IN AUNT MINA’S SHOES
In the creaking, rumbling fly conversation had been somewhat difficult,
but when in a smooth-running first-class carriage--which luckily we had
to ourselves--Lizzie and I enjoyed at last a heart-to-heart talk. My
aunt’s letter, so tardy in making its appearance, had been cordial and
even affectionate. She no longer addressed me as if I were a naughty
child, but a full-grown human being, and even an intelligent member of
society! I drew her epistle from my hand bag and glanced over it once
more.
It was written from Claridge’s Hotel, and said:
“MY DEAR EVA,--Do excuse my delay in writing to you with respect to
your future plans, but I have been so busy, and so _rushed_, I’ve
had scarcely a moment to myself. I have heard from Lizzie of her
uncle’s most _disgraceful_ and _insane_ behaviour; how she has been
driven out of her comfortable home by a penniless adventuress. Silly,
irresponsible old men such as the professor, should, in my opinion,
be placed under proper restraint. As ‘The Roost’ is closed you will,
of course, come to us and be one of the family--at least, for a
time. Lizzie has reminded me that you are nearly twenty, and it is
certainly desirable that you should come out and be presented, but
somehow you have always seemed younger than your age. Girls shoot up
so quickly and one forgets how years fly.
“Professor Puckle’s aberration happens at a most awkward moment. You
have heard from Dora of her engagement to Sir Beaumont Finsbury? We
are all _so_ pleased. He is quite charming, and has a lovely place
in Sussex. A widower with one son, and that is the worst that can
be said of him! The girls and myself are now in town getting the
trousseau, making arrangements for the wedding, and have such hundreds
of engagements, and so much to do, that I am afraid we shall not be
at Torrington for another fortnight. However, your uncle is at home,
and you and he will have to entertain one another. Unfortunately it
is the dull time of the year (being Lent), but I dare say you will
find a steady animal to ride, and you can always go and see dearest
Mrs. Paget-Taylor, she is so cheery and sociable. The wedding will
take place at Torrington early in April, and of course you will be one
of the bridemaids. Post me a pattern, and I will order your dress at
once. Your cousins send their love,
“Your affectionate aunt,
“WILHELMINA LINGARD.”
“P.S.--I hope you have good news from Ronnie?”
“Quite a nice letter,” remarked Lizzie, as she watched me folding it
up. I noticed that her colour had increased, and her eyes, like her
uncle’s, were blinking--invariably a sign that she had something
unpleasant to disclose. She gave a little cough, and said, “Now that
all is so amicably arranged, I feel that I am bound to tell you that at
first your aunt was anxious that you and I should not part company.”
I met her glance steadily and said:
“Then I presume that was the subject of all those letters and sheets of
telegrams?”
“It was,” admitted Lizzie; “she wished you to share the flat, and urged
that we were so accustomed to one another, and so attached, etc. But I
absolutely declined, and said that the time had come when you should
take your place in society. In short, my dear, I refused to be a party
to shutting you up in a flat with a middle-aged person like myself--you
must have your place in the sun.”
“Do you think I shall enjoy a place in the sun at Torrington?” I asked
sarcastically.
With my mind’s eye I read the whole correspondence between Aunt Mina
and my companion. My aunt’s urgent desire to foist me upon Lizzie
Puckle; Lizzie’s equally firm determination to establish me with my
aunt. Possibly--nay probably--she had been offered a handsome bribe;
but both the bribe and I had been declined. No doubt Lizzie had acted
in what she believed to be my best interests, but the result left me
rather sore. Apparently I was wanted neither at Torrington nor in the
flat!
“Well, at least a few gleams must fall on you when Dora has become the
Lady Finsbury; you will fill the gap in the family! Your aunt will no
doubt move heaven and earth to transfer you to a home of your own.
Perhaps you will be disposed of next season, and I hope----”
Here I broke in angrily,
“If Aunt Mina attempts to make a match for me I warn you that I shall
run away. I can always find a home with the Soadys.”
“My dear Eva, you shall never arrive at that strait! Should you find
Torrington unbearable you must come and live with me. I shall take a
flat with a spare bedroom, and that will be, if the worst comes to the
worst, your haven of refuge. But I can’t help thinking that you will
settle down comfortably at Torrington; you are a grown-up young woman
now and must be treated as such; and for your part you will no longer
give way to screaming fits of passion, or to biting saucers! You must
be sure to write to me often, and tell me all your joys and sorrows.
And remember, my dear child, that in any trouble or difficulty you may
always look to _me_.”
