Free Hetty Dorval by Ethel Wilson Page A
Authors: Ethel Wilson
and old General Connot watched her. “I could if I would,” I thought as I looked at Hetty. But Mother and I were true to our ungiven word and Hetty landed safely in England.
A letter written in a large and simple hand reached me a few weeks later. It came from Bath and had been sent to me at Lytton to be forwarded. It read:
“Dear Frankie,
“Thank you –
“Hetty Connot.”
So now Hetty was Lady Connot. Mother and I felt that we were never likely to see her again but that still we should say nothing because you never can tell. For, as we told each other, we might, by way of being entertaining, relate the story of Hetty Dorval as it had concerned us, with all its damaging inferences, to someone who might turn out to be General Connot’s sister-in-law, or niece, or friend, unawares, and thereby cause more trouble than we should care for or could undo.
Mother had at last admitted to me that a very ugly story had followed Hetty from Shanghai to Vancouver and so to Lytton. But she did not know the actual truth of it.
NINE
T he genius loci is an incalculable godling whose presence is felt by many people but certainly not by all. Many experience his presence but who knows his name and all his attributes? I have heard that some people who live on our Canadian prairie and are therefore used to flat spaces and far horizons, cannot for long endure even the medium-sized mountains of the Pacific coast. Others from the same prairie, however, find on our mountainous shore their true home. There is no rule about it. The thing goes deeper than like and dislike. It is the genius. To some the genius of a place is inimical; to some it is kind. Marcella Martin, who was a boarder with me at Mrs. Richards’ school, and older than I am, told me that she once went for a holiday with her parents to a valley in the high mountains of Oregon. The mountains ringed them closely round, Marcella said, rising abruptly from the near edge of their camping ground, treading on their toes by day and falling on their heads by night. Everyone but Marcella seemed to think this delightful. Marcella did not dare to confide to her parents that the claustrophobic effect of the mountains was driving her mad. Shebecame depressed and nervous, and when she heard that, the week before, a very nice young woman had been taken away “raving mad,” she knew perfectly well that the reason was not an unhappy love affair as was said, but that the immoderate mountains had done it. And she became very frightened. When she returned to Vancouver where the mountains are beautiful but moderate and are at a moderate distance, she became herself again and never had a recurrence of this disturbance. Of course, Marcella was an artist whose sensibility may have made her an easy prey to the rapacious god in that place.
My genius of place is a god of water. I have lived where two rivers flow together, and beside the brattling noise of China Creek which tumbles past our ranch house and turns our water wheel, and on the shore of the Pacific Ocean too – my home is there, and I shall go back. And so, when we came to England I was glad that we were to be beside the ocean. Mother’s godfather, old Mr. Trethewey, lived on the Cornish coast, and it was to his house set on the cliffs high above the windy Atlantic that we had a warm welcome.
When we landed, and all the fun of the days on board ship was behind us, I felt that nothing could ever be as good again. The thrills had gone to my head and I was a little above myself. In the train on the way to Cornwall I was moody and homesick for the ship’s friendships which had grown with tropical speed and were all scattered now. The future was bleak or perhaps mouldy – an old gentleman, a grown-up man, a very young girl, and an unknown boarding-school. Mother looked out of the window, reviving memories of green England. I looked too, and half the time I did not see England at all. It
A letter written in a large and simple hand reached me a few weeks later. It came from Bath and had been sent to me at Lytton to be forwarded. It read:
“Dear Frankie,
“Thank you –
“Hetty Connot.”
So now Hetty was Lady Connot. Mother and I felt that we were never likely to see her again but that still we should say nothing because you never can tell. For, as we told each other, we might, by way of being entertaining, relate the story of Hetty Dorval as it had concerned us, with all its damaging inferences, to someone who might turn out to be General Connot’s sister-in-law, or niece, or friend, unawares, and thereby cause more trouble than we should care for or could undo.
Mother had at last admitted to me that a very ugly story had followed Hetty from Shanghai to Vancouver and so to Lytton. But she did not know the actual truth of it.
NINE
T he genius loci is an incalculable godling whose presence is felt by many people but certainly not by all. Many experience his presence but who knows his name and all his attributes? I have heard that some people who live on our Canadian prairie and are therefore used to flat spaces and far horizons, cannot for long endure even the medium-sized mountains of the Pacific coast. Others from the same prairie, however, find on our mountainous shore their true home. There is no rule about it. The thing goes deeper than like and dislike. It is the genius. To some the genius of a place is inimical; to some it is kind. Marcella Martin, who was a boarder with me at Mrs. Richards’ school, and older than I am, told me that she once went for a holiday with her parents to a valley in the high mountains of Oregon. The mountains ringed them closely round, Marcella said, rising abruptly from the near edge of their camping ground, treading on their toes by day and falling on their heads by night. Everyone but Marcella seemed to think this delightful. Marcella did not dare to confide to her parents that the claustrophobic effect of the mountains was driving her mad. Shebecame depressed and nervous, and when she heard that, the week before, a very nice young woman had been taken away “raving mad,” she knew perfectly well that the reason was not an unhappy love affair as was said, but that the immoderate mountains had done it. And she became very frightened. When she returned to Vancouver where the mountains are beautiful but moderate and are at a moderate distance, she became herself again and never had a recurrence of this disturbance. Of course, Marcella was an artist whose sensibility may have made her an easy prey to the rapacious god in that place.
My genius of place is a god of water. I have lived where two rivers flow together, and beside the brattling noise of China Creek which tumbles past our ranch house and turns our water wheel, and on the shore of the Pacific Ocean too – my home is there, and I shall go back. And so, when we came to England I was glad that we were to be beside the ocean. Mother’s godfather, old Mr. Trethewey, lived on the Cornish coast, and it was to his house set on the cliffs high above the windy Atlantic that we had a warm welcome.
When we landed, and all the fun of the days on board ship was behind us, I felt that nothing could ever be as good again. The thrills had gone to my head and I was a little above myself. In the train on the way to Cornwall I was moody and homesick for the ship’s friendships which had grown with tropical speed and were all scattered now. The future was bleak or perhaps mouldy – an old gentleman, a grown-up man, a very young girl, and an unknown boarding-school. Mother looked out of the window, reviving memories of green England. I looked too, and half the time I did not see England at all. It