I

From Miss Elsie Longstaff to Miss Effie Longstaff

℅ Mrs. Bottomley,
23 Jagger Street,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

19 December

Dear Effie,

I got the things alright and ought to have written before this but we did some Three Nights and you know what it is don’t you, all packing and etc. Now we are here for what you can call a run!⁠—till into the New Year at a sort of concert hall and picture place combined, not so big but comfy and clean, good stage and lighting etc.⁠—all marvellous compared with what we have been playing lately I can tell you! Comfy rooms here too and on my own at last, Thank goodness, I got sick to death of having Susie Dean poking about all the time, not that we are not friends we are but you know what it is, my dear! Show looks like going well here, Good old Yorks. I say, if you can get them going up here they will stick to you alright every time. I had one encore last night and could have had another but of course I was told programme would not stand it. Too much Susie Dean and J. Jerningham in the programme if you ask me these days, what with the piano player writing songs for them as well and all that! His name is Inigo Jollifant says its real too!⁠—and he is quite a nice boy but the way he goes mooning round S. Dean and the way she keeps him dangling would make you sick if it didn’t make you laugh. Kids game, I call it, but then thats all they are!

Well we look like having a nice Xmas for once. Playing Xmas Eve and then just one show on Boxing Day. Can you get off to come up, I don’t suppose you can, and I am wondering if I could manage it just for Xmas Day as it’s not so far. Are you still at the George or have you gone to the Vic as you said you might, and does Charlie come in and Jimmy and that tall fellow with the specs and all that lot, if they do just give them my love and tell them to be good boys till I come back! And guess who I saw here the very second day. I went into Leeds in the morning looking round shops⁠—I nearly bought a new coat in a little shop just off Briggate that was having a sale, large wrap in front and straight inlets carried down back and collar and cuffs and flounces lovely fur, just like real, and only £4 19 6 reduced from seven gns, but I couldn’t run to it though if I wear my old black much longer they will be throwing things at me in the street. Well I got in the train to come back in the afternoon and guess who got into the very same carriage, you should have seen him jump, that boy we met at Scarborough year before last when I was with The Bluebells, you remember! It was the taller one with the light moustache who acted he was tight that time, Sunday night at the Crown, and he told me he would come to Luddenstall whenever I liked and gave me his office address and tel. no. so I shan’t exactly be lonely. He asked to be remembered to you and I had to tell you that his friend was married now. I am sorry for his wife, what do you say, my dear!

I am getting you some hankies, will let you have them tomorrow or day after. If you have not got anything for me yet make it a pair of silk stockings bit darker than usual shade I like to go with my red, if it will run to it. Give Uncle Arthur my love and tell him I am getting him a pipe once again, and let me know soon as you can if you can come but if you can, no bringing Ethel Golliver this time, you know what it was last time she came along! I like a bit of fun, my dear, but Ethel would get me run out of this show and out of the town as well! Is it true she is living with⁠—you know, the fellow we used to call Pink Percy⁠—doesn’t surprise me! Chin-chin, Effie, my dear and all the best for Xmas!

II

From Mrs. Joe Brundit to her sister, Mrs. Sorly, of Denmark Hill

℅ Mrs. Andrews,
5 Clough Street,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

21 December

Dearest Clara,

You will be glad to hear the Luck is in for once⁠—we are here right over the Holidays and the rooms are very nice, the landlady most obliging person⁠—so that there will be no difficulty about George coming⁠—isn’t that splendid! If Jim can see him on the train at King’s Cross or get someone to see him in, someone dependable of course, then either Jim or who ever it is seek out a carriage for Leeds with some nice person who is coming to Leeds⁠—and ask them if they would mind keeping an eye on George on the way⁠—specially not letting him go into the corridor by himself or play with the window. Perhaps if you could spare the time, my dear, it would be best⁠—and any nice person would be glad of the company of such a bright boy as George, don’t you think? Of course this is further on than Leeds but then we can meet the train there and that means no changing for him, and Joe has found out the exact train, which is 8:45 in the morning from King’s Cross, please don’t forget⁠—8:45 in the morning, and the day after tomorrow, that is the 23rd. You could send us a wire saying he is safely off. Here is the P.O. for the fare, half of course. And I know you will see he has his proper things with him and is well wrapped up for the journey⁠—it is much colder here of course than it is with you⁠—and has a bun or two and perhaps a bit of chocolate and some of those comic picture papers to look at. You can imagine, my dear, what a relief it is to have someone like you that a Mother can trust!

