The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not to
get mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-Power
Standard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. Miss
Priscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole and
John Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in the _Telegraph_
upset Madeline. How she failed in her mission,
but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady Betty
Dusters's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs and
went to sleep in an arm-chair, and of a curious experience
she had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia.
Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of The
Dust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumnia
did not lose her train.
"_Why_ do you want the carriage, darling?"
"To call on a lady somewhere near Richmond, or
Combe, I think it is."
"Won't it do to-morrow?"
"Not so well as to-day."
"Then I suppose you _must_ have it, darling."
"Not if you want it, Mumsey!" The speaker
got the head of the person she addressed in Chancery,
to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as a
fulcrum.
Lady Upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said,
"Take care, Mad dear; you'll spoil my _ruche_ and
put your eyes out." So her daughter released her,
and sat at her feet. She had on her tussore in
saxe-blue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as pretty
as ever, and as sad.
"_Who_ is it you want to go and see, darling?"
said her ladyship.
"That Mrs. Aiken," said Madeline.
"Oh," said her mother, "but isn't she rather?" But
Madeline shook her head, with her eyes very
wide open, and kept on shaking it all the while as
she replied, "Oh no, she's not rather at all. It was
all her husband." Whereupon her mother said,
"Oh--it was her husband, was it?" and put back
a loose lock of hair on her daughter's forehead that
was getting in her eyes.
This wasn't at Surley Stakes. The family had
come up to Eaton Place for a week or ten days.
And these ladies were sitting in a small jury
drawing-room that did duty on flying visits. The real
drawing-room was all packed up, and must have
been rather savage when the family came to town,
yet left it _in statu quo_. And very savage indeed
with Madeline, who was begging to be allowed to
stop in the country and not come to town this
season at all. Indeed, she would have had her way,
had not her father said that come she must, to see
the new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking of
purchasing, whose owner was willing to lend them
for a few days on trial, but only on condition that
they should not be taken away from London. So
the family coachman had accompanied the family,
in a certain sense clandestinely. It is needless to
tell anyone who knows, that of course these ladies
were themselves only theoretically in town, with
those shutters all up.
Madeline helped to get the lock of hair back,
remarking, "It always does," without an antecedent.
It was a pity there was no one there--mothers
don't count--to see how pretty her wrist looked,
with the blue veins in it, as she did so. She
continued talking about that Mrs. Aiken, but
semi-apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wanting
to see that Mrs. Aiken.
Her mother attempted to rationalise and formulate
her daughter's position. "I _can't_ understand,
dear child," she said. "You only saw this lady that
one time, and only for a few minutes then. What
makes you want to see her again? She doesn't
seem to have produced a--a favourable impression
exactly."
"N-n-not very!" is the reply; the prolonged
initial conveying the speaker's hesitation to
condemn. "But it isn't that."
"What isn't it, child?"
"What she's like. It's because I went there with Jack."
"I see, dear." But it isn't so very clear that her
ladyship does see. For she adds:--"I quite understand.
Of course. Yes!" in a tone which seems
to invite further explanation.
Her daughter at least puts this interpretation on
it. "Don't you see, Mumsey dear?" she says.
"It's because I recollect me and Jack, and her
and her husband, all talking together in that muddle
of a Studio, and the lay-figure with its head on
backwards. They seem to come into it somehow." The
further particulars are slight, one would say,
but they carry conviction, for her mother says, "I
understand that, but can you do any good?" as if
the substratum of a debatable point might be
considered settled. Madeline goes on, encouraged to
confidence. "I think _perhaps_. Because those Baxes
we met..."
"Those _whats_?" her ladyship interrupts; adding,
however, "Oh. I see--it's a name! Go on."
"A grim big one and a little rather jolly one.
That evening at Lady Presteign's. The grim big
one talked about it to me in a corner, because her
sister's too young to know about such things--only
she's nearly my age, and I don't see why--and told
me she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrel
about a horrible maidservant, who was quite out
of the question. And of course this Miss Bax
doesn't know what _we_ know."
"My darling Madeline!" A large amused maternal
smile irradiates the speaker. "_Know_! What
a funny child you are!"
"Well. Mumsey, don't we know, or as good as
know? Do you really think Uncle Christopher
made all that up? _I_ don't."
"It was the action of his brain, my dear, not his
own doing at all! Let me see--what's it
called?--something ending in _ism_."
"Hypnotism?"
"No! Oh dear, I shall remember directly...."
"Mesmerism?"
"No, no!--do be quiet and let me think...."
"Vegetarianism?"
"You silly girl! I had just got it, and you put
it out of my head ... There! ... Stop! ... No! ... Yes--_I've_
got it. _Unconscious Cerebration_! How
on earth did I manage to forget that? Unconscious
Cerebration, of course!"
"But it doesn't end in _ism_. It ends in _ation_."
"Never mind, child! Anyhow, I _have_ recollected
it, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say.
Don't let's forget it again." To Lady Upwell this
world was a theatre, and the name of the piece was
Society. She was always on the sweetest terms
with the Management, and her benevolence to the
worn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt.
Still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it.
"Unconscious Cerebration" was useful gag. "But,"
said she, returning to the main point, "I don't see
what you can _do_, child."
"No more do I, Mumsey dear. But I may be
able to do something for all that. I should like to
try, anyhow. I'm sure the picture was right.
Besides, see what that Miss Bax said. You may
say what you like, but she _is_ Mrs. Aiken's first
cousin, after all!"
"No doubt she's right, dear! And no doubt the
picture's right." Her ladyship retires with the
dignity of one withdrawing herself from mundane
matters, Olympuswards. But one can never touch
pitch and not be defiled. Some has clung to her,
for she adds absently, "I wonder where Thyrza
Presteign picks up all these odd people." In the
end she forsakes speculation to say, "Of course
have the carriage, darling; I don't see that any harm
can come of it. Only don't get mixed up."
"_I_ won't get mixed up," says Miss Upwell
confidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, for
granting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest.
She for the tenth of a second associates the two
kisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it.
She loves horses very much, and gives them too
much sugar. If any tongue's tip is ready with a
denial of the possibility of such an impression as
this, it only shows that the tongue's owner has not
had a similar experience. The kisses were cash
down for each horse--does that make it clearer?
Anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly next
day on a frosty road, going south-westwards, as
soon as they left the traffic--that road-spoiler--far
enough behind. The sun had taken a mean advantage
of its being such a glorious day, to get at
nice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess.
But there were many havens of security still where
what was blown snow-dust in the early morning
might still have a little peace and quiet, and wait
with resignation for inevitable thaw.
Such a one was--or had been--on a low window-sill
of the Cheshire Cheese, behind the horse-trough
which the steaming greys suggested they should
empty, but were only allowed to sample. _Had
been_, because of a boy. A boy is a reason for so
many things in this world. This one, a very nice
specimen, coming, well-informed, from a Gothic
school near by, was showing how indifferent
chubbiness can be to chilblains, by manipulating the snow
on this window-sill in the manufacture of two
snowballs, of which one was complete. His was a
Two Power Standard, evidently.
"Ask that little boy where this place is," says
Miss Upwell, from inside furs; because the carriage-lid
is set back by request, and the rider is convinced
of cold, but won't give in on principle. "He's a
native, and ought to know. Ask him, James."
"Where's Athabasca Villa, young un? ... Don't
believe he knows, Miss."
"Where's Athabasca Villa, little man? ... Don't
you know? Well--where does Miss Priscilla Bax live?"
"Oh--I know _she_! Over yarnder." A
vigorous illumination speaks to the force of Miss
Priscilla Bax's identity. "Over yonder" is, however,
vague; and you may have eyes like sloes, and crisp
curly brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet have
very small powers of indicating complex routes
past Daddy's--not otherwise described--and round
to the left, and along to the right, and by Farmer
Phipps's barn, and so on. But this is a young
gentleman of resource, and he has a suggestion
ready: "You let I royd up behind, and _I'll_ poyunt
out where to drive." The lady accedes to this
proposal, though James is evidently uneasy lest a
precedent should be established. "Let him ride
behind--he won't do any harm--" says Madeline,
between whom and this youth a bond of sympathy
forges itself unexpectedly. It might have been
more judicious to deprive him of ammunition.
For the Two Power Standard, in his case, seemed
to involve a Policy of Aggression. His first
snowball was aimed too low; and though it struck its
object, the Incumbent of the Parish, that gentleman
only laughed. The second landed neatly under the
back-hair of a stout lady, and probably went down
her back behind, as her indignation found voice
proportionate to such a result. Miss Upwell--to
her shame be it spoken--pretended not to see or
hear; refusing, Gallio-like, to listen--but in this
case to Gentiles--and saying to James, "Please
don't stop, James--go on quick."
The infant was, however, as good as his undertaking,
conducting the carriage intelligently to
Athabasca Villa, and taking an unfair advantage
of permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact,
detached from it with some difficulty. He seemed
surprised and pleased at the receipt of a _douceur_, and
danced.
"Oh dear!" said poor Madeline to herself, as she
heard him die away, with some friends he met, in
the distance. "How Jack would have liked that
boy!" There was to be no Jack, it seemed, now!
Mrs. Aiken, at one of the bays that flanked the
doorway of Athabasca Villa, looked out upon the
top and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in a
chill purple mist, and waited for tea. Tea waited
to be made, like Eve when she was a rib. But with
a confidence based on precedent; for Tea was made
every day at the same time, which Eve wasn't.
Besides, Miss Priscilla Bax made tea, and wouldn't
let anyone else make it. Not that there appears to
be any suggestion in the story of Eve that there was
ever any talk of underletting the job.
Miss Priscilla Bax had a cap out of last century,
about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which had
to be kept entirely out of the tea. These ribbons
had no function or practical object, though an
imaginative mind might have ascribed to them that,
being alike on both sides, they helped the sense of
equilibrium necessary to safe conduct of the
unmade tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whose
lid wouldn't keep up, to a black Rockingham
teapot, which did for when there was no one.
Only, this time there _was_ someone--some carriage
one--and his, her, or its approach caused
Mrs. Aiken to exclaim, "Good gracious, Aunty, I'm
afraid it's people!"
Miss Priscilla was watching the tap of the urn
run--her phrase, not ours. "How many?" said she.
Then dialogue worked out as follows:
"I think I see who it is."
"How many?"
"Only one. I fancy it's that Miss What's-her-name.
I wish it wasn't. It's too late to say not
at home. She's seen me at the window. But
you'll have to put in another heaped-up spoonful.
Whenever will they stop ringing that bell?"
At this point presumably the mercenary was
strangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added,
"Yes, it's her. She's talking to a boy. What on
earth has brought her here? I shall go."
"You can't. You've been seen. Don't be a
fool. Who do you mean by 'her'?"
"Oh--_you_ know! Miss Upsley Pupsley of Curly
something. That place in Worcestershire the
picture was to go to. _You_ know! They've a house
in Eaton Square."
"_Then_ we must have the silver teapot, and I
shall have to make fresh tea." The house in Eaton
Square settled that. A hurried aside caused the
appearance of the silver teapot in all its glory, and
a new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle of
water at par.
Thereupon Miss Upwell found herself within
reach--academically speaking--of talking with this
Mrs. Aiken of that lady's private domestic
dissensions. But, oh, the impossibility of it! Madeline
felt it now, too late. Even getting to speak of the
subject at all seemed hopeless. And in another
moment she became horribly aware that she was
inexplicable--couldn't account for her visit at all.
Still, she had too much grit in her to dream of giving
in. And then, look at the motive! Besides, she
had in her heart a strong suspicion that she was a
beauty, and that that was why people always gave
way to her. Her beauty was of no use, now that
Jack was gone. Nothing being of any use to her,
now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to a
fellow-woman in tribulation. If this picture-ghost--so
she said to herself--had told this Mrs. Aiken
where Jack was, would _she_ not come and tell, on
the chance? Of course she would! Courage!
The most terrifying obstacle in her path was
Aunt Priscilla. If this lady had been the
inoffensive tabby Madeline's wish had been father to
her thought of, she could have been treated as a
negligible factor. But what is to be done when
your Aunt, living under an impression that in early
life she mixed in circles, recognises your distinguished
young friend as having emerged from a circle. This
way of putting the case transfers the embarrassment
from Miss Upwell to Mrs. Aiken. Probably that
lady felt it, and wished Aunt Priscilla wouldn't go
on so. The fact is she was getting curious to know
the reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance.