At a great junction sixty miles from London I was obliged to change,
and as we steamed into the station, with a few words, many kisses and
two or three tears, I took leave of Lizzie. Here our life’s pathway
also parted; she, to lead at last a free existence, and I, to enter
once more my aunt’s house of bondage.
I was met at our local station by a brougham and a luggage cart, and
was soon bowling along the frosty country road. Torrington had splendid
iron gates, flanked by imposing lodges. The avenue was long, and,
so to speak, made the most of itself! About a quarter of a mile from
the entrance the house came into view, but I felt no glow of joyful
recognition; in spite of a park, delightful gardens and clipped yew
hedges, I had little affection for the home of my ancestors. With its
blank white façade it gave me the impression of some ghastly sinister
face, peering out from among the surrounding woods.
The modern Torrington consisted of a vast domed entrance hall with
suites of cold lofty rooms to right and left. To the rear was the old
Tudor building and chapel; here were narrow dark passages, unexpected
steps and low ceilings. It was in this part of the house that I had
previously had my quarters; it was also in this region that the family
ghost was reported to reside.
On my arrival I was ceremoniously received by Baker, the butler. Baker
had been many years at Torrington and was a most trustworthy retainer.
There was a legend that _he_ was the butler who, when master said,
“This champagne is corked,” breathed in his ear, “Never mind, sir,
it’ll do for the ladies!”
Baker, who had grown portly with years, and had known me as a child,
was rather inclined to be paternal in his manner. He had witnessed my
fits of fury and been privy to my terms of punishment and disgrace.
After a word or two of greeting, he added:
“We have put you in the pink room, Miss Eva.”
“Yes, Baker, I am beyond the nursery now, am I not?” I said as I stood
beside him in the hall and looked over his head, now bald and shiny.
“That’s true, miss, a grown-up young lady. I should say you’d shot up a
couple of inches since you were here last. Tea is laid in the library.
I expect the squire will be in directly.”
A pause of horror as he noticed Kip.
“I say, Miss Eva, this will never do; what about the dog?”
“Oh, the dog will be all right,” I replied in my most offhand style,
“and no trouble to anyone.”
Baker gave a dubious cough and said:
“You know Mrs. Lingard don’t allow visiting dogs. I can’t see how we
shall manage.”
I made no reply, but turned to ascend to my room. Baker accompanied me,
still muttering to himself and shaking his head. More than once he had
carried me, kicking and screaming, up these very stairs! On the first
landing I was met and taken charge of by a smart maid, who ushered
me into one of the second best rooms--a pretty apartment, facing
south--and asked me for my keys. I endeavoured diplomatically and with
some success to interest her with respect to Kip, released my best hat
from durance vile, bathed my face, got into a new blouse, and hurried
down to meet my uncle in the library. He had just returned from hunting
and brought with him a bracing whiff of keen fresh air and new leather.
For a moment he stared at me, as if I were an utter stranger, then
exclaimed:
“Hallo, Evie! I scarcely knew you! Glad to see you!” kissing me on the
cheek. “It’s ages since you were here. How is that, eh?”
Impossible to tell him the bare naked truth, so I replied, “Don’t you
remember, the doctors thought this place too relaxing for me. But now I
am perfectly well.”
“Eh, that’s good news! Now come along and pour out tea and give me a
big cup. Your aunt and the girls are detained in London with all these
wedding bothers. She sent me Miss Puckle’s letter, that told all about
that blithering old fool her uncle. Rather a smash up for Miss Puckle
and you! Still it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I am very
glad to have you here. I say, where did that dog come from?” as Kipper
trotted in with the footman, escort to poached eggs and hot buttered
toast.
“He was Miss Puckle’s property,” I explained, “and she gave him to me;
he really is a very good fellow.” (Yes, the days of slipper-eating were
no more!)
“I’m afraid your aunt won’t stand him!” said my uncle, looking
unexpectedly grave. “You see she keeps griffons herself--she has them
with her now--and these fox-terriers are the devil for fighting, and
besides that he is bound to disturb the game. However, I suppose he can
stay till she comes back, and then maybe we shall be able to find him a
good home.”
Uncle was a handsome dapper little man, with clean-cut features and a
remarkably neat figure. Ronnie resembled him, and uncle reminded me of
Ronnie in some ways. He and I, being _tête à tête_, got on famously:
we went for long walks about the place, over the Home farm and round
the coverts. Our tastes agreed; we both liked the country. We visited
the gardens, the stables, and once or twice I rode to a meet in one of
my cousin’s habits--which was a decidedly easy fit. After dinner we
played piquet and talked politics; in short, we became great friends.
