FRIENDS OR QUONDAM FRIENDS
Mother used to say that there were times when her daughter Westenra
swept her right off her feet.
"I can no more resist you," she used to remark on these occasions,
"than if you were a great flood bearing me along."
Perhaps never did mother find my power so strong, so determined as on
the present occasion. It was in vain for her, poor darling, to speak
of our friends, of those dear, nice, good people who had loved father
and for his sake were good to his widow. I had my answer ready.
"It is just this, mother," I said, "what we do will cause a
gleaning--a sifting--amongst our friends. Those who are worth keeping
will stay with us, those who are not worth keeping will leave us. And
now do you know what I mean to do? I mean this morning, with your
leave, to order the carriage, the carriage which we must put down at
the end of the week, but which we can certainly keep for the next
couple of days, and go round to our friends and tell them what we are
about to do."
"You must go alone then, Westenra, for I cannot go with you."
"Just as you please, mother. I would rather you had the courage; but
still, never mind, darling, I will do it by myself."
Mother looked at me in despair.
"How old are you?" she said suddenly.
"You know quite well," I replied, "I was twenty-one a month ago."
Mother shook her head sadly.
"If you really intend to carry out this awful idea, West, you must
consider youth a thing of the past," she said.
I smiled and patted her cheek.
"Nothing of the sort," I answered; "I mean to be young and vigorous
and buoyant and hopeful as long as I have you with me, so there! Now,
may I ring the bell and tell Paul to desire Jenkins to bring the
victoria round at eleven o'clock?"
Mother could not refuse, and having executed this order I sat down
with considerable appetite to breakfast. I was really enjoying myself
vastly.
Punctual to the hour, I stepped into our pretty carriage. First of all
I would visit my dear old godmother, the Duchess of Wilmot.
Accordingly, early as it was, I told Jenkins to drive me to the
Duchess's house in Park Lane. When we drew up at the house I jumped
out, ran up the steps and sounded the bell. The man who opened the
door informed me that her Grace was at home to no one at so early an
hour.
I thought for a moment, then I scribbled something on a little piece
of paper.
"Dear Duchess," I said, "I want to see you particularly, the
matter is very urgent.--Your god-daughter,
WESTENRA WICKHAM."
This I twisted up and gave to the man.
"Give that to her Grace, I will wait to see if there is an answer," I
said.
He came down in a moment or two.
"Her Grace will see you, Miss Wickham," he said.
I entered the house, and following the footman up some winding stairs
and down some corridors, I was shown into the small boudoir where the
Duchess generally sat in the morning. She was fully dressed, and
busily writing notes.
"That will do, Hartop," she said to the man; "close the door, please.
Now then, Westenra, what is the meaning of this? What eccentric whim
has induced you to visit me at so early an hour?"
"I wanted to tell you something," I said; "mother is awfully
distressed, but I thought you had better know."
"How queer you look, my child, and yet I seldom saw you brighter or
handsomer. Take off your hat and sit near me. No, I am not specially
busy. Is it about the Russells' reception? Oh, I can take you if your
mother is not strong enough. You want to consult me over your dress?
Oh, my dear Westenra, you must wear----"
"It has nothing to do with that," I interrupted. "Please let me speak.
I want to say something so badly. I want to consult you."
"Of course," said her Grace.
She laid her jewelled hand on my arm. How I loved that white hand! How
I adored my beautiful old friend! It would be painful to give her up.
Was she going to give me up?
"I will tell you something quite frankly," I said. "I love you very
much; you have always been kind to me."
"I am your godmother, don't forget."
"A great trouble has come to us."
"A great trouble, my dear, what do you mean?"
"Mother thinks it a fearful trouble, and I suppose it is, but anyhow
there are two ways of taking it. There is the sinking-down way, which
means getting small and poor and thin, anaemic, in short, and there is
the bold way, the sort of way when you stand up to a thing, you know
what I mean."
"You are talking school-boy language. My grandson Ralph would
understand you; he is here; do you want to see him? I am a little too
busy for riddles, Westenra."
"Oh! I do beg your pardon. I know I am taking a great liberty: no one
else would come to you at so early an hour."
"Well, speak, my dear."
"We have lost our money."
"Lost your money!" cried the Duchess.
"Yes; everything, or nearly everything. It was through some bad
investments, and mother was not at all to blame. But we have nothing
left, or nearly nothing--I mean we have a hundred and fifty a-year,
about the price of one of your dresses."
"Don't be personal, Westenra--proceed."
"Mother wants to live in a cottage in the country."
"I do not see how she could possibly do it," said the Duchess. "A
cottage in the country! Why, on that pittance she could scarcely
afford a workman's cottage, but I will speak to my friends; something
must be arranged immediately. Your dear, lovely, fragile mother! We
must get her a suite of apartments at Hampton Court. Oh! my poor
child, this is terrible."
"But we do not choose to consider it terrible," I replied, "nor will
we be beholden to the charity of our friends. Now, here is the gist of
the matter. I have urged mother to take a house in Bloomsbury."
"Bloomsbury?" said the Duchess a little vaguely.
