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SET IN SILVER
by
C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON
Illustrated
[Illustration: _Audrie_]
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1913
All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Copyright, 1909, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
TO A GREAT MAN, AND A GREAT MOTORIST
_With all admiration we dedicate our story
of a tour in the land he loves_
"... this little world,
This precious stone, set in the silver sea
That serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."
SET IN SILVER
I
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER AT CHAMPEL-LES-BAINS, SWITZERLAND
_Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette_,
_Versailles_,
_July 4th_
Darling Little French Mother: Things have happened. Fire-crackers!
Roman candles! rockets! But don't be frightened. They're all in my head.
Nevertheless I haven't had such a Fourth of July since I was a small
girl in America, and stood on a tin pail with a whole pack of
fire-crackers popping away underneath.
Isn't it funny, when you have a lot to tell, it's not half as easy to
write a letter as when you've nothing at all to say, and must make up
for lack of matter by weaving phrases? Now, when I'm suffering from a
determination of too many words to my pen, they all run together in a
torrent, and I don't know how to make them dribble singly to a
beginning.
I think I'll talk about other things first. That's the way dear Dad used
to do when he had exciting news, and loved to dangle it over our heads,
"cherry ripe" fashion, harping on the weather or the state of the
stock-market until he had us almost dancing with impatience.
Yes, I'll dwell on other things first--but not irrelevant things, for
I'll dwell on You--with a capital Y, which is the only proper way to
spell You--and You are never irrelevant. You couldn't be, whatever was
happening. And just now you're particularly relevant, though you're far
off in nice, cool Switzerland; for presently, when I come to the Thing,
I'm going to ask your advice.
It's very convenient having a French mother, and I do appreciate dear
Dad's Yankee cleverness in securing you in the family. You say sometimes
that I seem all American, and that you're glad; which is pretty of
you, and loyal to father's country, but I'm not sure whether I shouldn't
have preferred to turn out more like my mamma. You're so _complete_,
somehow--as Frenchwomen are, at their best. I often think of you as a
kind of pocket combination of Somebody's Hundred Best Books: Romance,
Practical Common Sense, Poetry, Wit, Wisdom, Fancy Cookery, etc., etc.
Who but a Frenchwoman could combine all these qualities with the latest
thing in hair-dressing and the neatest thing in stays? By the way, can
one's stays be a quality? Yes, if one's French--even half French--I
believe they can.
If I hadn't just got your letter of day before yesterday, assuring me
that you feel strong and fresh--almost as if you'd never been ill--I
shouldn't worry you for advice. Only a few weeks ago, if suddenly called
upon for it, you'd have shown signs of nervous prostration. I shall
never forget my horror when you (quite uncontrollably) threw a spoon at
Philomene who came to ask whether we would have soup _à croute_ or
_potage à la bonne femme_ for dinner!
Switzerland was an inspiration; mine, I flatter myself. And if, in
telling me that you're in robust health again, you're hinting at an
intention to sneak back to blazing Paris before the middle of September,
you don't know your Spartan daughter. All that's American in me rises to
shout "No!" And you needn't think that your child is bored. She may be
boiled, but never bored. Far from it, as you shall hear.
School breaks up to-morrow--breaks into little blond and brunette bits,
which will blow or drift off to their respective homes; and I should by
this time be packing to visit the Despards, where I'm supposed to teach
Mimi's young voice to soar, as compensation for holiday hospitality;
but--I'm not packing, because Ellaline Lethbridge has had an attack of
nerves.
You won't be surprised that I stopped two hours over-time to-day to hold
the hand and to stroke the hair of Ellaline. I've done that before, when
she had a pain in her finger, or a cold in her little nose, and sent you
a _petit bleu_ to announce that I couldn't get home for dinner and our
happy hour together. No, you won't be surprised at my stopping--or that
Ellaline should have an attack of nerves. But the reason for the attack
and the cure she wants me to give her: these will surprise you.
Why, it's almost as hard to begin, after all, as if I hadn't been
working industriously up to it for three pages. But here goes!
Dearest, you've often said, and I've agreed with you (or else it was the
other way round), that _nothing_ I could ever do for Ellaline Lethbridge
would be too much; that she couldn't ask any sacrifice of me which would
be too great. Of course, one does say these things until one is tested.
But--I wonder if there is a "but"?
Of course you believe that your one chick has a glorious voice, and that
it's a cruel shame she should be doing nothing better than teaching
other people's chicks to squall, whether their voices are worth
squalling with or not. Perhaps, though, mine mayn't be as remarkable an
organ as we think; and even if you hadn't made me give up trying for
light opera, because I received one Insult (with a capital I) while I
was Madame Larese's favourite pupil, I mightn't in any case have turned
into a great prima donna. I was rather excited and amused by the Insult
myself--it made me feel so interesting, and so like a heroine of
romance; but you didn't approve of it; and we had some hard times,
hadn't we, after all our money was spent in globe-trotting, and lessons
for me from the immortal Larese?
If it hadn't been for meeting Ellaline, and Ellaline falling a victim to
my modest charms, and insisting upon Madame de Maluet's taking me as a
teacher of singing for her "celebrated finishing school for Young
Ladies," what would have become of us, dearest, with you so delicate, me
so young, and both of us so poor and alone in a big world? I really
don't know, and you've often said you didn't.