So this is going to be a proper Christmas for us for once and I am sure I don’t know which is the most excited about it, Joe or me, for we have been buying toys and things for George’s stocking⁠—not that he believes in S. Claus still of course, I know that, but surely he will like to hang his stocking up⁠—and we have made arrangements for a real Christmas Dinner⁠—and Miss Trant has got George an invitation to a big Children’s Party there is to be in the town on Boxing Day afternoon. Now that money is coming in regularly again, not missing a week here and a week there, with rooms and meals to pay for all the time, it makes such a difference, gives you Confidence again⁠—so that⁠—touch wood⁠—things look altogether brighter and when we have our own dear child with us and have a happy Christmas altogether, I shall be a new woman! Would you believe it⁠—a month ago I was in the Depths of Despair⁠—we were all in them, even Joe, who may have his faults but hardly ever gives up hoping and taking a cheerful View, as you know⁠—and then everything suddenly turned round. The Show is going magnificently⁠—good houses every night and you could not want a better audience, a real taste for Good music into the bargain. I have been asked to give two items at a Sacred Concert here, in connection with the. Wesleyans or Congregationals, I forget which⁠—and Joe has been offered 15/- for two items any Sunday evening at the Labour Club here, Mrs. Andrews’ husband being a member and though a little rough and ready perhaps a gentleman at heart. So we have Everything to be thankful for as things have turned out.

It seems to be the same with everybody here⁠—though Goodness knows it can’t last. Jimmy Nunn, our com., says he is better than he has been for the last two years and looks it⁠—and our pianist keeps up well and is as I said he was from the first as nice a young fellow as you could wish to find⁠—and Miss Trant is a perfect lady to us all, does everything she can for us⁠—and everybody is not only on speaking terms, and you know how rare that is, but is really friendly and nice⁠—so that we might almost be a Happy Family. I am sure I have never wanted George to know anything about the Stage or to see me at work, and I have told you so many a time⁠—haven’t I⁠—but I am sure if there ever was a Time or Place where it was right for him to do so, this is it!

The enclosed bag is offered with love, Clara, and gratitude for what you have done for George⁠—and best wishes for a Happy Christmas, though it may not seem as if I meant it when I am taking George away from you just at this festive season, but you can imagine what it means to a Mother! As soon as I saw it in the shop I said to Joe⁠—That will just do for Clara, she’ll love it. And he said, No she won’t, what put that idea into your head. And we argued about it quite a time before I found he was looking at the wrong thing and thought I was pointing to a fretwork outfit⁠—just like a Man! He sends his love and best wishes to you and Jim and says if you can put it into George’s head that he wants a clockwork train and a signal box etc.⁠—so much the better.

III

From Jimmy Nunn to Mrs. Nunn

℅ Mrs. Shaw,
17 Clough Street,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.
23 December

Dear Carrie,

Just a line to let you know where I am and to say I am feeling better than I have done for the last year or two, and to wish you the Compliments of the Season. And I mean it too⁠—a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year⁠—so don’t you go sniffing about it. We can be friends in our own way even if we can’t settle down together any more. I think kindly of you, Carrie, honestly I do, and I wish you to do the same for me. I know you don’t want to come round the country with me and don’t want to have anything to do with the Boards any more, and you know very well I can’t spend the rest of my life sitting in the back of that shop of yours, doing up a parcel now and again. If we are both happy in our own way there’s nothing to grumble at, I say. If Alice had lived, it might have been different. Never you mind what people say⁠—tell them to mind their own business. Or say it’s by doctor’s orders I am still on the move.

