hundred pounds a year to his pay by proficiency in one European
language.
"I have it," cried Aunt Mildred, and in the pleasure of her inspiration
she squinted so hard that Jasmine for a moment thought she had something
far more serious than an inspiration. "I have it: you shall act as
parlourmaid when the Grand Duchess comes!"
"Me?" echoed the Colonel, who in the vigour of her declaration had
forgotten to allow for the squint. However much he owed to his wife for
advancement in his profession, he could not quite stand this.
"Not you, silly," she said, "Jasmine."
"What on earth is that going to effect?" he asked.
"Now don't be so hasty, Alec. You've always tried to snub my little
ideas. I am much more sensible than you think. And more sensible than
anybody thinks," she added. "Ada is an excellent parlourmaid, but she is
a nervous, highly strung girl, and I'm quite sure that the mere
prospect of entertaining the Grand Duchess...."
"But _she's_ not going to entertain the Grand Duchess," interrupted the
Colonel.
"Now please don't muddle me up with petty little distinctions between
one word and another," said Aunt Mildred. "You know perfectly well what
I mean. 'Look after' if you prefer it. Ada has never been trained to
look after royalty."
"Nor have I," Jasmine put in. "Snelson's the only person in this house
who has been trained to look after royalty."
"Jasmine, I'd rather you were not vulgar," said Aunt Mildred
reprovingly. "It's extraordinary the way girls nowadays don't respect
anything. If you and Uncle Alec would only wait a moment and not be so
ready both of you to pounce on me before I have finished what I was
going to say, you might have understood that the suggestion was made
partly because I appreciate your manners, partly because I have
travelled a great deal and don't find your little foreign ways so
irritating as your other relations did.... Where was I? If you and your
uncle _will_ argue with me, I can't be expected to plan things out as I
should like. Where was I, Alec?"
"I really don't know," said the Colonel almost bitterly. "All I know is
that Ada's a perfectly good parlourmaid fit to wait on anybody. If the
Grand Duchess comes without a lady-in-waiting, she comes without a
lady-in-waiting to please herself. Really, my dear, you give the
impression that you are unused to royalty."
To what state the hitherto tranquil married life of Colonel and Mrs.
Alexander Grant might have been reduced if the discussion about the
fitness of Jasmine to act as temporary parlourmaid during the Grand
Duchess's visit had gone on much longer, it would be hard to say. The
problem was solved, for Jasmine at any rate, by two telegrams arriving
within half an hour of one another, one from Aunt May to say that
Lettice and Pamela were both ill with scarlet fever, and another from
Aunt Cuckoo to say that her little son was ill without specifying the
complaint. Both telegrams concluded with the suggestion that Jasmine
should pack up at once and come to the rescue. Jasmine would have
preferred to go straight away to Aunt Cuckoo; but aware as she was of
Aunt Cuckoo's fickleness and knowing that, if she did go to Aunt Cuckoo
in preference to Aunt May, Aunt May would never forgive her, a prospect
that a short time ago she would not have minded, but which now she
rather dreaded, for since her visit to Curtain Wells she was feeling
afraid of the future, she tried to avoid making a decision for herself
by consulting Uncle Alec and Aunt Mildred. Both of them were sure that
she should go to Aunt May, and Aunt Mildred pointed out with what for
her was excellent logic: "Lettice and Pamela are both ill and they are
both her daughters, whereas this infant is not Aunt Cuckoo's son, and if
Aunt Cuckoo deliberately adopts sons she ought to be able to look after
them herself."
"In fact," the Colonel said, "I should not be surprised to receive a
telegram from Eneas asking _me_ to look after Aunt Cuckoo. Well, we
shall miss you here," he added; but Jasmine could see that he was really
very glad that she was going. Aunt Mildred too was evidently not sorry
to escape from the argument about the parlourmaid. Now she could go on
believing for the rest of her life that if Jasmine had stayed she would
have had her way and turned her into a temporary parlourmaid for the
benefit of the Grand Duchess.
