CHAPTER II
AUNT ANNIE AND AUNTY HARRIET
I
AUNT ANNIE was the first to be told the great news. In the view of both nieces it was in the natural order of things that this august lady should take precedence of the rest of the world. She was so incontestably the family “personage,” the eminence she occupied was such a dizzy one, that it would have been just as unthinkable not to grant her priority in a matter of such vital importance, as it would have been to deny it to Queen Victoria in an affair of State.
In point of fact, Aunt Annie, within her own orbit, was the counterpart and reflection of her Sovereign. In an outlook they were alike, they were alike in the range of their ideas, and well-informed people had said that they had tricks of speech and manner in common. This may have been a little in excess of the truth, one of those genial pleasantries it is the part of wisdom to accept in the spirit in which they are offered, but it would be wrong to deny that in the suburb of Laxton Aunt Annie took rank as a very great lady.
It is true that she lived in a small and modest house in an unpretentious street, but all the world knew that the flower of her years had been passed in abodes very different. And not only that, it was also known that every year on her birthday, the twenty-sixth of March, those whom it is hardly right to mention in these humble pages came to call on her. On the twenty-sixth of every March, sometime in the afternoon, a remarkable equipage would appear before the chaste precincts of “Bowley,” Croxton Park Road. At that hour every self-respecting pair of eyes in the immediate neighborhood would be ambushed discreetly behind curtains in order to watch the descent of a real live princess with a neat parcel.
The contents of the parcel were said to vary from year to year. Now it would be a piece of choice needlework, fashioned by the accomplished hands of Royalty itself, which would take the shape of a cushion or a footstool, now a framed photograph of Prince Adolphus or Princess Geraldine in significant stages of their adolescence, now a chart of the august features of even more important members of the family. Many were the historical objects disposed about Aunt Annie’s sitting-room, which the elect of the neighborhood had the privilege of seeing and handling when they came to call upon her. But when all was said, the undoubted gem of the collection was a superb edition, bound in full calf, of the Poems of A. L. O. E., with a certain signature upon the fly-leaf. This was always kept under glass.
It chanced that Aunt Annie had invited herself to tea at Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas, the day after the arrival of the babe. This was strictly in accord with rule and precedent. She was far too much a personage to be invited by her niece Eliza, but if she intimated by a letter, which was the last word in precision, that she proposed to call on a certain day, Eliza humbly and gratefully overhauled the best tea service and polished the lacquer tray which was only used on State occasions.
Not merely the mother-elect, but also godmother Harriet, saw the hand of a very special Providence in the impending visit of Aunt Annie to Beaconsfield Villas. It was only right and fit that the news should be first told to her. The matter must have her sanction. By comparison the rest of the world was of small account. The entire clan Sanderson lived in awe of her, and particularly her imprudent and démodé niece Eliza. The prestige of Aunt Annie was immense, and it did not make things easier for those who lived within the sphere of her influence that the old lady was fully alive to the fact.
Eliza confided to Harriet that she would breathe more freely when the morrow’s visit had taken place. Harriet boldly said it didn’t really matter what view Aunt Annie took of the affair. But Eliza knew better. In spite of the joys of vicarious motherhood, there could be no peace of mind for Eliza until the fateful day was over.
Half-past four in the afternoon was the hour mentioned in the official note. And it was then, punctual to the minute, that a vehicle of antique design even for that remote period of the world’s history, in charge of a Jehu to match it, drew up on the cobblestones exactly opposite Number Five. The fog had cleared considerably since the previous evening, therefore three urchins, spellbound by the appearance of such a turnout in their own private thoroughfare, beheld the slow and stately emergence of a superbly Victorian bonnet of the most authentic design and a black mantle of impressive simplicity.
Jehu, like the equipage itself, jobbed for the occasion, was the mirror of true courtliness. He had an uncle in the Royal stables, therefore he knew the deference due to the august Miss Sanderson. In promoting her descent from the chariot he did not actually take off his hat, but he stood with it off in spirit; a fact sufficiently clear to the three youthful onlookers, one of whom remarked in a voice of awe, “It’s the mayoress.”
Eliza, quaking over her best tea service on its elegant tray, knew without so much as a glance through the window that Aunt Annie had come. But she waited for the knock. And then apronless, in her best dress, with never a hair out of place, she opened the door with a certain slow stateliness. Before her mésalliance she had had great prospects as lady’s maid.
“Good morning, dear Eliza.”
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but the distinguished visitor undoubtedly said, “Good morning, dear Eliza.” Moreover, she offered a large and rigid cheek and Eliza pecked at it rather nervously.
The door of Number Five closed upon Jehu, upon his wonderful and fearful machine, and also upon the general public.
“And how is Joseph?”
“Nicely, thank you, Aunt Annie. I hope you are quite well.”
“As well as my rheumatism will permit.”
“Won’t you take off your things?”
“Thank you, no, my dear.”
Aunt Annie would rather have died than take off her things in that house. In her heart she had never been able to forgive Eliza her marriage. Joseph Kelly was a worthy fellow no doubt, a good husband, and a conscientious police officer, but by no exercise of the imagination could he ever occupy the plane of a Sanderson. It may have been mere pride of family but then pride of family is a queer thing.
Poor Eliza had fallen sadly from grace. She had come down in the world, whereas a true Sanderson always made a point of going up in it. Even if Eliza’s relations as a whole were inclined to take a sympathetic view of her marriage, the one among them who really counted, was never quite able to overlook the fact in her dealings with her. Eliza had cause to feel nervous for Aunt Annie was never so impressive as when she entered the modest front parlor of Number Five.
