Madam

Front matter

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the publisher to a library and finally to you.

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

Prologue

Erith Fleming saw Mott first in the golden days, before the world lost its innocence. She was staying, as often, at Wicken Lodge, and went riding with Henry Wicken, to whom she was then engaged. A boy with a freckled face, and intelligent, rather sly grey eyes, held the horses as they came forth.

"Hullo, Mott I" said Henry, and put her up. Mott's eyes, objectively observant, moved across Erith as she mounted. There was a young lady, said Mott^s eyes; more, there was the young lady, his choice, a clinker of course. The look then passed on, with sedate indifference, to the landscape. Nor did he salute or nod in answer to Henry's recognition. His smile itself was invisible: a slight increase of intelligence in his glance, which was really charming. He had a clean flannel collar, pink ears, and was everything that the son of a submerged family coachman, retired, and a^notably pious mother, ought to be. Only, he'did not touch a forelock to

Henry, nephew and heir of the house: merely beamed at him obscurely, — ^much as it were Mr. Wicken's oldest friend.

"Who was that boy?" said Erith, after the necessary interlude for dignity: for she was still young.

"Mott Lane," said Henry. "That's Chris's younger brother. You know the beautiful Chris?"

Of course Miss Fleming did: and she all but forgot Mott at once : Chris, lengthening to the verge of manhood, was so much more interesting. She had long had to conceal a perfectly natural girlish curiosity as to Christopher. He was the upper stable-boy at the Wickens' : on the verge of becoming a sub-groom, or whatever is tlie next degree: and owing his status, of course, to the coachman already mentioned, that poor official who was already sinking out of history. Chris was a dancer and a gallivant, the whispered caution of a naturally correct family, who sat in a long row at church. Terrible tales were afloat of Chris, always beginning with a billiardsaloon at Wandsley. Henry often asked why he could play billiards badly and keep his character, while the devil was taking Chris Lane, who

PROLOGUE 5

played them well. Miss Wicken, a delicate and artistic lady of the old school, did not answer him : she merely told her brother almost weekly that, poor old Lane notwithstanding, they would have to get rid of Chris.

"Oh,— Lanes," drawled Erith. "Yc-es. What an endless family they arc. I thought you told me Chris himself was the fifth son.!'

"And Mott the sixth," said Henry, "not to mention Maudie. Can't have too much of a good thing, — it's a long lane that has no turning, — ^perhaps Mrs. Lane will turn in time."

Erith looked serious, partly to reprove him: partly that she generally was serious when Henry was witty, since she was a wit herself. "It's really awful," was her irritable comment. "However can a man like Lane bring them up?"

"They're smart," replied Henry* "Chris is a real devil of smartness, — ^wasted smartness: there's nothing he can't do. Mott, though properer, — Mrs. I^ane prays for him less, — is, I believe, just as brainy. Just"

"Perhaps he'll go to Oxford," said Erith, her lip curled. "He looks suitable."

'Why?" asked Henry.

"Oh, his nice eyes and his pious origin. He'd probably go straight into the Church. I mean, in any country less snobbish than ours."

"I think not," said Henry. "I think you misjudge Dermot. I mean, his respect for his mother, — Mrs. Lane instigates respect, in infancy, — is only equalled by his admiration for Chris. I admire Chris myself, in spite of Auntie, — ^but Mott beats me. He would let Chris walk over him, or horsewhip him, — and, as you see, he does Chris's work for him on Saturday afternoon. Chris is now at billiards with the bankmanager's son, and Mott is longing to mark for him, simply longing, — but he holds your horse."

"What a lot you know about them," said Erith, suddenly scornful from another angle.

"I thought you were interested," said Henry, who had quite good manners. Even when Erith, next year, ceased being engaged to him, she admitted that

She was engaged (though not yet formally) to a friend of Henry's, Nicholas Glover, when she next ran across the Lane family, in a newspaper.

