Larger Image"HOLMES TOSSED THE END OF HIS CIGARETTE INTO THE GRATE."
"HOLMES TOSSED THE END OF HIS CIGARETTE INTO THE GRATE."
"HOLMES TOSSED THE END OF HIS CIGARETTE INTO THE GRATE."
Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. "I have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and in some respects a unique case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them; so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that in your medical capacity you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered we shall be happy to escort her to her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help to you in your trial it shall be at your disposal."
In the whirl of our incessant activity it has often been difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscripts dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton and Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the former getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the Court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.
Ordinarilythe High Street fairly stewed with juvenile humanity. But to-night, for a wonder, the High Street, Plimsoll Lane, Byles's Rents, and all the adjacent squalid courts and avenues were deserted. Something more than a mild fog was needed to effect such a transformation out of school hours. Neither was there evidence, ocular or auricular, of any hand-organ, or a trained bear, or a free fight enlivening the neighbourhood. How was it possible to account for the peaceful condition of the streets? Surely the ordinary denizens of the gutter couldn't be at school? Well, not exactly at school, but at the school-house. A ragged little urchin of seven volunteered to be our pilot.
"'Appy evenin'? Yessir, I'm goin' there myself. I'll show you."
"What's your name, my boy?"
"Saunders, sir; but they allers calls me 'Magsie,' all along o' my twin-sister wot uz named Marguerite."
"And why isn't your little sister with you to-night?"
"'Cos she got scarlet fever."
"Scarlet fever? Good gracious, boy!"
"An' she died—more'n a year ago."
"Oh, I see."
"The lidy wot we calls the Countess 's goin' to be at the 'Appy Evenin' to-night. Look! That's 'er—see—with the 'at an' the little black fevvers."
We proved to be just in time. Several ladies and gentlemen had doffed their furs and overcoats, and stood smiling at one end of a large school-room, whilst in the middle some two or three hundred meanly-clad, but clean and happy-looking, children of all ages under twelve or thirteen trooped along merrily to the notes of a piano in the corner.
"This is our overture," explained the gentle-eyed lady with the "fevvers." "We always begin this way and they seem to enjoy it." She raised her jewelled finger and the music stopped. So did the promenaders. There was a silence, punctuated by giggles, as the Countess observed, "And now for our games this evening. What girls for the quiet room?"
Larger ImageA PRELIMINARY SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A PRELIMINARY SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A PRELIMINARY SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.
From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
Twenty hands went up instantly.
"What boys?"
Half-a-dozen—not more—two of whom were cripples.
"And the noisy room? And the fairy-tale room? And the toy room? And the painting room? And the dolls' room?"
Thus were these denizens of the gutter in one of the most notorious slums of London granted their hearts' wishes for this evening. As they made a choice, so they were marched off under the wing of a lady or gentleman to a separate room, and the music struck up again for a Sir Roger de Coverley.
THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY—PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL.From a Photo. by Gillman, Oxford.
THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY—PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL.From a Photo. by Gillman, Oxford.
THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY—PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL.
From a Photo. by Gillman, Oxford.
"There is no use," explains one of the ladies, "forcing a child to romp if it doesn't want to romp. Perhaps its tastes are in quite another direction—indeed, we know that there are thousands of wretched little mites in London who pine for quiet and seclusion. Then there are kiddies who are passionately fond of fairy stories. They could listen to them by the hour—perhaps by the day—yet possibly outside of a Happy Evening they never hear one that really interests them. Our girls' fairy-teller here, I may tell you, has a wonderful gift. She really mesmerizes the children. Would you like to be mesmerized, too?"
Larger ImageA FAIRY TALE.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
A FAIRY TALE.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
A FAIRY TALE.
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"With all the pleasure in life," we reply, and the handle of the fairy-tale room is slowly turned. We may mention it for a fact, and as a tribute to the lady's powers, that the noise of our entrance is absolutely without effect on this little audience. Oh, what would not a pulpit orator, a politician, a lecturer—yes, even a great actor—give to hold his auditors' minds thus in the hollow of his hand? They see nothing, hear nothing but the speaker.
"'So, so,' cried the Genie, in an angry voice; 'if that is the case then you must quickly step upon this strip of carpet.' And he laid a piece of red and yellow carpet on the ground.
"'What for?' asked the young Prince. You see, he didn't know about the magic in the carpet—nobody had ever told him.
Larger Image"'IT 'IM ON THE NOB, MAGSIE."From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"'IT 'IM ON THE NOB, MAGSIE."From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"'IT 'IM ON THE NOB, MAGSIE."