The Prince, whose capacity for differentiating the various human
emotions was most indefinite, danced up and down with delight at hearing
that Jasmine was going away. Aunt Mildred tried to explain that he was
really dancing with sorrow; but it appeared presently that the Prince
had an idea that he was going away with her, and that he really had been
dancing with delight, his capacity for differentiating the human
emotions not being quite so indefinite as it was thought to be. When he
found that Jasmine was going away without him, he could not be pacified
until Snelson had got into a large clothes-basket, and pretended to be
something that Jasmine never knew. Whatever it was, the Prince was
reconciled to her departure, and the last she saw of him he was sitting
cross-legged in front of the clothes-basket with an expression on his
face of divine content. She thought to herself with a laugh as she drove
off that Snelson would probably spend many hours in the clothes-basket
during the next two or three weeks. In fact, he would probably spend
most of his time in that clothes-basket, until the Prince found another
pet upon which to lavish his admiration, or until he grew envious of
Snelson's lot and decided to occupy the clothes-basket himself.
_Chapter Eleven_
There is no doubt that if Lady Grant could have found the smallest
pretext for blaming her niece, she would have held her responsible for
the scarlet fever which had attacked her daughters. As it was, she had
to be content with dwelling upon the inconvenience of Jasmine's
succumbing to the malady.
"You so easily might catch it," she pointed out, "that I do hope you'll
bear in mind what a nuisance it would be for us all if you did catch it.
Of course, those who understand about these things may decide it would
be more prudent if you did not expose yourself to any risk by going to
visit the poor girls." Lady Grant could never miss an opportunity to
emphasize the mysterious and sacerdotal omniscience that belonged to the
profession of medicine. "Those who understand about these things will
tell us what we must do. But meanwhile, although I am only speaking as
an ignoramus in these matters, I should say that if you always
remembered to disinfect your clothes and all that sort of thing and were
very careful to follow the doctor's directions, there would be no danger
of your catching scarlet fever yourself. I need not tell you what a
terrible blow it was to me when I had to give my consent to their being
taken away from Harley Street to a nursing home. A terrible blow! But
your uncle felt that it would not be fair to his patients if they stayed
in the house. That's the worst of being a doctor. He has to think of
everybody. Poor dear children, and there's so little one can do! In fact
there's really nothing one can do except take the darlings grapes every
day."
The rules of the nursing home were more strict than Lady Grant had
expected, and, much to her indignation, permission to visit the patients
was denied to Jasmine, who thereupon suggested that, since she could not
be of any use in nursing her cousins, she ought to go and help Aunt
Cuckoo with the illness of her adopted son.
"And what about me?" demanded her aunt. "You seem to forget, my dear
child, and your Aunt Cuckoo seems to forget, that I have a slight claim
to consideration. As if the girls' illness was not enough, Cousin Edith
must needs go and carelessly visit some friend of hers at Enfield and
bring back with her a violent cold, so that what with her sniffling and
sneezing and snuffling it's quite impossible to stay in the same room
with her. So, at this moment of all others, I am left entirely at the
mercy of the servants, who after all have quite enough work of their own
to run the house properly, and really I'm afraid I cannot see why you
should go to Aunt Cuckoo."
It was thus that Jasmine found herself after what Aunt May now called
her adventures of the last eighteen months in that very position which
Aunt May had no doubt arranged in her mind when she first wrote and
insisted on her niece's leaving Sirene and coming to England. Cousin
Edith's cold, which Jasmine had to admit was one of the most aggressive,
the most persistent, the most maddening colds she had ever listened to,
was ascribed by Aunt May to the London climate in winter, and as soon as
Jasmine was fairly at work on her aunt's correspondence, Cousin Edith
was sent away to recuperate in Bognor, where it was generally understood
at 317, Harley Street she would remain for the rest of her life. If
anything more than the cold had been needed to confirm Aunt May in her
resolve to get rid of Cousin Edith, it was the death of Spot.
"So long as poor old Spot was alive," she said to Jasmine, "I never
liked to send poor Edith away. The poor old dog was very devoted to her,
and I'm bound to say that poor Edith with all her faults was very
devoted to dear old Spot. But Spot has gone now, and I don't feel
inclined to form fresh ties by getting a puppy. Puppies have to be
trained, and I very much doubt if Cousin Edith is capable of training a
puppy nowadays. She seems to have gone all to pieces since she caught
this cold. I told her at the time that I could not understand why she
wanted to make that long journey to Enfield. She came back on the
outside of the tram, you know. It's all so unnecessary."
