Old Miss

Front matter

A Novel

Author of 'Black Sadie

Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company 1929

Chapter 1

Springtime; April evening after rain. So fresh the delicate green of grass and trees, and the slanting rays of the setting sun are weighty with moisture. The white chickens and the commoner dominicas are proceeding up the ladders to their roosting-place in the mulberry trees. Black Lizzie in the kitchen is singing amidst the clatter of her pots and pans. Small William is turning the spitted fowls, over and over, round and round. The hearth is white and red with the glowing coals.

In the house, with nose pressed closely against the window-pane, little Charlotte Steppleton watches the stretch of the avenue of maples from the door to the distant carriage gate. Uncle Jemmy is coming. From the Valley. He will ride down the avenue at a gallop, hallooing, waving his whip, slapping the saddle-bags. Charlotte is watching.

'Will he come before candlelight, Ma? Will he be late for supper? What will he bring me from over the mountains?'

Surely before candlelight. The sun is not yet down. It is still at least a yard above the ridge of the distant mountains. A turkey hen with her brood parades solemnly down the drive.

'Out of the way, Lucinda! Uncle Jemmy Steppleton will ride over you. He is coming any minute.' Charlotte claps her hands and waves signals of alarm to the turkey family. But the lofty-minded mother-fowl heeds her not. Charlotte twists herself about on the window-seat. 'If we light the candles now, Ma, will that make him come any sooner?'

Mrs. Steppleton puts by her knitting. 'He will come in good time,' she says. 'We do not need candles just yet. Let's have a little blindman's holiday now.'

'He is coming, Ma! He's coming!' Charlotte flies to the door.

Several little negroes from the quarters hear the thud of the hoofbeats. They scamper across the grass to swing open the big gates. But the rider is there first. He disdains the closed gates. Halloo, halloo; over he comes, vaulting the high spikes, dashing down the avenue.

Charlotte is in his arms. He kisses his sister-in-law. Bowleg Nick comes up from the stable. He leads away the horse. A black youth with two rows of magnificent white teeth carries the saddle-bags into the house. The maids begin to light the candles, in the hall, in the parlor, in the dining-room. 'Hurry up wid supper. Marse Jeems done come.'

'Where's your pa? Where's Ned?' asks Uncle Jemmy.

'He rode over to Swan Creek to see Captain Bassett,' says Charlotte's mother. 'He may be a little late getting home.'

Into the parlor they go. The fire-boy is heaping up fresh logs on the coals. The fire begins to crackle and blaze up. The red light dances on walls and polished furniture. James Steppleton's body-servant comes to take away his boots. Charlotte kneels at his feet with his slippers.

'What do you think, Lotty! I passed Indians on the stage-road. Look out to-morrow. You will see them pass; Indian file, going to Washington to get their papers and money. They have come all the way from the Valley. Once they lived on this side of the mountains, right here where this house stands. All beyond the mountains now, and going farther, going west. See, here are some beads I got from a squaw for you.'

Dear, darling Uncle Jemmy. Always something wonderful to tell, something wonderful and beautiful to show. Beads, red, blue, green, worked in a simple pattern. Charlotte gives Uncle Jemmy another kiss for thank-you. At supper how he will talk—stories, jokes! And he will ride Lotty on his foot, toss her high above his head, she screaming with joy, and at last carry her upon his shoulder triumphantly to bed. She will tumble, shouting with laughter, from his high shoulder into the squashy feather bed. Mammy will be there to cackle with laughter at her fall.

Dark outside. The dogs bark. It is a horseman riding down the avenue. Ned Steppleton home again. He swings himself to the ground, flings the reins to Bowleg Nick, and tramps into the house, spurs rattling.

James jumps to his feet. 'Ah, here's Ned! How are you, Brother?'

'Well, Jeems? How are you? Did you ride far to-day?'

'Only from Botetourt. I stayed the night at Mr. Rayfield's. I was in Montgomery County the day before yesterday. There was trouble with the Indians there. They are moving west, but they steal and quarrel with the settlers. It's a wild country, Montgomery County. Last week Tony Lester's children were playing on a large haystack. Under the stack Indians were hiding. Doubtless intending to come out at night to pilfer about the place . . . horses or cattle, perhaps. Lester's twelve-year-old boy saw them. He behaved like a man. No panic. He left his sis- ters sliding on the hay. He slipped off to tell his father. Tony put him on a horse and the lad rode twenty-five miles calling for help at the various homesteads.'

