THE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER
It was a quarter to three when the old woman awoke. She was alone
save for Ponto, her _fidus Achates_, who was snoring in front of the
fire with his tail curled up in the most ridiculous manner. And yet
she was not alone, for there is reason to believe that her Idea was
already born in her. There can be little doubt that the Idea had sprung
into being, even before she had time to turn, which she did almost
immediately, to the half-pint of claret and the plate of goose liver
pie that Miss Burden and Mr. Marchbanks in consultation had caused to
be laid beside her.
Now do not suppose that the Idea was proclaimed forthwith in its
meridian splendor. Nothing of the kind. It was still in its infancy. It
had to be shaped and reshaped, to be dandled and cosseted, to be born
and born again in the dim recesses of the mind, before it gathered the
requisite force to issue as it were from the armory of Minerva.
At four o’clock precisely it was the custom of this old lady, if the
light and the British climate permitted, to drive the whole length of
Bond Street and once round Hyde Park.
At that hour the sky having cleared sufficiently for the sun to make
a tardy and shamefaced appearance, the old lady, accompanied by her
faithful gentlewoman and her somnolent four-footed beast, entered the
equipage that was drawn up before her door.
It was an extraordinary vehicle. It had yellow wheels and a curious
round body, which, according to scale, was very nearly as fat as
Ponto’s. It was perched up on very high springs, and was in the
forefront of the fashion about the year 1841.
Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gregory, who shared the box-seat, would doubtless
have been in the forefront of the fashion about the same period. Their
broad backs, their box-cloth, the shape and texture of their hats and
the angle at which they wore them unmistakably belonged to a very early
period of the world’s history. No, they did not wear side whiskers. We
don’t know why. Perhaps it was that side whiskers were either a little
in front or a little behind the mode in 1841. But it is enough that Mr.
Bryant and Mr. Gregory did not wear them. And had they worn them, had
the present biographer had reason for one single moment to suspect that
Messrs. Bryant and Gregory had been in possession of these appendages,
he would have given up this history. Really the line has to be drawn
somewhere.
The progress along Bond Street was at the rate of two miles an
hour. The horses, Castor and Pollux by name, were very fat and very
somnolent, the yellow chariot was very unwieldy, and in the language of
Constable X, who touched his helmet at the corner of Hanover Square,
“it took up a deal o’ room.” None the less the progress of the vehicle
was almost royal.
The old lady sat very upright in the center of the best seat, which she
had all to herself. With a nose of the Wellington pattern and a chin
to match, displayed under a canopy of feathers, she looked more like a
macaw than ever. Miss Burden, in charge of Ponto and a pair of folders
with a tortoiseshell handle, was seated opposite at a more modest
elevation.
Every member of the male sex whom this redoubtable veteran chanced to
meet, who had the good fortune to wear his clothes with a sufficient
air of distinction, received a bow from her; and in return she was the
recipient of some highly elaborate and wholly inimitable courtesies.
With these she ranked as “an agreeable old woman.”
With the members of the other sex, which socially the more critical,
who seated in their barouches, their victorias, their broughams,
and their motors, who inclined their own distinguished heads from
under their own barbaric canopies, yet with no vain strivings in the
direction of effusiveness, she was greeted with a half-veiled hostility
of the eyelids, and a whispered, “There goes that old cat.”
We offer no opinion on the justice or the taste of the remark. We claim
no learning in feminology. Why these ladies, each of whom vied with the
other in the propagation of good works, each of whom was an honored
patroness of more than one institution for the amelioration of the
human race, should apply such a figure of speech to one who was old and
venerable it is not for us to conjecture.
Did they refer to the quantity of feathers she was wearing upon her
helmet? If so, since April 1, 183-, she had caused many a beautiful and
harmless bird to be destroyed. But then they themselves were wearing
similar great canopies of feathers. Did they refer to her features?
