CHAPTER IVARRIVAL OF THE FIRST CAUSE OF ALL ROMANCE
WRAPPED in these reflections that we have dared to disclose, Miss Burden was oblivious of the fact that an old woman leaning upon an ebony stick, and accompanied by the roundest of all possible dogs, with the curliest of all possible tails, had entered the room. With a somewhat cruel abruptness she was made aware of that fact.
“Burden, don’t be a fool,” said a voice that was full of hard sarcasm. “Come away from that window immediately.”
In dire confusion Miss Burden endeavored to disentangle herself from the folds of the window curtains.
“That man is as hollow as a drum,” said the old woman, with a comprehensive wave of her walking-stick, “and as vain as a peacock. Where is your self-respect, Burden? A person of your age, position, and appearance—it is indecent.”
Miss Burden was prepared to swoon. Fifty years earlier in the world’s history there is reason to believe she would have done so. But even the emotional apparatus of a Christian gentlewoman is susceptible to streams of tendency. Swoons are seldom indulged in in these days by the best and most sensitivepeople. Therefore Miss Burden was content to blush guiltily, to droop her head, and to hoist a hunted look in her mild gray eyes that was really charming.
“Burden,” said the old woman, sternly, “where is your list for the circulating library? I shall have to supervise your reading. It is exercising a pernicious influence upon your mind and character.”
Miss Burden produced the list from the recesses of the small wallet which she bore suspended from her waist.
“Precisely as I thought,” said the old lady, with a snort. “Novels, novels, novels! And by male writers. For some time past, Burden, it has been plain to me that an influence has been at work which has been undermining your sense of delicacy. ‘The Ordeal of Richard Feverel,’ by George Meredith. Cross it out. Substitute Mrs. Turner’s ‘Cautionary Stories.’ ‘The Dolly Dialogues,’ by Anthony Hope. Cross it out. Substitute ‘The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.’ ‘An Old Maid’s Love Story,’ by Anon. Cross it out. Substitute ‘The Pleasures of Life,’ by Lord Avebury. ‘L’Abbé Constantin,’ by ——! Cross it out. Burden, I forbid you to read French authors until the end of May.”
Having issued this Draconian edict, this tyrant, over whose head three and seventy winters had already passed, left her gentlewoman impaled haplessly upon the two-spiked thorn of shame and confusion. She proceeded to indulge in her daily siesta, which advancing years rendered more than evernecessary if her store of natural energy was to remain equal to the demands which were made upon it.
At four o’clock, as I think I have told you already, it was the old lady’s custom, if the weather was favorable, to take the air in her yellow chariot. Upon this momentous day, however, the elements were adverse; and at twenty-seven minutes past four, by the clock in the blue drawing-room, she was to be found in that spacious, somber, yet magnificent apartment. She was wearing her second-best turban, a black silk dress, and a collar of priceless old lace, secured by a brooch which was said to have been given to an ancestress by good Queen Elizabeth, who, for reasons of state, afterwards cut off the head of the recipient. Enthroned before a silver teapot and twelve Crown Derby teacups, with a monogram upon the bottom, prepared to offer some very weak tea and some stale bread and butter to a number of persons who were not in the least likely to appear to claim it, she presented as formidable a figure as any to be found in London.
I lay stress upon the time—twenty-seven minutes past four—for that is the hour at which this history really begins. Then it was that a four-wheeled vehicle of a rapidly disappearing type drew up before the imposing front door of the house in Hill Street. Upon the roof of the “growler” was a dilapidated wooden box, insecurely tied with a cord which had been pieced in three places. And seated modestly enough in its interior was—well, the First Cause of All Romance.
I cannot say more than that. There she was. The first thing appertaining to her that was projected from the dim recesses of the “growler” was her straw hat. Now, as I think I have already observed, there is a great deal in a hat. They are full of character—straw hats especially. And as it is the duty of a historian to extenuate nothing, it has to be said that this was a preposterous hat altogether. In the first place, its dimensions were certainly remarkable; it flopped absurdly; there was a sag of the brims which was irresistibly impossible; while as for the general condition and contour of the hat, the less said upon that subject the better.
In general shape, design, and texture, this primitive article was more like an inverted vegetable basket than anything else. Unmistakably rustic, even in its prime, it was now old, discolored, and misshapen; and the piece of black ribbon that had adorned it in its youth was really not fit for the West End of London. Purchased of the general outfitter of Slocum Magna for the sum of one and elevenpence halfpenny in the spring of 1900, I am not concerned to deny that it was as rudimentary a form of headgear as was ever devised by the very remote district to which it owed its being. It had absolutely no business at all in that chaste thoroughfare which for many years past has been dedicated to the usage of fashion.
I am taking up a lot of time over the hat, although I am aware that my readers are saying, “Bother the hat! Tell us what is underneath it.” Precisely.All in good time. But it is my duty to set down things in the exact order they emerged from the dim recesses of the “growler.” The inverted vegetable basket was the first to emerge undoubtedly. And then came the tip of a chin. It was inclined at a furtive angle of feminine curiosity. Although only the extreme tip of it was visible, the preposterous headgear which overshadowed it really ought not to be mentioned on the same page with it. For there can be no question that the chin was the work of a very great Artist indeed.
The cabman came down from his perch. He was a veteran, with an extremely red visage, and a general look of knowledge which he had a perfect right to assume.
“You are ’ere, miss,” said he, as he opened the door of the “growler” with a spacious air which almost suggested that he was the ground landlord of the whole of the West End of London. “You would like the portmanter down, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, please,” drawled a friendly voice from within.
While the cabman, with great ceremony and an immense display of exertion, was lifting the corded box from the roof, the owner of the inverted vegetable basket emerged from the “growler,” marched up the steps of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne’s town residence, and rang a loud peal upon the front-door bell.
