CHAPTER XIII
JANE’S AFTERNOON OUT
THE Green Chartreuse was able to break its journey at Romano’s, as it passed that home of wassail en route to Bedford Gardens. And having done so, it was able to answer back a bit, but only in a very minor key just now, my lords and gentlemen.
The dear girl herself opened the door to Mr. Philip; it was Jane’s afternoon out. Wasn’t Mary very tired after the two performances yesterday? Not a bit. But wasn’t he a bit below the weather? No? She thought he looked so, rather. Merely because he had been lunching with his people, was it? Very wrong to make a joke of such a filial action, particularly as Grosvenor Square on a Sunday is thought to be the home of the serious.
Granny was sitting very upright in the cozy corner, and looking very stately in her smartest cap with lace on it, that had been worn by Siddons. An approximation of the grand manner when she shook hands. The weather was not cold, perhaps, for the season of the year; but when one was turned four-and-eighty, one’s vitality was perhaps a little less than formerly.
Miss Mary brought in the tea, looking frightfully demure.
Grandmamma herself had a preference for Chayney tea. She hoped Mr. Shelmerdine did not object to Chayney tea; if he did, there was whisky and soda which some gentlemen preferred. John Peter Kendall always preferred it; likewise John his father; and she had heard that this preference was shared by Edward Bean, who was her godpapa—and the silver mug he gave her at her christening was upon the chiffonnier.
Had Mr. Shelmerdine heard that the Lane was going to double Mary’s salary, and desired her to sign a contract for a term of five years?
“Two hundred a week, Mr. Shelmerdine. A fabulous sum. Why, I don’t think that Garrick—”
“Not a penny more than she deserves, ma’am,” averred the heir to the barony.
“Mr. Shelmerdine, it is enough to make Edward Bean turn in his grave. A preposterous sum for a girl of very ordinary ability, without any true histrionic genius. Why, I don’t think that Siddons in the heyday of her power—”
“Why, of course she didn’t, you jealous old Granny. And if I were a woman of genius like you are, and she was, I shouldn’t be getting it either and signing contracts. Don’t you agree, Philip?”
And Miss Mary fixed the young man with her glorious gray eye, and said to him quite distinctly by the Marconi system: “Say Yes, in your heartiest voice, like a dear boy.”
So of course, the young fellow had to say Yes, when he meant No.
It is unkind to make comparisons, but tea and cake in Bedford Gardens, thought Mr. Philip, is a far more interesting function than a four-course luncheon farther west. And yet the young man had by no means a great appetite just now. It was the crisis of his fate. Had Mary told Grandmamma? And what would Grandmamma say, if told she had been? For men and gods these were all-important questions.
Certainly, the old thing in the real lace that had been worn by Siddons was very grande dame indeed. Diction clear cut, lively and forcible; not a single English actor worthy of the name in the present generation, and she hadn’t seen the foreign ones; in fact, the race had perished with Mr. Macready, who had taken her to Gadshill to drink tea with Mr. Dickens.
“But, what about Sir Henry Irving, Granny?” said Mary, covertly twitching her charming left eyelid at the heir.
“Pretty well, for an amateur, my dear, but better fitted to play the hind-leg of a dragon than the Prince of Denmark.”
“Oh, how terribly severe!” said Mary, so demurely that the Morning Coat had an overpowering desire to clasp her to its braided bosom.
“Good at melodrama no doubt, my dear,” said Grandmamma, “in the Surrey theaters; but to my mind wholly unfitted to carry on the great tradition of Edward Bean and John Kendall.”
It is by no means clear that the Braided Morning Coat was able to enjoy Grandmamma’s caustic criticism of the present hopelessly inferior histrionic age as much as it might have done, because there was that sinking sensation somewhere about the third button which somehow seemed to suggest that it was going to be its turn presently. And although a very ordinary sort of coat, which put forth no special claim to be endowed with the gift of prophecy, in this it was not a great way off the mark.
