SHE was a thin, tall, “willowy” woman, long-necked, auburn-haired
(“Titian Gloire,” her _coiffeur_ called it on the bottle), and
dark-eyed, with a carefully got-up complexion and an expensive way of
wearing her clothes. She never paid less than six guineas for a pair
of corsets, thirty guineas for a “plain” morning gown, and ten guineas
for a “simple” hat. The prices of the various other articles of her
attire may thus, by these little items, be dimly guessed at. Whenever
she moved, shook her silk skirts, or played with her handkerchief,
a faint odour was exhaled from her person,--an odour supposed to be
“violets,” but more like the last trail of a musk-rat. She passed for
being very romantic and _spirituelle_, owing to a trick she had of
clasping her hands and looking up at the sky or the ceiling in a sudden
ecstasy. She would do this, often without warning, in the middle of
an ordinary commonplace conversation, greatly disconcerting everyone
else who happened to be present. Good-natured people said it was her
“soul-forces” that got too strong for her on these occasions,--others
shook their heads darkly and hinted that she had “too much brain.” As
a matter of fact, however, neither soul-forces nor brain-power were
concerned in her composition, and the rapt “pose” which she found so
effective was the chief stock-in-trade of the “leading lady” at one of
the theatres, from whom she had carefully copied it. Few women studied
“histrionic” attitudes as arduously as she did, and the chief object
with which she ever attended a play at all was that she might take
mental note of the languishing movements, the roll of the painted eyes,
and the airs and graces generally of the newest fashionable heroine
of the footlights,--not because the said heroine was an Actress, for
that she never is by any chance nowadays,--but simply that she might
copy her “poses” and her gowns. Yet with all the trouble she took, and
all the nervous excitement she suffered lest any “other” woman of her
particular style and contour should turn up and compete with her on
her own lines of conquest, she was not so much in the “social swim”
as she craved to be. No. There was some fatality about it. She--“the
beautiful Mrs. Arteroyd,” as she was occasionally called in society
paragraphs (she having paid the modest sum of Five Pounds for this
distinction to the enterprising lady journalist who “arranged” for
such special items of interest)--was not yet where she fain would be.
She had made a poor marriage,--or so she considered it. Her husband
was only a Colonel in the British army--just a man with a V.C. Other
women, older and plainer, had “caught” or bought real live Russian
princes. They--the said princes--had not any V.C., but then their wives
were princesses and went everywhere, and everybody said, “There is the
Princess Rumstuffski!” or, “How charming the Princess Numskullskoff is
looking!” Why was she not a Princess Rumstuffski? Why had an unkind
fate elected her to be the wife of a mere British officer with a V.C.
won in the prime of his manhood? And with absolutely no fortune!
Though, when she first fell in love with him--(what a stupid thing
to fall in love!)--she had considered him very well off, and herself
very lucky. He was the only son of a saving father who had left him
an income of about three thousand a year, the result of capital
soundly and safely invested. But what was three thousand a year to a
_spirituelle_ creature of super-sensitive intelligence who wore
six-guinea corsets? Nothing!--absolutely nothing! Especially at such a
time as the present, when excessive ostentation, vulgar, brazen wealth
is the only pass-key into what is called “society.” Poor Mrs. Arteroyd!
She had tried all sorts of ways to obtain a firm footing on that
slippery ladder which, like the magic Bean-Stalk of the fairy-tale, is
supposed to lead aspiring Jacks and Jills to that mysterious region
variously entitled “The Upper Ten” and “the top of the tree,”--but what
success she had won was too perilously like failure to be altogether
gratifying. Sitting in her cosy boudoir, she thought it all over,
the while she read the morning papers sulkily,--they were full of
war-news,--nothing but war--war--war! How sick she was of the war!--how
tired of all the deaths and wounds, and blunders and casualties and
botherments generally! She skimmed quickly through the list of “killed
and wounded,” just to see whether her husband was among them,--not that
her heart beat one pulse more anxiously during the search,--she was
only interested in so far as that if he were killed she would have to
go into mourning.