'Jem, you alarm me!' exclaims Mrs. Steppleton. 'Surely the Indians will not trouble the county families?'

'Not here. This is east of the mountains. But beyond the Blue Ridge there is little law or order. The settlers must look out for themselves. The Indians are on the move. They are not really dangerous, but they could be most annoying on isolated plantations.'

Supper. Charlotte is allowed to sit up to-night in honor of her uncle's visit. She grasps one of his hands and one of her father's. They go into the dining-room. Roast chicken, cold ham, hot rolls, biscuits, and waffles. In the center of the table is the large silver bowl of fresh milk. Mrs. Steppleton ladles it out into the silver barrel-cups. Charlotte has hers in a porringer, and cold bread crumbled in it.

Uncle Jemmy talks about the Indians. He gives news of the families living in the Valley and beyond the mountains. Charlotte strives to listen, but she is sleepy before the meal is half over. Far past her usual bedtime. Her mammy comes to extract her from her high chair. Mammy lugs her off to bed. Lotty is too sleepy to protest that it is really her intention to have Uncle Jemmy carry her on his shoulder up the stairs to bed. She is asleep on Mammy's breast.

The next afternoon the Indians pass. Uncle Jemmy takes Charlotte down to the gate to see them go by. There are fifty at least. Little Charlotte swings on the gate. The Indians do not notice her. In single file they pass. It is amusing, unusual, to see the file of Indians going down the turnpike. They will camp for the night on the other side of the village. Charlotte asks Uncle Jemmy innumerable questions concerning Indians. He knows the proper answers to every one. What a mine of information! Charlotte worships him.

'That bank beyond the lilac hedge,' says Uncle Jemmy, 'is an old flint bed. The Indians used to come there to get flints for their arrow-heads. If you search, you will find many broken bits of stone and some almost perfect points.'

Mammy proceeds down the avenue. She claims Charlotte. Time for her supper. Time for bed. Uncle Jemmy promises that they shall search for arrow-heads early to-morrow. Off she goes, tripping beside Mammy, holding her by the hand, looking back to wave at Uncle Jemmy, still standing by the gate.

'Good-night, May Basket,' he calls.

Charlotte Steppleton is four years old. Four years old, going on five. All night long she dreams of Indians. They have lilac boughs on their heads and in their hands. Showers of arrow-heads fall from the sky, but they do not hurt the Indians . . . soft as snowflakes. Charlotte Steppleton four years old. Four years old, going on five.

Chapter 2

Charlotte Steppleton six years old, nearly seven. So old, almost a young lady. No longer 'Mammy's baby chile.' But neither Mammy nor Charlotte is reconciled to the change. Mammy cannot understand how Charlotte could possibly outgrow her care; Charlotte, though anxious to grow up, is restive under the increased demands made upon her years by Ma. Ma is teaching her to read. And she must take lessons on the harp and the spinet. Every day she stands for half an hour against the wall in Ma's chamber, a book balanced on her head. This exercise is intended to make her spine straight so that she will carry herself well. Never, when she is seated, will Ma permit her to touch the back of her chair. 'Sit upright like a lady.' How irksome it all is; how much pleasanter to roam with Mammy about the grounds, visiting the chickens, peeping over the mangers at the soft-nosed horses in the stall, watching Unc' Cicero feed the pigs.

And she is learning to sew. Life is full of responsibilities. She must sew long seams, and she must practice stitches on samplers. Already she has done several samplers. There is one in lavender worsted on brown linen. Letters of the alphabet, both large and small, and the digits up to nought, in the corners crude representations of the sun and moon and stars, and the words 'First Sampler, Charlotte Steppleton,' in flowing script done in black thread. There is a second sampler done in divers colors, fruit (unknown to horticulture); flowers, very large; houses, very small, and two little girls in candle-snuffer-shaped dresses. Charlotte has a third sampler on her tambor frame. It is very elabo- rate . . . a border of cross-stitch like a rail fence and a stiff soldier in each corner, some soaring fowls, and a text from Job and one from Lamentations.

Every morning Charlotte works for an hour on the sampler. When visitors come to see Ma, Charlotte must hand around the samplers to be admired. They are. That is a pleasant experience. But the work is onerous; still . . . When the task is done, she lays away the needlework in the top drawer of the chest in her own little chamber.