When at last its turn came, it seemed to arrive rather suddenly. It was when the Chayney tea and the cake and bread-and-butter, having ceased to have attractions, were removed by Mary, still acting as deputy to Jane the parlor-maid.
“Mr. Shelmerdine,” said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, “I am given to understand that you have been kind enough to make my granddaughter a proposal of marriage?”
“I hope you don’t mind, ma’am,” murmured the Braided Morning Coat, whose diction, however, although that of Eton and Ch: Ch:, was for the time being, at any rate, nothing like so distinguished as that of Grandmamma.
“I may say at once, Mr. Shelmerdine,” said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, “that I am sensible of the honor that has been paid to my granddaughter. Further, I may say that she also is sensible of the honor that has been paid her, as every right-minded girl should be, even when, as in this case, she is unfortunately unable to avail herself of it.”
That unhappy sense of inadequacy was coming upon Mr. Philip which afflicted him on the occasions he called at the Foreign Office to look up the friends of his youth.
“Mr. Shelmerdine, you are a personable and mannerly young man—I am old enough to speak with freedom, and even if I were not I have always been accustomed to use it. You have considerable private means, my granddaughter informs me, and I think it is probable that you will make an excellent husband for a young woman in your own sphere of life; but, to be quite frank with you, Mr. Shelmerdine, I do not feel that I can give my consent to the match.”
The Braided Morning Coat was cast down not a little.
Still, Grandmamma knew how to temper firmness of character with kindness and consideration; and that, of course, the world has a right to look for in majestic old ladies who have played Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall.
“My granddaughter, Mr. Shelmerdine, comes of a very old theatrical stock. One of her forebears—an ancestor of my own—played in Shakespeare’s own company. Without impropriety, I think I am entitled to say that her standing in her profession is likely to be one of eminence.”
Braided Morning Coat hardly needed that assurance.
“In the circumstances, Mr. Shelmerdine, perhaps I am entitled to ask what your own profession is, and the nature of your standing in it?”
This question was a little too complex for the Braided Morning Coat to be able to answer offhand. Still, the admirable garment struggled manfully, and did its level best.
Four years in the Guards, but at a loose end at present. Had thought of going into Parliament. Lady Macbeth allowed that the ablest young men in the country made rather a point of finding their way into Parliament, and long might it be so; but unfortunately, this particular able young man was not in Parliament yet.
“If it will help things, ma’am,” said the Braided Morning Coat, “I will see about it at once.”
It was spoken like a man of spirit and an English gentleman, which after all is just what you expect of a Braided Morning Coat and Spats by Grant and Cockburn; but Grandmamma, confessing to reluctance, was bound to say that, although this spirited conduct might help things a little, she was afraid it would not help them sufficiently.
Braided Morning Coat was awfully sorry. So was Grandmamma, sincerely sorry. Such a mannerly and personable young man; same school as John Peter Kendall, though not the same college. But it appeared to her, speaking with all reserve, and an ample sense of responsibility, that Mr. Shelmerdine’s status in his profession—whatever his profession might be, and she was not so clear on that point as she would like to be—was due to the fact that he was the eldest son of his father.
Braided Morning Coat confessed frankly that it might be so, although he was not without pecuniary resources of his own. There was also a small property in Cheshire which had come to him recently through his Aunt Tabitha, and was let on a five years’ lease to one of the founders of the Zionist movement.
“I learn from my granddaughter, Mr. Shelmerdine, that your father is a Peer.”
Braided Morning Coat humbly made that damaging admission.
“And that you succeed to the title?”
Braided Morning Coat, beginning to feel very low and miserable, pleaded guilty to this also.
“All this, to my mind, Mr. Shelmerdine, constitutes an insuperable barrier.” Diction beautifully clear and mellow. How can it be otherwise with the Bean and Kendall tradition!
