Memoirs of a Midget Part 50

Chapter Forty-Nine

When next f.a.n.n.y and I met, it was in the cool grey-green summery drawing-room at Monk's House, and Mrs Monnerie and Susan shared tea with us. One covert glance at Mrs Monnerie's face had rea.s.sured me. That strange mask was as vigilant and secretive, but as serene, as when it had first smiled on me in the mauves and gildings of Brunswick House.

She had set her world right again and was at peace with mankind. As complacently as ever she stretched me out her finger. She had not even taken the trouble to forgive me for my little "scene"; had let it perish of its own insignificance. Oh, I thought, if I could be as life-size as that! I did not learn till many days afterwards, however, that she had had news of me from France. _Good_ news, which Sir W., trusting in my patience and commonsense, had kept back from me until he could deliver it in person and we could enjoy it together.

Only one topic of conversation was ours that afternoon--that "amazing Prodigy of Nature," the Spanish Princess; Mrs Monnerie's one regret that she herself had not discovered a star of such ineffably minute magnitude. Yet her teasing and sarcasm were so nimble and good-humoured; she insinuated so pleasantly her little drolleries and innuendoes; that even if Miss M. had had true cause for envy and malice, she could have taken no offence. Far from it.

I looked out of the long open windows at the dipping, flittering wagtails on the lawn; shrugged my shoulders; made little mouths at her with every appearance of wounded vanity. Did she really think, I inquired earnestly, that that shameless creature was as lovely as the showman's bills made her out to be? Mightn't it all be a cheat, a trick?

Didn't they always exaggerate--just to make money? The more jovially she enjoyed my discomfiture, nodding her head, swaying in her chair, the more I enjoyed my duplicity. The real danger was that I should be a little too clever, over-act my part, and arouse her suspicions.

"Ah, you little know, you little know," I muttered to myself, sharply conscious the while of the still, threatening presence of f.a.n.n.y. But she meant to let me go--that was enough. It was to be good riddance to bad rubbish. There was nothing to fear from her--yet. Her eyes lightly dwelling on me over her Chelsea teacup, she sat drinking us in. Well, she should never taunt me with not having played up to her conception of me.

"Well, well," Mrs Monnerie concluded, "all it means, my dear, is that you are not quite such a rarity as we supposed. Who is? There's nothing unique in this old world; though character, even bad character, never fails to make its mark. Ask Mr Pellew."

"But, surely, Mrs Monnerie," said I, "it isn't character to sell yourself at twopence a look."

"Mere scruples, Poppet," she retorted. "Think of it. If only you could have pocketed that pretty little fastidiousness of yours, the newspapers would now be ringing with your fame. And the fortune! You are too pernickety. Aren't we all of us on show? And aren't nine out of ten of us striving to be more on show than we are ent.i.tled to be? If man's first disobedience and the rest of it doesn't mean that, then what, I ask you, Mademoiselle _Bas Bleu_, was the sour old Puritan so concerned about? a.s.sist me, Susan, if I stumble."

"I wish I could, Aunt Alice," said Susan sweetly, cutting the cake. "You must ask Miss Bowater."

"_Please_, Miss Monnerie," drawled f.a.n.n.y.

"Whether or not," said Mrs Monnerie crisply, "I beseech you, children, don't quarrel about it. There is our beloved Sovereign on her throne; and there the last innocent little victim in its cradle; and there's the old sun waggishly illuminating the whole creaking stage. Blind beggar and dog, Toby, artists, authors, parsons, statesmen--heart and everything else, or everything else but heart, on sleeve--and all on show--every one of them--at _something_ a look. No, my dear, there's only one private life, the next: and, according to some accounts, that will be more public than ever. And so twirls the Merry-go-Round."

Her voice relapsed, as it were, into herself again, and she drew in her lips. She looked about her as if in faint surprise; and in returning to its usual expression, it seemed to me that her countenance had paused an instant in an exceedingly melancholy condition. Perhaps she had caught the glint of sympathy in my eye.

"But isn't that all choice, Mrs Monnerie?" I leaned forward to ask. "And aren't some people what one might call conspicuous, simply because they are really and truly, as it were, superior to other people? I don't mean better--just superior."

"I _think_, Mrs Monnerie," murmured f.a.n.n.y deprecatingly, "she's referring to that '_ad infinitum_' jingle--about the fleas, you know. Or was it Dr Watts, Midgetina?"

"Never mind about Dr Watts," said Mrs Monnerie flatly. "The point from which we have strayed, my dear, is that even if you were not born great, you were born exquisite; and now here's this Angelique rigmarole----"

Her face creased up into its old good-humoured facetiousness: "Was it three inches, Miss Bowater?"

"Four, Mrs Monnerie," lipped f.a.n.n.y suavely.

"Four! pooh! Still, that's what they say; half a head or more, my dear, more exquisite! Perfect nonsense, of course. It's physically impossible.

