THE GREAT INVASION
It is strange but true that my future lot was profoundly affected by
the microbe of influenza. Influenza accomplishes various evils; this
obnoxious germ carries weakness, depression and death, but it is rare
to find it a medium that launches a young woman into the great wide
world.
An excursion to London every January was one of the hard-and-fast
rules of “The Roost”; about the middle of the month, when Christmas
festivities had waned, the professor and his niece journeyed together
to a boarding-house in Bayswater, and there enjoyed--each in their
own way--a fortnight of the Metropolis. She, in attending sales and
classical concerts, looking up old friends and going to “teas” arrayed
in her best clothes. He, in personally worrying managers and dramatic
agents, patronising theatres, telephoning incessantly, and giving
expensive entertainments to needy professionals, who fed his insatiable
vanity with enormous helpings of the sweetest flattery, and sent him
back to his dull old den with a swollen head and a somewhat empty
pocket.
Just before this half-yearly expedition, when rooms had been engaged,
luggage packed, and our arrival formally notified, Lizzie suddenly
collapsed under a violent attack of “flu.” As her temperature was
found to be 103, a journey was out of the question. The doctor who
was summoned ordered bed and nursing, and declared the ailment to be
of a particularly virulent type. Lizzie, painfully distressed and
apologetic, endeavoured to assert herself and talked of “being all
right in a couple of days,” but when the doctor uttered the word
“pneumonia” she succumbed.
At first the attitude of the professor was sympathetic, then by degrees
he became silent, sullen, and finally morose; as vexed at his postponed
holidays as any spoilt child.
“But I thought you hated London,” I said, not sorry to tease him a
little. “You have always said you were so thankful to live outside the
noise and clamour of the world.”
My remarks irritated the professor to such a degree that I believe he
could have thrown a book at me had one been handy, but they had merely
the effect of inflaming his passion for the great city with its vast
opportunities.
“Why not let him go alone?” I suggested to the invalid. “He says the
rooms will have to be paid for, and he is miserable about all the
important appointments he is missing. If you could look out of the
window, you would see him raging up and down the garden.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Lizzie impatiently, “he always does that when
he’s put out. Somehow I am reluctant to let Uncle Sep out of my sight,
especially in London; he does crazy, impulsive things and is so easily
talked into follies, such as spending and lending, and I act as a sort
of brake; then those chattering elderly women at Number 20 make no
end of him and imply that he is quite a lady-killer and irresistibly
attractive. Poor Uncle Sep never was either; clever enough, but not
very wise, especially since he slipped on a banana and fell on the back
of his head. You say he is dull and disappointed?”
“‘Dull and disappointed’ but feebly conveys the case! He is like Kipper
when he sees me with my hat on, frantic to go out. He ate no dinner
last night.”
“Then, indeed, he is in a bad way! Well, ask him to saturate himself
with eucalyptus, and to come and talk it all over with me after lunch.”
The result of this talk was the departure of the professor the very
next morning. He made an almost imposing figure in his London clothes,
tall hat, frock coat, neat umbrella, and modern boots. As I escorted
him to the little gate he remarked:
“Well, Evie, _this_ time I shall do something with the managers. I have
a presentiment that I shall bring back a huge success.”
“Only it’s so cold I’d throw my shoe after you,” I replied, “but I wish
you the best of luck.”
Without any further remark, or even the formality of a farewell,
he climbed into the creaking fly and was presently lumbering away.
Lizzie’s illness lasted longer than we anticipated; she kept her room
for nearly three weeks; meanwhile, village and parochial business was
more or less dislocated. Mr. Chesterfield the rector called daily and
sent flowers, newspapers, and notes, but never approached the infected
premises nearer than a hundred yards.
At last the ruler of “The Roost” crawled downstairs, a weak and
shattered remnant of her keen and energetic self. However, the “sofa,”
and “feeding up” were duly prescribed, with excellent results. Letters
from the professor--once so copious--had lately degenerated into
picture postcards, and these chiefly conveyed bulletins of the weather.