Charlotte loves her chest of drawers. It came from England, long ago, brought over by her great-grandmother Steppleton. It was old then; how much more so now! There is a scar on one side. Inside the scar one may see a large bullet embedded in the hard walnut wood. There are various stories to account for the bullet. One has it that a Roundhead shot at a Cavalier Steppleton sitting before the chest of drawers having his long hair dressed. Another story has it that while at sea the ship was engaged by pirates. A stray bullet lodged in the chest of drawers. Uncle Jemmy tells a story of a hawk that flew into the house and was killed by Grandpa Steppleton, the bullet passing right through the bird and embedding itself in the side of the chest. All likely stories, all romantic and thrilling to relate. On different occasions Charlotte accepts different versions as suits her mood and fancy.

Summer morning. The lawn is fresh with dew. The forget-me-nots look like a blue wash in the green grass. And the lilacs are heavy with bloom, lilac, white. Charlotte is searching the flint bed by the lilac hedge for Indian arrow-heads. It is hard to find them now, the ground has been gone over so many, many times. Charlotte has a box full of her findings, bits of broken stone, arrow-heads, spear-points, pestles, and even some fragments of pipe-bowls. Ever since the day Uncle Jemmy Steppleton showed her the Indians filing past the house and told her about the old flint bed, Charlotte's most exhilarating pastime has been to search that bank for Indian relics.

Down she stoops, prying with her hands amongst the clumps of coarse grass, periwinkle vines, and johnny-jump-ups. Just one more arrow-head, if she could only find one more for her collection. Charlotte glances apprehensively toward the house. Mammy has warned her to keep herself clean. She is going on a journey. Already she wears her traveling bonnet and mantle. Mammy might descend upon her quite unpleasantly if she spies her rooting about in the dewy flint bed. Also the sun is hot and Ma has commanded her to remain quietly in the shade until she is called. But Charlotte tires of standing primly on the front porch. She has stolen away for just one last search for Indian remains before she goes on her journey. What if she gets sunburned, freckled? Ma will scold. And if she soils her mantle and dress, her hands, Mammy . . .

It is the War of 1812, late in the years of hostilities. Uncle Jemmy is in Washington with Mr. Madison's troops. News has come that the British have taken the city and burned the White House. The Virginia Legislature, remembering Colonel Cockburn's outrages at Hampton, are apprehensive of another invasion. The militia is mustered. Pa must leave home to command a company of volunteers at Wynch's Ferry.

Charlotte has heard much about the war. She has heard of the ship 'Old Ironsides,' and she knows of the terrible Indian Tecumseh, and of the capture and recapture of Detroit Fort. When the news of the burning of Washing- ton comes, and of how Mrs. Dolly Madison, the President's beautiful wife, had to flee from her home carrying the portrait of General Washington under her arm, Charlotte is convinced that the enemy is at the doors.

'Will they burn down this house, Ma?'

'No, dear, no; the fighting is far away, mostly on the seas.'

'Then why must we run away from home, Ma?'

'We are not running away, dear. We are going on a visit to Mr. Rayfield's family in Botetourt County while your pa is away from home. We shall soon be home again, in a few weeks.'

The day of departure has come. The house is put to rights ready for closing. Pa's horse stands saddled at the gate. He will ride beside the stage-coach as far as Buffard's Tavern, twelve miles west. A carriage from Mr. Rayfield's will meet them there. Then Pa will turn back to go on to Wynch's Ferry and the camp of soldier-militia.

Mammy is calling. Ma is calling. Pa shouts too. Where is Charlotte? 'Lotty? Lotty!' Not an arrow-head to be found. Charlotte plucks a hasty nosegay of periwinkle and wild pansy. She runs toward the house. She must not miss the stage-coach. She could not stay alone at home with Ma and Pa away. She hears the coachman's horn blowing in the village.

Ma is coming down the path. She has on her bonnet and shawl. Pa is there too. Charlotte runs to meet them at the gate. Unc' Bowleg Nick holds the bridle of Pa's horse, Sally Lun. Unc' Isaacs, the butler, carries the traveling trunk. Mammy's arms are heaped high with shawls and rugs. The mulatto girl, Dolly, has the basket of food. And numerous little negro boys and girls swarm out from the quarters to see Marster and Miss depart.