Spot had died when the famous cold was at its worst, and the grief
Cousin Edith had tried to express was not more effective than a puddle
in a deluge. The body was sent to the Dogs' Cemetery, and through having
to represent Cousin Edith at the funeral Jasmine nearly caught a cold
herself. She did sneeze once or twice when she got home; but Aunt May
talked at such length about colds that Jasmine made up her mind that she
simply would not have a cold, and she actually succeeded in driving it
away, for which her aunt took all the credit.
The night before Cousin Edith left to recuperate at Bognor she invited
Jasmine up to her room, when Jasmine realized that the poor relation was
perfectly aware what a long convalescence hers was going to be, and
perfectly aware that her visit to the seaside would only be terminated
by her death.
"In many ways, of course," she said, "I shall enjoy Bognor, and in many
ways I shall probably be happier at Bognor than I have ever been here.
I quite understand that Cousin May requires somebody more active than
myself. She is a woman of immense energy, and when I look at her nose I
sometimes think that there may after all be something in character
reading by the face. I often meant to take it up seriously. I once
bought a book on physiognomy when I was a girl and gave readings at a
bazaar. I made quite a lot of money, I remember--sixteen shillings. It
was for a new set of bells for my uncle's church at Market Addleby. As
his curate said to me, very beautifully and poetically, I thought, when
I handed him the sixteen shillings: 'You will always be able to think,
Miss Crossfield'--my uncle never encouraged him to call us by our
Christian names on account of the parish--'always able to think every
time the new bells ring out for one of our great Church festivals, that
your little labour of love this afternoon and this evening has
contributed a melodious note to one of the most joyful chimes.' I
remember my uncle, who was a very jocular man for a clergyman, observed
when this was repeated to him that if I had only made a little more
money it might have been called Edith's five-pound note. I remember we
all laughed very much at this at the time. But as I was saying to you,
my dear ... let me see, what was I saying to you?... oh yes, I remember
now, I wanted to give you this little brooch which contains some of my
grandmother's hair when she was a baby. I've often noticed that you've
very few little mementoes; I noticed it because I haven't very many
myself. Now with regard to this room, which you will probably occupy
when I've gone, it really is a delightful room, in fact the only little
fault it has is that the bell doesn't ring. In some respects that is not
a bad fault, because no doubt the servants do not like answering bells
all the time, and I think I have been rather tactful in never once
suggesting that it should be mended. I'm only telling you this so that
you shall not go on ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing under
the impression that the bell is making the least sound. I remember it
was quite a long time before I found out that it was broken, and I
derived an impression at first that the servants were deliberately not
answering this particular bell. I shall miss poor old Spot very much,
but Hargreaves has a married sister whose cat has a very nice kitten
which she wants to give away, and her little boy is meeting me with it
in a basket at Victoria to-morrow. If you are ever down at Bognor at any
time, of course I shall be very glad to see you and give you a cup of
tea. My address will be 88, Seaview Terrace. You can see the sea from
the corner of the road, so you won't forget the name of the road. But
how will you remember the number? Of course, it's eleven times eight,
but you might forget that too."
"I'll write it down," said Jasmine brightly.
Cousin Edith looked dubious. "Of course, yes, to be sure you can do
that. But supposing you mislay the address?"
"Well, I don't think I shall ever forget eighty-eight," Jasmine affirmed
with conviction.
Cousin Edith had worn black ever since it was settled that she was to
leave Harley Street, or perhaps it was a tribute to the late Spot.
Jasmine, looking at her, thought that she resembled a daddy-longlegs
less nowadays and more one of those wintry flies that survive the first
frosts of autumn and spend their time walking up and down window panes
in an attempt to suggest that if the window were open they would be out
and about, delighting in the brisk wintry weather.