It was easy for Aunt Annie to do that, because nature was on her side. With the honorable exception of her friend, Alderman Bradbury, the present mayor of the borough, she had more personality than anyone in Laxton. For forty years she had moved in the highest circles in the land. Moreover, she had moved in them modestly, discreetly, with the most punctilious good sense. She had known her place exactly, had kept it, therefore, with ever increasing honor and renown; but the spirit of imperious self-discipline which had entered into her in the process, sternly required that ordinary people in their dealings with her should know their place, too, and also be careful to keep it. In the domestic circle Aunt Annie was a pitiless autocrat, and in public life even the Mayor of Laxton and its leading Aldermen did not withhold their deference when she condescended to converse with them upon matters relating to the infant life of the borough.
No wonder Laxton’s leading inhabitants kow-towed to Aunt Annie. No wonder niece Eliza cowered in spirit when she superbly entered that modest dwelling and sat in its most capacious chair. Tea was offered her, without sugar and with only a very little milk according to her stoical custom.
“Thankee, my dear.”
The great lady removed a black kid glove, and coquetted with a delicate slice of bread and butter. If you have lived in palaces most of your days you know that simplicity in all things is the true art of life. Right at the back, as Eliza well knew, Aunt Annie was by no means so simple as she made a point of seeming. Her tastes and manners were modeled upon a sublime Original, but as the memoirs of the time have shown in the one case that things may not be always what they seem, the same held true in the other.
Eliza had never felt so nervous in her life. Even the historic hour in which she had first announced her engagement to Joe could hardly compare with this. But it was not until Aunt Annie had passed to her second piece of bread and butter that the thunderbolt fell.
“A cradle, my dear!”
It was quite true that a cradle was in the chimney corner, within three yards of Laxton’s leading authority on the subject. Moreover, it was a cradle of the latest design, a cradle of the most elegant contour, it was a cradle provided with springs and lace curtains.
Eliza blushed hotly and murmured something about Harriet having had it sent that morning. And then all at once she became so confused that she began to pour out her own tea into the slop-basin instead of the cup provided for the purpose.
“Harriet who, my dear?”
There was only one Harriet, and Eliza knew that Aunt Annie knew that. It was a mere ruse to gain time—if such a word can be used without impropriety in such connection. Eliza sought to cover her confusion by a sedulous holding of the tongue, and by an attempt to pour out her tea as if she really knew what she was about.
“What is there in it?”
The demand was point-blank. It was almost passionate.
Without waiting to be told what there was in it, Aunt Annie rose, tea cup and all, and with the glower of a sibyl drew aside the curtains.
II
Mary was sleeping. Empirical science had proved her beyond a doubt to be a Mary. And she was sleeping as the best Marys do at the age of one month and a bittock, with her thumb in her mouth—if they are allowed to do so.
To say that Aunt Annie was taken aback would be like saying that Zeus was a little offended with certain events when he blew the planet Earth out of the firmament in the year 19—. However!—it was as much as Aunt Annie could do to believe the evidence of her eyes. She fronted her niece augustly.
“And you never told me, my dear.”
“It didn’t come till last evening,” stammered Eliza.
But a leading authority, even upon a subject so recondite, is not deceived in that way.
“The child is five weeks old if it’s an hour,” scornfully affirmed the expert. “Besides,”—the eye of the expert transfixed her niece piercingly—“do you suppose—a woman of my experience—needs to be told—but why pursue the subject!”
For the moment Eliza felt so guilty that she was quite unable to pursue the subject. Yet there was no reason why she should allow herself to be overwhelmed, except that Aunt Annie had an almost sublime power of putting people in the wrong. The situation in sheer grandeur and magnitude was altogether too much for her. And the mind of Aunt Annie, capable of volcanic energy when dealing with the subject it had made its own, had already traveled an alarming distance before Eliza could impose any check upon it.
“A very fine child—a very fine child indeed—but——!”
The portentous gravity of the words should have brought a chill to the soul of Eliza. But for some odd reason it caused her to laugh hysterically.
“It is not a laughing matter,” said the face of Aunt Annie; her stern lips made no comment on the preposterous behavior of her niece.
“She’s mine,” gasped Eliza, when laughter had brought her to the verge of tears.
“Tell that to the Marines,” said the face of Aunt Annie. In fact the face of Aunt Annie said more than that. It said, “Eliza, I should like to give you the soundest shaking you have ever had in your life.”
“Joe and I have adopted it,” gurgled Eliza at last.
Aunt Annie drew herself up to her full, formidable, dragoon-like height of five feet ten inches, and gazed sublimely down from that Olympian elevation.
“Then why not say so, my dear, in so many words, without making yourself so profoundly ridiculous?”
III
With tingling ears, Eliza humbly admitted her fault. But as soon as she had done so, there arose a serious problem, for a simple creature in whose sight the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth was very precious. Aunt Annie began to ask questions—questions which forbade a person of ordinary discretion to answer with candor.
Whose was the child? What was its origin? What did the parents——? Why did the parents——? When did the parents——? Did Eliza fully realize the grave nature of the responsibility she was taking upon herself?
It was the last question of the series that Eliza answered first. And this she did for a sufficient reason: to answer the others was wholly beyond her power.
“We may be doing a very unwise thing,” said Eliza. “Joe and I know that.”
“I am sure I hope you do, my dear. But tell me, where did you get it?”
The voice of truth enjoined on a doorstep in Grosvenor Square, but the voice of prudence said otherwise. And the voice of prudence sounded a very clear and masterful note in Eliza’s ear, for Joe, Harriet, and she were fully agreed that the true story must not be given to the world. Diplomacy was called for. Such a forthright creature was quite unversed in that dubious art, but she must prepare to use it now.
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.” Alas! that crude formula was all in the way of guile that poor flustered Eliza could muster at the moment.