Uncle imparted to me in confidence that he was not much in favour of
the brilliant match. Finsbury was a fellow of his own age and something
of a _vieux marcheur_. I think--as he smoked an excellent cigar by
the fire in the library--uncle forgot that his listener was only a
girl, and talked to me as freely as one man to another. “Finsbury’s
lawyer had been very stiff over the settlements.” I also gathered that
“Bev was terribly wild and extravagant, but could do no wrong in his
mother’s eyes.”
“By Jove, she even jokes at his bills! There is nothing of the Lingard
in him, not like Ronnie, who is a Lingard to the bone. I sometimes feel
as if he were my own son. I am proud of Ronnie. As for you, my dear,”
and he patted my arm affectionately, “you must make yourself at home
here, now and always.”
“I should like to, uncle, if I may.”
“What is to hinder you?” he inquired.
I knew, but I could not tell him. Possibly he guessed, for he added:
“You know your aunt is a good sort, if you take her the right way.
Having pots of money in her own hands is a handicap for any woman”--he
heaved a tell-tale sigh, then pulled himself up and said, “Now come
along, and let us play piquet.”
It was rather startling to find myself temporary mistress of this
great household, to enter rooms I had never seen, to examine things
I had never ventured to touch, to play on the grand Steinway piano
undisturbed for hours, to give orders, to ring bells, and to sit at
the head of the table in the place sacred to my masterful relative.
Once I ventured to open the door of her boudoir, and went in on tiptoe,
but I did not remain long; the whole room seemed to be imbued with the
personality of its mistress.
On hunting days I was alone. Uncle breakfasted, booted and spurred,
fussed off to some distant meet, and rarely reappeared before five or
six o’clock. I occupied my spare hours in reading, practising, and
writing letters--seated at Aunt Mina’s bureau in the morning room, and
using the best paper headed “Torrington Park.” As the family were known
to be from home, there were no visitors except the rector, and the wife
of uncle’s agent, Mrs. Paget-Taylor, who had made a delightful home for
herself in the old Dower House across the park.
* * * * *
It was an ideal hunting day, damp and cloudy. In the afternoon, Kipper
and I, who had been for a long tramp through the bare wet woods, sat
together on a big buffalo rug before the fire in the library. I think
I must have been dozing, when I heard the door open and a sonorous
voice announce:
“Captain Falkland.”
I sprang to my feet, and so did Kipper. Captain Falkland looked
astonished as he advanced, then halted and said:
“The butler told me I would find Miss Lingard here.”
“Miss Eva Lingard,” I corrected. “My aunt and cousins are in London.
Uncle is out hunting, but he may be in at any moment.”
“Ah, I doubt that,” said the visitor. “The hounds met at Grantley, and
it is a capital scenting day; if they find, he will have a long ride
home.”
“Won’t you sit down?” I said, pointing to a chair near the fire.
“It’s odd,” he remarked, looking at me as he seated himself, “but I
have never seen you here, and I have often been over for shoots. My
people are only ten miles away.”
“That is easily explained,” I replied, “most of my time has been spent
at school, and since I left Cheltenham I have been living with my old
governess at Beke. At least”--correcting myself--“she is not _very_
old, but she was with my cousins here for a long time.”
“But Beke--why Beke? What a dismal hole! I have been there to buy
tobacco, and rank bad stuff it was!”
“They say Beke is healthy, and the doctors thought Torrington didn’t
suit me.”
“But surely you are all right now?” he remarked briskly. “I’ve come
over to say good-bye, as I’m off to India on Friday. I am sorry to miss
the squire, but, on the other hand, am awfully glad to find _you_ here.
You have been such a most distracting puzzle to me.”
“A puzzle,” I echoed, as I rang for tea and lights. “Why?”
“Why did you go to that beanfeast at Mirfield? You must allow that it
was surprising to see a girl of your class among that crowd.”
“I went to that dance just to break the deadly monotony of Beke. I
worried Lizzie--that is to say, Miss Puckle--I made her life such a
burden that she gave me leave to go for once. It was to be a dead
secret, and I never dreamt that anyone I met there would ever see me
again.”
“I say, what a crew!” he exclaimed, “That fellow with the red tie and
yellow boots, and the one in the white sweater!”
“Yes, they were unconventional, I admit, but good kind souls, and I was
not in the least ashamed of being in their society. I enjoyed myself
immensely--my first ball!”
