in question. Emily, who never had much taste in dress, and now clothes
herself as if in punishment for sin, seems to know when other women are
badly turned out. She thinks it right that young girls should be simply
dressed, but considers that in the case of Ellaline simplicity has been
carried too far. You see, she doesn't know what you and I know about
that wretched fellow Lethbridge's end, and she believes his daughter has
plenty of money, or will have, on coming of age. Naturally, I don't
undeceive her. Emily is a good soul, but over-conscientious in questions
of money, and if she knew the truth she might be inclined to hold the
purse-strings tight. She might even be tempted to hint something
distressing to this poor girl, if the child vexed her by any thoughtless
little extravagance; whereas I wouldn't for a good deal have Ellaline's
daughter guess she owes anything to me.
Emily offered to choose frocks for Miss Lethbridge; whereupon that young
lady cast such a comical glance of despair at me--a glance which I think
was involuntary--that it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. I
saw so well what was in her mind! And if you will believe me, O'Hagan, I
volunteered to go with them.
Having committed myself, I had all the sensations of a fly caught on a
sheet of "Tanglefoot," or a prisoner of war chained to a Roman chariot;
but in the end I enjoyed myself hugely. Nothing better has happened to
me since I used to be taken to look at the toyshops the day before
Christmas. No, not even my first pantomime could beat this as an
experience!
Emily's economical soul clamoured for Oxford Street. I stood out for
Bond, and got my way. (You will grin here. You say I always do get my
way.) My idea was to make of myself a kind of Last Resort, or Court of
Appeal. I meant to let Emily advise, but to sweep her aside if she
perpetrated atrocities. The first shop, however, went to my head. It was
one of those where you walk into a kind of drawing-room with figurines,
or whatever you call them--slender, headless ladies in model
dresses--grouped about, and other equally slender, but long-headed
ladies in black satin trains, showing off their dummy sisters.
It was the figurines that intoxicated me. I saw Ellaline's head--in
imagination--coming out at the top of all the prettiest dresses. They
were wonderfully simple, too, the most attractive ones; seemed just the
thing for a young girl. Emily walked past them as if they were vulgar
acquaintances trying to catch her eye at a duchess's ball, but they
trapped me. There was a white thing for the street, that looked as if it
had been made for Ellaline, and a blue fluff, cut low in the neck,
exactly the right colour to show up her hair. Then there was a film of
pink, with wreaths of little rosebuds dotted about--made me think of
spring. (I told you I'd lost my head, didn't I?)
I stopped my ward, pointed out these things to her, and asked her if she
liked them. She said she did, but they would be horribly expensive. She
wouldn't think of buying such dreams. With that, up swam one of the
satin ladies (whose back view was precisely like that of a wet, black
codfish with a long tail; I believe she was "Directoire"); and hovering
near on a sea of pale-green carpet she volunteered the information that
these "little frocks" were "poems," singularly suited to the style of--I
expected her to say my "daughter." Instead of which, however, she
finished her sentence with a "madam" that brought a blush to my
weather-beaten face. I was the only one concerned who did blush,
however, I assure you! The girl smiled into my eyes, with a mischievous
twinkle, and minded not at all. A former generation would have simpered,
but this young person hasn't a simper in her.
I said "Nonsense," she could well afford the dresses. She argued, and
Emily returned to help her form up a hollow square. They were both
against me, but I insisted, and the codfish was a powerful ally.
"Would they fit you?" I asked the girl.
"Yes, they would fit me, I dare say. But----"
That settled it.
"We'll take them," said I. And after that, being beside myself, I
reconnoitred the place, pointing my stick at other things which took my
fancy. The codfish backed me up at every step, and other codfishes swam
the green sea, with hats doubtless brought from unseen coral caves. Most
of them were enormous hats, but remarkably attractive, in one way or
another, with large drooping brims that dripped roses or frothed with
ostrich plumes. I made Ellaline take off a small, round butter plate she
had on, which was ugly in itself, though somehow it looked like a
saint's halo on her; and murmuring compliments on "madam's" hair, the
siren codfishes tried on one hat after another. I bought all, without
asking the prices, because each one was more becoming to the girl than
its predecessor, and not to have all, would have been like deliberately
destroying so many original Gainsboroughs or Sir Joshuas.
