It is just as I feared. The trouble is in my right knee, so stiff that
I can scarcely bend it, and exceedingly painful. Cecilia calls it 'a
touch of rheumatism.'
'Indeed,' I said, 'it's a pretty secure grasp, not a touch; were I
what is called a _danseuse_, my livelihood would be gone, but
mercifully I don't need to dance.'
Cecilia laughed; she thinks nothing of any illness but neuralgia.
'We must leave this place very soon,' said I, 'and return to Tunbridge
Wells; life here is fit only for cannibals.'
In the morning it was impossible for me to come down to breakfast, but
with great difficulty I dragged myself downstairs about eleven. I felt
it my duty to the son of an old friend to seek an opportunity for
quietly speaking my mind to Sir Archibald about Miss Pomeroy, so
decided to do it at once. I found them together, as usual, in the
coffee-room. The girl was looking pale; she is beginning to be afraid
that her arts are in vain.
Sir Archibald was standing beside her, looking very much bored. She
made some excuse, and left the room soon after I had come in.
'I hope you are not the worse of your adventure in the motor, Mrs.
MacGill,' Sir Archibald began.
'Thank you,' said I, sitting down close to him. 'I am, a good deal. My
right knee is excessively painful, and I have a very strange buzzing
in the head.'
'Ah, you are not accustomed to the motor; it's all habit.'
'I am _not_ accustomed to a motor, Sir Archibald,' said I, 'nor am I
accustomed to the ways of young women nowadays,--_young ladies_ we
used to be called when I was a girl, but I feel that the phrase is
quite inapplicable to a person like Miss Pomeroy.'
'"Young woman" is better, perhaps,' he said, I thought with a smile.
'No lady,' I continued, 'when _I_ was young, would talk like that or
act like that.' 'A sweet face shrinking under a cottage bonnet' (as
Mr. MacGill used to say) 'is better than any tulip.'
Sir Archibald smiled again, and seemed about to leave the room, but I
asked him to be so good as to hold a skein of wool for me. I had
brought down my knitting, so he sat down to hold it, looking rather
annoyed.
I continued firmly, 'There is a freedom--I should almost say a
licence--about American women and their ways--'
'You have dropped your ball,' he said; and when he had returned it to
me, he began to try to change the subject by remarking about the
weather.
'It is,' I said, 'extremely cold, as it has always been ever since I
came here, but, as I was saying, there is something about Miss
Pomeroy's singing--'
Here he bent his head so low that I was unable to see his face, and
stretched my wool so tight that I fear my next socks will be spoiled;
it was three-ply merino, and very soft.
'She sings,' I went on without taking any notice of the wool, 'in a
way that I feel sure poor Mr. MacGill would have considered
indecorous. I was a musician myself as a girl, and used to sing with
much expression. "She Wore a Wreath of Roses" was a great favourite. I
always expected to be asked to repeat it. I remember on one occasion
when I came to--
"A sombre widow's cap adorns
Her once luxuriant hair,"
a gentleman who stood by the piano--he was a widower--was obliged to
turn away. But that was quite a different matter from the kind of
expression that Miss Pomeroy puts into things. It's not proper. I
must speak plainly to you, and say it is almost passionate, though I
dislike to use the word.
"When I am dead, my dearest--"
Are these words for the drawing-room? You are pulling my skein rather
tight, Sir Archibald. It stretches so easily, and these light wools
require such care.
"And dreaming through the twilight
Haply I may remember, and haply may forget."
Remember _what_? forget _what_? The inquiry rises unbidden. Just ask
yourself if these are words for the lips of any young woman--far less
a young _lady_.'
Here Sir Archibald coughed so violently that he had to let go my wool
(which got all tangled) and stand up.
'Excuse me,' he interrupted, 'but I have promised to speak with
Johnson about something--'
'I won't detain you more than a minute,' I interrupted, 'only just to
say a word of warning to the son of an old friend. Foreigners who
speak our own language are the worst of all. O Sir Archibald, your
grandmother was Scotch, your mother was Scotch before you were born,
and all your good aunts too. I must warn you that if you let this
American girl, this Miss Pomeroy, succeed in her attempt--'
'Mrs. MacGill,' he exclaimed, 'I cannot allow you to use Miss
Pomeroy's name to me in this way.'
'Very well,' said I, 'but if you do not take my advice and beware,
Miss Pomeroy will have no name to mention, for she will be Lady
Maxwell Mackenzie, and you will be a miserable man with an American
wife.'
He muttered something, I couldn't say what; the word 'Jove' was
mentioned, and there was some allusion to 'an old cat.' I failed to
see the connection, for no one could call Miss Pomeroy 'old,' whatever
she is; then without a word of apology he left the room. Young men,
even baronets, have no manners nowadays. Mr. MacGill's were courtly;
he never used one word where two would do, and bowed frequently to
every lady, often apologising most profusely when there was no
occasion for it.