AUNT AGNES DELACOUR
Miss Delacour was an elderly woman with somewhat coarse gray hair. She
was not old, but elderly. She had a very broad figure, plump and
well-proportioned. Miss Delacour thought little about so trivial a
thing as fashion, or mere dress in any shape or form. She was fond of
saying that she was as the Almighty made her, and that clothes were
nothing but a snare of the flesh.
Agnes Delacour was exceedingly well off, but she lived in a very small
house in Chelsea, and gave of her abundance to those whom she called
'the Lord's poor.' Her charities were many and wide-spread, and on
that account she was highly esteemed by numbers of people, either very
poor or struggling, in that upper class which needs help so much, and
gets it so little. To these people Agnes Delacour gave freely, saving
many young people from utter ruin by her timely aid, and drawing down
on her devoted head the blessings of their fathers and mothers, who
spoke of her as one of the Lord's saints. Nevertheless those who knew
Miss Delacour really well did _not_ love her. She was too cold, too
masterful, for their taste, and these folks would rather live in great
difficulties than accept her bounty.
After the death of her young half-sister, Lucy Cameron, who had
married, against Miss Delacour's desire, the Hon. George Lennox, Miss
Delacour took no notice whatsoever of the five sweet little daughters
her half-sister had brought into the world. Miss Delacour left the
broken-hearted widower and his little girls to their sorrow, not even
answering the letters which for a short time the children, by their
father's desire, wrote to their mother's half-sister, so that
by-and-by, as they grew older, most of them forgot that they had an
aunt Agnes. Lucy Lennox was as unlike her half-sister as it was
possible for two sisters to be. In the first place, Agnes, compared
with Lucy, was old, being many years her senior; in the second, Agnes
was singularly plain, whereas Lucy was very lovely. She was far more
than lovely; she was endowed with a wonderful charm which drew the
hearts of all people, men and women alike, who saw her. Her beautiful
dark eyes, her rosy cheeks, with their rare dimples, her gay laughter,
her glorious voice in singing, her pretty way of talking French, almost
like one born to the graceful tongue, the way she devoted herself to
her husband first, next to her sweet girls, the whole appearance of her
radiant face, and her conduct on each and every occasion, made her a
favourite with all who knew her.
Alas! she was gone; for Lucy Lennox was one of those not destined to
live long in this world. She died just after the birth of her youngest
child, and Lennox felt that now his one duty was to do all in his power
for the precious Flowers she had left behind her.
There were three great and spacious houses in the Upper Glen. One, we
have seen, was occupied by Mr Lennox, one by his sister, Mrs Constable;
but between The Paddock and The Garden was a house so large, so
magnificent, so richly dowered with all the beauties of nature, that it
more nearly resembled a palace than an ordinary house. This great
mansion belonged to the Duke of Ardshiel, and was called the Palace of
the Kings, for the simple reason that its noble owner was looked upon
as a king in those parts. Further, King James the First of England and
Sixth of Scotland had passed some time there, and 'Bonnie Prince
Charlie' had taken refuge at Ardshiel in the time of his wanderings.
The great castle belonged to the Duke, who had many other places of
residence, but who had never gone near the Palace of the Kings since a
terrible tragedy took place there, about twenty years before the
opening of this story.
A kinswoman and ward of Ardshiel's, a charming girl of the name of
Viola Cameron, had fallen madly in love with a gallant member of the
great clan of Douglas, and the Duke somewhat unwillingly gave his
consent to the marriage on condition that Lord Alasdair Douglas should
add Cameron to his own name. Lord Alasdair agreed, for great was his
love for Viola Cameron. The Duke was now well pleased. He could not
but see what a fine fellow Lord Alasdair was, and accordingly he gave
the Palace of the Kings to the young pair, and had the whole house and
grounds put into perfect order, all at his own expense. The fair young
Viola Cameron and the brave Lord Alasdair were to be married on a
certain day early in December. All went merry as a marriage bell.
But, alas! tragedy was at the door, and early on the wedding morn Lord
Alasdair was found cold and dead in the deep lake which formed such a
feature of the property. How he died no one could tell; but die he did
with life so fair and bright before him, and the girl he loved putting
on her wedding clothes for the happy ceremony. There was no apparent
reason for his death, for he passionately loved the Lady Viola, and was
willing to give up his own proud name for her dear sake.