There _must_ be _some_ reason.
It lost its opportunity of being divulged at the
outset. The visitor's parade of the utter indefensibility
of her intrusion, and her fib--for a fib it was
in the spirit, however true in the letter--that she
"was in the neighbourhood" worked on the
imagination, and made the position plausible.
Mrs. Aiken dropped all attempts to look amiably
surprised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation,
and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollection
of Miss Upwell's visit to the Studio. Of course
she was delighted to see her, on any terms. But
the reason of her coming could get no chance of a
hearing, when the first flush of conversation had
once failed to give it an opening. Miss Priscilla's
extraction had to be reckoned with.
If only that appalling old lady had not been there,
or would even have been content to play second
fiddle! But as soon as she heard the name of the
village of Grewceham in Worcestershire mentioned
as the nearest township to Surley Stakes, she
identified that county as the cradle of her race,
saying, "WE came from Sampford Plantagenet, I
believe," in a tone suggestive of remote epochs, and
considerable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishing
into the mists of antiquity. "But my mother's
family," she added, "were all Brocks, of Sampford
Pagnell."
Madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could go
no farther than to believe, as an abstract truth,
that there were still Brocks in Sampford Pagnell;
speaking of them rather as if they ran away when
seen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns.
She could not do any Baxes at Sampford Plantagenet.
However, her father would know the name
Bax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirred
by it like the war-horse in Job at the sound of
battle. This anticipation was founded solely on
his daughter's desire to fill out the order for Baxes.
Miss Priscilla always preferred to pour the tea
herself, not without a certain Imperial suggestion
in the preference. Vespasian would have insisted
on pouring out the tea, under like circumstances.
But the tea, when poured, brought with it no
clue to the cause of Miss Upwell's visit. It had
furnished a certain amount of relief, during its
negotiation, by postponing discussion of the point,
and by the claim it made for a chapter to itself.
For a short chapter of your life-story begins when
you get your tea, and ends when you've done your
tea. When Madeline had ceased to be able to
pretend that this chapter had not ended, her
suspended sense of incomprehensibility cropped up
again, and she grew painfully aware that her
hostesses would soon begin waiting visibly for
enlightenment, which she was no nearer being able
to give than at first. How could she have guessed
it would be so difficult? She was even conscious
of gratitude to Miss Priscilla for her persistency
in Atavism, and at heart hoped that the good lady
would not stop just yet.
No fear of that! The Brocks were not nearly
over, and they had to be disposed of before the
Baxes could be taken in hand. Their exponent
picked them up where she had dropped them. "My
Mother's family," she resumed, "were well known
during the Middle Ages. There were Brocks in
Sampford Pagnell as early as fourteen hundred and
four. They are even said to have been connected
with John of Gaunt. Unhappily all the family
documents, including an autograph letter of Alice
Piers to Edward the Black Prince, were destroyed
in the Great Fire of London." On lines like these,
as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a very
long time without the pursuer's hobby breaking
down. It went on long enough in this case for
Madeline to wish she could get a chance of utilising
some courage she had been slowly mustering during
the chase. This being hardly mature yet, she took
another cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplying
little notes of exclamation and pleased surprise
whenever the manner of the narrator seemed to
call for them.
"It seems only the other day," Aunt Priscilla
continued, with her eyes half-closed to express
memory at work upon the past, "that I was taken
as a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother,
then in her hundredth year. She was a friend of
Horace Walpole. _Her_ mother could remember John
Bunyan."
"Is it possible!" said Madeline, very shaky about
dates, but ready with any amount of wonderment.
She added idiotically, "Of _course_ my father must
have known _all_ your people, _quite_ well." Which
did not follow from the apparent premisses.
Mrs. Aiken muttered in a warning voice, for her
visitor's ear only, "When Aunt gets on her
grandmother she never gets off. You'll see!" She took
advantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up a
running comment.
Miss Priscilla then approached a subject which
required to be handled with the extremest delicacy.
"I think, Euphemia," she said, "that after so long a
time there can be no objection ... You know what
I am referring to?"
"Objection?--why should there be? Oh yes, _I_
know. Horace Walpole and your great-grandmother.
No--none!" To Madeline Mrs. Aiken said
in an undertone, "I told you how it would be." That
young lady affected a lively interest in scandal
against Queen Elizabeth, which was what she
anticipated.
"I myself," said Aunt Priscilla, in the leisurely
way of a lecturer who has secured an audience,
"have always held to the opinion that there was a
marriage, but what the motives may have been for
concealing it can only be conjectured...."
This was too leisurely for her niece's patience.
It provoked a species of _sotto voce_ abstract of her
Aunt's coming statement thus, "Oh yes--do get
on! You cannot otherwise understand how so
rigid an observer of moral law as your great-grandfather,
however lamentable his religious tenets may
have been, could have brought himself to marry
the widow. _Do_ get _on_!" Which proved to be the
substance of the original, as soon as the latter was
published. But it certainly got over the ground
quicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post,
arriving almost before the other horse started.
"This," resumed Aunt Priscilla, after a small
blank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if so
disposed, "was some considerable time before his
accession to the Earldom. The only clue that has
been suggested as a motive for concealment of the
marriage was his unaccountable aversion to the
title, which he could scarcely have indulged if
... There's a knock. Do see if it's the Tapleys, and
don't let them go." Mrs. Aiken rose and went out,
reciting rapidly another forecast, "He-never-took-
his-seat-in-the-House-of-Lords-and-signed-his-
letters-'the-Uncle-of-the-late-Earl-of-Orford.' She'll
have done that by the time I'm back," as she
left the room. Miss Upwell felt a little resentment
at this lady's treatment of her Aunt. After all, is
not man an Atavistic animal? Is not
ancestor-worship the oldest of religions?
It _was_ the Tapleys, if Madeline had not heard
the name wrong; who had already had tea with the
Outstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation.
But she may easily have got both names wrong.
She thought she saw a chance of speaking with the
niece by herself, and at any rate appointing a
counter-visit before she went back to the Stakes, if
she cut her own short before she became involved
with the Tapleys, as might happen; and that would
be fatal, she felt. So she suddenly perceived that
she must not keep the greys standing in the cold,
and got past the incoming Tapleys, who seemed to
be in mourning for the human race, as far as clothes
went; but not sorry at all, if you came to that.