Less by instinctive cleverness than by divine accident there was a world of meaning, however, in that faltering tone. And a word to the wise is sufficient. There was not a wiser woman in England than Aunt Annie, except—of course, that is to say!—speaking merely for the lieges of the realm—.
“Very well, I don’t press the question.” It was the tone she had once accidentally overheard a very great Personage use to Lord Gr-nv-lle.
Eliza sighed relief.
“But, let me say this,” Aunt Annie looked steadily at her niece. “I ask no questions in regard to the parents, but whoever they may be, you must know that you run a risk. The offspring of a regular union are often unsatisfactory, the offspring of an irregular union, although I praise heaven I have had no personal experience of them, always bring sorrow to those with whom they have to do.”
Eliza could only reply that the creature was such a dear lamb that she was quite prepared to take the risk. Aunt Annie shook a solemn head at her niece, and then surveyed the infant in true professional style. The babe still slept. Before the great critic and connoisseur made any comment she removed the thumb from the delightful mouth. And the act was done with such delicacy as not to bring a cloud to the dreams of this wonderful Mary.
This was a rosebud of a creature, and she lay in her grand cradle as if she simply defied even the highest criticism to dispute the fact. Certainly one who knew what babies were did not try to do so. Only one remark was offered at that moment, but to the initiated it was worth many volumes.
“Whoever’s child it may be,” said Aunt Annie, “and mind I don’t go into that, it is not a child of common parents.”
IV
For some odd reason, Eliza was so intensely flattered by Aunt Annie’s words, that she felt a desire to hug her. None knew so well as Eliza that it was not a child of common parents, but it was not the way of this expert to say so. The wonderful creature was “wrapt in mystery,” but the hallmark of quality must have been stamped very deep for such a one as Aunt Annie to commit herself to any such statement. Her standard was princes and princesses. Every babe in Christendom was judged thereby, and there was perhaps one in a million that could hope to survive the test.
A miracle had happened, but it was really too much to expect that the cradle would have a share in it. Aunt Annie shook her head over the cradle. It had too many fal-lals. She approved neither its curtains nor its air of grandeur. She was a believer in plainness and simplicity. If before incurring an unwarrantable expense, her niece had only mentioned the matter, the great lady would have gone to Armitt’s personally and have arranged for a replica of the hygienic but unpretentious design supplied by that famous firm to the Nursery over which she had presided.
Eliza, however, could accept no responsibility for the cradle. Harriet had sent it that morning quite unexpectedly. Aunt Annie was a little surprised that the taste of Bridport House in cradles was not a little surer. Yet upon thinking the matter over she found she was less surprised than she thought she was. The Dinnefords were a good family, the Duke was esteemed, his late Duchess, for a brief period, had been Mistress of the Posset, but after all Bridport House was not Bowley. After all a Gulf was fixed.
It was vain for Eliza to show how disappointed Harriet would be; the cradle had so clearly cost a great deal of money. It had cost too much money, that was the head and front of the cradle’s offending. There was an air of the parvenu about it. Such a cradle would never have been tolerated at Bowley, nay, it was open to doubt whether it would have been tolerated at Bridport House.
Aunt Annie was still discoursing upon cradles out of a full mind, when Harriet herself came on the scene. She was spending a few days at Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas before going down to Buntisford, and she had now returned from a day’s shopping in London. She knew that Aunt Annie was coming to tea, yet in spite of being forewarned, the sight of the dominant old lady seated at the table seemed to dash her at once.
For one thing, perhaps they were not the greatest of friends. It may have been that Bowley set too high a value upon itself in the eyes of Bridport House, it may have been that Bridport House held itself too independent in the eyes of Bowley. The clan Sanderson, one and all, revered Aunt Annie; there was no gainsaying that her career had been immensely distinguished; but at this moment Harriet’s greeting certainly seemed just a little perfunctory; it might even be said to have a covert antagonism.
Harriet’s health was tenderly inquired after, she was solemnly congratulated on her recent appointment, which did her much credit and conferred honor upon her family; but it was soon apparent that there was only one subject, to which, at that moment, Harriet could give her mind. Had she been the mother of the babe, instead of the godmother merely, her impatience to draw aside the curtains of the cradle could hardly have been greater, or her delight in looking upon a ravishing spectacle when she had done so.
Even the stern criticism of those curtains she did not heed, until she had gazed her fill. It was a babe in a million. And when at last she was up against the curtains, so to speak, instead of meeting the curtains fairly and squarely, she began to paint extravagant pictures of the future.
Her name was Mary. That was settled. She was to be brought up most carefully; indeed, it was decided already that she was to have a first-rate education.
“A first-rate education!” There was a slight curl of a critical lip.
“Why not?” inquired godmother Harriet.
“The expense, my dear!”
“I think I shall be able to afford it.”
“You, my dear,” said Aunt Annie, rather pointedly.
“I am the godmother,” said Harriet, with the light of battle in her eyes.
“So I hear. But don’t forget she is to be the child of a police constable.”
“She is not the child of a police constable,” said Harriet, with a mounting color.
“I don’t know whose child she is. That is a question I prefer to avoid. But in my humble opinion it will be a grave mistake to educate her above the class to which it has pleased Providence to call her. No good can come of it.”
“That’s nonsense!” The fine voice had a slight tremble in it.
Aunt Annie looked down her large nose. “At any rate, that has always been my view. And it has always been the view of, I will not say who. It is very perilous to tamper with the order of Divine Providence. And I am surprised that one who has been called to a position of high responsibility should think otherwise.”
The quick flush upon Harriet’s cheek showed that the old lady had got home. She was always formidable at close quarters; even Harriet had to be wary in trying a fall with her.
“The child must have a good, sensible upbringing. Let her be taught cooking, sewing, plain needlework, and so on. And I shall be very glad to give a little advice from time to time. But I repeat it will be most unwise to set her up, no matter who her parents may be, above the station in life to which it has pleased Providence to call her.”
