The widening circle, a chronicle

Front matter

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Contents

CHAPTEE PAGE

I. Childhood 1

II. Being Rich 14

Chapter I

The first home that I remember was a long, low white house, with a sloping lawn in front leading down to a stream — beyond the stream a meadow with twelve tall poplar trees, like soldiers stiff and standing to attention, at the far end. At sunset, silhouetted against the sky, they looked as if they were cut out of black velvet. At the back of the house there was an old-fashioned kitchen garden, a rick yard, and a duck pond. Between the rick yard and the garden, a road ran up into the woods. My sister and I called it “Adventure Lane.” In this pleasant house lived my maternal grandfather and grandmother, and for the first few years of our lives we lived there with them. My sister was two years younger than I. We were inseparable — we played the same games, adored books, and made up splendid adventures, in which the duck pond was a wide ocean on which we sailed little ships of paper, and the rick yard with its golden hay and straw stacks, a land of rich treasure. We were never so happy as when we wandered in the woods, making I garlands of flowers, looking for elves and fairies, which we always hoped to catch a glimpse of in the lovely spring and summer, or In the winter when we sat together before the fire playing with our huge family of dolls.

Our grandparents were old-fashioned, they loved us dearly and cared for us tenderly, but they did not understand me very well. They thought I had queer ideas and uncanny ways — Margaret, fat, round and jolly, they understood better — but they made us very happy in their own prim way, and left us to play our games together. The village where they lived was sleepy and old-world, four miles from the station, and seven from the market town. The Vicar had a numerous family of boys and girls with whom we played many a romping game, but as I said to Margaret, “ they play with their hands, but not with their minds.” These and the little girls at the Hall, were the sole companions of our own age.

My mother was a tall, dark woman, with a very fine figure and wonderful complexion. She was the only child, and much spoilt when young, so that It was astonishing that she grew up to be as agreeable and amusing as she was. She had a passion for pretty clothes, a rather plaintive voice and reclined more often than sat, for she was a trifle lazy — the early morning life of the country was very distasteful to her, but hidden away beneath a rather 2 lazy manner, was an ambitious spirit. Her home life in its monotonous simplicity bored her, and she pined for a fuller life and social success. Then my father came to stay at the old-fashioned house. Robust, red of face, with a rather pompous manner and compelling personality, he made a great impression on her. He came from London town, the secret goal of her ambitions. He swept her away from the many suitors of the country, and realizing that her ambitions matched his own, he wooed and won her. The son of an iron master, who desired him to follow in his footsteps, he broke away, for he wished to be a barrister. All day he slaved in his father’s office, but sat up most of the night studying law books. He won scholarships and went to Cambridge, ate his dinners, and in time attained his desire, and became a Member of the Bar, and it was when he had been practicing for about a year, that he fell in love with and married my mother.

Life was very bright and pleasant for the young people, and in due course I was born and later my sister, and when she was about six years old, my father began to speculate.

We of course knew nothing of all this, for our days were spent between the White House and the flat in London, Whitehall Court. Here we looked over the trees of St. James’s Park and the famous Horse Guards, for the War Office of to-day had 3 not reared its majestic height to block the view — we walked in the Park every day with our governess, and on Thursdays, our mother’s At Home Day, we went into the drawing-room to tea with her friends.

kWe sang little songs and danced little dances to amuse the guests, and when they had gone, we used to make for the cherry cake and pick out all the cherries. At this age, I was beginning to observe life and individuals, how people dressed, their manner of speech, whether their expression was happy, or unhappy, and many things began to interest and puzzle me. Amongst others, I noticed that my father and mother were not very happy. I sometimes found my mother crying, or looking defiant, and I heard my father’s voice raised in anger or controversy — then there would be intervals — they would go to Paris together with parties of friends, or to gay Ostend, my mother smiling and cheerful with lots of pretty clothes, and my father quite kind to her. We had not many troubles, but we hated going to bed early, and always tried to put the clock back so that we might sit up late, and see our mother in her evening dress, diamonds glittering in her hair, and on her neck — her brocade cloak and rich dresses made us think of the princesses of fairy tales. About this time our grandmother died, and the holidays spent at the house of our pleasure in the country were over. We wept bitterly, for we saw 4 very little of green trees and flowers in London. Our holidays that year were spent at Brighton, which though a good place for grown-ups was a poor place for children, for as Margaret said, they had forgotten to clear away the pebbles — numbers of smartly dressed elders paraded up and down the lawns, fashionably attired, smattering all too much of London. Here on Sunday, starched and sashed, the elastic of our straw hats cutting our chins, we were marched off to church to sit squashed between a great many people while one man talked.