She had failed, and must give up the object of her
visit, and acknowledge defeat. And, oh dear, how
late it was!
She could, however, get a word or two with the
niece before departing, unless that young woman
consigned her to a servant and fled back to her
Tapleys, who were shouting about how late they
were, as if they had distinguished themselves.
However, Mrs. Aiken had evidently no such
intention, but, for some reason, very much the
contrary.
The reason came out as soon as the door shut the
shouters in, leaving her and her visitor in the
passage, with a cap and a white apron hanging on
their outskirts, ready for prompt action.
First Mrs. Aiken said, "I am afraid Aunt must
have bored you dreadfully, Miss Upwell. She and
her family! Oh dear!"
Madeline answered rather stiffly: "It was very
interesting. I enjoyed listening." For she would
have been better pleased with this young person if
she had taken her Aunt's part. Her own mother
prosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herself
never tried to silence her.
However, her displeasure melted when Mrs. Aiken--having
told the cap it needn't wait; she would
call--coloured and hesitated, and wanted to say
something.
"Yes," said Madeline.
"I was--was so grieved--to see about your
friend.... Oh dear!--perhaps I oughtn't to talk
about it...."
Miss Upwell felt she had to be dignified. After
all she and Jack were _not_ engaged. "You mean
Captain Calverley, Mrs. Aiken," said she. "We
are hoping now--I mean his family are hoping--to
hear from him every day. But, of course, they
are--we all are--_very_ anxious."
Mrs. Aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face,
seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting a
good-bye shake. Then she said, very hesitatingly,
"I--I didn't know--is there a hope? I only see
the _Telegraph_." Then, an instant after, she saw
her mistake. She might at least have had the sense
to say nothing about the _Telegraph_.
Madeline felt her colour come and go, and her
heart getting restless. "A hope? Oh _dear_,
yes!" How bravely she said it! "You know there is no
proof whatever of his..." But she could not say
"death."
"Oh no--no proof, of course! ... I should be
so glad ... I suppose they only meant..."
All Madeline's courage was in the voice that
succeeded in saying, "Dear Mrs. Aiken, do tell me
what was said. I dare say it was all nonsense. The
newspapers get all sorts of stories."
Mrs. Aiken would have given something to be
allowed to say no more about it. She stumbled a
good deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder.
She really couldn't be positive. Quite as likely as
not the paragraph might have referred to someone
else. She was far from sure, after all, that the
name wasn't Silverton. Yes, it certainly was,
Major Silverton--that was it!
"You are only saying that," said Madeline,
gently but firmly, "to make my mind easy. It is
kind--but--but you had better tell me now.
Haven't you got the _Telegraph_? I can buy one, of
course, on my way home. But I would much rather
know now."
Mrs. Aiken saw no way of keeping it back. "It's
in here--the _Telegraph_" said she. That is, it was
in the parlour opposite to the one they had left.
There it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print,
was the statement of its correspondent at Something-fontein
or other, that all hopes were now given up
of the reappearance of Captain Calverley, who had
been missing since the action at Burghersdrift, as
some of his accoutrements had been found in the
river below Kroondorp, and it was now looked upon
as certain that he was drowned shortly after the
action.
Madeline knew quite well that she had in herself
an ample store of fortitude if only she could get a
fair chance to exercise it. But a horrible sort of
ague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teeth
and spoiled her speech. It would go off directly,
and she would be able to know practically, as she
now did theoretically, that it was no use paying
attention to any newspaper correspondence. She
would soon get right in the air. If this Mrs. Aiken
would only have the sense to see that what she
wanted was to get away and have herself to herself
until at least her teeth stopped chattering! But
instead of that the tiresome young woman must
needs say, "Oh dear, you look so ill! Shan't I get
you something?" Which was silly, because what on
earth could she have got, except brandy, or some
such horror?
Madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing to
say that she would be all right directly, but really
saying, "I shall be reckly." Collapse into a
proffered chair enabled her to add, "Leave me alone--it's
nothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut.
Nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off; and by the
time Mrs. Aiken--who felt that some remedy _must_
be exhibited, for the honour of the house--had got
at one through an emissary, she was able to meet it
half-way. "Oh yes--eau-de-Cologne, please! It's
always delightful!" Whereat Mrs. Aiken felt proud
and successful, and Madeline mopped her forehead,
feeling better.
But she must get away now as quick as possible.
Her card-castle had collapsed. And, indeed, she
felt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning.
So far from being able to produce her ghost, or
whatever it could be called, in extenuation of this
young lady's reprobate husband, she had not seen
her way to mentioning him at all, even under a
pretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as a
last resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrel
with his wife and their separation. It might have
brought him on the tapis, with a successful result.
There was no chance now, even if she had felt at her
best. And here she was, morally crippled by a severe
shock! For though, of course, she was not going
to pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severe
shock all the same.
So she gathered herself up to say good-bye, and
with profusest gratitude for the eau-de-Cologne
departed. And Mrs. Aiken, after watching the
brisk start of the greys, and thinking how bored
they must have been, went slowly back into the
house, to wonder what on earth could have brought
an up-to-date young lady out of the Smart Set to
such an unpretending mansion as Athabasca Villa.
She wondered also whether those interminable
Tapleys were going to talk like that till seven
o'clock, and would Aunt P. go and ask them to
stay to supper? Very likely! And she would have
to be civil to them all the evening, she supposed.
Reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner of
the mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end;
to prevent very short people falling over sideways,
presumably. What she saw made her say, "What's
this, Anne?"
"Which, Ma'am?" said Anne. "Perhaps the
Missis knows."
This thing was inside brown paper, and rectangular.
The corners were hard, but the middle
clicketted. Probably a _passe-partout_. At least, it
could be nothing else. So if it wasn't a _passe-partout_,
it was non-suited, _quoad_ existence. Mrs. Aiken
opened the drawing-room door, meeting a
gust of the Tapleys, both speaking at once. It didn't
matter. Aunt Priscilla heard all the plainer for a
noise. There certainly was one.
