods. i ploughed to the station in a sort of dismal, it-is-my-duty-and-i-must kind of stupor; sat in the train with mrs ellis, who yelled at me the whole time about the coal club, and mary jane’s little emma’s mumps; staggered along the roads to the tailor’s shop, and sat shuddering in his nasty little room with my feet on a slippery oilcloth as cold as ice.

after about twenty minutes (it seemed three hours and a half)—he came in with a coat over his arm! agatha’s coat! i nearly swooned! ... “now you don’t say so—really! your sister’s? and i made so sure it was yours! isn’t that curious, now? i may say i have been in the tailoring trade, man and boy, for a matter of twenty years, an’ i never knew such a thing to occur before! of course it wouldn’t be any use saying i could make another by wednesday, for i should only disappoint, but if miss hagatha was to run over, such a thing as this hafternoon, she could have ’er’s ’ome in the place of yours.” ... i got home somehow, i don’t know how, for my mind was a blank, fell into bed, and lay prostrate until the next day, when hope revived once more. if the worst came to the worst, i was sure of a new voile dress which miss green was making, and the old coat and skirt would do very well for the mornings. the voile dress promised to be charming, for she really makes very well when she likes; so i felt restored to equanimity, until at eleven o’clock, behold a small girl, to see miss c rendell—“oh, if—you—please—miss green—says—as—she’s—two—yards—short—of—the—material—and—could—you—make—it—convenient—to—get—it—to-day?” my brain reeled! as soon as i had sufficiently recovered, i rushed round to see her myself. “you told me you only needed twelve yards, and i got thirteen!” “yes, madam, but you see, madam, these guagings run into a deal of material. you wouldn’t like them not to be full and ’andsome. just another two yards!” there was nothing else for it, so i promised to go up to town next morning (i couldn’t possibly go that day), and impressed upon the wretch to finish the bodice first,—as, if necessary, we could do with less trimming on the skirt. my dear, the worst is still to come! the shop was sold out of the shade of voile, and could not get it again, and when i went back to miss green, she had finished the skirt, and had nothing left for sleeves! “yes, i remember you did say do the bodice first, but i thought i’d be getting on with the guaging. guaging runs into a deal of time!” ... i just lay back, and said to myself, “can it be real—or is it only a terrible nightmare?” we sat turning over hundreds of dirty old fashion plates, to find out how to make sleeves out of nothing, and they are sights, and i look an owl in them. there’s only one comfort—if my brain has stood such a strain, it will stand anything!

lilias and mr ross are really very satisfactory, and considering that she is thirty (thirty! isn’t it appalling!), he is not a bit too old. it’s nice to see her look happy and satisfied, and she has been as sweet as sugar ever since, and as pleased as possible with furnishing her little house, which will be quite poky and shabby compared with yours, or maud’s, or even elsie’s sanatorium. poor old lil! i’m glad she’s going to have a good time, at last. i’m afraid she has felt very “out of it” the last few years.

old mr vanburgh is longing for your next visit, and has his study simply plastered over with portraits of the boy. i go to sit with him on wet afternoons, and listen meekly to praises of yourself, which i know to be absolutely undeserved.

by the way—is betty in love? never a word could i get out of her, but her indifference to the admiration she got down here—and she got a good deal—was quite phenomenal, unless there is something behind! methinks at times i trace a melancholy in her eye. adieu, my love; this epistle ought to make up for past delinquencies.—yours ever, christabel.