"I hope those are not Henry's Lanes," said Erith in public, flushed a little: because she hoped they were. They were mentioned, with

PROLOGUE 7

uilction, on a popular page, as comprising a record number of casualties. Six sons and a daughter, of whom, five sons cut off.

"Cut off" would be Mrs. Lane^s word, thought Erith, her eye dwelling curiously on the list : for she soon guessed, since Wandsley was mentioned, what Lanes they were. Captains and what not — they had done well, as Henry predicted, once the dice-box of the world was shaken, and the chance came. Why, Nichol Glover was no more than Captain, though of course in a super-exquisite regiment. Artillery, — Air Force, — there they were: medals, too; she wondered which was Christopher, or whether he survived. Mott, from her mind, had been all but obliterated: but Chris could never be, such power young Pan hath still in the world. Whichever of the Lanes was the survivor, at least he survived whole, not maimed, like Henry; otherwise the newspaper of unction must have mentioned him. One more wound or limb missing would have been considered an asset to the reading public, in a record like this.

"How absolutely ghoulish these rags are," said Erith, having read the paragraph with still attention. "Burnt to death, — charred, and still living when he reached the ground, — how they can tell such things I Fancy the mother reading it I"

"It^s much worse/' remarked Glover, "for the men who are on the spot/'

"Oh, Nicholl" said his sisters: while his mother sat with clasped hands, her look awing him to silence. But Lady Glover did not awe Erith.

"Nichol means," .she said, "that people without a grain of imagination, as even some mothers are, can read those things with their eyes and tongues, and keep their spirit right away. It is one of the strange effects of print on the halfeducated mind. But seeing it can knock a man right out, even a common soldier, — can't it, Nichol?"

He nodded, his eyes dwelling on her face, for he was in love with her. Even when she was engaged to Henry, in the golden era, he had loved Erith : he could hardly credit his fortune now. She had a wonderful power of picking up his thought and putting it into words for him, with just the tone and accent he liked. She was simply the most sympathetic girl he knew, as well as the loveliest; others of his friends assured him

PROLOGUE 9

of it ; she guessed their feelings singly, not in the mass.

"It is so," wrote Henry, in answer to Erith^s question. "It is a long time since they moved away from Wicken to Wandsley; but my aunt hears from Mrs. Lane, at the period of the yearly pension, regularly. We knew of course that all the lads were in the army, and all but Mott in France. Mrs. Lane, we gathered, prayed for them all but Chris, who was in the most dangerous place and work. Chris was a devil as usual, — I use the word in its best sense. He did a number of things, was decorated and so on, and got himself burnt to death for no reason but that (I believe) he was drunk. But then we were all that, I should not think of blaming him. The eye-witness we met told self and uncle that he cursed God and died, — small wonder. In her last letter Mrs. Lane talked of dear Christopher, in with the rest, for the first time. My uncle, being something innocent, was amazed. I suggested that he had gone to heaven by way of the newspapers : but even so. Uncle was disturbed. He thought the widow's brain must be slightly turned by misfortune: no sons left, you see, but Mott. But it is not so. Asses of correspondents lo MADAM

have called on Mrs. Lane. Chris has gone to heaven, and Mott is lost to grace. Mrs. Lane explains, in Biblical diction, which fits the subject admirably, that Mott has gone on the rampage with Chrises best girl. You can use your Sibylline powers, Erith, over that."

To Nichol Henry wrote :

"My aunt was horrified that I wept over Chris Lane. But then, I used to bathe with him in the old days. I hope, Nichol, when nothing but memories are left to console me, I shall see him again like that, wet and wonderful: not die charred thing crawling away those eye-witnesses depicted. Life is wicked, especially now: but not so baleful as to make the human mind prefer, to the end, a picture like that"

Part I

Miss Astley was shopping, necessarily at the most crowded hoiir of the day: because, during all the other hours, she was either working, going towards her work, or going home.

