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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Adventurous Lady," J. C. Snaith presents a captivating narrative that intricately blends elements of romance and adventure within the Victorian literary tradition. The novel showcases the resilience of its spirited protagonist against the backdrop of societal constraints, deftly weaving themes of autonomy and curiosity. Snaith's prose is rich and evocative, characterized by sharp dialogue and striking imagery, engaging readers in a tale that explores the tension between the conventions of femininity and the yearning for self-discovery and agency during an era defined by its restrictive gender roles. J. C. Snaith, an English novelist active in the early 20th century, was known for his keen insights into the evolving roles of women in society. His personal experiences as a traveler and observer of cultural shifts provided a fertile ground for developing strong female characters who challenge the status quo. Snaith's background reflects the transformations of his time, and his works often mirror the aspirations and conflicts faced by women in search of freedom and fulfillment. I highly recommend "The Adventurous Lady" to readers intrigued by tales of empowerment and the complexities of identity within historical contexts. This novel not only entertains but also provokes thoughtful discussions on the societal expectations of its time, making it a pertinent read for those interested in feminist literature and the evolution of character agency.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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The adventurous lady
Table of Contents
I
Peace and her blessings were flowing already. All the same there was a terrible crush at Belgravia. The congestion of passengers and their luggage at the terminus of the B. S. W. was enough to daunt the stoutest heart, but a girl in a sealskin coat with a skunk collar standing at the bookstall on Platform Three was as calm and collected as if the war was still going on. Outwardly at least she made no concession to the fact that the Armistice had been signed three days.
She chose some newspapers and magazines and paid for them with an air that almost treated money with the disdain it reserved for literature. Then she moved towards a figure of sombre dignity standing between the barrier and herself.
“Come on, Pikey,” she said.
A tall, griffin-like woman, craggy of feature but almost oppressively respectable, followed her mistress dourly. The duenna carried a large, queer-shaped, rather disreputable-looking dressing case whose faded purple cover was adorned with a coronet. As their tickets were franked at the barrier, these ladies were informed that “All stations beyond Exeter” were up on the right.
In spite of such clear and explicit instructions, it was not easy to get to all the stations beyond Exeter. Platform Three was a maelstrom of almost every known community. There were Italians and Serbians, Welshmen and such men, Japanese sailors and turbaned Hindoos; the personal suite of President Masaryk; Tommies and poilus; American tars and doughboys; British and Colonial officers, their kit and appurtenances; and over and above all these were the members of the traveling public which in other days had kept the railways running and had paid the shareholders their dividends.
A cool head and a firm will were needed to get as far as the stations beyond Exeter. And these undoubtedly belonged to the girl in the fur coat. Her course was slow but it was calm and sure. With rare fixity of will she pursued it despite the peace that had come so suddenly upon the world. It was a very long train, but she was in no hurry nor did she betray the least anxiety, although somewhere about the middle—Salisbury and Devizes only—she cast a half-glance back to say to her companion, “I don’t see our porter, Pikey.”
To utter the word “porter” just then was either bravado or it was inhuman optimism. But the act of faith was justified by the event, for hardly had the lady of the fur coat made the remark when a figure in corduroys almost miraculously emerged from the welter. Both travelers had a doubt at first as to whether this rare bird was Trotsky himself or merely a Sinn Fein delegate to the Peace Conference, so aloof yet so grim was his manner. But at that moment there seemed to be no other porter on Platform Three—it followed, therefore, that their porter it must be.
It was rather providential perhaps that the porter had been able to find them, but he was by way of being a connoisseur in the human female. He had not been employed at Belgravia for thirty-five years without learning to sort out the various ranks and grades of a heterogeneous society. As a matter of fact, there were only two grades of society for Mr. Trotsky. One grade was worth while, the other was not.