He had been absent nearly a month, and to me this was a happy relief.
Lizzie was now convalescent, and once more managing Beke with her
accustomed capability.
One afternoon we were returning from a long and muddy walk, when a boy
darted out of the post office, and handed her a telegram. It came from
Uncle Sep, and said, “Arrive to-night, send fly to the seven; have good
fires and dinner.”
“What a funny telegram!” she exclaimed handing it to me; “as if we
don’t always have fires and a good dinner. As it happens, there is
a goose to-night. I will tell Eliza to make a roly-poly and Welsh
rarebit--Uncle Sep loves them--and also to put a big fire in his
bedroom. I expect he’s had a play accepted, and wishes to commemorate
his return with a feast.”
It was nearly eight o’clock when I heard the fly stop at the front
gate. I had been listening expectantly; even the return of the
tiresome professor made a change in my monotonous existence. He would
bring, if not news, at least some illustrated papers. I went into the
hall and looked out; it was a cold, dark night, with drifting showers
of sleet; nevertheless, I stood bravely at the open door, whilst
Clarice, with the skirt of her dress flung over her head, pattered down
to the cab. The professor descended heavily backwards, and instead of
as usual hurrying indoors, he turned about, apparently in order to
assist another to alight--a woman! In a second I divined the truth.
Uncle Sep had brought home a wife!
Naturally a desperate moral coward, he had shrunk from announcing
the marriage to his niece, and left it to the bride to break the
intelligence in person. I dashed into the dining-room, where Lizzie was
deliberately lighting candles on the mantelpiece, and gasped out:
“Your uncle has brought someone back with him--I think it is Mrs.
Bickers!”
Lizzie turned about, and stood staring at me stupidly, her mouth half
open--a lighted taper in her unconscious hand. I remembered Mrs.
Bickers at the boarding-house, a plump widow of fifty with a strongly
corseted figure, black eyes like boot buttons, a high colour, and a
long chin.
Yes, I was right, it _was_ Mrs. Bickers! Already she was standing in
the doorway, clad in a black waterproof and an aggressive-looking hat
covered with pointed wings. The cowardly professor pushed her into the
room before him, saying in a loud, would-be jovial voice:
“Hallo, Liz, I have brought you a present from London. Here is your new
aunt and old friend, Mrs. Bickers--now Mrs. Puckle. We were married ten
days ago!”
The announcement was succeeded by a prolonged and dramatic silence. For
my part, my nerves were throbbing with excitement, and it may appear
callous and hard-hearted, but personally I felt as if I were witnessing
a powerful scene in some play. The atmosphere seemed to be charged with
animosity and fear; fear being well represented by Uncle Sep, who was
breathing audibly in quick short gasps; animosity had sprung to arms
within the eyes of the two ladies.
“My dear Lizzie,” said Mrs. Puckle; then suddenly advancing upon her
and seizing her unawares she attacked her with a vigorous embrace.
“Well, Uncle,” said Lizzie, releasing herself as vigorously, and
straightening her back; “you _have_ indeed given us a surprise!”
I knew that Lizzie was furious, wild with indignation and
consternation, but years of governessing had taught her extraordinary
self-control.
“Yes, my dear, life is full of surprises,” said the professor, to whom
things seemed to be going unexpectedly well. “I hope there is a good
fire in my room,” he added bumptiously. “Jessie,” to the bride, “you
will like to take your things off, and we will have dinner at once.”
“All right,” she answered obediently. “Dear me, how warm and cosy it
all looks!” and the bride’s quick eyes travelled round the room, and
noted the solid mahogany furniture, the massive table appointments, and
the whole appearance of unostentatious comfort. On her way towards the
door she halted and addressed herself particularly to Lizzie.
“Your uncle and I were always friendly you remember, and a fortnight’s
propinquity was too much for us both!”
“Was it really?” rejoined Lizzie, speaking with set lips, and a bright
red spot on either cheek.
“Yes,” replied the bride, “we have so much in common, and are both old
enough to know our own minds.” And then she turned her broad back on
her new niece, and passed into the hall.
