Rubble and Roseleaves, and Things of That Kind. Frank Boreham
I
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
Every man has a genius for something or other. I have a genius for a comfortable armchair and a blazing fire. Add to these two ingredients what Bob Cratchit would call a circle of congenial companions (meaning, as his considerate creator points out, a semi-circle) and I am as destitute of envy as the Miller of the Dee. I stipulate, however, that my companions shall be so very much to my taste that, when in the mood, I can talk to my heart's content without seeming garrulous, and, when in the mood, can remain as silent as the Sphinx without appearing sullen.
This outrageous spasm of autobiography is necessitated as an explanation of Rubble and Roseleaves. The contents are neither essays nor sermons nor anything of the kind. The inexhaustible patience of my readers has lured me into the habit of talking on any mortal—or immortal—subject that takes my fancy. I have merely set down here a few wayward notions that have, in the course of my wanderings, occurred to me. But, in self-defense, let me add that these outbursts have been punctuated by whole infinitudes of silence. The silences are eloquently represented by the gaps between the chapters.
Frank W. Boreham.
Armadale, Melbourne, Australia.
Easter, 1923.
PART I
I—OLD ENVELOPES
Three envelopes, cruelly torn and sadly crumpled, look reproachfully up at me from the yawning abyss of my waste-paper basket. There is a heavy, pompous envelope, of foolscap size, who evidently feels that I have affronted his dignity by casting him to the void in this unceremonious way. There is a thin, blue envelope who seems to be barking out something about an account that ought to be paid. And there is a dainty little square envelope, delicately perfumed, and addressed in a lady's flowing hand. This pretty piece of stationery keeps asking, in a plaintive voice, if the age of chivalry is dead.
'Why,' these envelopes want to know, 'why are the letters that we brought laid so respectfully on your desk whilst we, to whom you are so much indebted, are crushed and mangled and tossed disdainfully aside? Isn't an envelope as good as a letter any day?'
There is justice in their contention, and I take up my pen that I may tender them an apology. A letter will tell you much; but the envelope will often tell you more. I remember sitting with John Broadbanks one autumn afternoon on the broad verandah of the Mosgiel Manse. Some important meetings were to be held next day, and he had driven over to help me in my preparations for them. He had, moreover, arranged to stay the night. As we made our way through the various papers that would have to be dealt with next day, the gate swung open and the postman placed a budget of letters in my hand.
'Hullo!' I exclaimed, 'an English mail!' And, excusing myself from the business on hand, I lost myself in the letters from Home.
I noticed that, when we returned to the agenda paper and reports, John did not seem as keen as usual. He went through the documents mechanically, languidly, perfunctorily, allowing several matters to pass that, ordinarily, he would have questioned. He gave me the impression of having something on his mind, and it was not until we all sat round the tea-table that I grasped the situation. Then he opened his heart to us.
'I am very sorry,' he said, 'but if you'll let me, I think I had better return to Silverstream this evening after all. The arrival of the English mail makes all the difference. You have your letters; mine are waiting for me at the Manse. When I last heard from Home, my mother was very ill; I have spent an anxious month waiting for the letter that has evidently arrived to-day; and I do not feel that I can settle down to to-morrow's business until I have seen it.'
The announcement was greeted with demonstrations of general disappointment. John was a universal favorite; he was the nearest approach to a relative that the children had ever known; and the prospect of having him in the house until bedtime, and of finding him still on the premises when they awoke in the morning, had occasioned the wildest excitement. And now the beautiful dream was about to be shattered!
'I tell you what, John,' I said, going to the window and looking out, 'it's going to be a perfect moonlight night. Spend an hour with the children after tea, and then I'll drive over to Silverstream with you. If all's well, we can return together. If not, we shall understand.'
When, after a sharp cold drive in the moonlight, we reached the Silverstream Manse, things took an unexpected turn.
'Mrs. Broadbanks has gone out,' the maid explained. 'The English mail arrived this afternoon and she said you would be anxious to get your Home letter. She took it with her and said that she would try to get it posted this evening so that you would get it first thing in the morning. And I think she intended to look in at Mrs. Blackie's before she returned and inquire about Alec's broken leg. I know she took some jellies with her.'
It was now John's turn to be disappointed. He had had his journey for nothing; indeed, as things now stood he would be nearer to the letter at Mosgiel than at Silverstream. Then an idea occurred to him.
'Did Mrs. Broadbanks get letters from her home?' The maid thought that she did. She knew, at least, that, after the arrival of the mail, her mistress had spent some time in the bedroom by herself. John hurried to the bedroom.
'Hurrah!' he cried, a moment later. 'Here's the envelope! It is addressed in my mother's handwriting, and the postmark shows that it left England on March 16. The last letter left on February 17 and the envelope was addressed by my sister. So all's serene! Let's get back to Mosgiel!' John wrote a hurried note for Lilian; left it on the bed; and, in a few minutes, we were once more startling the rabbits on the road.
It is wonderful how often the envelope tells us all that we wish to know. I always feel sorry for the Postmaster-General. No man on the planet is under so great an illusion as is he. I can never read his annual report without amusement. It is a stirring romance; but the romance is, to some extent, the romance of fiction rather than the romance of fact. I know that it is a thankless task to rob a man of an illusion that makes him happy; but the interests of truth sometimes demand it. They do in this case. For it is not the Postmaster-General alone who has been tricked by the witchery of appearances; the fallacy is shared by all the members of his enormous staff. Every individual in the department, from the Minister down to the messenger-boy, is equally deceived. The annual report proves it. For, in this annual report, the Postmaster-General tells you how many millions of letters he and his subordinates have handled during the year. But have they? As a matter of fact, they have handled no letters at all—except dead letters, and dead things don't count. The Postmaster-General handles envelopes; that is all. Let him correct the statement in his next report.
It will involve him in no loss of prestige, for, as these three envelopes in the basket plead so plaintively, and as John Broadbanks discovered that moonlight night at Silverstream, envelopes have a significance of their own. The postman knows that. He never sees the letters; but the envelopes whisper to him a thousand secrets. He knows the envelopes that contain circulars, and he hands them to you with a look that is a kind of apology for having troubled you to answer the door. He knows the official envelopes that contain demands for rates, income taxes, and the like. If you are in his good books, he hands them to you sympathetically; if not, he secretly enjoys the fun. Here is an envelope marked 'Urgent'; here is one with a deep black border; here is one with silver edges! He cannot be quite deaf to all that these envelopes say. And here is one, addressed very neatly, to a young lady at the house at the corner. He brings an exactly similar envelope to the same fair recipient