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"'What for?' replied the Genie. 'Why, because——' and he told him then and there. And he put on his hat and stepped upon the carpet, and like a flash——"
We stole out at this juncture, leaving the children open-mouthed and open-eyed, oblivious of our presence and retreat, and ascending a flight of steps found ourselves ushered into a totally different scene. The uproar was terrific, which was not surprising considering that a hundred and fifty boys were yelling at the top of their lungs.
"Punch 'im, 'Magsie'; 'it 'im on the nob!"
And "Magsie," suiting the action to the word, actually landed his opponent one on the "nob." It was a boxing match—presided over by a peer's son. Physically the combatants were most unequally matched, one lad being nearly thirteen and the other—my original cicerone of the evening—only seven. But they equalize these matters at the Happy Evenings, and "Pokey" was on his knees, while Billy was the possessor of much pugilistic science. With each fairly-planted blow the yelling was terrific, but nobody objected; they encouraged it, if anything. What's the good of being happy if you can't yell? And so the hundred and fifty yelled. They have a proper contempt for girls. Girls only giggle and scream.
Larger ImageTHE GREAT CONTEST: THORPE'S MEWSv.BYLES'S RENTS.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE GREAT CONTEST: THORPE'S MEWSv.BYLES'S RENTS.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE GREAT CONTEST: THORPE'S MEWSv.BYLES'S RENTS.
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
But the chief event of the evening among the juvenile male section was the tug-of-war—the denizens of Thorpe's MewsversusByles's Rents, a truly Homeric contest, as it would have appeared to Liliput. Powerfully-built tatterdemalions boasting fully three feet of stature were matched against a lesser number of giants of four feet six. The rope swayed now this side—nowthat—of the chalked line. Was ever so much sinew built up of stale bread-crusts and fried fish before? But the Byles's Rents men—pale, perspiring, and panting—ultimately pulled their rivals across the line and on to their knees pell-mell, and the ceiling threatened to splinter and send down pounds of plaster upon the heads of the spectators at shouts over this triumph. It was thrice repeated, and then, lo! a few steps and the scene had changed and we were in the dolls' room.
Larger Image"PLEASE, LADY, MAY I 'AVE THE FAIRY DOLL NEXT TIME?"From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"PLEASE, LADY, MAY I 'AVE THE FAIRY DOLL NEXT TIME?"From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"PLEASE, LADY, MAY I 'AVE THE FAIRY DOLL NEXT TIME?"
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
Every year in November there is a brave show of dolls dressed for the Happy Evenings children at Bath House, Piccadilly, and some of these dolls were here now, tended, oh, so gently, almost worshipped, as they are taken out of their cupboard resting-places and dressed and undressed.
"Please, lady, may I 'ave the fairy doll next time?" pleaded a golden-haired little child, with an earnest, wistful look.
Larger ImageA PEEP INTO THE NOISY ROOM.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
A PEEP INTO THE NOISY ROOM.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
A PEEP INTO THE NOISY ROOM.
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
"Yes, if your hands are the cleanest.The little girl with the very cleanest hands shall dress the fairy doll."
There is a buzz of pleased anticipation, and then a small voice is heard:—
"Oh, Kitie Jimes, will your mother lend my mother your kike o' smellin' soap next Tuesday evenin', an' you can 'ave our fryin'-pan?"
Larger ImageTHE SACK RACE.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE SACK RACE.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE SACK RACE.
From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
In the girls' noisy room they were playing "London Bridge" and "Kiss-in-the-Ring," but it was tame work in comparison with the uproarious diversions of the stern sex below. When the boys' boxing contest was over they had a sack race, but a small group of youngsters were observed making for the door.
"W'ere you goin', 'Arry?" asked a friend.
"Me? Oh. I'm goin' with Johnson."
"W'ere's Johnson goin'?"
"Darnstairs. Johnson's father's a 'ouse-painter, and 'e knows something, Johnson does. We promised to go an' see Millie White paint in the paintin' room. You orter see 'er dror a 'orse. I promised to 'old her cup an' Johnson's 'oldin' her paints. P'r'aps, if you come, she'll let you 'ave a brush to 'old."
Larger ImageA GROUP OF ADMIRERS.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A GROUP OF ADMIRERS.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A GROUP OF ADMIRERS.
From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
This is gallantry and this is appreciation of art. Five minutes later, after seeing the champion of Byles's Rents again victorious in the sack race, we descend to the painting room to find Miss Millie White (ætat eight), the celebrated animal painter, daughter of Larry White; the well-known Shoreditch navvy, surrounded by her admirers. In another part of the same room we come upon quite an animated group of talented colourists. Some of thedesigns done by these children of the slums are most creditable, and at least their faces are radiant with happiness, which is the chief thing after all. The articles produced in the toy-making room are vastly ingenious. Out of the most unpromising materials—such as reels of cotton and match-boxes, fortified by cardboard and coloured paper—the most delectable toys are produced.
