CHAPTER IITHE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER
IT was a quarter to three when the old woman awoke. She was alone save for Ponto, herfidus Achates, who was snoring in front of the fire with his tail curled up in the most ridiculous manner. And yet she was not alone, for there is reason to believe that her Idea was already born in her. There can be little doubt that the Idea had sprung into being, even before she had time to turn, which she did almost immediately, to the half-pint of claret and the plate of goose liver pie that Miss Burden and Mr. Marchbanks in consultation had caused to be laid beside her.
Now do not suppose that the Idea was proclaimed forthwith in its meridian splendor. Nothing of the kind. It was still in its infancy. It had to be shaped and reshaped, to be dandled and cosseted, to be born and born again in the dim recesses of the mind, before it gathered the requisite force to issue as it were from the armory of Minerva.
At four o’clock precisely it was the custom of this old lady, if the light and the British climate permitted, to drive the whole length of Bond Street and once round Hyde Park.
At that hour the sky having cleared sufficientlyfor the sun to make a tardy and shamefaced appearance, the old lady, accompanied by her faithful gentlewoman and her somnolent four-footed beast, entered the equipage that was drawn up before her door.
It was an extraordinary vehicle. It had yellow wheels and a curious round body, which, according to scale, was very nearly as fat as Ponto’s. It was perched up on very high springs, and was in the forefront of the fashion about the year 1841.
Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gregory, who shared the box-seat, would doubtless have been in the forefront of the fashion about the same period. Their broad backs, their box-cloth, the shape and texture of their hats and the angle at which they wore them unmistakably belonged to a very early period of the world’s history. No, they did not wear side whiskers. We don’t know why. Perhaps it was that side whiskers were either a little in front or a little behind the mode in 1841. But it is enough that Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gregory did not wear them. And had they worn them, had the present biographer had reason for one single moment to suspect that Messrs. Bryant and Gregory had been in possession of these appendages, he would have given up this history. Really the line has to be drawn somewhere.
The progress along Bond Street was at the rate of two miles an hour. The horses, Castor and Pollux by name, were very fat and very somnolent, the yellow chariot was very unwieldy, and in the language of Constable X, who touched his helmet atthe corner of Hanover Square, “it took up a deal o’ room.” None the less the progress of the vehicle was almost royal.
The old lady sat very upright in the center of the best seat, which she had all to herself. With a nose of the Wellington pattern and a chin to match, displayed under a canopy of feathers, she looked more like a macaw than ever. Miss Burden, in charge of Ponto and a pair of folders with a tortoiseshell handle, was seated opposite at a more modest elevation.
Every member of the male sex whom this redoubtable veteran chanced to meet, who had the good fortune to wear his clothes with a sufficient air of distinction, received a bow from her; and in return she was the recipient of some highly elaborate and wholly inimitable courtesies. With these she ranked as “an agreeable old woman.”
With the members of the other sex, which socially the more critical, who seated in their barouches, their victorias, their broughams, and their motors, who inclined their own distinguished heads from under their own barbaric canopies, yet with no vain strivings in the direction of effusiveness, she was greeted with a half-veiled hostility of the eyelids, and a whispered, “There goes that old cat.”
We offer no opinion on the justice or the taste of the remark. We claim no learning in feminology. Why these ladies, each of whom vied with the other in the propagation of good works, each of whom was an honored patroness of more than one institutionfor the amelioration of the human race, should apply such a figure of speech to one who was old and venerable it is not for us to conjecture.
Did they refer to the quantity of feathers she was wearing upon her helmet? If so, since April 1, 183-, she had caused many a beautiful and harmless bird to be destroyed. But then they themselves were wearing similar great canopies of feathers. Did they refer to her features? We think not, for although her nose was shaped like a talon of a bird of prey, they were not conspicuously feline. Perhaps it was that they referred to her personal character. At any rate they are known to be high authorities upon such a matter as the human character, and as a rule are very searching in their judgments. Certainly the old lady proceeding along Bond Street in her yellow chariot at the rate of two miles an hour had done a fair amount of mischief in her time; and if health and strength continued to be vouchsafed to her by an All-wise Creator, before she died she hoped to do a good deal more.