The child's hair, by the way, is extraordinarily vital. It spouts up in
two thick, bright billows over her white forehead, like the beginning of
a strong fountain--a very agreeable foundation for a hat.
Seeing that I had gone mad, the wily codfishes took advantage of my
state, and flourished things before my eyes, at which Emily instantly
forbade me to look. It is true that they were objects not often seen by
bachelor man, except in shop windows and on the advertising pages of
women's magazines; but silk petticoats and cobwebby lace frills have no
Gorgon qualities, and I was not turned to stone by the sight of them. I
even found courage to ask of the company at large if they were the sort
of thing that young ladies ought to have in their wardrobes. The answer
was emphatically in the affirmative.
"Have you already got all you want of them, or could you make use of
more?" I inquired of my ward.
"I shouldn't know myself in such miracles," said she, with a kind of
gasp, her eyes very bright, and her cheeks pinker than they had been
when she was suspected of bridehood. She was still suspected of it;
indeed, I think that in the minds of the black satin codfishes
circumstantial evidence had tinkered suspicion into certainty. But
Ellaline was deaf to the "madam." They might have turned her from wife
into widow without her noticing. She was burning with the desire to
possess those embroidered cobwebs and those frilled petticoats. I don't
know why she should have been more excited about garments which few, if
any, save herself, would see after she'd put them on, than she was about
those on which cats and kings might gaze; but so it was. I should like
to ask an expert if this is the case with all females, or if it is
exceptional.
"Send the lot with the hats and dresses," said I. And when she widened
her eyes and gasped, I assured her that I knew her income better than
she did. Anything she cared to have in the way of pretty clothes she
could afford.
Strange to say, even then she didn't seem comfortable. She opened her
lips as if to speak; shut them hastily at the first word, swallowed it
with difficulty, sighed, and looked anxious. I should rather have liked
to know what was in her mind.
We ended up by the purchase of costumes suitable to the automobile, both
for Emily and Ellaline. I think women ought to be as "well found" for
motoring, as for yachting, don't you? And I am looking forward to the
trip I intend to take. It will be interesting to study the impressions
made upon this young girl by England, land of history and beauty----
... this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea--
... this England.
You will laugh at me, perhaps, for my long "harping" on my ward; but
anyhow, don't misunderstand. It's not because she is pretty and engaging
(one would say that of a kitten), but because of the startling contrast
between the real girl and the girl of my imagination. I can't help
thinking about her a good deal for this reason, and what I think of I
have generally talked of or written of fully to you, my best and oldest
friend. It's a habit nearly a quarter of a century old, and I don't mean
to break it now, particularly as you have made rather a point of my
continuing it on my return "home" after all these years.
London has got hold of me. I am fascinated by it. Either it has improved
as it has grown, or I am in a mood to be pleased with anything English.
Do you remember dear old Ennis's Rooms, which you and I used to think
the height of luxury and gaiety? I've promised myself to go there again,
and I mean to take Ellaline and Emily to supper after the theatre
to-night. I think I shall keep this letter open to tell you how the old
place impresses me.
Midnight and a half.
I've had a shock. Ennis's is dead as a doornail. We entered, after the
theatre, and galvanized the Rooms into a kind of dreadful life. They
"don't serve many suppers now, sir," it seems. "It's mostly luncheons
and dinners."
The waiters resented us as intruders. We were the only ones, too, which
made it worse, as all their rancour was visited on us; but we hadn't
been for many minutes at our old favourite table (the one thing
unchanged), trying to keep up a spurious gaiety, when another party of
two ventured in.
They were young Dick Burden and his aunt, Mrs. Senter.
Now, you mayn't see it, but this was rather odd. It wouldn't have been
odd in the past, to meet your most intimate friend from round the
corner, and the Shah of Persia, at Ennis's. But evidently the "people
who amuse themselves" don't come now. It's not "the thing." Why,
therefore, should this couple choose Ennis's for supper? _They_ haven't
been out of England for fifteen years, like me. If Mrs. Senter
occasionally spends Saturday to Monday in India, or visits the Sphinx
when the Sphinx is in season, she always returns to London when
"everybody is in town," and there does as everybody does.
