THE ladies were still drinking tea when a footman ushered in a visitor.
“Mrs. Lancelot.”
The elderly mistress of Amory Towers aroused the curiosity of even the
professional _blasèes_ who greeted her. She was “County.” They might
seem to scorn her in the way they scorned all things and everybody,
their veiled amusement had a touch of malice no doubt, but there was
also Mrs. Lancelot’s faculty of engaging the interest of all the world
and his wife to be reckoned with.
She was like nothing upon this earth--the yellow chrysanthemum lady,
Mrs. Spencer-Jobling and Mrs. Conrad Jones were agreed upon that!--yet
in her queer way the old dame stood for something. What she stood for
was, no doubt, a bygone phase. She might have stepped out of a page
of Punch for the year 1890. Her dress with its decided waist and its
antediluvian tuckers round wrist and neck was of amethyst colored
merino, a necklet of amethyst hung upon her ample chest, her hair with
a Queen Alexandra fringe was barber’s blocked after the manner of
royalty, her toque baffled all description, but it had pansies in it,
and her manner, plain and practical rather than “grand,” carried a
weight that her odd appearance should have countervailed, yet somehow
failed to do so. Mrs. Lancelot, no doubt, was _une figure pour rire_,
but only those very accomplished in the world could have got her
“range” with a nicety sufficient to take advantage of the fact. Her
present critics, for example, inclined to scorn as they were, could not
help being fettered a little by a secret sense of their own inadequacy.
A dutiful neighbor, Mrs. Lancelot had called once on the yellow
chrysanthemum lady and the call had been promptly returned. There,
however, the intercourse had ceased. Somehow they had hardly set each
other’s genius. But this afternoon there was no hint of that fact in
Mrs. Lancelot’s entrance or of Mrs. Minever’s reception of her. The
visitor was cautious, almost comically cautious, as she always was
when not quite sure of her bearings; the yellow chrysanthemum lady
was slightly more exuberant than usual, as she was apt to be when
cherishing a similar doubt on her own part. In the sight of Mrs.
Spencer-Jobling, rather declassèe daughter of a not undistinguished
sire, it was as good as a play to see them together: this resolute
survivor of a discredited phase of human history--the august visitor’s
relations had held more than one job about the court of Victoria the
Good--and the forthcoming hostess who made no secret of the fact that
she was bored by “frills” and “fine shades.”
The reason of Mrs. Lancelot’s visit to Clavering Park, if not
immediately clear, was soon revealed. A discerning but imperious eye
fixed itself upon Girlie, who, seated a little apart from the others in
a bergère chair, was feeling a strong desire to take cover inside her
tea cup.
Mrs. Lancelot took a vacant chair by her side and began to converse in
a low, intimate tone.
“You are not at all like your mother.” Mrs. Lancelot’s direct mode of
attack made Girlie tremble. “You are not like your father, either. You
look rather tired, my dear.”
The Deputy mumbled a brief denial, which unfortunately was quite
inaudible.
“Are you feeling tired?”
Girlie had the presence of mind to say that she had been working very
hard at the rehearsals.
“Mustn’t work too hard. You look quite run down.” And then Mrs.
Lancelot proceeded energetically, “You must come over to us, my dear.
A change will do you good. I have written to your mother to tell her.
We are very old friends, your mother and I--old school-fellows, in
fact--and, of course, third cousins once removed. You must come at
once. I am sure you need a change and Ethel thinks so, too.”
Little shivers began to trickle down Girlie’s spine. She was in no mood
to exchange the ills she knew for the ills she could only surmise, for,
as she realized, these might so easily prove the more terrible.
“Yes, you must come to us.” In the saurian aspect of Mrs. Lancelot
there was something quite alarming. “Your mother would like it. Now,
when shall it be?”
The prospect of a visit to Amory Towers reduced Girlie to a frozen
silence. A look of fear came in her eyes. Mrs. Lancelot was not one to
notice subtleties of any kind, but, happily, the yellow chrysanthemum
lady, as soon as she learned what was in the wind, did not hesitate
to come to the rescue of her guest. For one thing, the daughter of
Lord Carabbas, with all her limitations, was the undoubted _pièce de
resistance_ of the house party; and Mrs. Minever was inclined to accept
Lady Elfreda’s reluctance as an unexpected compliment to the life she
was leading at Clavering Park. Heaven knew what was passing through the
odd creature’s mind, but if those scared eyes and that rather hunted
look had any meaning, it was clear enough that she infinitely preferred
Clavering Park to Amory Towers!
“I’m afraid Lady Elfreda can’t be spared--until after the performance
on Tuesday, at any rate.”
Mrs. Minever’s boldness was rewarded by a look of pure gratitude, but
also it incurred the penalty of an almost truculent, “Why not, pray?”
from the august visitor.
“Well, you see,” the yellow chrysanthemum lady stoutly rejoined, “so
many rehearsals will be necessary between now and Tuesday. Sir Toby
Philpot says everything is so behind hand that as soon as Mr. Jupp
arrives they will have to go on all day.”
These sinister words fell upon Girlie like a sword. She was between
the devil and the deep, deep sea. Paralysis of will was added now to
her other miseries. On the verge of collapse, she sank back in her
chair.
Mrs. Lancelot, however, was not to be put off. She was a lady who liked
her own way, and on most occasions was accustomed to get it. But on
this occasion she had to submit to a compromise. Lady Elfreda must
come to Amory Towers, but her visit should be deferred until Tuesday
the-all-important was safely over.
“Wednesday, then--let us say Wednesday,” said the august visitor.
The yellow chrysanthemum lady promised that Wednesday it should be,
while Girlie smiled weakly. Mrs. Lancelot, having carried her point
more or less, graciously accepted a cup of the fresh tea that had
been procured for her. Perhaps, by the light of later events, it had
been better for Girlie had she not done so. For Mrs. Lancelot, before
taking her leave, proceeded to harrow the souls of her hearers. She
had a sinister tale to unfold. A gang of thieves were at work in
the neighborhood. The Channings had had the Priory ransacked while
they were at dinner, and poor Lady Emily had suffered the loss of a
most valuable diamond pendant. There had also been a most suspicious
parlor-maid at the Towers, but luckily she had been sent away before
anything of real value had been missed. But Major Hocking, the chief
constable, thought the gang so dangerous that Mrs. Lancelot had been
advised to send her jewels and some of her silver to the bank, and she
had accordingly done so.
“I tell you this, Mrs. Minever,” said the visitor in her most _affairé_
tone, “because in such times as these one cannot be too careful.”
The yellow chrysanthemum lady thought the remark very sensible and
expressed her gratitude for the information. It confirmed the rumors
she had heard. On the other hand, Mrs. Spencer-Jobling was inclined to
think that all stories of the kind were apt to be exaggerated, but Mrs.
Lancelot rent her at once with chapter and verse.
“No, after the experience of the Channings one should really take every
precaution.” And with a rather elaborate leave-taking of Lady Elfreda,
and one more informal of people less exalted, Mrs. Lancelot augustly
went her way.