The Letters of her Mother to Elizabeth Part 10

LETTER XXV

MONK'S FOLLY, 6th November

DARLING ELIZABETH:

{_The Tableaux_}

The tableaux were a great success, and Lady Beatrice gave the Taunton people sandwiches and ginger-beer afterwards in the dining-room. Only one of her Sevres dishes was broken, and Mr. Frame dropped a Bohemian goblet that was made in 1530, and had belonged to Wallenstein. He was so frightened that he didn't dare tell Lady Beatrice, and she believes one of the footmen did it.

{_The Baron_}

We had a champagne supper when everybody had gone; it was awfully good, and the Vane-Corduroys' _chef_ did the devilled oysters _a la reine de Serbie_. Mr. Sweetson has gone back to London, so fortunately I didn't have my appet.i.te taken away. He is giving a big dinner at the Carlton to the Copper Trust Directors in honour of a _coup_ he made on the Stock Exchange by wire. I don't exactly understand what it is, but I believe he bought all the copper in the world, and that the value of the common or garden penny will go up. Mrs. Dot came, and after what happened the other night at Astley, I was particularly civil to her. She was quite good-natured, and took the olive branch. She asked me if I could recommend a dentist in Taunton; it seems that when she goes to bed she always puts her false teeth in a gla.s.s of water, and one of the maids threw them away in the slops by mistake. Fortunately she keeps two sets, upper and lower, but the spare plate was made in a great hurry and bruises her gums. I told her Fellowes in Taunton advertised to make a set while you wait, but I didn't know how long he made you wait, and she is going to him to-day. She told me a story about a Baron Finck von Finckelstein whom she met in America, quite by chance, in a restaurant where he was a waiter. The Baron has a ruin on the Rhine, and the family had become so impoverished that he decided to go to America, where he landed literally in his shirt-sleeves, and on account of his elegant manners, Mrs. Dot said, he of course got a situation as waiter in a restaurant; and the proprietor made an awfully good thing out of him, for he got one of the New York Sunday papers to devote a column to the Baron and the restaurant. It was a capital advertis.e.m.e.nt; the article was ill.u.s.trated, and there were cuts of Schloss Finckelstein, the ruin on the Rhine, of the Baron as he landed in New York, of the Baron waiting in the restaurant, and of the proprietor. Mrs. Dot said that there was such a rush for tables that one had to go awfully early to get one, and that the Baron must have made quite a good thing out of it, for n.o.body would have dared give him less than a dollar tip. As the Baron couldn't wait on everybody, the proprietor had _edition de luxe_ menus printed with the Finckelstein twenty-four quarterings on them which you could take away as souvenirs. And Tom Carterville, who was sitting next to me, said he knew the De Mantons had made a mistake in not going to America. Mrs. Dot quite jumped at the idea; she knew the family would do well, and that they would very likely get an engagement all together to travel about the country with Barnum's. She was sure that a whole family of Norman Conquest aristocrats would draw just like the Baby Venus or the Missing Link. Tom looked sheepish, and I believe Mrs. Dot is not as simple as she seems, and was getting at him.

{_A Subscription Ball_}

There is a subscription ball at the Carterville Arms in Taunton to-night. The tickets are four shillings. Lady Beatrice is the patroness, and the money will be given to the Soldiers' Widows' and Orphans' Fund. Of course everybody will go, and Paquin sent me such a dream of a frock this morning. I wish you could meet me in town next week for the Clandevil-Parker wedding, but of course if Lord Valmond is in your neighbourhood it would be folly for you to leave. I have written to Octavia to bring him to the scratch. She is so clever and such a dear, and knows how to help you just as if I myself were with you. I am expecting daily to hear you have caught him. Best of luck from--Your dearest Mamma.

{_An Accident_}

_P. S._ 6.30 P.M.--Mrs. Chevington came to tea this afternoon and brought the news that Mr. Vane-Corduroy was rabbit shooting this morning and blew off two of his fingers. It seems his man gave him ball cartridge by mistake, and the bullet hit Lady Beatrice's horse as she was driving past the field in which Mr. Vane-Corduroy was shooting at the time of the accident. Poor Lady Beatrice was frightened out of her wits, and Mr. Vane-Corduroy, who saw her pa.s.sing and heard her scream, thought he had killed her. Mrs. Chevington says she thinks the Vane-Corduroys were more worried over killing Lady Beatrice's horse than over Mr. Vane-Corduroy's missing fingers. Mrs. Vane-Corduroy at once despatched a note to Braxome, full of the profoundest apologies, and saying they had taken the liberty of wiring instantly to Tattersall's to send down a horse to replace the one Mr. Vane-Corduroy was so unfortunate as to kill. Mrs. Chevington was at Braxome when the letter arrived. She says Tom told his mother that she should accept the new horse, as it would be undoubtedly superior to the old crock that jogged her about the country, and he thought that before c.o.c.kney millionaires turned country gentlemen they ought to take lessons at a shooting gallery.

{_The Ball_}

_P. S. S._ 2.30 A.M.--I have just got home from the ball at the Carterville Arms, and as I find your letter has not been posted, and I am not very sleepy, I will add a postscript to it before going to sleep.