The progress of the party up Platform Three to all the stations beyond Exeter was slow but, like fate, it was inevitable. They walked through, over and beyond armed representatives of five continents, nursemaids with babies and perambulators, not to mention remarkable women with remarkable dogs, trolleys and milk cans and piles of luggage, until at last they reached a compartment not far from the engine. It was notable for the fact that it was two-thirds empty. Rugs, umbrellas and minor portmanteaux claimed the unoccupied seats; those remaining were adorned by two distinguished-looking gentlemen who, however, were reading The Times newspaper with an assiduity that definitely and finally dissociated them from Mr. Trotsky and party.
The lady of the fur coat was in the act of opening her purse at the carriage door when a wild, weak voice said, excitedly, “Oh, porter, can you find me a place—please?”
On instinct Mr. Trotsky disregarded the appeal. There was frenzy in it; and that fact alone made any examination of the overburdened, rather hunted little creature at his elbow unnecessary. Dark fate itself could not have turned a deafer ear than he.
“People are standing in all the thirds.” The piping, rather piteous little note grew more insistent. “I can’t stand all the way to Clavering, St. Mary’s.”
“Not be so full after Reading,” said the laconic Mr. Trotsky, coldly accepting a substantial tip for services rendered.
“But—but there’s no place for my luggage.”
As Miss Fur Coat closed her bag she observed that a rather pretty gray-eyed mouse of a thing bearing a large wickerwork arrangement in one hand and an umbrella and a pilgrim basket in the other was standing at bay. She was literally standing at bay.
“There is room here, I believe.” The air of Miss Fur Coat was cautious and detached, but not unfriendly.
“But this is a first,” said Miss Gray Eyes, “and I have only a third-class ticket.”
“But if there’s no room?” Miss Fur Coat turned a gesture of immensely practical calm upon Mr. Trotsky.
“Better get in, I should think.” The servant of the railway company made the concession to the two honest half-crowns in his palm. “Inspector’ll be along in a minute. Talk to him.”
Mr. Trotsky, having done his duty to the public, turned augustly on his heel to make a private and independent examination of the engine. His advice, however, in the sight of the third-class passenger, seemed sound enough to put into practice. Or, perhaps, it would be more just to say that the other lady put it in practice for her. Miss Fur Coat was curiously quiet and unhurried in all her movements. She was absolutely cool, physically and mentally cool, in spite of the temperature of Platform Three and the mass of fur round her neck, whereas poor little Miss Gray Eyes could hardly breathe in her thin green ulster. And the slow-moving will of Miss Fur Coat had an almost dangerous momentum. Before the third class passenger realized what had happened, she had been taken charge of.
“Go first, Pikey. Clear a seat for this lady.”
Slightly Olympian if you like, but tremendously effective. Pikey, who looked fully capable of swallowing Miss Gray Eyes whole with a single motion of her large and powerful jaws, entered the carriage, and calmly and competently transferred a plaid traveling rug and a leather-handled umbrella from one seat to the next.
“Thank you so much—thank you ever so much,” twittered the lady of the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of the Times newspaper.
A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for an hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in anger than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell pince-nez. One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people these times! Still the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another half crown.
“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on almost the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.
The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not call for comment, a message was received from another department to ask what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the incident ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned—ended almost before it began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did not amount to an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.
II
The Inspector came along to look at the tickets.
“You must either pay excess or change into a third,” he said firmly at the sight of the third class ticket.
“But there’s no room,” its owner faltered. It is a phrase no longer in vogue in the best novels, but the little lady of the green ulster was of the faltering type.
“Plenty of room presently.” So firm was the Inspector he might have been Marshal Foch himself. “Meantime you must find a place somewhere else.”
At this cruel mandate the little lady shivered under her bright thin garment.
“How much—how much is there to pay?” It was mere desperation. There were only a few—a very few shillings in her purse. All her available capital had been put into the green ulster and the new serge suit she was wearing and a black felt hat with a neat green ribbon. But to be torn out of that haven of refuge, to be flung again, bag and baggage, into the maelstrom of Platform Three—the thought was paralyzing.
