CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH WE MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF
THE GODDAUGHTER OF EDWARD BEAN
MR. PHILIP counted the hours till Sunday came. He was sorely infected now by the deadly virus.
As for those three goals against Scotland, he had clean forgotten them. They were never mentioned in his own little world. In Grosvenor Square, in particular, no store was set by such irresponsible undergraduate behavior. There his career only dated from the time he had managed to get his commission rather easily in the Second, and he had never been quite forgiven for tiring of a respectable course of life so soon.
It was strange that this sportswoman, so full of sense and pluck, had seen him in the crowded and glorious hour when life was his in its fullness. He had lived in those days, perhaps a little crudely, but now he wanted to have done with his idleness and start to live again.
He was in love with Mary Caspar, and that was all about it! Whether she drank tea at the Carlton or warbled ditties on the boards of Drury, she rang tune in every note. No wonder that she was the uncrowned queen of many a provincial city; no wonder that every errand boy in the metropolis whistled “Nelson” and “Arcadee.”
On his way to his rooms he called at a news-agent’s, and invested a shilling in picture-postcards of Mary Caspar.
“I suppose you sell a lot of these?”
“Hundreds,” said the young man behind the counter. “We’ve sold out three times in a fortnight, and the demand is increasing.”
On Sunday afternoon, as five o’clock was striking from St. Martin’s Church, Mr. Philip drove up to Bedford Gardens and pulled the door bell of Number Ten.
A trim little parlor-maid led him up to a cozy little drawing-room.
Miss Caspar received him with unaffected cordiality.
“And this is my Granny, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said Cinderella proudly.
Grandmamma was a stately old dame in a turban, turned eighty-four—a really wonderful old lady. Her speech was lively and forcible; and her manner had the grace of one who had grown old with dignity. It had a half-humorous touch of grandeur also, as of one who has known the great world from the inside, and is not inclined to rate it above its value.
Grandmamma shook hands, and said she was glad to meet the son of his father.
“A good and honorable and upright man I’m sure, Mr. Shelmerdine, although his politics are all wrong to my mind. You see, we artists, even the oldest of us, live for ideas, and these unfortunate Vandeleurites—but we won’t talk politics, although it was I who bought Mr. Vandeleur his first bells and coral. At that time nobody except his mother and myself, and possibly his nurse foresaw that he was the future Prime Minister of England. Polly, my dear, the tea.”
“You boastful old Granny,” said Mary. “And I don’t think Mr. Shelmerdine is a bit impressed.”
“But I am—awfully,” said Mr. Shelmerdine gallantly, handing the Bohea.
And he came within an ace of dropping the cup on to the hearthrug, because Miss Mary chose at that fateful moment to twitch her adorable left eyelid so artfully that the young man had to whisk away his countenance to keep from laughing in the face of Grandmamma.
“Mr. Shelmerdine, tell me, have you seen my granddaughter play at the Lane?”
Yes, Mr. Shelmerdine had, and if he might say so, admired her playing awfully.
“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Grandmamma. “To my mind she displays a strange lack of ambition. We are an old theatrical family, Mr. Shelmerdine. When I was her age I was playing Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall.”
The young man was mightily interested, although to be sure this was the first he had heard of John Peter Kendall; but happily he had a useful sort of working knowledge that Lady Macbeth was the name of a thrilling drama by the author of Money.
Miss Mary was quite unscathed by this damaging piece of criticism.
“Yes, Granny dear, but then you had genius—and that’s a thing that doesn’t often occur in any family, does it?”
“Mary child”—the natural grandeur showed a little—“it is a mere façon de parler to speak of ambition, respect for one’s calling, determination to live up to the highest that is within oneself, as genius. Moreover, the absence of genius is a poor excuse for lowering the traditions of a distinguished family. Mr. Shelmerdine, I hope you agree with me.”
Appealed to at point-blank range, the young man was fain to agree with Grandmamma. But if his note of conviction was not very robust, it must be remembered that his present ambition was to run with the hare and to hunt with the hounds.
“By taking pains,” said Grandmamma, “and showing a proper reverence for its calling, even a modest talent may add a cubit to its stature. That at least was the opinion of John Peter Kendall and Mr. Macready.”
Mr. Shelmerdine cordially agreed with those great men.
“To think of my granddaughter playing Cinderella at the Lane when she should be playing Lady Macbeth at His Majesty’s!”
“Oh, but ma’am,” said the young man, “she is a nailin’ good Cinderella, you know.”
“A nailing good Cinderella, when her great-grandmother played with Garrick, and one of her forebears was in Shakespeare’s own company!”
The young man thought silence would be safer here. Still, knightly conduct was undoubtedly called for.
“I hope you won’t mind my sayin’, ma’am,” said he, “that she’s the finest Cinderella I’ve ever—although I daresay I oughtn’t to say it in her presence.”
But Grandmamma would admit no extenuating circumstance. Mary was a disgrace.
“Well, dear Granny,” and again that wicked left eyelid came into action, “you can’t deny that next year the Lane is going to double my salary, although I am sure I get quite enough as it is.”
“Child, do you suppose that John Peter Kendall would have urged such an excuse?”
Grandmamma’s majesty dissolved Cinderella in light-hearted mirth.
“I quite see your point, ma’am,” said the heir to the barony, playing as well as he knew how.
“Mr. Shelmerdine,” said the old lady, “I make you my compliments on your good sense.”
It must certainly be said for the heir to the barony that he made quite a favorable impression upon Grandmamma. Rather a plume in the bonnet of the parfit, gentil knight moreover; because as Granny had been kissed by Mr. Dickens, used regularly to call upon Mr. Thackeray in Young Street, had dined and supped with Mr. Gladstone, and had a very poor opinion, indeed, of Mr. Disraeli, she must be reckoned rather a judge.