She was one of the cloud of girls with despatch-cases who throng the murky streets and mid-day restaurants of London. Caroline was her name, Lina (accent long) she was called at home, but she was "Miss" to such a preponderating section of her acquaintance, everywhere, that she must step as Miss Astley upon these pages. Miss Fleming flung about life and society as Erith, — so also did girls in aggrade just below Caroline's; but Miss Astley, with C. E. A. upon a despatch-case, kept her quality most delicately distinct from theirs.

She had two crowded hours for shopping to choose from : either before work, when the shops were languid and stupid : or after work when they were just closing, hurried and cross. There was also the luncheon-hour, from which she preferred not to abstract any portion, though she frequently had to do so. On her Sundays and Saturday afternoons, the stores were of course shut, and the "young ladies" of the shop-departments were butterflies, free as air about the pleasure-houses and the causeways. That was as it should be, — Miss Astley did not complain of that ; but it meant long and harassing struggles to get herself small necessities, at the possible hours, and the price within her means. For poverty, as the poor know, is itself a waste of time and nerve-power; no small crease in the petals of life but is smoothed at once for a full purse.

Thus she was engaged one evening in the battle for buttons; necessary buttons, of the kind that cheap washerwomen most delight to tear and dislocate : when she heard a man at her side demanding "woollen thread." It was such a demand, to a woman's ear, and he was such a young man, that the attention not only of the local young lady, but that of all the other young ladies, including Caroline's, was gapingly drawn in his direction. He was one of three, as such gentlemen generally are : for Gratiano is nothing without his following.

"Thread for mending, was it, sir?" said the girl with sympathy.

"That^s right," said the young man, in the idiom of the day. "For a coat."

"A tear in cloth, sir? That would be woolmendin' ? Khaki, is it?" She looked at the boy*s costume.

"Blue," said the youth. "A kind of darkishblue. Isn't that what the Force wears? You know best"

Here the girl giggled: and — "drop it, Mousie," said one of Gratiano's group behind.

"Here, now, clear out, sir," said a secretlysmiling shop-walker.

"Can you match that button?" said Mousie. The button presented was one of his Majesty's police-force, beyond the smallest mistake.

"You send that back where it belongs, and clear," said the shop-walker. All the girls were now in an ecstatic bunch : the fearful tension of the worst hour of the day so delightfully relieved, that even Miss Astley, herself hurried and harassed, could scarce forbear to smile.

"Before who it belongs to comes after you," added the shop-walker, in a shy mutter, withdrawing ; for a real lady, a lovely young creature

uigitizeaoy Google clad in some chic uniform or other, claimed his attention.

"No remnants, Madam, no. Last year? — very possibly, Madam: they don't make that line now, they was finished abroad. Yes, I fear so. Madam. Well, Madam, we could show you lace ones, — though as for wearing, — ah, we can't guarantee that/^

''Lace ones," mimicked the young man called Mousie, and turned his eyes a moment on the young lady's face. He then turned them rapidly away again. "Is that my wool-mending? Thanks." He laid hands on Miss Astley's parcel, and before she could make a movement or utter a protesting cry, was obliterated in the moving thjrong.

"Stop himl'* said the shop-girl, as well as she could for laughing. "That was the lady's little lot, buttons and such — " She clutched the neighbouring young lady, and they rocked together : it was all as good as a pantomime, the latter part. "Oh, stop him, Mr. Wilton, would you mind? They really arer

"Did he take your parcel?" said the girl in uniform to Miss Astley. "Where's his? Look here, I'll catch him, shall I? He'll never get out in this crush."

"He hadn't got a parcel. Madam," chimed the girls. "It was silliness he was asking for, — and out for too 1"

"I daresay he'd had a drop," said the sourfaced forewoman. "Quiet now, dpwn there, please, — Mr. Wilton'U see to it. Don't you trouble, Madam."

This, be it observed, not to Miss Astley, deprived of her property: but to uniformed Madam, who, conscious of her standing, vigor, and unhampered legs, had offered to play gendarme.

"She's off!" whispered girl to girl. "I say, suppose she knew him I — he looked at her, — what say?"

"Not his sort," said the next girl,' with utter confidence. "Can't you tell that? She's a toff."