I am glad to say you’re wrong about this Show. Seeing it that night at Tewborough, when everybody and everything was all of a doodah, gave you a wrong idea of it, I can tell you. It’s got going properly now and they are eating it here, and before long we shall be making money out of it and good money too. And what you say about the boss, Miss Trant, is all wrong too. She’s one of the very best. And who do you think I ran into the other day in Leeds⁠—old Tuppy Tanner⁠—he’s opening at the Royal panto there tomorrow as Baron Hard-up. Just the same only fatter than ever⁠—and he was telling me his daughter Mona is playing principal girl at Birmingham this year⁠—makes you think a bit, doesn’t it⁠—time flies. It doesn’t seem more than a year or two since we all had that season together in Douglas⁠—do you remember⁠—when Tuppy fell into the sea and you nursed his little girl through the measles or something⁠—and now she’s getting her twenty a week at Birmingham and engaged to be married, Tupp tells me. Wasn’t that the time poor Jack Dean kept getting so tight and got into trouble with that little Italian woman who was at the Palace and we had to keep hiding him? Little Susie here is always asking me about him⁠—and, my word, I could tell her some tales if I wanted to⁠—make her hair curl even though she has knocked about a bit herself⁠—but of course I draw it mild. I don’t suppose you want to know about her because you never liked poor Jack and he never liked you, but Susie is coming on fast and the first time a big man who knows a winner when he sees one happens to look at her act⁠—it’s goodbye to the Concert Party for little Susie. And I shan’t try to stop her⁠—let her have a chance, I say. I wouldn’t know what to do with it, if I had a big chance now⁠—I’m getting on and lazy⁠—and the old round is good enough for me. If you ever wanted to see my name up in electric lights, you shouldn’t have kept me back that time when old Wurlstein came round at Glasgow with the contract in his pocket. You didn’t want to risk it but I did⁠—but there⁠—that’s all done with⁠—I’m up here and you’re there with your shop, and we’re both comfortable.

What about this for a letter! I’ll be writing the Story of My Life next, after this. Now Carrie, no harm done between you and me, what do you say, and all the best for the New Year. If you see that young doctor, tell him I’m still taking that stuff and he’s a marvel.

IV

From Jerry Jerningham to Lady Partlit

℅ Mrs. Long,
6 Bury Road,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

24 December

Dear Lady Partlit,

Thank you very much for the cig. case which arrived at The Ionic yesterday. How did you know we were playing here⁠—did you see it in The Stage⁠—it was a bit risky sending such a lovely case like that. Yes I was very surprised to get it and hear from you after what went on between us at Tewborough that week, but I must say I have been thinking some time I was too hasty and that after all it was not your fault so I will say now I am sorry⁠—and not just because you have given me such a beautiful present and said such nice things in yr letter about my work. I am also sorry you are going out of England for a month or two because I should like you to see the Show again now it is going better and I have more chance, having got four new nos.⁠—three of them written by our pianist who I must say is clever and a coming man in the song-world if only he takes his work seriously like I do. I must say the Show is going better than ever I thought it would now⁠—though as you know it has got at least four dud people in it, and you are right when you say that I am wasted in this C.P. work, though I cannot grumble about the way my act is going here⁠—two or three encores every night, and more wanted. But you have guessed right when you say it does not satisfy me and I am working hard all the time at new steps etc. so that when my chance does come the people who give it me will not regret it.

No I do not spend my time walking out pretty Yorkshire girls as you suggest⁠—though if I wanted to I have no doubt I could do so alright⁠—but even if they were a lot prettier than they are I should not let them take up my time just now. And if I was rude I am very sorry and thank you once again for the lovely present. I have just had a new photo taken and thought you might like a signed copy.