Again the light of battle darkened the eyes of Harriet.
“It is early days at present to talk about it,” she said. And she laughed suddenly in a high-pitched key.
V
Water flowed under London Bridge. The flight of time demanded that Mary should fulfill her promise of being the most wonderful child ever seen. She did not fail, but grew in grace and beauty like a flower. At the date of her arrival her age was deemed to be one month. By the time it had been multiplied by twelve a personality had begun to emerge, twelve months later it was possible to gauge it.
There never was such a child. Eliza held that opinion from the first, and godmother Harriet shared it. Aunt Annie was more discreet, but her actions expressed an interest of the highest kind. From the moment she had committed herself to the memorable statement that “Whoever’s child she may be, she is not a child of common parents,” there was really no more to be said. But as the months passed and Mary became Mary yet more definitely, the old lady, to the astonishment of both her nieces, began to identify herself intimately with the fortunes of the creature.
The critical age of two was safely passed. And the age of three found Mary more than ever the cynosure of Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas. The infant had such health, her eyes were so blue, her laugh was so gay, her rose-bloom tints were so dazzling, that the childless hearth of the Kellys’ was somehow touched with the hues of Paradise. In moments of gloom Joe had his doubts, and now and again expressed them. He had certainly done very wrong, the whole matter was most irregular, but the look in Eliza’s face was a living contradiction to official pessimism.
In the meantime Aunt Annie sat many an hour, spectacles on nose, making “undies” for her new niece. The old lady was much courted by the rest of her family. Even amid the remoter outposts of the clan, her word was law. Apart from the romance of her career, she enjoyed a substantial pension, she owned house property, and the stocking in which she kept her savings was known to be a long one. But beyond all things was the woman herself. It was sheer weight of character that gave her such a special place among her peers.
The clan Sanderson was extensive, and inclined to exclude. There were Sandersons holding positions of trust in various parts of London and the country. There was Mr. George Sanderson, who was in a bank at Surbiton, who, if he did not actually share the apex with his cousin Annie, was immensely looked up to; there was Francis, who, from very small beginnings, had blossomed into a chartered accountant; there was young Lawrence, of the new generation, who had given up being a page boy in very good service, for the lures of journalism. He was far from being approved by his Aunt Annie, and he had not the sanction of his Uncle George, but he was understood to be doing very well, and if he only kept on long enough and made sufficiently good in this eccentric way of life, the mandarins of the family might regard him a little more hopefully. Finally, there was Harriet. Hers was a truly remarkable case.
At the age of twenty-nine, without special training or any particular influence, she had been made housekeeper to the Duke of Bridport at Buntisford Hall, Essex. The more modern minds among the clan might affect to despise a success of that kind, but for generations there had been a sort of feudal connection between the great house of Dinneford and the honest race of yeomen who had served it. Chartered Accountant Francis might smile in a superior way, young Lawrence of Fleet Street, a perfect anarchist of a fellow, might scoff, but every true-blue Sanderson of the older generation was amazed at Harriet’s achievement, and felt a personal pride in it.
Aunt Annie, who had a temperamental dislike of Harriet, was the first to admit that the rise of her niece had been very remarkable. The august Miss Sanderson was an unequaled judge of what Mr. George Sanderson called “general conditions.” Her own historical career had given her peculiar facilities for gauging the lie of a country, socially speaking, her sense of values was absolutely correct, and she was constrained to admit, much as it hurt her to do so, that Harriet’s success had no parallel in her experience.
Eliza Kelly occupied a very different place in the hierarchy. She was perilously near the base of the statue. Her brothers, her sisters, her uncles, her cousins, and her aunts, had always made a practice of going up in the world, but she had unmistakably come down in it. It was not that they had anything against Joe personally. He was sober, honest, a good husband, and he well knew the place allotted to him by an all-wise Providence. But when the best had been said for him he was not, and could never hope to be, a Sanderson.
It was, therefore, the more surprising that Aunt Annie should take so great an interest in the waif that the Kellys had adopted. None knew the name of its parents, none so much as ventured to hint at the source of its origin, yet the mandarin-in-chief accepted it as soon as she set eyes upon it, and month by month, year by year, to the increasing surprise of the clan as a whole, her regard for the creature waxed in ever growing proportions.
Mrs. Francis—A Miss Best, of Sheffield—had given an account of her afternoon call at Bowley, which she had timed as usual for the day after Royalty had paid its annual visit. Mrs. F.—in the family, she was always Mrs. F.—had then seen Mary for the first time. And although she had five of her own, the child had made a great impression. She was like a fairy, with vivid eyes and wonderful hair, which Aunt Annie used to brush over a stick every time she came to Croxton Park Road; her clothes were simple and in perfect taste, but of a style and quality far beyond the reach of Mrs. F.’s own progeny. She was then a little more than three, and not only Mrs. F., but others, according to Aunt Annie’s account of the matter, had been greatly struck by her. She certainly made a picture with her dainty limbs, her laughing eyes, her flaxen curls. All the same, it was very absurd that the child should be turned out in that way. Eliza and Joe could not possibly afford it, and if the old lady was responsible, as was feared was the case, she ought to have had more sense than to set her up in that way.
As the result of inquiries, Mrs. F. felt bound to make in the matter, and there were very few matters in which Mrs. F. did not feel bound to make inquiries of one kind or another, it appeared that Aunt Annie was not responsible for her clothes. The clothes lay at the door of godmother Harriet. She had insisted on choosing them, and had further insisted on sharing the considerable expense they involved. Mrs. F. gathered that in the opinion of Aunt Annie and also in that of Eliza, godmother Harriet was inclined to abuse her position. She was always insisting. No detail of the creature’s upbringing escaped her interference. She must have her say in everything; indeed, she came over from Buntisford regularly once a week for the purpose of having it. At Beaconsfield Villas, and also at Bowley, she took a very high tone, which Eliza and Aunt Annie strongly resented. But it seemed there was no remedy. Harriet was the godmother, she had her rights, her will was as imperious as Aunt Annie’s own—and her purse seemed fathomless.