Of course, if it hadn't been for Ellaline--Madame's richest and most
important girl--persisting as she did, in her imperious, spoiled-child
way, Madame wouldn't have dreamed of engaging a young girl like me,
without any experience as a teacher, no matter how much she liked my
voice and my (or rather Larese's) method. I suppose no one would else
have risked me; so I certainly do owe to Ellaline, and nobody but
Ellaline, three happy and (fairly) prosperous years. To be sure, because
of my position at Madame de Maluet's, I have got a few outside pupils;
but that's indirectly through Ellaline, too, isn't it?
I'm reminding you of all these things so that you may have it clearly
before your mind just how much we do owe Ellaline, and judge whether the
payment she now asks is too big or not.
That's the way she puts it, not coarsely or crudely; but I know how she
feels.
She sent me a little note yesterday, while I was giving a lesson, to say
she'd a horrid headache, had gone to bed, and would I come to her room
as soon as I could. Well, I went at lunch time, for I hated to keep her
waiting, and thought I could eat later. As it turned out, I didn't eat
at all. But that's a detail.
She had on a perfectly divine nighty, with low neck and short sleeves
(no girl would be _allowed_ to wear such a thing in any but a French
school, I'm sure, even if she were a "parlour boarder") and her hair was
in curly waves over her shoulders. Altogether she looked adorable, and
about fourteen years old, instead of nearly nineteen, as she is.
"You don't show your headache a bit," said I.
"I haven't got one," said she.
Then she explained that she'd been dying for a chance to talk with me
alone, and the headache was the only thing that occurred to her in the
circumstances. She doesn't mind little fibs, you know. Indeed, I believe
she rather likes them, because any "intrigue," even the smallest, is
exciting to her.
You would never guess anything like what has happened.
That dragon of a guardian of hers is coming back at last from Bengal,
where he's been governor or something. Not that his coming would matter
particularly if it weren't for complications, but there are several, the
most formidable of which is a Young Man.
The Young Man is a French young man, and his name is Honoré du Guesclin.
He is a lieutenant in the army (Ellaline mentioned the regiment with
pride, but I've forgotten it already, there was so much else to
remember), and she says he is descended from the great Du Guesclin. She
met him at Madame de Blanchemain's--you remember the Madame de
Blanchemain who was Ellaline's dead mother's most intimate friend, and
who lives at St. Cloud? Ellaline has spent all her holidays there ever
since I've known her; but though I thought she told me everything (she
always vowed she did), not a word did she ever breathe about a young man
having risen over her horizon. She says she didn't dare, because I'm so
"queer and prim about some things." I'm not, am I? But now she's driven
to confess, as she's in the most awful scrape, and doesn't know what
will become of her and "darling Honoré," unless I'll consent to help
them.
She met him only last Easter. He's a nephew of Madame de Blanchemain's,
it seems; and on coming back from foreign service in Algeria, or
somewhere, he dutifully paused to visit his relative. Of course it
occurs to me, did Madame de Blanchemain write and intimate that she
would have in the house a pretty little Anglo-French heiress, with no
inconvenient relatives, unless one counts the Dragon? But Ellaline says
Honoré's coming was quite a surprise to his aunt. Anyway, he proposed on
the third day, and Ellaline accepted him. It was by moonlight, in a
garden, so who can blame the poor child? I always thought if even a
moderately good-looking young man proposed to me by moonlight, in a
garden, I would say "Yes--yes!" at once, even if I changed my mind next
day.
But Honoré is _very_ good looking (she has his picture in a locket, with
_such_ a turned-up moustache--I mean Honoré, not the locket), and so
Ellaline didn't change her mind next day.
Not a word was said to Madame de Blanchemain (as far as Ellaline knows),
for they decided that, considering everything, they must keep their
secret, and eventually run away to be married; because Honoré is poor,
and Ellaline's an heiress guarded by a Dragon.
Well, through letters which E. has been receiving at a teashop where she
and the other older girls go, rigorously chaperoned, twice a week, it
was arranged to do the deed as soon as school should close; and if they
could have carried out their plan, Ellaline would have been Madame du
Guesclin before the Dragon could have appeared on the scene, breathing
fire and rattling his scales. They were going to Scotland to be married
(Honoré's idea), as a man can't legally marry a girl under age in France
without the consent of everybody concerned. Once she'd got away with
him, and had had any kind of hole-in-the-corner wedding, Honoré was of
opinion that even the most abandoned Dragon would be thankful to
sanction a marriage according to French law; so it could all be done
over again properly in France.
I suppose this appealed immensely to Ellaline's love of intrigue and
kittenish tricksiness generally. Anyway, she agreed; but young officers
propose, and their superiors dispose. Honoré was ordered off for a
month's manoeuvres before he could even ask for leave; and as he's
known to be destitute of near relatives, he couldn't rake up a perishing
grandmother as an excuse.
What he did try, I don't know; but anyhow, he failed, and the running
away had to be put off. That was blow number one, and could have been
borne, without blow number two, which fell in the shape of a letter. It
said that the wicked guardian was just about to start for home, and
intended to pick up Ellaline on his way to England, as if she were a
parcel labelled "to be kept till called for."