Her niece said, through it, "Have you ordered a
photograph, Aunty?" No, no photograph had been
ordered. "Then I shall have to look at it, to see
what it is," said Mrs. Aiken. The Tapleys
sanctioned and encouraged this course, with loud
shouts. And it really is a capital step to take when
you want to find out what a thing is, to look at it
and see.
It was a photograph, and was recognised at once
by Mrs. Aiken as a copy from the Surley Stakes
picture. It was a print of the photograph that
Madeline had sent a copy of to Mr. Aiken at the
Studio, a long time before. You remember how it
stood on the table while he talked with Mr. Hughes?
"I see," said Euphemia; "Miss Upwell must have
left it behind. We must get it back to her." And
she was proceeding to wrap it up again; not,
however, without seeing enough of it to be sure of
its identity.
But she was reckoning without her guests, who
pounced simultaneously on the back of the photograph,
crying out, "Stop!--it's written on. Read
behind." Whereupon it was read behind that this
photograph was for Mrs. Reginald Aiken, Athabasca
Villa, Coombe. "I suppose she brought it for me,"
said that lady, rather sulkily.
"Whatever she came for I can't make out," said
the niece to the Aunt after supper, and indeed after
the departure of the Tapleys. For Mrs. Aiken's
worst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they had
been invited to stay to supper and had done so
remorselessly.
The Aunt could throw no light on this sudden
appearance of Miss Upwell. "She has great charm
of manner," she said. "She reminds me a little of
the late Lady Betty Dusters. It is in the turn of
the chin." But Miss Bax's chin, cited in action to
confirm this turn, was unconvincing.
Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. "I
think the girl was going lengths in coming at all,"
she said. "After all, what did it amount to?
Just that she and this young soldier of hers came to
the Studio to see a picture. And supposing it did
happen on the day when Reginald behaved so
detestably with that horrible girl! Doesn't that
make it all the other way round?" She wished to
express that if Miss Upwell had come to know about
her quarrel with her husband, she should have kept
her distance the more on that account. But she
was not equal to the effort, and perhaps
acknowledged it when she said, "You know what I mean,
so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through,
like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, Miss
Upsley Pupsley would have shown better taste to
keep away, to _my_ thinking!"
"I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia,"
said the Aunt meekly.
"I didn't say I didn't," said the niece.
"Then I won't speak." Which resolve of Miss
Priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is
made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns
quite as much on the way it omits, as the way
it uses words. The younger lady's manner was
that of one in whom exasperation, produced by
unrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in check
by rare powers of self-control. That of the elder
indicated constitutional toleration of the waywardness
of near relations; who are, as we know, a
crotchety class. When one of these, in addition
to tapping with her foot and looking flushed and
ready to cry on small provocation, bites articles of
_virtu_, surely a certain amount of forbearance--an
irritating practice--is permissible.
"You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla.
"And it was a present from your great-uncle
John Bulstrode, when he came from India."
Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably,
because she knew, as you and I do, that when those
little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying
to stick them in again. But she said, "Bother the
paper-knife!" And for a few moments her soul
was content to find expression in foot-tapping and
lip-biting; while her Aunt forbore, and took up her
knitting.
Then she got up and paced about the room restlessly.
The lamp was going out, or wanted seeing
to. She turned it up; but if lamps are going out
for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and
only burns the wick away. They have to be
properly seen to. It was too late to be worth
putting fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do,
or for that matter, why not do without? The
firelight was much nicer.
Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the room
while Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire and
knitted. It was getting on for bedtime.
Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter.
"Aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almost
seemed to add, "Do talk to me and be sympathetic.
I'm quite reasonable now."
Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skipping
ratifications. "Certainly, my dear Euphemia,"
she said, with dignity.
"Do you know how long I've been here?"
Those who know how inconsequent daily familiarity
makes blood relations who live together, will
see nothing odd in Miss Priscilla's reply: "My
dear niece, listen to me, and do not interrupt.
What was the expression I used when you first
announced your engagement to Reginald? ... No--I
did not say it was a come-down...."
"Yes, you did."
"Afterwards perhaps, but _at first_, Euphemia?
Be candid. Did I, or did I not, use the expression,
'Artists are all alike?' ... I did? Very well!
And I said too--and you cannot deny it--that any
woman who married them did it with her eyes open,
and had only herself to thank for it. They are all
alike, and Reginald is no exception to the rule." At
this point Miss Priscilla may have had misgivings
about sustaining the performance, for she
ended abruptly on the dominant, "And then you
ask me if I know how long you have been here!"
"Because it's six months, Aunty--over six
months! Is it any wonder that I should ask?
Besides, when I first came I never _meant_ to stay.
I was going back when Reginald wrote that letter.
Fancy his daring to say there was no--what was
that he called it?--you know--'casus belli!' An
odious girl like that! And then to say if I
really believed it I ought to go into Court and swear
to things! How _could_ I, with that Sairah? Oh
dear--if it had only been a lady!--or even a decent
woman! Anything one could produce! But--Sairah!"
This young lady--mind you!--was only trying
to express a very common feeling, which, if you
happen to be a young married woman you will
probably recognize and sympathize with. Suppose
you were obliged to seek legal ratification of your
case against a faithless spouse, think how much
more cheerfully you would appear in court if the
opposition charmer was a Countess! Think how
grateful you would be if the culprits had made
themselves indictable in terms you could use, and
still know which way to look; if, for instance, they
had had the decency to reside at fashionable hotels
and pass themselves off as the Spenser Smyths, or
the Poole Browns. These are only suggestions, to
help your imagination. The present writer knows
no such persons. In fact, he made these names
out of his own head.
But--Sairah! Just fancy reading in the
_Telegraph_ that the petitioner complained of her
husband's misconduct with ... Oh--it would be
too disgusting for words! After all, she, the
petitioner, had a right to be considered a--she
detested the expression, but what on earth were
you to say?--LADY! What had she done that she
should be dragged down and degraded like that?
It had been Miss Priscilla's misfortune--as has
been hinted already--to contribute to the
prolongation of her niece's residence with her by the
lines on which she herself seemed to be seeking to
bring it to an end. Nothing irritated this injured
wife more than to be reminded of feminine
subordination to man as seen from an hierarchical
standpoint. So when her Aunt quoted St. Paul--under
the impression that extraordinary man's correspondence
so frequently produces, that she was
quoting His Master--her natural irritation at his
oriental views of the woman question only
confirmed her in her obduracy, and left her more
determined than ever in her resentment against a
husband who had read St. Paul very carelessly if
at all, and who took no interest in churches apart
from their Music and Architecture.