“And I look my worst in black,” she commented, as she glanced from name
to name of all those included in the terrible “Death Roll of Honour.”
But no--Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., was not mentioned as either slain
or wounded or sick of fever--there was no allusion to him anywhere as
being in or out of action, and when she had made herself quite sure of
this, she breathed more freely. There was no occasion for her to “look
her worst” just yet.
“Poor old Jack!” she said--“I’m glad he’s all right so far! I don’t
know why I look for his name in the papers at all, I’m sure,--for of
course I should hear direct from the War Office if--if anything had
happened. But I dare say he’s really as happy as the day is long. He
was mad to go to the Transvaal, and now he’s there I hope he likes it.
He was made for active service--but at home--Oh dear!--what a bore he
is!”
Her hard brown eyes flashed coldly up and down the columns of news
again, like sharp bits of steel getting ready to cut through the
insensible paper,--what a number of extraordinary things were being
associated with the war, she thought,--and what an exceptionally “good
time” some of the “leaders” of society were making for themselves out
of “Tommy Atkins”!
“Fancy!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she caught sight of a paragraph
placed prominently among other items of “court and society”
gossip--“There’s that horrible little fat woman, the Marquise Dégagée,
pushing herself everywhere, all because she’s getting up a Babies’
Fund! What an idea! ‘To provide feeding-bottles and perambulators for
all infants under twelve months, whose fathers are at the front.’ And
she’s actually going to have a ‘Royal Fancye Faire’ for _that_!”
In her excitement she jumped up and went to the window to read the
objectionable announcement over again.
“Not a mention of Me anywhere!” she said, with a pettish stamp of
her foot--“it’s too bad! And I’m sure the woman who writes these
things actually lives on me. Drops in to lunch,--makes me ask her to
dinner,--takes me to dressmakers who of course pay _her_ for
bringing _me_,--and yet with all my good-nature she isn’t a bit
grateful--she does nothing for me. The fact is, I must do something for
myself. But what shall it be?”
She sat down--or rather she “dropped” languidly into a chair, with
that particular scented rustle of herself which she had long practised
and loved,--and meditated. Taking up one of the fashionable “weeklies”
which cater especially for the feminine world, her brows puckered
vexedly, as on its first page she saw the “idealized” picture of a lady
with a turned-up nose, and a tiara, labelled “The Marquise Dégagée,”
and read the following interesting article.
“TOMMY’S BABY.
“The Marquise Dégagée, who is such a well-known favourite
in aristocratic circles” (“What a lie!” ejaculated Mrs.
Arteroyd--“She was never heard of till last season, when Lady
Pawpurse started ‘running her’!”) “is organizing a charming
‘Fancye Faire’ which will take place in the rooms of the Hotel
Beaumonde early next month. The object of the festival is to
raise an ‘Infants’ Fund’ which will provide feeding-bottles,
bone-rings, teething-pads and other necessaries, including
perambulators, for all infants under twelve months, whose
fathers are at the front. Royalty, always ready whenever a
kind action is concerned, has extended its gracious patronage
to the function, and Herr Bunkumopf, violinist of His Serene
Highness Prince Dummer-Esel, will give his valuable services to
the entertainment gratuitously. Some of the prettiest ladies
of the _corps de ballet_ of the Imperial Smoke-House
will preside over tea and coffee stalls and will distribute
the programmes, and His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel
has signified his intention of being present at the opening
ceremony. In order not to delay the useful progress of this
deserving charity, all mothers in need of feeding-bottles,
‘prams,’ and other baby-comforts are requested to send in their
names, together with a copy of their marriage certificates, and
the number of their husbands’ regiments to the Hon. Secretary,
Miss Jane Muddleup, at the residence of the Marquise Dégagée,
Belgrave Square. The Marquise Dégagée is, as everybody knows,
a true daughter of the old French nobility, and this generous
interest of hers in ‘Tommy’s Baby’ will do much to improve the
somewhat strained relations existing just now between France
and England. The Marquise has written a touching poem for
the occasion, and one of the special features of the ‘Fancye
Faire’ will be her own recitation of it, in that pretty broken
English which, as hosts of her social friends are aware, makes
her conversation so peculiarly charming. We are permitted
to produce one verse of this dainty and delicately humorous
lyric:--
“TOMMY’S BEBE!”