"Hush — sh — sh !" breathed forewoman. "What for you. Madam? Oh, you're the lady as the parcel's was." (Grammar gets a little ragged at these hours.) "You might wait, but—"

"I'd better have some more," said Miss Astley, looking from her slender purse to the distant shop-walker. One might, of course, make a commotion — it was the shop's affair; but Miss Astleys who live by their elegance can so seldom afford to.

"It was a mistake, I daresay,'' confided the forewoman : kind, sinpe the customer was purchasing again. "Just their fun. Happy they are, on leave, it's excusable."

"Not very honest fun," said Miss Astley.

"That's true, when it comes to property." Later she said — "If the — the gentleman finds his mistake and deposits it, we'd refund, naturally, should you care to call."

"I will call," said Miss Astley, "but I don't imagine he will think of it."

Nor, by the rule, should she have thought again of the little loss, the small sacrifice to her country's boasted cause, and beardless champions ; but all day long, she could not forget that boy's face. It was his expression, as he looked round at the? girl in uniform, that she remembered. His bright eyes did not look tipsy, precisely, at that moment, — they were far too keen ; but they looked chilled, cruel, and in some measure unearthly or unattached.

"I wonder if he has been ill," thought Miss Astley. She pondered on what she had heard of kleptomania, and had thoughts of questioning her employer upon the point; but though she often had questions she longed to ask her employer, it never came to it. Though she had^ served him regularly for three years, she did not know him to chat with ; and granted his nature and hers, she probably never would.

II

Miss Astley was secretary, typist, and general prompter on the home-stage, to Mr. Forrest of Harley Street, the noted surgeon. Mr. Forrest, had Miss Astley ever deserted him, would have been afloat and drifting, a black-jawed derelict; but Miss Astley was never ill. She was eternally pallid, spruce and gentle: appearing with the same smile behind the same desk to Mr. Forrest when, at a fixed hour, he looked into his front room. That was all he wanted — to see her; Miss Astley did the rest.

She knew all about him, and his tricks, and his telephone, as any man-secretary would have done ; but she also knew all about his household. Mr. Forrest was a woman-hater, or rather despiser, by conviction, and presumed to govern alone; consequently the cook and Miss Astley did most of it for him. They were in league ; and Caroline considered even ten minutes not wasted, while the cook poured forth to her the lamentable tale of how the "doctor" had brought in four gentlemen to dinner, instead of the one he had promised, two of them foreigners who crossed their forks; and of how they would talk of the most awful things in front of the new ^girl," who had been hard enough to find as Miss Astley knew, and would never settle in such accurately scientific surroundings, — unless, of course, Miss Astley would "do a bit of explaining to her, on her own account."

So Miss Astley (on anything but her own account) would then spare another ten minutes of her priceless morning to "explain" medical society to the new "girl" : who was paid all but her own salary for merely nominal work, and showed it in her head-dresses : who despised Miss Astley on sight, until the above tete-a-tete took place: after which she preferred to adore her, call her everywhere a "real lady," and pant helpfully round corners at awkward moments, such as when Miss Astley was shewing out a titled applicant for the surgeon's art.

For Mr. Forrest was very, very skilful, a virtuoso of his craft; and foreign parts admired him to such an extent that Caroline had to spend all her odd time at home improving her French. When the hour came, and the world lost its innocence, Mr. Forrest went forth to war, — his war, — and legitimately in the highest spirits; then the acquired French became yet more useful, for he sent both articles and people home to her to be translated: and told her to "go to Ashwin" if she got tied in knots over the etiquette or the tongue.

Dr. Ashwin, living nearly opposite, was Mr. Forrest's intimate friend and only critic, and was, so long as he lasted in London, most kind and helpful to Caroline, whose pretty figure in a dark costume might at times be seen crossing the way. Unfortunately he went to the war as well, equally on the greater crusade, equally with that holidayair of undreamed-of release Caroline knew so well in all the doctors. After that second departure, she was indeed alone.