In her own little corner of her own little parish no old lady was more respected. Where she was not respected she was feared, and where she was neither respected nor feared she was very heartily hated. Of one thing we are sure. There was not a living creature who loved her, unless it was Ponto, who being a creature without a soul was denied the consolations of religion.
We don’t believe for a moment that Miss Burden loved her. She had caused her faithful gentlewoman,who in the space of twenty years had given all she had had of youth, beauty, and gayety in return for board and residence and forty pounds per annum, paid quarterly, to weep too many tears in the privacy of her chamber for such a sacred emotion as love to requite her persecutor. Yet it is far from our intention to dogmatize upon the female heart. If we do we are sure to be wrong. That complex and wonderful mechanism has defeated us too often. Therefore it is possible that Miss Burden hugged her chains to her bosom and lavished the poetry pent up in her soul upon the hand that chastened her. We say it is possible, but we protest that it is hardly likely. Yet do not let us express a positive opinion upon the emotional apparatus of even Miss Burden, who, whatever else she might be, was a woman and a gentlewoman and the thirteenth daughter of a rural dean.
It is really no use trying to hide the fact that the old lady in the yellow chariot had in the course of her seventy-three summers wrought a great deal of misery and unhappiness among her fellow-creatures. Nobody’s reputation was safe in her keeping. She never said a kind word of anybody if she could possibly help it; and although she may have done good by stealth she very seldom did it in the light of day. Yet there can be little doubt that Ponto loved her in his dumb way, and there is every reason to believe that Mr. Marchbanks respected her immensely.
Proceeding along Bond Street with her Idea—she had not forgotten it, and you must not forget iteither—she continued to evolve that mysterious phantasm in the grim purlieus of her hard yet not capacious mind. Sitting very upright in the center of her yellow chariot, bleakly indifferent to those who did not interest her, and coldly overlooking those who did, this old woman in her marvelous equipage had come almost alongside the little shop on the left going towards Piccadilly where you can get the nicest silk hat in London, of which we forget the name, when she beheld an apparition.
It was a Hat. It was of gray felt with a dent in the middle and rather wide in the brims, of the variety which is called a Homburg because it is worn at Cannes. Round this article of masculine attire, in itself sufficiently bizarre, was what is technically known as “a Guards’ ribbon.” Those who are acquainted with the merits of this decorative emblem will not thank us for describing them; while those who are not will be unable to appreciate the special texture of their excellence from a mere categorical statement. Let it suffice that the old lady in the yellow chariot beheld a Homburg hat with a Guards’ ribbon approaching at the rate of one mile an hour.
Now there was only one individual, not in London only, but in the whole of what at that time ranked as the civilized world (circa 190-), who by any concatenation of events could possibly be seen walking in Bond Street in a Homburg hat with a Guards’ ribbon on April the first. Messrs. Bryant and Gregory knew that quite as well as their mistress. Therefore, quite naturally and properly, the yellow chariot came to astand automatically, just as the Hat came to a stand also, immediately opposite the coat-of-arms on the near side panel of this wonderful equipage, which itself was immediately opposite the little shop where you can get the nicest silk hat in London.
We wish our readers could have seen the manner in which Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gregory each removed his own headgear (circa 1841), in an act of homage to the Hat of Hats. We feel sure it would have reconciled them to a number of things they are likely to find in this history.
“How d’ye do, George?” said the old lady.
Now that form of salutation may mean much or it may mean little. With the occupant of the yellow chariot it meant the former. She only said, “How d’ye do?” to the highest branch of the peerage.
“How d’ye do, George?” said the occupant of the yellow chariot.
“Pooty well for an old ’un,” said the owner of the Hat in a gruff, fat voice.
“How oldareyou?” said the occupant of the chariot.