The stage is coming. It has left the door of the tavern already. It is rolling down the street. The coachman blows and blows his horn. He sees the group at the Steppleton gate. He pulls up his horses with a jerk and a loud whoa.

Two passengers in the stage. One is Tavern-Keeper Buffard's daughter, Amelia Ann Buffard. On her knees she clasps a monstrous bonnet box. She has bought a new bonnet at Miss Matilda Taploe's shop. She is going home. The other passenger is a very fat man. His jowl completely overlaps his stock, and as for his paunch, words fail to describe its size. His face is very red. He is still wiping the crumbs from his repast at the tavern in the village off his lips and chin. Under the fat man's feet is a little red leather trunk.

Into the coach they get, Ma and Charlotte and Mammy. Pa mounts Sally Lun and rides beside the window. Off the coach rolls, up and down the red hills, a long, long way. The turnpike skirts nothing. It takes the hills and valleys as they come. A long straight road.

It is very hot in the coach. Charlotte remembers the deportment of a lady. She will not permit herself to lean back against the seat. Ma does not lean back. But Mammy is already doubled up asleep. The fat man is asleep too. Ma and Miss Amelia Ann Buffard exchange remarks. They whisper queries to each other about the fat man. What is in the little red leather trunk? Where did the fat man come from? Where is he going? Who might he be?

Charlotte is very sleepy too. But she cannot go to sleep because the fat man nods so heavily that he lunges against her. How unpleasant that is! What if she had something to place between herself and him? It would be a safe barrier between them. Charlotte looks down at the little red trunk. Could she lift it to the seat between Mr. Fat Man and herself? She leans down. She tugs at the handle of the trunk. How very heavy. It must be filled with stones, or ironware.

The fat man wakes up. He apologizes politely to Charlotte for tumbling against her. He was aware of it, but he could not help himself.

'I thought, sir, if I could put your trunk between us, it would be like a pillow for you to sleep on.'

'Tck, tck, just so, just so,' he says, lifting the trunk. It is very heavy even for his great strength.

Ma looks anxiously at her daughter. Is she behaving altogether decorously? What are she and the fat man saying? Ma has been dozing. Amelia Ann too.

'It seems to be rather a heavy trunk to be so small a one,' ventures Charlotte to her new friend.

'Aye, little mistress, gold is heavy. But it is as safe here on the seat as t'would be under my feet.'

'Is it really gold?' asks Charlotte. She opens her eyes very wide.

But the fat man is already beginning to sleep again. 'Nigger money,' he says, and slumbers once more. The little trunk keeps him from toppling against Charlotte.

Nigger money? Then he is a slave-dealer. Has he just sold slaves in Belair, or is he on the way to purchase some? But he is asleep. He cannot answer even if it were polite to ask. The question is not in Charlotte's mind. It is before the attention of Ma and Miss Amelia Ann.

'La, Mis' Steppleton, do you reckon we are safe from highwaymen with a box of gold in the coach?' Miss Buffard is apprehensive.

'Pray give yourself no uneasiness, Miss Buffard. Mr. Steppleton is with us. He has a good brace of pistols. Besides, I never heard of any highwaymen on this turnpike.'

Thus eased and protected, the stage-passengers slumber. And the little red trunk of gold, 'nigger money,' keeps the fat man from crushing little Charlotte.

One o'clock; Buffard's Tavern; change of horses; dinner. Miss Buffard reënters the bosom of her family amid loud acclaims from a bevy of sisters younger than herself. Mr. Tim Buffard receives the fat man into his road-house and feeds him on chicken, potatoes, and pie. Ma and Mammy spread the contents of the large lunch-basket on the grass in the shade of a large chestnut tree.

While they are eating, Mr. Rayfield's carriage drives up. Old Nero is the coachman. His hair is white and he has lost all his teeth. He wears a very old-fashioned hat, shorts too, and buckled shoes. Mr. Steppleton inquires about the family at Pine Grove. Are they well? Is Mr. Rayfield at home? Is there much company? Has the wheat been harvested? How is the tobacco?

Chapter 3

Dark when the carriage drives in at the Pine Grove gate, and a sickle moon over the cedars. Lights in every window. So many people at Mr. Rayfield's house.

