THE INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS BETRAYS HIM
It is impossible to forgive Mr. Marchbanks. He of all men ought to have
known that the fair intruder was what is technically known as “a lady.”
In these democratic times it is true this mysterious entity is of many
kinds, and it was a point of honor with Mr. Marchbanks to keep as far
behind them as he decently could. But it is impossible to forgive him
for jumping to his absurd conclusion. One can understand a comparative
amateur such as John, who judged things objectively, making such an
inexcusable blunder; but that such a past master in the fine shades of
social status should have confirmed him in it, is one of those things
that frankly defeats us.
In the stateliest fashion, with his silvered head held very erectly,
Mr. Marchbanks made his way to the housekeeper’s room.
Mrs. Plunket, indisputable sovereign of the nether regions, was taking
tea. Mr. Marchbanks greeted her with an air of private wrong.
“A young person, ma’am, is arrived,” said he.
“The new under-housemaid is not due until six o’clock,” said Mrs.
Plunket. “She has no right to come before her time.”
“I am almost afraid, ma’am,” said Mr. Marchbanks, with diplomatic
reserve, “that this is her first place.”
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Plunket. “She has been ten months in the
service of the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton.”
“Then, I fear,” said Mr. Marchbanks, gravely, “that she has not
profited by her experience.”
“Indeed, Mr. Marchbanks!” said Mrs. Plunket.
“She rang the front-door bell,” said Mr. Marchbanks.
“That is unpardonable,” said Mrs. Plunket. “Yet the Duchess Dowager of
Blankhampton is generally considered very good service.”
“Things are very unsettled, ma’am, in these days,” said Mr. Marchbanks,
gloomily. “It seems sometimes that even good service is a thing of
the past. If we must have Radical Governments and we must have higher
education of the masses, there is no saying where we shall get to.
She--ah, she attempted to shake hands with me!”
Mr. Marchbanks’ solemn, deep-toned note of pathos impinged upon the
domain of poetry.
Mrs. Plunket shuddered.
“Mr. Marchbanks,” said she, “if you desire it she shall be dismissed.”
At heart, however, Mr. Marchbanks was a man of liberal views, as became
one who had been nurtured in Whig traditions.
“She is young, ma’am,” said he, with a dignified mildness which in the
circumstances Mrs. Plunket admired extremely. “A word in season from
the right quarter might bear fruit.”
“She shall have it,” said Mrs. Plunket, with a truculent shake of the
teapot.
“Her style of dress also leaves much to be desired,” said Mr.
Marchbanks. “It is distinctly _suburban_ to my mind. But no doubt,
ma’am, you will prefer to judge for yourself.”
“I will see her,” said Mrs. Plunket. “But I feel sure I shall have to
dismiss her at once. Yet to be an under-housemaid short does make life
so difficult.”
“Perhaps, ma’am, she may be molded,” said Mr. Marchbanks with the
optimism of the true Whig.
Mr. Marchbanks withdrew, climbed the stairs at a dignified leisure, and
reached the marble floor of the spacious entrance-hall. He was greeted
immediately by a gesture of distress from John. It seemed that the
chaste air of Hill Street was being defiled by an altercation between
a person in a battered straw hat and a rustical frock and an elderly
cabman who smelt strongly of gin.
The fare had set down her wicker basket, and with some little
difficulty had contrived to draw half a crown from the inside of her
glove.
The cabman had received this coin dubiously. After gazing at it
thoughtfully as it lay in his grimy palm, said he--
“What about the box, miss? And a wet arternoon.”
“Papa said the fare would be half a crown from Waterloo Station,” said
the wearer of the preposterous straw hat.
“I don’t know about your pa, miss,” said the cabman, “but I do know
that the box is outside luggage. And I lifted it down meself, and I
carried it in with my own ’ands, and it’s raining like old boots.”
“Papa said----” the Straw-hatted One was explaining slowly and
with patience, when Mr. Marchbanks, in response to John’s appeal,
interrupted her with quiet authority.
Very deftly Mr. Marchbanks added sixpence to the cabman’s half-crown.
“Go away as soon as possible,” said Mr. Marchbanks. “We are likely to
have callers at any moment.”
The cabman touched his hat in recognition of the fact that he had to do
with a gentleman, and proceeded to carry out these instructions.
“Do you mind coming this way, miss--ah,” said Mr. Marchbanks a little
haughtily to the lady of the hat.