“Nearly as old as you,” said the Hatted one. Then said he with slow and gruff solemnity: “Many happy returns of your birthday, Caroline. It is a great pleasure to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you, George,” said the old lady with formidable politeness. “Regular habits and a good conscience are worth something when you get past seventy.”
George Betterton, Duke of Brancaster, began togobble like a turkey. He was a heavy-jowled, purple-faced, apoplectic-looking individual, rather wide in stature and extremely short in the neck. So famous was he for his powers of emulation of the pride of the farmyard, that he went by the name of “Gobo” among his friends. As his habits were not so regular and his conscience was not so chaste as they might have been, George Betterton grew redder in the jowl than ever, and rolled his full-blooded eyes at the occupant of the yellow chariot.
“Something been crossing you, Caroline?” inquired her old crony, in his heavy, slow-witted way.
“Yes and no,” said the occupant of the chariot with that bluntness of speech in which none excelled her. “Ponto is getting fat, and Burden is getting tiresome, and Cheriton has been insolent, and I am tired of life; but I intend to hold on some time yet just to spite people. It is all the better for the world to have an old nuisance or two in it.”
This philanthropic resolution did not appear to arouse as much enthusiasm in George Betterton as perhaps it ought to have done. All the same he was very polite in his gruff, stolid, John Bull manner.
“Glad to hear it, Caroline,” said he. “We should never get on, you know, without your old standards.”
“Rubbish,” said the old lady robustly. “You would only be too pleased to. But you won’t at present, so make your mind easy.”
The occupant of the yellow chariot flung up her nostrils as if to challenge high heaven with a snuff of scorn.
“What are you doing in London?” said the old lady. “That woman is at Biarritz, they tell me.”
George Betterton pondered a moment and measured his old friend with his full-blooded eye.
“I’ve come up to judge the dog show,” said he.
“Oh, is there a dog show?” said the old lady, upon a note of interest she seldom achieved. “When is it?”
“A week a’ Toosday,” said the owner of the hat.
We apologize to our readers, but if you belong to the highest branch of the peerage you have no need to be the slave of grammar.
“If I send Ponto,” said the old lady, “will you guarantee him a prize?”
“First prize,” said her old friend.
“Look at him well so that you will know him again. Burden, let the Dook look at Ponto.”
“I’ve seen him so often,” said George Betterton plaintively, as that overfed quadruped leered at him biliously. “He’s a ducky little dog.”
“Don’t forget that American creature that Towcaster married has the effrontery to have one just like him. If you confuse him with hers I shall not forgive you.”
“Better tie a piece o’ bloo ribbon round his tail,” said George.
His grace of Brancaster turned upon his heel.
“Remember my Wednesday,” the old lady called after him in stentorian tones.
Whether George Betterton heard her or whether he did not it is doubtless well not to inquire. It israther a failing with high personages that they are apt to be afflicted with a sudden and unaccountable deafness. The old lady’s voice could be heard at the other side of Bond Street, but her old acquaintance made no sign whatever that it had penetrated to him.
The yellow chariot moved on. Its occupant, looking exceedingly grim, and more than ever like a Gorgon or a dragon born out of due time, immediately proceeded to cut dead the inoffensive widow of a Baron in Equity who with her two pretty daughters was driving to the Grosvenor Galleries.
If there were those who could be deaf to her, there were also those to whom she could be blind. There can be no doubt that during the course of her long life she had had things far more her own way than is good for any human creature. But there were now those who were beginning openly to rebel from her despotic sway. George Betterton was not the only person who of late had been afflicted with deafness.
All the same, if the aspect of this old woman meant anything it was that its possessor had to be reckoned with. It had often been remarked by those of her friends who followed “the fancy,” that in certain aspects it bore a striking resemblance to that of an eminent pugilist. It was a very tight and hard and arbitrary mouth, and a general demeanor of perfectly ruthless sarcasm that returned to Hill Street at a quarter to five. The rebels must be brought to heel.
