CHAPTER VTHE INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS BETRAYS HIM
IT is impossible to forgive Mr. Marchbanks. He of all men ought to have known that the fair intruder was what is technically known as “a lady.” In these democratic times it is true this mysterious entity is of many kinds, and it was a point of honor with Mr. Marchbanks to keep as far behind them as he decently could. But it is impossible to forgive him for jumping to his absurd conclusion. One can understand a comparative amateur such as John, who judged things objectively, making such an inexcusable blunder; but that such a past master in the fine shades of social status should have confirmed him in it, is one of those things that frankly defeats us.
In the stateliest fashion, with his silvered head held very erectly, Mr. Marchbanks made his way to the housekeeper’s room.
Mrs. Plunket, indisputable sovereign of the nether regions, was taking tea. Mr. Marchbanks greeted her with an air of private wrong.
“A young person, ma’am, is arrived,” said he.
“The new under-housemaid is not due until six o’clock,” said Mrs. Plunket. “She has no right to come before her time.”
“I am almost afraid, ma’am,” said Mr. Marchbanks, with diplomatic reserve, “that this is her first place.”
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Plunket. “She has been ten months in the service of the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton.”
“Then, I fear,” said Mr. Marchbanks, gravely, “that she has not profited by her experience.”
“Indeed, Mr. Marchbanks!” said Mrs. Plunket.
“She rang the front-door bell,” said Mr. Marchbanks.
“That is unpardonable,” said Mrs. Plunket. “Yet the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton is generally considered very good service.”
“Things are very unsettled, ma’am, in these days,” said Mr. Marchbanks, gloomily. “It seems sometimes that even good service is a thing of the past. If we must have Radical Governments and we must have higher education of the masses, there is no saying where we shall get to. She—ah, she attempted to shake hands with me!”
Mr. Marchbanks’ solemn, deep-toned note of pathos impinged upon the domain of poetry.
Mrs. Plunket shuddered.
“Mr. Marchbanks,” said she, “if you desire it she shall be dismissed.”
At heart, however, Mr. Marchbanks was a man of liberal views, as became one who had been nurtured in Whig traditions.
“She is young, ma’am,” said he, with a dignified mildness which in the circumstances Mrs. Plunketadmired extremely. “A word in season from the right quarter might bear fruit.”
“She shall have it,” said Mrs. Plunket, with a truculent shake of the teapot.
“Her style of dress also leaves much to be desired,” said Mr. Marchbanks. “It is distinctlysuburbanto my mind. But no doubt, ma’am, you will prefer to judge for yourself.”
“I will see her,” said Mrs. Plunket. “But I feel sure I shall have to dismiss her at once. Yet to be an under-housemaid short does make life so difficult.”
“Perhaps, ma’am, she may be molded,” said Mr. Marchbanks with the optimism of the true Whig.
Mr. Marchbanks withdrew, climbed the stairs at a dignified leisure, and reached the marble floor of the spacious entrance-hall. He was greeted immediately by a gesture of distress from John. It seemed that the chaste air of Hill Street was being defiled by an altercation between a person in a battered straw hat and a rustical frock and an elderly cabman who smelt strongly of gin.
The fare had set down her wicker basket, and with some little difficulty had contrived to draw half a crown from the inside of her glove.
The cabman had received this coin dubiously. After gazing at it thoughtfully as it lay in his grimy palm, said he—
“What about the box, miss? And a wet arternoon.”
“Papa said the fare would be half a crown fromWaterloo Station,” said the wearer of the preposterous straw hat.
“I don’t know about your pa, miss,” said the cabman, “but I do know that the box is outside luggage. And I lifted it down meself, and I carried it in with my own ’ands, and it’s raining like old boots.”
“Papa said——” the Straw-hatted One was explaining slowly and with patience, when Mr. Marchbanks, in response to John’s appeal, interrupted her with quiet authority.
Very deftly Mr. Marchbanks added sixpence to the cabman’s half-crown.
“Go away as soon as possible,” said Mr. Marchbanks. “We are likely to have callers at any moment.”
The cabman touched his hat in recognition of the fact that he had to do with a gentleman, and proceeded to carry out these instructions.
“Do you mind coming this way, miss—ah,” said Mr. Marchbanks a little haughtily to the lady of the hat.