As soon as Mary was four, it was settled that she should go every morning to Bowley to be taught her letters. And she must be taken there by a girl “who spoke nicely.” It seemed that a girl, who spoke nicely, was a rather rare bird in Laxton. At any rate Eliza having been compelled in the first place to yield to a nursemaid, had many to review before one was found whose style of delivery could satisfy the fastidious ear of Aunty Harriet.
Eliza might be piqued by such “officiousness,” but she could not deny that Harriet had reason on her side. Perhaps it was overdoing things a bit for people in their position, but Eliza, if fallen from high estate, was still at heart a Sanderson. Therefore she knew what was what. And the secret was hers that the child’s real home was a long way from Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas, Laxton. Eliza could never quite forget the source of origin of her adopted daughter.
Every month that went by seemed to make it increasingly difficult to forget that. Princess Geraldine herself, that figure of legend who used to call at Bowley every twenty-sixth of March, could never have been in more devout or judicious hands than little Mistress Mary in that of the Council of Three, not to mention those of Miss Sarah Allcock, specially coöpted. No child so tended and cared for, whose welfare was so carefully studied by experts, could have failed to grow in beauty and grace. She was so perfectly charming and superb when in the charge of the discreet Miss Allcock, she took the air with her wonderful hair, her patrician features and her white socks, that the nearest neighbors began to resent it. It was considered rather swank on the part of the Kellys to set up such a child at all. They were surprised that Joe, a popular man, should not have a truer sense of the fitness of things. They were less surprised at Mrs. Joe, who was not quite so popular. But Joe was a sensible fellow, and he should have seen to it that the child did not become the talk of the neighborhood.
Yet, after all, it may not have been so much the fault of Joe or of Eliza, his wife, that the child became the talk of the neighborhood. In the purview of local society, whose salon was Mrs. Connor’s, the greengrocer’s lady, at the end of the street, the blame lay at the door of Miss Sarah Allcock. The truth was the incursion of Miss Allcock was keenly resented by the local ladies. She was altogether too fine—yet the odd thing was that she was not fine at all. But she was in every way uncommonly superior. No greater tribute could have been paid to the social supremacy of the presiding genius of Croxton Park Road, or to the strength of character of Aunty Harriet, than that such a one as Miss Allcock should condescend to Beaconsfield Villas. Truth to tell, Miss Allcock was a remote connection of the clan Sanderson, although never admitted as such by the mandarins. But she knew there were strings to pull, and a good place had been guaranteed her when she really started out in service.
All the same, as far as the neighbors were concerned, Miss Sarah Allcock was an error of judgment. She was amazingly neat and trim, she had the true Sanderson refinement of manner and address, she was fond of airing her voice to her charge with all sorts of subtle Mayfair inflections, and she looked away from the neighbors as if they were dirt. As if they were dirt—that was the gravamen of their complaint in the sympathetic ear of Mrs. Bridgit Connor.
Mrs. Bridgit Connor, the greengrocer’s wife, was a widespread lady of Irish descent, of great but fluctuating charm, and unfailing volubility. Her vocabulary was immense, but scorn often taxed it. Her scorn of Miss Allcock taxed it to the breaking point. Born on a bog and descended in the remote past from the kings of the earth, Mrs. Connor had facilities of speech and gesture denied to the common run of her kind. She avenged the slights put by Miss Allcock upon herself and friends by alluding to that lady’s charge in a loud voice whenever opportunity offered as “a by-blow,” or “a no-man’s child.”
When Mary was five there arose the grand question of her education proper. At first a great clash of wills was threatened. Aunt Annie had her views. Aunty Harriet had hers. Eliza, being merely “the mother,” was not allowed to have any. Aunty Harriet thought perhaps the kindergarten. Aunt Annie did not believe in such new-fangled nonsense. Besides no kindergarten would take her.
“Why not?” asked Aunty Harriet. But as she spoke there came a slight flush to the proud face.
“Because they won’t,” said Aunt Annie with stern finality. “All schools of the better sort are very particular.”
Aunty Harriet bit her lip sharply. She retorted, perhaps unwisely, that if they were not very particular they would cease to be schools of the better sort.
“Quite so,” said Aunt Annie.
For the moment it looked as if daggers were going to be drawn. These two were always at the verge of conflict. Both were impatient of any kind of opposition, and in the matter of young Mistress Mary they seldom saw eye to eye. Aunt Annie did not disguise her opinion that Aunty Harriet was inclined to take too much upon herself, and Aunty Harriet had no difficulty in returning the compliment.
But Harriet had great common sense, and she was a woman of action. She was not the one tamely to accept the decree about schools of the better sort, but began to make researches of her own into the subject. She was very hard to please, both in regard to the style of the school and the condition of the scholars, and when at last one had been found which met the case, there arose the difficulties Aunt Annie had predicted. A child of parentage unknown, adopted by the family of a police constable, did not commend herself to the Misses Lippincott of Broadwood House Academy. To Aunty Harriet this seemed a great pity; the school presided over by those ladies was exactly suitable. Its tone was high but not pretentious; the small daughters and the smaller sons of Laxton’s leading tradesmen mingled with those of its professional classes, and its reputation was so good that Aunty Harriet, after a discreet interview with the elder Miss Lippincott, a bishop’s daughter and a university graduate, set her mind upon it.