I immediately suspected that Burden had brought her with an object: that
object, to gain an introduction to Ellaline. The suspicion may seem
far-fetched; but you wouldn't pronounce it so if you could have seen the
young man's face, in the railway station at Paris, the other day. I had
that privilege; and I observed at the time his wish to know my ward,
without feeling a responsive one to gratify it. I don't know why I
didn't feel it, but I didn't, though the desire was both pardonable and
natural in the young fellow. He has a determined jaw; therefore perhaps
it's equally natural that, when disappointed, he should persist--even
follow, and adopt strong measures (in other words, an aunt) to obtain
his object. You see, Ellaline is an extremely pretty girl, and I'm not
alone in thinking so.
My idea is that, having found us in the newspapers, staying at the Ritz,
the boy must have somehow informed himself as to our movements, awaiting
his opportunity--or his aunt. I bought my theatre tickets in the hotel.
He may have got his information from there; and the rest was easy--as
far as Ennis's. I'm afraid the rest was, too, because Mrs. Senter
selected the table nearest ours, and after we had exchanged greetings
proposed that we join parties. The tables were placed together, and
introductions all round were a matter of course. Young England expects
that every aunt will do her duty!
They still give you very good food at Ennis's, but it's rather like
eating "funeral baked meats."
Mrs. Senter is exactly what she was some years ago. Perhaps it would be
ungallant to recall to your memory just _how_ many years ago. She is, if
anything, younger. I believe there's a maxim, "Once a duchess, always a
duchess." I think women of to-day have another: "Once thirty, always
thirty"; or, "Once thirty, always twenty-nine." But, joking apart, she
is a very agreeable and rather witty woman, sympathetic too, apparently,
though I believe you used to think, when she was out smiting hearts at
our Back o' Beyond, that in nature she somewhat resembled a certain
animal worshipped by the Egyptians and feared by mice. She seems very
fond of her nephew Dick, with whom she says she goes about a good deal.
"We chaperon each other," she expressed it. She pities me for my fire at
Graylees, but envies me my motoring trip.
We shall be off in a few days, now, I hope, as soon as Ellaline has been
shown a few "features" of London. I went to see the car to-day, and she
is a beauty. I shall try her for the first time to-morrow.
Ever Yours,
Pen.
VII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Ritz Hotel, London_,
_July 9th_
One and Only Compleat Mother: Things have happened. I felt them
coming in my bones--_not_ my funny-bones this time. For the things may
turn out to be not at all funny.
Mr. Richard Burden has been introduced to the alleged Miss Lethbridge. I
wonder if he _can_ know she is merely "the alleged"? He is certainly
changed, somehow, both in his manner, and in his _way of looking at
one_. I thought in Paris he hadn't at all a bad face, though rather
impudent--and besides, even Man is a fellow being! But last night, for a
minute, he really had an incredibly wicked expression; or else he was
suppressing a sneeze. I couldn't be quite sure which--as you said about
Aubrey Beardsley's weird black-and-white women.
It was at a restaurant--a piteous restaurant, where the waiters looked
like enchanted waiters in the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. He--Mr.
Dicky Burden--came in, with an aunt. Such an aunt! I could never be at
home with her as an aunt if I were a grown-up man, though she might make
a bewitching cousin. She's quite beautiful, dear, and graceful; but I
don't like her at all. I think Sir Lionel does, though. They knew each
other in Bengal, and she kept saying to him in a cooing voice, "_Do_ you
remember?"
You can see she's too clever to be _always_ clever, because that bores
people; but she says witty, sharp things which sound as if they came out
of plays, or books, and you think back to see whether she deliberately
led up to them. For instance, she asked Sir Lionel, apropos of woman's
suffrage, whether, on the whole, he preferred a man's woman, or a
woman's woman?
"What's the difference?" he wanted to know.
"All the difference between a Gibson girl and an Ibsen girl," said she.
I wonder if she'd heard that, or made it up? Anyhow, when Sir Lionel
threw back his head and laughed, in an attractive way he has, which
shows a dent in his chin, I wished _I'd_ said it. But the more she
flashed out bright things, the more of a lump I was. I do think the one
unpardonable sin is dulness, and I felt guilty of it. She simply
vampired me. Sucked my wits dry. And, do you know, I'm afraid she's
going on the motor trip with us?
Sir Lionel doesn't dream of such a thing, but she does. And she's the
sort of person whose dreams, if they're about _men_, come true. Of
course, I don't know her well enough to hate her, but I feel it coming
on.