Tales of adventure, male and female, hummed and buzzed about Caroline, in streets and restaurants, for a year; but for all they troubled her life, they might have been pictured on a "movie" or in a magazine. Then Mr. Forrest, for reasons she could have enumerated under headings, became more wanted in London than he was in France, and returned fuming: for he had enjoyed himself hugely, investigating along a certain favourite line. Some tyrant, better unnamed, bade him serve Britain in a manner he enjoyed far less. Mr. Forrest, who would have sent Britain to the devil for science, refused to be consoled by the most fashionable decoration his overlords could find for him ; and made Miss Astley's life simply not worth living, for more than a month, by persistent and violent illtemper. His wrath was increased by a bad digestion, and by the fact that he had been revelling in French food, which was calculated, as he told his cook, to feed you, as well as to look decent upon the dish. He simply could not bear the aspect of potatoes and parsnips, plain-boiled; and yet could not for his life explain to the woman what he wanted improved. The cook wept: the latest "girl" who was anaemic, went about as white as the vegetable dish she carried : and Mr. Forrest's patients began to whisper fears that he was "one of the people whom the War seemed to have hardened beyond recall."

But Miss Astley bought a French cookerybook, practised a thing or two at home, and told the cook, who had tearfully given notice, that they were quite easy if she liked to try. A week later, Mr. Forrest brought three foreigners home to dinner, unwarned, because (he said) "the woman he had could manage, not too badly." They all crossed their forks, and talked more accurately and awfully than ever, before the anaemic "girl": but in French, so she survived it. The cook withdrew her notice, without Mr. Forrest being ever aware that it had been presented. The household settled to its pre-war ways, with the exception of the friendly resource in the Ashwin mansion, which remained in the East, inexorably. That house fell under female occupation, and wasi shunned, in consequence, by Mr. Forrest, with the most uncivil determination (for he knew both Dr. Ashwin's wife and his married daughter perfectly well). He had news of his friend, chiefly through the public press, grappling with grisly diseases, in the most insanitary circumstances and climates; and swore, at such times, that Ashwin had all the luck. But, on the whole, having mislaid his decoration, he became reconciled to London life, placated ; and it was largely the sight of Miss Astley, settling morn- * ing after morning with her despatch-case, behind her habitual desk, that reconciled him. Had all women behaved, and looked, like Miss Astley, Mr. Forrest could have tolerated the sex, with ease.

The fact was, that Miss Astley, pale and thin as she now was, — perpetually hungry, sleepy, foreboding and overdriven as was every woman of decent activity and feeling, at the period in question, — ^was nice to look at. Of this, probably, Mr. Forrest had no idea.

"I see your young lady has not deserted you," said an amiable because grateful marchioness. "For government work, I mean. Perhaps she might be fatter if she did I"

Mr. Forrest, not versed in the fashionable jokes, did not smile.

"I suppose she's asked you for a rise," said the lady.

"I give her what she's worth," said Mr. Forrest; because, honestly, he thought he did,

"Not engaged, either? No soldiers? Oh, you're in luck indeed I If you knew what households are now — "

"I do," said Mr. Forrest: who really thought he knew. "I believe," he said, "that my young lady, as you call her, is one of the chosen few who are uninterested in army men, as such."

"Impossible," said the lady.

"Why should she be?" said Mr. Forrest

"That has nothing to do with it. Oh, Man 1 — to ask why, of a woman !"

"I think," said Mr. Forrest, "that she is one of the women, of whom I could ask, and expect, an intelligible answer."

The lady thought this too rude, and said good-bye without offending further; but her unhallowed interference with his fixed establishment, his fated and permanent train of secretary, cook, and "girl," — for he never noticed that the latter altered, — ^hurt Mr. Forrest in his digestion, all that day.

Ill

That Miss Astley belonged to any world but theirs hardly occurred to the Harley Street centre: but of course she did: girls must. She had a model family at Clapham : a father, mother, and sister: and would probably have a sister's suitor, pretty soon.