Howbeit, the austere Miss Lippincott showed no inclination to receive the adopted child of a police constable as a pupil at Broadwood House Academy. This was not conveyed to Miss Harriet Sanderson in so many words, but in the course of the next day she received a letter, delicately-worded, to that effect. However, she did not give in, as smaller and weaker people might have done, but she put her pride in her pocket and, looking the facts in the face, went to take counsel at Bowley.
“What did I tell you, my dear!” said Aunt Annie. To refrain from that observation would have been superhuman. But the observation duly made, the old lady also revealed the divine gift of common sense. From all that she had heard the establishment of the Misses Lippincott was immensely desirable. Moreover, she clearly remembered the Bishop, their late father, coming to spend the week-end at the real Bowley, and hearing him preach a singularly moving sermon in the little parish church. Small wonder, then, that the tone of Broadwood House Academy was “exactly right” in every human particular; besides, Aunt Annie had met and approved Miss Priscilla Lippincott on two occasions. Therefore, the old lady promised Aunty Harriet that she herself would see what could be done in the matter.
The first thing Aunt Annie did was to induce the Mayoress, Mrs. Alderman Bradbury, to say a word on the child’s behalf. She promptly followed up this piece of strategy by ordering her state chariot to drive Mistress Mary and herself to Broadwood House Academy.
The child was looking her best. Her carefully-brushed tresses shone like woven sunbeams, her slight, trim form was clothed with taste and elegance, her laughing eyes were frankly unabashed by the demure Miss Priscilla, nay, even by the august Miss Lippincott herself. The effect she made was entirely favorable. Besides, the Mayoress had taken the trouble to call the previous afternoon in order to speak for her, and Miss Sanderson, as the Misses Lippincott knew, was looked up to in Laxton; therefore, out of regard for all the circumstances, a point was waived and little Miss Kelly was reluctantly admitted to Broadwood House Academy.
VI
The Misses Lippincott never had cause to rue their temerity. Little Miss Kelly remained in their care until she was big Miss Kelly, a brilliant and dashing creature with a quite extraordinary length of black stocking. Neither Miss Lippincott nor Miss Priscilla ever regretted her democratic action. In fact, it was a source of jealous remark, even among the most distinguished scholars of Broadwood House Academy, that not one of them could wear the black beaver hat with the purple ribbon and its gold monogram B. H. A., or the blue ulster with gilt buttons, in quite the way that these modish emblems were worn by Mary Kelly.
It greatly annoyed Ethel Cliffe, who lived in The Park, and was a daughter of Sir Joseph, three times Mayor of Laxton, that in looks and popularity she had to yield to the offspring of very much humbler parents, who lived in quite an obscure part of the borough. But it had to be. Year by year the cuckoo that had entered the nest grew in beauty and favor, while the legitimate denizens of Broadwood House could only bite their lips and marvel. In the opinion of Ethel Cliffe and her peers, old Dame Nature must be a perfect idiot not to know her business a bit better.
It was not that Mary Kelly made enemies. Her disposition was open, free, and fearless; her heart was gold. Then, too, in most things, she was amazingly quick. She never made any bones about reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, and so on, she was good at freehand drawing, and the use of the globes, in Swedish drill and ball games, particularly at hockey, she was wonderful, and in music and dancing there was none in the school to compare with her. The only things in which she did not really excel were plain needlework and religious knowledge. These bored her to tears—except that she proudly reserved her tears for matters which seemed of more consequence.
As Mary Kelly’s stockings got longer and longer the supremacy of Ethel Cliffe grew even less secure. Even at Broadwood House Academy it was impossible to subsist entirely on your social eminence. Ethel had openly sneered at the outsider upon her first intrusion in the fold; the only daughter of a very recent knight found it hard to breathe the same air as the offspring of a humble police constable. But Dame Nature, in her ignorant way, bungled the whole thing so miserably, that while Ethel was always very near the bottom of the class, Mary was generally at the top of it; Ethel was heavy and humorless, and inclined to take refuge in her dignity, Mary was bon enfant, with very little in the way of dignity in which to take refuge. And in proof of that, a story was told of her, soon after she passed the age of ten, which ran like wildfire throughout Broadwood House Academy.
It seemed that in the vicinity of Mary’s undistinguished home were certain rude boys. Foremost among them was Mrs. Connor’s Michael, the youngest and not the least vocal of her numerous progeny. And it often happened that Michael was en route from his own seat of learning, where manners did not appear to be in the curriculum, when Mistress Mary was on the way home from Broadwood House Academy, where manners undoubtedly were. In the opinion of Michael’s mother the Connors were quite as good as the Kellys—very much better if it came to that!—and this tradition had been freely imbibed by her youngest hope. The Connors were quite as good as the Kellys, Michael was always careful to inform his peers, but the haughty beauty of Beaconsfield Villas, in her beaver hat and blue ulster with gilt buttons did not share that view. She had simply not so much as a look for Michael and his friends. This aloofness galled them bitterly.
Had she only known such aristocratic indifference was rather cruel. For Michael’s one distinction among his mates, apart from his skill as a marble-player, which was very considerable, was that he lived in the same street as Miss Kelly. She was out and away the most wonderful creature ever seen in that part of Laxton. It was hard to forgive her for carrying her head in the way she did, yet it somehow added still greater piquancy to a personality that simply haunted the manly bosoms of the neighborhood. But her aloofness was felt to be such a reflection upon Michael himself, that at last that warrior was moved to a desperate course.
He took the extreme measure of offering Miss Kelly his best blood alley. But it was in vain; Miss Kelly would have none of his best blood alley, or of its owner. Michael then decided upon war.