We think not, for although her nose was shaped like a talon of a bird
of prey, they were not conspicuously feline. Perhaps it was that they
referred to her personal character. At any rate they are known to be
high authorities upon such a matter as the human character, and as a
rule are very searching in their judgments. Certainly the old lady
proceeding along Bond Street in her yellow chariot at the rate of two
miles an hour had done a fair amount of mischief in her time; and if
health and strength continued to be vouchsafed to her by an All-wise
Creator, before she died she hoped to do a good deal more.
In her own little corner of her own little parish no old lady was
more respected. Where she was not respected she was feared, and where
she was neither respected nor feared she was very heartily hated. Of
one thing we are sure. There was not a living creature who loved her,
unless it was Ponto, who being a creature without a soul was denied the
consolations of religion.
We don’t believe for a moment that Miss Burden loved her. She had
caused her faithful gentlewoman, who in the space of twenty years had
given all she had had of youth, beauty, and gayety in return for board
and residence and forty pounds per annum, paid quarterly, to weep too
many tears in the privacy of her chamber for such a sacred emotion as
love to requite her persecutor. Yet it is far from our intention to
dogmatize upon the female heart. If we do we are sure to be wrong. That
complex and wonderful mechanism has defeated us too often. Therefore
it is possible that Miss Burden hugged her chains to her bosom and
lavished the poetry pent up in her soul upon the hand that chastened
her. We say it is possible, but we protest that it is hardly likely.
Yet do not let us express a positive opinion upon the emotional
apparatus of even Miss Burden, who, whatever else she might be, was a
woman and a gentlewoman and the thirteenth daughter of a rural dean.
It is really no use trying to hide the fact that the old lady in the
yellow chariot had in the course of her seventy-three summers wrought
a great deal of misery and unhappiness among her fellow-creatures.
Nobody’s reputation was safe in her keeping. She never said a kind
word of anybody if she could possibly help it; and although she may
have done good by stealth she very seldom did it in the light of day.
Yet there can be little doubt that Ponto loved her in his dumb way,
and there is every reason to believe that Mr. Marchbanks respected her
immensely.
Proceeding along Bond Street with her Idea--she had not forgotten
it, and you must not forget it either--she continued to evolve that
mysterious phantasm in the grim purlieus of her hard yet not capacious
mind. Sitting very upright in the center of her yellow chariot, bleakly
indifferent to those who did not interest her, and coldly overlooking
those who did, this old woman in her marvelous equipage had come almost
alongside the little shop on the left going towards Piccadilly where
you can get the nicest silk hat in London, of which we forget the name,
when she beheld an apparition.
It was a Hat. It was of gray felt with a dent in the middle and rather
wide in the brims, of the variety which is called a Homburg because it
is worn at Cannes. Round this article of masculine attire, in itself
sufficiently bizarre, was what is technically known as “a Guards’
ribbon.” Those who are acquainted with the merits of this decorative
emblem will not thank us for describing them; while those who are not
will be unable to appreciate the special texture of their excellence
from a mere categorical statement. Let it suffice that the old lady
in the yellow chariot beheld a Homburg hat with a Guards’ ribbon
approaching at the rate of one mile an hour.
Now there was only one individual, not in London only, but in the
whole of what at that time ranked as the civilized world (circa 190-),
who by any concatenation of events could possibly be seen walking in
Bond Street in a Homburg hat with a Guards’ ribbon on April the first.
Messrs. Bryant and Gregory knew that quite as well as their mistress.
Therefore, quite naturally and properly, the yellow chariot came to a
stand automatically, just as the Hat came to a stand also, immediately
opposite the coat-of-arms on the near side panel of this wonderful
equipage, which itself was immediately opposite the little shop where
you can get the nicest silk hat in London.
We wish our readers could have seen the manner in which Mr. Bryant and
Mr. Gregory each removed his own headgear (circa 1841), in an act of
homage to the Hat of Hats. We feel sure it would have reconciled them
to a number of things they are likely to find in this history.