The Inspector condescended to look again at the third-class ticket. “Clavering St. Mary’s. There’ll be twenty-one and six-pence excess.”
Miss Gray Eyes wilted visibly.
“I can’t stand here all day,” announced the Inspector. “This train was due out a quarter of an hour ago.”
“But—” faltered the unlucky passenger.
“You’ll have to come out and find room lower down.”
At this point a slow, cool, rather cautious voice said “Inspector.”
“Madam?” It was a decidedly imperative “madam.”
“If there is no room in the third-class compartments this lady is allowed a seat here, isn’t she?”
“There is room—if she’ll take the trouble to look for it.”
“She says there isn’t.” If anything the voice of Miss Fur Coat had grown slower and cooler.
“I say there is.” The Inspector knew he was addressing a bona fide first-class passenger, all the same he was terribly inspectorial.
“Well perhaps you’ll find it for her.” The considered coolness was almost uncanny. “And then, perhaps, you’ll come back and show her where it is.”
The Inspector was obviously a little stunned by Miss Fur Coat’s suggestion, but he managed to blurt out, “And what about the train in the meantime?” Then he went for Miss Green Ulster with a truculence that verged on savagery. “Come on, madam. Come on out.”
“I don’t think I’d move if I were you.” The manner of the other lady was quite impersonal.
“Very well, then,”—the Inspector produced a portentous looking notebook—“I must have your name and address.”
It is quite certain that Miss Gray Eyes would have yielded to this awful threat of legal proceedings to follow had it not been for the further intervention of the good fairy or the evil genius opposite.
“You had better take mine, Inspector.” The voice was really inimitable. “My father, I believe, is a director of your company.”
Miss Fur Coat knew that her father was a director of a railway company. She didn’t know the name of it, nor did she know the name of the company by which she was traveling, nor was she a student of Hegel, or for that matter of any other philosopher, but there really seemed no reason at that moment why they should not be one and the same.
The Inspector turned to confront the occupant of the corner seat. It would be an abuse of language to say that he turned deferentially, but somehow his notebook and pencil certainly looked a shade less truculent.
“I had better give you a card.” It was almost the voice of a dreamer, yet the dry precision was really inimitable. “Pikey,”—she addressed the lady opposite—“you have some cards?”
The duenna opened the queer-shaped dressing bag with an air of stern disapproval. At the top was a small leather case which she handed to her mistress.
“Inspector, this is my mother’s card. My father is Lord Carabbas. That is my name”—a neatly gloved finger indicated the middle—“Lady Elfreda Catkin.” She pronounced the name very slowly and distinctly and with a care that seemed to give it really remarkable importance.
The Inspector glanced at the card. Then he glanced at Lady Elfreda. He made no comment. All the same a subtle change came over him. It was hard to define, but it seemed to soften, almost to humanize him. Finally it culminated in an abrupt withdrawal from the compartment with a slight raising of the hat.
Before the train started, which in the course of the next three minutes it reluctantly did, the guard came and locked the carriage door.
England ranks as a democratic country, but the fact that a daughter of the Marquis of Carabbas was sitting in the left-hand corner, with her back to the engine, lent somehow a quality to the atmosphere of the compartment which would hardly have been there had its locale been the rolling stock of the Tahiti Great Western or the Timbuctoo Grand Trunk. At any rate two diligent students of The Times newspaper peered solemnly at each other over the top of their favorite journal. Both lived in Eaton Place, they had belonged for years to the same clubs, they were known to each other perfectly well by sight but they jobbed in different markets; therefore they had yet to speak their first word to each other—for no better reason than that he who spoke first would have to make some little sacrifice of personal dignity in order to do so.