THE PAINTING ROOM.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTIFICIAL FLOWERSMADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTICLES MADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE PAINTING ROOM.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTIFICIAL FLOWERSMADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTICLES MADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE PAINTING ROOM.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTIFICIAL FLOWERSMADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.ARTICLES MADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
THE PAINTING ROOM.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
ARTIFICIAL FLOWERSMADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
ARTICLES MADE BY THE CHILDREN.From a Photo. by][George Newnes, Ltd.
As the famous chef, Brillat-Savarin, could create an exquisite soup out of a kid glove and a pint of boiling water, so these tiny artisans manage to manufacture butchers' shops, chests of drawers, tables, sofas, Christmas crackers, and luxuriant flowers out of the meanest ingredients. One of the favourite diversions of the smaller children is cutting out and colouring fashion-plates, decapitating the heads andfitting on instead portraits of their favourite "great ladies" of the Happy Evenings Association which they have found in the newspapers. These are afterwards stiffened with cardboard and made to stand up in a group, which at a distance gives a very good idea of a swell reception amongst the "hupper suckles"—if it did not more nearly suggest a wax-work gathering at Madame Tussaud's. Two of these figures we photographed forThe Strand—Lady Northcote and Lady Margaret Rice—both indefatigable workers of the Children's Happy Evenings Association.
LADY NORTHCOTE.As constructed by the children.
LADY NORTHCOTE.As constructed by the children.
LADY NORTHCOTE.
As constructed by the children.
And what—the reader may ask at this stage—what is the Happy Evenings Association? Well, it is a body of kind-hearted ladies and gentlemen—numbering some of the highest and noblest names that you will find in "Burke" or "Debrett"—who take a pleasure in going down amongst the slums of London and teaching the slum waifs how to play. For the London guttersnipe doesn't know how to play. As a rule, he or she can maunder about and fight and scream and exchange badinage and throw stones in the gutter, but of true games the gamin is as ignorant as his parents are ofentréesor Euclid. Before the association was started in 1891 there was no one to teach them the mysteries of battledore and shuttlecock, sack races, kiss-in-the-ring, picture-books, dolls, and doll dressmaking. As their motto expressed it, the association, whose first efforts began at the Waterloo Road Schools, was "to put a thought beneath their rags to ennoble the heart's struggle."
LADY MARGARET RICE.As constructed by the children.
LADY MARGARET RICE.As constructed by the children.
LADY MARGARET RICE.
As constructed by the children.
THE PRINCESS OF WALES AND HER FAMILY—THE PRINCESS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE ASSOCIATION.From a Photo. by Wilkinson & Co., Norwich. Published by the London Stereoscopic Co.
THE PRINCESS OF WALES AND HER FAMILY—THE PRINCESS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE ASSOCIATION.From a Photo. by Wilkinson & Co., Norwich. Published by the London Stereoscopic Co.
THE PRINCESS OF WALES AND HER FAMILY—THE PRINCESS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE ASSOCIATION.
From a Photo. by Wilkinson & Co., Norwich. Published by the London Stereoscopic Co.
The gutters were full—the Board schools after school-hours were empty. Why not get permission to use these empty Board schools for the little ones to play in? And so in a modest fashion the first of the Happy Evenings was carried out by Miss Heather Bigg at Waterloo Road Schools in January, 1891. The association grew and workers came forward until now it is one of the most influential, as it is the "smartest," charity in London. It has for its president that mother of so many little children—the Princess of Wales; its chief of council is the Countessof Jersey, and among its helpers are the Marchioness of Zetland, Lady Ludlow, Lady Cadogan, Lady Iddesleigh, Mrs. Bland-Sutton, etc. Moreover, the children of the rich are brought to serve the children of the poor, the example being set by children no less highly placed than the little Princes and the little Princess at Marlborough House, whose dolls and toys find their way into the Happy Evenings gatherings. When little Prince Edward first heard of the Happy Evenings he turned to his Royal mamma and said:—
MRS. BLAND-SUTTON—HON. SECRETARY OF THE ASSOCIATION.From a Photo. by E. W. Evans.
MRS. BLAND-SUTTON—HON. SECRETARY OF THE ASSOCIATION.From a Photo. by E. W. Evans.
MRS. BLAND-SUTTON—HON. SECRETARY OF THE ASSOCIATION.
From a Photo. by E. W. Evans.
"Mayn't I give my helmet and breast-plate? It's such good fun to dress up as a soldier. I'm sure those little boys would like it." And so a little gamin was pointed out to us at a Happy Evening, prancing about in the martial and metallic raiment which had lately enclosed the person of another boy—the future King of England.