“This I suppose is the drawing-room?” And the bride threw open the door
and stood in a “monarch of all I survey” attitude on the threshold.
Within, it looked black and aggressively forbidding; it was as if the
spirit of the old house distrusted this stranger.
“Oh dear me, what a horrible smell of damp and dry rot! I shall have a
fire in here every day.”
Having made this announcement, Mrs. Puckle closed the door with
emphasis, and mounted the stairs.
The landing was already piled with luggage--bags, baskets, battered
cardboard boxes, and shabby trunks. Lizzie conducted her supplanter to
her quarters with exaggerated ceremony--even dissembling her feelings
so far as to get out fresh towels and the best scented soap--and having
been told to order dinner to be ready in ten minutes’ time, she flew
down to me.
As the craven and base professor was a refugee in his den, Lizzie and I
had the dining-room to ourselves.
“So for once he _did_ mind telling!” I began.
“Eva, how can you joke?” she interrupted indignantly; “I was wrong to
let him go alone, but influenza makes one such a worm, not only weak in
body but in mind, otherwise I never would have consented to this trip
to London--a most fatal excursion for him. Mrs. Bickers is the worst,
most catty, and pushing of all the widows. I believe she is penniless
and has just flattered herself into this comfortable home.” Then to
Clarice who had entered gaping, “Clarice, your master was married ten
days ago; let Eliza know.”
“Eliza, she do know,” was the prompt reply. “She says the master be
daft!”
A stealthy rustle on the stairs interrupted Clarice, who hurried out,
only to return almost immediately with the soup tureen and evidently
prepared to enjoy a good leisurely stare at the stranger--a sleek,
complacent matron, wearing a pink satin blouse and a large lace collar,
fastened by a new-looking diamond brooch.
Seating herself at the head of the table and seizing the soup ladle,
Mrs. Puckle said:
“I’ll just sit here, Lizzie dear, I know you won’t mind, and begin to
take over at once--it saves trouble.”
Lizzie’s answer was a bow as she placed herself opposite to me; the
professor now appeared and, with assumed geniality, announced that he
was “starving.”
I noticed that his appearance was considerably improved. He wore a
glossy white shirt, his hair and beard had been trimmed--also his nails.
“Well, Lizzie,” he began, blinking his eyelids--sure sign of
nervousness--“I thought I’d do something to get out of the rut. Beke
is such a stick-in-the-mud sort of place, eh? I suppose _this_ is the
surprise of your life?”
“Well, Uncle, I confess it is--so far----”
“‘Happy the wooing that’s not long a doing,’ and you know we had no one
to consult. We shall all shake down together, eh? The more the merrier.
It’s a fine big house. I remember hearing that old Elias Puckle, who
lived here eighty years ago, had a family of fifteen children!”
“How many bedrooms?” inquired the bride in her brusquest manner.
“About eight,” I replied, now thrusting myself into the conversation,
as Lizzie seemed to be temporarily dumb. “Not counting the servants’
rooms, garrets, and cellars.”
“You are not thinking of taking P.G.’s?” put in the professor jocosely.
“No, no, darling, of course not.”
To hear the professor addressed as “darling” was altogether too
much for my gravity. I choked, and then stooped for an imaginary
handkerchief to hide my smiles.
“Have you done anything about your plays?” I asked as soon as I had
recovered my usual composure.
“Oh yes, I have everything in capital train now; the missis there has
interest, she has relations on the boards. We expect great things from
‘The Termagant,’ don’t we, ducky?”
“Of course we do; it will be an enormous success,” she answered,
speaking as it were in capital letters. “Recognition has been a long
time in coming to the dear professor, has it not?”
As she spoke, Mrs. Puckle fastened her eyes on me; undoubtedly she had
heard of “the readings.”
“Most geniuses have had the same painful experiences. Shakespeare, by
all accounts, had little honour in his own day, and think of poor dear
Chatterton! It’s my belief--and I know what I’m talking about--that the
professor’s plays will be acclaimed by packed houses yet--his name and
fame will be world-wide.”
