ARAMINTACHAPTER ITHE OLD WOMAN OF HILL STREET
ARAMINTA
AN old lady who lived in Hill Street was making arrangements to enter upon her seventy-fourth year.
It was a quarter to nine in the morning by the ormolu clock on the chimney-piece; and the old lady, somewhat shriveled, very wide-awake, and in the absence of her toupee from the position it was accustomed to grace—at present it was in the center of the dressing-table—looking remarkably like a macaw, was sitting up in bed. Cushions supported her venerable form, and an Indian shawl, the gift of her Sovereign, covered her aged shoulders.
There were people who did not hesitate to describe her as a very worldly-minded, not to say very wicked, old lady. The former of these epithets there is none to dispute; in regard to the latter, let our silence honor the truth. It is far from our intention to asperse the character of one who has always passed as a Christian; nor do we ascribe to human frailty the sinister significance that some people do. But asfar as this old lady is concerned it is a point upon which we have no bigotry.
If sheer worldliness of mind is akin to wickedness, the old woman who lived in Hill Street must have come perilously near to that state. Her views upon all matters relating to this world were extremely robust, and years and experience had confirmed her in them. In regard to the next world she seldom expressed an opinion. In this she was doubtless wise. Sitting very upright in her bed, with those glittering eyes and hawklike features the unmistakable mistress of all they surveyed, she was enough to strike the boldest heart with awe. Not that temerity was the long suit of Miss Burden, a gentlewoman of a certain age whose sole mission in life it was to do her good-will and pleasure in return for board and residence, and forty pounds per annum paid quarterly.
Duly fortified with a slice of dry toast and a cup of very strong tea, the old lady said in such a clear and incisive tone that she must have studied the art of elocution in the days of her youth—
“Burden, cover my head.”
The gentlewoman obeyed the command with delicacy and with dexterity. Yet it must not be thought that the elaborate mechanism which adorned the venerable poll fourteen hours out of the twenty-four was taken from the center of the dressing-table. It was not. Various ceremonies had to be performed before the moment arrived for its reception. In its place a temporary, but none the less marvelous, erection of fine needlework and point lace was produced by MissBurden, and arranged like a veritable canopy about the brow of Minerva.
“Admit Marchbanks,” said the voice from the bed.
The door opened and that personage was ushered in. Mr. Marchbanks merits a description quite as much as his mistress. Yet how to do justice to him, that is the problem. The poise of his bearing, his urbane reserve, his patrician demeanor were those of an ambassador. His whole being was enveloped in an air of high diplomacy. His most trivial action seemed to raise the ghost of Lord John Russell. Like his venerable mistress, he was a Whig to the core. He had been born, he had been bred, and by the grace of God he was determined to die in that tradition.
Under the left arm of Mr. Marchbanks was theMorning Post, which organ of opinion had been warmed by his own hands. In his right hand he bore a small silver dish. Upon it was a little pile of rather important-looking correspondence.
With the courtly grace of a bygone age, Mr. Marchbanks bowed to the occupant of the four-poster—old ladies who live in Hill Street do not put their faith in new furniture—and his venerable mistress was pleased to say—
“Good morning, Marchbanks.”
“Good morning, my lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks very gravely; and then said he with a benevolence that would have made a considerable fortune in Harley Street: “I trust your ladyship has slept well.”
“As well as one can expect at my age,” said the occupant of the four-poster.
No, Mr. Marchbanks did not offer his venerable mistress many happy returns of her birthday. And to those of our readers who aspire to serve old ladies who live in Hill Street—and let us not be judged immodest if we express the belief that many who are inspired with this excellent ambition will be found among them—a word of warning may not be out of place. Let us urge these neophytes not to take the practice of Mr. Marchbanks for their guide. His eminence was the fruit of years. Remember he had been tipped by the Duke of Wellington. He had pulled down the coat collar of Lord Palmerston on more than one occasion; while as for Lord Granville, he knew him as well as he knew his own father.
“How is Ponto this morning?” inquired the occupant of the four-poster.
“In excellent spirits, my lady.”
“And his appetite?”
“He has eaten a chicken, my lady, with excellent relish.”
“Humph,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “that dog eats as much as a Christian.”
