AN OLD LADY’S DIARY.
On the following afternoon Laura drove straight from the House of
Detention to Russell Square. Her interview with her husband had been
full of comfort. Mr. Leopold had been with his client, and Mr. Leopold
was in excellent spirits. He had no doubt as to the issue of his case,
even without Desrolles; and the detectives had very little doubt of
finding Desrolles.
‘A man of that age and of those habits doesn’t go far,’ said the
lawyer, speaking of this human entity with as much assurance as if he
were stating a mathematical truth.
Laura got out of her cab before one of the dullest-looking houses
in the big, handsome old square--a house brightened by no modern
embellishment in the way of Venetian blind or encaustic flower-box, but
kept with a scrupulous care. Not a speck upon the window panes, not a
spot upon the snow-white steps, the varnish of the door as fresh as if
it had been laid on yesterday.
The door was opened by an old man-servant in plain clothes. Laura grew
hopeful at the sight of him. He looked like a man who had lived fifty
years in one service--the kind of man who begins as a knife-boy, and
either stultifies a spotless career by going to America with the plate,
or ends as a pious annuitant, in the odour of sanctity.
‘Does Mrs. Malcolm still live here?’ asked Laura.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Is she at home?’
‘I will inquire, ma’am, if you will be kind enough to give me your
card,’ replied the man, as much as to say that his mistress was a lady
whose leisure was not to be irreverently disturbed. She was to be at
home or not at home, as it pleased her sovereign will, and according to
the quality and claims of her visitor.
Laura wrote upon one of her cards, ‘Stephen Malcolm’s daughter,
Laura,’ while the ancient butler produced a solid old George the Second
salver whereon to convey the card with due reverence to his mistress.
The address upon the card looked respectable, and so did Laura, and
upon the strength of these appearances the butler ventured to show the
stranger into the dining-room, where the furniture was of the good
old brobdingnagian stamp, and there was nothing portable except the
fire-irons. Here Laura waited in a charnel-house atmosphere, while Mrs.
Malcolm called up the dim shadows of the past, and finally came to the
determination that she would hold parley with this young person who
claimed to be of her kindred.
The butler came back after a chilly interval, and ushered Mrs.
Treverton up the broad, ghastly-looking staircase, where drab
walls looked down upon a stone-coloured carpet, to the big, bare
drawing-room, which had ever been one of the coldest memories of her
childhood.
It was a long and lofty room, furnished with monumental rosewood. The
cheffoniers were like tombs--the sofa suggested an altar--the centre
table looked as massive as one of those Druidic _menhirs_ which
crop up here and there among the wilds of Dartmoor, or the sandy plains
of Brittany. A pale-faced clock ticked solemnly on the white marble
chimney-piece, three tall windows let in narrow streaks of pallid
daylight, between voluminous drab curtains.
In this mausoleum-like chamber, beside a dull and miserly-looking
fire, sat an old lady in black satin--the very same figure, the very
same satin gown, Laura remembered years ago; or a gown so like that it
appeared the same.
‘Aunt,’ said Laura, approaching timidly, and feeling as if she were a
little child again, and doomed to solitary imprisonment in that awful
room, ‘have you forgotten me?’
The old lady in black satin held out her hand, a withered white hand
clad in a black mitten, and adorned with old-fashioned rings.
‘No, my dear,’ she replied, without any indication of surprise, ‘I
never forget anyone or anything. My memory is good, and my sight and
hearing are good. Providence has been very kind to me. Your card
puzzled me at first, but when I came to think it over I soon understood
who you were. Sit down, my dear. Jonam shall bring you a glass of
sherry.’
The old lady rose and rang the bell.
‘Please don’t, aunt,’ said Laura. ‘I never take sherry. I don’t want
anything except to talk with you a little about my poor father.’
‘Poor Stephen,’ replied Mrs. Malcolm. ‘Sadly imprudent, poor fellow.
Nobody’s enemy but his own. And so you are married, my dear? Never
mind, Jonam, my niece will not take anything.’ This to the butler.
‘You were adopted by an old friend of your father’s, I remember. I went
to Chiswick the day after poor Stephen’s death, and found that you had
been taken away. I was very glad to know you were provided for; though
of course I should have done what I could for you in the way of trying
to get you into an institution, or something of that kind. I could
never have had a child in this house. Children upset everything. I hope
your father’s friend has carried out his undertaking handsomely?’
‘He was all goodness,’ answered Laura. ‘He was more than a father to
me. But I lost him two years ago.’