As Mrs. Puckle’s manner was distinctly challenging, I meekly murmured:
“I hope so, I’m sure.”
The lady now proceeded to criticise, dissect, and destroy the
reputations of the leading dramatic authors of the day. She talked
ceaselessly; evidently she was talking for talking’s sake, in order to
counteract Lizzie’s gloomy silence.
After the professor had swallowed a second strong tumbler of whisky and
water, he ventured to draw his niece into the conversation; under the
circumstances her composure was extraordinary. I sat amazed, as she
unfolded parish happenings and domestic news, as if totally unconscious
that a stranger had suddenly descended on her home and usurped her
position. Meanwhile, I observed the new aunt carefully examining the
forks and spoons and turning them about to discover the hall-mark.
Satisfied that they were mostly old Georgian silver, she proceeded to
cross-examine me.
“So you live at ‘The Roost’ altogether, Miss Lingard?”
“For the present--yes.”
“And are you _really_ related to the Lingards of Torrington?” she
inquired condescendingly.
“Yes, Mr. Lingard is my uncle.”
“And Miss Lingard who is to marry Sir Beaufort Finsbury is your cousin?”
I nodded assent.
“Torrington Park is quite a large place, is it not?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “it is rather large.”
“How many servants do they keep?”
“I really do not know.”
“Doesn’t it seem rather a pity that you cannot live with your own
relations?”
This was a nasty one for me, and for the moment I could not think of
any effective reply.
“And you,” firing a shot at Lizzie, “were the governess at
Torrington--nursery, or otherwise?”
To this impertinent question there was no rejoinder.
By this time the goose, pudding, savoury and cheese had been disposed
of, and having dined satisfactorily, and figuratively shown her teeth,
Mrs. Puckle made a move. Addressing the professor, she said:
“As I am rather tired, darling, I’ll go up early and unpack. Don’t be
long, and don’t smoke more than one pipe.”
“All right, ducky,” he assented, then rising with remarkable agility
and pushing back his chair, he retired to the security afforded by his
den. It amused me to see how desperately he was afraid of being left
alone with us; possibly he was troubled by an uneasy conscience.
As soon as the happy pair had departed, Lizzie rang the bell for
Clarice, but for once the bell was answered by Eliza, who came to
inform us that “Clarice was upstairs with the mistress, unpacking her
boxes.” Having made this announcement she began to collect the dinner
things as if she bore them a vicious personal spite. Eliza, like
Lizzie, was in moments of emotional stress a woman of few words, and
whilst she crashed crockery Lizzie was busy scribbling a note at the
bureau, which, when finished and folded, she handed to our retainer and
said:
“Just run over with this to the rectory, Eliza; there is no answer.”
“And how would I run that am bent in two with the rheumatics?” demanded
Eliza in a querulous tone. “One run I’ll make, and it’s out of this
house--I know the class of that one, so I do.”
“That is enough, Eliza,” said Lizzie with dignity. “Come, Eva, there is
a good fire in my room.”
As soon as I was seated in a comfortable easy chair I flung out my arms
and exclaimed: “What a dinner! I declare there was a smell of gunpowder
in the air! Tell me, Liz, what you are going to do? I know you have
some plan--I see it in your eye.”
“We leave here to-morrow,” she announced with curt decision.
“Oh! Not really?”
“Yes,” she proceeded, “to stay at the rectory as a sort of
_pied-à-terre_. I made up my mind about everything before that woman
had been in the house five minutes. You shall go to Torrington.”
“No, no, Lizzie,” I protested, “anywhere but Torrington. Do you know
it is a fact, that when I was last there I used to lie awake at night
for _hours_ hating Aunt Mina? Besides, they won’t have me,” I concluded
triumphantly.
“But they must,” she answered, with an air of serene resolution. “I no
longer have a suitable home to offer you. I intend to move up to London
and take a small flat.”
“And leave Mrs. Puckle monarch of all she surveys?”
