"No," he says, "she's going to be the Duchess of Ridingshire with the
kind consent o' the kid I spoke about. If not, she'll be the Marchioness
of Appleford. 'E's doing the square thing. There's going to be a quiet
marriage to-morrow at the Registry Office, and then I'm off."
"What need for you to go?" I says.
"No need," he says; "it's a fancy o' mine. You see, me gone, there's
nothing to 'amper 'er--nothing to interfere with 'er settling down as a
quiet, respectable toff. With a 'alf-brother, who's always got to be
spry with some fake about 'is lineage and 'is ancestral estates, and who
drops 'is 'h's,' complications are sooner or later bound to a-rise. Me
out of it--everything's simple. Savey?"
Well, that's just how it happened. Of course, there was a big row when
the family heard of it, and a smart lawyer was put up to try and undo the
thing. No expense was spared, you bet; but it was all no go. Nothing
could be found out against her. She just sat tight and said nothing. So
the thing had to stand. They went and lived quietly in the country and
abroad for a year or two, and then folks forgot a bit, and they came back
to London. I often used to see her name in print, and then the papers
always said as how she was charming and graceful and beautiful, so I
suppose the family had made up its mind to get used to her.
One evening in she comes to the Savoy. My wife put me up to getting that
job, and a good job it is, mind you, when you know your way about. I'd
never have had the cheek to try for it, if it hadn't been for the missis.
She's a clever one--she is. I did a good day's work when I married her.
"You shave off that moustache of yours--it ain't an ornament," she says
to me, "and chance it. Don't get attempting the lingo. Keep to the
broken English, and put in a shrug or two. You can manage that all
right."
I followed her tip. Of course the manager saw through me, but I got in a
"Oui, monsieur" now and again, and they, being short handed at the time,
could not afford to be strict, I suppose. Anyhow I got took on, and
there I stopped for the whole season, and that was the making of me.
Well, as I was saying, in she comes to the supper rooms, and toffy enough
she looked in her diamonds and furs, and as for haughtiness there wasn't
a born Marchioness she couldn't have given points to. She comes straight
up to my table and sits down. Her husband was with her, but he didn't
seem to have much to say, except to repeat her orders. Of course I
looked as if I'd never set eyes on her before in all my life, though all
the time she was a-pecking at the mayonnaise and a-sipping at the
Giessler, I was thinking of the coffee-shop and of the ninepenny haddick
and the pint of cocoa.
"Go and fetch my cloak," she says to him after a while. "I am cold."
And up he gets and goes out.
She never moved her head, and spoke as though she was merely giving me
some order, and I stands behind her chair, respectful like, and answers
according to the same tip,
"Ever hear from 'Kipper'?" she says to me.
"I have had one or two letters from him, your ladyship," I answers.
"Oh, stow that," she says. "I am sick of 'your ladyship.' Talk English;
I don't hear much of it. How's he getting on?"
"Seems to be doing himself well," I says. "He's started an hotel, and is
regular raking it in, he tells me."
"Wish I was behind the bar with him!" says she.
"Why, don't it work then?" I asks.
"It's just like a funeral with the corpse left out," says she. "Serves
me jolly well right for being a fool!"
The Marquis, he comes back with her cloak at that moment, and I says:
"Certainement, madame," and gets clear.
I often used to see her there, and when a chance occurred she would talk
to me. It seemed to be a relief to her to use her own tongue, but it
made me nervous at times for fear someone would hear her.
Then one day I got a letter from "Kipper" to say he was over for a
holiday and was stopping at Morley's, and asking me to look him up.
He had not changed much except to get a bit fatter and more prosperous-
looking. Of course, we talked about her ladyship, and I told him what
she said.
"Rum things, women," he says; "never know their own minds."
"Oh, they know them all right when they get there," I says. "How could
she tell what being a Marchioness was like till she'd tried it?"
"Pity," he says, musing like. "I reckoned it the very thing she'd tumble
to. I only come over to get a sight of 'er, and to satisfy myself as she
was getting along all right. Seems I'd better a' stopped away."
"You ain't ever thought of marrying yourself?" I asks.
"Yes, I have," he says. "It's slow for a man over thirty with no wife
and kids to bustle him, you take it from me, and I ain't the talent for
the Don Juan fake."
"You're like me," I says, "a day's work, and then a pipe by your own
fireside with your slippers on. That's my swarry. You'll find someone
as will suit you before long."
"No I shan't," says he. "I've come across a few as might, if it 'adn't
been for 'er. It's like the toffs as come out our way. They've been
brought up on 'ris de veau a la financier,' and sich like, and it just
spoils 'em for the bacon and greens."