PRINCE EDWARD'S ARMOUR.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
PRINCE EDWARD'S ARMOUR.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
PRINCE EDWARD'S ARMOUR.
From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
Some wag has called these gatherings "Juvenile Parties for Guttersnipes," and although the secretary naturally resents the terms of such description, yet perhaps, on the whole, it gives a fair idea to the average observer of what these gatherings really mean. "We do not, however, aim at making our Happy Evenings a juvenile party. We try and make the pastimes of the children approximate closely to those of a well-ordered nursery or school-room, and the children are encouraged to vary their amusements on their own initiative, and to choose by preference those games which involve co-operation."
Larger ImageEAST-END CHILDREN IN LADY JERSEY'S CHILD-DRAMA"ST. GEORGE."From a Photo. by W. S. Bradshaw & Sons.
EAST-END CHILDREN IN LADY JERSEY'S CHILD-DRAMA"ST. GEORGE."From a Photo. by W. S. Bradshaw & Sons.
EAST-END CHILDREN IN LADY JERSEY'S CHILD-DRAMA
"ST. GEORGE."
From a Photo. by W. S. Bradshaw & Sons.
Occasionally the elder children get togetherand arrange rough-and-ready presentments of historic incidents, such as the Battle of Cressy, the Execution of Mary Queen of Scots, the Indian Mutiny, Alfred and the Cakes, the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, etc. TheMayflower, in this last tableau, was represented by a large newspaper boat capable of holding the two feet of one child comfortably. The other Pilgrim Fathers apparently preferred to wade.
The picture on page 22 shows a party of East London children in Lady Jersey's play, "St. George of England," and in their brave costumes they certainly compare very favourably with any equal body of children from more fashionable regions.
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.From a Photo. by[Lady Margaret Rice.]
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.From a Photo. by[Lady Margaret Rice.]
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.
From a Photo. by[Lady Margaret Rice.]
But perhaps the greatest event of the whole year for the children of the Happy Evenings occurs in summer, when each branch president invites them for a merry day in the country. Somehow or other the girls manage to rake up cheap cotton frocks for the occasion of various tints and degrees of wear—and the boys are carefully washed, brushed, and patched; and then off to one of the stately homes of England, where they may romp in the grass or in the woods and pick wild flowers to their hearts' content. You would scarcely recognise these half-fed, prematurely old London children in the laughing faces and buoyant forms of this picture taken at Osterley Park.
A HAPPY EVENING CONCLUDED—SALUTING HIS MAJESTY.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A HAPPY EVENING CONCLUDED—SALUTING HIS MAJESTY.From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
A HAPPY EVENING CONCLUDED—SALUTING HIS MAJESTY.
From a Photo. by George Newnes, Ltd.
One other picture taken has a special interest as showing that lessons of loyalty are inculcated at the Happy Evenings. It represents the conclusion of the sports and games; the boys are seen filing before a portrait of His Majesty and the Union Jack and saluting as they pass, while the piano plays "God Save the King."
Larger ImageBy Archibald Marshall.
By Archibald Marshall.
By Archibald Marshall.
Whenyoung Lord Otterburn vowed before the altar of Grace Church, 114th Avenue, Chicago, to endow Miss Sadie M. Cutts with all his worldly goods, that fortunate young lady obtained a husband of attractive appearance, agreeable manners, and a sweet temper; a coronet, a beautiful but dilapidated castle in Northumberland, surrounded by an unproductive estate, and a share in the family attentions of Aunt Sarah. In exchange for these blessings she brought, as her contribution to the happiness of the married state, a warm appreciation of her husband's good qualities, a dowry which, when reckoned in dollars, touched seven figures, a frank and fearless character, and a total ignorance of the importance of Aunt Sarah in the domestic well-being of the noble house of Otterburn.
She was not left long in ignorance on this point. She had only had time to refurnish the whole of Castle Gide, to instal electric light, to rebuild the stables, adapting part of them to the requirements of a stud of motor-cars, to take the gardens in hand, and to relet most of the farms, when Aunt Sarah was upon the newly-married couple with a proposal for a visit.
"And who is Aunt Sarah, anyway?" inquired Lady Otterburn, when her husband handed her that lady's letter over the breakfast-table.
"Aunt Sarah," replied Otterburn, "is the bane of the existence of all the members of my family who can afford to keep their heads above water."
"Sounds kind of cheering," observed her ladyship. "How does she get her clutch in?"
"She proposes herself for short visits, and has never been known to leave any house where the cooking is decent and the beds comfortable under a month. She is my Uncle Otterburn's widow, and, having been left exceedingly poor, exercises the right of demanding bed and board from members of my family in rotation as often as it is convenient to her."