She's certain he won't let her marry Honoré if he has the chance to say
"no" beforehand, because he cares nothing about her happiness, or about
her, or anything else except his own selfish ambitions. Of course,
Ellaline is a girl who takes strong prejudices against people for no
particular reason, except that she has a "feeling they are horrid"; but
she does appear to be right about this man. He's English, and though
Ellaline's mother was half French, they were cousins, and I believe her
dying request was that he should take care of her daughter and her
daughter's money. You would have thought that that must have softened
even a hard heart, wouldn't you? But the Dragon's was evidently
sentiment-proof, even so many years ago, when he must have been
comparatively young--if Dragons are ever young.
He accepted the charge (Ellaline thinks her money probably influenced
him to do that; and perhaps he was paid for his trouble); but, instead
of carrying out his engagements, like a faithful guardian, he packed the
poor four-year-old baby off to some pokey, prim people in the country,
and promptly went abroad to enjoy himself. There Ellaline would no doubt
have been left to this day, dreadfully unhappy and out of her element,
for the people were an English curate and his wife; but, luckily, her
mother had stipulated that she was to be sent to the same school in
France where she herself had been educated--Madame de Maluet's.
Never once has her guardian shown the slightest sign of interest in
Ellaline: hasn't asked for her photograph or written her any letters.
They've communicated with each other only through Madame de Maluet, four
times a year or so; and Ellaline doesn't feel sure that her fortune has
been properly administered, so she says she ought to marry young and
have a husband to look after her interests.
When I ventured to hope that the Dragon wasn't quite so scaly and taily
as she painted him, she proved her point by telling me that he'd been
censured lately in the English Radical papers for killing a lot of poor,
defenceless Bengalese in cold blood. Somebody must have sent her the
cuttings, for Ellaline hardly knows that newspapers exist. I dare say it
was Kathy Bennett, one of Madame's few English pupils. Ellaline has
chummed up with her lately. And that news does seem to settle the man's
character, doesn't it? He must be a perfect brute.
Ellaline says that she'd rather die than lose Honoré, also that he'll
kill himself if he loses her. And now, dearest--now for the Thunderbolt!
She vows that the only thing which can possibly save her is for _me to
take her place for five or six weeks_, until her soldier's manoeuvres
are over and he can get leave to whisk her off to Scotland for the
wedding.
You're the quickest-witted darling in the world, and you generally know
all that people mean even before they speak. Yet I can see you looking
puzzled as well as startled, and muttering to yourself: "Take Ellaline's
place? Where--how--when?"
I was like that myself while she was trying to explain. I stared with an
owlish stare for about five minutes, until her real idea in all its
native wildness, not to say enormity, burst upon me.
She wants to go day after to-morrow to Madame de Blanchemain's, as she'd
expected to do before she heard that the Dragon was coming to gobble her
up. She wants to stay there quietly until Honoré can take her, and she
wants _me to pretend to be Ellaline Lethbridge_!
I nearly fell off my chair at this point, but I hope you won't do
anything like that--which is the reason why I've been working up to the
revelation with such fiendish subtlety. Have you noticed it?
Ellaline has plotted the whole scheme out. I shouldn't have thought her
capable of it; but she says it's desperation.
She's certain she can persuade Madame de Maluet to let her leave school,
to go to the station and meet the Dragon (that's the course he himself
suggests: too much trouble even to run out to Versailles and fetch her)
with only me as chaperon. I dare say she's right about Madame, for all
the teachers will be gone day after to-morrow, and Madame herself
invariably collapses the moment school breaks up: she seems to break up
with it, and to have to lie in bed for at least half a week to be
mended.
Madame has really quite a flattering opinion of my discretion. She's
told me so several times. I suppose it's the way I do my hair for
school, which does give me a look of incorruptible virtue, doesn't it?
Fortunately she doesn't know I always change it (if not too tired) ten
minutes after I get home to you.
Well, then, taking Madame's permission for granted, Ellaline points out
that all stumbling-blocks are removed, for she won't count moral ones,
or let me count them.
I'm to see her off for St. Cloud, and wait to receive the Dragon. "Sir,
behold the burnt-offering--I mean, behold your ward!"
And I'm to go on being a burnt-offering till it's convenient for the
real Ellaline to scrape my ashes off the smoking altar.
It's all very well to make fun of the thing like that. But to be
serious--and goodness knows it's serious enough--what's to be done,
little mother? Ellaline has (because I insisted) given me till to-morrow
morning to answer. I explained that my consent must depend on your
consent. So that's why I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. I
rushed home to write this immense letter to you, and get it off to catch
the post. It will arrive in the morning with your coffee and _petits
pains_--how I wish I were in its place! You can take half an hour to
make up your mind (I'm sure with your lightning wits you wouldn't ask
longer to decide the fate of the Great Powers of Europe) and then
telegraph me simply "Yes," or "No." I will understand.
For my own sake, naturally, I should prefer "No." That goes unsaid,
doesn't it? I should then be relieved of responsibility; for even
Ellaline, knowing that you and I are all in all to each other, could
hardly expect me to fly in your face, just to please her. But, on the
other hand, if you did think I could do this dreadful thing without
thereby becoming myself a Dreadful Thing, it would be a glorious relief
to pay my debt of gratitude to Ellaline, yes, and even _over_-pay it,
perhaps. One likes to over-pay a debt that's been owing a long time, for
it's like adding an accumulation of interest that one's creditor never
expected to get.