Therefore, when Aunt Priscilla responded to her
niece's exclamation, which has been waiting so long
for an answer, with her usual homily, it produced
its usual result. "I can only urge you, my dear
Euphemia, to turn your thoughts to the Words of
One who is Wiser than ourselves. It is no use
your saying it's only Colossians. Besides, it's
Ephesians too. The place where it occurs is
absolutely unimportant. 'Wives, submit yourselves
to your husbands, as it is fit in the Lord.' Those
are The Words." Miss Priscilla handled her
capitals impressively. The music stopped on a
majestic chord, and her rebellious niece was cowed
for the moment. Not to disturb the effect, the old
lady, having lighted her own bedroom candle,
kissed her benedictionally, with a sense of doing it
in Jacobean English--or should we say Jacobean
silence?--corresponding thereto, and left her,
accepting as valid a promise to follow shortly.
But there was a comfortable armchair still making,
before a substantial amount of fire, its mute appeal,
"Sit down in me." The fire added, "Do, and I'll
roast you for twenty minutes more at least." It
said nothing about chilblains, but it must have
known. Mrs. Aiken acted on its advice, and sat
looking at it, and listening to an intermittent volcano
in one of its corners.
The volcano was flagging, subject to recrudescence--for
a certain latitude has to be given to Derby
Brights and Wombwell Main--before Mrs. Aiken
released her underlip, bitten as a counter-irritant to
Scripture precepts. Aunt Priscey _was_ trying! But,
then, how good she was! Where on earth would
she, Euphemia Aiken, have gone to look for an
anchorage, if it hadn't been for Aunt Priscey? She
calmed down slowly, and Colossians died away in
the soothing ripple of the volcano.
But the fire was hot still, and she wanted a screen.
She took the first thing her hand lighted on. It
was the photograph. It would do. But she hated
the sight of it when the volcano made a spurt, and
set the shadows dancing over the whole room. She
turned it away from her towards the fire, to see the
blank back only, and calm down in the stillness,
unexasperated.
Presently, for some reason, it became irksome to
hold it up. But it must be kept between her face
and the fire. She let it fall forward on her face, still
half holding it, and listened to the volcano. She
could sit and think about things, and not go to
sleep. Of course she could. It would never do to
spoil her night's rest.
Was it really six whole months since she quarrelled
with Reginald? She recited the months to make
herself believe them actual, and failed. It did not
really matter, though, how long it was. If Reginald
had been ill, she could have gone back any time,
and without any sacrifice of pride. Aunt Priscey
would have found out a text, proving it a Christian
duty more than ever. A little seductive drama
crept through her mind, in which Reginald, smitten
with some disorder of a good practicable sort for the
piece--not a dangerous or nasty one, you know!--had
put all his pride in his pocket, and written a
letter humbly begging her forgiveness; acknowledging
his weakness, his evil behaviour, and acquitting
her of the smallest trace of unreasonable punctilio.
It was signed, "Your lonely husband, Reginald
Hay," that being a form domestic pleasantry in the
past had sanctioned. Something choked in her
throat over this touching episode of her own creation.
But it dispersed obsequiously when at a moment's
notice--in her dream, you understand; dreamt as in
the middle of dinner, to establish self-sacrifice as her
portion--she started and arrived in time to save
Reginald from a sinister nurse, whose elimination
made an important passage in the drama. She
got as far as the commencement of a letter to her
Aunt, describing this achievement. At this point
drowsiness got the better of her, presumably. For
her imaginary pen became tangible, and her paper
was beautiful, only it was stamped "At Aunt's,"
which seemed absurd. And she could only write
the words "My pride," which seemed more so.
Then she woke, or seemed to wake, with a start,
saying aloud, to no one, "This will never do; I
shall spoil my night's rest." But on the very edge
of her waking someone had said, in her dream, in
a sort of sharp whisper, "Perhaps it is." And it
was this voice that had waked her. She found it
hard to believe that an outside voice had not spoken
into her dream. But no one was there, and had the
room been full of folk, none of them could have read
the words on her dream-paper. And to her half-awake
mind it seemed that "Perhaps it is" could
only apply to what she had succeeded in writing.
However, there can be no doubt that, at this moment,
she believed herself fully awake.
Later she had reason to doubt it. Or rather, she
became convinced of the contrary by the subsequent
course of events, which need not be anticipated now.
During what followed, one would say that she must
have had misgivings that she was dreaming. But
she seems not to have had many or strong ones;
although she may have made use of the expression,
"I could hardly believe I was awake," as a mere
phrase of wonderment--just as you or I have used
it before now. For when next day she described
this experience to her cousin Volumnia, who had
been much in her confidence during these last
months, who said to her, "Of course, you _were_ asleep,
because that is the only way of accounting for it
reasonably," her reply was, "Then we shall have to
account for it _un_reasonably, because I _was_ awake."
"Well--go on, and tell," was the reply. This
cousin Volumnia, the elder sister of that little
monkey Jessie, was of course the grim big Miss Bax
Miss Upwell had met at Lady Presteign's; and, as
we have seen, she was a very determined person,
one who would stand no nonsense. "Start from
where the voice woke you, Cousin Euphemia," said
she. She shut her eyes, and frowned, so as to listen
judicially.
"I _laid_ the _pho_tograph _on_ the _ta_ble," said Mrs. Aiken,
with circumflex accents over every other
syllable, which is how to tell things clearly. But
Miss Volumnia said, "You needn't pounce. I can
hear." So she became normal. "I was absolutely
certain there was no one else in the room. And
everything seemed as usual; not the least like a
dream. But for all that ... you won't believe me,
Volumnia..."
"Very likely. Go on!"
"For all that I heard a voice--the same voice
that waked me up...."
"Of course! You were still asleep. _I_ know.
Go on! What did the voice say?"
"No, I won't go on at all, Volumnia, if you're
going to be nasty."
"Oh yes, do go on. I'm greatly interested. But
you must remember that we hear thousands of these
things every week at the Psychomorphic. We
had a very interesting case only the other day.
A man heard a dog barking.... However, go on."