Now, of course, was not the moment to break the habit of years, but if their solemn eyes meant anything their minds held but a single thought. Carabbas himself did not cut much ice in the City, but if he was joining the board of the B. S. W. it meant that the astute Angora connection was coming into Home Rails, in which case purely as a matter of academic interest, there would be no harm in turning to page fifteen in order to look at the price of B. S. W. First Preferred Stock.
That was all the incident meant to these Olympians, just that and nothing more. But for the little lady of the green ulster it was of wholly different portent. When shortly after nine o’clock that morning she had left the home of her fathers in the modest suburb of Laxton she had not dreamt that before midday she would find herself under the personal protection of the daughter of a marquis. It was her good fortune to be living in the golden age of democracy, but...!
She stole a covert glance at the fur coat opposite. Such a garment in itself was no longer a mark of caste, but this was rather a special affair, a sealskin with a skunk collar, so simple, so unpretending that it needed almost the glance of an expert to tell that it had cost a great deal of money. Then she glanced at the hat above it, a plain black velour with a twist of skunk round it, then down at the neat—the adorably neat!—shoes, and then very shyly up again to their wearer. But their wearer was holding the Society Pictorial in front of her, and in the opinion of the third class passenger it was, perhaps, just as well that she was. Otherwise she could hardly have failed to read what was passing in the mind of the Lady of Laxton. She must have seen something of the envy and the awe, of the eager, the too-eager interest which all the care in the world could not veil.
Miss Gray Eyes knew and felt she was a little snob, a mean and rather vulgar little snob in the presence of Miss Puss-in-the-Corner, the tip of whose decisive chin was just visible between her paper and her rich fur collar.
What must it feel like to be the daughter of a marquis? A crude and silly inner self put the question. A daughter of a marquis is just like anybody else’s daughter—the answer came pat, but somehow at that moment the third class passenger was unable to accept it. A gulf yawned between herself and the girl opposite. They were of an age; their heights and their proportions were nearly identical; at a first glance they might almost have passed for sisters except that Miss Gray Eyes was quite sure in her heart that she was the prettier; all the same there was a world of difference in the way they looked at life and a whole cosmos in the way life looked at them.
The little lady sighed at her thoughts—they were hard thoughts—and opened her pilgrim basket. She took from it a notebook and pencil and a dog-eared copy of The Patrician, the famous novel of Mr. John Galsworthy, which bore the imprint of the Laxton Cube Library. For two years past she had prescribed for herself a course of the best modern English fiction. She was reading it diligently, less for relaxation and human enjoyment than for purposes of self improvement. Her social opportunities had been few and narrow, although her parents had rather ambitiously given her an education excellent of its kind at the Laxton High School for Young Ladies, which she had been able to supplement by passing the Oxford Preliminary Examination.
For the second time in her life of twenty years Miss Cass—she was known to her friends as Girlie Cass—had taken a situation as a nursery governess. She had had one brief experience which had been terminated by her mother’s illness and death. Since then she had been three months a government clerk, but she was not quick at figures and she couldn’t write shorthand. Life as a nursery governess was not going to be a bed of roses for one as shy and sensitive as herself, but she was genuinely fond of young children and somehow such a career with all its thorns seemed more suited to one of her disposition than a stand-up fight in the peace that was coming with terribly efficient competitors, who, if they happened to want your particular piece of cake, would have no scruples about knocking you down and trampling upon your prostrate body in order to get it.
If Miss Cass had any taint of vanity it was centered in the fact that she was by way of being a high-brow. She was not a high-brow of the breed that looks and dresses and acts and thinks the part. In her case it was more a secret sin than anything and it took the form of competing week by week in the literary competition of the Saturday Sentinel, under the “nom de plume” of Vera.