‘I hope he left you independent?’
‘He made me independent by a deed of trust, when I first went to him.
He settled six thousand pounds for my benefit.’
‘Very handsome indeed. And pray whom have you married?’
‘My benefactor’s nephew, and the inheritor of his estate.’
‘You have been a very lucky girl, Laura, and you ought to be thankful
to God.’
‘I hope I am thankful.’
‘I have often noticed that the children of improvident fathers do
better in life than those whose parents toil to make them independent.
They are like the ravens--Providence takes care of them. Well, my dear,
I congratulate you.’
‘God has been very good to me, dear aunt, but I have had many troubles.
I want you to tell me about my father. Did you see much of him in the
last years of his life?’
‘Not very much. He used to call upon me occasionally, and he used
sometimes to bring your mother to spend the day with me. She was a
sweet woman--you are like her in face and figure--and she and I used to
get on very nicely together. She was not above taking advice.’
‘Had my father many friends and acquaintances at that time?’ asked
Laura.
‘Many friends! My dear, he was poor.’
‘Do you know if he had any one particular friend? He could not have
been quite alone in the world. I recollect there was a gentleman who
used to come very often to the cottage at Chiswick. I cannot remember
what he was like. I was seldom in the room when he was there. I
remember only that my father and he were often together. I have a very
strong reason for wishing to know all about that man.’
‘I think I know whom you mean. I have heard your poor mother talk of
him many a time. She used to tell me all her troubles, and I used to
give her good advice. You say you want particularly to know about this
person.’
‘Most particularly, dear aunt,’ said Laura eagerly.
‘Then, my dear, my diary can tell you much better than I can. I am
a woman of methodical habits, and ever since my husband’s death,
three-and-twenty years ago last August, I have made a point of keeping
a record of the course of every day in my life. I dare say the book
would seem very stupid to strangers. I hope nobody will publish it
after I am dead. But it has been a great pleasure to me to look through
the pages from time to time, and call up old days. It is almost like
living over again. Kindly take my keys, Laura, and open the right-hand
door of the cheffonier.’
Laura obeyed. The interior of the cheffonier was divided into
shelves, and on the uppermost of these shelves were neatly arranged
three-and-twenty small volumes, bound in morocco, and lettered Diary,
with the date of each year. The parliamentary records at Strawberry
Hill are not more carefully kept than the history of Mrs. Malcolm’s
life.
‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘Your father died in the winter of ’56; your
poor mother a few months earlier. Bring me the volume for ’56.’
Laura handed the book to the old lady, who gave a gentle little sigh as
she opened it.
‘Dear me, how neatly I wrote in ’56,’ she exclaimed. ‘My handwriting
has sadly degenerated since then. We get old, my dear; we grow old
without knowing it.’
Laura thought that in that monumental drawing-room age might well creep
on unawares. Life there must be a long hybernation.
‘Let me see. I must find some of my conversations with your mother.
“June 2. Read prayers. Breakfast. My rasher was cut too thick, and the
frying was not up to cook’s usual mark. Mem.: must speak to cook about
the bacon. Read a leading article on indirect taxation in _Times_,
and felt my store of knowledge increased. Saw cook. Decided on a lamb
cutlet for lunch, and a slice of salmon and roast chicken for dinner.
Sent for cook five minutes afterwards, and ordered sole instead of
salmon. I had salmon the day before yesterday.” Dear me, I don’t see
your poor mother’s name in the first week of June,’ said the old
lady, turning over the leaves. ‘Here it comes, a little later, on the
fifteenth. Now you shall hear your mother’s own words, faithfully
recorded on the day she spoke them. And yet there are people who would
ridicule a lonely old woman for keeping a diary,’ added Mrs. Malcolm,
with mild self-approval.
‘I feel very grateful to you for having kept one,’ said Laura.
‘June 15. Stephen brought his wife to lunch with me, by appointment.