The front door was opened immediately by no lessa person than John, who was rather inclined to expect a duchess. John devoted the greater, the more serious portion of his life to the expectation of duchesses. And with his imperturbable mien, his somewhat supercilious eyes, and his superb suit of livery, which did infinite credit to the most exclusive firm in Savile Row, no man on this planet, whatever point they have reached in Mars, was better fitted to receive one.
John was taken aback. By an inexcusable oversight on the part of the powers that obtained in Hill Street, the personal retainers of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne had not been informed that her ladyship expected her niece. No carriage had been sent to meet her. The fact was that the old lady expected her on the following day. Whether the Reverend Aloysius Perry had expressed himself obscurely, or whether Lady Crewkerne and her gentlewoman had read his letter carelessly, is a problem not easy to solve. But there the matter stood. The fair visitor from Slocum Magna in the middle of Dartmoor, North Devon, was not in the least expected, and John was taken aback.
It did not take him long to recover, however, for his natural self-possession was considerable, and he was a man of the world. Almost immediately he began to subject the invader to a very severe scrutiny. He began with the crown of her hat. To say the least, the beginning was very unfortunate. From the hat his hostile gaze passed to a very rustic-looking cloak which had a hood to it. If there was one thingthat John despised more than another, it was a cloak with a hood.
Then the frock underneath! It was a sort of lilac print arrangement, faded in places, and completely outgrown by its wearer, who—whisper it not in Bond Street!—stood exactly six feet in her stockings. As the intelligent reader will doubtless surmise, the skirt of this nondescript garment displayed a great deal more ankle than is considered correct in the metropolis. And such ankles! Yet the boots which adorned them may have made them appear worse than they really were. The village cobbler at Slocum Magna has always been allowed to be a conscientious and painstaking craftsman, but it is very doubtful whether he will ever be awarded a diploma for his skill in the higher graces of his calling. The ankles of the fair visitor were encased in the stoutest, most misshapen pair of laced-up boots John had ever seen in his life.
Further, John’s eye fell upon a pair of gloves which in his opinion were all that a pair of gloves should not be. They were made of black cotton and were very freely darned; and, as if this were not enough, the right glove was clasped round the handle of a wicker basket of a dreadfully rural, not to say common, character. The lid, which was secured by a piece of string, had a great air of uncertainty about it. At any moment it threatened to give way to the weight it had to bear. And as if all these unlucky details did not themselves suffice, there was a “growler” immediately opposite the sacred precincts; whileat that very moment a red-faced and festive-looking cabman was toiling up the steps with a dilapidated wooden box, tied by a cord which had been pieced in three places.
In the circumstances there was only one thing for John to do. This John did with great energy and conviction. He sniffed.
At almost the same moment a perfectly ludicrous drawl assailed his ears.
“Does Aunt Caroline live here, please?” said the occupant of the doorstep.
It is not too much to say that John was nonplused by the question.
“This is the residence of the Countess of Crewkerne,” said he with hauteur.
Unhappily, the effect of this announcement was marred by the officious behavior of the cabman. That worthy was oppressed by no sense of embarrassment. With a wheeze and a grunt which were wholly unnecessary, because the box contained so little, he made his way past its owner with ostentatious heaviness, and was about to bring it into forcible contact with John’s best suit of livery, when the custodian of the portals realized that it was a time for action.
“Don’t bring it in,” said he, sternly. “Stay where you are. I will make inquiries.”
With a glance, not to the cabman only, but to the wearer of the inverted vegetable basket also, which intimated that they crossed that threshold upon peril of their lives, John turned upon his heel. He walked across the entrance-hall to confer with his chief, whoof course was no less a personage than Mr. Marchbanks himself.
The conference was grave, but it was brief. Mr. Marchbanks came forward in his own inimitable manner, only to find that the fair intruder, preposterous hat, hooded cloak, cobbled boots, darned gloves and all, had had the temerity to enter.
I do not say positively that Mr. Marchbanks frowned upon her; but certainly he looked very majestic; and it is my deliberate judgment that had you searched the length and breadth of Mayfair it would have been impossible to find a more imposing man than he. His nose was like the Duke of Wellington’s, and it was known that his demeanor was modeled upon that of that renowned hero and patriot. In his cutaway morning-coat and spotless shirt-front, and his great Gladstone collar, purchased at the same shop as was affected by that distinguished statesman, with his black-bow tie and his patrician features, he might just as well have been prime minister of these realms as merely the butler to old Lady Crewkerne.
I lay particular stress upon these facts, and I want all my feminine readers to make an especial effort to comprehend them, because the behavior of the Heroine was such as has never previously been offered to the public in a work of this character.
She attempted to shake hands with the butler.
In a measure John was to blame. He approached Mr. Marchbanks so reverently, he addressed him with such an air of deference, that the artless intrudermight almost be pardoned for jumping to the conclusion that Mr. Marchbanks was a marquis uncle whom she had never heard of before. At any rate, no sooner had the finely chiseled profile of Mr. Marchbanks confronted her than the creature of the straw hat tucked the wicker basket under her left arm, and thrust out her right hand with a spasmodic suddenness which dumfounded Mr. Marchbanks completely.
“Oh, how do you do?” she said. “I hope you are quite well.”
Mr. Marchbanks did exactly what you would expect him to do. He drew himself up to his full height. Yet there was no confusion in his gesture, although it was a great crisis in his life. After an instant of silence in which he sought very successfully to recover the grand manner, he held a short private colloquy with his subaltern. Neither of these gentlemen had been informed that her ladyship expected her niece, but Mrs. Plunket the housekeeper had informed them that a new under-housemaid was expected at six o’clock.
That is how the instinct of Mr. Marchbanks came to betray him.