Negro servants spring up out of the very ground to hold the horses' heads, to let down the steps of the carriage, to carry in the luggage. Mrs. Rayfield herself comes down the steps of the front porch to greet the refugees. 'Dear Mis' Steppleton! And this is little Lotty? O my, how great the child has grown!'

So many people; a host of Rayfields, sons and daughters, cousins great and small, friends. Ma is surprised and delighted to find her only brother here, Uncle Harvey Twitchell. He paints portraits, going from one plantation to another painting the likenesses of the people. He is a widower, but a very gay one, still young and personable, and loves to dance. No one can call the figures of the quadrille more perfectly than he, nor dance the minuet so well. What a surprise to find Uncle Harvey at Pine Grove! Ma is entranced to see Uncle Harvey. He is charmed to see 'Sis.'

Charlotte is dazed in the lights after the dark. So many people confuse her, people coming and going, people in the wide hall, on the stairs, in the adjoining rooms. Music, laughter, talk. Charlotte is just awake too. She has been asleep in the carriage. She blinks and sinks herself well into the capacious folds of Ma's skirts. Dela Rayfield's pet cat, Maltese Toby, comes and rubs himself against her ankles. Back and forth he goes, tail up, out and under the edges of Charlotte's dress. And he purrs ever so loudly.

'Kitty, kitty!' Small hands reaching for the cat. Charlotte peeks out of the fold of Ma's skirt. She sees a little boy just beside her, stooping down, reaching for the cat. But Toby will not come. Slyly he eludes the grasping fingers of the child, rubbing back and forth, round and round, the shins of the little girl.

'How tired you must be!' exclaims Mrs. Rayfield. 'Come right in the dining-room. Katy, Margaret, bring some supper directly!'

Into the dining-room they go, Toby and the little boy following. Charlotte holds on to Ma's hand. She is heavy with sleep again. Supper for Charlotte of milk-toast and cambric tea, and she goes to rest in a trundle bed beside the high one where Ma will sleep. Mammy helps her to un-dress. Dear Mammy, but she is slightly cross. She is very tired. The day has been ever so long, the road so far, so far.

Cat Toby appears again. He leaps upon the bed to nes-tle in the crook of Charlotte's arm. 'Dear kitty, dear pussy.' Somewhere a whippoorwill is calling, and the frogs sing in a variety of keys all along the banks of the spring-branch at the bottom of the garden. Toby purrs aloud, and Charlotte sleeps.

Early in the morning Charlotte is out to inspect the locality. Back yard, garden, barnyard, fold; chickens, hounds, hogs, and sheep. She peeps into the cool shade of the spring-house; watches the ducks on the pond; gathers sweet-williams to carry in her hand. At the barnyard gate the little boy of the night before appears. He has on a blue suit with a white collar. His hair is wet, plastered down with the brushing.

'What's your name?' he asks of Charlotte.

Charlotte is embarrassed. She wishes to run away. But the boy, without waiting for an answer, says: 'They's a lot o' new puppies came last night. Come, I'll show 'em to you.'

Five minutes seals the friendship. The boy picks out a puppy for himself. Charlotte picks out one for herself. They are white with pink snouts, eyes closed, and they whine and squeal gently all the time. What fun to hug and fondle the puppies!

The boy's name is Robert Armistead Tirwell. He tells Charlotte all about himself. He is an orphan. His father and mother are dead, in the spring. He lived with them in Washington, and sometimes at Franklin Forest in Virginia, but not often. His father was the friend of Mr. President Jefferson. At Franklin Forest there is a red desk Mr. Jefferson gave Pa. Now Robert is going to live in Philadelphia with his uncle, who is his guardian. When he is big he will go to live at Franklin Forest. That is his own home. But far, far away from here. Mrs. Rayfield is his cousin. He is spending the summer at Pine Grove.

Here is a tragic figure, and a romantic one. Charlotte has little to match of personal history to that of Robert Armistead Tirwell. Her name is not important. She has not even heard of Mr. President Jefferson, much less seen him. And her pa and ma are both alive. She lives on the other side of the mountains on the edge of the village of Belair.

She cudgels her brains for something notable to tell Robert. Ah! She has seen Indians. They filed past her home a long time ago. She watched them go. And in her yard there is a flint bed. She has a box full of arrow-heads and such like that she has found there. 'And my Uncle Jemmy Steppleton jumped his horse over the highest gate that ever you saw!'

