THE VILLA.
Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs.
Martin's eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her
first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated
Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her
comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated
these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much
attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike
herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them.
Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd's Bush
grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.
Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an
eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good
springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There
were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and
all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich
Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes--by
no means bad in their way--hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the
room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a
small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented
in Martin's eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was
modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a
warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it,
was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and
Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.
They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs.
Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would
have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she
suggested this Bo-peep said, "No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here
and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I
hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the
time when I am out, Little-sing."
Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her
own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more
exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great
rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it
with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for
James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet
was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious.
Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the
mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the
drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces
of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of
domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with
its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to
play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a
pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.
"We'll have all the comic operas on it," said Bo-peep; "nothing of the
classic order for me--nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes,
plenty of them--no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?"
Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she
somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to
be purchased.
Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid.
There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures
of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and
Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new
name and address, and the notification that she was "at home" on the
third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited
about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin's
marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.
Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen
Maggie's great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on
apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was
dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk
with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On
her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small
diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire
was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming
home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the
greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved
Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he
would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had
desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his
delectation.
"Beef-steak pudding, cook," she said, "with mutton kidneys, and plenty
of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light."
Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding
she ought immediately to leave her "perfession." She was a stout,
red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who
generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.
"Very well," said Mrs. Martin; "I am glad you quite understand. You
know that my husband is very particular. Then we'll have potatoes and
fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream."
The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her
willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the
drawing-room.
"You had better light a fire here, Matilda," she said. "It's going to
be a very cold day."
"I'd a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though
a lump o' ice got on my 'eart when you say Mat-tilda."
"'Matilda' is more refined and suitable," said Mrs. Martin with
dignity.
"Oh yes, 'um--'course, 'um. When 'ull Miss Maggie be comin' to see us,
'um?"
"Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school."
"So I 'ave 'eard," said Matilda. "You 'aven't give me no 'olidays,
'um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-_ly_, that I
were to 'ave my day out once a month."
"You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven't the slightest wish to
keep you indoors against your will."
"To-morrer's cook's day, 'um."
"Well, then, you shall go the next day."
"Thank you, 'um. I thought I'd go and see Miss Maggie ef you'd give me
her address."
"Well, now, that's a very good idea," said Mrs. Martin. "I could write
her a little note, and you could take it to her. That's very
thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me
word how she is."
"It's longin' I am to lay eyes on 'er, mum. She's a bee-utiful way
with 'er," said Matilda.
When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie's,
which she had received during her husband's absence, from her pocket.
She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended
her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: "You must not
let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school.
For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House."
Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her
comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good
Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness
consisted in endless jokes--practical jokes or otherwise, just as it
suited him at the moment.
He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was
returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in
the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his
return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key,
or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did
not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return
than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to
perfection. What he called her "fine-lady airs," when they were
displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of
her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his
own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But
he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.
Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting
late--nearly four o'clock; but, according to an expressed wish of
Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as
he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore,
with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr.
Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at
a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag,
and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the
window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment
there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress
which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her
very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to
him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very
own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.
She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing?
Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand
close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy.
Cook was about to scream, "Burglars!" but Tildy recognized her
master.
"It's his joke," she said. "'E's a wonderful man for jokes. Don't let
on to Mrs. Martin that 'e's 'ere for your life. 'E'll do something so
comic in a minute."
The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of
singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:
"Gaily the Troubadour
Touched his guitar,
When he was hastening
Home from the war;
Singing, 'From Palestine
Hither I come.
Ladye love! ladye love!
Welcome me home.'"
Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her
letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and
blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by
the back way, and ran up the stairs.
"Little-sing!" he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.
During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not
until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally
to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it
occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.
"By the way," he said, "I did a right good turn for that girl of
yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of
clothes--two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of
fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?"
"She wrote to me, dear," said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. "She
was very much obliged to you."
"And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her
the things--that you had nothing to do with them?"
"Oh yes, yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Won't you have some coffee, James?
I'll tell Matilda to bring it in."
"Coffee--fiddlestick!" said Martin; "and you know I hate to be called
'James.' Where's Bo-peep?"
"You are Bo-peep," said his wife with a funny smile.
"Well, then, no 'Jamesing' of me. I think it is very queer of your
daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome
things. What did she say in her letter to you?"
"Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep."
"Well--but--where's the letter? I may as well see it. There's stuff in
that girl. I don't despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I
wouldn't have your dear little head muddled with business, but your
daughter's a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on
except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to
please me."
Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was
certainly entitled to her own father's money; but it is to be
regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.
Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more
particularly as it was not to Martin's taste, who desired her to take
it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to
drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject
of the letter.
"I saw you reading something as I came along," he said. "When I peeped
in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing
to you?"
"Only Maggie."
"And that is the letter you spoke about?"
"Yes, dear James--I mean Bo-peep--yes. The child is very grateful."
"She ought to be. I'd like to see the letter. Where is it?"
"I will go upstairs and fetch it," said Mrs. Martin, who knew well
that it was safe in her pocket all the time.
James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.
"Do so," he said. "Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support
that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I'll
allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don't you,
Little-sing?"
"Yes. I will fetch the letter," said Mrs. Martin.
She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was
certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did
not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was
determined to read poor Maggie's letter at any cost. He waited
impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak
table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.
"Please, sir," she said, "cook wants to see you for a minute."
"I can't see her now. Tell her so," replied Martin.
"Which is no message for a woman of my class," said Horniman, entering
the room and showing a very heated face. "I wishes to give notice that
I leave your service this day month."
"You can go to-morrow," said Martin.
"As you please, sir; wages in full."
"You go to-morrow," said Martin; "and if you say another word you go
to-night. Leave the room."
Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the
back, thought better of it, and left the room.
"Whatever is keeping Little-sing?" thought Martin to himself.
He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of
Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and
consequently a little more angry.
"She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was
acting the part of the Troubadour," he said to himself. "She is
destroying it now; but she sha'n't--not before I get it."
He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs.
He stopped outside his wife's bedroom. There was a light burning
there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.
"Open the door at once," he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.
"Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!"
"Where is that letter, Victoria?"
"It--it--I can't find it," she replied.
"What are those papers lying on the floor?"
Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up
the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and,
taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the
dining-room.
"Now, you sit there, Little-sing," he said, "while I piece the letter
together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but
you've quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you
and me. I'm not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to
have that girl ruling you. You're frightened of that girl. Now, let's
see what she has to say."
Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her
knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep's arm, and looked into his
face. "She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I
ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until
you came back. Please--please, don't read it!"
"Nonsense, Little-sing," he replied, restored once more to the height
of good humor. "You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me
not to see every word of the letter now."
It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie's letter; but
at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs.
Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was
going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed
beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore
him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her
forcibly in her seat.
When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no
comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in
his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, "I don't blame you,
Little-sing, not one bit. But we've got to punish this girl.
To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and
I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we'll take a half-holiday and
go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House--you and me
together, Little-sing--the grocer and his wife together. Not a word,
my love; not a word."