These Radical newspapers! And the absinthe, too." Her small black-brown eyes roamed round a little emptily. Absinthe! was that a f.a.n.n.y story?

"But there, my child," she added easily, "you shall see for yourself. We dine with the Padgwick-Steggals; and then go on together. So that's settled. It will be my first travelling circus since I was a child. Most amusing: if the lion doesn't get out, and there's none of those horrible accidents on the trapeze one goes in hope to see. By the way, Miss Bowater, your letter was posted?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs Monnerie--this afternoon; but, as you know, I was a little doubtful about the address." She hastened to pa.s.s me a plate of b.u.t.ton-sized ratafias; and Mrs Monnerie slowly turned a smiling but not quite ingenuous face aside.

"What a curious experience the circus will be for you, Midgetina," f.a.n.n.y was murmuring softly, glancing back over her shoulder towards the tea-table. "Personally, I believe the Signorina Angelique and the rest of it is only one of those horrible twisted up prodigies with all the bones out of place. Mightn't it, Mrs Monnerie, be a sort of shock, you know, for Miss M.? She's still a little pale and peaky."

"She shall come, I say, and see for herself," replied Mrs Monnerie petulantly.

There was a pause. Mrs Monnerie gazed vacantly at the tiers of hot-house flowers that decorated the window-recess. Susan sate with a little forked frown between her brows. She never seemed to derive the least enjoyment from this amiable, harmless midget-baiting. Not at any rate one hundredth part as much as I did. f.a.n.n.y set Plum begging for yet another ratafia. And then, after a long, deep breath, my skin all "gooseflesh," I looked straight across at my old friend.

"I don't think, Mrs Monnerie," I said, "if you don't mind--I don't think I really _wish_ to go."

As if Joshua had spoken, the world stood still.

Mrs Monnerie slowly turned her head. "Another headache?"

"No, I'm perfectly well, thank you. But, whatever I may have said, I don't approve of that poor creature showing herself for--for money. She is selling herself. It _must_ be because there's no other way out."

Finger and thumb outstretched above the cringing little dog, f.a.n.n.y was steadily watching me. With a jerk of my whole body I turned on her. "You agreed with me, f.a.n.n.y, didn't you, in the garden yesterday afternoon?"

Placidly drooped her lids: "Trust, Plum, trust!"

"What!" croaked Mrs Monnerie, "you, Miss Bowater! Guilty of that silly punctilio! She was merely humouring you, child. It will be a most valuable experience. You shall be perfectly protected. Pride, eh? Or is it jealousy? Now what would you say if I promise to try and ransom the poor creature?--buy her out? pension her off? Would _that_ be a nice charitable little thing to do? She might make you quite a pleasant companion."

"Ah, Mrs Monnerie, please let _me_ buy her out. Let me be the intermediary!" I found myself, hands clasped in lap, yearningly stooping towards her, just like a pa.s.sionate young lady in a novel.

She replied ominously, knitting her thick, dark eyebrows. "And how's that to be done, pray, if you sulk here at home?"

"I think, Aunt Alice, it's an excellent plan," cried Susan, "much, much more considerate. She could write. Think of all those horrible people!

The poor thing may have been kidnapped, forced to do her silly tricks like one of those wretched, little barbered-up French poodles. Anyhow, I don't suppose she's there--or anywhere else, for that matter--for _fun_!"

Even Susan's sympathy had its sting.

"Thank you, Susan," was Mrs Monnerie's acid retort. "_Your_ delicate soul can always be counted on. But advice, my child, is much the more valuable when asked for."

"Of course I mustn't interfere, Mrs Monnerie," interposed f.a.n.n.y sweetly; "but wouldn't it perhaps be as well for you to see the poor thing first?

She mayn't be quite--quite a proper kind of person, may she? At least that's what the newspapers seem to suggest. Not, of course, that Miss M.

wouldn't soon teach her better manners."

Mrs Monnerie's head wagged gently in time to her shoe. "H'm. There's something in that, Miss Worldly-Wise. Reports don't seem to flatter her.

But still, I like my own way best. Poppet must _come and see_. After all, she should be the better judge."

Never before had Mrs Monnerie so closely resembled a puffed-out tawny owl.

I looked at her fixedly: shook my head. "No: no judge," I spluttered.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Monnerie, but I _won't_ go."

There was no mis...o...b..ing her anger now. The brows forked. The loose-skinned hands twitched. She lifted herself in her chair, "_Won't_," she said. "You vex me, child. And pray don't wriggle at me in that hysterical fashion. You are beside yourself; trembling like a mouse. You have been mooning alone too much, I can see. Run away and nurse that silly head, and at the same time thank heaven that you have more time and less need of the luxury than some one else we know of. It may be a low life, but it needs courage. I'll say _that_ for her."

She swept her hands to her knees over her silken lap, and turned upon Susan.

Wanderslore