In discussing the Kellys on the domestic hearth, he had heard his mother cast grave doubts upon the ancestry of their so-called daughter. Therefore, the spirit of revenge, rankling in Michael’s tormented breast, urged him to adopt a certain rhyme, current at the time, for the chastening of this haughty charmer. Together with a few chosen braves he lay in ambush for her as she wended her proud way home from Broadwood House Academy. As soon as Mary Kelly hove in sight round the corner of Grove Street, S.E., these heroes burst into song:—
“I am Mary Plantagenet.
What would imagine it?
Eyes full of liquid fire,
Hair bright as jet.
No one knows my history
I am the she-ro
Of a penny novelette.”
On the occasion of the first performance, Miss Kelly did not deign to take the slightest notice. But after it had been repeated a number of times with increasing réclame, it grew more than she could brook. One never-to-be-forgotten Friday evening, in the fall of the year, she suddenly handed her satchel of books to her friend, Rose Pierce, and with decks cleared for action and the flame of battle in her eyes, bore down upon the foe. Michael Conner afterwards took his book oath to the effect that he was not a coward. But the beaver hat, the purple ribbon, the blue ulster and the gilt buttons put the fear of God into him very surely. He ran. Alas, he was a stocky youth, not exactly an Ormonde, even in his best paces, whereas Mary Plantagenet, black stockings and all, moved like a thoroughbred. She chased him remorselessly the whole length of Longmore Street, through the Quadrant, finally cornered him in a blind alley in which he had the bad judgment to seek refuge, and soundly boxed his ears.
As far as Mary Kelly was concerned the incident was closed from that moment. Michael Connor very wisely decided to close it also. He returned to his marble-playing a chastened boy. But Rose Pierce, the daughter of Laxton’s leading physician, told the story breathlessly at Broadwood House Academy on the following morning. All agreed that the prestige of the school had been seriously impaired, but Miss Kelly was Mary Plantagenet from that time on.
VII
By the time Mary was fourteen, Broadwood House Academy had taught her most of what it knew. Then arose the question of her future. The Kellys were people in humble circumstances, and it was felt that the child must be put in the way of getting a living. Eliza suggested a shop, Aunt Annie shorthand and typewriting, as she was so quick at her books, but Aunty Harriet vetoed them promptly. And as year by year that autocrat—promoted since the Duke’s breakdown in health to the very important post of housekeeper at Bridport House, Mayfair—had supported the operations of a strong will with an active power of the purse, she carried the day as usual. Mary must be a hospital nurse.
To this scheme, however, there was one serious drawback. No hospital would admit her for training until she was twenty-one. The problem now was, what she should do in the meantime. In order to meet it the Misses Lippincott allowed her to stay on as a special pupil at Broadwood House. Paying no fees, she gave a hand with the younger children, and was able to continue the study of music, for which she showed a special aptitude.
For a time this plan answered very well. The Misses Lippincott had a great regard for Mary. In every way she was a credit to the school. Her natural gifts were of so high an order that these ladies felt that a career was open to her. There was nothing she might not achieve if she set her mind upon it, always excepting plain needlework and religious knowledge, and perhaps freehand drawing, in which she was a little disappointing also. Brimming with vitality and the joy of life and yet with her gay enthusiasm was now coming to be mingled a certain ambition.
As month by month she grew into a creature of charm and magnetism, she seemed to learn the power within herself. But that discovery brought the knowledge that she was a bird in a cage. The daily round began to pall. A rare spirit had perceived bars. Broadwood House Academy was dear to her, but she now craved a larger, a diviner air.
It chanced that she was to be put in the way of her desire. Once a week there came to the school a Miss Waddington, to give lessons in dancing. A pupil of the famous Madame Lemaire, of Park Street, Chelsea, this lady was an accomplished, as well as a very knowledgeable person. From the first she had been greatly attracted by Mary Kelly. An instructed eye saw at once that the girl had personality. Not only was it expressed in form and feature, it was in her outlook, her ideas. There was a rhythm in all that she did, a poetry in the smallest of her actions.
This girl was like no other. And Miss Waddington grew so much impressed that at last came the proud day, when by permission of the Misses Lippincott, Mary was taken to Park Street to the academy, in order that her gifts might be assessed by “Madame.”
The opinion of that famous lady, promulgated in due course, caused a nine days’ wonder at Broadwood House. Madame Lemaire, it seemed, had been so much smitten by the lithe charm of young Miss Kelly, that she offered to take her in at Park Street and train her free of charge for three years.
At once the girl grew wild to take her chance. It meant escape from a life that had already begun to cast long shadows. But her home people saw the thing in a very different light. In their opinion there was a wide gulf between the respectability of Broadwood House and the licentious freedom of Chelsea. Joe and Eliza were at one with Aunt Annie and Aunty Harriet in saying “No” to the proposal.
Mistress Mary, however, was now rising sixteen with a rapidly developing character of her own. Therefore she did not let the strength of opposition daunt her. She set her mind firmly upon Park Street and Madame Lemaire; and very soon, to the intense surprise and chagrin of “her relations,” she had contrived to get the Misses Lippincott on her side.
Very luckily for Mary, those ladies were open-minded and worldly wise. They saw that the career of a highly-trained dancer had prospects far beyond those of a half-educated schoolmistress. Mary was rapidly becoming an asset of Broadwood House, but the ladies, although perhaps a little dubious, allowed themselves to be overpersuaded by Miss Waddington and the girl herself.
There followed a pretty to-do. Aunt Annie was horrified. Such a career, with all deference to the Misses Lippincott, hardly sounded respectable. As for Aunty Harriet, with her usual energy, she made first-hand inquiries in regard to Madame Lemaire. She found that the name of that lady stood high in her profession. But alas! one thing leads to another. Aunty Harriet, who had a shrewd knack of taking long views, had already espied the cloven hoof of the theater. It seemed inevitable that such a girl as Mary should drift towards it. And of that sinister institution Aunty Harriet had a pious horror.