Our parents were a little erratic in their treatment of us, sometimes we were completely ignored, and did not see either of them from one week’s end to another; and at other times we were taken out to theaters, and At Homes with older people, and so became very interested in the world, and though we played with our dolls at home we heard all sorts of things discussed, and even ventured to give our opinions to the elders on a variety of subjects. I used to write little stories, which I read to my sister, or told her when we were out for our monotonous walks in St. Jame’s Park or the Embankment Gardens — life for a year or two was fairly quiet — the only variety was the procession of governesses, who one and all seemed to get married from our house. We had a great respect for one of these ladies who was a Primitive Methodist, and had 5 very narrow opinions of God and His restrictions to human beings. Margaret said, after one of her discourses, “I believe God is a very irritable old man with a long beard, who doesn’t want anybody to laugh or play or sing,” and we gathered that he loved instead long faces, long prayers, drab colors, and people who whispered. This lady was virtuous and conscientious according to her light, but she very nearly made us hate Christianity — luckily she married a man as holy as herself, and they went to live at Ealing, where once and once only we spent the day and night with her, and were so severely prayed about the following morning, on empty stomachs, because it was before breakfast that my sister cried bitterly and couldn’t eat her porridge, and mother was a vision of delight when she came to take us back home. All this made me think a good deal about religion, and I wondered why, if God hated beautiful colors and happy noises of singing. He had made the sky so exquisitely blue and the birds to sing so sweetly; but the passing of the Primitive Methodist lady left us open to other influences — a very charming and cheerful governess now came to us. She took an interest in games, understood our belief in Santa Claus, walked with us in the Lowther Arcade, a heavenly place, now alas no longer existing, and at last persuaded mother to let her take us to an old farm house near the sea 6 in Hampshire for our annual holiday — and so one lovely day, we three left hot and dusty London, and after a journey of the greatest possible length, or so we felt, arrived at the enchanted spot. Here was a flower laden garden, a tiny lawn, a field of corn and poppies, and beyond, the sparkling, shimmering sea and miles and miles of stretching yellow sand.

Our new governess played the part of fairy godmother, and with a wave of her wand opened for us the gates of a magic kingdom.

We spent days of pure delight, running along the sands, paddling in the shining waves, watching the gulls dipping and swimming in the hot air, gathering huge bunches of scarlet poppies to decorate our little house, and growing day by day, stronger and browner, and fonder of our little governess, who with her fair hair blowing in the wind, her white blouse and short blue skirt, seemed the most delightful playmate in the world — she understood when we peeped out of our bedroom window on still nights, striving to see the mermaids sporting in the silver sea. She was quite in sympathy when we tip-toed up to each flower in the garden at sunset and tried to see the fairies just waking to life. And when we found the dark fairy rings in the grass on dewy mornings, she danced hand in hand with us round the circle, just for luck ” as we all said. 7

She never clipped the wings of our imagination, and from them beauty, light, color, and nature began to speak to me. I grew to be something of a mystic. I saw a spiritual symbol behind quite ordinary objects. Life began to mean something great and splendid, the door of my mind stood wide open, inviting in ideal visitants. I decried shapes and forms of beauty — my small sister was more practical, she used to tug at my dress when I stood watching the glowing sunset on the sands. “ God has made the sky very beautiful,’* she would say, “ but if we move further up the beach, we can see it just as well, and we shall not get our feet wet.” In many ways she was different from me, just as full of fancy, and whimsical humor, but more boyish, more sensible, less fantastic in her imaginings — she made friends wherever she went, and had a smile for every one, she sang queer little snatches of song and trilled away like a bright bird from early morning till she was tucked up in bed. We always knew that she was ill if her little voice was still, and her tuneful carollings quiet. She was a pugilist too, and on one occasion at the age of eight, she had knocked a little boy’s tooth out in a hand to hand struggle for the possession of some coveted treasure, and the boy with much gallantry had presented her with the tooth, not as a love token, but as a trophy of her prowess. Towards the end of our all too fleeting 8 holiday in this wonderful place, we had a great surprise. At breakfast one morning, our pretty governess uttered an exclamation of pleasure after reading a letter. “ Children, your mother writes to say, your father has made a great deal of money and you are all going to be very well off.” Her eyes danced as she imparted the thrilling news. “Listen, you are to move from Whitehall Court, and to go to a lovely house in Grosvenor Square.”