When, gasping after the first shock, I pleaded that I'd do anything
else, make any other sacrifice for Ellaline's sake, except this _one_,
she flashed out (with the odd shrewdness which lurks in her childishness
like a bright little garter-snake darting its head from a bed of
violets), saying that was always the way with people. They were
invariably ready to do for their best friends, to whom they were
grateful, anything on earth except the only thing wanted.
Well, I had no answer to make; for it's true, isn't it? And then
Ellaline sobbed dreadfully, clutching at me with little, hot, trembling
hands, crying that she'd _counted_ on me, that she'd been sure, after
all my promises, I wouldn't fail her. She'd felt so _safe_ with me! Are
you surprised I hadn't the heart to refuse? I confess, dear, that if I
were quite alone in the world (though the world wouldn't be a world
without you) I should certainly have grovelled and consented then and
there.
She says she won't close her eyes to-night, and I dare say she won't, in
which case she'll be as pathetic as a broken flower to-morrow. I don't
think I shall sleep much either, wondering what your verdict will be.
I really haven't the remotest idea whether it will be Yes or No. Usually
I imagine that I can pretty well guess what your opinion is likely to
be, but I can't this time. The thing to decide upon is in itself so
fantastic, so monstrous, that one moment I tell myself you won't even
consider it. The next minute I remember what a dear little "crank" you
are on the subject of gratitude--your "favourite virtue," as you used to
write in old-fashioned "Confession Albums" of provincial American
friends when I was a child.
If people do anything nice for you, you run your little high-heeled
shoes into holes to do something even nicer for them. If you're invited
out to tea, you ask your hostess to lunch or dinner, in return: that
sort of thing invariably; and you've brought me up with the same bee in
my bonnet. So what _will_ your telegram be?
Whatever you say, you may count on a meek "Amen, so be it," from
Your most admiring subject,
Audrie.
P. S.--Of course, it isn't as if this man were an ordinary, nice,
inoffensive human man, is it? I do think that almost any treatment is
too good for such a cold-blooded, supercilious old Dragon. And you
needn't reprove me for "calling names." With singular justice Providence
has ticketed him as appropriately as his worst enemy would have dared to
do. They have such weird names in Cornwall, don't they?--and it seems
he's a Cornishman. Until lately he was plain Mister, now he's Sir Lionel
Pendragon. Somebody has been weak enough to die and leave him a title,
and also an estate (though not in Cornwall) which he's returning to
England in greedy haste to pounce upon. So characteristic, after living
away all these years; though Madame de Maluet has tried to make Ellaline
believe he's coming back to settle down because of a letter _she_ wrote,
reminding him respectfully that after nineteen it's almost indecent for
a girl to be kept at school.
Don't fear, however, if your telegram casts me to the Dragon, that I shall
be in danger of getting eaten up. His Dragonship, among other stodgy
defects, has that of eminent, well-nigh repulsive, respectability. He is
as respectable as a ramrod or a poker, and very elderly, Ellaline says.
From the way she talks about him he must be getting on for a hundred,
and he is provided with a widowed sister, a Mrs. Norton, whom he has dug
up from some place in the country to act as chaperon for his ward. All
other women he is supposed to detest, and would, if necessary, beat them
off with a stick.
II
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette_,
_Versailles_,
_July 5th_
My Spartan Angel: Now the telegram's come, I feel as if I'd
known all along what your decision would be.
I'm glad you were extravagant enough to add "Writing," for to-morrow
morning I shall know by exactly what mental processes you decided. Also,
I'm glad (I think I'm glad) that the word is "Yes."
It's afternoon now; just twenty-four hours since I sat here in the same
place (at your desk in the front window, of course), trying my best to
put the situation before you, as a plain, unvarnished tale.
I stuck the bit of blue paper under Ellaline's nose, and she almost had
a fit with joy. If she were bigger and more muscular, she'd have kissed
and squeezed the breath of life out of me, which would have been awkward
for her, as she'd then have been thrown back upon her own resources.
Oh, _ma petite poupee de Mere_, only think of it! I go to-morrow--into
space. I disappear. I cease to exist _pro tem_. There will be no me, no
Audrie, but, instead, two Ellalines. I've often told her, by the way,
that I would make two of her. Evidently I once had a prophetic soul. I
only wish I had it still, so I might see beforehand what will happen to
the Me-ness of Ellaline in the next few weeks. Anyhow, whatever comes, I
expect to be supported by the consciousness that I'm paying a debt of
gratitude as perhaps such a debt was never paid before.
Of course I shall have a perfectly horrid time. Not only shall I be
wincing under the degrading knowledge that I'm a base pretender, but I
shall be wretchedly homesick and bored within an inch of my life. I
shall be, in the sort of environment Ellaline describes, like a mouse in
a vacuum--a poor, frisky, happy, out-of-doors field-mouse, caught for an
experiment. When the experiment is finished I shall crawl away, a
decrepit wreck. But, thank heaven, I can crawl to You, and you will
nurse me back to life. We'll talk everything over, for hours on end, and
I'll be able to abuse the Dragon to my heart's content. I know you'll
let me do that, provided I don't use naughty words, or, if any, disguise
them daintily in a whisper.