The ball was a financial success, and the Mayor told Lady Beatrice her patronage was invaluable. He took her in to supper, and in his speech he spoke of nothing but her ladyship's virtues. As Tom said, he made you feel that the ball had been given expressly for her benefit, and not at all for the Soldiers' Widows and Orphans. Of course, the Vane-Corduroys were not present, and there was an alarming rumour at one time that Mr.

Vane-Corduroy was bleeding to death. Everybody came up to Lady Beatrice, and congratulated her on her narrow escape. In fact, at supper the Mayor quite drew tears to the Taunton people's eyes when he referred to it.

Lady Beatrice tried to look unconcerned, as if she deprecated the Mayor's fine compliments, but when in a faltering voice he declared how the whole countryside would miss "good, honest, steady old Jock, who had for so many years drawn her ladyship about on her errands of mercy,"

Lady Beatrice burst into tears, and the Mayor became so affected at the havoc he had wrought, that he wished "the bullet of the London mushroom"

(poor Mr. Vane-Corduroy bleeding to death at Shotover!) had lodged in his own magisterial breast. Mr. Parker whispered to me that the Veuve Clicquot was sweeter than usual.

{_Tom Proposes_}

There was a das at one end of the ball-room, and here Lady Beatrice received the "canle" as Mr. Parker expressed it. She wore purple velvet and amethysts, and looked perfectly monstrous, and the room was so hot that beads of perspiration formed on her temples, and made little lanes in the rouge on her cheeks. Nevertheless, in spite of her appearance, Lady Beatrice can be quite _grande dame_ when she wishes, and she did the honours of the evening in the most dignified way. And I suppose if you are a duke's daughter, and have such a place as Braxome Towers and twenty thousand a year, you can afford to look like a scarecrow. The floors were awfully good, and all my partners danced well. But, would you believe it, that silly boy, Tom Carterville, actually proposed to me, and was quite serious about it too! We were sitting in a sort of ante-room by ourselves, and Tom, who is anything but shy, suddenly became as awkward and bashful as a school-girl, and blurted out how madly he loved me, and had ever since he saw me at Braxome the day he got back from South Africa. He looked just like his mother, and I could hardly keep from laughing, and tried to turn all he said into a joke.

Then he got quite hot and perspiry and breathed hard, and he begged me to accept him; he had never loved any one as he did me, and he didn't ever think of or mind the difference in our ages. He acted just like they do in Miss Braddon, and accused me of having given him every encouragement, and wondered how G.o.d could make a woman so fair and so false. He took me by the hands and looked into my eyes, then dropped them and groaned, and wished they'd sent him to the Front in South Africa. I knew he meant all he said too, because he was so earnest, and I could have half pitied him if he hadn't looked so much like Lady Beatrice. He made me feel so uncomfortable, for I thought someone would come into the room every minute, and I begged him to take me back to the ball-room and not be a silly boy. He laughed such a queer laugh; it had a sort of sob in it, and he said quite fiercely that I didn't know how I had wounded him, but that he loved me all the same, and that if he remained in Somersetshire and was near me all the time, the wound would never heal; and he intends to go out to South Africa at once, and is going up to London to-morrow, for he wanted plenty of action and excitement and danger to help him pull himself together again.

{_Tom Rejected_}

I begged him on no account, if he loved me, to tell his mother, for she would never speak to me again. He said, did I really have such a poor opinion of him, and it hurt him cruelly, for he was a gentleman and a man of honour. I told him he could kiss me just once, if he liked, for he was so very much in earnest, and that we should part friends. But he wouldn't, for he said the memory of it would haunt him.

When we got back to the ball-room people stared at us awfully hard, and I heard that odious Mrs. Fordythe tell someone, "He is too good for that frivolous little Paquin doll." I am sure she meant me. I do wish boys wouldn't fall in love with one, for they are so serious and earnest and masterful, and make one feel as if one had really done them an injury. I whispered to Tom before he left me, right in the midst of a horrid lot of frumpy chaperones, that I hoped he would come back safe from South Africa, and he said I was rubbing it in, and he hoped the first bullet would strike home. I really thought someone would hear, he spoke so loud. And there is no telling, Elizabeth, if Tom had been older and not so much like his mother, I might have taken him, for Braxome and twenty thousand a year are not to be found at one's feet every day. But, as it is, it is quite out of the question, and I charge you not to mention a word of this to anyone, for it would be sure to get back here, and people say such nasty things. Good-night.--Your dearest Mamma.

LETTER XXVI

MONK'S FOLLY, 8th November

DARLING ELIZABETH:

{_Typhoid Fever_}

Mrs. Blaine and six others of Father Ribbit's flock are down with typhoid fever. Dr. Smart and the sanitary inspector have traced it to the Communion wine at St. Leo's. The London papers have got hold of the story, and yesterday's _Daily Sensation_ had an article on it headed "Bacteria in the Chalice," "Typhoid in a Cup of Holy Wine." Mr. Parker says it beats anything he ever read in an American paper, and thinks we have nothing more to learn in that line from Yankee journalism.