“ How will it be lovely,” asked the practical Margaret, “will the seaside be in it, will the sand be in it, will there be beautiful, delicious waves to paddle about in?”

“ Don’t be a silly baby. The house will have rich furniture and fine pictures and huge airy rooms.”

“ But it will be London.”

“ Of course it will be London.”

“ And however large the rooms are, and however wide the windows are, we can only see London and houses when we look out?”

“ Yes.”

“ Then I do not know whv we should be as glad as glad.”

“ But, darling, listen, your mother writes ‘ the children’s schoolroom and nursery are quite sweet with white walls, pale blue carpet, two little beds with blue silk curtains, held up by golden cupids, and they shall each have a pony to ride in the Park.’ ”

This was better, a pony was no mean gift, all story book children had ponies, and those cupids over the beds had possibilities.

“ We can pretend they are our own fairies,” said Margaret.

“ I will call my cupid Ambrosia,” I said.

“ I will call mine George,” she said, “ it sounds safe to look after us at night and protect us from ghosts and goblins.”

“ Ambrosia is more romantic,” I hazarded.

“ George is more safer,” she decided.

And George he was until the end of our luxurious life in Grosvenor Square.

The day of departure came and although we deeply regretted leaving the sea and freedom, there was a certain pleasure in going back to a new house with ponies and cupids of gold mixed in with it.

The house was all our governess had pictured from my mother’s letter — there were marble pillars in the hall, a grand staircase, marvellous pictures and baskets of exquisite flowers in all the rooms. An enormous drawing room furnished in old gold brocade, a lift which made us feel very superior indeed, and a suite of rooms set apart for my mother all pink and gold. There were many bedrooms, and our nurseries and a schoolroom. It was all very grand and large and strange, and we felt we had strayed into a palace which did not belO long to us. A new maid brought us our supper, and after we had explored the house, we got ready for bed. We had seen our golden cupids, Ambrosia and George, the soft blue carpet and the silken curtains and rejoiced In them all. The servants were new, we had a butler and two footmen, neat, solemn men, who made us think of the people who hand around the plate In church. Whilst we were undressing, our mother came rushing in, she kissed us and spoke excitedly about the great fortune my father had made, she said she was so happy, and was just going out to a big party — she had on a green chiffon dress with diamond shoulder straps, and ,a deep sapphire velvet cloak with white fur on It. We felt very glad she was our mother, and a good deal of the strangeness began to wear off.

“Are you glad to be back, darlings?” asked mother.

“ Yes, but the country is nicer than London.”

She laughed. I

“ But you lived In a tiny cottage.”

“ We had the sea and there seems to be more sky in the country.”

“ Fanciful darlings. Good-night, sleep well in your new little beds.”

She kissed us and floated out, waving her hand as he went.

We had our hair brushed that night by the new school-room maid. My sister was rather talkative to her. She was a thin, dark girl, with a white face, a solemn expression, and big black eyes.

“Are you always going to brush our hair?” said Margaret.

“ Xes, Miss Margaret.”

“ Then we’d better come to an understanding. I like mine in four curls, not six, because they are lumpy to lie on, and not too tightly rolled, because I can’t have my good hair broken.”

“ No, Miss Margaret.”

“What’s your name?”

“ Kate, Miss.”

“ I don’t like the name Kate,” I joined in, “ haven’t you got another name.”

“ Yes, Miss, Katheleen is my real name.”

“ It would take too long to call you Katheleen, we’d better call you Kate.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She finished our hair, folded our things neatly, and departed, and when our dear Governess came in we told her how we missed her. But she said Kate was a nice quiet girl, and we’d better get used to some of the changes. She kissed us both and turning out the light, went out into the other room.

I felt restless and inclined to talk. It was easier to talk in the dark than in the light.

“ I feel all mixed up,” I said, “ I miss the sound of the sea and the smell of the seaweed; we used to smell it at night blowing in the window.”

“ There is a sound outside, a sort of roar.”

“ That’s the noise of the carriages and buses,” I said, listening.

“ It’s a little bit like the sea in the distance when it was rough,” said Margaret.

