A Queen's Error Part 1

A Queen's Error.

by Henry Curties.

CHAPTER I

A STRANGE VISIT

I turned the corner abruptly and found myself in a long, dreary street; looking in the semi-fog and drizzle more desolate than those dismal old-world streets of Bath I had pa.s.sed through already in my aimless wandering; I turned sharply and came almost face to face with her.

She was standing on the upper step, and the door stood open; the house itself looked neglected and with the general appearance of having been shut up for years. The windows were grimed with dirt, and there was that little acc.u.mulation of dust, pieces of straw, and little sc.r.a.ps of paper, under the two steps which tells of long disuse.

She stood on the step, a figure slightly over the middle height, leaning one hand on a walking stick, and her face fascinated me.

It was the face of an old lady of perhaps seventy, hale and healthful, with fresh colour on the cheeks, and bands of perfectly white hair falling over the ears. But it was the expression which attracted me; it was peculiarly sweet and winning.

My halt could only have been momentary. I recollected myself and was pa.s.sing on, when she spoke to me.

"Would you be so kind as to do me a favour, sir?" she asked.

The voice was as sweet and winning as her expression; though she spoke perfect English, yet there was the very slightest _soupcon_ of a foreign accent. Of what country, I could not tell.

I stopped again as she spoke, and having perhaps among my friends a little reputation for politeness to the weaker s.e.x, especially the older members of it--for I am not by way of being a Lothario, be it said--I answered her as politely as I could.

"In what way may I be of service to you?"

She brought her walking stick round in front of her and leant upon it with both hands as she made her request. She then appeared, in the fuller light of the yellow-flamed old-fashioned gas lamp opposite, to be much older than I first thought.

"I want you, if you will," she said, "to come into this house for a few minutes. I wish to ask a further favour of you which I shall then have an opportunity of explaining, but, on the other hand, the service I shall ask will not go unrewarded."

Prepossessing though her appearance and address were, yet I hesitated.

I took another long look at her open face, white hair, and very correct old lady's black hat secured by a veil tied under her chin. It was just such a hat as my own dear mother used to wear.

"You seem to hesitate," she remarked, noting, I suppose, my delay in answering her; "but I a.s.sure you you have nothing to fear."

I took a sudden resolve, despite the many tragedies I had read of in connection with empty houses; I would trust her.

There was something about her face which conveyed confidence.

"Very well," I replied, "if I can be of any use to you, I _will_ come in."

"Thank you," she said, "then kindly follow me."

She turned and held the door for me to pa.s.s in; when I was inside she closed it, and we stood almost in complete darkness, except for the glimmering reflected light of the yellow street lamp opposite, which struggled in through the dirty pane of gla.s.s over the door.

"Now," she added, "I will get a light."

She pa.s.sed me and went to the hall table on which stood one of those candlesticks in which the candle is protected by a gla.s.s chimney. She struck a match and lighted a candle. "Now if you please," she added, going on before me down the dark pa.s.sage. I saw now from her tottering walk that she was much older and much more feeble than I had imagined.

I followed her and saw signs of dust and neglect on every side; the house, I should say, had stood empty for many years. But as I followed the old lady one thing struck me, and that was, that instead of the common candle which I would have expected her to use under the circ.u.mstances, the one she carried in its gla.s.s protector was evidently of fine wax. She took me down a long pa.s.sage, and we came to a flight of stairs leading to the kitchens, I imagined.

"We must go down here," she announced. "I am sorry to have to take you to the bas.e.m.e.nt, but it cannot be helped." Again I had some slight misgivings, but I braced myself. I had made up my mind and I would go forward.

I followed her as she went laboriously step by step down the flight.

At the bottom was the usual long bas.e.m.e.nt pa.s.sage, such as I expected to see, but with this difference, it was swept and evidently well kept.

The old lady led on to the extreme end of this pa.s.sage towards the back of the house, then opened a door on the left hand and walked in. At her invitation I followed her and found her busily lighting more wax candles fixed in old-fashioned sconces on the walls. As each candle burned up I was astonished to find the sort of room it revealed to me.

It was a lady's boudoir beautifully furnished and filled with works of art; china, choice pictures, and old silver abounded on every side; on the hearth burned a bright fire; on the mantelpiece was a very handsome looking-gla.s.s framed in oak. My companion, having lit six candles, went to the windows to draw down the blinds. I interposed and saved her this exertion by doing it myself.

I then became aware that the house, like so many others in Bath, was built on the side of a hill, the front door being on a level with the street, whilst the lower back windows even commanded lovely views over the beautiful valley, the town, and the distant hills beyond.

Below me innumerable lights twinkled out in the streets through the misty air, while here and there brightly lit tram cars wound through the town or mounted the hills. Thick though the air was the sight was exceedingly pretty.

I could now understand how even a room situated as this was in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a house could become habitable and pleasant. The voice of the old lady recalled me to myself as I pulled down the last blind.

"I am sorry to have to bring you down here," she said. "It is hardly the sort of room in which a lady usually receives visitors, but you will perhaps understand my liking for it when I tell you that I have lived here many years."

The information surprised me.

"Whatever induced you to do that?" I asked without thinking, then recollected that I had no right to ask the question. "You must excuse my question," I added, "but I fear you find it very lonely unless you have some one living with you?"

"I live here," she replied, "absolutely alone, and yet I am never lonely."

"You have some occupation?" I suggested.

"Yes," she replied, "I write for the newspapers."

This piece of information astounded me more than ever. I imagined it to be the last place from which "copy" would emanate for the present go-ahead public prints, and the old lady to be the last person who could supply it.

She saw my puzzled look, and came to my aid with further information.

"Not the newspapers of this country," she added, "the newspapers of--of foreign countries."

I was more satisfied with this answer; the requirements of most foreign journals had not appeared to me to be excessive.

"I too am a brother of the pen," I answered, "I write books of sorts."

The old lady broke into a very sweet smile which lighted up her charming old face.

"Permit me to shake hands," she suggested, "with a fellow-sufferer in the cause of Literature."

I took her hand and noted its soft elegance, old though she was.

She crossed to a carved cupboard which was fixed in the wall, and took from it a tiny Venetian decanter, two little gla.s.ses, and a silver cigarette case.

"We must celebrate this meeting," she suggested with another smile, "as disciples of the pen."

She filled the two little gla.s.ses with what afterwards proved to be yellow Chartreuse, and held one gla.s.s towards me.