I ordered a nice little luncheon; filleted sole, cutlets, a duckling,
peas, new potatoes, cherry tart, and a custard. The poor woman does
not often enjoy a good dinner, and no doubt my luncheon would be her
dinner. But my thoughtfulness was thrown away. The poor thing was
looking pale and worn when she came, and she hardly ate a morsel. Even
the duckling did not tempt her, though she owned it was the first she
had seen this year. After luncheon Stephen went to the City, to keep
an appointment, as he told us, and his wife and I spent a quiet hour
in my drawing-room. We had a long talk, which turned, as usual, on
her domestic troubles. She calls this Captain Desmond her husband’s
evil genius, and says he is a blight upon her life. He is not an old
friend of Stephen’s, so there is no excuse for that foolish fellow’s
infatuation. They met him first at Boulogne, last year; and from that
time to this he and Stephen have been inseparable. Poor Laura declares
that this Desmond belongs to a horrid, gambling, drinking set, and that
he is the cause of Stephen’s ruin. “We were poor when we first went to
Boulogne,” she said, with tears in her eyes, poor child, “but we could
just manage to live respectably, and for the first year we were very
happy. But from the day my husband made the acquaintance of Captain
Desmond things began to go badly. Stephen resumed his old habits of
billiard-playing, cards, and late hours. He had grown fond of his home,
and reconciled to a quiet, domestic life. Darling Laura’s pretty ways
and sweet little talk amused and interested him. But after Captain
Desmond came upon the scene Stephen seldom spent an evening at home.
I know that it is wicked to hate people,” the poor thing said, in her
simple way, “but I cannot help hating this bad man.”’
‘Poor mother!’ sighed Laura, touched to the heart by this picture of
domestic misery.
‘I asked her if she knew who and what Captain Desmond was. She could
only tell me that when Stephen made his acquaintance he was living
at a boarding-house at Boulogne, and had been living there for some
months. He had spent a considerable part of his life abroad. He had
nobody belonging to him, and he seemed to belong to nobody; though he
often boasted vaguely of grand connections. To poor Laura’s mind he was
nothing more or less than an adventurer. “He flatters my husband,” she
said, “and he tries to flatter me. He is very often at Chiswick, and
whenever he comes he takes my husband back to London with him, and then
I see no more of Stephen till the next day, or perhaps not for two or
three days after. He has what his friend calls a shake-down at Captain
Desmond’s lodgings in May’s Buildings, St. Martin’s Lane.”’
‘Aunt,’ exclaimed Laura eagerly, ‘will you let me copy that address? It
might be of use to me, if I should have to trace the past life of this
man.’
She wrote the address in a little memorandum book contained in her
purse.
‘My dear, why should you trouble yourself about Captain Desmond,’ said
the old lady. ‘Whatever harm he did your poor father is past and done
with. Nothing can alter or mend it now.’
‘No, aunt, but as long as this man lives he will go on doing harm. He
will go from small crimes to great ones. It is his nature. Please go
on with the diary, dear aunt. You can have no idea how valuable this
information is to me.’
‘I have always felt I was doing a useful act in keeping a diary, my
dear. I am not surprised to find this humble record of inestimable
value,’ said the old lady, who was bursting with gratified vanity.
‘Where would history be if people in easy circumstances, and with
plenty of leisure, did not keep diaries? I do not think there is any
more about Captain Desmond. No; your mother tells me about her own
health. She is feeling very low and ill. She fears she will not live
many years, and then what is to become of poor little Laura?’
‘Did you ever go to Chiswick, aunt?’
‘Never, till after your poor father’s death. I attended his funeral.’
‘Was Captain Desmond present?’
‘No; but he was with your father up till the last hour of his life. I
heard that from the landlady. He helped to nurse him.’
‘I thank you, aunt, with all my heart, for what you have told me. I
will come and see you again in a few days, if I may.’
‘Do, my dear, and bring your husband.’ Laura shivered. ‘I should
like to make his acquaintance. If you will mention the day a little
beforehand, I should be pleased for you to take your luncheon with me.
I have the cook who roasted that duckling for your poor mother still
with me.’
‘I shall be pleased to come, aunt. We are in London upon very serious
business, but I hope it will soon be ended, and when it is over I will
tell you all about it.’
‘Do, my dear, I am very glad to see you again. I dare say you remember
spending a week with me when your mother died. I think you enjoyed
yourself. This house must have been such a change for you after that
poor little place at Chiswick, and there is a good deal to amuse a
child in this room,’ said Mrs. Malcolm, glancing admiringly from the
monumental clock on the mantelpiece to the group of feather flowers and
stuffed birds on the sepulchral cheffonier.
Laura smiled faintly, remembering those interminable days in that
cheerless chamber, compared with which a dirty lane where she could
have made mud pies would have been Elysium.
‘I’ve no doubt you were extremely kind to me, aunt,’ she said gently,
‘but I was very small and very shy.’
‘And you did not like going to bed in the dark; which shows that you
have been foolishly brought up. Your mother was a sweet woman, but
wanting in strength of mind.’