“How d’ye do, George?” said the old lady.
Now that form of salutation may mean much or it may mean little. With
the occupant of the yellow chariot it meant the former. She only said,
“How d’ye do?” to the highest branch of the peerage.
“How d’ye do, George?” said the occupant of the yellow chariot.
“Pooty well for an old ’un,” said the owner of the Hat in a gruff, fat
voice.
“How old _are_ you?” said the occupant of the chariot.
“Nearly as old as you,” said the Hatted one. Then said he with slow and
gruff solemnity: “Many happy returns of your birthday, Caroline. It is
a great pleasure to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you, George,” said the old lady with formidable politeness.
“Regular habits and a good conscience are worth something when you get
past seventy.”
George Betterton, Duke of Brancaster, began to gobble like a turkey.
He was a heavy-jowled, purple-faced, apoplectic-looking individual,
rather wide in stature and extremely short in the neck. So famous was
he for his powers of emulation of the pride of the farmyard, that he
went by the name of “Gobo” among his friends. As his habits were not so
regular and his conscience was not so chaste as they might have been,
George Betterton grew redder in the jowl than ever, and rolled his
full-blooded eyes at the occupant of the yellow chariot.
“Something been crossing you, Caroline?” inquired her old crony, in his
heavy, slow-witted way.
“Yes and no,” said the occupant of the chariot with that bluntness of
speech in which none excelled her. “Ponto is getting fat, and Burden
is getting tiresome, and Cheriton has been insolent, and I am tired of
life; but I intend to hold on some time yet just to spite people. It is
all the better for the world to have an old nuisance or two in it.”
This philanthropic resolution did not appear to arouse as much
enthusiasm in George Betterton as perhaps it ought to have done. All
the same he was very polite in his gruff, stolid, John Bull manner.
“Glad to hear it, Caroline,” said he. “We should never get on, you
know, without your old standards.”
“Rubbish,” said the old lady robustly. “You would only be too pleased
to. But you won’t at present, so make your mind easy.”
The occupant of the yellow chariot flung up her nostrils as if to
challenge high heaven with a snuff of scorn.
“What are you doing in London?” said the old lady. “That woman is at
Biarritz, they tell me.”
George Betterton pondered a moment and measured his old friend with his
full-blooded eye.
“I’ve come up to judge the dog show,” said he.
“Oh, is there a dog show?” said the old lady, upon a note of interest
she seldom achieved. “When is it?”
“A week a’ Toosday,” said the owner of the hat.
We apologize to our readers, but if you belong to the highest branch of
the peerage you have no need to be the slave of grammar.
“If I send Ponto,” said the old lady, “will you guarantee him a prize?”
“First prize,” said her old friend.
“Look at him well so that you will know him again. Burden, let the Dook
look at Ponto.”
“I’ve seen him so often,” said George Betterton plaintively, as that
overfed quadruped leered at him biliously. “He’s a ducky little dog.”
“Don’t forget that American creature that Towcaster married has the
effrontery to have one just like him. If you confuse him with hers I
shall not forgive you.”
“Better tie a piece o’ bloo ribbon round his tail,” said George.
His grace of Brancaster turned upon his heel.
“Remember my Wednesday,” the old lady called after him in stentorian
tones.
Whether George Betterton heard her or whether he did not it is
doubtless well not to inquire. It is rather a failing with high
personages that they are apt to be afflicted with a sudden and
unaccountable deafness. The old lady’s voice could be heard at the
other side of Bond Street, but her old acquaintance made no sign
whatever that it had penetrated to him.
The yellow chariot moved on. Its occupant, looking exceedingly grim,
and more than ever like a Gorgon or a dragon born out of due time,
immediately proceeded to cut dead the inoffensive widow of a Baron in
Equity who with her two pretty daughters was driving to the Grosvenor
Galleries.