“By no means,” deliberately turning up her skirt and placing a pair of
neat black velvet shoes upon the fender. “Uncle Sep has misled her.
She believes that the house and money are exclusively his, and is not
aware that the half of everything belongs to me. I shall consult my
solicitor, value, remove and store my portion of the furniture, let
half ‘The Roost,’ and take my share of _all_--yes, to the ultimate egg
spoon!”
“Will you?” I ejaculated. “What fun!”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Puckle will not see the humour of the situation,
but find herself bitterly disappointed. With our united incomes,
and your hundred a year, Uncle Sep and I were almost rich. Now he
will be obliged to economise. I am sorry for Uncle Sep. I have
always understood that Mrs. Puckle, who was penniless, contrived to
make herself so agreeable to Mrs. Williams at Number 20 that she
kept her on as useful help, advertiser and toady! I believe she has
two ne’er-do-well sons and a married daughter, and no doubt will
accommodate them all at ‘The Roost.’ Poor Uncle!”
To which adjuration I added a fervent “Amen.”
“I shall be sorry to part with you, dear child,” continued Lizzie, “but
you are sensible for your age and have your wits about you, and it is
time you put out from the shore; your aunt cannot refuse a harbour,
and, with a favouring breeze, I believe your little skiff will go far.
As for me, I shall have my freedom; I have saved, and in London I shall
breathe freely among people of my own tastes. Well, we can do the rest
of our talking at the rectory, for now I must pack. I intend to make
an early flitting. Jones will cart over our boxes in the wheelbarrow,
and, as I have a great deal to gather and sort, I expect to be up all
night. You, my dear child, have only your clothes and books, so it
will not be a long business, but go and set about it at once, and good
night.”
The next morning we found ourselves comfortably installed at the
rectory, Lizzie encompassed with the results of many trips by
wheelbarrow; and here, when her flight was discovered, she received the
visit and onslaught of her aunt and uncle. But they found the fugitive
firmly entrenched behind facts and will power; no alluring invitations
would induce her to return to “The Roost” and “go shares.” She was
excessively polite but immovable, and her visitors were compelled to
retreat in obvious confusion--the professor dazed and pallid, his bride
on the contrary with a beetroot complexion, and seething over with
suppressed passion.
Soon after their departure the dog Kipper arrived; formally dispatched
in charge of the gardener, accompanied by his luggage so to
speak--bowl, basket, coat and lead; to intimate that he was absolutely
expelled from “The Roost.”
And now the question arose, what was to be done with him? The
rector--most selfish of men--flatly refused him a home, declaring that
he was too old for a dog, and that his personal cat was elderly and a
fixture. It was clear that Lizzie could not have Kipper in her flat on
possibly a fifth floor, although there _was_ a legend that, once upon a
time, a lady had maintained a duck in similar quarters!
“You shall take him, Evie,” she announced, with an air of cool
decision. “He was always your friend, and in a big place like
Torrington one dog more or less will never be noticed.”
“But I am confident that Aunt Mina won’t have me,” I protested, “much
less the dog.”
“Oh yes she will,” rejoined Lizzie with conviction; “I know your aunt.
I ought to, after living under her roof for eight years. Whatever her
feelings are she studies appearances, and now that Dora is going to be
married there will be room for you in the landau.”
My aunt’s invitation was somewhat tardy. Before its arrival I made many
farewell calls and spent a whole day with the Soadys, where I received
(in confidence) the news of Tossie’s engagement to Fred Block. She
had made up her mind at last! I was much interested, so also was the
village, in beholding great vans loading up in front of “The Roost,”
and subsequently carrying away Lizzie’s share of the furniture. I also
observed a large painted board, stoutly planted in the front garden,
on which was announced “The Half of this House to be Let, Eight Good
Rooms. Apply at the Post Office.” The vans and the advertisement gave
our little community plenty of topics for discussion.
Ultimately the “Beetle” fly transported Lizzie and myself to the
junction station, and the curtain fell on Beke.