THE FLOUR IN THE CAKE
"Put on the least becoming dress you have got, Westenra," said mother.
"And what is that?" I asked, pausing with my hand on the handle of
mother's door.
"Well," said my mother, considering, "it is a little difficult, for
all your dresses are perfectly sweet; but I think if there is one that
suits you rather less than another it is that cloudy blue with the
silver gauze over it."
"O mother! that is a great deal too dressy," I exclaimed.
"Well, there is the pale primrose."
"Too dressy again."
"One of your many white dresses--but then you look exquisite in white,
darling."
"You had better leave it to me, mother," I said. "I promise to make
myself look as plain and uninteresting and unpretentious as possible."
And then I shut the door quickly and left her.
The stepping down had been exciting, but the first firm footfall on
our new _terra firma_ was more exciting still. The boarders and I were
to meet at dinner. For the first time I was to be known to the world
as Miss Wickham, who kept a boarding-house in company with her mother
and a certain Miss Jane Mullins. It was not a high position according
to that set in which I was born. But never mind. Just because my
father had won the Victoria Cross would his daughter think nothing
degrading which meant an honourable and honest livelihood. So I
hastily donned a black net dress which was not too fashionable, and
without any ornament whatsoever, not even a string of pearls round my
neck, ran downstairs. But the dress was low and the sleeves were
short, and I could not keep the crimson of excitement out of my
cheeks, nor the fire of excitement out of my eyes. I ran into the
drawing-room, exclaiming "Mother! mother!" and forgot for the moment
that the drawing-room no longer belonged to mother and me, but was the
property of our paying guests, and our house was no longer ours.
Mrs. and Miss Armstrong were standing near the hearth. Mrs. Armstrong
was a thin, meagre little woman, of about forty years of age. Country
was written all over her--provincial country. She had faded hair and a
faded complexion, and at times, and when not greatly excited, a faded
manner. When she was thinking of herself she was painfully affected;
when she was not thinking of herself she was hopelessly vulgar. Her
daughter was a downright buxom young person, who quite held her own.
Neither Mrs. nor Miss Armstrong were in evening dress, and they stared
with amazement and indignation at me. Miss Armstrong's cheeks became
flushed with an ugly red, but I tripped up to them just as if there
were no such thing as dress in the world, and held out my hand.
"How do you do?" I said. "I am glad to see you. Won't you both sit
down? I hope you have found everything comfortable in your room."
Then, as Mrs. Armstrong still stared at me, her eyes growing big with
amazement, I said in a low voice--
"My name is Wickham. I am one of the owners of this house."
"Oh, Miss Wickham," said Mrs. Armstrong, and there was a perceptible
tone of relief in her voice. It did not matter how stylish Miss
Wickham looked, she was still only Miss Wickham, a person of no
importance whatsoever.
"Come here, Marion," said Mrs. Armstrong, relapsing at once into her
commonest manner. "You must not sit too near the fire, for you will
get your nose red, and that is not becoming."
Marion, however, drew nearer to the fire, and did not take the least
notice of her mother's remark.
"So you keep this boarding-house," said Mrs. Armstrong, turning to me
again. "Well, I am surprised. Do you mind my making a blunt remark?"
I did not answer, but I looked quietly back at her. I think something
in my steady gaze disquieted her, for she uttered a nervous laugh, and
then said abruptly--
"You don't look the thing, you know. You're one of the most stylish
young ladies I have ever seen. Isn't she, Marion?"
"She is indeed," answered Miss Marion. "I thought she was a duchess at
least when she came into the room."
"Come over here, Marion, and don't stare into the flames," was Mrs.
Armstrong's next remark. "I didn't know," she added, "we were coming
to a place of this kind. It is very gratifying to me. I suppose the
bulk of the guests here will be quite up to your standard, Miss
Wickham?"
"I hope so," I replied. I was spared any more of my new boarders'
intolerable remarks, for at that moment Mrs. and Captain Furlong
appeared. He was a gentleman, and she was a lady. She was an everyday
sort of little body to look at, but had the kindest heart in the
world. She was neither young nor old, neither handsome nor the
reverse. She was just like thousands of other women, but there was a
rest and peace about her very refreshing. She was dressed suitably,
and her husband wore semi-evening dress.
I went up to them, talked a little, and showed them some of the most
comfortable chairs in the room. We chatted on everyday matters, and
then mother appeared. Dear, dear mother! Had I done right to put her
in this position? She looked nervous, and yet she looked stately as I
had never seen her look before. I introduced her not only to the
Furlongs, who knew instinctively how to treat her, but also to Mrs.
and Miss Armstrong, and then to a Mr. and Mrs. Cousins who appeared,
and the three Miss Frosts, and some other people, who were all taking
possession of us and our house. Oh, it was confusing on that first
night. I could scarcely bear it myself. I had never guessed that the
very boarders would look down on us, that just because we were ladies
they would consider our position an equivocal one, and treat us
accordingly. I hoped that by-and-by it might be all right, but now I
knew that mother and I were passing through the most trying period of
this undertaking. Some of our guests were people of refinement, who
would know how to act and what to do under any circumstances, and some
again were of the Armstrong type, who would be pushing and
disagreeable wherever they went. Marion Armstrong, in particular,
intended to make her presence felt. She had a short conversation with
her mother, and then pushed her way across the room to where my own
mother sat, and stood before her and began to talk in a loud, brusque,
penetrating voice.
"I have not been introduced to you, Madam; my name is Marion
Armstrong. I have come up to London to study Art. I was rather taken
aback when I saw you. You and Miss Wickham are the people who are our
landladies, so to speak, and you are so different from most landladies
that mother and I feel a little confused about it. Oh, thank you; you
wish to know if we are comfortable. We are fairly so, all things
considered; we don't _mind_ our attic room, but it's likely we'll have
to say a few words to your housekeeper--Miss Mullins, I think you call
her--in the morning. You doubtless, Madam, do not care to interfere
with the more sordid part of your duties."
At that moment, and before my really angry mother could answer, the
door was opened, and there entered Jane Mullins in her usual sensible,
downright silken gown, and a tall man. I glanced at him for a puzzled
moment, feeling sure that I had seen him before, and yet not being
quite certain. He had good features, was above the medium height, had
a quiet manner and a sort of distant bearing which would make it
impossible for any one to take liberties with him.
Miss Mullins brought him straight across the room to mother and
introduced him. I caught the name, Randolph. Mother bowed, and so did
he, and then he stood close to her, talking very quietly, but so
effectively, that Miss Armstrong, after staring for a moment, had to
vanish nonplussed into a distant corner of the drawing-room. I saw by
the way that young lady's eyes blazed that she was now intensely
excited. Mother and I had startled and confused her a good deal, and
Mr. Randolph finished the dazzling impression her new home was giving
her. Certainly she had not expected to see a person of his type here.
She admired him, I saw at a glance, immensely, and now stood near her
own mother, shaking her head now and then in an ominous manner, and
whispering audibly.
Suddenly Jane, who was here, there, and everywhere, whisked sharply
round.
"Don't you know Mr. Randolph, Miss Wickham?" she said.
I shook my head. She took my hand and brought me up to mother's side.
"Mr. Randolph," she said, "this is our youngest hostess, Miss Westenra
Wickham."
Mr. Randolph bowed, said something in a cold, courteous tone, scarcely
glanced at me, and then resumed his conversation with mother.