It would have been ungracious of Melia not to spend Christmas Day at
Strathfieldsaye. Indeed, she felt that she could hardly do otherwise.
That stubborn thing, pride, might still be lurking in the corners of
her heart, yet it durst not show itself openly; besides, whatever its
secret machinations, she could not overlook the fact that her father
was striving to wipe out the past. Perhaps the past is the only thing
easier to create than to destroy, but certainly Josiah was now trying
his best to undo it. And this Melia knew.
In view of the important function on Christmas Day, Melia had been
taken in hand by Aunt Gerty. It would have been natural to resent the
interference of that lady, but it was clear that her actions were
inspired "from above." At the same time no emissary could have been
more tactful, more discreet. In situations that called for finesse
she was hard to beat; and she was able to have Melia "fitted" for a
_really_ good coat and skirt by her own accomplished dressmaker, Miss
Pratt, and helped her also to choose a hat at Messrs. Rostron and
Merton's, the best shop in the city, without arousing antagonism in
that sensitive soul. Also she whispered in Melia's ear that there was
reason to believe that her father had a little surprise in store for
her on Christmas Day.
In regard to "the surprise" Gerty's information was correct. And as
Melia, looking and feeling far more fashionable than she had ever done
in her life, turned up at Strathfieldsaye at a quarter past one, "the
surprise" duly materialized even before the Christmas luncheon at
one-thirty. Her father gave her a check for fifty pounds.
On Melia's last visit to Strathfieldsaye she had felt quite "out of
it," but not so now. Partly it may have been the new clothes. Formerly,
she had felt self-conscious, awkward, hopelessly shabby in the midst of
a grandeur to which she was unused, whereby she was thrown back upon
her embittered self, but now her changing circumstances, the considered
kindness of her mother and Gerty, and especially her father's new
attitude towards her gave her a sense of happiness almost.
Perhaps the fact that Ethel, Mrs. Doctor Cockburn, was unable to be
present may also have ministered a little to this feeling. Ethel's
absence was much deplored. Somehow a void was created which seemed to
rob the modest function of any claim to distinction it might have had;
yet in her heart Melia felt that the absence of Mrs. Doctor made it
easier for her personally, and even for her mother, whatever it may
have done for people so accomplished in the world as her father now
was, and for Aunt Gerty who somehow had learned to be genteel without
being stuck-up. With Ethel, on the other hand, she had never felt quite
at her ease. Nor did anybody, if it came to that. Putting people at
their ease was not among Mrs. Doctor Cockburn's many gifts. She was so
much a lady that simple folk were apt to be overwhelmed by her sense of
her happy condition. It was difficult for ordinary people to be their
plain selves in her presence; ordinary they might be, but in social
intercourse Mrs. Doctor seemed almost to resent their plainness as
being in the nature of a slight upon herself.
However, Ethel was not there. And in Melia's opinion her absence gave a
finer flavor to the turkey, a gentler quality to the plum pudding and a
more subtle aroma to the blazing fumes that crowned it. Nevertheless,
it was a theme for much comment. An Event of the first magnitude was
almost due to take place in the family; and the head of it, presiding
over the modest feast with a kind of genial majesty which ever-growing
public recognition of his unusual qualities seemed to enhance and to
humanize, made no secret of the fact that he very much wanted to have a
little grandson.
"Well, Josiah," said the gallant Gerty, adding a little water to some
excellent claret and smiling at him with two level rows of white teeth,
"I am sure we all hope your wish will be gratified. No man, I'm sure,
if I may be allowed to say so, more thoroughly deserves a little
grandson than yourself."
To some minds, perhaps, it was not quite in the Gertrude tradition.
It was Christmas Day and in crowning the Christmas pudding Josiah had
been a thought on the free side, no doubt, with some of the finest old
brandy even the Duke of Wellington could boast; but in any case she
meant well. All the same, the Mayoress could not repress a slight frown
of annoyance. The demonstration did not amount to more than that. It
did not really convict Gerty of bad taste, but Maria felt somehow that
she had to watch her continually. Gerty was such a Schemer. Besides,
what business was it of Gerty's anyway?
"Thank you, Gert." The Mayor raised his glass to the Serpent with the
homely charm that was never seen to greater advantage than on Christmas
Day in the family circle. "Good health and good luck all round. I must
have that little grandson, somehow. Melia, my gel, that's something for
you and your good man to bear in mind."
Melia flushed. She looked so confused and so unhappy that the watchful
Gerty, who with all her ways really spent a good deal of time thinking
for others, suddenly perceived that it might be kind to change the
subject.
"Josiah," said Gerty, "what is this one hears about a public
presentation to Sally?"
"You may well ask that." The Mayor held up a glass of '68 port to the
light. "Some of those jockeys on the City Council have been making
themselves very officious."
"Glad to hear it, Josiah." Gerty was just as pat as your hat. "Think
of the honor she's brought to the city. Surely right and surely proper
that what Sally has done should be publicly recognized. Even the
_Times_ says she's a credit to the Empire."
"All very well," said his worship. "But it's nothing like ten years
since I used to lay her across my knee and spank her. There was one
slipper I kept for the purpose." With a humorous sigh he converged upon
the brim of his wine glass. "But I could never make nothing of that
gel. There was always the devil in her. Public presentation's all very
well, but some of those jockeys on the Council have persuaded the Duke
to make it, and he's fair set on my takin' the chair as I'm Mayor o'
the city and so on."
"The Duke is such a sensible man!" An arch preen of Gerty's plumage.
"Only right and proper, Josiah, that you should take the chair. The
other day, according to the _Tribune_, the French Government gave her a
very high decoration. She's quite a heroine in Paris."
"I'm not surprised at anything." In the Mayor's grim eye was quite
as much vexation as there was humor. "Stubborn as a mule. And that
independent. Must always go her own gait. Nice thing my having to
preside over three thousand people while she's being handed an
illuminated address. Of course, that Aylett's at the back of it.
Mischievous dog! I said if there must be a public presentation, as I
was the father o' the hussy, it was up to somebody else to preside.
But, seemingly, they don't take to the idea."
"Of course not, Josiah."
Groaned the Mayor, "I'll have to make the best of it, I suppose. Still,
a scurvy trick on the part of that Aylett."