“Your first ball!” he repeated scornfully. “Well, you had a festive
time going home in that shandrydan, I should say!”
As I did not wish to pursue the subject, I asked:
“Do you take sugar?”
“If you please; and so I see you have brought your dog?”
“Yes, but only for a short stay. Dogs are not admitted here. I must
find him a home somewhere. They won’t have him at the rectory, and the
gamekeeper says no, too--though he admires Kip.”
“So Mrs. Lingard bars dogs?”
“All but her own griffons. And you are starting for India on Friday?
How I envy you! I wonder if you will be anywhere near my brother?”
“I am going to Secunderabad in the Deccan.”
“How extraordinary! That is where Ronnie is quartered.”
“Then he is in the Service?”
“Yes, the ‘Lighthearts,’ and has just got his company. He came to see
me last September, when he was home on leave. He was not favourably
impressed by Beke, and suggested my going to India as a paying guest
with nice people. There are only the two of us, and at least we should
be in the same country. He wrote to Uncle Horace on the subject, but
nothing happened.”
“The squire is your uncle?”
“Yes; my father was his only brother.”
Captain Falkland stared into his teacup, as if he saw something there
of engrossing interest, then raising his eyes to mine, he said:
“I see; and so you have been released from Beke, and have come to live
here? Are the Lingards your nearest relations?”
“My only ones, except Ronnie--and he is much more than a mere
relation.” I cannot imagine what folly possessed me, but I added, “He
is very popular here--but I am not.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed my companion with ready politeness, “How could
that be?”
“Oh, it’s a long story--much too long.”
“Do tell it to me,” he urged, “I shall wait for your uncle; there’s
nothing to do but talk this gloomy afternoon, and as you are deputy
hostess, I expect to be entertained!”
“But it’s merely a family prejudice,” I objected, “and not the least
amusing.”
“Your family and mine are old friends and even connections, so why not
share the little ‘jars’ with me?”
“Well, in that case you shall hear all there is to tell,” I replied.
(Alas! it never required much persuasion to encourage me to talk.)
“Ronnie and I arrived here as orphans, when he was ten and I was
four. Aunt Mina took to him at once, he has such a dear open face and
charming manners; but I--well, we had come from France--and I missed my
_bonne_. I loathed porridge and lots of things. I had been spoiled. I
gave way to furies, and there is a legend that in one of my rages I bit
a piece out of a saucer! In fact, I was always in disgrace, so I was
sent to school at Cheltenham, where Ronnie was at college, and we saw
one another every week. Then in the holidays I generally brought back
something--measles, chicken pox or mumps--so you won’t be surprised to
hear that I was left at school altogether, and only for missing Ronnie,
I much preferred it.”
“The family black lamb!” he ejaculated with a laugh, then added, “Is
that all?”
“Yes, my past career has been tame--and my future is uncertain.”
“It lies in the lap of the gods?” suggested Captain Falkland.
“No indeed, but in the hands of Aunt Wilhelmina. Uncle and I get on
together splendidly, but I don’t know how it will be when she returns.
You see my aunt has not seen me for two years, and she, I am afraid,
can only think of me as a detestable, ill-tempered, sickly child. My
fate, like that of Kipper, is trembling in the balance.”
“Kipper’s fate need no longer tremble,” declared Captain Falkland.
“With your permission, I will undertake his future.”
“Ah, but you are going to India?”
“Yes, and I shall be rather glad of a dog. They are great company,
and these fox-terriers are the only breed that really thrive in a hot
place, and I believe Secunderabad is fairly warm.”
“If you will really take Kipper,” I said, “I shall be most grateful,
and he will see an old friend out there--my brother. If Kip is
tiresome, you must pass him on.”
“I have never met your brother, as I am only recently appointed as
A.D.C. to the general, but I shall look him up, and carry him any
messages or parcels from you.”
“Tell him not to be so lazy about writing, and that you found me
happily established here.”
“But still, so to speak, ‘on approval?’”
“I suppose it amounts to that!” Then suddenly, overwhelmed with qualms
at my indiscreet outpourings, I added, “But please, Captain Falkland,
forget _everything_ I have told you. You know you made me talk, and I
am afraid I am only too ready to chatter, and let my tongue run away
with me.”
“There I envy you, for I can’t talk, or ever get out half I want to
say. When I was a boy I had a hesitation in my speech; it was cured,
but the memory has always tied my tongue. My family call me ‘Dummy.’ I
suppose Miss Puckle kept you in great order?”
“No indeed, she merely pointed out my faults.”