"Well, good-bye," Cousin Edith was saying. "I shall be in such
confusion to-morrow morning that I may not have time then to say
good-bye to you properly. I won't kiss you on the mouth because of my
cold. I wonder if you will be as sorry to leave 317, Harley Street as I
am, when _you_ have been here fifteen years."
Jasmine thought for a moment that Cousin Edith was being malicious and
sarcastic; but apparently she meant exactly what she had said.
The next day Jasmine moved into the vacant room, and if Cousin Edith's
mourning brooch had contained a lock of her own hair instead of a
grandmother's she would not have thought it inappropriate, for the
departure of the poor relation had impressed her mind like a death more
than a visit to the seaside.
It is hardly possible to picture anybody who lives between Baker Street
and Portland Road, however happy he may be, however much in love with
life he may feel, as able to maintain an attitude toward life more vital
than the exhibition of waxworks in the galleries of Madame Tussaud.
There were moments when Jasmine felt that the waxworks were the real
population of this district, and sometimes when in the late dusk or at
night she was walking down Harley Street or any of the neighbouring
streets she would receive a strong impression that all the houses were
serving like stage scenery to give nothing but an illusion of reality.
This morbid fancy might be justified by the fact that so many of the
houses actually were unoccupied at night, and that in the daytime they
were haunted not inhabited by figures in the world of medicine who by
the uniformity and convention of their gestures and observations had no
more life than waxworks. Moreover, passers-by in Harley Street and the
neighbourhood had among them such a large proportion of sick men and
women that even if one ignored the successive brass plates of the
doctors, their presence alone would be enough to cast a gloom on any
observer that happened to come into daily contact with such a procession
of afflicted individuals.
Jasmine's window, high up in the front of the house, never contributed
anything to the gaiety of her private meditations, and she used to think
that if a famous prisoner, he of Chillon or any other, had been invited
to change his outlook with her own, he would soon have begged to be put
back in his dungeon. Many human beings, ailing, miserable,
poverty-stricken, victims of misfortune or suppliants of fate, have
found in a window their salvation. Jasmine was not one of these. She
never seemed able to look out of her window without seeing some
hunched-up man or wrapped-up woman who was being helped up a flight of
steps, at the head of which the conventionally neat parlourmaid would
admit them to their doom; and she used to picture these patients when
the sleek doors closed behind them being greeted by the various doctors
in attitudes like those of the poisoners in the Chamber of Horrors.
There was one figure, that of Neil Cream, a gigantic man with a ragged
beard and glasses, who stood for her behind every door in Harley Street.
In fact, Jasmine was suffering now when she was twenty the kind of
nervous distortions of imagination and apprehension through which most
London children pass at about eight. And really, considering her
experiences in England since she arrived from Italy, so many of them had
to do with disease and death and madness that her morbid condition was
excusable. When she was staying with Uncle Alec and Aunt Mildred she had
been amused by Prince Adalbert, but now, looking back at that
experience, she began to feel frightened, just as when one sees a
ghost, one is more frightened when the ghost has vanished than when it
is actually present. Looking back now on Uncle Matthew's illness she was
again seized by a fear and repulsion which at the time had been merged
in indignation. Looking back on her visit to Aunt Cuckoo and Uncle
Eneas, the whole of it was now shrouded in an atmosphere of
unhealthiness; and looking back further still to her last memory of
Sirene, even that was blackened by the sorrow of her father's sudden
death. As for the house she was living in at the moment, her sensitive
mind could not fail to be affected by the thought that so many of the
people who passed along that spacious hall and waited round that sombre
table littered with old _Punches_ and _Tatlers_ and odd numbers of
unusual magazines were either mad or moving in the direction of madness.
Sir Hector Grant's waiting-room was probably one of the most oppressive
in Harley Street, because it had no window, but was lighted from above
by a green dome of glass, to Jasmine curiously symbolical of the kind of
imprisonment to which madness subjects the human soul. The absence of
Lettice and Pamela at the nursing home, although Jasmine had not the
slightest desire to see them or hear them ever again, added in its own
way to the general air of depression. When Lettice and Pamela were in
the house the sense of contact with the ordinary frivolities of the
world was never absent; but without them the house became nothing but a
cul-de-sac, a kind of condemned cell, so deep did it lie under the spell
of dreadful verdicts.