V

Mr. Morton Mitcham to Gus Jeffson, Esq., Eccentric Club

The Ionic,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

26 December

Dear Sir,

Re. your article “Touring Out East” in last week’s Stage, you say your Co. was the first to play Penang, but I was there with the old Prince of Pimlico Co. a good three years befor that, running down from Singapore. Refer “Thirty Years in the Straits Settlements” by J. G. Thompson Esq. for account of Show and a photo of party, self inclined. And I’m still going strong⁠—now playing at Ionic here, successful winter season with well-known Good Companions Co. (E. Trant & J. Nunn). Forgive correction and accept good wishes of another old pro who has done his share of Touring Out East⁠—those were great days.

VI

From Susie Dean to Miss Kitty Mackay, “The Multi-Million Girl” Co. Empire, Cardiff.

℅ Mrs. Wright,
11 Jagger Street,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

27 December

Darling Kitty,

Your letter only arrived this morning⁠—after wandering round all over the place⁠—but I see you are in Cardiff so this will get you at once. It was sweet of you to think of me like that⁠—I shan’t forget, my dear!⁠—and three months ago I would have jumped at it, jumped at anything nearly⁠—to say nothing of South Africa! I’ve always longed to travel⁠—to go everywhere⁠—wearing white and helmets and anything⁠—and some day I will⁠—with a private carriage or whatever it is the stars do have. But now I have just got to turn it down⁠—don’t ask me for exact reasons, my dear, you know how one feels about a thing!⁠—it isn’t the money⁠—there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your man’s offer, I assure you, and I know I am lucky to get it⁠—and here it is only Five a week, though marvellously regular, I can tell you, like clockwork⁠—which of course makes a difference. But I have simply got to go on with this Good Companions show just now⁠—it’s been made out of the ruins of Mildenhall’s rotten old Dinky Doos⁠—an angel of a woman, very erect, y’know, and tweedy, and straight out of the Old Moated Grange from Little Widdleton-on-the-Wortleberry yes, the real thing⁠—popped up from nowhere in a car⁠—blushed a bit and looked very brave⁠—paid everything and started us off again, all on her own, not knowing the first thing about it! If you could only see her⁠—you would see at once it was the maddest and loveliest thing that ever happened, her doing this. And she lost money hand-over-fist for weeks and weeks⁠—and not a murmur⁠—and now she is beginning to get a little back again⁠—and before she makes some. I don’t stir an inch from this show⁠—not if they offer me Daly’s though I must say they haven’t given any signs of doing so yet.

Has ta ivver played Luddenstall, lass?⁠—its nobbut a little pla‑a‑ace i’ Yorkshire⁠—and as usual looks like a Gas Works all spread out⁠—but I will say this, they know a good show when they see it here⁠—packed house every night, really, and giving the little girl a hand every night⁠—you should just hear them! And they ask us to parties⁠—I was the regular Belle of the Ball at a dance here on Boxing Night after the show⁠—presented the prizes and was given a box of chocolates as big as a suitcase⁠—nay, lass, shut oop! Really though, as far as Luddenstall and district is concerned, we have the Leeds pantos knocked flat. And I have a feeling the luck’s going on⁠—and that sooner or later Something will happen. So no S. Africa just now, you see.