"If she's poor," said Lady Otterburn, "it won't harm us to give her a shake-down and a sandwich or two as often as she wants 'em. I apprehend she'll make herself agreeable in return."
"That's where you make a mistake," replied Otterburn. "Aunt Sarah has never been known to make herself agreeable in her life. In fact, she prides herself upon doing the reverse. She'll tell you before you haveknown her two minutes that she always says what she thinks. And she won't be telling you a lie."
"Two can play at that game," said Lady Otterburn. "Most times I say what I think myself."
"But you only think pleasant things," replied her husband. "My flower of the prairie!"
Now, Chicago is not exactly a prairie, but the young Countess of Otterburn was pretty and graceful enough to deserve the most high-flown compliments, and appreciated them when they came from her husband. She therefore graciously accepted his latest flight of imagination, and told him to write to Aunt Sarah and invite her to come to Castle Gide and stay as long as she found it convenient.
Aunt Sarah came a week later with a considerable amount of luggage, but no maid. The motor-omnibus was sent to the station to meet her, in spite of her nephew's warnings.
"She'll arrive as cross as can be," he said. "She hates motors of every description, and I don't suppose has ever been on one in her life."
"Then it's time she tried it," said Lady Otterburn. "There isn't a horse in the place that could draw a buggy fourteen miles to the depôt and back and bring her here in time for dinner."
"Well, you'll see," said Otterburn. "She'll tell us what she thinks of us when she gets here."
She did. The powerful motor-omnibus drew up before the door of Castle Gide—at which Lord and Lady Otterburn were standing to receive their guest—having completed the seven-mile journey from the station in about five-and-twenty minutes. The driver and the footman beside him wore expressions of apprehensive discomfort, and the latter jumped down off his seat to open the door at the back of the vehicle with some alacrity.
There emerged a tall and formidable-looking old lady, with an aquiline nose and abundant, well-arranged grey hair. She wore an imposing bonnet and a dress not of the latest fashion, which rustled richly. There was a cloud on her magnificent brow, her mouth was firmly closed, and she showed no signs of agreeable feeling at arriving thus at her journey's end.
Larger Image"'HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT SARAH?' SAID OTTERBURN."
"'HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT SARAH?' SAID OTTERBURN."
"'HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT SARAH?' SAID OTTERBURN."
"How do you do, Aunt Sarah?" said Otterburn, hastening down the steps to greet her. "Very pleased to see you again. Hope the old 'bus brought you along comfortably."
"No, Edward," replied Aunt Sarah, rigidly, "the old 'bus, as you term it, did not bring me along comfortably. I had vowed never to trust myself to one of these detestable new inventions, and I am surprised at your sending such a contrivance to meet me. This, I suppose, is your wife. How do you do, my lady? I shall probably be able to tell better how I like your appearance whenI have recovered from the perilous journey to which I have been subjected. I should like to be shown at once to my room. I am much too upset by my late experience to think of joining you downstairs to-night."
"Why, certainly," said Lady Otterburn. "I'll take you upstairs, and you shall have your supper just when and how you please—right here and now if you prefer it. I want that you should make yourself at home in this house."
Aunt Sarah transfixed her with a haughty glare.
"Considering that this house was my home for five-and-thirty years," she said, "I think I can promise to do that. Thank you, Lady Otterburn. I will not detain you any longer. This was the third best bachelor's room in my day; I know my way about it well. No doubt you have other more important guests for whom the better rooms are reserved. I will wish you good-night."
"My!" said the Countess of Otterburn, on the other side of a firmly-closed door. "She's a peach!"
The most consistently disagreeable people are not without their moments of relenting, and Aunt Sarah came downstairs about noon of the following day in a far better humour than she had carried to her room on her arrival at Castle Gide. In the first place she had discovered that the erstwhile bachelor rooms had been converted into a perfect little suite, with the appointments of which even a luxury-loving old lady determined to find fault with everything could hardly quarrel. During her voluntary seclusion she had been made as comfortable and waited on as well as if she were a rich woman in her own house, and the little dinner which had been served to her in the privacy of her own bijou salon was far superior to any meal that had ever been served to her before in Castle Gide, even when she had been mistress of it. Morning tea, therefore, found Aunt Sarah mollified, a dainty breakfast served to put her almost into an attitude of peace and goodwill towards mankind, and a glass of pale sherry and a dry biscuit after her toilet had been made and the morning papers read sent her downstairs with the definite intention of being civil to her nephew's wife, whom she had come to Castle Gide prepared cordially to hate.
This frame of mind lasted for several hours. Lady Otterburn devoted herself to the old lady's entertainment, and, to her husband's unconcealed astonishment, roused more than once a grim chuckle of amusement, as she rattled her clever Transatlantic tongue across the luncheon-table. Aunt Sarah pleased! Aunt Sarah laughing! Aunt Sarah allowing someone else to monopolize the conversation! He had known her all his life, but such a spectacle had hitherto been denied him.