The subject this week was the “Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.” It was, perhaps, a little advanced for the Laxton Cube Library, but Vera was ambitious. She had not yet won a prize, truth to tell she had not even been in sight of one, but three weeks ago her essay on Jane Eyre had been commended as showing insight. She had not yet got over her excitement at receiving a compliment which in her heart she felt she fully merited. If she plumed herself upon anything it was upon her insight. One day when she had learned a little more about life—her trouble was that she had so little invention—she might even try to write a novel herself. But in her case it would have to be based on first-hand experience. She would not be able, like the Brontë Sisters, to weave a romance out of her inner consciousness.
“The Influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English Novel.” Miss Cass had the bad habit of sucking her pencil, but it was not easy to marshal or to set down one’s thoughts with the train converging upon Reading at forty miles an hour. However, she was able to write the heading quite legibly. But then her difficulties began. What exactly was the influence of Mr. John Galsworthy upon the English novel?
“Pikey.” It was almost the nicest voice Miss Gray Eyes had ever heard, yet curiously low and penetrating in quality. “Do you recognize that?” Miss Fur Coat folded back a page of her paper to display a photograph of a famous beauty. “Rather flattering, don’t you think?”
Pikey lowered The Queen, which she had been studying with a kind of latent ferocity, and exchanged periodicals without comment. She was evidently a creature of very few words, and to judge by a certain morose dignity it seemed to argue considerable hardihood on the part of anyone to address her at all familiarly.
Miss Cass could not help wondering what the status was of this duenna who seemed a cross between a lady’s maid and a werewolf. But the chain of her reflections was interrupted by the stopping of the train at a station of which she could not see the name. Here the two gentlemen got out, after one of them had lowered the window and had called to an official to unlock the door. And in the order of their going the student of The Patrician noticed that while neither of them showed any particular concern for the green ulster, both were very careful not to tread upon the fur coat.
III
The three ladies now had the carriage to themselves. As soon as the train had moved out of the station, Lady Elfreda discarded The Queen and said, “What have you brought for luncheon, Pikey?”
The Society Pictorial was laid aside while Pikey came resolutely to grips with an interesting looking case which had been placed on a vacant seat. In the meantime the blessed word “luncheon” had brought a pang to the heart of Miss Cass. On leaving her home that morning it had been her intention to procure some food en route. Alas, the difficulties of metropolitan travel, the irregularity of ’bus and train culminating in a bear fight at Belgravia, had driven all minor matters out of a head that was not very strong in practical affairs. Therefore it was now the part of Miss Gray Eyes to regard wistfully, from behind her book, the disclosure of the contents of the luncheon basket. Certainly it was quite in the tradition of a marquis’ daughter. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place: delicious looking sandwiches in neat tins, a cake which for war time could only be described as royal, and crowning glory and wonder, a large bottle of wine most artfully packed with glasses and corkscrew complete.
Lady Elfreda shed one neat glove with a very businesslike air and offered the contents of the tins. “Those are egg, Pikey—and these are ham, I think.”
The choice of Pikey was ham. The younger lady inserted a very level row of teeth into the other kind. “Considerin’,” she remarked with obvious satisfaction, “that these left Ireland at midnight they have stood the journey pretty well.”
But the Werewolf was too busy to attempt any form of conversation.
Behind The Patrician, now rigidly fixed as a barrier, the mouth of Miss Cass was watering. Within her was the emotion of sinking which marks the sense of zero. It was a terribly long journey to Clavering St. Mary’s. The train was not due in until after four. If only she had provided herself with a piece of chocolate! At the next stopping place, perhaps, she might be able to get something, but it was by no means a certainty, having regard to the length of the train and the present time of famine.
Suddenly Miss Cass was driven clean out of her dismal reflections. A voice of irresistible charm was addressing her. “Won’t you have one of these?” Both tins were offered. “Ham—and those are egg.”
Miss Cash blushed and hesitated. There was not the slightest need to do either, but it was her nature to blush and to hesitate, and there is no appeal from nature. A pair of eyes, very blue, very clear and only very slightly ironical looked straight into hers. “Do.” The voice was extraordinarily kind. “Please!—won’t you?”