The two Brundits are still with us⁠—and I’m glad, though they’re not exactly Covent Garden, are they?⁠—but darlings all the same. Good old Jimmy is still here⁠—better too⁠—and though I know all his jokes off by heart, about as well as he does⁠—he seems to be as good a little comedian as there is in C.P. work⁠—and better than some up aloft among the electric lights. Jerry Jerningham’s here too⁠—and going strong, I must say, and better to work with than he used to be⁠—and the girls here follow him round with their tongues hanging out, as usual⁠—but always from the tabs he’s the same as ever, 1 gent’s outfit, 1 dose of brilliantine, 5 cigarettes, 1 good opinion of himself, 3 bleats⁠—and then nothing⁠—that’s our little friend Jerry. Then there’s our new pianist, who let himself be called Inigo Jollifant⁠—he’s an amateur really, was a schoolmaster, Cambridge Varsity and baggy flannel trousers and the same weird tie every day and “Give me my pipe” and all that, wants to write books and is very Lofty and Highbrow when he remembers to be⁠—but quite clean and really very very clever and he’s writing the most marvellous numbers for me, miles and miles beyond anything that comes from Shaftesbury Avenue these days. One of these nights, somebody from the West End or thereabouts will hear these numbers and then, my dear, I assure you his fortune is made⁠—absolutely, as he always says. He is really rather sweet and we have lots of fun together⁠—No, my dear, I’m not, quite decidedly not⁠—we are just good friends, that’s all, at least on my side. You don’t say a word about Eric⁠—I do hope it’s all right.

If it was Canada instead of South Africa, there’s a little man here who would be just dying to come with you. He is our property man and stage carpenter⁠—a little Yorkshireman, not little really but you think of him being little because he is such a darling⁠—and he too popped up from nowhere and is now one of the family⁠—you should have seen him and heard him this Christmas here, telling all these other Yorkshire people where he had been and what he had seen⁠—eh, it wor right champion, lass! He wants to go to Canada because he has a daughter there⁠—ahr Lily he calls her⁠—and because I’m supposed to be like her (Lord help me!), he simply adores me. Oh, I forgot there’s also an old boy called Morton Mitcham, banjoist and conjurer, we picked up on the road⁠—very weird, Laddie, very weird⁠—not a bad turn, but easily the champion liar of the Profession! He certainly has knocked about in his time, but if he was a hundred and fifty years old and had never stopped touring, he would still be lying, the yarns he spins!

Yes, I know it all sounds very queer⁠—and I’ll bet we are easily the oddest C.P. on the road⁠—but honestly we’re the nicest too, and I only wish you were nearer and could come and have a look at us. Well, that’s all, my dear⁠—but don’t forget I really am most affectionately grateful for the offer, and you do understand, don’t you, why I can’t accept. But don’t go and imagine I’m glued to the piffling C.P. business! Not a bit of it! Very shortly, you’ll see, I shall be Blossoming Out⁠—and then I shall expect a cable from S. Africa when the news gets through. Best of luck to you all, Kitty darling.

VII

From Inigo Jollifant to Robert Fauntley, Washbury Manor School

℅ Mrs. Jugg,
3 Clough Street,
Luddenstall,
Yorks.

29 December

Dear Fauntley,

Many thanks for sending on those odds and ends so promptly. I ought to have written before, I know. Now I have to send this to the school and risk its being forwarded on to you. If the envelope looks messy at the back, you will know that Ma Tarvin has steamed it open⁠—using a hot prune for the purpose: and if you don’t get it at all, you know she has destroyed your letter⁠—ha ha! Your Washbury news was welcome but all very strange⁠—like a message from Mars. Glad I am that the fair Daisy has departed⁠—may she marry the outpost-of-Empire lad in the Sudan and may he be bronzed and lean and carry her photograph, in a silver frame, with him into Wildest Africa. The new man⁠—vice Jollifant⁠—certainly sounds a shrimp⁠—a lesser Felton⁠—and who would have thought that possible? I sent Ma Tarvin a Christmas Card!! It was the sweetest I could find, with little birdies in the snow and it said:

A heartfelt wish through rain or shine
In memory dear of Auld Lang Syne

or something like that. (Ask her about Christmas Cards when you get back.) Then, passing a dirty little shop here the other day, a most highly coloured and vulgar postcard caught my eye⁠—the caption was “You can see a lot at Blackpool” and you can imagine the picture above⁠—and this I dispatched, naked and outrageous, to friend Felton in his beautiful refined home at Clifton. Felton is the only human being who still collects picture postcards⁠—the British Museum and South Kensington kind, of course⁠—but I have the feeling that mine has not been added to the collection. Dear, dear!