"My dear, you're a marvel," he said to his American countess when luncheon was over and Aunt Sarah had retired to her own apartments, still in high good-humour. "You bowled me over the first time we met. That was nothing. But Aunt Sarah! I couldn't have believed it possible. I wish I had asked all my uncles and aunts and cousins to see it."
"You don't know enough to run when you're in a hurry," replied Lady Otterburn. "You'd find her a real beautiful woman if you all took her the right way."
"Well, we shall see," said Otterburn. "You've had a grand success so far, but the experience of years teaches me that seasons of calm in Aunt Sarah's life are not lasting. Much depends on the afternoon nap."
Alas! Aunt Sarah's afternoon nap was a troubled one. It may have been the lobster salad, of which she had eaten too largely; it may have been the iced hock-cup, of which she had drunk too freely, that disturbed her slumbers. Whatever it was she came down again what time the tea-table was spread in the hall with her usual inclination to make herself disagreeable strongly in the ascendant, and, if possible, augmented by the reaction from her previous state of amiability. The first audacious sally made by her hostess, which would have been received with tolerant amusement at the luncheon-table, only drew a scandalized glare from Aunt Sarah, and the ominous words: "I must ask you to remember in whose presence you find yourself, if you please."
Lady Otterburn may have been surprised at this sudden change of atmosphere, but she seemed entirely unconcerned, and took no notice of her husband's surreptitious kick underneath the tea-table, which said as plain as speech, "I told you so." She talked with gay wit, but gave no opportunity for a further rebuke. But Aunt Sarah's twisted temper was not to be softened by the most searching tact, and her next contribution to the sociability of the occasion was the remark, "This tea is positively not fit to drink. In my day Withers would not have dared to keep such stuff in his shop."
"He don't keep it now," answered her hostess. "I have it bought in China and shipped overland. It costs four dollars the pound."
"I have no doubt it is expensive," retorted Aunt Sarah, "although there is no occasion to poke your money down my throat. It is the way it is made. No servant can be trusted to make tea. I always have two teapots and make it myself. I find it is never fit to drink unless I do so."
"I'd just love to have you make some for yourself," said Lady Otterburn. "I'll ring the bell for two more teapots. It's too bad you shouldn't have it as you like it."
Larger Image"I'LL RING THE BELL FOR TWO MORE TEAPOTS."
"I'LL RING THE BELL FOR TWO MORE TEAPOTS."
"I'LL RING THE BELL FOR TWO MORE TEAPOTS."
Aunt Sarah, who was secretly rather ashamed of having mistaken caravan-borne tea for that sold by the village grocer, suffered herself to be softened again, and became almost amiable when her hostess insisted upon drinking from the fresh brew which was presently made, and declared that it was a great improvement on the old.
"I think itisbetter," admitted Aunt Sarah. "I may say that I have never yet met anyone who could make tea as I can. You will excuse me for having commented on yours, but, as Edward knows, I always say what I think."
Edward did know it to his cost. But again he was astonished at the sight of Aunt Sarah charmed back to good-humour when apparently in one of her most relentless moods, and with further astonishment he reminded himself that his experience did not afford a precedent for her apologizing for any word of blame that may have fallen from her lips. But he had no time to ponder on these things. Developments were proceeding.
"You find it a good plan always to say what you think?" asked Lady Otterburn, sweetly.
"It is the only honest plan," replied Aunt Sarah. "If everybody would do it instead of telling lies on all occasions, great or small, there would be a good deal less hypocrisy in the world than there is now."
"Well, I guess you are right," said Lady Otterburn. "I guess I'll commence right away and follow your example. And so will Edward. Now, mind, Edward, don't you dare to say a single word that you don't mean, and just you tell your Aunt Sarah exactly what you think as long as she's with us. And so will I. And all the people who are coming this evening shall be told to do the same."
"Eh? What?" exclaimed Aunt Sarah.
When Aunt Sarah came down into the great hall at twenty minutes to nine that evening she found it full of young men and women who had arrived about an hour before, and whom she had kept waiting ten minutes for their dinner. She did not apologize for herlate appearance. That was not her custom. She singled out a young man of the company and said, "How do you do, Henry? I am pleased to see you at Castle Gide again. You used to come here frequently in happier times."
"They were not happier times for me, Aunt Sarah," replied the young man, rather nervously. "My chief recollection of them is that I was generally sent to bed before dinner for getting into mischief."
"Ah!" said Aunt Sarah. "That is the way to treat mischievous boys. And you don't bear malice."
