Set in Silver
By the way, the left arm seems all right now. Anyhow, he uses it as arms
are meant to be used, so far as I can see, so evidently it improved with
time.
The papers tell about his coming back to England, and his Warwickshire
castle, and the fire, and Mrs. Norton giving up her house in--some
county or other; I've already forgotten which--to live with her
"distinguished brother." Also, they say that he has a ward, whose mother
was a relative of the family, and whose father was the Honourable
Frederic Lethbridge, so well known and popular in society during the
"late eighties." Ellaline was born in 1891. What had become of him, I'd
like to know? Perhaps he died before she was born. She has told me that
she can't remember him, but that's about all she has ever said of her
father.
We are to stay at the Ritz until we start off on the motor trip, which
is actually going to happen, though I was afraid it was too good to be
true. The new car won't be ready for a week, though. I am sorry, but
Mrs. Norton isn't. She is afraid she will be killed, and thinks it will
be a messy sort of death to die. Besides, she likes London. She says her
brother will be "overwhelmed with invitations"; but he hates society,
and loathes being lionized. Imagine the man smothered under stacks of
perfumed notes, as Tarpeia was under the shields and bracelets! Emily
has not lived in London, because she wanted to be in a place where she
particularly valued the vicar and the doctor; but she has given them up
for her brother now, and is only going to write her symptoms, spiritual
and physical. She enjoys church more than anything else, but thinks it
will be her duty to take me about a little while we're in town, as her
brother is sure not to, because he spurns women, and is not interested
in anything they do.
I suppose she must know; and yet, at lunch yesterday, he asked if we
were too tired, or if we should like to "do a few theatres." I
said--because I simply _had_ to spare them a shock later--that I was
afraid I hadn't anything nice to wear. I felt myself go red--for it was
a sort of disgrace to Ellaline--but he didn't seem as much surprised as
Mrs. Norton did. Her eyebrows went up; but he only said of course school
girls never had smart frocks, and I must buy a few dresses at once.
One evening gown would be enough for a young girl, Mrs. Norton said, but
he didn't agree with her. He said he hadn't thought about it, but now
that it occurred to him, he was of opinion that women should have plenty
of nice things. Then, when she told him, rather hurriedly, that she
would choose me something ready made at a good shop in Oxford Street, he
remarked that he'd always understood Bond Street was the place.
"Not for school girls," explained dear Emily, who is a canny person.
"She isn't a school girl now. That's finished," said Sir Lionel. And as
she thinks him a tin god on wheels, she ceased to argue.
By the by, he has the air of hating to call me by name. He says "Miss
Lethbridge," in a curious, stiff kind of way, when he's absolutely
obliged to give me a label; otherwise he compromises with "you," to
which he confines himself when possible. It's rather odd, and can't be
an accident. The only reason I can think of is that he may feel it is
really his duty to call me "Ellaline."
I promised to write to Ellaline, as soon as I'd anything to tell worth
telling; and I suppose I must do it to-day; yet I dread to, and can't
make up my mind to begin. I don't like to praise a person whom she
regards as a monster; still, I've nothing to say against him; and I'm
sure she'll be cross if I don't run him down. I think I shall state
facts baldly. When I get instalments of allowance--intended for
Ellaline, of course--I am to send the money to her, except just enough
not to be noticeably penniless. I'm to address her as Mademoiselle
Leonie de Nesville, and send letters to Poste Restante, because, while
I'm known as Miss Lethbridge, it might seem queer if I posted envelopes
directed to a person of my own name. It was Ellaline who suggested that,
not I. She thought of everything. Though she's such a child in some
ways, she's marvellous at scheming.
I really can't think yet what I _shall_ say to her. It's worrying me. I
feel guilty, somehow, I don't know why.
Mrs. Norton suggested taking me out shopping and sight-seeing this
afternoon. Sir Lionel proposed going with us. His sister was astonished,
and so was I, especially after what she had said about his not being
interested in women's affairs. "Just to make sure that you take my tip
about Bond Street," he remarked. "And Bond Street used to amuse me--when
I was twenty. I think it will amuse me now--to see how it and I have
changed."
So we are going, all three. Rather awful about the gray serge and sailor
hat, isn't it? I felt self-respecting in them at Versailles, and even in
Paris, because there I was a singing teacher; in other words, nobody.
But in London I'm supposed to be an heiress. And here, at the Ritz, such
beautiful beings come to lunch, in dresses which they have evidently
been poured into with consummate skill and incredible expense.
I tasted _Peche Melba_ to-day, for the first time. It made me wish for
you. But it didn't seem to go at all with gray serge and a cotton
blouse. I ought to have been a Gorgeous Being, with silk linings.
How am I to support the shopping ordeal? Supposing Mrs. Norton chooses
me things (oh horror!). They're sure to be hideous, but they may be
costly. As it says in an English society paper which Madame de Maluet
takes: "What should A. do?"
If only Telepathy were a going concern, you would answer that Hard Case
for
Your poor, puzzled
"A.," alias "E."