Therefore she opposed Park Street sternly. But the girl fully knew her own mind and meant from the first to have her way. And she played her cards so well that she got it somehow. No doubt it was judicious aid from an influential quarter that finally carried the day. Be that as it may, in spite of all sorts of gloomy prophecies, Mary was able to accept an offer which was to change completely the current of her life.
VIII
The move to Chelsea closed an epoch. At once Mary found herself in a new and fascinating world. Part of the arrangement with Madame Lemaire was that she should “live in” at Park Street, and have freedom to take a fourpenny ’bus on Sundays to Beaconsfield Villas. This was greatly to Mary’s liking. Chelsea, as she soon discovered, had an air more rarefied than Laxton; somehow it had a magic which opened up new vistas. She had been by no means unhappy at Broadwood House, her foster-parents had treated her with every kindness, but she could not help feeling that by comparison with the new life, the old one was rather deadly.
Of course, it would have been black ingratitude to admit anything of the kind. Still, the fact was there. Park Street had a freedom, a gayety, a careless bonhomie far removed from the austerity of Broadwood House. Her life had been enlarged. The hours were long, the work was hard, but her heart was in it, and the novel charm of her surroundings was a perpetual delight.
A month of Park Street brought more knowledge of the world than a lustrum of Broadwood House. Madame Lemaire’s establishment was a famous one, in fact the resort of fashion; to the perceptive Mary the people with whom she had now to rub shoulders had real educational value.
The girl was one of a number of articled pupils, who were taught dancing in order to teach it again. With all of these she got on well. Immensely likeable herself, she had an instinct for liking others. And she was now among a rather picked lot, a little Bohemian perhaps in the general range of their ideas, but friendly, amusing, and at heart “good sorts.” Madame knew her business thoroughly. She seldom erred as to the character and capacity of those whom she chose to help her in return for a valuable training.
Some of the girls who passed through her hands found their way on to the stage. Distinguished names were among them. Indeed, the atmosphere of Park Street was semi-theatrical. Dancing, elocution, singing, physical culture, and fencing were the subjects taught at Madame Lemaire’s academy.
Mary remained nearly three years at Park Street. In that time she came on amazingly. Awake from the first to a knowledge of her gifts, she was secretly determined to use them in the carving out of a career. Broadwood House had sown the seed of ambition; under the able tutelage of Madame Lemaire it was to bear fruit. Stimulated by the outlook of her new friends, soon she began to feel the lure of a larger life. She craved for self-expression through the emotions, and all her energies were bent upon the satisfaction of a vital need.
In the early stages she owed much to Madame Lemaire, who approved her ambition to the full. Here was a talent, and that lady did all in her power to fit a brilliant pupil for the field best suited to it. Unknown to Aunty Harriet, who still cherished the idea of a hospital at the age of twenty-one, unknown to Aunt Annie, who would have been horrified, unknown to Beaconsfield Villas, Mary with the future always before her, set to work under the ægis of Madame to make her dreams come true.
After many diligent months, in the course of which a singularly dainty pair of feet were reënforced by a very serviceable soprano, there came the day when she was given her chance. A theatrical manager, who made a point of attending the annual display of Madame’s pupils at the Terpsichorean Hall, was so struck by her abilities that he offered her an engagement. It was true that it was merely to understudy in the provinces a small part in a musical comedy. But it was a beginning, if an humble one, and its acceptance was strongly advised. It meant the opening of the magic door at which so many are doomed to knock in vain. This girl should go far; but if the new life proved too hard, Madame would be more than willing for her to return to Park Street as a member of her staff.
Alarums and excursions followed. Before a decision could be made the girl felt in honor bound to consult godmother Harriet. So intensely had that lady the welfare of Mary at heart, that she never failed to visit Park Street once a week when in London. There was a very real bond of sympathy between them, which time had deepened. Yet hitherto Mary had not ventured to disclose the scope and nature of her plans. Alas! she had now to launch a bolt from the blue.
The blow fell one Wednesday afternoon when Aunty Harriet came as usual to drink a weekly cup of tea at Park Street with her adopted niece. Aunty Harriet, although she prided herself upon being a woman of the world, was unable to entertain such an idea for a moment. Years ago it had been decided that Mary was to be a hospital nurse. But Mary, now a strong-willed creature of eighteen had made her own decision. For many a month she had been working hard, unknown to her friends, in order to seize the chance when it came. Moreover, she felt within herself that she had found her true vocation.
Aunty Harriet took a high tone. Three years before she had met defeat at the hands of this headstrong young woman in alliance with the Misses Lippincott. In secret, and for a reason only known to herself, she had never ceased to deplore that fact. She made up her mind that she would not be overcome a second time. But she was quite unable to shake the girl’s determination. And there was Madame Lemaire to reckon with. Indeed, that worldly-wise person seconded her clever pupil in the way the Broadwood House ladies had. Nor was it luck altogether that for a second time brought the girl such powerful backing when she needed it most. Behind the engaging air of simple frankness was a will that nothing could shake.
The end of the matter was that two powerful natures came perilously near the point of estrangement. Both had fully made up their minds. That memorable Wednesday afternoon saw a veritable passage of arms, in the course of which Mary, her back to the wall, at last threw down the gage of battle.
Her blunt refusal to submit to dictation came as a shock to Harriet, whose distress seemed out of all proportion to its cause. But to her the project was so demoralizing that she fought against it tooth and nail. She enlisted Aunt Annie, now very infirm and less active as a power, and the girl’s home people at Beaconsfield Villas. But all opposition was vain. The young Amazon had cast the die for better or for worse. To Harriet’s consternation she took the manager’s offer. Disaster was predicted. There were heavy hearts in Laxton, but the heaviest of all was at Bridport House, Mayfair.