"Very well, only you mustn't interrupt. What
was I saying? ... Oh yes--the voice! I heard it
quite distinctly, only very small.... Nonsense!--you
know quite well what I mean.... What did it
say? What I _heard_ was, 'Hold me up, and let me
look at you.' Now I know, my dear Volumnia, you
will say I am making it improbable on purpose...."
"Not at all, my dear Euphemia! The case is
commoner than you suppose, even when the subject
is wide awake. Please tell it _exactly_ as you recollect
it. Soften nothing." The implication was that
Psychomorphism would know how much to take,
and how much to reject.
"I am telling it exactly as it happened. It said..."
"What said?"
"The picture said."
"The picture! Oh, we hadn't come to that.
Now what does that mean? The picture said!"
"Volumnia!--IF you interrupt I can't tell it at
all. Do let me go on my own way."
"Yes--perhaps that _will_ be better. I can
analyse afterwards."
"Well--the voice seemed to come from the
picture--the photo, I mean. It said quite unmistakably,
but in a tiny voice, 'Pick me up, and let
me look at you.'..."
"You said 'hold' before. Now it's 'pick.'"
"Really, Cousin Volumnia, I declare I won't go
on unless...."
"All right--all right! I'll be good." A little
pause came here owing to Mrs. Aiken stipulating for
guarantees. A _modus vivendi_ was found, and she
continued,
"I did as the voice said, and held the picture up,
looking at it. I can't imagine how I came to take
it so coolly. But you know, Volumnia, how it is
when a perfect stranger speaks to you in an omnibus,
and evidently takes you for somebody else, how
civil you are? ... Well--of course, I mean a lady!
How can you be so absurd? I said to it that I had
never heard a photograph speak before. The voice
replied, 'That is because you never listen.
Mr. Perry hears me because he listens.' I asked who
this was, and the voice replied, 'The little old
gentleman who comes here.' I said, 'No little old
gentleman comes here. Do you know where you
are?' And do you know, Volumnia, the voice said,
'In the Library at Surley Stakes, over the stoofer.' What
could that mean?"
"Can't imagine. But I'm not to speak, you know.
That's the bargain. Go on."
"Well--I told the woman in the photograph
where she was, and the voice said, 'I suppose you
know,' and then asked if this was the place where
she saw me before. I said no--that was my husband's
Studio. 'But,' I said, 'you were not made.' She
seemed not to understand, and persisted that
she remembered seeing me there."
"Do excuse my interrupting just this once," said
Miss Volumnia. "I won't do it again. I only wish
to point out how clearly this shows the
dream-character of the phenomenon. Is it credible that,
admitting for the sake of hypothesis an independent
intelligence, that intelligence would recollect
occurrences before it came into existence. It seems to
me that the picture-woman's claim to identity
carries its own condemnation. How could ideas
existing in the mind of the original picture reappear
in the mind of a photograph, however carefully made?"
"It was the same woman, Volumnia," said
Mrs. Aiken, beginning to stand on the rights of her
Phenomenon, as people do. "I do think, dear, you
are only cavilling and making difficulties."
"I think my objection holds good. When we
consider the nature of photography..."
"Why is it more impossible than the original
picture seeing me and recollecting?"
"The demand on my power of belief is greater in
the case of a copy, however accurate. And it would
become greater still in the case of a copy of a copy.
And so on." This was not original. A paper read
at her Society was responsible for most of it.
"However," she added, "we needn't discuss this now.
Go on."
"Then don't prose. You really are straining at
gnats and swallowing camels, Volumnia. Well--where
was I? ... Oh yes, the Studio! The voice
went on--and now this _does_ show that it didn't come
out of my own head--'I remember the Studio, and
I remember a misunderstanding between yourself
and your husband that might easily have led to
serious consequences.' Now you know, Volumnia,
that could _not_ have come out of my own--my own
inner consciousness.... Is that right?--Now
_could_ it?"
Miss Volumnia shook an unbiassed head, on its
guard against rash conclusions. "The same is
true," she said, "of so many dream-impressions.
Did you make the photograph acquainted with the
actual position of things?"
Mrs. Aiken seemed to hesitate a moment. "Was
I bound to take it into my confidence?" she said.
"Anyhow it seemed to me at the time most uncalled for."
"What did you say?"
"I said--because as it was only a photograph I
thought it didn't matter--I said that fortunately
no such result had come about. I then pressed it
to say more explicitly what it was referring to....
What?"
"Nothing--go on.... Well, I was only going to
say that in my opinion you were playing with edged
tools. The slightest departure from the principle
of speaking the Truth is fraught with danger to the
speaker.... Yes--and then?"
"Well--_did_ it matter? Anyhow, let me get on.
I asked what it meant--what misunderstanding it
referred to. And do you know, Volumnia, the voice
began and gave a _most accurate_ account of Miss
What's-her-name--Pupsley Wupsley's--visit to the
Studio, and described that poor young Captain
Thingumbob _most accurately_. All I can say is that
it did not make a single mistake...."
"Of course not!"
"Why 'of course not'?"
"Because it was merely your own Memory
unconsciously at work; doing the job on its own, as
my young nephew would say. It may have been
wrong, but would seem to you right."
"Then why doesn't what followed after I left the
Studio seem to me right too?"
Miss Volumnia said, as from the seat of Judgment,
"Let's hear it." Thereupon her friend gave,
with conscientious effort to report truly, the
photograph's version of what passed in the Studio between
her husband and the odious Sairah. It corresponded
closely with that already given in this story.
As Miss Volumnia's interruptions became frequent
towards the close of this narrative, it may be best to
summarise it, as near as may be, in the words of the
photograph, which had said, or seemed to say: "I
did indeed tremble to think what misconstruction
might be put on half-heard words of this interview
of this young English maiden with your husband.