P. S. Nothing more heard or seen of the White Girl's Burden, Richard of
that ilk. I was afraid of his turning up at the Grand Hotel in Paris, or
even at the station to "see us off," but he didn't. He has disappeared
into space, and is welcome to the whole of it. I should nearly have
forgotten him, if I didn't wonder sometimes what his mysterious
profession is.
VI
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL P. R. O'HAGAN, AT DROITA, EAST BENGAL
_Ritz Hotel, London_,
_July 8th_
My Dear Pat: You were right, I was wrong. It _is_ good to be in
England again. Your prophecy has come true. The dead past has pretty
well buried its dead. A few dry bones show under the surface here and
there. I let them lie. Is thy servant a dog, that he should dig up
buried bones!
As you know, I was ass enough to dread arriving in Paris. I dreaded it
throughout the whole voyage. When I got to Marseilles, I found a wire
from Emily, saying she would meet me in Paris. Ass again! I had an idea
she was putting herself to that trouble with the kindly wish to "stand
by," and take my thoughts off old days. But I might have known better,
knowing that good, practical little soul. She had quite another object.
Came to break the news of a fire at Graylees; but it seems not to have
done any serious damage, except to have wiped out a few modern frills.
They can easily be tacked on again. I'm glad it was no worse, for I love
Graylees. I might have turned out a less decent sort of chap than I am
if it hadn't been for the prospect of inheriting it sooner or later. One
has to live up to certain things, and Graylees was an incentive.
You asked me to tell you if Emily had changed. Well, she has. It's
eighteen years since you saw her; fifteen since I did. I must tell you
honestly, you'd have no sentimental regrets if you could see her now.
You will remember, if you're not too gallant, that she was three years
older than you; the three seem to have stretched to a dozen. Luckily,
you didn't let Norton's snatching Emily from under your nose prey upon
cheek or heart. Nothing is damaged. You are sound and whole, and that is
why your friendship has been such a boon to me. You have saved me from
tilting against many windmills.
I suppose you'll think I'm "preambling" now, to put off the evil moment
of telling you about Ellaline de Nesville's girl. But no. For once
you're mistaken in me. After all, it isn't an evil moment. I'm surprised
at myself, doubly surprised at the girl; and both surprises are
agreeable ones.
I don't ask you if you remember Ellaline; for nobody who ever saw her
could forget her; at least, so it seems to me, after all these years,
and all the changes in myself. As I am now, hers is the last type with
which I should fall in love, provided I were fool enough to lose my head
for anyone. Yet I can't wonder at the adoration I gave her. She was
exactly the sort of girl to call out a boy's love, and she had all mine,
poor foolish wretch that I was. There's nothing more pathetic, I think,
at this distance, than a boy's passionate purity in his first
love--unless it's his disillusionment; for disillusion does no nature
good. It would have done mine great harm if I hadn't had a friend like
you to groan and grumble to.
You understand how I've always felt about this child she wished me to
care for. I was certain that Ellaline Number 2 would grow up as like
Ellaline Number 1 as this summer's rose is like last summer's, which
bloomed on the same bush.
At four years old the little thing undoubtedly had a dollish resemblance
to her mother. I thought I remembered that she had the first Ellaline's
great dark eyes, full of incipient coquetry, and curly black lashes,
which the little flirt already knew how to use, by instinct. The same
sort of mouth, too, which to look at makes a boy believe in a personal
Cupid, and a man in a personal devil. I had a dim recollection of
chestnut-brown hair, falling around a tiny face shaped like Ellaline's;
"heart-shape" we used to call it, Emily and I, when we were both under
our little French cousin's thumb, in the oldest days of all, before even
Emily began to find her out.
I wonder if a child sheds its first hair, like its first teeth? I've
never given much thought to infantine phenomena of any kind; still, I'm
inclined to believe now that there must be such cases. Of course, we
know a type of blond, nee brunette; for instance, Mrs. Senter, young
Burden's fascinating aunt, whom we suspected of having turned blond in a
single night (by the way, whom should I run across in Paris but Dicky,
grown up more or less since he chaperoned his female belongings in the
Far East). But I'm not talking of the Mrs. Senters of the world; I'm
talking of Ellaline's unexpected daughter. She has changed almost
incredibly between the ages of four and nineteen.
Before I knew Emily intended meeting me in Paris, I wrote the
school-ma'am asking that my ward might be sent, well chaperoned, to the
Gare de Lyon. It was bad enough to have to face a modern young female,
adorned with all the latest improvements and parlour tricks. It would
have been worse to face several dozens of these creatures in their lair;
therefore, I funked collecting my ward at Versailles. I was to know her
by a rose pinned on her frock in case she'd altered past recognition. It
was well, as things turned out, that I'd made the suggestion, otherwise
the girl would have had to go back to Versailles, like an unclaimed
parcel; and that would have been bad, as she had no chaperon. Something
had happened to the lady, or to the lady's relatives. I almost forget
what, now.
Instead of the dainty little Tanagra figure in smart French frills,
which I expected, there was a tall, beautiful young person, with the
bearing of an Atalanta, and the clothes of a Quakeress. She tacked my
name on to the wrong man, or I should have let her go, in spite of the
rose, so different was she from what I expected. And you'll be amused to
hear that her idea of Lionel Pendragon was embodied by old "Hannibal"