“Miss Perry,” said she, with a drawl that was almost ludicrous.
In extenuation of the conduct of Mr. Marchbanks it must be said that
neither his sense of sight nor of hearing were quite so good as
they had been. Otherwise that ludicrous drawl must have caused him
considerable uneasiness.
Miss Perry tucked the wicker basket under her arm, and followed Mr.
Marchbanks with perfect friendliness and simplicity. Mr. Marchbanks
opened the door of the housekeeper’s room, and in his own inimitable
manner, announced--
“Miss Perry.”
A decidedly stern, angular-looking lady disengaged her chin from a
teacup.
“The housekeeper, Mrs. Plunket,” Mr. Marchbanks deigned to explain to
the owner of the straw hat.
Mr. Marchbanks mentioned the name of Mrs. Plunket, the housekeeper, in
a manner to suggest that it expected reverence from Miss Perry. Again,
however, he was doomed to disappointment. The stately and distant
inclination of Mrs. Plunket’s head merely provoked a frank and friendly
impulse in Miss Perry.
“Oh, how do you do?” said she. “I hope you are quite well.”
To the dismay of Mr. Marchbanks and to the dignified stupefaction of
Mrs. Plunket, the owner of the straw hat made a most determined effort
to shake hands with that lady.
Mrs. Plunket gave her a finger. Being as short-sighted as Mr.
Marchbanks himself, she hastily adjusted her spectacles to take a more
adequate survey of this extremely temerarious person.
Now, the first thing that impressed Mrs. Plunket was not the straw hat,
not the gloves, not the frock, not the wicker basket, and not even the
cloak with the hood. It was the truly Amazonian proportions of Miss
Perry that first impressed her.
She was exactly six feet high in her stockings, no more and no less.
And everything about her, from the too-visible ankles upwards, were in
the same proportion. Had Mrs. Plunket had an eye for such details, and
unfortunately she had not, she would have observed in addition to the
disconcerting physique and the shabby and ill-fitting clothes, a pair
of the bluest eyes and a mane of the yellowest hair that ever came out
of Devon. It is true that the eyes were somewhat dim and heavy, because
they had shed a vast quantity of tears during the past forty-eight
hours. All the same their quality was wonderful. Then also there was an
equally wonderful West Country complexion, washed by the dew, fed by
the sunshine, and refined by the winds of the sea and the moorland into
a perfect glamor of pink and white. Yet all these enchanting details
had nothing to say to Mrs. Plunket. For the first time in her long and
successful career she had engaged a new under-housemaid merely upon
the strength of “high-class references” only, with the fatal neglect
of the precaution of “a personal interview.” In consequence the new
under-housemaid proved to be six feet high, whose _naïveté_ of dress
and manners was something wholly beyond Mrs. Plunket’s experience.
“Pray sit down,” said Mrs. Plunket, with an arctic air which would not
have disgraced the presiding genius of the blue drawing-room.
Miss Perry sat down with spacious ease. She placed the wicker basket on
her knees and rested her elbows upon it.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Plunket, stiffly.
“Oh yes, please,” said Miss Perry, who seemed sincerely gratified by
the suggestion.
Mr. Marchbanks retired discreetly, while Mrs. Plunket prepared a cup
of tea for Miss Perry. As she handed it to her she gazed very sternly
through her spectacles at the new under-housemaid who sat nursing her
wicker basket with remarkable unconcern.
“Thank you so much,” said Miss Perry, accepting the cup of tea with
really charming friendliness.
“I had no idea that you were so large,” said Mrs. Plunket, with an
aggrieved air. “I think the fact ought to have been mentioned.”
Miss Perry drew off her darned cotton gloves with great simplicity.
“I _am_ rather big,” said she, “but if the beds are too small I can
curl myself up.”
“I was not thinking of the beds,” said Mrs. Plunket, severely. “There
are all sizes here. I am thinking of her ladyship. She is very strict
and somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas. I am afraid she may object to
your appearance.”
“Do you think so?” said Miss Perry, putting three lumps of sugar in her
tea with the greatest amiability.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Plunket, sternly, “I do. It is most unusual. Had you
been an under-footman of course it would not have mattered.”
“Don’t you think so?” said Miss Perry, who seemed to be more interested
in her cup of tea than in the subject of the under-footman.
Now, Miss Perry had not a great brain. Indeed, in the opinion of those
best qualified to speak upon the subject, she had not a brain at all.