For I could remember well how at the little Castello
in the Apennines Icilia Ciaranfi, a girl of great spirit,
finding her new-made husband enacting some such
pleasantry as this--but quite blamelessly--with
Donnina Magliabecchi, stabbed both to death there
and then; and her great grief when Donnina's lover
Beppe made it clear to her that this was but a foolish
jest to which he himself was privy. And thinking
of this painful matter I rejoiced that you, Signora,
yourself should have been guided by counsels of
moderation, at most withdrawing for a term--so I
understood--to the house of a relation as to a haven,
when no doubt all asperity of feeling would soon
give place to forgiveness. I could see that in your
case, had you yielded to the mistaken impulse of
Icilia, no such consolation as she found could have
been yours. For I understood this--though I was
young at the time--that so deeply was Beppe
touched by Icilia's remorse for her rash action, and
she so ready to give her love in compensation for
what he had lost, that each flew as it were to the
embrace of the other, and the two of them fled
then and there, and thence Icilia escaped the
officers of Justice. Now this surely would have
been an impossible resource to yourself and the
lover of _la Sera_, who, unless I am mistaken in
thinking that those who 'keep company' are lovers in
your land, was the person I heard spoken of as
'The Dust.' Which is in our tongue '_La
Mondezza_.' But I understood that while he was a man,
and in that sense competent for Love, although
called by a name fitter for a woman, yet was he
socially on a level with those whom we others in
Italy call _spazzini_, and no fit mate for a Signora of
gentle birth and breeding.
"So that although I heard afar that the Signore
and yourself came to high words on this subject,
and gathered that you had departed in wrath to seek
shelter with an aunt, I thought of this dissension
as one that would soon be forgotten, and a matter
of the past. The more so that your Signore's own
words to his friends reassured me; to whom he said
more than once that you would be the best woman
in the world but for a defect I did not understand
from his description, that when you flew into a
blooming rage you could not keep your hair on, but
that it wouldn't last and you would be back in a
week, because you knew he couldn't do without
you. He set my mind at rest by treating the idea
of any lasting breach between you as something
too absurd for speech. But I tell you this for
certain, that I saw all that passed between him and
_la Sera_, and that if you are keeping your resentment
alive with the thought that he was guilty of anything
but an ill-judged joke, you are doing grievous
injustice to him as well as yourself. Return to him,
Signora, forthwith; and beware henceforward of
foolish jealousy and needless quarrels!"
The foregoing is a much more complete version
of what the photograph seemed to say than
Mrs. Aiken's fragmentary report to her cousin. She had
not Mr. Pelly's extraordinary memory, and,
moreover, she had to omit phrases and even sentences
that were given in Italian. Miss Volumnia Bax,
when not interrupting, checked off the narrative
with nods at intervals, each nod seeming to be
fraught with confirmed foresight of the preceding
instalment. When it ended, she launched at once,
without a moment's pause, into a well-considered
judgment, or rather abstract of a Report of the
Case, which her mind was already scheming, to
read at the next meeting of the Psychomorphic.
This Report, printed recently by the Society,
containing all that Miss Volumnia said to her cousin
on first hearing the tale, as well as many valuable
remarks, commences as follows:
"Case 54103A. Dream or Pseudodream, reported
by Miss Volumnia Bax. The subject of this
experience, whom we will call Mrs. A., is reluctant
to admit that she was not awake when it happened,
however frequently the absurdity of this view is
pointed out to her. So strong is this impression
that if other members of her family had been
subject to hallucination or insanity, or even victims
of alcoholism, we should incline to place this case
in some corresponding class. As it is, we have
nothing but the word of the narrator to warrant
our assigning it a place outside ordinary Somnistic
Phenomena."
This story is not answerable for the technical
phrases of what is, after all, merely a suburban
Research Society. The Report goes on to give,
very fairly, the incident as already narrated, and
concludes thus:
"It will be observed that nothing that the
dreamer put into the mouth of the photographic
speaker was beyond her imaginative powers,
subconscious or superconscious. It may be urged
that the absurdly romantic Italian story implies a
knowledge of Italian matters which the dreamer
did not possess, or at least emphatically disclaims.
But nothing but the verification of the story can
prove that the names, for instance, were not due to
subconscious activity of the dreamer's brain. On
the other hand--and this shows how closely the
investigator of Psychic Phenomena has to follow
their intricacies--inquiry has elicited the fact that
Mrs. A.'s husband once spent a week in Florence at
a Pension in the Piazza Indipendenza and no doubt
became familiar with the habits of Italians. What
is more likely than that she should unconsciously
remember passages of her husband's Italian
experience, as narrated by himself? We are certainly
warranted in assuming this as a working hypothesis,
while admitting our obligation to sift Italian
History for some confirmation of the dramatic (but
not necessarily improbable) incident of Icilia
Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi--both, by the way,
suspiciously Florentine names! We repeat that,
failing further evidence, we are justified in placing
this story in section M103, as a Pseudo-real
Hyper-mnemonism."
The Report, of course, said nothing of the advice
its writer had felt warranted in giving Mrs. A., as
a corollary to her summary of the views she
afterwards embodied in it. "If you want my opinion,
Cousin Euphemia," she said, "it is that the sooner
you make it up with your husband the better! It's
quite clear from the dream that you want to do so."
"How do you make that out?" asked Mrs. Aiken.
"Clearly! Your subconscious self constituted
this nonsensical photograph the exponent of its
automatically cryptic Idea, while you were in a
state of Self-Induced Hypnosis...."
"Does that mean while I was asleep?"
"By no means. It is a condition brought about
by fixing the attention. You had, by your own
admission, been looking at the fire."
"No--I held up the photograph."
"Then you had been looking at the photograph."
"Only the back."
"It's the same thing. I am distinctly of opinion
that it was Self-Induced Hypnosis. In this
condition the subconscious self may as it were take the
bit in its teeth, and energize whatever bias towards
common sense the subject may happen to possess. In
your case the photograph's speech and its grotesque
fictions were merely pegs, so to speak, on which to
hang an exposition of your own subconscious
cryptic Idea. Does not the fact that you are at
this moment prepared to deny the existence of this
Idea prove the truth of what I say?"
"I dare say it's very clever and very wise. But I
can't understand a word of it, and you can't expect
me to. All I know is, that if it's to be submission
and Colossians and Ephesians and stuff, back to
Reginald I don't go. And as far as I can see,
Science only makes it ten times worse.... So there!"
"Your attitude of mind, my dear Euphemia,"
said Miss Volumnia, "furnishes the strongest
confirmation possible of the truth of my interpretation
of the Phenomenon. But I must go or I shall lose
my train."
"How I do hate patronizing people!" said
Mrs. Aiken, going back into the drawing-room after
seeing her cousin off.