In the opinion of Mr. Marchbanks Ponto ate more, but he did not say so. He was content merely to bow and withdraw with simple yet ample dignity. The old lady read her letters and glanced at the Court Circular, the Parliamentary Report, and the Money Market. She then announced her intention of getting up. Over the divers things incident to this complex process it is doubtless well to draw the veil. Let it suffice that an hour and a half later she reachedher morning-room, a veritable dragon in black silk and a brown wig, leaning on an ebony walking-stick.
The normal condition of her temper was severe, “Acidulated to the verge of the morose,” said those who had particular cause to respect it. A considerable, not to say representative body they were. On this wet morning of the early spring, this seventy-third annual commemoration of the most pregnant fact of her experience, her temper was so positively formidable that it smote the officers of her household with a feeling akin to dismay.
Various causes had contributed to the state of the barometer. For one thing that impertinent fellow Cheriton had issued his annual persiflage upon the subject of her birthday. It fell, it appeared, upon the first of April; a stroke of irony, in Cheriton’s opinion, for which she had never quite been able to forgive her Creator. Then, again, if you came to think of it, what had existence to offer an old woman who had so long outlived her youth; who had neither kith nor kin of her own; who bored her friends; who rendered her dependents miserable; who was unable to take exercise; who distrusted doctors and despised the clergy: a praiser of past times who considered the present age all that it ought not to be?
Why should this old lady be in a good humor on her seventy-third birthday? She was a nuisance to everybody, including herself. She was a vain and selfish old woman, as all the world knew. Yet even she had her points. Everybody has to have points ofsome kind, else they would never be allowed to persist—particularly to their seventy-fourth year.
For one thing she was good to her pug. Upon that extraordinarily repulsive and overfed animal she lavished a great deal of affection. Yet mark the ingratitude of the canine race. How did that misshapen, dumb, soulless, pampered beast, whose figurehead was like a gargoyle, and whose eyes were so swollen with baked meats that they could scarcely revolve, requite the constant care and caresses of his mistress? Why, by getting fat. There could be no doubt about it that Ponto was getting fat.
Almost the first thing the old woman did upon what was destined to prove one of the most memorable days of a long and not particularly useful life, was to issue an edict. It was to the effect that John, the second footman, was to exercise Ponto for an hour every morning in Hyde Park. The manner in which John, who himself consumed more than was good for a human being, received the edict is no concern of ours.
It was about a quarter to two—at least it was getting near luncheon-time—that the rare event happened from which springs the germ of this history. How it came to pass will never be known. It is a problem to baffle the most learned doctors and the most expert psychologists. For at about a quarter to two, just as Miss Burden had returned from a visit to the circulating library, the occurrence happened. The old lady of Hill Street was visited by an Idea. To be sure it did not reveal itself immediatelyin that crude and startling guise. It had its processes to go through, like a cosmos or a tadpole, or any other natural phenomenon that burgeons into entity. The evolutions by which it attained to its fullness were in this wise.
“Where have you been, Burden?” said the old lady, fixing a cold eye upon the abashed blue-backed volume under the arm of her gentlewoman.
“I have been changing a novel at Mudie’s,” said Miss Burden.
“The usual rubbish, I suppose,” said the old woman, giving a grim turn to her countenance, which rendered that frontispiece an admirable composite of a hawk and a hanging judge.
“Lord Cheriton said it was the best novel he had read for years,” said Miss Burden with the gentle air of one who reveres authority.
“Humph,” said the old lady. “Whatever Cheriton is, he has taste at least. Give it to me.”
Miss Burden handed the blue-backed volume to her mistress. The old lady opened it warily, lest she should come too abruptly upon a fine moral sentiment.
“Man uses good English,” she said suspiciously. “Reminds one of the man Disraeli before he made a fool of himself in politics.”
The next thing that Miss Burden was aware of was that the old lady was fast asleep.
When Mr. Marchbanks came a few minutes later to announce that luncheon was ready, his mistress, with the blue-backed volume in her lap, was snoringlustily. An anxious consultation followed. Her ladyship had not missed her luncheon for seventy-three years.
The far-seeing wisdom of Miss Burden—doubtless due in some measure to her pure taste in English fiction—was allowed to prevail. The state of the old woman’s temper could not possibly be worse than it had been that morning if the sun was to remain faithful to the firmament. If she slept undisturbed it might conceivably be better.
Miss Burden was justified of her wisdom. The old lady missed her luncheon for the first time in seventy-three years. Ideas come to us fasting; and that is the only explanation there is to offer of how her Idea came to be born.