Ellaline and I have discussed plans and possibilities, and if all goes
as she expects (I don't see why it shouldn't), I ought to be freed from
the unpleasant rôle of understudy in five or six weeks. The instant my
chains are broken by a telegram from the bride saying, "Safely married,"
or words to that effect, I shall do "all my possible" to fold, my tent
like an Arab and silently steal--not to say sneak--away from the lair of
the Dragon, without his opening a scaly red eye to the dreadful reality,
until I'm beyond his power.
It must be either that or the most awful scene with him--a Regular Row.
He, saying what he thinks of my deception; me, defending myself and the
real Ellaline by saying what I think of his general beastliness. If it
came to that, I might in my rage wax unladylike; so perhaps, of the two
evils, the lesser would be the sneak act--_n'est ce pas_? Well, I shall
see when the time comes.
In five or six weeks I had thought, in any case, of allowing you to
leave Champel-les-Bains, should you grow too restive lacking my society.
I thought of proposing by then, if you were sufficiently braced by Swiss
air, milk, and honey and Champel douches, that we should join forces at
a cheap but alluring farmhouse somewhere.
That idea may still fit in rather well, mayn't it? But if, for any
unforeseen reason, I should have to stay sizzling on the sacrificial
altar longer than we expect, you mustn't come home to hot Paris to
economize and mope in the flat. You _must_ stop in Switzerland till I
can meet you in some nice place in the country. Promise that you won't
add to my burdens by being refractory.
I'll wire you an address as soon as I am blessed--or cursed--with one.
And _whatever_ you do, don't forget that I'm merged in Ellaline
Lethbridge. If her identity fits me as badly as her dresses would do it
will come about down to my knees and won't meet round the waist.
As soon as I have your letter to-morrow morning, dearest, I'll write
again, if only a few lines. Then, when I've seen the Dragon and have
gained a vague idea how and where he means to dispose of his prey, I'll
scribble off some sort of description of the man and the meeting, even
if it's on board the Channel boat, in the midst of a tossing.
Your
Iphegenia.
(Or would Jephtha's daughter be more appropriate? I'm not quite sure how
to spell either.)
III
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Rue Chapeau de Marie Antoinette_,
_July 6th. Early Morning_
Dearest Dame Wisdom: You ought to be Adviser-in-Chief to
Crowned Heads. You'd be invaluable; worth any salary. What a shame you
aren't widely known: a sort of public possession! But for my sake I'm
glad you aren't, because if you were discovered you'd never have a spare
minute to advise me.
Of course, dear, if you hadn't reached your conclusions just as you did
about this step you wouldn't have counselled, or even allowed, me to
take it. And I will remember every word you say. I'll do exactly as you
tell me to do. So now, don't worry, any more than you would if I were an
experienced and accomplished young parachutist about to make a descent
from the top of the Eiffel tower.
It's eight o'clock, and I've satisfied my soul with your letter and my
body with its morning roll and coffee. When I've finished scribbling
this in pencil to you, I shall pack, and be ready--_for anything_.
By the way, that reminds me. What a tangled web we weave when first we
practise to deceive, etc.
Won't the Dragon think it queer that his rich ward should make no better
toilettes than I shall be able to produce--after living at Versailles,
practically in Paris, with a huge amount of spending money--for a
schoolgirl?
I thought of that difficulty only last night for the first time, after I
was in bed, and was tempted to jump up and review my wardrobe. But it
was unnecessary. Not only could I call to mind in the most lively way
every dress I have, but, I do believe, every dress I ever did have since
my frocks were let down or done over from yours. I suppose that ought
to make me feel rather young, oughtn't it? To remember every dress I
ever owned? But it doesn't. I'll be twenty-one this month, you know--a
year older than you were when your ears were gladdened by my first howl.
I'm sure it was unearthly, yet that you said at once to Dad: "The dear
child is going to be musical!"
But to return to the wardrobe of the heiress's understudy. It consists
of my every-day tailor-made, two white linen coats and skirts, a darned
collection (I don't mean that profanely) of summer blouses, and the
everlasting, the immortal, black evening dress. Is it three or four
years old? I know it was my first black, and I did feel so proud and
grown-up when you said I might have it.
You'll be asking yourself: "Where is the blue alpaca she bought in the
Bon Marché sale, which was in the act of being made when I left for _la
Suisse_?" Up to now I've concealed from you the tragical fact that that
horrid little Mademoiselle Voisin completely spoiled it. I was so
furious I could have killed her if she'd been on the spot. There is no
rage like the dress rage, is there?
My one hope is that the Dragon may take as little interest in Ellaline's
clothes as he has taken in Ellaline's self, or that, being used to the
costumes of the Bengalese, which, perhaps, are somewhat sketchy, he may
be thankful that his ward has any at all.
You see, I can't tell Ellaline about this, because she couldn't help
thinking it a hint for her to supply the deficiency, and I wouldn't let
her do that, even for her own credit. Anyhow, there'd be no time to get
things, so I must just do the best I can, and carry off the old gray
serge and sailor hat with a stately air. Heaven gave me five foot seven
and a half on purpose to do it with.
Now I must pack like heat-lightning; and when I've finished I shall send
the brown box and the black Gladstone to the Gare de Lyon, where _he_
will arrive from Marseilles. That is rather complicated, as of course we
must go to the Gare du Nord for Calais or Boulogne; but he mayn't wish
to start at once for England, and in my new character, as his ward, I
must be prepared to obey his orders. I hope he won't treat me as he
seems to have treated the Bengalese! The luggage of Miss Ellaline
Lethbridge obviously can't be called for at the flat of Mrs. Brendon and
her daughter Audrie, for there would be questions--and no proper
answers. Therefore, when I present myself at the Gare de Lyon, I intend
to be "self-contained." All my worldly goods will be there, to be
disposed of as the Grand Mogul pleases.