“ Let us pretend it is the sea, could you pretend it is? ”

“ I could, awfully easily,” said she, “ I like to, let’s listen.”

So we listened lying there in the big darkness, a thin line of light came in under the door, which led to the schoolroom and told us our little governess was still there. As we listened to the roar of the traffic, we fell asleep.

Chapter II

The next morning we did some more exploring and made some discoveries. We found a room called the Oriental Room; never was there such a wonderful place. The walls were of red glass behind carved sandalwood, and behind the glass again electric light, so that when the light was turned on there was a soft crimson glow, dim and mysterious. The roof of this room was like a dome, and suspended from it were jeweled lamps. There were low divans with gorgeous embroidered cushions, and little carved tables smelling of cedar-wood The whole room had a queer Eastern scent. A house which contained such a room as this could no longer be anything but a cherished abode. We were proud to call it home. There were endless possibilities in this room for imaginative children. It was a mosque, a church, an Eastern palace, a Moorish prison, and Aladdin’s cave. We talked of nothing else on our walk in Hyde Park that afternoon.

“ But, my dear children, you will not have that room for your games,” said Armie. We always called her Armie, though her name was Armstrong. i4

“We must,’* said Margaret, “grown-ups would never understand such a room.”

“ I hope we shall be allowed to go in often,” I said, “ it is the heart of the house. We shall never break anything in it, we shall treat it as gently as we would a new fluffy chicken.”

“Well, we will see,” said Armie.

And when we went down to dessert, I determined to ask about it. I sat on a chair near my father, and Margaret sat on his lap, turning her eye on him critically.

“You don’t look any richer than you did, daddy,” she said.

“ But mother looks richer,” I said, “ her dress is very beautiful — and she looks — more ” — “More as if she’s got whiat she wants,” broke in my father.

“ I have,” said mother, sipping her coffee.

“We want to know if we can, once a day, go into the Oriental room, daddy.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “we think it the most beautifullest room in the world.”

“ It is an interesting room,” said my father, “ all the trappings came from Constantinople.”

“ Can we go there? ” I asked anxiously.

“ My chicks, it is so gloomy and dark I can’t understand why you like it and the divans are on the floor so that if I get down I can’t get up, and it smells as musty as a church; I don’t like it.”

“ It looks as if you children can monopolize it, then,” said my father.

“ Oh I no, dad, we don’t want to do that, we only want to go in it, not mopolize it.”

They laughed, and from that day the Oriental room was ours. It became a part of us and our games, and we had a feeling of happiness if we only spent half an hour in its dim rosy walls.

The days passed happily. Armie gave us our lessons, we walked in the Park, we learnt to ride the ponies, we went out to tea with many youthful friends, who seemed to appear like magic, because we had become rich. They were always very impressed by the Oriental room. We played Pilgrim’s Progress all over the house, and ended up there in the celestial city, which we named the room, after our weary wanderings over tables and chairs and up and down the long staircase.

Though we were happy and irresponsible, some vague influence seemed at work in the big house; our parents having got over the excitement of being rich, grew accustomed to entertaining in luxury and became again discontented with each other. One day I went into the morning room suddenly, and I saw my father and mother there with a very pretty girl. My mother’s voice was caught with sobs, the girl looked flushed and defiant. My father said, “ I shall leave you if I may not do as I like, and bring i6 what friends I like into my own house.” My mother s'aid, “ It would almost be better than the sort of friends you bring.”

Then they saw me and I was told to run away.

The next day I saw the butler packing up my father’s things and taking them on a cab away from the house.

“Has my father gone away?” I asked mother.

And she said, “,Yes, he has gone to Paris for a few weeks.”

And she invited some women friends to stay and gave them a very pleasant time. She was always out driving and shopping and going to parties. The papers used to call her the pretty Mrs. Sutherland, and talk of her handsome dresses. Sometimes she took me out as well. One day when we were going to drive in the Park, the footman was tucking the rug ’round us, some lilies of the valley on her hat caught in the cockade on his hat. He was unable to move.

“That will do, Frederick,” said my mother. “ Go to the Park.”

“ Can’t move, madame,” said the embarrassed young man. “ My ’at’s caught In your ’at, if you will pardon the liberty.”

We couldn’t help laughing as we helped to disentangle the two hats.