If there were those who could be deaf to her, there were also those to
whom she could be blind. There can be no doubt that during the course
of her long life she had had things far more her own way than is good
for any human creature. But there were now those who were beginning
openly to rebel from her despotic sway. George Betterton was not the
only person who of late had been afflicted with deafness.
All the same, if the aspect of this old woman meant anything it was
that its possessor had to be reckoned with. It had often been remarked
by those of her friends who followed “the fancy,” that in certain
aspects it bore a striking resemblance to that of an eminent pugilist.
It was a very tight and hard and arbitrary mouth, and a general
demeanor of perfectly ruthless sarcasm that returned to Hill Street at
a quarter to five. The rebels must be brought to heel.
The redoubtable Caroline had been home about an hour, when suddenly,
without any sort of warning, the Idea assumed an actual and visible
guise. She was in the middle of a game of piquet, a daily exercise,
Sundays excepted, in which she showed the greatest proficiency, which
generally ended in the almost total annihilation of her adversary.
Having “rubiconed” her gentlewoman, and having mulcted her in the sum
of two shillings which Miss Burden could ill afford to lose, her Idea
burst from its shell and walked abroad.
“Burden,” said the old lady, “do you remember the name of the person
that was married by my sister Polly?”
Miss Burden was so much startled by the question that she could not
answer immediately. Not only was its abruptness highly disconcerting,
but its nature was even more so. It dealt with one outside the pale.
“Per-Perring--Perkins,” floundered Miss Burden. It was a name never
mentioned in Hill Street upon any pretext whatever.
“Look it up in Walford.”
Miss Burden consulted that invaluable work of reference. With some
difficulty and many misgivings she was presently able to disinter the
following:--
Perry Aloysius, clerk in holy orders, master of arts. Eldest
surviving son of Reverend John Tillotson Perry and Maria, 2nd
daughter of Montague Hawley esquire. Born 1842. Married Mary Augusta,
younger daughter of Charles William Wargrave, third duke of Dorset,
and Caroline daughter of 5th marquis of Twickenham. Incumbent of
Saint Euthanasius Slocum Magna and perpetual curate of Widdiford
parish church. Heir S., Richard Aloysius Wargrave Perry, clerk in
holy orders, bachelor of arts. Address, The Parsonage Slocum Magna,
North Devon.
When the old lady had been duly acquainted with these facts she knitted
her brows, pondered deeply and said “Humph!” A pause followed, and then
a look of resolution settled upon her grim countenance.
“Burden,” said she, “I am going to try an experiment. I shall write to
that man.”
In that apparently simple sentence was embodied the old lady’s Idea in
the fullness of its splendor. For the first time in her life or in his
she deigned to recognize the existence of the Reverend Aloysius Perry.
The recognition duly dictated to the gentlewoman assumed the following
shape:--
“_The Countess of Crewkerne presents her compliments to the Reverend
Perry. Lady Crewkerne will be pleased to adopt a girl of her late
sister’s. Lady Crewkerne would suggest in the event of this course
being agreeable to the Reverend Perry, that the most refined and
mannerly of her late sister’s children be forwarded to her._”
“Get my spectacles, Burden,” said the old woman, grimly. “I will read
it myself.”
It is perhaps too much to say that a tear stood in the kind eyes
of the gentlewoman when she rose to obey this behest. But certainly
a long-drawn sigh escaped her, and the beating of her heart was
quickened. The coming of a third person would at least help to relieve
the tedium of that establishment.
The old woman read her letter with patience and with cynicism.
“It will serve,” said she. “Send it immediately.”
And then, as they say in the best fiction, a strange thing happened.
The most natural and becoming course for Miss Burden to take was to
ring the bell, in order that this curious document might be dispatched
by a servant. But she did not do this. In her own person Miss Burden
went forth of the room, and without waiting to put on her hat she
passed out at the hall door, and with her own hand dropped the letter
in the pillar-box opposite.