Can you imagine being a Pierrot in Luddenstall, Yorks! Can you imagine Luddenstall! It is a smallish town, black as your best hat, and it is joined on to other and bigger towns, equally black, by tram lines. I never saw so many trams. They turn them into mountain railways here; you see them going up vertically. All the streets here are at an angle of at least 45 degrees, everything built of stone, and they run down from a bleak hillside that is really the end of a huge dark moor. Last Sunday, I walked miles and miles on this moor⁠—it has black stone walls like snakes twisting across it⁠—until at last it began to frighten me. It’s ridiculous to say this place is in England⁠—quite another country really. Both Miss Trant (she runs this troupe⁠—God knows why!⁠—and comes from the Cotswolds) and I, after much discussion, have agreed upon that. The people here work⁠—the women never stop⁠—and go to football matches, drink old beer (very good stuff), listen to Handel’s Messiah about twice a week, and make you eat cheese with cake.

I am, as you see, chez Jugg. It’s a capital name for the gentleman because nearly every time I see him he has a jug in his hand, being among the most stalwart devotees of the aforesaid old beer, which has to be “fetched i’ jug.” He can give old Omar himself points in not believing in anything, for he has cut out the book of verse, most of the loaf, and the Houri stuff, and just sticks to the jug, though he has added a clay pipe and is one up on Omar there. He is very dry and cynical. Mrs. Jugg reminds me vaguely of Henry the Eighth (she must be roughly the same shape, I think); she works harder than anybody I have ever heard of; and always looks so terribly exasperated that you would think her cooking would be atrocious, because everything she does is slammed in at the last minute, but it all turns out to be beautiful in the end⁠—it’s like a conjuring trick. The only amusement she has is going “to t’ chapel o’ Sunday neet,” but after a lot of argument I persuaded her to accept a ticket to our show the other night. What was the result? “Eh!” she said. But it’s a long sound she makes, rather like a sheep. “Eh!” she said, “it wer right good but I missed most on it because I fell asleep. Seat were so comfortable and I wer so tired.” Which seemed to me rather pathetic. I’ve been a fortnight here now and so am very pally with both Juggs. They are the best people I’ve lodged with so far, and this is our best town, in spite of its being so queer. We’ve had some horrors, I assure you. You don’t know what Merrie England is like until you tour it with a pierrot troupe.

Do you remember telling me I ought to do something with those little tunes I used to improvise? Well, I am making them into songs now⁠—and everybody seems to like them⁠—and the people in the show, especially the chief girl here (her name is Susie Dean and besides being a most delightful girl, she really is a genius⁠—you wait!), seem to think I ought to make some money out of them. I think I shall try soon. I’ve written two essays⁠—quite good too⁠—and sent them to several papers, but they’ve come back⁠—“Editor regrets,” etc.⁠—every time. It staggers me when I consider the bosh they do print, but I suppose it’s difficult for an outsider⁠—a pierrot at that!⁠—to get in; and I feel like trying to make as much money as I can out of this silly song-writing stunt and then write at leisure. Meanwhile I pound the keys every night and take it easy during the day. We’re an amusing crowd⁠—we had a really jolly Christmas, best I ever had, I think⁠—and though I don’t see myself going on with this forever, so far it’s more fun than ramming French and History into the offspring of our Empire builders and then trying to eat the Tarvin rissoles and stewed prunes. Luddenstall is as ugly as an old road engine, but it has one advantage over Washbury Manor, my dear Fauntley⁠—it’s alive! And so am I⁠—never more so. And I hope you are too, and will have a good New Year.

