"Mrs. Harborough!"—my mother drew herself up on the pillow with an animation1 I had not thought to see again.
I opened and read: "My dear niece——"
"Ah!" my mother brought out the ejaculation with an effect of having doubted if the relationship would be owned.
That introductory phrase turned out to be the most comprehensible part of the first half of Aunt Josephine's letter. As for me, I was completely floored by "the Dynamism of Mind," after I had stumbled over a cryptic2 reference to my mother's state—"which you must not expect me to call sickness. There is no such thing. There is only harmony or unharmony, whether of the so-called body or the soul."
On the third page, the writer descended[Pg 199] from these Alpine3 heights, to say that it had been "inspirationally borne in upon" her that the time was come for her brother's daughters to widen their horizon, and incidentally, to see something of their father's world.
The implied slur4 upon our mother's world was, to my surprise, not resented.
"Go on. Go on."
The letter ended by saying that, in spite of very grave and urgent preoccupations, Aunt Josephine would endeavour to draw a little of the old life round her, if her nieces would come and stay with her in Lowndes Square for a few weeks.
"A London season!" Bettina cried.
I looked up from the letter and saw my mother watching with hungry delight Bettina's face of rapture5. Bettina had not looked like that since the Helmstones went away.
But the most marked change, after all, was in my mother herself.
When Eric came he was staggered. "I'll believe in miracles after this!"—and we joked about the Dynamism of Mind.
My mother had taken for granted that both Bettina and I would accept Aunt Josephine's invitation,[Pg 200] though I said at once I could not leave home. My mother put this aside with: "Bettina go alone! A wild idea."
When the question came up again in Eric's presence I did not press it far. But, going downstairs, I asked him how was I to put it to my mother?
"Put what?" he asked.
"Why, the fact that we can't leave her. Or, at least, that I can't." I agreed Betty must go.
"So must you," he said. My heart beat faster. His villeggiatura was near the end. London, for me, meant Eric. "You need the change," he said, "more than Betty does."
"You forget," I said, a little sadly, "what we've been facing here. The specialist coming——"
"Well, he will find she has rallied."
Nevertheless, she was in no condition, Eric said, to be crossed. Had she not told me herself that my first duty was to take care of Betty? That was not how he would put it—all the same, the change would do me good. Then a word about our "trustworthy servants." In any event I was[Pg 201] not to say any more about not going, till we had seen the "London chap."
She went on quite wonderfully.
We were positively7 gay again—she and I and Bettina—the three of us laying plans.
We talked about clothes, and planned how we should look very nice on very little money.
When the great specialist came, he found my mother sitting up in a bed covered with old evening-gowns, old laces, and embroidered8 muslins; things she had worn long ago in India, and which should help to make us brave for our first London season. Smart little blouses, morning-gowns and afternoon-gowns, could be made in the house or in the village. But who was worthy6 to make an evening-frock fit for London? My mother was much more concerned about this than about the great specialist, whom she received rather as a friend of Eric's. He echoed all that Eric had said.
My mother had made me write to Aunt Josephine on the evening of the same day that brought her letter. I did not tell anyone, but I put off[Pg 202] posting my answer till the London doctor had gone.
My letter was not only thanks and acceptance. I felt I ought, in common civility, to try to make some more or less intelligent rejoinder to the odd part of my aunt's letter. And this modest effort seemed not to displease9 her. For she replied in eight pages of cloudy metaphysic and a highly lucid10 cheque. The cheque alone supported us in our attempt to grapple with those eight bewildering pages. The first introduced us, by way of the Psychology11 of the Solar Plexus, to the Self-Superlative:
"If this view-point interests you, I will later explain to you—in terms of inclusiveness and totalism—the mystical activities of the Ever-Creative Self."
"Isn't she awfully12 learned!" said Bettina in a scared voice.
"On your return home, having 'contacted,' as we say, the talents and the tranquillity13 of others—instead of contacting things of lack and fear—you will be able to think happily and sweetly about matters that formerly14 disturbed you. All the ills of life are curable from within. Complete health is wisdom. I do not go so far as to predict[Pg 203] that you will find yourself instantly able to adopt the bio-vibratory sympathism which habitualises thought to the Majesty15 of Choice. But I do say that after giving the deeper and sweeter Self a chance to unite the self of common consciousness, constructively16, with the Powers Within, that you, too, may find yourself a Healer—that is, Harmoniser—clothed in the Regal Now."
After that plunge
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