“Miss Perry,” said she, with a drawl that was almost ludicrous.
In extenuation of the conduct of Mr. Marchbanks it must be said that neither his sense of sight nor of hearing were quite so good as they had been. Otherwise that ludicrous drawl must have caused him considerable uneasiness.
Miss Perry tucked the wicker basket under her arm, and followed Mr. Marchbanks with perfect friendliness and simplicity. Mr. Marchbanks openedthe door of the housekeeper’s room, and in his own inimitable manner, announced—
“Miss Perry.”
A decidedly stern, angular-looking lady disengaged her chin from a teacup.
“The housekeeper, Mrs. Plunket,” Mr. Marchbanks deigned to explain to the owner of the straw hat.
Mr. Marchbanks mentioned the name of Mrs. Plunket, the housekeeper, in a manner to suggest that it expected reverence from Miss Perry. Again, however, he was doomed to disappointment. The stately and distant inclination of Mrs. Plunket’s head merely provoked a frank and friendly impulse in Miss Perry.
“Oh, how do you do?” said she. “I hope you are quite well.”
To the dismay of Mr. Marchbanks and to the dignified stupefaction of Mrs. Plunket, the owner of the straw hat made a most determined effort to shake hands with that lady.
Mrs. Plunket gave her a finger. Being as short-sighted as Mr. Marchbanks himself, she hastily adjusted her spectacles to take a more adequate survey of this extremely temerarious person.
Now, the first thing that impressed Mrs. Plunket was not the straw hat, not the gloves, not the frock, not the wicker basket, and not even the cloak with the hood. It was the truly Amazonian proportions of Miss Perry that first impressed her.
She was exactly six feet high in her stockings, no more and no less. And everything about her, fromthe too-visible ankles upwards, were in the same proportion. Had Mrs. Plunket had an eye for such details, and unfortunately she had not, she would have observed in addition to the disconcerting physique and the shabby and ill-fitting clothes, a pair of the bluest eyes and a mane of the yellowest hair that ever came out of Devon. It is true that the eyes were somewhat dim and heavy, because they had shed a vast quantity of tears during the past forty-eight hours. All the same their quality was wonderful. Then also there was an equally wonderful West Country complexion, washed by the dew, fed by the sunshine, and refined by the winds of the sea and the moorland into a perfect glamor of pink and white. Yet all these enchanting details had nothing to say to Mrs. Plunket. For the first time in her long and successful career she had engaged a new under-housemaid merely upon the strength of “high-class references” only, with the fatal neglect of the precaution of “a personal interview.” In consequence the new under-housemaid proved to be six feet high, whosenaïvetéof dress and manners was something wholly beyond Mrs. Plunket’s experience.
“Pray sit down,” said Mrs. Plunket, with an arctic air which would not have disgraced the presiding genius of the blue drawing-room.
Miss Perry sat down with spacious ease. She placed the wicker basket on her knees and rested her elbows upon it.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Plunket, stiffly.
“Oh yes, please,” said Miss Perry, who seemed sincerely gratified by the suggestion.
Mr. Marchbanks retired discreetly, while Mrs. Plunket prepared a cup of tea for Miss Perry. As she handed it to her she gazed very sternly through her spectacles at the new under-housemaid who sat nursing her wicker basket with remarkable unconcern.
“Thank you so much,” said Miss Perry, accepting the cup of tea with really charming friendliness.
“I had no idea that you were so large,” said Mrs. Plunket, with an aggrieved air. “I think the fact ought to have been mentioned.”
Miss Perry drew off her darned cotton gloves with great simplicity.
“Iamrather big,” said she, “but if the beds are too small I can curl myself up.”
“I was not thinking of the beds,” said Mrs. Plunket, severely. “There are all sizes here. I am thinking of her ladyship. She is very strict and somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas. I am afraid she may object to your appearance.”
“Do you think so?” said Miss Perry, putting three lumps of sugar in her tea with the greatest amiability.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Plunket, sternly, “I do. It is most unusual. Had you been an under-footman of course it would not have mattered.”
“Don’t you think so?” said Miss Perry, who seemed to be more interested in her cup of tea than in the subject of the under-footman.
Now, Miss Perry had not a great brain. Indeed,in the opinion of those best qualified to speak upon the subject, she had not a brain at all. She was merely an amiable, frank, friendly person, constitutionally slow-witted and phlegmatic. The manner of her reception in the household of her august relation, whom she had never seen, and of whom the only thing she knew positively was that, in conjunction with the rest of that great family, she had treated her papa and her dead mamma abominably, ought to have given her furiously to think. No one, however, could have been less addicted to that process than Miss Perry.
There certainly came into her mind in a confused sort of manner a remarkable speech that had been made by her dearest papa when he opened the superb coroneted envelope and read Aunt Caroline’s letter. “I dare say her ladyship has a vacancy for an under-housemaid!” he had said, with his quaint and whimsical laugh, which had yet been so severely tried by the things of this world as to be not quite so mirthful as it might have been.
By the time Miss Perry had come to remember this circumstance a deep wave of color had crept over her wonderful countenance. But hers was the temperament of a philosopher. Instead of suffering an agony of horrified embarrassment, as some young ladies might have done, she merely regarded her tea and hoped to receive an invitation to partake of bread and butter.
“You have been in service before, have you not?” said Mrs. Plunket.
“Oh, no,” drawled Miss Perry, finishing hercup of tea and looking as though she would like another.
“I am afraid this is serious,” said Mrs. Plunket, with chilling dignity. “I have been misinformed.”
A pause ensued, in which Miss Perry hoped in vain for a little more refreshment.
“It is an awfully nice day, isn’t it?” said Miss Perry, conversationally.
Mrs. Plunket was too much preoccupied with the external aspect of the latest thing in housemaids to pay the least attention to the weather.
“A mistake appears to have been made,” said that lady, acidly. “I am informed that your name is Perry.”
Miss Perry confirmed that information with modest yet charming friendliness.
“What is your first name?” said Mrs. Plunket.
Miss Perry slowly opened her blue eyes to a width that was really extraordinary, and gave a wise little shake to her mane, which was the color of daffodils.
“My name is Araminta,” said she, with a drawl that was perfectly ludicrous, “but they call me Goose because I am rather a Sil-lay.”
Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright. Her countenance was the picture of horror. The latest thing in housemaids was too much for her. She flung up her gaunt arms with a tragic gesture.
“Emma Maddison is the name of the person I am expecting,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, who rolled her R’s in an inimitable fashion.
“A serious mistake has been made by somebody,” said Mrs. Plunket. “I am expecting a person of the name of Emma Maddison, who has been under-housemaid for ten months in the service of the Duchess Dowager of Blankhampton.”
“R-r-really,” said Miss Perry, whose azure orbs were fixed upon the teapot.
Mrs. Plunket renewed her scrutiny of this extraordinary housemaid. The battered straw hat or inverted vegetable basket, which sagged at the brim in an almost immoral manner, the hooded cloak, the wicker basket with string attachment, and the unprecedented display of ankle, came again within her purview.
“This will never do,” she remarked in much the same fashion that the Right Honorable Lord Jeffrey reviewed Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Plunket, austerely. “Where have you come from?”
“My home is at Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, dissembling her pride in that fact in an uncommonly well-bred manner.
“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?”
“Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, who was already marveling in her slow-witted way at the consummate ignorance of London people, “is the next parish to Widdiford.”
“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” demanded Mrs. Plunket.
Miss Perry’s wonderful blue eyes opened to their limit. Widdiford was the center of civilization. Itwas the fixed standard by which the world itself was measured. Miss Perry slowly marshaled her battalions for a great intellectual display.
“I started from Widdiford,” said she, “at a quarter past nine, and I got to London at four. That makes nearly seven hours by railway, and you have to change twice.”
During the pause which followed this announcement Mrs. Plunket grew very thoughtful indeed. Finally a clear conviction seemed to enfold her.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but I fear that an under-housemaid who is six feet high is out of the question. Her ladyship has a rooted objection to any kind of extravagance.”
Now, as I have said, Miss Perry was not in the least clever. The sum of her knowledge of the world had been acquired at the uncommonly rustic parsonage at Slocum Magna. She realized in her lethargic fashion that her Aunt Caroline was a very proud and unfeeling old woman, who had an odious way of treating her poor relations. Therefore, coming vaguely to discern that the situation in which she found herself must be very remarkable, a look of dismay begin to settle upon her pink-and-white countenance. Mrs. Plunket, observing it, was not disposed to be unkind.
“You had better stay here to-night,” said she; “and in the morning your fare will be paid back to Slocum Magna.”
At the mention of the blessed name of Slocum Magna the look of dismay lifted from the face ofMiss Perry. But it was for a moment only. She remembered with a pang of sore distress that she had come all the way to London on a great mission. The ebbing fortunes of the Parsonage were vested in her. When her dearest papa, whose trousers seemed to get shorter and shabbier every year, had watched her button a whole sovereign and two half-crowns and a third-class railway ticket into her glove on the down platform at Widdiford Junction, and he had kissed her on both cheeks, he said, “If it were not for Dickie and Charley and Polly and Milly and Betty, we’d take precious good care that your Aunt Caroline did not rob us of the pick of the basket.” Therefore, very slowly yet very clearly, her duty seemed to shape itself in her mind.
“Oh, if you please,” said she, “I don’t think I want to go back to Slocum Magna. Perhaps I might speak to Aunt Caroline.”
“Aunt Caroline?” said Mrs. Plunket, with a puzzled air.
She then remembered that although Mrs. Bateman, the cook, was called Hannah, as cooks always are, her real name was Caroline.
“I was not aware,” said Mrs. Plunket, “that you were a niece of Mrs. Bateman’s.”
Miss Perry was not aware of it either. A ray of intelligence percolated to that unsusceptible mind. All was explained. She had come to the wrong house.
“Is this Mrs. Bateman’s?” said she.
“Certainly it is not Mrs. Bateman’s,” said Mrs.Plunket, sternly, “but she lives here, of course. Perhaps you would like to see her.”
So much was Miss Perry mystified by this new turn of events that she was unable to say whether she would like to see Mrs. Bateman or not. In Mrs. Plunket’s opinion silence gave consent. She rang the bell and desired the immediate attendance of that lady.
A portly, good-humored dame of florid complexion and communicative manners made her appearance.
“Mrs. Bateman,” said Mrs. Plunket, briefly, “I believe this is your niece.”
Having overcome her first emotion of legitimate surprise, Mrs. Bateman welcomed Miss Perry with effusion.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “it is that girl of Maria’s! She is the image of Maria. Very pleased to see you, my love. How’s your father?”
The next thing of which Miss Perry was conscious was that a pair of fat arms were hugging her and that she was being kissed in a very vigorous manner.
“How like your mother to be sure,” said Mrs. Bateman, “and what a big girl you’ve grown!”
“Too big, in my opinion, for good service,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“You can’t have too much of a good thing, can you, my love?” said Mrs. Bateman.
Miss Perry was bewildered. Mrs. Bateman was not in the least like the Aunt Caroline she had expected to see.
“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” she said, with her eyes at their widest.
“You must be Sally,” said Mrs. Bateman, “little Sally Dickinson who used to be so fond of sugar.”
“It appears to have been a stimulating diet,” said Mrs. Plunket.
“Little Sally Dickinson who didn’t like to go to bed early,” said Mrs. Bateman. “Law, how you’ve grown, my dear!”
“My name is Araminta Perry,” said that wonderful person with slow-drawn solemnity.
“Sally Dickinson, my love,” said Mrs. Bateman. “I should know you anywhere.”
It was now the turn of Mrs. Plunket to grow bewildered.
“There is some mystery here,” said she. “If she is Araminta Perry she cannot be Sally Dickinson, and if she is Sally Dickinson she cannot be Araminta Perry.”
All concerned seemed to feel that this was pregnant reasoning.
“That is right, Mrs. Plunket,” said Mrs. Bateman, “that is common sense and human nature.”
“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” said Miss Perry, with her blue eyes growing rounder and rounder.
“Of course I am, my love,” said Mrs. Bateman, affectionately; “and very proud to be the aunt of such a bouncing girl as you.”
It was left to the practical intelligence of Mrs. Plunket to find the solution to the puzzle.
“I presume,” said she to Miss Perry with great severity, “that Batemanisthe name of your Aunt Caroline.”
“Oh, no,” said that Featherbrain.
“No!” gasped Mrs. Bateman.
“No!” said Mrs. Plunket, with great sternness. “Then what, pray, is the name of your Aunt Caroline?”