"I am afraid I do," said the young man. "I was treated most unjustly."
"By whom, pray?" inquired Aunt Sarah, beginning to bridle.
"Very occasionally by Uncle Otterburn," said the young man. "Invariably by you."
"Upon my word!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah. "That is a pretty way to talk!"
"He must say what he thinks, you know," said Lady Otterburn. "We are all going to play at that as long as we are together. Anybody who is convicted of an insincere speech is to pay half a crown to the hospital fund. Here is the box. It contains a contribution from Edward, who told Lady Griselda that she was not at all late when she came down five minutes ago. Edward, take Aunt Sarah in to dinner. She has kept us waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour."
"Have I got into a company of lunatics?" inquired Aunt Sarah, as she took her nephew's arm.
Larger Image"THERE WAS A REGULAR HUBBUB OF CONVERSATION ROUND THE DINNER-TABLE."
"THERE WAS A REGULAR HUBBUB OF CONVERSATION ROUND THE DINNER-TABLE."
"THERE WAS A REGULAR HUBBUB OF CONVERSATION ROUND THE DINNER-TABLE."
No member of the party with the exception of Aunt Sarah had reached middle-age. Most of the men were contemporaries of Otterburn's, the years of whose pilgrimage were thirty. Some of them were married and had their wives with them, but the majority were unattached, and there were several girls, some English and some American. Otterburn's grouse-moors were the ostensible excuse for their finding themselves collected at Castle Gide, but they were so well mixed that they would probably have succeeded in enjoying themselves even if there had been no shooting to occupy the days. There was a regular hubbub of conversation round the dinner-table on this first evening, and loud peals of laughter, rising above the din and clatter of twenty tongues all moving at once, seemed to indicate that Lady Otterburn's game was adding to the gaiety of the occasion.
"No," said a demure young lady, in answer to a request from her neighbour. "I will not play accompaniments for you after dinner. It is quite true, as you say, that I read music extraordinarily well. I have always politely denied it before, but I know I do. Your singing, however, is so distasteful to me that I am sorry I cannot oblige you."
"I have got a good voice," said her neighbour, "and I have studied under the best masters."
"You have not profited by your studies," replied the lady; "and your voice, so far from being good, is very thin and of no quality whatsoever."
"I guess," said a fair American, surveying the company, "that we're a good-looking crowd round this table. And, among all the women, I have a conviction that I go up for the beauty prize. I have had to hug that conviction in secret for a very long time, and now it's out."
Thus and thus was the House of Truth built up stone by stone, and Aunt Sarah's position was pitiable. Hitherto she had made her mark in whatever society she found herself by sheer insistence on her right to be frankly and critically disagreeable. On any ordinary occasion she would have had the whole tableful of young people prostrate under the terror of her biting tongue, and not a whit would she have cared for consequent unpopularity so long as she had made herself acknowledged as the dominating spirit of the assembly. Now she was met and foiled by the dexterous use of the very weapons which she had wielded so long and so unmercifully, and no arrogant speech could she make but its sting was removed by an equally outspoken reply.
Thus, to her right-hand neighbour, a young man with smooth black hair and a preternaturally solemn face: "I don't know who you are, but by your long upper lip I should judge you to be a Mortimer."
"My name and appearance are both undoubtedly Mortimer," he replied, gravely. "My character, I am happy to say, is not."
"Perhaps you do not know," said Aunt Sarah, "that I am a Mortimer?"
Larger Image"'I WILL NOT STAND THIS INSOLENT BEHAVIOUR ANY LONGER,' SHE SAID."
"'I WILL NOT STAND THIS INSOLENT BEHAVIOUR ANY LONGER,' SHE SAID."
"'I WILL NOT STAND THIS INSOLENT BEHAVIOUR ANY LONGER,' SHE SAID."
"I am perfectly aware of it," was the answer. "It would cost me half a crown to congratulate you on the fact."
"And may I ask what fault you have to find with the family whose name you have the honour of bearing?"
"They are insufferably cantankerous and domineering."
"Not all of them," interrupted Otterburn, anxious above all desire for unsullied truth to avert the impending storm which was gathering around him. "You must not take his criticisms as personal, Aunt Sarah."
"Pass the box this way," said the solemn young man. "Otterburn will contribute another half-crown."
Before dinner was half-way through Aunt Sarah was in as black a rage as had ever darkened even her Olympian brow. By the time the ladies left the room she had delivered herself of as many insulting speeches as it usually took her a day to achieve, and her average output was no small one. But it was all to no purpose. Her most ambitious efforts, instead of striking a chill of terror to the hearts of her listeners, were warmly applauded, with an air of the utmost politeness, and from every quarter she received as good as she gave. It took her some time to realize that she was affording considerable amusement to her nephew's guests, but when she did arrive at that state of knowledge she could hardly command herself sufficiently to leave the room without doing bodily hurt to someone.