When I've packed I shall hie me to Madame de Maluet's, looking as good
and meek as a trained dove, to take charge of Ellaline--and to change
into Ellaline.
After that--the Deluge.
Good-bye, darling!
Me, to the Lions!
But I shall have your talisman-letter in my pocket, I can't be eaten,
though I do feel rather like
Your
Martyr Child
IV
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_On Board the Boat, half-Channel over_,
_July 6th. Night_
Mother Dear: The dragon-ness doesn't show at all on the
outside.
I expected to meet a creature of almost heraldic grimness--rampant,
disregardant, gules. What I did meet--but I'm afraid that isn't the
right way to begin. Please consider that I haven't begun. I'll go back
to the time when Ellaline and her chaperon (me) started away from school
together in a discreet and very hot cab with her trunks.
She was jumpy and on edge with excitement, and got on my nerves so that
it was the greatest relief when I'd seen her off in her train for St.
Cloud. Just at this point I find another break in my narrative, made by
a silly, not at all interesting, adventure.
I'd been waving my hand for the twenty-fifth time to Ellaline, in
response to the same number of waves from her. When at last she drew in
her head, as the train steamed away, I turned round in a hurry lest she
should pop it out again, and bumped into a man, or what will be a man in
a few years if it lives. I said, "_Pardon, monsieur_," as gravely as if
it were a man already, and it said in French made in England that 'twas
entirely its fault. It was such a young youth, and looked so utterly
English, that I smiled a motherly smile, and breathed, "Not at all," as
I passed on, fondly thinking to pass forever out of its life at the same
time. But, dearest, the absurd little thing didn't recognize the smile
as motherly. Perhaps it never had a mother. I had hardly observed it as
an individual, I assure you, except as one's sub-conscious self takes
notes without permission from headquarters. I was vaguely aware that the
creature with whom I had collided was quite nice-looking, though
bullet-headed, freckled, light-blue-eyed, crop-haired, and possessing
the shadow of a coming event in the shape (I can't call it more) of a
moustache. I had also an impression of a Panama hat, which came off in
compliment to me, a gray flannel suit, the latest kind of collar (you
know "Sissy Williams says, 'the feeling is for low ones this year'!")
and mustard-coloured boots. All that sounds hideous, I know, yet it
wasn't. At first sight it was rather attractive, but it lost its
attractiveness in a flash when it mistook the nature of my smile.
You wouldn't believe that a nice, clean little British face could change
so much for the worse in about the eighth part of a second! It couldn't
have taken longer, or I shouldn't have seen, because it happened between
my smile and my walking on. But I did see. A disagreeable kind of
lighting up in the eyes, which instantly made them look full
of--consciousness of sex, is the only way I can express it. And instead
of being inoffensive, boyish, blue beads, they were suddenly transformed
into the sharp, whitey-gray sort that the Neapolitans "make horns" at.
Well, all that was nothing to fuss about, for even _I_ know that
misguided youths from Surbiton or Pawtucket, who are quite harmless at
home, think they owe it to themselves to be gay dogs when they run over
to Paris, otherwise they'll not get their money's worth. If it hadn't
been for what came afterward I wouldn't be wasting paper and ink on a
silly young bounder. As it is, I'll just tell you what happened and see
if you think I was to blame, or whether there's likely to be any bother.
At that change my look slid off the self-conceited face, like rain off a
particularly slippery duck's back. He ought to have known then, if he
hadn't before, that I considered him a mere It, but I can just imagine
his saying to himself: "This is Paris, and I've paid five pounds for a
return ticket. Must have something to tell the chaps. What's a girl
doing out alone?"
He came after me and said I'd dropped something. So I had. It was a
rose. I was going to disclaim it, with all the haughty grace of a
broomstick, when suddenly I remembered that it was my _carte
d'identité_, so to speak. The Dragon had prescribed it in his last
letter to Madame de Maluet about meeting Ellaline. As there might be
difficulty in recognition if she came to the station with a chaperon as
strange to him as herself, it would be well, he suggested, that each
pinned a red rose on her dress. Then he would look out for two ladies
with two roses.
I couldn't make myself into two ladies with two roses, but I must be one
lady with one rose, otherwise the Dragon and I might miss each other,
and he would go out to Versailles to see what the dickens was the
matter. Then the fat would be in the fire, with a vengeance!
You see, I had to say "Yes" to the rose, because there wasn't time to
call at a florist's and try to buy another red label before going on to
the Gare de Lyon. I put out my hand with a "thank you" that sounded as
if it needed oiling, but, as if on second thought the silly idiot asked
if he might keep the flower for himself. "It looks like an English
rose," said he, with a glance which transferred the compliment to me.
"Certainly not--sir," said I. "I need it myself."
"If that's all, you might let me give you a whole bunch to make up for
it," said he.
Then I said, "Go away," which mayn't have been elegant, but was to the
point. And I walked on with long steps toward the place where there were
cabs. But quite a short man is as tall as a tall girl, and his steps
were as long as mine.