In books, all villainesses who're worth their salt have little, sharp
teeth and pointed nails. Mrs. Senter's teeth and nails are just like
other women's, only better. Book villainesses' hair is either red or
blue-black. Hers is pale gold, though her eyes are brown, and very soft
when they turn toward Sir Lionel. Nevertheless, though I'm _not_
cattish, except when absolutely necessary, I know she's a _pig_, never
happy unless she has the centre of the stage, whether it's _her_ part or
not--wanting everyone to feel the curtain rises when she comes on, and
falls when she goes off. She looks twenty-eight, so I suppose she's
thirty-five; but really she's most graceful. Standing up for Sir Lionel
to take off her cloak, her trailing gray satin dress twisted about her
feet, as some charming, slender trees stand with their bark spreading
out round them on the ground, and folding in lovely lines like drapery.
She managed to draw Mrs. Norton into conversation with her and Sir
Lionel, and to let Dick talk to me, so they must have arranged
beforehand what they would do. At first, when he had got his wish and
been introduced, he spoke of ordinary things, but presently he asked if
I remembered his saying that he wished to go into a certain profession.
I answered "Yes," before I stopped to think, which I'm afraid flattered
him, and then he wanted me to guess what the profession was. When I
wouldn't, he said it was that of a detective. "If I succeed, my mother
will give up her objections," he explained. "And I think I shall
succeed." It was when he said this, that he looked so wicked--or else as
if he wanted to sneeze--as I told you. What can he mean? And what has he
found out? Or is it only my bad conscience? Oh, dear, I should like to
give it a thorough spring cleaning, as one does in Lent! I'm afraid
that's what is needed. I've had plenty of blacks on it since Ellaline
made me consent to her plan, and I began to carry it out. But now I have
more. I have lots of dresses and hats on it, too--lovely ones. And
petticoats, and such things, etc., etc. Did Dragons of old insist on
their fairy princess-prisoners having exquisite clothes, and say "hang
the expense"? _This_ Dragon has done so with his Princess, and I had to
take the things, because, you see, I have engaged to play the part, and
this apparently is his rich conception of it. He says that
I--Ellaline--can afford to have everything that's nice; so what _can_ I
do? The worst of it is, much of my new finery is so delicate, it will be
_défraiche_ by the time the real Ellaline can have it, even if it would
fit or suit her, which it won't. But probably the man was ashamed to be
seen with a ward in gray serge and a sailor hat, so I couldn't very well
violate his feelings. Perhaps if I'd refused to do what he wanted, all
his hidden Dragon-ness would have rushed to the surface; but as I was
quite meek, he behaved more like an angel than a dragon.
It really was fun buying the things, in a fascinating shop where the
assistants were all more refined than duchesses, and so slender-waisted
they seemed to be held together only by their spines and a ladylike
ligament or two. But if Providence didn't wish women to lace, why
weren't our ribs made to go all the way down? The way we were created,
it's an _incentive_ to pinch waists. It seems _meant_, doesn't it?
I was a dream to look at when we went to supper at that restaurant;
which was _one_ comfort. Mrs. Senter's things were no nicer than mine,
and she was so interested in what I wore. Only she was a good deal more
interested in Sir Lionel.
"Everywhere I go, people are talking of you," she said. "You have given
them exciting things to talk about."
"Really, I wasn't aware of it," returned the poor Dragon, as
apologetically as if she'd waked him up to say he'd been snoring.
Since I wrote you, I've heard more things about his past from Mrs.
Norton, who is as proud of her brother, after a fashion, as a cat of its
mouse, and always wanting to show him off, in just the same way. (We all
have our "mouse," haven't we? I'm yours. Just now, the new hats are
mine.) She has told me a splendid story about a thing he did in Bengal:
saved twelve people's lives in a house that was on fire in the middle of
the night--the kind of house which blazes like a haystack. And,
according to her, he thinks no more of rescuing drowning persons who
jump off ships in seas swarming with sharks than we think of fishing a
fly out of our bath. Now, _is_ it possible for a man like that to be
treacherous to women, and to accept bribes for being guardian to their
children? I do wish I knew what to make of it all--and of him.
