LADY KELLYNCH AT HOME
Although Lady Kellynch was a widow, and had had two sons (at the unusual
interval of eighteen years), there was something curiously old-maidish
about her--I should say that she had a set of qualities that were
formerly known by that expression, as there are no such things nowadays
as old maids and maiden aunts as contrasted to British matrons. There
are merely married or unmarried women. And Lady Kellynch belonged to a
long-forgotten type; she was no suffragette; politics did not touch her,
and at fifty-four she did not regard herself as the modern middle-aged
woman does. It never occurred to her for a moment, for example, to have
lessons in the Tango or to learn ski-ing or any other winter sports, in
a white jersey and cap. She was not seen clinging to the arm of a
professor of roller-skating, nor did she go to fancy-dress balls as
Folly or Romeo, as a Pierrette or Joan of Arc, as many of her
contemporaries loved to do. She dressed magnificently and in the fashion
of the day, and yet she always remained and looked extremely
old-fashioned; and though she would wear her hats as they were made
nowadays, her hair then had a look that did not go with it; no
hairdresser or milliner could ever induce her to do it in a style later
than 1887. The larger number of women have had some period of their
lives when the fashion has happened to suit them, or when, for some
reason or another, they have had a special success, and most of these
cling fondly to that epoch. Lady Kellynch never got away from 1887 and
the time of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee. All the fads of the hour
seemed to have passed over her since then, from bicycling to flying,
from classical dancing or ragtime to enthusiasm about votes for women;
the various movements had passed over her without leaving any hurt or
effect. Lady Kellynch had had a success in 1887; she cherished tenderly
a photograph of herself in an enormous bustle, with an impossibly small
waist, a thick high fringe over her eyes, and a tight dog-collar. The
bald bare look about the ears, and the extraordinary figure resembling a
switchback made her look very much older then than she did now. But more
than one smart young soldier (now, probably, steady retired generals,
who passed their time saying that the country was going to the dogs), an
attache long since married and sunk into domestic life, and one or two
other men had greatly admired her; she had had her little dignified
flirtations, much as she adored the late Sir Percy Kellynch; her
portrait had been painted by Herkomer, and the Prince of Wales (as he
then was) had looked at her through his opera glass during the
performance of Gounod's _Romeo and Juliet_. These were things not to be
forgotten. When her husband died, Percy married and Clifford went to
school, and Lady Kellynch was left alone in her big house in South
Kensington, she became again what I call old-maidish. She had a hundred
little rules and fussy little arrangements, of which the slightest
disorganisation drove her to distraction. She had long consultations
every day with the cook at nine o'clock as to what was to be done with
what was left. She liked to be domestic, and would stand over the man
who was cleaning the windows and tell him how to do it. Certain things
she liked to do herself.
In the drawing-room was a chandelier of the seventies, beautiful in its
way, though out of date, and she used to take the lustres down and
polish them with her own fingers, taking a great pride in doing this
herself. She cared really for no one in the world but her two sons, but
she was extremely fond, in her own way, of society and of receiving. She
did not keep open house, and hers was not by any means casual
hospitality. She hated anyone to call upon her unexpected and uninvited,
except on the first and third Thursday of every month. She was very much
surprised that in the rush of the present day people had a way of
forgetting these days and calling on others. The first Thursday was
peculiarly ill-treated and ignored, and preparations on that day were
often wasted, while on the second Thursday she would come home and find
a quantity of cards, belonging to more or less smart, if dull, people
who had left them, with a sigh of relief at their mistake.
Lady Kellynch was good-natured in a cold kind of way, and even lavish;
yet she had her queer, petty economies, and was always talking about a
mysterious feat that she spoke of as _keeping the books down_, and was
also fond of discovering tiny little dressmakers who used to be with
some celebrated one and had now set up for themselves.
Lady Kellynch was very kind to these little dressmakers--she spoke of
them as if they were minute to the point of being midgets or
dwarfs--she was really rather the curse of their lives, and after a
while they would have been glad to dispense with her custom. She wanted
them to do impossibilities, such as making her look exactly as she did
at Queen Victoria's first Jubilee (the time when she was so much admired
and had such a success), and yet making her look up-to-date now, without
any of the horrid fast modern style.
When Clifford was at home things were considerably turned upside down,
and when the time of his holidays drew to an end she was conscious of
being relieved.