It would have called for a heart of stone to resist such an appeal. Besides, there was no need to resist it.
“Oh, thank you ever so much.” A small piece of paper was laid reverently upon The Patrician and a delicious looking egg sandwich was laid with similar reverence upon it. Then a white woolen glove was carefully removed.
The flavor of the sandwich was quite equal to its appearance. But it was a mere prelude to the repast. There was a profusion of excellent things, not a vulgar or ostentatious profusion, but the case had come from a land flowing with milk and honey. Miss Cass was firmly required to do her part with both kinds of sandwiches—dreams of sandwiches they were!—alluring biscuits and rich, almond-studded cake. Above all—and to be perfectly frank there would be no story without it—she was compelled to drink honest measure of a generous and full-bodied wine.
The sombre eyes of Pikey glistened when she took this royal vintage out of its improvised cradle and held it up to the light. “Herself said it would be good on the journey,” she announced.
“I know you are clever with corkscrews, Pikey,” said Lady Elfreda, handing the implement persuasively.
Pikey was very clever indeed with corkscrews if her present performance was anything to go by.
“Be very ca-re-ful how you pour it out.” Such words were superfluous, which Lady Elfreda well knew; in point of fact, they were a mere concession to the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas, for Pikey showed herself a past mistress in the art of decanting a great wine under trying conditions.
“Clever Pikey!”
Clever enough. The Werewolf had not dwelt from babyhood at Castle Carabbas and brought up half a dozen members of the Family without acquiring knowledge which in some quarters was rated highly.
When she had delicately filled the tumbler to two-thirds of its capacity she handed it to her mistress with something of the air of sovereign pontiff. But to Pikey’s cold disgust that Irresponsible offered it to the lady of the green ulster. Nay, she did more than offer it. She pressed it upon the almost too obvious third-class passenger with a cunning that made resistance almost impossible.
“Do—please! You have such a long journey.” The blue eyes were smiling. “It will do you so much good.” The tone was charming entreaty.
“But—but!” faltered Miss Cass.
“There is a great deal more than we shall require. It is quite a large bottle.” That statement was very true. It was a decidedly large bottle.
The Dragon scowled over the fur clad shoulder of her mistress, whom she would willingly have slain. Nevertheless Miss Cass had to yield to force majeure.
“Those plain round biscuits are strongly recommended. They make an excellent combination”—clever old Pikey to have thought of those!—“You see, there is any amount—far more than we shall want.”
Resistance was vain. Miss Gray Eyes accepted a plain round biscuit and then she drank of the full-bodied wine from the famous cellar of Castle Carabbas.
“This is for you and me, Pikey.” The Dragon, a figure of grim disapproval, had charged the one remaining tumbler. “You must have the first drink. That is your side of the Atlantic,” Lady Elfreda humorously drew an imaginary line across the mouth of the tumbler. “This is my side.”
Pikey drank. But her nose was so long that it seemed to stretch from Queenstown to Old Point Comfort.
Yes, a great wine, as none knew better than Pikey. She could not bear to see it wasted on Miss No-Class. If Pikey’s will had prevailed it would have choked the lady of the green ulster. What right had she to be drinking it, much less to be having a tumbler to herself?
Who knows what imprisoned genius lurked in that magic bottle from the cellar of Castle Carabbas? Miss Cass had never had such a meal. A modest repast, if you like, yet full of a peculiar virtue. Her thoughts began to fly round, her blood to course quicker; imprisoned forces were unsealed in her brain; phrases, ideas began to shape themselves. The moment with its pains and its fears began to press less heavily. Suddenly she became free of a great kingdom that her dreams had hinted at.
Suppose—entrancing supposition!—she were not an obscure, timid little governess at all, but the daughter of a marquis. She could have looked the part anyway; that was to say, had she been privileged to wear the clothes of the lady opposite she could have made an equally good showing. Privately she felt that with an equal chance she would have made a better. At any rate, if a glass could be depended on, her eyes, which were her chief asset, a rather curious gray, would have gone extremely well with that beautiful skunk collar.
