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AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA
by
LESLIE MOORE
Author of "The Cloak of Convention" and
"The Notch in the Stick"
Hodder & Stoughton
New York
George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1913
by George H. Doran Company
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE 11
II. ANCIENT HISTORY 19
III. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS 28
IV. THE COURTYARD 40
V. IN BOHEMIA 51
VI. THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN 58
VII. THE SIX ARTISTS OF THE COURTYARD 63
VIII. A MAN'S CONSCIENCE 71
IX. VISITORS 85
X. THE CASA DI CORLEONE 93
XI. A MEETING 104
XII. PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES 118
XIII. AT THE WORLD'S END 136
XIV. VARIOUS MATTERS 150
XV. A QUESTION OF COLOUR 161
XVI. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS AGAIN 168
XVII. THE DUCHESSA ENTERS A KINGDOM 176
XVIII. BARNABAS SCHEMES WITH CUPID 181
XIX. THE INTERFERENCE OF A FAIRY GODMOTHER 188
XX. THE HEART OF NATURE 204
XXI. THE RING OF EROS 212
XXII. AN OLD MAN IN A GARDEN 218
XXIII. ANDREW MCANDREW 233
XXIV. THE CRUELTY OF THE FATES 238
XXV. IN YORKSHIRE 250
XXVI. PIPPA'S MOTHER 259
XXVII. MICHAEL MAKES MUSIC 279
XXVIII. THE PEACE OF THE RIVER 284
XXIX. SOME TWISTED THREADS 287
XXX. KNOTS UNTIED 292
XXXI. THE TUNE OF LOVE 299
XXXII. A WEDDING DAY 304
XXXIII. A GIFT FROM THE DEAD 308
XXXIV. THE MUSIC OF TWO COURTYARDS 313
AUNT OLIVE IN
BOHEMIA
CHAPTER I
THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE
Once upon a time, as the fairy tales have it, there was a certain
country town. It was a sleepy little town, where few things happened.
It was like a dog grown old and lazy with basking in the sun,
undisturbed by motor-cars and modern rush. An occasional event like
a fly, and as small and insignificant as that insect, would settle
momentarily upon it. For an instant it would be roused, shake itself,
and promptly go to sleep again.
The houses in the town were all alike--small, detached, and built of
red brick. They were named after the shrubs and trees that grew in
their gardens. There was the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, the Laurels, the
Yews, the Poplars, and many others.
One May morning, when the flowers on the laburnum trees were hanging
in a shower of golden rain, and the pink and white blossoms of the
hawthorn bushes were filling the air with a sweet and sickly scent,
a single cab, drawn by a horse as sleepy as the town to which it
belonged, drove up the small, clean street, and turned in at the gate
marked the Poplars.
Two small children with satchels on their backs paused to peep up the
drive. They saw two black boxes being hoisted by the driver on to the
roof of the cab. There was nothing, one would think, of vital interest
in the sight, but it proved more attractive than the thought of lesson
books and school-room benches. They remained to gaze.
In a couple of moments a woman came through the front door. She was
clad in a black cashmere dress of ample folds, partly hidden by a
blade satin jacket, with large, loose sleeves. A wide, white linen
collar adorned with a small black velvet bow surrounded her neck; a
mushroom-shaped hat, also black, was tied by broad strings beneath her
chin. In one hand she held a large and tightly rolled umbrella, in the
other was a black satin bag drawn up by a cord. It bulged in a knobby
fashion. It had evidently been stuffed to the extent of its capacities.
The woman spoke to the driver, then got into the cab. He climbed to the
box, flicked his whip, turned the horse's head, and drove once again
through the gate.
The children scuttled to one side, and the cab drove up the street.
Its occupant sat upright within it, clutching tightly at the umbrella
and the black satin bag. Little thrills of happiness were running
through her. The May wind blowing through the window fanned her face,
bringing with it great puffs of scent from the hawthorn bushes.
Sunshine sparkled on the roofs of the houses, birds were singing in the
gardens past which she drove. It was a day alive with gladness, warm
with the breath of spring, fresh with the sense of youth. And the woman
within the cab, whose heart, in spite of her sixty years, was as young
as the heart of a child, participated in the gladness.
She watched the people in the streets walking leisurely in the
sunshine. She saw the shops with the tradesmen standing idle in the
doorways. At the fishmonger's only there was a little air of bustle,
where a maid in a neat print had run in to buy a couple of soles for
lunch.
The woman pulled out her watch--a huge affair in solid gold, attached
to a black hair chain. For a moment she glanced at it anxiously, then
returned it to its place with a little sigh of relief. The horse still
trotted on its slow unhurried way. More shops were passed, then more
houses. Finally the cab drew up with a little jerk.
The driver got down and opened the cab door.
"Here we are, ma'am; and twenty minutes to spare. I'll call a porter."