VIII

From Miss Trant to Mrs. Gerald Atkinson (née Dorothy Chillingford), Kenya Colony

Luddenstall,
Yorks.

31 December

My dear Dorothy,

Your last letter only arrived here two days ago. I am so glad you are finding things so much better and that Gerald has got the extra land he wanted. You sound so happy. Isn’t it fantastic⁠—you out there, and me here? No, I have not been back to Hitherton at all. If we had been nearer these holidays I should have gone, just to see your dear father and mother, the Purtons, and everybody, but it could not be done⁠—so I sent letters and little presents instead. It’s been the most absurd Christmas I ever had⁠—here in this dark and bleak little Yorkshire manufacturing town, where everybody talks like our delicious little Yorkshire property man, Oakroyd, whom I described to you before. Of course everybody seems dreadfully rude at first. You go into a shop and they say: “Well, what do you want, young woman?”⁠—though the “young” is rather comforting. But I am used to it now, and really nobody could have been kinder and nicer than these people and we were lucky⁠—for once!⁠—coming here during the holidays because they are Christmassy sort of people. As you insist on having what you call “theatrical intelligence,” I may say that I am actually at last making a Profit!⁠—that is, on each week, though of course I have not yet made up what I have lost so far. But it’s so exciting to have really crowded and enthusiastic audiences, enjoying everything, and it’s made the most wonderful difference to the members of the party, who are working splendidly now.

It’s ridiculous, of course, but I am becoming the complete theatrical manager. The other day I actually had an offer for the whole troupe⁠—and refused it! After the show one night last week, a card was handed in with a request for an interview, and in came a large fat shabby man, rather beery and pimply but very amiable (too amiable!), and he was Mr. Ernie Codd, from Leeds. He insisted on shaking my hand and breathing on me for about five minutes, and in a very wheezy voice kept saying “Pretty little show! Taking little show! Congrats on the show, Miss Bant! I’m Ernie Codd! They all know Ernie! Now listen here, just listen!” When at last I succeeded in getting back my hand and assuring him I was listening, he said something about having the scenery and props and script of a revue (I think it’s name was “And You’re Another!”⁠—I know he said it was “a Winner and a sure-fire Screamer!”) and one of the neatest little troupes of dancing girls I had ever set eyes on outside the West End radius, and he would take over my Good Companions, lock, stock, and barrel at Fifty Per, or sign them on separately with myself, Miss Bant, as assistant manager on a profit-sharing basis. I am trying, my dear, to give you an impression of the way he rattled all this off, with any amount of gesticulation and heavy breathing. It took me twenty minutes⁠—and even then I had to bring in Mr. Nunn⁠—to make him believe that I had no intention of accepting his offer. I never saw a man so surprised⁠—or at least appear to be so surprised⁠—as he was when he finally understood that we did not want to be taken over by Mr. Codd and his friends. I was very amused (and would have been more amused if Mr. Codd had been rather cleaner and not so much given to shaking hands) but I was also rather thrilled. Mr. Nunn, who knows all about these things and is my chief adviser, was delighted, and said that though he would not trust Ernie Codd as far as he could see him, the offer was a feather in our caps. It must all sound very silly to you, miles and miles away, but you must allow me my little triumphs. Things really are looking up.

