AUNT WILLIAM'S DAY
It was a chilly spring afternoon and Aunt William was seated by the fire
doing wool-work, for she disapproved of the idle habits of the present
day and thought that a lady should always have her fingers employed in
some way; not, of course, either with cards or cigarettes. She was
getting on steadily with the foot-stool she was making; a neat design of
a fox's head with a background of green leaves. In the course of her
life Aunt William had done many, many miles of wool-work. It was neither
embroidery nor tapestry; it was made on canvas with what is known for
some mysterious reason as Berlin wool; and was so simple that it used to
be called the Idiot Stitch; but the curious elaboration of the design
and sort of dignified middle-Victorian futility about it cast a glamour
over the whole, and dispelled any association of idiocy from the
complete work. A banner screen was now in front of the fire, which Aunt
William had worked during a winter at St. Leonards, and which
represented enormous squashed roses like purple cauliflowers, with a
red-brown background--a shade called, in her youth, Bismarck brown, and
for which she always retained a certain weakness.
It was her day, and on Aunt William's day she invariably wore a
shot-silk dress, shot with green and violet; the bodice trimmed with
bugles, the skirt plain and flowing. Aunt William did not have that
straight-fronted look that is such a consolation to our modern women who
are getting on in years, but went in decidedly at the waist, her figure
being like a neat pincushion. Her voice was deep, her mind of a somewhat
manly and decided order, so that the touches of feminine timidity or
sentiment taught her in early youth sat oddly enough on her now. In
reality she hated wool-work, but did it partly from tradition and partly
from a contrary disposition; because other people didn't like it, and
even because she didn't like it herself.
Her first visitor was a very old and dear friend of hers whom she
particularly disliked and disapproved of, Lady Virginia Harper. Lady
Virginia was a very tall, thin, faded blonde, still full of shadowy
vitality, who wore a flaxen transformation so obviously artificial that
not the most censorious person by the utmost stretch of malice could
assume it was meant to deceive the public. With equal candour she wore a
magnificent set of teeth, and a touch of rouge on each cheek-bone. To
Aunt William's extreme annoyance Lady Virginia was dressed to-day in a
strange medley of the artistic style combined oddly with a rather wild
attempt at Parisian smartness. That is to say, in her cloak and furs she
looked almost like an outside coloured plate on the cover of _Paris
Fashions_; while when she threw it open one could see that she wore a
limp _crepe de chine_ Empire gown of an undecided mauve, with a waist
under the arms and puffed sleeves. On her head was a very smart bright
blue flower toque, put on entirely wrong, with a loose blue veil hanging
at the back. Had anything been required to decide the question of her
looking grotesque, I should mention that she wore long mauve _suede_
gloves. That settled it. A gold bag dangled from her left wrist, and she
carried a little fan of carved ivory. She looked, naturally,--or
unnaturally--slightly absurd, but had great distinction and no sort of
affectation, while an expression that alternated between amiable
enthusiasm and absent-minded depression characterised her shadowy
indefinite features.
Aunt William received her with self-control, and she immediately asked
for tea.
"Certainly. It is half-past three, and I regard five as tea-time. But as
you wish, dear Virginia." Aunt William pulled the bell with manly vigour
and ill-tempered hospitality.
"Have you heard that _divine_ new infant harpist? He's perfectly
exquisite--a genius. But _the_ person I've come to talk to you about,
Mary, is the new singer, Delestin. He's perfectly heavenly! And so
good-looking! I've taken him up--quite--and I want you to be kind about
him, dear Mary."
"I'll take two tickets for his concert," said Aunt William harshly. "But
I won't go to the concert and I won't come and hear him sing."
"Now that's so like you, Mary! He isn't _giving_ a concert, and I _want_
you to hear him sing. He's too charming. Such a gentle soft creature,
and so highly-strung. The other day after he had sung at my house--it
was something of Richard Strauss's, certainly a very enervating song, I
must own that--he simply fainted at the piano, and had to be taken away.
So, if you give a party, do have him, dear Mary! You will, won't you?"
"Most certainly not! A protege of yours who faints at the piano wouldn't
be at all suitable for one of _my_ Evenings, thank you, Virginia."
Lady Virginia did not answer. She evidently had not heard. She never
listened and never thought of one subject for more than two seconds at a
time. She used a long-handled lorgnette, but usually dropped it before
it had reached her eye.
"Oh! and there's something else I wanted to speak to you about. A sweet
girl, a friend of mine (poor thing!), has lost her parents. They were
generals or clergymen or something, and she's obliged to do something,
so she's going in for hats. So sensible and brave of her! She's taken
the _sweetest_ little shop just out of Bond Street. Do, dear, go and get
some toques there, for my sake. Won't you?"
"_Some toques?_" repeated Aunt William. "I don't know what you mean.
Hats are not things you order by the half-dozen. I have my winter's
bonnet, my spring bonnet which I have got already, a sun-hat for
travelling in the summer, and so forth."
"I got a beautiful picture-hat from her," said Lady Virginia dreamily.
"An enormous black one, with Nattier blue roses in front and white
feathers at the back--- only five guineas. But then she makes special
prices for me, of course."
"No doubt she does," said Aunt William.
"Of course I can't wear it, my dear," continued Virginia. "I hate to
attract attention so, and I look too showy in a picture-hat with my fair
hair. But it was a kindness to the girl. Poor girl!"
