Chapter 20 The School Queens by L. T. Meade
THE VILLA
Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs. Martin’s eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them. Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd’s Bush grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.
Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes – by no means bad in their way – hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented in Martin’s eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it, was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.
They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs. Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she suggested this Bo-peep said, “No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the time when I am out, Little-sing.”
Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious. Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.
“We’ll have all the comic operas on it,” said Bo-peep; “nothing of the classic order for me – nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes, plenty of them – no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?”
Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to be purchased.
Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid. There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new name and address, and the notification that she was “at home” on the third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin’s marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.
Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen Maggie’s great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his delectation.
“Beef-steak pudding, cook,” she said, “with mutton kidneys, and plenty of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light.”
Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding she ought immediately to leave her “perfession.” She was a stout, red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Martin; “I am glad you quite understand. You know that my husband is very particular. Then we’ll have potatoes and fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream.”
The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the drawing-room.
“You had better light a fire here, Matilda,” she said. “It’s going to be a very cold day.”
“I’d a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though a lump o’ ice got on my ’eart when you say Mat-tilda.”
“‘Matilda’ is more refined and suitable,” said Mrs. Martin with dignity.
“Oh yes, ’um – ’course, ’um. When ’ull Miss Maggie be comin’ to see us, ’um?”
“Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school.”
“So I ’ave ’eard,” said Matilda. “You ’aven’t give me no ’olidays, ’um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-ly, that I were to ’ave my day out once a month.”
“You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven’t the slightest wish to keep you indoors against your will.”
“To-morrer’s cook’s day, ’um.”
“Well, then, you shall go the next day.”
“Thank you, ’um. I thought I’d go and see Miss Maggie ef you’d give me her address.”
“Well, now, that’s a very good idea,” said Mrs. Martin. “I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That’s very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is.”
“It’s longin’ I am to lay eyes on ’er, mum. She’s a bee-utiful way with ’er,” said Matilda.
When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie’s, which she had received during her husband’s absence, from her pocket. She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: “You must not let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House.”
Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness consisted in endless jokes – practical jokes or otherwise, just as it suited him at the moment.
He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key, or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to perfection. What he called her “fine-lady airs,” when they were displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.
Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting late – nearly four o’clock; but, according to an expressed wish of Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore, with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr. Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.
She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing? Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy. Cook was about to scream, “Burglars!” but Tildy recognized her master.
“It’s his joke,” she said. “’E’s a wonderful man for jokes. Don’t let on to Mrs. Martin that ’e’s ’ere for your life. ’E’ll do something so comic in a minute.”
The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:
“Gaily the Troubadour
Touched his guitar,
When he was hastening
Home from the war;
Singing, ‘From Palestine
Hither I come.
Ladye love! ladye love!
Welcome me home.’”
Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.
“Little-sing!” he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.
During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.
“By the way,” he said, “I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes – two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?”
“She wrote to me, dear,” said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. “She was very much obliged to you.”
“And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things – that you had nothing to do with them?”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Martin. “Won’t you have some coffee, James? I’ll tell Matilda to bring it in.”
“Coffee – fiddlestick!” said Martin; “and you know I hate to be called ‘James.’ Where’s Bo-peep?”
“You are Bo-peep,” said his wife with a funny smile.
“Well, then, no ‘Jamesing’ of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?”
“Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep.”
“Well – but – where’s the letter? I may as well see it. There’s stuff in that girl. I don’t despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I wouldn’t have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter’s a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me.”
Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly entitled to her own father’s money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.
Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin’s taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter.
“I saw you reading something as I came along,” he said. “When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?”
“Only Maggie.”
“And that is the letter you spoke about?”
“Yes, dear James – I mean Bo-peep – yes. The child is very grateful.”
“She ought to be. I’d like to see the letter. Where is it?”
“I will go upstairs and fetch it,” said Mrs. Martin, who knew well that it was safe in her pocket all the time.
James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.
“Do so,” he said. “Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I’ll allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don’t you, Little-sing?”
“Yes. I will fetch the letter,” said Mrs. Martin.
She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was determined to read poor Maggie’s letter at any cost. He waited impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.
“Please, sir,” she said, “cook wants to see you for a minute.”
“I can’t see her now. Tell her so,” replied Martin.
“Which is no message for a woman of my class,” said Horniman, entering the room and showing a very heated face. “I wishes to give notice that I leave your service this day month.”
“You can go to-morrow,” said Martin.
“As you please, sir; wages in full.”
“You go to-morrow,” said Martin; “and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room.”
Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.
“Whatever is keeping Little-sing?” thought Martin to himself.
He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.
“She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour,” he said to himself. “She is destroying it now; but she sha’n’t – not before I get it.”
He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs. He stopped outside his wife’s bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.
“Open the door at once,” he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.
“Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!”
“Where is that letter, Victoria?”
“It – it – I can’t find it,” she replied.
“What are those papers lying on the floor?”
Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and, taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the dining-room.
“Now, you sit there, Little-sing,” he said, “while I piece the letter together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but you’ve quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you and me. I’m not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to have that girl ruling you. You’re frightened of that girl. Now, let’s see what she has to say.”
Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep’s arm, and looked into his face. “She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until you came back. Please – please, don’t read it!”
“Nonsense, Little-sing,” he replied, restored once more to the height of good humor. “You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me not to see every word of the letter now.”
It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie’s letter; but at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs. Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her forcibly in her seat.
When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, “I don’t blame you, Little-sing, not one bit. But we’ve got to punish this girl. To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we’ll take a half-holiday and go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House – you and me together, Little-sing – the grocer and his wife together. Not a word, my love; not a word.”