IN WHICH MARY QUALIFIES FOR THE RÔLE OF THE BAD GIRL OF THE FAMILY
NOW who do you suppose it was, my lords and gentlemen, who pulled that
blessed bell-wire? No, not the ex-lessee of the Cornmarket Theater.
Miss Mary, helping Cook to peel the potatoes down in the basement, made
herself acquainted with that fact when she pulled aside the window
curtains and looked up through the area. Cockades and things were
before the door of No. 10 Bedford Gardens; a raking pair of chestnuts;
and a smart rubber-tired vehicle with armorial bearings.
The Bad Girl of the Family, peering through the kitchen curtains, with
a half-peeled potato in one hand, and a bone-hafted knife in the other,
saw Jeames de la Pluche, Esquire, who in that charming but absurd fur
cape reminded her not a little of Harry Merino as the Cat in the moral
drama of _Dick Whittington_, leap down from his perch with marked
agility, whisk open the door, and lend assistance to something very
uncommon in the way of distinction.
Uncommon Distinction was blonde and bland of countenance and _very_
grande dame, as you could tell by her Carriage. Looked through her
folders, and saw Number 10 over the fanlight; and as this she did, one
of those terrible flashes of feminine intuition overtook Mary, that
this must surely be Mother.
Yes, Mother undoubtedly. Had not Philip himself the same bland, blonde
frontispiece; the same ample look of nourishment; the same air of
deliberation as of one a little slow in the uptake; the same faint
far-off suggestion of a finely grown vegetable? And to the quick eye of
the feminine observer through the kitchen curtains, there were certain
things pertaining to Mother which, up to the present, Son had not
developed.
The clang of the front door bell reverberated through the basement.
“Drat it, Miss Mary,” said Cook. “And me not dressed yet. Would you
mind letting in Sir Swire?”
“Why, of course,” said Miss Mary.
“But hadn’t you better leave your knife and your pertater, Miss Mary?”
“Oh, Sir Swire won’t mind those, Hannah; they’ll amuse him,” said the
Bad Girl of the Family, who was half-way up the kitchen stairs already.
Mother upon the doorstep, in her new ermine tippet, was shocked not a
little, deep down in the recesses of her nature. Still of course she
was far too well found in the ways of the world to give her feelings
publication. But if one is so ill-advised as to visit in Bohemian
circles in the afternoon of the Sabbath Day, one must be prepared for
all contingencies. Still, a half-pared potato, a sack-cloth apron, and
a bone-hafted kitchen knife is a rather informal reception of a real
peeress from Grosvenor Square on the part of Bedford Gardens.
“Mrs. Cathcart at home?” said Grosvenor Square, No. 88, the corner
house, very bland and splendid.
“Oh, yes--_won’t_ you come in?” said the Bad Girl winningly.
Impressive entrance of Governing Classes into an ill-lit but fairly
spacious interior, which had a bust of Edward Bean over the hatstand,
and John Peter Kendall as Richard II by--not after--Maclise over the
dining-room door.
“Lady Shelmerdine,” said the bland and splendid one, as Mary pushed the
front door to with her foot because her hands were occupied.
“Of Potterhanworth?” said the Bad Girl in tones warm and velvety.
“Oh, yes,” said the Governing Classes, pained, perhaps, a little.
“Philip’s mother--so delighted--hope you don’t object to potatoes--it’s
Jane’s afternoon out.”
But no further communication was forthcoming from the Governing Classes
all the way up the solid length of stair-carpet to Grandmamma’s
withdrawing-room.
Mary preceded No. 88 Grosvenor Square, potato, bone-hafted knife,
sacking-cloth apron and all, into the stately presence of the
cap-with-lace-which-had-been-worn-by-Siddons.
“Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth, Granny.”
The Bad Girl turned and fled; very nearly impaled herself on the
bone-hafted knife by counting fourteen stairs instead of thirteen, and
continuing her course headlong until she fell howling into the arms
of Cook. But in Edward Bean’s goddaughter’s withdrawing-room it was
no laughing matter, my lords and gentlemen, we feel bound to tell you
that. And we are forced to agree, though very reluctantly, with what
Grandmamma said privately to the Bad Girl afterwards, which was that
she would be none the worse for a good whipping.