"I will not stand this insolent behaviour any longer," she said to Lady Otterburn when the door of the dining-room had been closed behind them. "How dare you treat me in this way?"
"Why, bless me, Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Lady Otterburn, in well-feigned surprise, "you said yourself that if everyone spoke the truth always, as you pride yourself on doing, it would be a real lovely thing. We are all speaking the truth under a penalty, and you are speaking it so well that you haven't been fined once."
"Psshtschah!" is the nearest possible orthographic rendering of the exclamation of contempt and disgust that forced itself from Aunt Sarah's lips. "I have had enough of this insensate folly," she continued. "I shall go straight to my room, and if I do not receive more respectful treatment in this house, where I so long reigned as undisputed mistress, I shall leave it to-morrow. Do you understand me?"
"I understand you very well," said Lady Otterburn. "And I will ask you to try and understand me. The respect which you demanded as mistress of this house is now due to me, and I look to receive it from my guests. If you discover that it is not within your power to grant it I shall not press you to prolong your visit."
Aunt Sarah again gave vent to the exclamation indicated above, and sailed up the broad staircase to her own apartments with anger and disgust marked on every line and curve of her figure.
Aunt Sarah had never been so angry before in her life. She was an extraordinarily disagreeable old woman—disagreeable in a masterly, cold-blooded, incisive way, partly because disagreeable speech was a genuine expression of her nature, partly because she had discovered in the course of years that she gained more by being disagreeable, which came easy to her, than by being pleasant, which did not. One of the weapons of her armoury was the feigning of anger, and few could stand upright before her wrath. But for this very reason she had seldom been opposed in such a way as to make her really angry, and now that this had happened to her she was almost beside herself with rage.
When she reached the cosy little sitting-room which had been devoted to her special use, having closed the door with a bang which re-echoed along the corridors, she found herself surrounded by just that atmosphere of personal comfort in which her sybaritic old soul delighted. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Before it was drawn up the easiest of easy chairs. At the side of the chair stood a table upon which was a tray containing those refreshments, solid and liquid, with which Aunt Sarah loved best to fortify herself for the hours of darkness, a collection of papers and magazines, and half-a-dozen new books. The gay chintz curtains were close-drawn, and the electric lights behind their rosy shades threw just the right amount of light upon this pleasant interior.
Aunt Sarah had often before left a company of people in displeasure and retired to her own apartment with a bang of the door behind her. But once shut in by herself the expression of her face had usually changed, and with a grim chuckle at her own astuteness, and the remembrance of her effective departure, she had settled herself down with a mind wiped clean of emotion to the enjoyment of her own society.
But to-night Aunt Sarah took no delight in her own society, nor did her angry old face change as she closed the door on the cosy warmth of her room. It is true that she sat down in the easy chair in front of the fire. Women do not pace the room in their rage as is the custom with men. All the same, a consuming rage held her. It had in it a tinge of helplessness, and it shook her wiry old frame like an ague. Aunt Sarah was beaten, and she had the sense to recognise it.
By-and-by she began to feel rather alarmed at her state of mind. Helpless anger is not a soothing emotion, and Aunt Sarah, in spite of her well-nourished vigour, was an old woman. It was very uncomfortable to be so angry, and it was still more uncomfortable to realize that her power of keeping her own personality in the ascendant had been wrested from her by "a chit of a low-born foreigner," as she expressed it to herself.
When her anger had tired her sufficiently the feeling of helplessness increased, and sorely against her will Aunt Sarah began to pity herself. She fought against the feeling of self-pity for some time—she was made of sterner stuff than those who cherish it as a mild luxury—but it overpowered her at last. She suddenly saw herself old and, for all her many relations and acquaintances, friendless—worse than friendless, feared and disliked. She was also, for the time being, homeless. She had let her little box of a house in London for the winter, and had intended to stay at Castle Gide for at least a month. If she carried out her threat of leaving the next morning she had nowhere to go to, and she was accustomed to run things so close that she actually had not the money to take her to some place suitable to her exaltedstation and to keep herself there for four weeks.
Then she suddenly realized that in the depths of her queer, twisted heart she was fond of her nephew; also that her nephew's American bride had brought her both deference and entertainment as long as she had treated her with ordinary courtesy. She also discovered that she had a sentiment for Castle Gide, which had been her own home for thirty-five years, that was not wholly dependent upon its capabilities of affording her the degree of luxurious living which she most appreciated. At this point something happened which had not happened for fully half a century. Two large tears trickled down Aunt Sarah's face. She knew herself for a lonely, disagreeable old woman, very, very poor.