She was merely an amiable, frank, friendly person, constitutionally
slow-witted and phlegmatic. The manner of her reception in the
household of her august relation, whom she had never seen, and of
whom the only thing she knew positively was that, in conjunction with
the rest of that great family, she had treated her papa and her dead
mamma abominably, ought to have given her furiously to think. No one,
however, could have been less addicted to that process than Miss Perry.
There certainly came into her mind in a confused sort of manner a
remarkable speech that had been made by her dearest papa when he opened
the superb coroneted envelope and read Aunt Caroline’s letter. “I dare
say her ladyship has a vacancy for an under-housemaid!” he had said,
with his quaint and whimsical laugh, which had yet been so severely
tried by the things of this world as to be not quite so mirthful as it
might have been.
By the time Miss Perry had come to remember this circumstance a deep
wave of color had crept over her wonderful countenance. But hers was
the temperament of a philosopher. Instead of suffering an agony of
horrified embarrassment, as some young ladies might have done, she
merely regarded her tea and hoped to receive an invitation to partake
of bread and butter.
“You have been in service before, have you not?” said Mrs. Plunket.
“Oh, no,” drawled Miss Perry, finishing her cup of tea and looking as
though she would like another.
“I am afraid this is serious,” said Mrs. Plunket, with chilling
dignity. “I have been misinformed.”
A pause ensued, in which Miss Perry hoped in vain for a little more
refreshment.
“It is an awfully nice day, isn’t it?” said Miss Perry, conversationally.
Mrs. Plunket was too much preoccupied with the external aspect of the
latest thing in housemaids to pay the least attention to the weather.
“A mistake appears to have been made,” said that lady, acidly. “I am
informed that your name is Perry.”
Miss Perry confirmed that information with modest yet charming
friendliness.
“What is your first name?” said Mrs. Plunket.
Miss Perry slowly opened her blue eyes to a width that was really
extraordinary, and gave a wise little shake to her mane, which was the
color of daffodils.
“My name is Araminta,” said she, with a drawl that was perfectly
ludicrous, “but they call me Goose because I am rather a Sil-lay.”
Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright. Her countenance was the picture of
horror. The latest thing in housemaids was too much for her. She flung
up her gaunt arms with a tragic gesture.
“Emma Maddison is the name of the person I am expecting,” said Mrs.
Plunket.
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, who rolled her R’s in an inimitable
fashion.
“A serious mistake has been made by somebody,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“I am expecting a person of the name of Emma Maddison, who has been
under-housemaid for ten months in the service of the Duchess Dowager of
Blankhampton.”
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, whose azure orbs were fixed upon the
teapot.
Mrs. Plunket renewed her scrutiny of this extraordinary housemaid. The
battered straw hat or inverted vegetable basket, which sagged at the
brim in an almost immoral manner, the hooded cloak, the wicker basket
with string attachment, and the unprecedented display of ankle, came
again within her purview.
“This will never do,” she remarked in much the same fashion that the
Right Honorable Lord Jeffrey reviewed Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Plunket, austerely. “Where have you come from?”
“My home is at Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, dissembling her pride in
that fact in an uncommonly well-bred manner.
“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?”
“Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, who was already marveling in her
slow-witted way at the consummate ignorance of London people, “is the
next parish to Widdiford.”
“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” demanded Mrs. Plunket.
Miss Perry’s wonderful blue eyes opened to their limit. Widdiford was
the center of civilization. It was the fixed standard by which the
world itself was measured. Miss Perry slowly marshaled her battalions
for a great intellectual display.
“I started from Widdiford,” said she, “at a quarter past nine, and I
got to London at four. That makes nearly seven hours by railway, and
you have to change twice.”
During the pause which followed this announcement Mrs. Plunket grew
very thoughtful indeed. Finally a clear conviction seemed to enfold her.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but I fear that an under-housemaid who is six
feet high is out of the question. Her ladyship has a rooted objection
to any kind of extravagance.”
Now, as I have said, Miss Perry was not in the least clever. The sum of
her knowledge of the world had been acquired at the uncommonly rustic
parsonage at Slocum Magna. She realized in her lethargic fashion that
her Aunt Caroline was a very proud and unfeeling old woman, who had an
odious way of treating her poor relations. Therefore, coming vaguely
to discern that the situation in which she found herself must be very
remarkable, a look of dismay begin to settle upon her pink-and-white
countenance. Mrs. Plunket, observing it, was not disposed to be unkind.