While the boxes were being taken from the cab Miss Mason opened the
black satin bag. From it she extracted a ten-shilling piece.
The boxes were wheeled towards the platform.
"I've no change, ma'am," said the cabby.
"That's all right," said Miss Mason hurriedly.
The cabby stared. "You're very good, ma'am."
"It's all right," said Miss Mason again.
Ten shillings was a small amount to give a man who had driven her a
mile towards happiness. She followed the porter on to the platform.
"Victoria, second class," she said to the man at the ticket office.
"Return or single, ma'am?" he demanded.
"Single," said Miss Mason firmly.
She took the little piece of cardboard from him and thrust it up her
glove. She loved the feeling of it. It was her passport to freedom.
She watched the boxes being labelled. They were new boxes and hitherto
guiltless of station labels. When she had seen them firmly attached,
and had been solemnly assured by the porter that the paste was both
strong and adhesive, she turned her attention to the bookstall. After
a few moments' survey she moved away hurriedly. The pictures on the
covers of some of the books distressed her, especially one of a young
female with red hair and very insufficient orange attire. For a moment
Miss Mason blushed. But she forgot the objectionable book in looking
along the shiny rails in the direction from which the train must arrive.
The sudden ringing of a bell made her jump.
"Train's signalled, ma'am," said the porter. "She'll be here in five
minutes now."
"You'll be sure and put in my boxes," said Miss Mason.
"Sure, ma'am. Corner seat facing the engine, did you say?"
"Y-yes; a seat somewhere," stammered Miss Mason. The near approach of
the train was making her feel nervous.
"All right. I'll see to it. Second class I think you said."
There was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast,
and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up
slowly at the platform.
"Here y'are, ma'am. Carriage all to yourself. Boxes will be in the
front part of the train. Thank you kindly, ma'am. Anything I can get
for you? Paper or anything? Window up or down? Will put in the boxes
myself. Good morning, ma'am."
A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had paid the cabby was
responsible for this burst of eloquence.
In spite of the porter's assurance that he would see to the boxes
himself, Miss Mason stood with her head through the carriage window
till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard's van. Then she
sat down in the corner of the carriage.
The porter reappeared.
"They're in, ma'am. You're off now."
There was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform
began to recede. The one woman left on it--a stout woman who had been
seeing her daughter off on her way to service--waved a large white
pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering was the last thing Miss Mason saw
as the train left the station.
She heaved a little sigh.
She found she was still clutching the large umbrella. She laid it now
upon the seat beside her. She was almost too excited to think of the
happiness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It was almost too
overpowering. She would realize it by degrees. At the moment there were
a thousand trivial delights around her.
She examined the carriage in which she was seated. The number on the
door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a secret
partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. She was
seven years old when she had her first silk frock. It was a blue and
white check frock, and her hair--Miss Mason at that time wore it in
two plaits--had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up
to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon.
At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope's
library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At
forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. At
fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers.
Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed
landmarks in Miss Mason's.
She again looked approvingly at the number. From it she turned to a
contemplation of the photographs which adorned the walls. They were
the usual kind of photographs found in railway carriages--seaside
promenades, ruined castles, lakes with mountains beyond. Miss Mason
read the names below them with interest. She looked at the gas-globe
in the roof of the carriage, with its black cover which could be drawn
over it if the passengers found the light troublesome. She looked at
the emergency cord which was to be pulled down to attract the attention
of the guard in case of accident. She noted that the penalty for its
improper use was five pounds. It seemed to Miss Mason a large sum to
pay merely for pulling a little piece of string. She wondered if anyone
had ever been bold enough to pull it without necessity.
After gazing at it for two minutes with a certain amount of awe, she
put her arm through the padded loop by the window, and looked out at
the scenery past which they were flying.
There were fields in which sheep and cows were solemnly munching the
fresh grass; there were hedges covered with the fairy snow of the
hawthorn blossoms; there were woods of larches, oaks, and beeches,
and among them the darker green of firs; there were streams rippling
golden-brown past meadow banks and clumps of rushes; there were
children swinging on gates and waving cap or handkerchief as the train
rushed by. She saw market carts and occasionally a dogcart on roads
running by the railway, and now and then a solitary cyclist, all going
at a snail's pace so it seemed compared with the rate at which she
herself was travelling. They passed houses with trimly-kept gardens
alive with flowers; cottages with strips of vegetable gardens where
from lines attached to posts stuck among the cabbages washing was hung
out to dry. The May breeze swung the clothing to and fro, ballooning
it momentarily to ridiculous shapes, fluttering red petticoats, white
tablecloths, and blue blouses, like the waving of coloured flags.
Again the joyous note of youth and gladness sounded in Miss Mason's
heart. She gave a queer little gruff laugh.
"Wonderful!" she thought. "Like the fairy tales I used to read when I
was little. Now I'm part of the fairy tale. Can hardly believe it. Yet
it's true."