"Yes, Mother. Oh, you poor darling!" They clung together.
Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes; then she poured out some coffee and drank it.
"I'm better now, dear." She smiled cheerfully.
And she was better. As she rose from the table the dark cloud lifted,
she saw clearly once more; saw the Routledge banner streaming in the
breeze.
"And now for those tiresome books," she said almost gaily. She went away
to the drawing-room and Joan collapsed; she felt sick, scenes always
upset her.
She thought: "I wish I could hide my head in a table napkin and cry like
Mother did." Then she thought: "I wonder how Mother manages it. I
wouldn't have cried, I'd have hit him!"
She could not eat. In the drawing-room she heard her mother humming,
yes, actually humming over the books!
"That's all right," thought Joan, "they must be nice and cheap this
week, that's a comfort anyhow."
Presently Mrs. Ogden looked into the dining-room.
"Joan!"
"Yes, Mother?"
"No lessons to-day, dear."
"No, Mother."
"Come and help me to place the wreath."
They fetched it, carrying it between them; a laurel wreath large enough
to cover the frame of the admiral's picture.
"Tell Alice to bring the steps, Joan. Now, dear, you hold them while I
get up. How does it look?"
"Lovely, Mother."
"Joan, never forget that half of you is Routledge. Never forget, my
dear, that the best blood in your veins comes from my side of the
family. Never forget who you are, Joan; it helps one a great deal in
life to have something like that to cling to, something to hold on to
when the dark days come."
3
All day long the house hummed like a beehive. There was no luncheon; the
children snatched some bread and butter in the kitchen, and if Mrs.
Ogden ate at all, she was not observed to do so. Colonel Ogden, wise
man, had remained at the club. Alice, her mouth surreptitiously full,
hastened here and there with dust-brushes and buckets; Milly begged to
do the flowers, and cut her finger; Joan manfully polished the plate,
while Mrs. Ogden, authoritative and dignified, reviewed her household as
the colonel had once reviewed his regiment.
Presently Alice was ordered to hasten away and dress. "And," said Mrs.
Ogden, "let me find your cap and apron spotless, if you please, Alice."
At last Joan and Milly went upstairs to put on their white cashmere
smocks, and Mrs. Ogden, left to herself, took stock of the preparations.
Yes, it was all in order, the trestle table hired from Binnings',
together with the stout waiter, had both arrived, so had the coffee and
tea urns and the extra cups and saucers. On the sideboard stood an array
of silver. Cups won at polo by Colonel Ogden, a silver tray bearing the
arms of Routledge, salvage this from the family wreck, and numerous
articles in Indian silver, embossed with Buddhas and elephants' heads.
The table groaned with viands, the centre piece being a large sugar cake
crowned with a frigate in full sail. This speciality Binnings was able
to produce every year; the cake was fresh, of course, but not the
frigate.
But the drawing-room--that was what counted most. The drawing-room on
what Mrs. Ogden called "Anniversary Day" was, in every sense of the
word, a shrine. Within its precincts dwelt the image of the god, the
trophies of his earthly career set out about him, and Mary, his
handmaiden, in attendance to wreathe his effigy with garlands.
Poor old Admiral Sir William, a good fellow by all accounts, an honest
sailor and a loyal friend in his day. Possibly less Routledge than his
descendants, certainly, according to his biographer, a man of a retiring
disposition; one wonders what he would have thought of the Ancestor
Worship of which he had all unwittingly become the object.
But Mary was satisfied. The drawing-room, which always appeared to her
to be a very charming room, was of a good size. The colour scheme was
pink and white, broken by just a splash of yellow here and there where
the white chrysanthemums had run out and had been supplemented by yellow
ones. The wall-paper was white with clusters of pink roses; the curtains
were pink, the furniture was upholstered in pink. The hearth, which was
tiled in turquoise blue, was lavish in brass. Mrs. Ogden drew the
curtains a little more closely together over the windows in order to
subdue the light; then she touched up the flowers, shook out the
cushions for the fifth time and stood in the door to gauge the effect.
"Now," said Mrs. Ogden mentally, "I am Lady Loo, I am entering the
drawing-room, how does it strike me?"
The first thing that naturally riveted the attention was the
laurel-wreathed print of Admiral Sir William. What a pity James had been
too poor to buy the painting--for a moment she felt dashed, but this
phase passed quickly, the room looked so nice. The colour, so clean and
dainty, just sufficiently relieved by the blue tiled grate and the
Oriental piano cover; this latter and the Benares vases certainly seemed
to stamp the room as belonging to people who had been in the Service. On
the whole she was glad she had married James and not the bishop. The
flowers too--really Milly had arranged them quite nicely. But what a
pity that it would be too light to light the lamp; still, the shade
certainly caught the eye, she was glad she had taken the plunge and
bought it at that sale. It was very effective, pleated silk with bunches
of artificial iris. Still, she was not sure that a plain shade would not
have looked better after all. When one has so unusually fine a stuffed
python for a standard lamp, one did not wish to detract from it in any
way. She considered the photographs next; there was a goodly assortment
of these in silver frames; she had carefully selected them with a view
to effect. The panel of herself in court dress, that showed up well;
then James in his full regimentals--James looked a trifle stout in his
tunic, still, it all showed that she had not married a nobody. Then that
nice picture of her brother Henry taken with his polo team--poor Henry!
Oh, yes, and the large photograph of the bishop--really rather imposing.
And Chesham--the prints of Chesham on the walls; how dignified the dear
old place looked, very much a gentleman's estate.
But there was more to come; Mrs. Ogden had purposely left the best to
the last. She drew in her breath. There, on an occasional table, lay the
relics of Admiral Sir William Routledge, gallant officer and Nelson's
darling. In the middle of the table lay his coat and his gloves, across
the coat, his sword. To right and left hung the admiral's decorations
mounted on velvet plaques. In front of the coat lay the oak-framed
remnants of Nelson's letter to the admiral, and in front of this again
the treasured Nelson snuff-box bearing the inscription "From Nelson to
Routledge."
She paused beside the table, touching the relics one by one with
reverent fingers, smiling as she did so. Then she crossed the room to
where a shabby leather covered arm-chair looked startlingly incongruous
amid its surroundings. Very carefully she lowered herself into the
chair; a small brass plate had been screwed on to the back, bearing the
inscription "Admiral Viscount Nelson of Trafalgar sat in this chair when
staying at Chesham Court with Admiral Sir William Routledge." Mrs. Ogden
spread her thin hands along the slippery arms, and allowed her head to
rest for a moment where supposedly Nelson's head had once rested. The
chair was her special pride and care; perhaps because its antecedents
were doubtful. Colonel Ogden had once reminded her that there never had
been any proof worth mentioning that Nelson had stayed at Chesham, much
less that he had sat in that infernally uncomfortable old chair, and
Mrs. Ogden had retorted hotly that Routledge tradition was good enough
for her. Nevertheless, from that moment the Nelson chair had, she felt,
a special claim upon her. She was like a mother defending the doubtful
legitimacy of a well-loved son; the Nelson chair had been threatened
with a bar sinister.
She gave the arms a farewell stroke, and rising slowly left the room to
dress. She trod the stairs with dignity, the aloof dignity that belonged
to the occasion, which she would maintain during the rest of the day.
Her lapse from Routledge in the morning but added to her calm as
tea-time approached.