"Oh, please Duchess, you must know. Bloomsbury is a very nice, healthy
part of the town. There are big Squares and big houses; the British
Museum is there--now, you know."
"Oh, of course, that dreary pile, and you would live close to it. But
why, why? Is it a very cheap neighbourhood?"
"By no means; but city men find it convenient, and women who work for
their living like it also, and country folks who come to town for a
short time find it a good centre. So we mean to go there, and--and
make money. We will take our furniture and make the house attractive
and--and take paying guests. We will keep a boarding-house. Now you
know."
I stood up. There was a wild excited feeling all over me. The most
daring flight of imagination could never associate the gracious
Duchess of Wilmot with a lodging-house keeper, and mother had always
hitherto been the Duchess's equal. I had never before felt _distrait_
or nervous in the Duchess's presence, but now I knew that there was a
gulf between us--that I stood on one side of the gulf and the Duchess
on the other. I stretched out my hands imploringly.
"I know you will never speak to me again, you never can, it is not to
be thought of. This is good-bye, for we must do it. I see you
understand. Mother said that it would part us from our friends, and I
thought she was wrong, but I see now that she was right. This is
good-bye."
Before she could prevent me I dropped on my knees and raised the
jewelled hand to my lips, and kissed it passionately.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Westenra," said the Duchess then, "don't go
into hysterics, nor talk in that wild way. Sit down again quietly,
dear, and tell me what sort of person is a boarding-house keeper."
Her tone made me smile, and relieved the tension.
"Don't you really know?" I asked; "did you never hear of people who
take paying guests? They swarm at the seaside, and charge exorbitant
prices."
"Oh, and rob you right and left," said the Duchess; "yes, my friends
have told me of such places. As a rule I go to hotels by preference,
but do you mean, Westenra, that your mother is going to live in
apartments for the future?"
"No, no," I answered wildly; "she will have a house, and she and I,
both of us, will fill it with what they call paying guests. People
will come and live with us, and pay us so much a week, and we will
provide rooms for them, and food for them, and they will sit with us
in the drawing-room and, and--_perhaps_ we will have to amuse them a
little."
The Duchess sank feebly back in her chair. She looked me all over.
"Was there ever?" she asked, "I scarcely like to ask, but was there
ever any trace of insanity in your family?"
"I have never heard that there was," I replied. "It is certainly not
developing in me. I have always been renowned for my common sense, and
it is coming well to the fore now."
"My poor child," said the Duchess tenderly. She drew me close to her.
"You are a very ignorant little girl, Westenra," she said, "but I have
always taken a deep interest in you. You are young, but you have a
good deal in your face--you are not exactly pretty, but you have both
intelligence and, what is more important from my point of view,
distinction in your bearing. Your father was my dear and personal
friend. The man he rescued, at the cost of his own life, was my
relation. I have known your mother too since we were both girls, and
when she asked me, after your dear father's death, to stand sponsor to
his child I could not refuse. But now, what confused rigmarole are you
bringing to my ears? When did the first symptoms of this extraordinary
craze begin?"
"A fortnight ago," I answered, "when the news came that our money, on
which we had been living in great peace and comfort, had suddenly
vanished. The investments were not sound, and one of the trustees was
responsible. You ought to blame him, and be very angry with him, but
please don't blame me. I am only doing the best I can under most
adverse circumstances. If mother and I went to the country we should
both die, not, perhaps, of physical starvation, but certainly of that
starvation which contracts both the mind and soul. It would not matter
at all doing without cream and meat, you know, and----"
"Oh dear," interrupted the Duchess, "I never felt more bewildered in
my life. Whatever goes wrong, Westenra, people have to live, and now
you speak of doing without the necessaries of life."
"Meat and cream are not necessary to keep one alive," I replied; "but
of course you have never known the sort of people who do without them.
I should certainly be hand and glove with them if I went into the
country, but in all probability in the boarding-house in Bloomsbury we
shall be able to have good meals. Now I must really say good-bye. Try
and remember sometimes that I am your god-daughter ... and that mother
loves you very much. Don't _quite_ give us both up--that is, as far as
your memory is concerned."
The Duchess bustled to her feet. "I can't make you out a bit," she
said. "Your head has gone wrong, that is the long and short of it, but
your mother will explain things. Stay to lunch with me, Westenra, and
afterwards we will go and have a talk with your mother. I can either
send her a telegram or a note."
"Oh, I cannot possibly wait," I replied. "I drove here to-day, but we
must give up the carriage at the end of the week, and I have other
people to see. I must go immediately to Lady Thesiger. You know what
a dear little Yankee she is, and so wise and sensible."
"She is a pretty woman," said the Duchess, frowning slightly, "but she
does not dress well. Her clothes don't look as if they grew on her.
Now you have a very lissom figure, dear; it always seems to be alive,
but _have_ I heard you aright? You are going to live in apartments.
No; you are going into the country to a labourer's cottage--no, no, it
isn't that; you are going to let apartments to people, and they are
not to have either cream or meat. They won't stay long, that is one
comfort. My poor child, we must get you over this craze. Dr. Paget
shall see you. It is impossible that such a mad scheme should be
allowed for a moment."