Viola Cameron mourned frantically for her lover for some time, and
refused to go near the Palace of the Kings; but after a time she
returned to London society, and eventually married a rich manufacturer,
nearly double her age and far beneath her in station.
The Duke, who, on her marriage with Lord Alasdair, was about to settle
a fortune upon her, now abandoned all such intentions, and Ardshiel
became his once more. Nor would he ever again allow himself to speak
of or talk to the Lady Viola. She was now beneath his notice.
The Lady Viola passes completely out of this story. The Palace of the
Kings had lain empty and deserted for over twenty long years, and Miss
Delacour knew this fact and intended to act accordingly. After making
full inquiries she paid the old Duke a visit, taking with her a certain
Mrs Macintyre. Mrs Macintyre was one of those women whom all men
respect, if they do not love. She had lost both husband and children.
She was of high birth and equally good education. She was now,
however, in sore want, and Miss Delacour thought she saw a way of
helping her and also adding to the lustre of her own name as a great
philanthropist. Miss Delacour did most of the talking, and Mrs
Macintyre all the sad, gentle smiles. In short, they won over the old
Duke, and Miss Delacour arranged that she should call upon Lucy's
husband in order to propound her scheme.
The little girls and the boys had time to meet before Miss Delacour's
arrival. Although that lady was well off, she would not take a
motor-car from Edinburgh to the Upper Glen. She believed that her
brother-in-law had a motor-car, and thought it the height of
selfishness on his part that he did not send it to town to meet her.
But she had her pride, as she expressed it, and in consequence did not
arrive at The Garden till about four o'clock in the day, having given
the young Constables and the young Lennoxes time to have a very eager
chat together, whilst Mrs Constable and Lennox himself had a serious
conversation, in which they unanimously expressed the wish that Agnes
Delacour would take her departure as soon as possible.
Miss Delacour arrived on the scene in a very bad temper. She was met
by Lennox with his beautiful smile and courtly manner. He welcomed her
kindly, and gave her his arm to enter the great central hall. Miss
Delacour sniffed as she went in. She sniffed more audibly as her
small, closely set brown eyes encountered the fixed gaze of five little
girls, who, to judge from their manners, were all antagonistic to her.
'Come and speak to your aunt, my dears,' she said.--'George,' she
continued, 'I should be glad of some tea.'
'It isn't time for tea yet,' said Hollyhock, but I 'll amuse you.
Would you like to see a girl somersaulting up and down the hall? It's
a _grand_ place for that sort of exercise, and I can teach you if you
like. You _are_ a bit old, but I've seen older. You just have to let
yourself go--spread yourself, so to speak--put your hands on the floor
and then over you go, over and over. Oh, it's _grand_ sport; we often
do it.'
'Then you might do better,' said Miss Delacour, speaking in a very
stern voice. 'I haven't quite caught your name, child, but you have
evidently not learned respect for your elders.'
'My name is Hollyhock. I 'm a Scots lass frae the heather. Eh, but
there's no air like the air o' the heather! Did you ever get a bit of
it, all white? Yes, _there's_ luck for you.'
'Do you mean seriously to tell me, George,' said Miss Delacour, 'that
you have called that child Hollyhock--that impertinent, rude child,
Hollyhock?'
'Well, yes, he has, bless his heart!' said Hollyhock, going up to her
father and fondling his head. 'Isn't he a bit of a sort of a thing
that you 'd love? Eh, but he's a _grand_ man. He isn't afflicted with
bad looks, Aunt Agnes.'
'Send that child out of the room, George,' said Aunt Agnes.
'I refuse to stir,' was Hollyhock's response.
'George, is it true that you have insulted my dead sister's memory by
calling one of her offspring by such an awful name as Hollyhock?'
'I have not insulted my wife's memory, Agnes. I took a fancy to call
my little girls after flowers. This is Jasmine--real name Lucy, after
my lost darling. This is Gentian--real name Margaret. This is
Rose--also Rose of the Garden, queen of all flowers. Hollyhock's
baptismal name is Jacqueline; and Delphinium, my youngest'--his voice
shook a little--'is Dorothy.'
'The one for whom your wife laid down her life,' said Miss Delacour.