Several friends^some of whom I shall always re- 17 memberi came to the house. One was an old lady who had a tiny black toy terrier, which used to snap at our heels. She said, “ Tiny is only playing, dear.” But it hurt me, and whenever she came to tea I used to be terrified, for I knew that though she kissed me at one end, the dog would be biting me at the other.

My father came back from Paris, and bought mother a diamond necklace. She was very pleased with it and wore it at all the parties, for they now entertained very lavishly.

We saw mother less and less. She was always just off for somewhere. She swept in to kiss us good night sometimes, a radiant vision of satin and lace. She had attained her desire, at any rate, from a worldly point of view, for she was invited everywhere and was the center of attraction. Money was plentiful and friends innumerable. My father headed big public movements and spoke at many meetings. On Sunday he took us driving in Richmond Park in the spanking phaeton with its pair of goodly chestnuts. We had tea at the Star and Garter Hotel and walked down the hill afterwards under the trees. We ate a good many cakes at tea time, and loved to see the view from the Terrace of the hotel. The trees looked purple, the pink sky was reflected in the winding river and the whole valley grew soft and misty like a crayon drawing. It was so peaceful and gentle with the Sunday even- 18 ing bells chiming out of the mist, that I did not want to go home.

Sometimes our delightful godfather, a Colonel in the Tenth Hussars, went with us. He often came to see us, and brought us presents, and generally lunched with us on Sundays. He used to peel us fruit and crack nuts for us, and after lunch he pretended to be an ogre, and crept round the table after us saying, “ Fe-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.” And we fled in terror before him. Then he would smile and say, “ No more ogres, only a nice kind godfather.” And we flew into his arms, much relieved.

Another personality I remember, was an elegant old lady, who had been at the Court of Russia, and whose husband was a great favorite of the Czar. She had a face like white ivory, her hands were exquisite, her hair was silvery gray and she always wore a black lace cap with a long lace veil behind, which hid a plait of silver hair as thick as a man’s wrist. She could not do her hair up, it was too long, so wore it down concealed in this veil.

Whenever she came she stayed hours and hours, and when my mother was obliged to leave her and go out to fulfill an engagement, she would not be daunted. “ I will join the children in the schoolroom and try to amuse them.”

She did join us but she didn’t amuse us, for she repeated the same anecdotes and stories to us until we knew them by heart. At last one day Margaret could bear it no longer. We both decided to stop it, and when she said, “ I don’t think I’ve told you little girls this story before,” we said both together, standing in front of her, our hands behind us, “ Yes, thank you, you have told us that story before, heaps of times, and as we have our lessons to do, we are afraid we must wish you good evening.”

For which act we were severely scolded by Armie.

But nevertheless it put a stop to it.

Things began to be a little strange at this time. We were not told of any loss of money, but one or two of the servants were dismissed and the others had to do more work. For instance, Kate became the housemaid as well as the nurserymaid. We had grown very fond of her, and often when Armie went to spend the day out, Kate sat with us while we played with our dolls. She used to sew and talk of her home in the country, not as if she liked it, but as of something she was well out of.

“You don’t like the country,” I said to her wondering how she could dislike it.

She shook her head. “ No, it’s dull, people don’t half live, the lights are out early, and you all go to bed, there’s no traffic and noise.”

“ That’s nice,” said Margaret, “ there’s only bird noises and trees sighing in the wind.”

“Lot too much sighing in the country,” she said; “people get like turnips.”

“ you are not like a turnip,” said Margaret, looking at her critically.

“ I left home when I was young,” said Kate, “ or I should have been.”

It seemed very strange the country could appear so different to people. We only saw the sun-flecked meadow-lands and heard the singing birds, and thought it a wonderful and peaceful place. Kate found it a place of stagnation and preferred the noise of the traffic, and the glare of the street lamps after dark, and being an enterprising young person, she packed up her boxes and set out to make her living in the environment which most appealed to her. She had quite won Margaret’s heart by the great care she had taken of her hair, which was fair and silky but neither long nor thick; under Kate’s careful hand, it began to be both. I used to watch them at night. Kate handled the hair most tenderly, taking a small comb, parting it and brushing the separate strands with even strokes, then rolling it up in soft silk instead of screwing it into harsh paper.

Our mother grew very melancholy as the days passed. She went out a great deal, but my father was not with her much. He went away very often, and when he was at home, was not very amiable to any of us.

“ Being rich has not made mother very happy,” I said to Armie one day.