Aunt William was boiling over.
"Of course you can't wear it. Do you imagine you can wear the hat you've
got on now, Virginia?"
"What this? It's only a little flower toque."
"At _our_ age," said Aunt William, "_only_ little flower toques, as you
call them, should be left to younger people. Oh how much nicer you would
look, Virginia, in a black or brown silk dress, and a close bonnet with
strings, say with a chrysanthemum or two, and a few bugles if you like.
It would be so much more suitable."
"What _is_ a close bonnet?" asked Lady Virginia, trying to concentrate
her thoughts and not in the least offended.
The arrival of Savile at this moment created a diversion. His air of
inscrutability and self-restraint was neither more nor less marked than
usual; but, to the acute observer, it would have been evident that he
was crammed with suppressed and exciting information.
"You remember my nephew, Virginia? My brother James's only son, you
know." Aunt William spoke proudly, as if his being an only son were some
remarkable merit of his own.
"Not at all," murmured Savile indistinctly.
"Oh, is he really? What a darling! I adore children," said Lady
Virginia, benevolently smiling at him. "And _so_ tall for his age, too!"
"You don't know his age," snapped Aunt William.
"No, I don't; but I can see he's tall--a very fine child. What do you
learn at school, darling?"
"Oh, nothing much," said Savile, with patience.
Lady Virginia laughed inconsequently.
"What a clever boy he is! Children _are_ so wonderful nowadays! When
Delestin was only six he played all Chopin's Valses and Liszt's
Rhapsodies by heart. Of course that's some time ago now, but it shows
what boys _can_ do."
"By Jove!" said Savile.
"Who's your great friend at school, dear?"
"Oh--I suppose Sweeny's my _greatest_ pal. He's in the eleven," added
Savile explanatorily.
"Oh, yes! I daresay--a very nice boy too. He has a marvellous likeness
to you, Mary dear," Lady Virginia said, using the long-handled glass,
"especially about the--well--the ears--and forehead. Are you musical, my
dear?"
"I like some of it," said Savile, with a sigh.
"You're like James, too," said Lady Virginia, "and I think I see a look
of his mother, Mary."
"You never saw her, and you know it," said Aunt William, who always
tried in vain to pin Virginia down to facts.
"Yes, but that was merely by chance," said Lady Virginia, getting into
her cloak. "Then I shall expect you, Mary, to come and hear Delestin
play? Oh, no, I forgot--you said you couldn't. I'm so sorry; but I
_must_ fly.... I've a thousand things to do. You know my busy life! I'm
the President of the Young Girls' Typewriting Society, and I have to go
and see about it. How we poor women ever get through the season with all
the work we do is more than I can ever understand."
Aunt William became much more cordial at the prospect of her friend's
departure, and when Virginia had at last fluttered out, after dropping
the gold bag and the ivory fan twice, Savile said--
"Do you expect _many_ more visitors like that to-day, Aunt William?"
"None like that."
"Well, while you're alone I've got some news to tell you. Sylvia would
have come herself, but she's engaged--this afternoon."
"Not engaged to be married, I suppose!" said Aunt William, with a sort
of triumphal archness.
"Yes, you've hit it in once. At least, up to a certain point. It'll be
all right. But the Governor's a bit nasty--and the fact is, we want you
to come and see him, and sort of talk him over, you know."
"Savile! Do you mean it? How charming!... But who's the young man--and
what's the objection?"
Savile thought a moment, and remembered her tinge of snobbishness. "He's
Sir Bryce Woodville's nephew. Chap who died. I mean, the uncle died.
It's Woodville, _you_ know!"
"Your father's secretary?"
"Yes, and a rattling good chap, too. Sylvia's liked him for ages, and he
didn't like to come up to the scratch because he was hard up. Now
something's turned up. Old Ridokanaki's written him a letter--wants him
to go into his bank. He'll have three thousand a year. It's only _habit_
with the Governor to pretend to mind. But a few words with you will
settle it. I'll tell you more about it later on."
"I _am_ amazed at the news, Savile. He's a very fine young man, but----"
"He's all right, Aunt William."
"But I thought the Greek gentleman with the unpronounceable name was
madly in love with Sylvia himself? I've often talked it over with your
father. He and I took opposite views."
"So he was, but he's got some one else now. It's simply _got_ to come
off. Now _will_ you come and see us?"
"Certainly. When?"
"As soon as possible. I wish you'd come now."
"But this is my Day, Savile! How can I go out on my _Day_?"
"Of course you can. You'll have heaps of other days, but none like
this--for Sylvia."
Aunt William hesitated, then her intense romantic curiosity got the
upper hand.
"Savile, I'll come back with you now! Do you think James will listen to
reason? He never agrees with me. And I don't know yet what to think
myself."
"Of course he will. You're a brick, Aunt William. I'll tell you more
about it in the cab. It's as right as rain for Sylvia, or you may be
pretty certain _I_ shouldn't have allowed it," said Savile.
To get Aunt William to go out on her Day, a thing she had not done for
thirty years, was so great a triumph that he had little fear of not
getting her to be on the right side. He knew she always made a point of
disagreeing with his father on every subject under heaven, so he rubbed
in Sir James's opposition, and gradually worked on her sentimental side
until she was almost tearfully enthusiastic.
"How shall I behave? Go right in and tell your father he must
consent?--or what?"
"Play for safety," said Savile.