The redoubtable Caroline had been home about an hour, when suddenly, without any sort of warning,the Idea assumed an actual and visible guise. She was in the middle of a game of piquet, a daily exercise, Sundays excepted, in which she showed the greatest proficiency, which generally ended in the almost total annihilation of her adversary. Having “rubiconed” her gentlewoman, and having mulcted her in the sum of two shillings which Miss Burden could ill afford to lose, her Idea burst from its shell and walked abroad.
“Burden,” said the old lady, “do you remember the name of the person that was married by my sister Polly?”
Miss Burden was so much startled by the question that she could not answer immediately. Not only was its abruptness highly disconcerting, but its nature was even more so. It dealt with one outside the pale.
“Per-Perring—Perkins,” floundered Miss Burden. It was a name never mentioned in Hill Street upon any pretext whatever.
“Look it up in Walford.”
Miss Burden consulted that invaluable work of reference. With some difficulty and many misgivings she was presently able to disinter the following:—
Perry Aloysius, clerk in holy orders, master of arts. Eldest surviving son of Reverend John Tillotson Perry and Maria, 2nd daughter of Montague Hawley esquire. Born 1842. Married Mary Augusta, younger daughter of Charles William Wargrave, third duke of Dorset, and Caroline daughter of 5th marquis of Twickenham. Incumbent of Saint Euthanasius SlocumMagna and perpetual curate of Widdiford parish church. Heir S., Richard Aloysius Wargrave Perry, clerk in holy orders, bachelor of arts. Address, The Parsonage Slocum Magna, North Devon.
Perry Aloysius, clerk in holy orders, master of arts. Eldest surviving son of Reverend John Tillotson Perry and Maria, 2nd daughter of Montague Hawley esquire. Born 1842. Married Mary Augusta, younger daughter of Charles William Wargrave, third duke of Dorset, and Caroline daughter of 5th marquis of Twickenham. Incumbent of Saint Euthanasius SlocumMagna and perpetual curate of Widdiford parish church. Heir S., Richard Aloysius Wargrave Perry, clerk in holy orders, bachelor of arts. Address, The Parsonage Slocum Magna, North Devon.
When the old lady had been duly acquainted with these facts she knitted her brows, pondered deeply and said “Humph!” A pause followed, and then a look of resolution settled upon her grim countenance.
“Burden,” said she, “I am going to try an experiment. I shall write to that man.”
In that apparently simple sentence was embodied the old lady’s Idea in the fullness of its splendor. For the first time in her life or in his she deigned to recognize the existence of the Reverend Aloysius Perry.
The recognition duly dictated to the gentlewoman assumed the following shape:—
“The Countess of Crewkerne presents her compliments to the Reverend Perry. Lady Crewkerne will be pleased to adopt a girl of her late sister’s. Lady Crewkerne would suggest in the event of this course being agreeable to the Reverend Perry, that the most refined and mannerly of her late sister’s children be forwarded to her.”
“The Countess of Crewkerne presents her compliments to the Reverend Perry. Lady Crewkerne will be pleased to adopt a girl of her late sister’s. Lady Crewkerne would suggest in the event of this course being agreeable to the Reverend Perry, that the most refined and mannerly of her late sister’s children be forwarded to her.”
“Get my spectacles, Burden,” said the old woman, grimly. “I will read it myself.”
It is perhaps too much to say that a tear stood inthe kind eyes of the gentlewoman when she rose to obey this behest. But certainly a long-drawn sigh escaped her, and the beating of her heart was quickened. The coming of a third person would at least help to relieve the tedium of that establishment.
The old woman read her letter with patience and with cynicism.
“It will serve,” said she. “Send it immediately.”
And then, as they say in the best fiction, a strange thing happened. The most natural and becoming course for Miss Burden to take was to ring the bell, in order that this curious document might be dispatched by a servant. But she did not do this. In her own person Miss Burden went forth of the room, and without waiting to put on her hat she passed out at the hall door, and with her own hand dropped the letter in the pillar-box opposite.