This passage is excerpted from J.D. Beresford, The Looking Glass. Originally published in 1921.
This was the first communication that had come from her
aunt in Rachel’s lifetime.
“I think your aunt has forgiven me at last,” her father said as
he passed the letter across the table.
Rachel looked first at the signature. It seemed strange to see
her own name there. It was as if her individuality, her very
identity, was impugned by the fact that there should be two
Rachel Deanes. Moreover there was a likeness between her
aunt’s autograph and her own, a characteristic turn in the
looping of the letters, a hint of the same decisiveness and
precision. If Rachel had been educated fifty years earlier, she
might have written her name in just that manner.
“You’re very like her in some ways,” her father said, as she
still stared at the signature.
Rachel’s eyelids drooped and her expression indicated a
faint, suppressed intolerance of her father’s remark. He said the
same things so often, and in so precisely the same tone, that she
had formed a habit of automatically rejecting the truth of
certain of his statements. He had always appeared to her as
senile. He had been over fifty when she was born, and ever
since she could remember she had doubted the correctness of
his information. She was, she had often told herself, “a born
sceptic; an ultra-modern.” She had a certain veneration for the
more distant past, but none for her father’s period. She had long
since condemned alike the ethic and the aesthetic of the
nineteenth century as represented by her father’s opinions; so
that, even now, when his familiar comment coincided so
queerly with her own thought, she instinctively disbelieved
him. Yet, as always, she was gentle in her answer. She
condescended from the heights of her youth and vigour to pity
him.
“I should think you must almost have forgotten what Aunt
Rachel was like, dear,” she said. “How many years is it since
you’ve seen her?”
“More than forty,” her father said, ruminating profoundly.
“We disagreed, we invariably disagreed. Rachel always prided
herself on being so modern. She read Darwin and things like
that. Altogether beyond me, I admit. Still, it seems to me that
the old truths have endured, and will, in spite of all--in spite of
all.”
Rachel straightened her shoulders and lifted her head; there
was disdain in her face, but none in her voice as she replied:
“And so it seems that she wants to see me.”
She was excited at the thought of meeting this traditional,
almost mythical aunt whom she had so often heard about.
Sometimes she had wondered if the personality of this
remarkable relative had not been a figment of her father’s
imagination, long pondered, and reconstructed out of half-
forgotten material. But this letter of hers that now lay on the
breakfast table was admirable in character. There was
something of condescension and intolerance expressed in the
very restraint of its tone. She had written a kindly letter, but the
kindliness had an air of pity. It was all consistent enough with
what her father had told her.
Mr. Deane came out of his reminiscences with a sigh.
“Yes, yes; she wants to see you, my dear,” he said. “I think
you had better accept this invitation to stay with her. She is
rich, almost wealthy; and I, as you know, have practically
nothing to leave you—practically nothing. If she took a fancy
to you...”
He sighed again, and Rachel knew that for the hundredth
time he was regretting his own past weakness. He had been so
foolish in money matters, frittering away his once considerable
capital in aimless speculations.
“I’ll certainly go, if you can spare me for a whole fortnight,”
Rachel said. “I’m all curiosity to see this remarkable aunt. By
the way, how old is she?”
“There were only fifteen months between us,” Mr. Deane
said, “so she must be,—dear me, yes;—she must be seventy-
three. Dear, dear. Fancy Rachel being seventy-three! I always
think of her as being about your age. It seems so absurd to
think of her as old….”
He continued his reflections, but Rachel was not listening.
He was asking for the understanding of the young; quite
unaware of his senility, reaching out over half a century to try
to touch the comprehension and sympathy of his daughter. But
she was already bent on her own adventure, looking forward
eagerly to a visit to London that promised delights other than
the inspection of the mysterious, traditional aunt whom she had
so long known by report.
This was the first communication that had come from her
aunt in Rachel’s lifetime.
“I think your aunt has forgiven me at last,” her father said as
he passed the letter across the table.
Rachel looked first at the signature. It seemed strange to see
her own name there. It was as if her individuality, her very
identity, was impugned by the fact that there should be two
Rachel Deanes. Moreover there was a likeness between her
aunt’s autograph and her own, a characteristic turn in the
looping of the letters, a hint of the same decisiveness and
precision. If Rachel had been educated fifty years earlier, she
might have written her name in just that manner.
“You’re very like her in some ways,” her father said, as she
still stared at the signature.
Rachel’s eyelids drooped and her expression indicated a
faint, suppressed intolerance of her father’s remark. He said the
same things so often, and in so precisely the same tone, that she
had formed a habit of automatically rejecting the truth of
certain of his statements. He had always appeared to her as
senile. He had been over fifty when she was born, and ever
since she could remember she had doubted the correctness of
his information. She was, she had often told herself, “a born
sceptic; an ultra-modern.” She had a certain veneration for the
more distant past, but none for her father’s period. She had long
since condemned alike the ethic and the aesthetic of the
nineteenth century as represented by her father’s opinions; so
that, even now, when his familiar comment coincided so
queerly with her own thought, she instinctively disbelieved
him. Yet, as always, she was gentle in her answer. She
condescended from the heights of her youth and vigour to pity
him.
“I should think you must almost have forgotten what Aunt
Rachel was like, dear,” she said. “How many years is it since
you’ve seen her?”
“More than forty,” her father said, ruminating profoundly.
“We disagreed, we invariably disagreed. Rachel always prided
herself on being so modern. She read Darwin and things like
that. Altogether beyond me, I admit. Still, it seems to me that
the old truths have endured, and will, in spite of all--in spite of
all.”
Rachel straightened her shoulders and lifted her head; there
was disdain in her face, but none in her voice as she replied:
“And so it seems that she wants to see me.”
She was excited at the thought of meeting this traditional,
almost mythical aunt whom she had so often heard about.
Sometimes she had wondered if the personality of this
remarkable relative had not been a figment of her father’s
imagination, long pondered, and reconstructed out of half-
forgotten material. But this letter of hers that now lay on the
breakfast table was admirable in character. There was
something of condescension and intolerance expressed in the
very restraint of its tone. She had written a kindly letter, but the
kindliness had an air of pity. It was all consistent enough with
what her father had told her.
Mr. Deane came out of his reminiscences with a sigh.
“Yes, yes; she wants to see you, my dear,” he said. “I think
you had better accept this invitation to stay with her. She is
rich, almost wealthy; and I, as you know, have practically
nothing to leave you—practically nothing. If she took a fancy
to you...”
He sighed again, and Rachel knew that for the hundredth
time he was regretting his own past weakness. He had been so
foolish in money matters, frittering away his once considerable
capital in aimless speculations.
“I’ll certainly go, if you can spare me for a whole fortnight,”
Rachel said. “I’m all curiosity to see this remarkable aunt. By
the way, how old is she?”
“There were only fifteen months between us,” Mr. Deane
said, “so she must be,—dear me, yes;—she must be seventy-
three. Dear, dear. Fancy Rachel being seventy-three! I always
think of her as being about your age. It seems so absurd to
think of her as old….”
He continued his reflections, but Rachel was not listening.
He was asking for the understanding of the young; quite
unaware of his senility, reaching out over half a century to try
to touch the comprehension and sympathy of his daughter. But
she was already bent on her own adventure, looking forward
eagerly to a visit to London that promised delights other than
the inspection of the mysterious, traditional aunt whom she had
so long known by report.