“Hélas!--Le pauvre bébé!
What will its muzzer do?
It is sans la bouteille
Which it suck all ze day through!
Hélas!--Le pauvre bébé!
It can do nozing but cry!
For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!
Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”
“We must not forget to mention that Messrs. Shrewd and Sly,
makers of perambulators to the Royal Family, have kindly
given one of their ‘Empire Model Prams’ to be raffled for,
for the benefit of the Fund. Anyone sending a postal order
for One Shilling will receive an elegantly mounted photograph
of ‘Tommy’s Pram,’ together with a beautiful copy, printed
in mezzotint, with a specially designed “Art” cover, of the
Marquise Dégagée’s appealing verses. We recommend the public to
lose no time in sending their shillings to Miss Jane Muddleup,
who will, as far as possible, attend to each applicant in turn.
No loyal mother and mistress of an English home should be
without the picture of ‘Tommy’s Pram’ and the inspiring lyric
of ‘Tommy’s Bébé.’”
Mrs. Arteroyd gave a short contemptuous laugh.
“Inspiring lyric! Stuff and rubbish! Absolute gibberish!”
She read the “appealing” stanza again.
“Hélas!--Le pauvre bébé!
What will its muzzer do?
It is sans la bouteille
Which it suck all the ze day through!
Hélas!--Le pauvre bébé!
It can do nozing but cry!
For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!
Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”
She threw down the journal in a rage--a real rage this time.
“Detestable little cat!” she said--“I can see her at it! Dressed by
Worth, of course, and with all her diamonds on, reciting her trash
before that ridiculous old Dummer-Esel, who doesn’t know the difference
between verse and prose,--smirking and smirking and giving herself
all the airs of a Paris stage soubrette! And Royalty is going to take
_her_ up, is it? Not if I know it! It shall take me up first!”
Her eyes flashed, and for once her cheeks were a fine crimson without
the aid of rouge. She looked at herself in the glass,--ran her white
fingers through her “Titian Gloire” hair, and pulled it over on either
side of her ears till it looked wild and wonderful,--opened her eyelids
wide,--blinked them to note the effect of her long eyelashes,--then
smiled languishingly at her own reflection and said,--
“I will do a poem!”
In this observation she strictly preserved her honesty. She did not
say even to herself that she would “think” a poem, or “write” a poem.
She said she would “do” a poem. And she did. She shut herself up in
her room all day and went to work. She happened to have an unusually
large collection of music-hall ditties and “soldiers’ songs,” which
had been sung in happier times by her absent husband. She turned
these over, perused them carefully, and eliminated “bits” therefrom.
It was hard work, but she persevered, and like a child piecing a
puzzle together, she fitted in lines and halves of lines until, by
dint of close consideration and painstaking study of the music-hall
“models,” she hit out something like a feeble imitation. And finally,
after making herself quite feverish and thirsty with worry and fatigue
and the confusion of brain resulting from “variety” ballad-mixtures,
she succeeded in “arranging” the following colloquial and effective
stanzas, much to her own satisfaction.
“Hullo, Tommy! Wheer’ye off to?”
“I’m a leavin’ old England’s shore,--
I’m ordered on active service,
An’ mebbe I’ll come back no more--
I’m bound to polish off Kruger--
’Twill be a tough job, old pal!--
I don’t want to give no trouble--
But--just look after my gal!