“Mrs. Cathcart, I presume?” said No. 88 Grosvenor Square, very bland
and splendid, although the tones had no need to be so icy--they hadn’t,
really.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter
Kendall, offering her venerable hand to the angle of 1851, the
Exhibition Year. “Ah, yes, Lady Shelmerdine--delighted to make your
acquaintance.”
What of the Braided Morning Coat, you ask, while all this was
toward? Perspiring freely in every pore and leaning up against the
chimney-piece, and looking rather gray about the gills.
Should it make a bolt, or should it stay and grapple with the music?
The pusillanimity of the former course, tempting no doubt to a weak
resolution, would involve death and damnation; but the heroism of the
latter required all that could be mustered by the playing fields of
Eton and Christ Church. But while the unhappy inhabitant of the Braided
Morning Coat was surrendered to this problem, the stern, uncompromising
eye of Mother decided the question.
“Phil-ipp!”
“Ma-ter!” And then, of course, the Twin Brethren called out the
reserves. “Mrs. Cathcart--My Mother.”
The bow of Grosvenor Square, No. 88, the corner house, was aloof
decidedly; the bow of the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall was so
full of conscious power and accumulated dignity that it was really
quite gracious.
“Pray be seated, Lady Shelmerdine.”
Beautiful elocution on the part of the goddaughter of Edward Bean.
Lady Shelmerdine seated herself rather superbly, and opened fire with
her tortoise-shell folders.
The cap-with-lace-that-had-been-worn-by-Siddons touched the electric
button at its elbow.
Entrance of the Bad Girl of the Family, without her apron this time,
and divested also of the potato and the bone-hafted knife.
“Mary, child, my spectacles.”
The Bad Girl dived desperately in the inmost recesses of the
chiffonnier; found Grandmamma’s spectacles, and prepared to withdraw in
something of a hurry. But she was detained.
“Has Jane returned, child?”
“Yes, Granny.”
“Ask her to have the goodness to bring some tea for Lady Shelmerdine.”
“Oh, not for me, thank you.”
“You are _quite_ sure?”
No. 88 Grosvenor Square, the corner house, was quite, quite sure. Exit
the Bad Girl of the Family without daring to look once in the direction
of the Braided Morning Coat that was still leaning up forlornly against
the chimney-piece.
“Mrs. Cathcart,” said the Governing Classes, getting the first gun in
action, “I have done myself the honor of calling upon you--”
“The honor, madam, is entirely mine,” Edward Bean’s goddaughter assured
her.
“--because of a most unfortunate state of affairs which has just been
brought to my notice.”
The goddaughter of Edward Bean looked sympathetic, although it doesn’t
always do to judge by appearances, you know.
“My unfortunate son--Phil-ipp, perhaps you will be good enough to sit
down, as it is most desirable that you should follow what I say with
the closest attention--my unfortunate son, to the grief of his father,
Lord Shelmerdine, has made a proposal of marriage to your niece.”
Lady Macbeth suggested mildly that granddaughter might be more in
accordance with the facts of the case.
“Granddaughter--I beg your pardon. One has no need to tell _you_, Mrs.
Cathcart, who, I am sure, are a woman of the world, that this act of my
son’s has caused concern in his family.”
Lady Macbeth was sorry if that was the case.
“In point of fact, for some little time past my son has been engaged to
Lady Adela Rocklaw.”
“Not quite that, you know, Mater,” murmured the unhappy Braided Morning
Coat.
“--To Lady Adela Rocklaw, a daughter of Lord Warlock, and his conduct
will cause pain, although, of course, madam, it has not yet become
public property, and I sincerely hope it may not become so.”
“You ain’t puttin’ it quite fair, are you, Mater?” ventured the Braided
Morning Coat.
“Phil-ipp, please!” A wave of a she-proconsular hand. “Allow _me_ to
deal with the facts. A most embarrassing situation, madam, for two
families.”
“One moment, Lady Shelmerdine,” said Lady Macbeth. “May I ask this
question? Do I understand your son to be actually _engaged_ to Lady
Adela Rocklaw?”
“Yes, madam, you may take that to be so.”
“Mr. Shelmerdine,” said the Queen of Tragedy, “I must ask you for an
explana-tion.”
Braided Morning Coat, notwithstanding that it was feeling completely
undone, unbuttoned itself nervously.
“The Mater’s a bit mixed, ma’am, and that’s the truth. I am not engaged
to Lady Adela.”
“Perhaps, Phil-ipp, not officially.”