“Let me make myself quite understood, Mr. Shelmerdine. It hardly seems right, to my mind, that an old theatrical family should form an alliance with a comparatively recent peerage. I believe, Mr. Shelmerdine, ‘comparatively recent’ is not in excess of the facts. Jane, my parlor maid, has looked it up in Debrett, as my eyesight is not of the best. Created 1904, I believe, to the best of my recollection, during Mr. Vandeleur’s second administration.”
The answer was in the affirmative.
“Your father is a man of great distinction, I understand, a Proconsul who has rendered invaluable service to the Empire. All that I have heard about him redounds to his honor, but I cannot think he would give his sanction to this proposed alliance. I may say that I should not, if I were he.”
Braided Morning Coat was rather distressed.
“The fact is, Mr. Shelmerdine, I am strongly opposed to this modern craze for contracting matrimonial alliances between the theatrical profession and the peerage. To my mind, they are two entirely alien institutions. They both have their personal traditions and their private status, of which they have a right to be jealous; but it seems to me, and I am sure I voice the opinion of John Peter Kendall, were he not in his grave, that this unfortunate custom, which has lately come into vogue, lowers the dignity of both those institutions, is demoralizing in itself, and tends to diminish the respect in which either is held by the Public.”
Braided Morning Coat felt that “Hear, hear!” would have been appropriate to this beautifully delivered oration. But it had not the spirit now to say “Hear, hear” to anything. Its fond but presumptuous hopes lay shattered in a thousand pieces.
“The Public expects certain things of you, Mr. Shelmerdine, as the future head of a distinguished family. As a woman of extended public experience, I would like to give you this piece of advice, which was given to me by Mr. Macready: Never disappoint the Public, and the Public will never disappoint you. You have your duties to fulfil—to yourself, to your family, and to your country. I do not say that my granddaughter would be incapable of helping you to fulfil them, because a member of an old theatrical family, in my judgment, Mr. Shelmerdine, is unworthy of the great traditions in which she has been bred if she cannot adorn any position to which it may please Providence to call her. But, at the same time, I recognize that public opinion looks to you to form an alliance elsewhere. I am sure it will be a great disappointment to the world, and a great grief to your excellent parents, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing, but who, I am sure, must be very worthy as well as very distinguished people, if you should persist in this desire to form an alliance with my granddaughter.”
Braided Morning Coat, for all the compliments paid to it, which it had every reason to think sincere, began to feel as chastened as if it had been knocked down and run over by a Barnes and Hammersmith omnibus. Long before Grandmamma had said her say, the unlucky garment hadn’t a kick left in it.
Where was Mary? Somehow it did not seem to be playing quite fair to leave him all this time to the tender mercies of Grandmamma. Full of mischief like the rest of ’em, thought the Braided Morning Coat. She knows all the time we are gettin’ it terrific; but instead of standin’ by us like a man and a brother, she retires to the basement to help Cook peel the potatoes for supper.
“I hope, ma’am,” said the miserable varlet, “your decision is not a final one.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Shelmerdine, that I can find no reason at present to think otherwise.”
“Well, ma’am, it’s hardly my fault that I may have to succeed my father.”
“Mr. Shelmerdine, I quite accept that statement.”
In the neck again, you silly blighter, snarled the Twin Brethren.
“I’d abdicate if I could, but I can’t, ma’am, accordin’ to the rules of the Constitution. My Governor says—”
“Mr. Shelmerdine, I fully appreciate the insurmountable nature of the barrier.”
“I shall have enough to keep a wife, ma’am, but if you feel that I ought to go into Parliament, I shall be only too pleased to see about it at once.”
Lady Macbeth appreciated the honorable nature of the proposal, which intensified her great regret. But even a seat in Parliament could not gloss over the fact that he was the son of his father.
Suddenly, the front door bell pealed loudly down in the basement and reverberated throughout the house. A casual caller—perhaps Grandmamma’s old friend, Sir Swire, who called to see her most Sundays when he was in London.
The Braided Morning Coat winged a pious apostrophe to its private, particular gods.
Alas! the luckless garment was a trifle premature in its hymn of thanksgiving.