Some local Commercial Travellers’ Association gave a children’s party here the other afternoon and somehow the secretary got hold of my name and insisted on Susie⁠—the very charming and clever girl I told you about⁠—and I giving the prizes. We loved it. And talking of children, I must tell you about Mr. and Mrs. Joe Brundit, my baritone and soprano. I hope you remember my description of them because the story rather hangs on that. But, as I told you before, they have a little boy called George, whom they both worship. He lives with an aunt at Denmark Hill, but they were able to have him with them this Christmas here. For days they thought and talked about nothing else. Every penny they had went on toys for his stocking and for treats for him. When the time came, they were nearly delirious with excitement. I remember hoping then that he was a nice little boy who would appreciate what they were doing for him. And of course⁠—that sounds pessimistic, but you know how wretchedly things so often turn out⁠—he wasn’t a nice little boy, but a horrid sulky stupid little wretch. He didn’t like any of the toys they gave him, and told them so very plainly. He didn’t like Luddenstall, and kept saying he wanted to go back to Denmark Hill. He broke some things at their lodgings and was very rude to the landlady, who promptly slapped him (a thing I have been tempted to do myself), with the result that Mrs. Joe quarrelled with her at once and finally had to find new lodgings for them all. They brought him to the theatre and he was such a nuisance that everybody said he must not be allowed to come again. He went to the children’s party, got into mischief at once, then was sulky and cross, and ended by being sick. Never was there such a disastrous visit! And all the time the poor things have been pretending they were not disappointed or anything, until we did not know whether to laugh or cry. On the whole, I felt more like weeping. Poor simple Joe!⁠—and poor simple Mrs. Joe!⁠—she is tremendously dignified and superior, as I told you, but really, if anything, she’s the simpler of the two. They have decided now that George isn’t strong⁠—put it all down to ill health⁠—though the little wretch is really as strong as an ox and only wants a good slapping from time to time to keep him in order. My dear, if you are going to be so absurd, I shall begin to wish I had never told you about that episode⁠—for that’s all it was. Of course I haven’t seen “Dr. Hugh McFarlane on my travels.” Why should I have? I don’t even know if he lives in this country, though I must confess I feel confident he does live somewhere, still exists. I don’t suppose he would even recognize me now. Yes, I know “there is such a thing as a Medical Register,” as you put it⁠—I’m sure you’re becoming quite Colonial and brusque these days⁠—but I have never had a peep at it, no, not the tiniest peep. If you could see me these days, you would understand why I am not worrying about any episode from ancient history. In less than a week, we move on again. Did I tell you I had made Hilda cooperate with me?⁠—she helped me with some dresses for a sort of mid-Victorian song-scena we are giving now⁠—and one that I planned myself!

For the last few days, the hilltops to the West have been white, and I had a glimpse the other morning of the moors there, all silent and almost covered with snow, quite lonely and terrifying, and now it is beginning to snow properly down here and all the black roofs and hard lines are disappearing so that even Luddenstall looks rather like a place in an old fairytale! And very soon the bells will ring in the New Year. I hope it will be a happy one for you, my dear. I’m sure it will, though. And somehow I like the sound of it too. Love to you both.

IX

And as the snow drifted high on the moorland above and came whirling down in soft flakes to the valley below, until at last every roof in Luddenstall was thick and whitened and all the streets were touched with Northern magic; as they raised their glasses and joined hands and sang in chorus, the bells that seemed as old and mysterious as the flying and feathered night itself rang out the Old, rang in the New⁠—the last letter of all was being carried through in a black and dripping railway cutting in the hills, to be slung with a thousand others on board a liner that would soon go hooting through the dark to Canada:

My dear Daughter,

I am writing these lines to say I am still in the pink and hoping you are the same. We are now in Good Old Yorks, and so had a good and merry Xmas. I had my Xmas dinner with landlady and Family and had goose and pudding and etc. I wish you had been there Lily, to keep your old Father company. I went on tram to Bruddersford and called at 51. Your Mother was looking poorly but when I asked her said she was alright and as she was a bit short with me could get nothing out of her. Albert is still there but did not see him and was glad not to but I saw our Leonard who is doing well. Your Mother told me you had not written to her only to me so I think Lily you had better write to her as well sometime for she is your Mother when all is said and done and as I say is looking poorly. The Good Comps. are going well here and will do so, if I know anything, at other places on the road. Wishing you and Jack a Happy New Year and all the best. Keep on writing to me at 51 and they will send on. And keep your heart up Lily we will have a good laugh the two of us yet together. With love and kisses,