“No, Mater, and not unofficially, and--” Herculean effort by the Green
Chartreuse--“I don’t mind sayin’, I’ve no intention--”
“Phil-ipp!”
“Lady Shelmerdine,” said the Queen of Tragedy, “the situation is not
altogether clear to my mind. Either your son is engaged to marry Lady
Adela Rocklaw, or he is not.”
“He is morally engaged to her.”
“I am sorry I am unable to appreciate the distinction. Do I understand
that your son is engaged to Lady Adela?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not,” said the Braided Morning Coat with honorable
boldness.
“But Phil-ipp!”
“It’s the truth, Mater. Mrs. Cathcart asks a plain question, and
there’s a plain answer. And after all, I’m the chap--”
“Quite so, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Lady Macbeth, looking almost as wise
as the Lord Chief Justice of England as he sits in the Court of Appeal.
“This is your affair. You have a right to know your own mind--moreover,
you have a right to express it.”
The Braided Morning Coat felt the stronger for this well-timed
assistance. It was easy to see from which side of the family Miss Mary
had inherited her strong, good sense. A masterful old thing, but she
really was helpin’ a lame dog over a stile, wasn’t she?
Blonder and blander grew the Colthurst of Suffolk. It really looked as
though it might be a pretty set-to.
“Perhaps Phil-ipp, if you looked into your club for an hour--”
The Green Chartreuse, the horrid coward, wanted to quit the stricken
field prematurely. But if he had, as sure as Fate, Mother would have
won quite easily. Happily he did not. Mr. Philip stuck to his guns
like a Briton, and Grandmamma at least thought none the worse of him
for it. The Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall had an opinion of her
own on nearly every subject; and the order of which the Braided
Morning Coat would one day be an ornament had in her judgment to
carry a rather serious penalty; but the old thing in her shrewd old
heart--an imperious old thing, too--who had kept pretty good company
for eighty-four years or so, was not altogether inclined to accept all
the world and his wife at their surface valuation.
“The Family, madam,” said the Colthurst of Suffolk, “is unable
to countenance an alliance between my unfortunate son and your
granddaughter, who, one is given to understand, is at present engaged
in a pantomime. I am, however, empowered by Lord Shelmerdine to offer
reparation if such is required.”
These were not the actual words used by Mother. Her style was easier,
a little less florid, a trifle more conversational; but manner is
said to be more eloquent than matter in the higher diplomacy; thus
the foregoing represents more or less accurately the ultimatum of the
Governing Classes.
Grandmamma didn’t look pleased; at least not very. The Florid Person
was evidently taking herself rather seriously. Let her Beware--that
was all--quoth Conscious Strength, amid the inner convolutions of the
cap-of-real-lace-that-had-been-worn-by-Siddons.
“It appears to me, Lady Shelmerdine,” said the goddaughter of Edward
Bean, “that this is perhaps a matter for your son and my granddaughter,
and that no practical purpose will be served by third and fourth
parties discussing it--except, perhaps, in a spirit purely academic.”
In a spirit purely academic! Well done, Peggy, whispered the delighted
shade of John Peter Kendall, hovering somewhere in a cornice of the
ceiling, immediately above the bust of himself.
“Mrs. Cathcart, as a woman of the world, and as one who is in a
position to appreciate the feelings of a mother, I am sure I shall not
appeal to you in vain.”
When in doubt, saith the Diplomatist’s Handbook, _Suaviter in Modo_ is
a card you should always play. But how often has Grandmamma seen it, in
the course of her eighty-four summers, do you suppose?
It was here that the Braided Morning Coat felt it was up to it to say
something, and forthwith proceeded to do so.
“I agree with you, ma’am,” said he. “It’s just a matter for Mary
and me. She won’t say Yes, and I won’t take No, and there we are at
present. But I’m goin’ to ask her again, because I love her and all
that, and I know I’m not worthy of her--but I’m goin’ to try to be, and
I’m goin’ to see about Parliament at once.”
The silence was ominous.
“That appears to be a perfectly manly and straightforward course to
take, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Grandmamma, breaking the silence rather
grimly.
Please observe that she didn’t tell Mother that she declined to
sanction the match. In the circumstances, therefore, it is hardly kind
to blame Mother for making quite a number of errors.
Of course error the first was to come when Mr. Philip was present in
_propria persona_. But that, we are afraid, was due to the aboriginal
defect of a parent in underrating the importance of its offspring. What
she ought to have done really, was to have come not as an important
unit of the Governing Classes, but to have crept in by stealth, as it
were, as the poor human mother humbly craving assistance; and she ought
to have kept her foot on the soft pedal throughout the whole of the
concerto.
Alas! the manner of Mother’s coming had been otherwise. And the longer
she remained, the less she ought to have said in order to realize the
estimate she had formed of her own wisdom--and when the spouse of a
great Proconsul is thinking imperially you can have no idea how great
that estimate is.
“Lord Shelmerdine empowers me to offer all reasonable reparation.”
Grandmamma was interested to hear that in spite of the fact that the
whole matter was so purely academic.
“If there is any special form the young lady--I haven’t the pleasure
of the name of your niece, madam--would desire the reparation to
assume, Lord Shelmerdine’s solicitor will be happy to call upon her
to-morrow.”
“Oh, but Mater--I say--”
Slight display of _Fortiter_ in order to cope with this unfilial
interruption.
“It is your father’s wish, Philip.”
The ears of Grandmamma had seemed to cock a little at the mention of
Lord Shelmerdine’s solicitor.
“Forgive me, madam, if I appear dense,” said the most perfect elocution.
Underplay a bit, Peggy my dear, like Fanny does in genuine light
comedy, said the Distinguished Shade, smiling benevolently down from
the cornice.
But this was the goddaughter of Bean, which perhaps the Shade had
forgotten.
“You are talkin’ rot, aren’t you, Mater?” said the Braided Morning Coat
in vibrant tones.
“It is your father’s wish, Phil-ipp. He desires that no injustice--If
thought desirable, reparation may assume a pecuniary--”
“You are talkin’ rot though, Mater, ain’t you?”
Incredible hardihood certainly on the part of the Braided Morning Coat.
But eminently honorable to that chequered garment, perhaps the world is
entitled to think.
Lady Macbeth was not looking so very amenable just now. A very
masterful old thing in her way, and had always been so. And really,
Mother was a little crude in places, wasn’t she?
Still, we are bound to do Mother the justice that she was not aware of
the fact. Indeed to her it seemed that the higher diplomacy was really
doing very well indeed. Everything so pleasant, so agreeable; iron hand
in velvet glove, but used so lightly that Bohemian Circles were hardly
conscious of its presence. Mother was getting on famous in her own
opinion, and she ought to have known.
Matrimony quite out of the question, of course, between the
granddaughter of Lady Macbeth and eldest son of the House. The
Governing Classes hoped that that had been made quite clear to the wife
of the Thane of Cawdor.
The Wife of the Thane appeared to think it had been.
“Of a pecuniary character, I think you said?” said the goddaughter of
Edward Bean.
“Yes, pecuniary; Lord Shelmerdine has no reason to think that Phil-ipp
has been so unwise as to enter into a formal engagement, but it is his
desire to be quite fair, even to be generous.”
Steady, Cavalry! whispered the Distinguished Shade in the ear of Peggy.
“Or even generous, madam! One would be happy to have an idea of the
shape Lord Shelmerdine’s generosity might assume.”
The unhappy Braided Morning Coat regretted exceedingly that it could
not disclaim responsibility for both parents.
“But, Mater--!”
“No, do not interrupt, dear Phil-ipp. This is all _so_ important and
so delicate. Lord Shelmerdine thinks five hundred pounds--and I am
empowered--”
And then it was that Mother found Trouble.
Trouble came to Mother quite unexpected, like a bolt from the blue--or
like a shot out of a cannon, according to the subsequent version of an
eye-witness.
It would hardly be kind to describe the scene in detail. Lady Macbeth,
in spite of her eighty-four summers, made rather short work of Mother.
Not that Mother was overborne by Christian meekness altogether. Assured
Social Position, knowing itself to be absolutely right, and acting
all for the best, does not always offer the other cheek with perfect
facility.
Please do not misunderstand us. It was hardly a scene. The proprieties
were observed with really Victorian rigidity; it was all _very_ grande
dame; but one being Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, and the other
a leading Constitutional hostess who had recently moved to Grosvenor
Square, well--
Far from Mother’s intention to offer an affront to the granddaughter
of Lady Macbeth. But Miss Footlight of the Frivolity had quite recently
received the sum of ten thousand pounds from the people of young Lord
Footle, which sum was of course excessive, as dear Justice Brusher had
said to Mother at dinner last evening.
“Madam, I hold no opinion of Justice Brusher; Miss Footlight I don’t
know, and Lord Footle I don’t desire to know; but it is impossible for
my granddaughter, a member of an old theatrical family, to pocket this
insult.”
And Grandmamma rang the bell with tremendous dignity.
Jane the parlor-maid it was who appeared this time, looking all the
prettier for her afternoon out.
“Jane,” said the acknowledged Queen of Tragedy, “pray conduct Lady
Shelmerdine to her carriage--and in future I do not receive her.”
Poor old Mother! And in her new ermine tippet, too.
“Phil-ipp, accompany me.”
Philip accompanied Mother down the stairs, past the bust of Bean in
the front hall, down the nine steps of Number Ten Bedford Gardens, and
handed her into her carriage.
“We dine at eight this evening, Philip. Your father will expect you.”
“Impossible, Mater. Dinin’ at the Old Players’ Club.”
To give the Governing Classes their due, they certainly made exit in
pretty good style from Bohemia. As for Mr. Philip, he returned to the
front hall to retrieve his hat and his coat with the astrachan collar
and other belongings, and wondered if it would be wise to say good-by
to Grandmamma, and decided that perhaps he had better not risk it. But
before he could get into his famous garment, the Bad Girl of the Family
descended upon him from the basement--we are not quite sure how she
managed to do it, but simple little feats in elementary acrobatics are
always possible to a pantomime performer--and haled the young man by
main force into what she called her Private Piggery, which in reality
was a small back parlor of sorts in an indescribable state of confusion.
Having brought the froward young man to this undesirable bourn, the
Bad Girl turned up the electric light, and then without any warning
proceeded to fall into a state that bordered upon tears and general
collapse.
The heir to the barony was not feeling so very amused just now, though.
“My opinion you were listening, you cat.”
“Granny--the dreadful old spitfire!”
“Tactless of the Mater I’ll admit. Quite well meant though, Polly.”
“How dare you call me Polly after all that has happened!” And the
youngest member of the old theatrical family whisked away her tears
with a rather smart lace-broidered handkerchief, and looked almost as
fierce as the Cat in the moral drama of _Dick Whittington_.
“Howlin’ blunder, I’ll admit; but you aren’t crabbed about it, are you,
old girl?”
“Please don’t admit anything, Mr. Shelmerdine--and how dare you call me
old girl after what has happened? Don’t let me have to ring for Jane
and not receive you in future--”
“So you _were_ listening, you cat!”
“Wouldn’t you have been--Phil-ipp?”
“It is a horrid mix-up though, isn’t it? Look here, old girl, I really
think the best thing we can do is to go and get married to-morrow
mornin’ before the Registrar.”
Cinderella seemed to think, however, that such a proposal was not in
the plane of practical politics.
“I know, old girl, that a Church is considered a bit more respectable;
but I thought that the Registrar would be quicker and easier.”
“You are rather taking it for granted, aren’t you, Philip, that I’m
going to marry you, when you know I’m not.”
“Well, I do think, Polly, after all that has happened--!”
But somehow Polly didn’t quite see it in that way. She couldn’t think
of such a thing without the consent of Granny. And even if Granny did
consent--which, of course, her consent would never be given, his people
would never give theirs, would they? so that even that would not make
their prospects any rosier.
“But I thought you were goin’ to be a pal to me, Polly!”
“So I am, Phil-ipp, but I mustn’t marry you, must I, against the wishes
of your People.”
It was hard for a young man of inexperience to know exactly how much
was meant by the Bad Girl of the Family when she was in this kind of
humor. But whatever doubts that were in his mind, he suddenly laid hold
of her quite firmly and kissed her quite soundly, and, strictly between
ourselves, you young bachelors of Cam and Isis, that was just about the
best thing he could have done in the circumstances.
Nevertheless the young man was still involved pretty deeply in the
crisis of his fate. Bliss unspeakable was so nearly within his grasp,
and yet it was so elusive. He was not without the rudiments of
determination, and he had fully made up his mind that this was the girl
for him, but just now he really didn’t quite know how he was to enter
his kingdom.
Decidedly he must pluck this peach, and he must pluck it immediately.
But how?--that was the problem, with the Fates having loaded the dice.