“And these are----”
“Having told you so much I may as well confess that I like to talk when
I get the chance. Since leaving school I have led rather a solitary
sort of life. Miss Puckle was busy all day in the parish, or flying
over the country on her bike. At night she was generally dead tired,
and would lie on the sofa while I played to her, and the professor was
buried in his books. Here, my uncle has been away since eight o’clock
this morning, and I have had no one to speak to except Baker the
butler, and of course we cannot advance beyond the weather, so when I
get hold of listeners, I don’t spare them!”
“But your faults?” he persisted.
“Talking too much--being unguarded and impulsive, proud, and they say,
hot-tempered! Turn about is fair play. What about your weaknesses?”
“Silence is best,” he answered with a laugh.
“And I have confessed everything! Just like me. Well, even so, it might
have been worse. As you are going to India we are not likely to meet
again, and you will soon forget my chatter and myself.”
“I have a tenacious memory, Miss Lingard. In fact, I may say, that I
am tenacious about most things and I shall not forget you. You never
expected to come across me after that night of the dance, when you were
so mysterious, and, may I add--so saucy? Yet here I am, and actually in
possession of your dog. I shall keep you posted up in his career. I may
write to you, may I not?”
“Write,” I ejaculated, my breath taken completely away, “I should like
to hear----” then I hesitated. “Of course I know that lots of girls
write to men--my cousins do--but I’ve never corresponded with anyone
but Ronnie; my aunt would ask questions, and wonder how I made your
acquaintance.”
“You made my acquaintance at Torrington. Our official acquaintance only
began to-day. I shall certainly drop you a line.”
“Oh no, no, please do not write,” I protested with energy. Then, aware
of the presence of a soft-footed manservant, who had entered to
remove the tea things, I broke off abruptly and hastily changed the
conversation. I believe Charles was deeply interested in our talk,
for he lingered over his task, and rearranged the saucers on the tray
with very deliberate exactitude. Just after he left the room a little
tinkling clock chimed six and my companion sprang to his feet.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “it is later than I thought! Awfully sorry
I can’t wait to see the squire; give him all sorts of messages for
me. Well,” stooping, “come along, Kip, say good-bye to your missis,”
suddenly raising the drowsy and astonished animal and holding him
towards me.
“Must he go now, so soon?” I faltered.
Captain Falkland nodded, and as I kissed Kipper between his eyes I
felt a great lump in my throat. I was parting with one of my very few
friends, but I instinctively realised that I had bestowed him on a kind
master.
With the struggling dog hoisted under his arm, his new owner wrung my
hand, and said,
“Good-bye, I promise to take jolly good care of Kip.” He paused as
if about to add something, then evidently changed his mind, hastily
opened the door, and went forth. For my part, I resisted an almost
overpowering impulse to follow him into the hall, but I was aware that
such a proceeding would be outrageously improper. What would Baker
think and say? As I stood half-hearted and uncertain in the middle of
the room, I heard a motor buzzing down the avenue. He was gone! Then I
went and sat on the rug before the fire, now entirely alone, and was
aware of a curious sense of personal desolation. I dared not trust my
heart to answer the question, which of the two I most regretted--the
man or the dog?
By and by uncle arrived in exuberant spirits, talking himself into
the library at the top of his clear, well-bred voice. It had been
as Captain Falkland predicted, “the run of the season.” I was not a
sportswoman, and I listened with politely assumed interest to a vivid
description of the desperate going over Hippersly, the amount of grief
that ensued, and the astonishing exploits of two hunters. At last,
after having blown off sufficient steam, he said:
“So I’m told Falkland has been here?”
“Yes, he came to say good-bye to you. He starts for India on Friday. He
waited ages.”
“What do you call ages?”
“Over an hour.”
After a pause of astonishment:
“You must have made yourself mighty agreeable, eh? Falkland hasn’t much
to say for himself. He is a rattling good sort and a keen soldier, but
not a ladies’ man.”
“On the contrary, he made himself very agreeable to _me_, for he has
taken Kipper off my hands.”
“What, the dog! Well, well, that’s all right! He would be a bit of a
nuisance when your aunt came home. I hope he won’t get into trouble
with Lady Louisa’s prize cats.”
“Oh, there is no fear of that,” I answered eagerly, “for Captain
Falkland is taking Kip with him to India.”
Uncle stared at me, and gave a loud whistle.
“I say, Eva, keep that dark! If your aunt were to hear of this
dog-giving, and taking, she’d--anyway, there’d be wigs on the green!”