Miss Cass grasped her pencil with a confidence she had never felt before. “The great charm of Mr. Galsworthy’s novels, which they share with the novels of Mr. H. G. Bennett and Mr. Arnold Wells——”
... “This is quite a large bottle, Pikey.”
The eyes of the Dragon glistened ... as if she didn’t know the size of the bottle!
... “You must do your share.” The tumbler was replenished.
That which slept in the royal vintage was known only to the Genie whose happy task it was to stage manage this tiny fragment of the human comedy. For the little Catkin lady, after a second modest recourse to the glass, also began to sit up and take notice. She, too, began to look at the world with other eyes.
Suppose one was little Miss Rabbit opposite? How must the world appear when you wear cheap clothes and you carry your own luggage and you have all suburbia upon your eyebrows? Rather nice eyes, though, by the way. What was the book she was studying? Part of some very difficult examination evidently, to judge by the way the poor hunted little mouse was biting her pencil....
Governess, obviously ... of sorts. What must it be like to get one’s living as a governess? How must it seem to be bored and bullied and snubbed by total strangers for the sake of a few pounds a year? Still in some ways even that mode of life might offer advantages. At any rate one might be able to call one’s soul—one’s real soul—one’s own. If you were an obscure little governess whom nobody cared twopence about, you could do as you liked in the big things, even if the small things did as they liked with you.
There must have been a powerful Genius lurking in that famous bottle, for the ears of Lady Elfreda had begun to tingle with resentment. She remembered that she was an unmarried daughter of a cynical father and a selfish mother. Four of her sisters had been sacrificed on the altar of money. And if the present journey into an unknown country meant anything it was her turn now.
With a pang that was almost agony she searched for and read again her mother’s letter.
Castle Carabbas,
Friday.
Dearest E:
I hope you will have a pleasant time at Clavering St. Mary’s. The D. says you may find the host and hostess rather crude, but otherwise very respectable, nice people. He is on several Boards with your father. You are not likely to have met any of your fellow guests, but no doubt you will find them quite agreeable. And in any case you must bear in mind that you are giving your services for a noble cause. I hear from Mabel that last week you had quite a success in “The Duke of Killiecrankie.” The D. says that if everything else fails you will be able to come out as a star!!!
By the way, one of the new Peers will be included in the house party. He is what the D. calls “a Lloyd-George Particular,” all the same, he says, he is quite a good fellow. He has made his money rather suddenly, but from what one hears he is extremely wealthy. And that is something to bear in mind with things so black over here and the outlook for land so uncertain.
The only people you are likely to know are our old friends the Lancelots who live in the neighborhood. Perhaps you may get out one day to see them.
As you will be among strangers I am sending Pikey to look after you. And “under the rose” she is bringing a bottle of the D.’s choicest Chateau Briault as you may be a little run down after your recent Labors in the cause of charity. If you are bored with your present task you must remember that you are giving your services for St. Aidan’s. Much love,
Your affectionate mother,
Charlotte Carabbas.
P. S.: The D. says the new Peer has at least £60,000 a year.
A second reading of this letter filled Elfreda with fury. Somehow it was so typical of her mother; of the mother who was a curious mixture of kindness, naïveté and cupidity; of the mother who cared for them all so much in small things and so little in great ones. Behind these careless phrases of Lady Carabbas her youngest daughter read her intentions only too clearly.
As Elfreda sat back in her corner and turned things over in her mind a kind of cold rage began to dominate her. Had she been left any choice in the matter she would not be going to Clavering St. Mary’s at all. No one she knew would be there. But she had not been consulted. Her autocratic father had promised one of his friends “in the city” that she should go down there and take part in some private theatricals in aid of a war charity. For nearly a year now she had been living in London with a married sister and working for the V. A. D. at one of the hospitals, but from time to time she had taken part in various entertainments with considerable success.