"One thing is certain, she does not take it in, poor darling," I said
to myself. "You are very kind, Duchess," I said aloud, "and I love you
better than I ever loved you before," and then I kissed her hand again
and ran out of the room. The last thing I saw of her round,
good-humoured face, was the pallor on her cheeks and the tears in her
eyes.
Lady Thesiger lived in a large flat overlooking Kensington Gardens.
She was not up when I called, but I boldly sent my name in; I was told
that her ladyship would see me in her bathroom. I found her reclining
on a low sofa, while a pretty girl was massaging her face.
"Is that you, Westenra?" she said; "I am charmed to see you. Take off
your hat. That will do, Allison; you can come back in half-an-hour. I
want to be dressed in time for lunch."
The young woman withdrew, and Lady Thesiger fixed her languid,
heavily-fringed eyes on my face.
"You might shut that window, Westenra," she said, "that is, if you
mean to be good-natured. Now what is it? you look quite excited."
"I am out of bondage, that is all," I said. I never treated Jasmine
with respect, and she was a power in her way, but she was little older
than I, and we had often romped together on rainy days, and had
confided our secrets one to the other.
"Out of bondage? Does that mean that you are engaged?"
"Far from it; an engagement would probably be a state of bondage. Now
listen, you are going to be awfully shocked, but if you are the good
soul I think you are, you ought to help me."
"Oh, I am sure I will do anything; I admire you very much, child. Dear
me, Westenra, is that a new way of doing your hair? Let me see. Show
me your profile? I am not sure whether I quite like it. Yes, on the
whole, I think I do. You have pretty hair, very pretty, but now,
confess the truth, you do wave it; all those little curls and tendrils
are not natural."
"As I love you, Jasmine, they are," I replied. "But oh, don't waste
time now over my personal appearance. What do you think of my physical
strength? Am I well made?"
"So-so," answered Lady Thesiger, opening her big dark eyes and gazing
at me from top to toe. "I should say you were strong. Your shoulders
are just a trifle too broad, and sometimes I think you are a little
too tall, but of course I admire you immensely. You ought to make a
good marriage; you ought to be a power in society."
"From this hour, Jasmine," I said, "society and I are at daggers
drawn. I am going to do that sort of thing which society never
forgives."
"Oh, my dear, what?" Lady Thesiger quite roused herself. She forgot
her languid attitude, and sat up on her elbow. "Do pass me that box of
Fuller's chocolates," she said. "Come near and help yourself; they are
delicious, aren't they?"
I took one of the sweetmeats.
"Now then," said her ladyship, "speak."
"It is this. I must tell you as briefly as possible--mother and I have
lost our money."
"Oh, dear," said the little lady, "what a pity that so many people do
lose their money--nice people, charming people who want it so much;
but if that is all, it is rather fashionable to be poor. I was told so
the other day. Some one will adopt you, dear; your mother will go into
one of the refined order of almshouses. It is quite the fashion, you
know, quite."
"Don't talk nonsense," I said, and all the pride which I had inherited
from my father came into my voice. "You may think that mother and I
are low down, but we are not low enough to accept charity. We are
going to put our shoulders to the wheel; we are going to solve the
problem of how the poor live. We will work, for to beg we are ashamed.
In short, Jasmine, this diatribe of mine leads up to the fact that we
are going to start a boarding-house. Now you have the truth, Jasmine.
We expect to have charming people to live with us, and to keep a large
luxurious house, and to retrieve our lost fortune. Our quondam friends
will of course have nothing to do with us, but our real friends will
respect us. I have come here this morning to ask you a solemn
question. Do you mean in the future to consider Westenra Wickham, the
owner of a boarding-house, your friend? If not, say so at once. I want
in this case to cut the Gordian knot quickly. Every single friend I
have shall be told of mother's and my determination before long; the
Duchess knows already."
"The Duchess of Wilmot?" said Lady Thesiger with a sort of gasp. She
was sitting up on the sofa; there was a flush on each cheek, and her
eyes were very bright. "And what did the Duchess say, Westenra?"
"She thinks I am mad."
"I agree with her. My poor child. Do let me feel your forehead. Are
you feverish? Is it influenza, or a real attack of insanity?"
"It is an attack of downright common-sense," I replied. I rose as I
spoke. "I have told you, Jasmine," I said, "and now I will leave you
to ponder over my tidings. You can be my friend in the future and help
me considerably, or you can cut me, just as you please. As to me, I
feel intensely pleased and excited. I never felt so full of go and
energy in my life. I am going to do that which will prevent mother
feeling the pinch of poverty, and I can tell you that such a deed is
worth hundreds of 'At Homes' and receptions and flirtations. Why,
Jasmine, yesterday I was nobody--only a London girl trying to kill
time by wasting money; but from this out I am somebody. I am a
bread-winner, a labourer in the market. Now, good-bye. You will
realise the truth of my words presently. But I won't kiss you, for if
you decide to cut me you might be ashamed of it."