In addition to these influences that spoilt her leisure time, Jasmine's
work with her aunt did not encourage her to look upon the brighter side
of life. Those numerous charities were no doubt a pleasure and a pride
to their originator, but Jasmine, who lacked the sustenance of the
egotism that inspired them, was only impressed by the continuous
reminder they gave her of the world's misery. The Club for Tired
Sandwichmen was for Aunt May something upon which to congratulate
herself, an idea that had occurred to no other prominent philanthropist.
It was Jasmine's duty to harrow subscribers' feelings with details of
the private lives of sandwichmen in order to extract from them as much
as would help to maintain the three bleak rooms in a small street off
Leicester Square, where these wrecks and ruins of human endeavour could
take refuge from the rain and cold outside. Upon Lady Grant herself the
individual made not the least impression unless he came into the Club
drunk and broke one of the chairs, in which case she interested herself
sufficiently in his future to banish him from the paradise she had
created.
When Jasmine first again took up secretarial work for her aunt, she
wrote all the letters.
"But really I think I shall have to find you another typewriter," said
Aunt May after a week of this. "I always understood that
convent-educated girls were taught to write well; but your handwriting
resembles the marks made by a fly that has fallen into the ink-pot."
"I think I feel rather like a fly that has fallen into the ink-pot,"
said Jasmine.
Her aunt did not pay any attention to this retort; but a few days later
the new typewriter arrived, and it was conferred upon her as if it was a
motor-car for her own use.
"I really do think that with this beautiful new machine you might do
some of Sir Hector's work too," suggested Aunt May. "That is, if he can
be persuaded to send a typewritten letter."
Luckily for Jasmine Sir Hector's ideas of the courtesy owing from a
medical baronet did not allow him to do this. He continued to employ a
clerk with a copper-plate hand to send in his bills, so Jasmine was not
called upon to help him in any way.
"You will have a lot of time on your hands," Aunt May regretfully sighed
after her husband had declined the use of the typewriter for himself.
"Don't I remember your once saying that you sewed very well? That,
surely, they must have taught you at the convent. Cousin Edith used
sometimes to sew for me, and there is always her machine standing idle."
Perhaps Cousin Edith's ingratiating touch had spoilt that machine for
another. When Jasmine tried her hand on it, it behaved like an angry
dog, gathering up the piece of work, the hem of which it was being
invited to stitch, worrying it and pleating it and tearing pieces off it
and chewing up these pieces, until first the needle snapped and then
some of the mechanism made a noise like a half empty box of bricks. It
was plain that nothing more could be done with it.
"Ruined," declared Aunt May when she came upstairs to see how Jasmine
was getting on. "Well, I hope you'll take a little more trouble over the
flowers for the dinner-table to-night."
The only mechanical device that Jasmine could think of in connection
with flowers was a lawn-mower, so she felt safe in promising that the
dinner-table should present an appearance of a little more trouble
having been taken with it than with the piece of work in the
sewing-machine. These dinner parties were by no means the least
irritating products of her cousins' illness, which had struck Lady Grant
as an excellent opportunity for inviting all their most ineligible
acquaintances while her daughters were away; and Jasmine, who did not
enjoy even the pleasure of being able to choose between more than two
evening frocks, felt bored by these dreary men and women, for whose
existence she could not imagine any possible reason, let alone discover
a reason for asking them out to dinner. Two or three days before one of
these occasions Aunt May's invariable formula was that Jasmine was going
to be put next to a most interesting man, and always half an hour before
the gong sounded she would decide that she must take Mrs. So-and-so's or
Miss What's-her-name's place next to somebody who was not interesting at
all. She was used, in fact, by her aunt very much as umbrellas are used
to reserve seats in a train.
A month or five weeks passed thus, after which Lettice and Pamela
emerged from hospital, unable to talk of anything for several days
except the details of their peeling. It was now decided that they
required change of air, and the question of Jasmine's ability to look
after her uncle while his wife and daughters went to Mentone was debated
at some length.