“You had better stay here to-night,” said she; “and in the morning your
fare will be paid back to Slocum Magna.”
At the mention of the blessed name of Slocum Magna the look of dismay
lifted from the face of Miss Perry. But it was for a moment only. She
remembered with a pang of sore distress that she had come all the way
to London on a great mission. The ebbing fortunes of the Parsonage
were vested in her. When her dearest papa, whose trousers seemed to
get shorter and shabbier every year, had watched her button a whole
sovereign and two half-crowns and a third-class railway ticket into her
glove on the down platform at Widdiford Junction, and he had kissed her
on both cheeks, he said, “If it were not for Dickie and Charley and
Polly and Milly and Betty, we’d take precious good care that your Aunt
Caroline did not rob us of the pick of the basket.” Therefore, very
slowly yet very clearly, her duty seemed to shape itself in her mind.
“Oh, if you please,” said she, “I don’t think I want to go back to
Slocum Magna. Perhaps I might speak to Aunt Caroline.”
“Aunt Caroline?” said Mrs. Plunket, with a puzzled air.
She then remembered that although Mrs. Bateman, the cook, was called
Hannah, as cooks always are, her real name was Caroline.
“I was not aware,” said Mrs. Plunket, “that you were a niece of Mrs.
Bateman’s.”
Miss Perry was not aware of it either. A ray of intelligence percolated
to that unsusceptible mind. All was explained. She had come to the
wrong house.
“Is this Mrs. Bateman’s?” said she.
“Certainly it is not Mrs. Bateman’s,” said Mrs. Plunket, sternly, “but
she lives here, of course. Perhaps you would like to see her.”
So much was Miss Perry mystified by this new turn of events that she
was unable to say whether she would like to see Mrs. Bateman or not.
In Mrs. Plunket’s opinion silence gave consent. She rang the bell and
desired the immediate attendance of that lady.
A portly, good-humored dame of florid complexion and communicative
manners made her appearance.
“Mrs. Bateman,” said Mrs. Plunket, briefly, “I believe this is your
niece.”
Having overcome her first emotion of legitimate surprise, Mrs. Bateman
welcomed Miss Perry with effusion.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “it is that girl of Maria’s! She is the image of
Maria. Very pleased to see you, my love. How’s your father?”
The next thing of which Miss Perry was conscious was that a pair of fat
arms were hugging her and that she was being kissed in a very vigorous
manner.
“How like your mother to be sure,” said Mrs. Bateman, “and what a big
girl you’ve grown!”
“Too big, in my opinion, for good service,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“You can’t have too much of a good thing, can you, my love?” said Mrs.
Bateman.
Miss Perry was bewildered. Mrs. Bateman was not in the least like the
Aunt Caroline she had expected to see.
“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” she said, with her eyes at their
widest.
“You must be Sally,” said Mrs. Bateman, “little Sally Dickinson who
used to be so fond of sugar.”
“It appears to have been a stimulating diet,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“Little Sally Dickinson who didn’t like to go to bed early,” said Mrs.
Bateman. “Law, how you’ve grown, my dear!”
“My name is Araminta Perry,” said that wonderful person with slow-drawn
solemnity.
“Sally Dickinson, my love,” said Mrs. Bateman. “I should know you
anywhere.”
It was now the turn of Mrs. Plunket to grow bewildered.
“There is some mystery here,” said she. “If she is Araminta Perry she
cannot be Sally Dickinson, and if she is Sally Dickinson she cannot be
Araminta Perry.”
All concerned seemed to feel that this was pregnant reasoning.
“That is right, Mrs. Plunket,” said Mrs. Bateman, “that is common sense
and human nature.”
“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” said Miss Perry, with her blue eyes
growing rounder and rounder.
“Of course I am, my love,” said Mrs. Bateman, affectionately; “and very
proud to be the aunt of such a bouncing girl as you.”
It was left to the practical intelligence of Mrs. Plunket to find the
solution to the puzzle.
“I presume,” said she to Miss Perry with great severity, “that Bateman
_is_ the name of your Aunt Caroline.”
“Oh, no,” said that Featherbrain.
“No!” gasped Mrs. Bateman.
“No!” said Mrs. Plunket, with great sternness. “Then what, pray, is the
name of your Aunt Caroline?”