He has taken the funny little Bengalese valet, who has been, and is to
be, his chauffeur, to try the new car this morning. He meant to have
gone before this to look at his partly burnt castle in Warwickshire, but
he says London has captivated him, and he can't tear himself away; that
he will go in a day or two, when he has trotted Mrs. Norton and me about
to see a few more sights. Of course, we could quite well see the sights
by ourselves. Mrs. Norton has seen them all, anyhow, and only revisits
them for my sake; while as for me, you and I "did" London thrillingly
together in the last two months of our glory. But Sir Lionel has an
interesting way of telling things, and he is as enthusiastic as a boy
over his England. Not that he gushes; but one knows, somehow, what he is
feeling. I can't imagine his ever being tired, but he is very
considerate of us--seems to think women are frail as glass. I suppose
women _are_ a sex by themselves, but we aren't as different as all that.
Once in a while he threw a sideways glare at Dick Burden, when D. B. was
talking with a confidential air to me. I know from Ellaline and Mrs.
Norton that Sir Lionel dislikes women; but all the same I believe he
thinks we ought to be kept indoors unless veiled, and never allowed to
talk to men, except our relatives.
Mrs. Norton is _so_ funny, without knowing it. She asked her brother as
gravely as possible at breakfast this morning: "Had you a harem in
Bengal, dear?"
"Good heavens, no!" he answered, turning red. "What put such a ghastly
idea into your head?"
"Oh, I only thought perhaps it was the thing, and you were obliged to,
or be talked about," she explained, calmly.
He went on to tell her that it was not at all necessary to have harems,
and she was quite surprised. You would think that she'd have taken pains
to find out every detail of her brother's life in a country where he was
one of the head men, wouldn't you? But she hardly feels that any country
except her own is worth serious inquiries. She has the impression that
"heathen" are all alike, and mostly naked, but not as embarrassing to
meet as if they were white.
Good-bye, dearest. I'm afraid I write very disconnected letters. But I
feel "disconnected" myself, somehow, like a telephone that's been "cut
off."
Your loving and well-dressed
Deceiver.
P. S. It's to-morrow, for I forgot to post this, there were so many
things "doing." Please forgive me. The car's splendid, and I am to
christen her. We're going to have a kind of ceremony like a launching,
and I have to think of a name for her, and throw wine on her bonnet. Sir
Lionel is longing to get off on the tour, he says; and as he's to leave
town for Warwickshire to-morrow, turning me over temporarily to the
tender mercies of the good--(his sister)--I almost hope that after all
Mrs. Senter mayn't have time to "sweedle" him into taking her with us,
as I _know_ she hopes to do.
We, by the way, are not to see his place until the burnt bit is mended.
We're to avoid Warwickshire in starting out, go away up North as far as
the Roman Wall, visit Bamborough Castle, where he thinks friends of his,
who own it, will actually invite us to lunch, or something (it seems
like a dream), and then stop in Warwickshire at the end of the tour,
when all the dilapidations have been made good. The Dragon naturally
expects me, not only to finish the trip, but to take up my residence at
Graylees until next spring, when his plan is that his ward shall be
presented. Oh, mice and men, and dragons, how aft your plans gang agley!
Of course, mine depend altogether upon Ellaline. I hold myself ready for
marching orders from her. But I must confess to you that, whether right
or wrong, I don't look forward to the weeks of my duties as understudy
with the same feelings I had when I was engaged to perform them.
Little did Sir Lionel guess what was in my mind this morning, when I
asked if one could see most of England in a few weeks when motoring! But
I may have to take my flight from the car, so to speak, unless Ellaline
be detained for some reason. I'm expecting a letter from her any day
now, and there may be definite news.
Good-bye, again, dearest.
VIII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Royal Hotel, Chichester_,
_July 17th_
Brightest and Best: _La Donna é automobile._ _I_ am "la donna";
and the most inward Me-ness of my Me _é automobile_.
Some people--Mrs. Norton, for instance--might say: "What on earth does
the silly thing mean?" But you always know what I mean. You and I were
born knowing quite a lot of nice little things like that, weren't we?
Things we picked up during our various incarnations; things _new_ souls
haven't had time to collect, poor dears.
My automobiliness is the reason I've only sent you snippy "how-do-you-do
and good-bye" notes, interspersed with telegrams, for the last few days,
just thanking you for wise advice, and saying "Glad-you're-well;
so-am-I."