'Well, to be sure, I always knew that men were bad, but I did _not_
think they were fools as well.--Understand, you five girls, that while
I am here--and I shall probably stay for a long time--you will be Lucy,
Margaret, Jacqueline, Rose, and Dorothy to me. I don't care what your
silly father calls you.'
'He's not silly,' said Hollyhock. 'He's the best of old ducksy dumps;
and if you don't want to learn somersaulting, perhaps you 'd like a
hand-to-hand fight. _I'm_ quite ready;' and Hollyhock stamped up to
the good lady with clenched fists and angry, black eyes.
'Oh, preserve me from this little terror of a girl!' said Miss
Delacour. 'I perceive that the Divine Providence has sent me here just
in time.'
'You haven't met the _Precious Stones_ yet,' said Hollyhock. 'Flowers
are a bit soft, except roses, which have thorns; but when you meet
Jasper and Sapphire and Garnet and Opal and Emerald, I can tell you you
'll have to mind your p's and q's. _They_ won't stand any nonsense;
they won't endure any silly speeches, but they 'll just go for you
hammer and tongs. They 're boys, every one of them--and--and--we 're
expecting them any minute.'
'Jacqueline, you must behave yourself,' said her father. 'You 're
trying your aunt very much indeed.--Jasmine, or, rather, my sweet Lucy,
will you take your aunt to her bedroom, and order the tea to be got
ready a little earlier than usual in the hall to-day?'
Jasmine, otherwise Lucy, obeyed her father's command at a glance, and
the old lady and the young girl went up the low broad stairs side by
side. Miss Delacour gasped once or twice.
'What a terrible creature your sister is!' she remarked.
'Oh no, she's not really; she only wants her bit of fun.'
'But to be rude to an elderly lady!' continued Miss Delacour.
'She did not mean it for rudeness. She just wanted you to enjoy
yourself. You see, we are accustomed to a great deal of freedom, and
there _never_ was a man like daddy, and we are so happy with him.'
'Lucy--your name is Lucy, isn't it?'
'I am called Jasmine, but my name is Lucy,' said the girl, with a sigh.
'That was your mother's name,' continued Miss Agnes. 'You remind me of
her a little, without having her great beauty. You are a plain child,
Lucy, but you ought to be thankful, seeing that such is the will of the
Almighty.'
'Jasper says I am exceedingly handsome,' replied Lucy.
'Oh, that awful boy! What a man your father must be to allow such
talk!'
'Please, please, auntie, don't speak against him. He's an angel, if
ever there was one. I want to make you happy, auntie; but if you speak
against father, I greatly fear I can't. Please, for the sake of my
mother, be nice to father.'
'I mean to be nice to every one, child. I have come here for the
purpose. You certainly have a look of your mother. You have got her
eyes, for instance.'
'Oh yes, her eyes and her chin and the roses in the cheeks,' said
Jasmine. 'Father calls me the comfort of his life. No one ever, ever
said I was ugly before, Aunt Agnes.'
'I perceive that you are an exceedingly vain little girl; but that will
be soon knocked out of you.'
'How?' asked Jasmine.
'When my dear friend, Mrs Macintyre, starts her noble school.'
'School!' said Jasmine, turning a little pale. 'But father says he
will never allow any of us to go to school.'
'He will do what _I_ wish in this matter. Dear, dear, what a dreary
room, so large, and only half-furnished! No wonder poor Lucy died
here. She was a timid little thing. She probably died in the very bed
that you are putting me into--so thoughtless--so unkind.'
'It isn't thoughtless or unkind, Aunt Agnes, for father sleeps in the
bed where mother died, and in the room where she died. But now I hear
the boys all arriving. The water in this jug is nice and hot, and here
are fresh towels, and Magsie'----
'Who is Magsie?'
'She's a maid; if you ring that bell just there, she 'll come to you,
and unpack your trunks. By the way, what a lot of trunks you have
brought, Aunt Agnes! I thought you were only coming for a couple of
days.'
'Polite, I must say,' remarked Miss Delacour.
'We all thought it,' remarked Jasmine, 'for, you see, you would not
come to darling mother's funeral--that _did_ hurt father so awfully.'
'I could not get away. I was helping the sick. It was a case of
cataract,' said Miss Delacour. 'I had to hold her hand while the
operation went on, otherwise she might have been blind for life. Would
you take away a living, breathing person's sight because of senseless
clay?'
Jasmine marched out of the room.