She was sitting one day (Sunday, of course) on a seat in the park with her sister Lu. They had not been to church, because Lu had a headache : she had been singing rather late, for the soldiers, the night before.

Lu was now in a hospital. Voluntary Aid, and wore the dress, but she had had a season's essay as a singer, first. Fancy Farrell was the name she had selected for herself, and Miss Astley disliked it: she could not sec why Lucy Astley should not do. Lu was still very young, and as pretty as a peeping spring flower : wherefore the Astley household, as on a pivot, turned about Lu. She was to be cherished, counselled, fed on the daintiest, helped towards the marriage that mother and sister had romantically devised. It was a real relief to them, when she ceased to be Fancy Farrell, with hair a trifle over-curled on the right eyebrow; and went into a hospital in a neat dark blue costume.

Even as it was, Lu knew soldiers, many soldiers: and some she introduced to mother and sister, but many she did not. She was watching them this afternoon, and they at times were watching her; though she talked soberly enough to "Lina" about their common affairs.

Suddenly, as a fresh group passed, she saw it held up, completely. She had felt her sister move, and almost at the same instant, the tallest of the bunch, whose careless eyes had been slinking towards Lu, stood still.

"It is," said he. "Me preserver," — and clutched a comrade to cither side.

"Which, the little one?" said the comrade. "She's light to tackle you. Mouse." Their mirth was much.

But the young man was very carefully extracting a torn and crumpled parcel from the pocket of his coat. He balanced it, and its half-visible contents, on a hand, and held it out to Miss Ast- Icy.

"Your lot. Madam," said he.

"Well, I never 1" said Lu, colouring. Of course, in the hospital, one never tolerated "cheek" like this. But her sister surprised her.

"How did you remember?" Miss Astley said. She was utterly perplexed how, in that crowd, and wild as he had been, his eyes had picked her up. It must have been, as it were, unconsciously to himself: it could not have been by any intention to remember her.

"Found you outl" His brow cleared. "You don't get off, any of you. Oh, Lord !"

"What the devil are you doing, Mousie?" said an amiable friend. None of the group, granted Lu, objected to stopping: but here was their leader engaged by the wrong girl.

"The relief 1" he cried. "Each of them weighing on me, nightly, — a dozen and a half. Useless for the stunt, too," he added. "It was — an oversight."

"It was not," said Miss Astley, low.

"She says it wasn't, Eric. Is it — is it too late?" His strange eyes were on her, inciting, urging her to something. What was it?

"Do laugh," he said, hardly audible.

Miss Astley laughed, though she flushed as well. No man in the world had ever so looked at her, still less hustled her into laughing against her will. The sensation was extraordinary. But stronger than anything was the need to protect Lu from these young carnivallers ; that being no more than her sisterly habit, or office, she turned about.

So looking, she saw that Lu had found a friend, or at least an acquaintance, in the skirts of the band ; for other stragglers had come up, now, all more or less annexed to Mousie. Lu's acquaintance, carrying the convalescent's band of blue on his brown arm, looked faintly sheepish, while she exchanged with him the welljudged chaff of a perfect hospital; for our Voluntary Aids were nothing if not dignified, on principle.

Mousie's gaze also slunk towards Lu, considering her; he completed, as it were, the glance he had originally begun. What Mousie's own garb was. Miss Astley never noticed, any more than she had on the first occasion. She had then had the general impression of trimness that marks the airman, and this she had still. It was Lu who informed her later that all the company were wearing private's khaki, as it were, indistinguishable; and Lu was not a person who could be doubted, her bright eyes being unfailing for the smaller things. Almost as soon as Mousie glanced in her direction, Lu became conscious of it.

"Well, have you finished?" she said, with faint satire, addressing her sister, though her eyes passed across him.

"It is not too late," said Mousie.

"She bought some more buttons, if that's what you mean."

He looked startled. "No!"

"They are things," said Miss Astley, as his fingers reached his pocket, "that are always necessary."

"To the end— of life," said Mousie. "Then I need not — "