"I say," said he, "you needn't be so cross. What's the harm, as long as
we're both English, and this is Paris?"
"I'm not English," I snapped. "If you don't go away I'll call a
gendarme."
"You will look a fool if you do. A great tall girl like you," said he,
trying to be funny. And it did sound funny. I suppose I must have been
pretty nervous, after all I'd gone through with Ellaline, for I almost
giggled, but I didn't, quite. On the contrary, I marched on like a
war-cloud about to burst, and proved my non-British origin by addressing
a cabman in the Parisian French I've inherited from you. I hoped that
the boy couldn't understand, but he did.
"Mademoiselle, I have to go to the Gare de Lyon, too," he announced,
"and it would be a very friendly act, and show that you forgive me, if
you'd let me take you there in a taxi-motor, which you'll find much
nicer than that old Noah's ark you're engaging."
"I don't forgive you," I said, as I mounted into the alleged ark. "Your
only excuse is that you're not grown up yet."
With that Parthian shot I ordered my _cocher_, who was furtively
grinning by this time, to drive on as quickly as possible.
Of course the horrid child from Surbiton or somewhere didn't have to go
to the Gare de Lyon; but evidently he regarded me as his last hope of an
adventure before returning to his native heath or duckpond; so,
naturally, he followed in a taxi-motor, whose turbulent,
goodness-knows-what-horse-power had to be subdued to one-half-horse
gait. I didn't look behind, but I felt in my bones--my funny bones--that
he was there. And when I arrived at the Gare de Lyon so did he.
The train I'd come to meet was a P. and O. Special, or whatever you call
it, and it wasn't in yet, so I had to wait.
"Cats may look at kings," said my gay cavalier.
"Cads mayn't though," said I. Perhaps I ought to have maintained a
dignified silence, but that _mot_ was irresistible.
"You _are_ hard on a chap," said he. "I tell you what. I've been
thinking a lot about you, mademoiselle, and I believe you're up to some
little game of your own. When the cat's away the mice will play. You've
got rid of your friend, and you're out for a lark on your own. What?"
Oh, wouldn't I have loved to box his ears! But this time I was dignified
and turned my back on him. Luckily, the train came puffing into the
station, and he ceased to bother me actively, for the time; but the
worst is to follow.
Now I think I've got to the part of my story where the Dragon ought to
appear.
Suddenly, as the train stopped, that platform of a Paris railway station
was turned into a thoroughly English scene. A wave from Great Britain
swept over it, a tall and tweedy wave, bearing with it golf clubs and
kitbags and every kind of English flotsam and jetsam. All the passengers
had lately landed from the foreignest of foreign parts, coral strands,
and that sort of remote thing, but they looked as incorruptibly,
triumphantly British, every man, woman, and child of them (except a
fringe of black or brown servants), as if they had strolled over from
across Channel for a Saturday to Monday in "gay Paree." One can't help
admiring as well as wondering at that sort of ineradicable, persistent
Britishness, can one? I believe it's partly the secret of Great
Britain's success in colonizing. Her people are so calmly sure of their
superiority over all other races that the other races end by believing
it, and trying to imitate their ways, instead of fighting to maintain
the right to their own.
That feeling came over me as I, a mere French and American chit, stood
aside to let the wave flow on. Everyone looked so important, and unaware
of the existence of foreigners, except porters, that I was afraid my
particular drop of the wave might sail by on the crest, without noticing
me or my red rose. I tried to make myself little, and the rose big, as
if it were in the foreground and I in the perspective, but the
procession moved on and nobody who could possibly have been the Dragon
wasted a glance on me.
Toward the tail end, however, I spied two men coming, followed by a
small bronze figure in "native" dress of some sort. One of the two was
tall and tanned, and thirty-five or so. The other--I had a bet with
myself that he was my Dragon. But it was like "betting on a certainty,"
which is one of the few things that's dull and dishonest at the same
time. Some men are born dragons, while others only achieve dragonhood,
or have it thrust upon them by the gout. This one was born a dragon, and
exactly what I'd imagined him, or even worse, and I was glad that I
could conscientiously hate him in peace.
The other man had the walk so many Englishmen have, as if he were
tracking lions across a desert. I quite admire that gait, for it looks
brave and un-self-conscious; but the old thing labelled "Dragon" marched
along as if trampling on prostrate Bengalese. A red-hot Tory, of
course--that went without saying--of the type that thinks Radicals
deserve hanging. In his eyes that stony glare which English people have
when they're afraid someone may be wanting to know them; chicken-claws
under his chin, like you see in the necks of elderly bull dogs; a
snobbish nose; a bad-tempered mouth; age anywhere between sixty and a
hundred. Altogether one of those men who must write to the _Times_ or go
mad. Dost like the picture?
Both these men, who were walking together, looked at me rather hard; and
I attributed the Dragon's failure to stop at the Sign of the Rose to the
silly vanity which forbade his wearing "specs" like a sensible old
gentleman. Accordingly, with laudable presence of mind, I did what
seemed the only thing to do.
I stepped forward, and addressed him with the modest firmness Madame de
Maluet's pupils are taught in "deportment lessons." "I beg your pardon,
but aren't you Sir Lionel Pendragon?"
"I am Lionel Pendragon," said the other man--the quite young man.
Mother, you could have knocked me down with the shadow of a moth-eaten
feather!
They both took off their travelling caps. The real Dragon's was in
decent taste. The Mock Dragon's displayed an offensive chess-board
check.
"Have you come to say--that Miss Lethbridge has been prevented from
meeting me?" asked the real one--the R. D., I'll call him for the
moment.
"I am----" It stuck in my throat and wouldn't go up or down, so I
compromised--which was weak of me, as I always think on principle you'd
better lie all in all or not at all. "I suppose you don't recognize me?"
I mumbled fluffily.
"What--it's not possible that you're Ellaline Lethbridge!" the R. D.
exclaimed, in surprise, which might mean horror of my person or a
compliment.
I gasped like a fish out of water, and wriggled my neck in a silly way,
which a charitable man, unaccustomed to women, might take for schoolgirl
gawkishness in a spasm of acquiescence.
Instantly he put out his hand and wrung mine extremely hard. It would
have crunched the real Ellaline's rings into her poor little fingers.
"You must forgive me," he said. "I saw the rose"--and he smiled a
wonderfully agreeable, undragonlike smile, which put him back to
thirty-two--"but I was looking out for a very different sort
of--er--young lady."
"Why?" I asked, losing my presence of mind.
"I--well, really, I don't know why," said he.
"And I was looking for a very different sort of man," I retorted,
feeling idiotically schoolgirlish, and sillier every minute.
He smiled again then, even more nicely than before, and followed the
example I had set. "Why?" he inquired.
Unlike him, I did know why only too well. But it was difficult to
explain. Still, I had to say something or make things worse. "When in
doubt play a trump, or tell the truth," I quoted to myself as a precept;
and said out aloud that, somehow or other, I'd thought he would be old.
"So I am old," he said, "old enough to be your father." When he added
that information, he looked as if he would have liked to take it back
again, and his face coloured up with a dull, painful red, as if he'd
said something attached to a disagreeable memory. That was what his
expression suggested to me; but as I know for a fact that he has not at
all a nice, kind character, I suppose in reality what he felt was only a
stupid prick of vanity at having inadvertently given his age away. I
nearly blurted out the truth about mine, which would have got me into
hot water at once, as Ellaline's hardly nineteen and I'm practically
twenty-one--worse luck for you.
By this time the Mock Dragon had walked slowly on, but the brown image
in "native" dress had glued himself to the platform near by, too
respectful to be aware of my existence. While I was debating whether or
no the last speech called for an answer, the R. D. had a sudden thought
which gave him an excuse to change the subject.
"Where's your chaperon?" he snapped, with a flash of the eye, which was
his first betrayal of the hidden devil within him.
"She was called away to visit a relative," I answered, promptly; because
Ellaline and I had agreed I was to say that; and in a way it was true.
"You didn't come here alone?" said he.
"I had to," said I.
"Then it's a monstrous thing that Madame de Maluet should have let you,"
he growled. "I shall write and tell her so."
"Oh, don't, please don't," I begged, you can guess how anxiously. "She
really _couldn't_ help it, and I shall be so sorry to distress her." He
was still glaring, and desperation made me crafty. "You wouldn't refuse
the first thing I've asked you?" I tried to wheedle him.
I hoped--for Ellaline's sake, of course--that I should get another
smile; but instead, I got a frown.
"Now I begin to realize that you are--your mother's daughter," said he,
in a queer, hard tone. "No, I won't refuse the first thing you ask me.
But perhaps you'd better not consider that a precedent."
"I won't," said I. He'd been looking so pleased with me before, as if
he'd found me in a prize package, or won me in a lottery when he'd
expected to draw a blank; but though he gave in without a struggle to my
wheedling, he now looked as if he'd discovered that I was stuffed with
sawdust. My quick, "I won't," didn't seem to encourage him a bit.
"Well," he said, in a duller tone, "we'll get out of this. It was very
kind of you to come and meet me. I see now I oughtn't to have asked it;
but to tell the truth, the thought of going to a girls' school, and
claiming you----"
"I quite understand," I nipped in. "This is much better. My luggage is
all here," I added. "I couldn't think where else to send it, as I didn't
know what your plans might be."
At that he looked annoyed again, but luckily, only with himself this
time. "I fear I am an ass where women's affairs are concerned," he said.
"Of course I ought to have thought about your luggage, and settled every
detail for you with Madame de Maluet, instead of trusting to her
discretion. Still, it does seem as if she----"
I wouldn't let him blame Madame; but I couldn't defend her without
risking danger for Ellaline and myself, because Madame's arrangements
were all perfect, if we hadn't secretly upset them. "I have so _little_
luggage," I broke in, trying to make up with emphasis for irrelevancy.
"And Madame considers me quite a grown-up person, I assure you."
"I suppose you are," he admitted, observing my inches with a worried
air. "I ought to have realized; but somehow or other I expected to find
a child."
"I shall be less bother to you than if I were a child," I consoled him.
This did make him smile again, for some reason, as he replied that he
wasn't sure. And we were starting to hook ourselves on to the tail end
of the dwindling procession, quite on friendly terms, when to my horror
that young English cadlet--or boundling, which you will--strolled calmly
out in front of us, and said, "How do you do, Sir Lionel Pendragon? I'm
afraid you don't remember me. Dick Burden. Anyhow, you'll recollect my
mother and aunt."