The fair Araminta knitted her brows. Was there ever anything so
unlucky? The name of her august relation had passed clean out of her
head.
“I don’t remember,” drawled Miss Featherbrain, in the throes of a
considerable mental struggle.
“You don’t remember!” said Mrs. Plunket. “Upon my word!”
Mrs. Plunket and Mrs. Bateman subjected Miss Perry to a prolonged
scrutiny.
“There,” said Mrs. Bateman, triumphantly, “it is just as I said. She is
Sally Dickinson.”
“Try to remember the first letter of your aunt’s name,” said Mrs.
Plunket, in a tone which frightened Mrs. Bateman, but which seemed to
make no particular impact upon Miss Perry.
That Featherbrain mustered all her battalions to wage herculean
warfare. She knitted her brows and clasped her wicker basket still more
firmly. In the process of time, as was only to be expected after such a
stupendous display of mental energy, an inspiration came to her.
“She’s the Countess of Something!”
Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright, as if moved by an invisible spring.
“The Countess of Something!” said she.
Upon one side of her face was incredulity, upon the other was dismay.
She then looked at Mrs. Bateman blankly.
“The Countess of Crewkerne,” said Miss Featherbrain, with an air of
triumph.
Mrs. Bateman gave a little howl.
“Oh lord!” she cried, “haven’t I just put my foot in it? It means a
month’s notice.”
Mrs. Bateman simply turned and bolted. Mrs. Plunket, as became her
exalted position, was of stouter fiber.
“Miss Perry,” said she, with a dignity that was really admirable, “I
apologize for a most unfortunate mistake. I regret it exceedingly. I
hope you will be so kind as not to mention the matter to her ladyship.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Perry, with charming amiability.
Mr. Marchbanks was promptly summoned.
“A most unfortunate mistake has been made, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Mrs.
Plunket to that ambassador. “Miss Perry is her ladyship’s niece.”
To say that a feather would have knocked Mr. Marchbanks over is to
state the case lightly. Yet even in the depths of his consternation he
directed a glance of solemn unbelief at the preposterous hat.
“Announce Miss Perry’s arrival to her ladyship,” said Mrs. Plunket,
“but do not mention anything else.”
Mr. Marchbanks was besieged with doubt as he made his way to the
blue drawing-room. In spite of Mrs. Plunket’s sensational statement,
incredulity still reigned in his mind. It was possible that a hideous
error had been committed; and yet in the ripeness of his judgment he
clearly foresaw the possibility of committing another. He had Mrs.
Plunket’s authority that the nondescript creature who had come with a
corded box in a four-wheel cab, who wore an unseemly hat, unmentionable
gloves and boots, and who had attempted to shake hands with him, was
her ladyship’s niece; but all the same he had his own opinion.
Mr. Marchbanks entered the blue drawing-room on the horns of a dilemma.
It was difficult to know what line to take.
He was glad to observe that her ladyship was alone with her
gentlewoman. They were engaged in a game of piquet; and the gentlewoman
was just about to be rubiconed, an indignity she suffered on an average
three times a day.
Mr. Marchbanks approached his mistress, and having waited while she
claimed two for the last trick, said--
“A young person of the name of Perry is arrived, my lady.”
Her ladyship looked at Mr. Marchbanks bleakly.
“What is that to do with me?” she said.
It would seem that for the moment the name of Perry had passed as
completely out of her head as though it had never been in it; and the
question she had put to Mr. Marchbanks was precisely the one that that
diplomatist desired her to answer herself.
“She appears to have business with your ladyship,” said he.
“Very odd,” said his venerable mistress. “A young person of the name of
Perry.”
And then quite suddenly a light dawned upon her.
“Of course,” she said to her gentlewoman; “I had forgotten. That girl
of Polly’s.”
Like a hawk she swooped down upon the luckless Mr. Marchbanks.
“Tell me, Marchbanks,” she said, “what you mean precisely by a young
person of the name of Perry. Do you wish to infer that she is not a
lady?”
It was as tight a corner as Mr. Marchbanks had ever been in. Yet he
yielded to none in professional wisdom.
“I don’t wish to infer, your ladyship, that she might not be a lady,”
said Mr. Marchbanks, cautiously.
“It appears to me, Marchbanks,” said his venerable mistress, “that you
are getting too old for your place. I will see my niece, Miss Perry.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks, with a bead of perspiration
upon his forehead.