So? Robert is only politely interested. He turns once more to the bed of puppies. Eight, four dogs and four bitches. The tails of the dogs will be cut off . . . 'You bites 'em off.' And doubtless the bitches will be drowned.

What thoughts! Charlotte burst into loud sobs. She cannot bear to have the baby puppies drowned, and to bite off the tails of the boys . . .! It takes a deal of explaining to Mammy before she will believe 'dat boy' hasn't hurt 'mer baby chile.' Robert is crestfallen. He had only meant to show his worldly-wiseness. He is sent off to find his breakfast. And Charlotte must be dressed anew after her peregrinations about the place, in the tall grass all wet with dew, in the mud by the branch and the duck pond, and the doggishness of the hollow tree where the litter of puppies is.

'And, Mammy, there are real foxes in a cage by the barn!'

Romantic Uncle Harvey Twitchell. Two sad bereavements have surrounded him with a special glamour. Some years ago he was engaged to be married to a Richmond belle. The wedding day was set. Uncle Harvey had made all his arrangements to go to Richmond for the ceremony, soon after Christmas. On December 26, 1811, the lady with her pa and ma attended the theater on Academy Square. The stock company was to give a gala performance with Mistress Elizabeth Arnold Poe in the cast. All Richmond was there. In the midst of the performance there was a cry of fire. The theater burned. There was a dreadful panic. Very few people were saved, many burned to death, many crushed and smothered in the rush and the smoke.

And Uncle Harvey's fiancée perished in the flames. Her remains were identified by means of a necklace she is known to have worn. Her pa and ma, too, were burned to death. It was a terrible tragedy. All Richmond mourned. All Virginia was horror-struck.

Uncle Harvey was nearly beside himself with grief. He could not remain at home. He mounted his horse, Martius. He rode about the country from estate to estate, never able to bear remaining long in one place. He was too prostrated by the unexpected and cruel death of his beloved to rest calmly anywhere.

But what was the astonishment of Ma, and what was the astonishment of all of Uncle Harvey's friends and acquaintances, when, less than six months after the fire, Uncle Harvey rode into his brother-in-law Steppleton's gate with a bride on the pillion behind him. She was a buxom little thing, very shy, and she blushed a great deal. Her father was a small farmer in Fluvanna County, and because nobody had ever heard of him or his family before, they were all the more surprised at Uncle Harvey's consoling himself so soon.

But Mistress Harvey seemed very happy. Not for long, however, for just a year later she died in childbed. Uncle Harvey mourned her loss and that of the infant with sincerest sorrow. Charlotte remembers seeing him wandering about the grounds moping, weeping, wearing black. She also thinks she remembers her Aunt Harvey, but she is not sure. Perhaps it is only the name and the talk of her elders that makes her think she does.

So Uncle Harvey is single again, still young, still personable, still debonair, affect the contrary as he will. Mammas receive him graciously everywhere. Young demoiselles are far from averse to his company and attentions. But Uncle Harvey declares life is finished for him. His loves have caused him to suffer too deeply. He professes to have a broken spirit. He will never marry again. No lady disputes his word but in their hearts they do not take his declarations too seriously. Time . . . and hope . . .

So Uncle Harvey rides about the country painting portraits. At Pine Grove he has four painting orders. A portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Rayfield each, he in his colonel's uniform, she in the garb of a shepherdess holding a crook and showing two very prettily turned ankles. Mrs. Rayfield blushes as she apologizes for having her likeness done in so youthful and fanciful a fashion. It is Mr. Rayfield's wish. Miss Dela Rayfield is sitting for her portrait too, just a bust with a bouquet of roses held against her breast. Mr. Rayfield's invalid sister, Martha, endures posing for an hour each morning. She reclines on a sofa. Uncle Harvey sits across the room. She is draped in white and holds a single lily languidly in her hand.

There is at Pine Grove a brisk old lady, Mrs. Rayfield's maternal aunt, Miss Amanda Towser. She belongs to the old school, as her dress and her manner plainly show. She declares herself a Tory. If she were a man, she would remove at once to Canada. Her sex and her estate compel her to live amongst the rebel subjects of the King. Mr. Rayfield twits Aunt Towser good-naturedly on the subject. It is a good joke which everybody understands and laughs at.