Naturally it has been a nasty knock for the Ritualists, and will frighten people away from the sacrament at St. Leo's. Father Ribbit wrote to the Taunton papers to-day about it, and said that he will henceforth advocate the "separate vessel" system, which he understands is in vogue in America, and he is soliciting subscriptions for fifty chalices.

At Mr. Frame's, Lady Beatrice, to whom the cup is always pa.s.sed first, set the fashion of wiping the rim with her handkerchief, which precaution has, till the present, been efficacious. The Chevingtons, the Blaines, and the best families who go to St. Leo's, are going to provide their own communion cups, but, as Mr. Parker said, it will be interesting to note the strength of Father Ribbit's head, for he has to drink all the wine that is left over that not a drop may be wasted, as of course it is sacred. Altogether, the typhoid at St. Leo's has opened some curious speculation, and has for the moment put all other topics out of consideration.

Mr. Vane-Corduroy has been p.r.o.nounced out of danger; his mangled fingers have been successfully amputated. He will not be able to go up to town to-morrow to the wedding of Miss Parker, but the doctor says he must go to the Riviera for a change as soon as possible, as the shock to his system has been a great one. So after this week Shotover will be shut up.

{_Tom Enlists_}

Tom Carterville left for London the day after the ball, as he said, and Lady Beatrice was in consternation on getting a telegram from him saying he would sail for the Cape in the new draft of Yeomanry in a week's time. As I feel that I am in a measure responsible for the grief at Braxome and Tom's exile, I wrote him a nice little note to-day, and enclosed a bunch of forget-me-nots and my photo.

I hardly see anything of Blanche now-a-days; since she and Daisy have taken up theatricals so seriously they have no time for dropping in for tea as they used. Of course, now that Mrs. Blaine is ill, they will be busier than ever, though Mrs. Chevington, who was here this morning, says that they are both still at work rehearsing the "Second Mrs.

Tanqueray." Daisy's head seems quite turned by the praise she got in that non-professional drawing-room thing, "My Lord in Livery." She told Mrs. Chevington she always knew she had acting in her, and she wants to go up to London and go on the stage. But that is always the way with amateurs. They begin with one of these pieces peculiar to Church entertainments that one never sees, save in country school-rooms, and they immediately afterwards try Sheridan or Pinero. One hardly knows which is duller to watch.

{_A Droll Performance_}

And talking of plays reminds me that I was particularly asked by Lady Beatrice to go to the Taunton Orphan Asylum this afternoon and see the children do "The Merchant of Venice." It was the drollest performance I ever remember attending. When I got there I found two long files, one of boys, the other of girls, waiting in a corridor outside of the hall. A caretaker, with a nose like Job Trotter's, was keeping the "s.e.xes separated," and the children, who were anywhere from five years of age up to ten, were jabbering like a lot of rooks. I instinctively wondered what would happen if Mr. Trotter's authority was withdrawn for a few minutes. While I waited for the door of the hall to be opened, Lady Beatrice and the matron arrived, and Lady Beatrice, who wore a sort of short bicycle skirt, and a felt hat with a pheasant's feather in it, and looked as if she ought to have carried a bunch of edelweiss and an alpenstock with a chamois-horn handle, exclaimed, in her voice which is always down in her boots:--

"Ah, my little dears! Each good little boy and girl is going to be given an apple and a bun, and each bad little boy and girl will get a slice of bread without any b.u.t.ter. Now I hope you will all be good little boys and girls."

"Yes, please, ladyship," they all piped in unison, and the matron let us all into the hall.

I don't know whether it was droller to watch the brats murder Shakespeare, or the marked interest taken in the performance by Lady Beatrice, the matron, and some of the patronesses. Shylock was too absurd; he was about ten and wore a funny little goatee. He nor any of the others understood a word of what they were saying; they had learnt it by heart like the alphabet, and recited it in shrill sing-song. When Master Shylock called for the scales, they brought him a pair such as you see in doll's houses, and when he sharpened his little knife, Lady Beatrice's "little dears" stood up in their seats with excitement and squeaked like a lot of guinea-pigs. But even more comical than the children mouthing Shakespeare was the fact of the stage-manager of a London theatre, that Lady Beatrice has had down once a week for the last two months to coach the little actors, coming before the curtain and making a speech, in which he told a lie that was so big I should have thought he would have been afraid he would be struck down like Ananias.

He had the cheek to tell us that the Shylock with the goatee and the doll's scales was an undeveloped Roscius--and Lady Beatrice and the matron believed him.

The matron told me that Shakespeare was such a refining influence and that the children were so much improved by his plays, and she was quite horrified when I replied I thought a pantomime would do them more good.

After the performance the "little dears" sat down at long tables and devoured apples and buns, and squeaked like guinea-pigs.

Lady Beatrice said it was a huge success, and that they would try, "As You Like It," next year. When Mr. Parker said that Britons as a race had no sense of humour Lady Beatrice should have told him to go with me to see her "little dears" interpret Shakespeare. I am sure he would have changed his mind.--Your dearest Mamma.

LETTER XXVII

MONK'S FOLLY, 11th November

DARLING ELIZABETH: