ARLETTABy Margaret AdeIt was on a Monday morning in August that Miss Backbay climbed the brownstone steps to the rooming-house conducted by Mrs. Edward Southend in Massachusetts Avenue, Boston. Miss Backbay was short, stout, and sixty, and her face was flushed and scowling.“I wish to speak with Mrs. Southend,” she snapped at the woman who opened the door. The woman, a middle-aged, quiet-looking little woman, glanced at the card and said: “I am Mrs. Southend, Miss Backbay; come this way please.”In the parlour Miss Backbay and Mrs. Southend looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments and exchanged a silent challenge; then Miss Backbay leaned forward in her chair and said: “I have come, Mrs. Southend, to talk with you concerning this—this affair between your son and my niece. Miss Arletta Backbay. I have, as you know, brought her up, and I love her as if she were my own daughter. She is the last of the Backbays—the Backbays of Backbay. Our family lived on Beacon Hill when Boston Common was a farming district. The Backbays are direct—directdescendants of William I, King of England—William the Conqueror.”Miss Backbay drew a long, deep breath.Mrs. Southend was silent.“I have devoted years of my life,” Miss Backbay continued, “to the education of my niece. Nothing has been spared to prepare her for the high social position to which, by her ancestry alone, she is entitled. I am going into this bit of family history so you will understand—so you will see this affair from my viewpoint. I have been exceedingly careful in the selection of her teachers, her associates, and her servants. Your son came to us well recommended by his pastor and by his former employer. I have no fault to find with him as—as a chauffeur, but as a suitor for the hand of my niece he—he is impossible. Absolutely! The thing is absurd. I—I have done what I could to break up this affair. I have discharged him. But my niece has defied me. She assures me that she loves him and—and will marry him in spite of everything. She is headstrong, self-willed, and—and completely bewitched. She has lost all pride—pride in her ancient lineage. Now I have come to you to beseech you to use your influence with your son. Induce him to leave the city—he must leave the city, if only for a year. I—I shall pay——”“Pardon me, just a moment, Miss Backbay.” Mrs. Southend left the room, and in a few minutes she returned carrying a large volume, her fingers between the pages.“As I listened to you, Miss Backbay, the thought came to me very forcibly that it is a pity—a great pity—that you could not have selected your ancestors as you do your servants—from the better class of respectable working people. But, of course, you could not. You could, however, try to live them down—forget them—some of them, anyway. Listen to this biographical sketch of your most famous ancestor. It is from page 659 of the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’: ‘William I, King of England—William the Conqueror, born 1027 or 1028. He was the bastard son of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy, by Arletta, the daughter of a tanner.’”Mrs. Southend closed the book with a bang.“Not much to boast about, is it? We all have ancestors, Miss Backbay, but the less said about some of them the better. And now, if my son wants to go out ofhisclass and mix it up with Robert the Devil and Arletta—why, that’s his—his funeral. You’ll excuse me now, Miss Backbay. I have my husband’s dinner to prepare.”
By Margaret Ade
It was on a Monday morning in August that Miss Backbay climbed the brownstone steps to the rooming-house conducted by Mrs. Edward Southend in Massachusetts Avenue, Boston. Miss Backbay was short, stout, and sixty, and her face was flushed and scowling.
“I wish to speak with Mrs. Southend,” she snapped at the woman who opened the door. The woman, a middle-aged, quiet-looking little woman, glanced at the card and said: “I am Mrs. Southend, Miss Backbay; come this way please.”
In the parlour Miss Backbay and Mrs. Southend looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments and exchanged a silent challenge; then Miss Backbay leaned forward in her chair and said: “I have come, Mrs. Southend, to talk with you concerning this—this affair between your son and my niece. Miss Arletta Backbay. I have, as you know, brought her up, and I love her as if she were my own daughter. She is the last of the Backbays—the Backbays of Backbay. Our family lived on Beacon Hill when Boston Common was a farming district. The Backbays are direct—directdescendants of William I, King of England—William the Conqueror.”
Miss Backbay drew a long, deep breath.
Mrs. Southend was silent.
“I have devoted years of my life,” Miss Backbay continued, “to the education of my niece. Nothing has been spared to prepare her for the high social position to which, by her ancestry alone, she is entitled. I am going into this bit of family history so you will understand—so you will see this affair from my viewpoint. I have been exceedingly careful in the selection of her teachers, her associates, and her servants. Your son came to us well recommended by his pastor and by his former employer. I have no fault to find with him as—as a chauffeur, but as a suitor for the hand of my niece he—he is impossible. Absolutely! The thing is absurd. I—I have done what I could to break up this affair. I have discharged him. But my niece has defied me. She assures me that she loves him and—and will marry him in spite of everything. She is headstrong, self-willed, and—and completely bewitched. She has lost all pride—pride in her ancient lineage. Now I have come to you to beseech you to use your influence with your son. Induce him to leave the city—he must leave the city, if only for a year. I—I shall pay——”
“Pardon me, just a moment, Miss Backbay.” Mrs. Southend left the room, and in a few minutes she returned carrying a large volume, her fingers between the pages.
“As I listened to you, Miss Backbay, the thought came to me very forcibly that it is a pity—a great pity—that you could not have selected your ancestors as you do your servants—from the better class of respectable working people. But, of course, you could not. You could, however, try to live them down—forget them—some of them, anyway. Listen to this biographical sketch of your most famous ancestor. It is from page 659 of the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’: ‘William I, King of England—William the Conqueror, born 1027 or 1028. He was the bastard son of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy, by Arletta, the daughter of a tanner.’”
Mrs. Southend closed the book with a bang.
“Not much to boast about, is it? We all have ancestors, Miss Backbay, but the less said about some of them the better. And now, if my son wants to go out ofhisclass and mix it up with Robert the Devil and Arletta—why, that’s his—his funeral. You’ll excuse me now, Miss Backbay. I have my husband’s dinner to prepare.”