It was the first Thursday, and Lady Kellynch was at home. A day or two
before Clifford had spent a day with Pickering and his mother. She had
told him he might ask the boy to tea.
"Mother," said Clifford, who had received a note, "Pickering can't come
to-day."
"Oh, indeed--what a pity."
She was really rather glad. Boys at an At Home were a bore and ate all
the cake.
"Er--no--he can't come. But, I say, you won't mind, will you?--his
mother's coming."
"His mother!" exclaimed Lady Kellynch, rather surprised.
"Er--yes--I asked her. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't mind. She wants
to know you."
"Really? It's very kind of her, I'm sure."
"You see, in a way, though she's awfully rich--I suppose she's a bit of
a--you know what I mean--a sort of a _nouveau riche_. She wants to visit
a few decent people, especially not too young."
"Oh, indeed!"
"She says it'll sort of pose her, and help her to get into society."
"What curious things to say to a boy."
"Oh, she's awfully jolly, mother. She says everything that comes into
her head. She's ripping--I do like her."
"Who was she?" asked his mother, with a rather chilling accent.
"I'm sure I don't know who she was," said the boy. "I can tell you who
she is: she's the prettiest woman I've ever seen."
"Good gracious me!"
"We had awful larks," went on Clifford. "She played with us and
Pickering's kiddy sister. We danced the Tango and had charades. You
can't think what fun it was. And we had tableaux. Mrs. Pickering and I
did a lovely tableau, 'Death in the Desert.' She fell down dead
suddenly, on the sand, you know, and I was a vulture. I'm an awfully
good vulture. And I vultured about and hopped round her for some
considerable time."
"Horrible!" cried Lady Kellynch. "Revolting! What an unpleasant subject
for a game."
"It wasn't a game: it was a proper tableau: we had a curtain and all
that sort of thing. They said I made a capital vulture. I pecked at Mrs.
Pickering. It was a great success."
"Dear me! Was it indeed? Well, if this lady's coming, you'd better go
and wash your hands," said Lady Kellynch, who felt a disposition to snub
Clifford on the subject.
"Of course I will! I say, mother, what cakes have you got?"
"Really, Clifford, I think you can leave that to me."
"They have jolly little _foie gras_ sandwiches at the Pickerings."
"I daresay they have."
"Can I go and tell cook to make some?"
"Most certainly not, Clifford!" cried the indignant mother.
"But if there aren't any, she might miss them," said Clifford.
"She will probably enjoy the change."
"You can't think how pretty she is! I say, mother."
"Yes, dear."
"I say, can't you have fur put round the edge of your shoes!"
"Fur round the edge of my shoes!" she repeated in a hollow voice.
He twisted his hands together self-consciously.
"Mrs. Pickering had an awful ripping violet sort of dress, and violet
satin boots with fur round the edge. ... I noticed them when we played
'Death in the Desert.' I thought they were rather pretty."
"Extremely bad style, I should think. At any rate, not the sort of thing
that I should dream of wearing. Now get along."
Clifford went down to the kitchen and worried the cook with descriptions
of the gorgeous cakes he had seen at the Pickerings till she said that
his ma had better accept her notice, and engage the Pickerings' cook
instead.
"Orders from you, Master Clifford, I will not take. And now you've got
it straight. _For grars_ in the afternoon is a thing I don't hold with
and never would hold with, and I've lived in the best families. There's
some nice sandwiches made of _gentlemen's relish_ made of Blootes'
paste, your ma's always 'ad since I've been here; it's done for her and
the best families I've lived in. _Fors grars_ is served at the end of
dinner with apsia and jelly, or else in one of them things with crust on
the top and truffles. But for tea I consider it quite out of place."
She went on to say that if she couldn't have her kitchen to herself
without the young gentlemen of the house putting their oar in, she would
leave that day month.
Clifford fled, frightened, and tidied himself.
At about five, when two or three old cronies of Lady Kellynch's were
sitting round, talking about the royal family, a gigantic motor, painted
white, came to the door, and Mrs. Pickering was announced.
She was very young and very pretty. Her hair was the very brightest
gold, and she had rather too much mauve and too much smile; she almost
curtsied to her hostess, and instantly gave that lady the impression
that she must have been not so very long ago the principal boy at some
popular pantomime.