I give her the office the next time I see her, and they met accidental
like in Kensington Gardens early one morning. What they said to one
another I don't know, for he sailed that same evening, and, it being the
end of the season, I didn't see her ladyship again for a long while.
When I did it was at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, and she was in widow's
weeds, the Marquis having died eight months before. He never dropped
into that dukedom, the kid turning out healthier than was expected, and
hanging on; so she was still only a Marchioness, and her fortune, though
tidy, was nothing very big--not as that class reckons. By luck I was
told off to wait on her, she having asked for someone as could speak
English. She seemed glad to see me and to talk to me.
"Well," I says, "I suppose you'll be bossing that bar in Capetown now
before long?"
"Talk sense," she answers. "How can the Marchioness of Appleford marry a
hotel keeper?"
"Why not," I says, "if she fancies him? What's the good of being a
Marchioness if you can't do what you like?"
"That's just it," she snaps out; "you can't. It would not be doing the
straight thing by the family. No," she says, "I've spent their money,
and I'm spending it now. They don't love me, but they shan't say as I
have disgraced them. They've got their feelings same as I've got mine."
"Why not chuck the money?" I says. "They'll be glad enough to get it
back," they being a poor lot, as I heard her say.
"How can I?" she says. "It's a life interest. As long as I live I've
got to have it, and as long as I live I've got to remain the Marchioness
of Appleford."
She finishes her soup, and pushes the plate away from her. "As long as I
live," she says, talking to herself.
"By Jove!" she says, starting up "why not?"
"Why not what?" I says.
"Nothing," she answers. "Get me an African telegraph form, and be quick
about it!"
I fetched it for her, and she wrote it and gave it to the porter then and
there; and, that done, she sat down and finished her dinner.
She was a bit short with me after that; so I judged it best to keep my
own place.
In the morning she got an answer that seemed to excite her, and that
afternoon she left; and the next I heard of her was a paragraph in the
newspaper, headed--"Death of the Marchioness of Appleford. Sad
accident." It seemed she had gone for a row on one of the Italian lakes
with no one but a boatman. A squall had come on, and the boat had
capsized. The boatman had swum ashore, but he had been unable to save
his passenger, and her body had never been recovered. The paper reminded
its readers that she had formerly been the celebrated tragic actress,
Caroline Trevelyan, daughter of the well-known Indian judge of that name.
It gave me the blues for a day or two--that bit of news. I had known her
from a baby as you might say, and had taken an interest in her. You can
call it silly, but hotels and restaurants seemed to me less interesting
now there was no chance of ever seeing her come into one again.
I went from Paris to one of the smaller hotels in Venice. The missis
thought I'd do well to pick up a bit of Italian, and perhaps she fancied
Venice for herself. That's one of the advantages of our profession. You
can go about. It was a second-rate sort of place, and one evening, just
before lighting-up time, I had the salle-a-manger all to myself, and had
just taken up a paper when I hears the door open, and I turns round.
I saw "her" coming down the room. There was no mistaking her. She
wasn't that sort.
I sat with my eyes coming out of my head till she was close to me, and
then I says:
"Carrots!" I says, in a whisper like. That was the name that come to me.
"'Carrots' it is," she says, and down she sits just opposite to me, and
then she laughs.
I could not speak, I could not move, I was that took aback, and the more
frightened I looked the more she laughed till "Kipper" comes into the
room. There was nothing ghostly about him. I never see a man look more
as if he had backed the winner.
"Why, it's 'Enery," he says; and he gives me a slap on the back, as
knocks the life into me again.
"I heard you was dead," I says, still staring at her. "I read it in the
paper--'death of the Marchioness of Appleford.'"
"That's all right," she says. "The Marchioness of Appleford is as dead
as a door-nail, and a good job too. Mrs. Captain Kit's my name, nee
'Carrots.'"
"You said as 'ow I'd find someone to suit me 'fore long," says "Kipper"
to me, "and, by Jove! you were right; I 'ave. I was waiting till I found
something equal to her ladyship, and I'd 'ave 'ad to wait a long time,
I'm thinking, if I 'adn't come across this one 'ere"; and he tucks her up
under his arm just as I remember his doing that day he first brought her
into the coffee-shop, and Lord, what a long time ago that was!
* * * * *
That is the story, among others, told me by Henry, the waiter. I have,
at his request, substituted artificial names for real ones. For Henry
tells me that at Capetown Captain Kit's First-class Family and Commercial
Hotel still runs, and that the landlady is still a beautiful woman with
fine eyes and red hair, who might almost be taken for a duchess--until
she opens her mouth, when her accent is found to be still slightly
reminiscent of the Mile-End Road.