The fair Araminta knitted her brows. Was there ever anything so unlucky? The name of her august relation had passed clean out of her head.
“I don’t remember,” drawled Miss Featherbrain, in the throes of a considerable mental struggle.
“You don’t remember!” said Mrs. Plunket. “Upon my word!”
Mrs. Plunket and Mrs. Bateman subjected Miss Perry to a prolonged scrutiny.
“There,” said Mrs. Bateman, triumphantly, “it is just as I said. She is Sally Dickinson.”
“Try to remember the first letter of your aunt’s name,” said Mrs. Plunket, in a tone which frightened Mrs. Bateman, but which seemed to make no particular impact upon Miss Perry.
That Featherbrain mustered all her battalions to wage herculean warfare. She knitted her brows and clasped her wicker basket still more firmly. In the process of time, as was only to be expected after such a stupendous display of mental energy, an inspiration came to her.
“She’s the Countess of Something!”
Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright, as if moved by an invisible spring.
“The Countess of Something!” said she.
Upon one side of her face was incredulity, upon the other was dismay. She then looked at Mrs. Bateman blankly.
“The Countess of Crewkerne,” said Miss Featherbrain, with an air of triumph.
Mrs. Bateman gave a little howl.
“Oh lord!” she cried, “haven’t I just put my foot in it? It means a month’s notice.”
Mrs. Bateman simply turned and bolted. Mrs. Plunket, as became her exalted position, was of stouter fiber.
“Miss Perry,” said she, with a dignity that was really admirable, “I apologize for a most unfortunate mistake. I regret it exceedingly. I hope you will be so kind as not to mention the matter to her ladyship.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Perry, with charming amiability.
Mr. Marchbanks was promptly summoned.
“A most unfortunate mistake has been made, Mr. Marchbanks,” said Mrs. Plunket to that ambassador. “Miss Perry is her ladyship’s niece.”
To say that a feather would have knocked Mr. Marchbanks over is to state the case lightly. Yet even in the depths of his consternation he directed a glance of solemn unbelief at the preposterous hat.
“Announce Miss Perry’s arrival to her ladyship,”said Mrs. Plunket, “but do not mention anything else.”
Mr. Marchbanks was besieged with doubt as he made his way to the blue drawing-room. In spite of Mrs. Plunket’s sensational statement, incredulity still reigned in his mind. It was possible that a hideous error had been committed; and yet in the ripeness of his judgment he clearly foresaw the possibility of committing another. He had Mrs. Plunket’s authority that the nondescript creature who had come with a corded box in a four-wheel cab, who wore an unseemly hat, unmentionable gloves and boots, and who had attempted to shake hands with him, was her ladyship’s niece; but all the same he had his own opinion.
Mr. Marchbanks entered the blue drawing-room on the horns of a dilemma. It was difficult to know what line to take.
He was glad to observe that her ladyship was alone with her gentlewoman. They were engaged in a game of piquet; and the gentlewoman was just about to be rubiconed, an indignity she suffered on an average three times a day.
Mr. Marchbanks approached his mistress, and having waited while she claimed two for the last trick, said—
“A young person of the name of Perry is arrived, my lady.”
Her ladyship looked at Mr. Marchbanks bleakly.
“What is that to do with me?” she said.
It would seem that for the moment the name of Perry had passed as completely out of her head asthough it had never been in it; and the question she had put to Mr. Marchbanks was precisely the one that that diplomatist desired her to answer herself.
“She appears to have business with your ladyship,” said he.
“Very odd,” said his venerable mistress. “A young person of the name of Perry.”
And then quite suddenly a light dawned upon her.
“Of course,” she said to her gentlewoman; “I had forgotten. That girl of Polly’s.”
Like a hawk she swooped down upon the luckless Mr. Marchbanks.
“Tell me, Marchbanks,” she said, “what you mean precisely by a young person of the name of Perry. Do you wish to infer that she is not a lady?”
It was as tight a corner as Mr. Marchbanks had ever been in. Yet he yielded to none in professional wisdom.
“I don’t wish to infer, your ladyship, that she might not be a lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks, cautiously.
“It appears to me, Marchbanks,” said his venerable mistress, “that you are getting too old for your place. I will see my niece, Miss Perry.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks, with a bead of perspiration upon his forehead.