The play in which at decidedly short notice she had been called upon to enact no less a rôle than that of the heroine was called “The Lady of Laxton.” It was the work of an enthusiastic amateur whose chief claim to distinction, literary or otherwise, was of the kind that attends the possession of a baronetcy. She was to be a governess masquerading as a girl of position. Not only was the part very long and difficult to learn, but in the opinion of Elfreda it was pointless, silly and vulgar.
To make matters worse she had yet to meet the author of the piece, but he was known to several of her sisters with whom he was by no means persona gratissima. However, with a fulsome letter, he had proudly sent her a copy of the piece to which he evidently attached considerable value; and at that moment it was in the traveling bag by her side. Resentfully she took it out and began to study it again. In her present frame of mind, made much worse by her mother’s letter, the task seemed even less congenial than it had done at first. “I simply can’t act such rubbish” was the thought that dominated her.
It was surely too bad to force her into such a position. She dug her teeth into an uncompromising upper lip. Charity excused everything nowadays, but the more she examined the situation she was in, the less she liked it. Beneath the armor of stern self-discipline with which she faced the world were strong feelings, and these flamed suddenly forth into violent antipathy. Surely it was too bad to be let in for a thing of this kind! And she would be among strangers, with as far as she knew, not one solitary friend to help her out.
Her eyes with little darts of anger in them strayed to the girl opposite. Miss Cass was sucking her pencil again in the process of thought, her gaze was fixed on vacancy and she was frowning fiercely. Evidently a very difficult subject she was studying. But, judging by the color in her cheeks, she was the better for her meal.
Elfreda was rather inclined to envy this girl. She could call her soul her own at any rate, even if her bread and butter depended on the overtaxing of her brain.
Accidentally their eyes met. The faint, slightly aloof smile of the one was answered by the other’s honest blush of gratitude.
“Are you studying trigonometry?” Elfreda had never studied trigonometry herself, nor did she know exactly what trigonometry was, but if there was anything in a name it must be a subject of superhuman difficulty; and taking as a guide the air of concentration and the rumpled brows of Miss Green Ulster her present difficulty could hardly be less than superhuman.
Miss Cass haltingly explained that she was trying to win a prize in the Saturday Sentinel.
“How amusing! But one has to be very clever to do that, hasn’t one?”
Miss Cass was afraid that it was so. She had been trying week by week for nearly a year, but she had only achieved an honorable mention so far. The topic served to break the ice, however, and they began to talk freely. This may have been due to the fact that both were glowing with a generous wine, for it was the habit of neither to indulge in promiscuous conversation with total strangers. But just now, in quite an odd way, their minds began to march together, in fact one almost seemed to be the other’s counterpart.
Miss Green Ulster confided that her name was Cass, that she came from Laxton, that her father, three years dead, had been a solicitor, that her mother had been dead six months, that she was left unprovided for, and that by the recommendation of Canon Carnaby, the vicar of the parish, who had been very good to her mother and herself, she was going as governess to the two young children of Lieutenant Colonel Everard Trenchard-Simpson, D. S. O., The Laurels, Clavering St. Mary’s.
Elfreda was secretly amused by a simplicity which told so much and concealed so little. All the same she was oddly attracted by the way this little suburban laid all her cards on the table. Her hopes, her fears, her pathetic desire for self improvement, the general bleakness of her outlook, her cruel sense of loneliness now that her mother as well as her father was dead, her poverty, her lack of a really first-class education, the exposure of all these things verged upon the indecent, but somehow they called insistently for pity.
Poor Miss Cass! And yet ... Elfreda shivered at her thoughts ... lucky Miss Cass!
“How thrilling to act ... in public ... on a real stage ... to a real audience!” The gray eyes looked quite charming in their awe and their sincerity.
