Britannia Mews Page 2

  “I suppose it’s a duty,” quoted Adelaide. “Will Auntie Ham let us come to-morrow?”

  “Of course. And if we’ve had the toffee, I’ll make Mamma let us try on all her hats.”

  Adelaide never ceased to wonder at the freedom with which the young Hambros treated their parents. They seemed to have not the least fear even of their papa, and swarmed over their mother even when she was dressed to go out. But Adelaide was saved from envy by the knowledge that she herself was being much better brought up.

  They wandered on. Presently Treff ran up after them, already tired of military discipline and wanted to play I Spy. Alice good-naturedly did so while Adelaide went on thinking about her adventure in the Mews and the afternoon’s engagement. (It seemed to be a day when things happened.) Now and then they saw someone they knew, a lady from Bayswater or Kensington, who smiled and waved to them; ladies were beginning to come into the gardens after their shopping. Some still wore ulsters, some smart cloth jackets, cut very short and cocked up over their bustles. Not one carried a muff. Adelaide’s hands were growing quite sticky with the warmth of her own, but she wouldn’t take them out.

  “Look at that funny dog!” exclaimed Treff suddenly.

  Alice and Adelaide looked, and saw a big Airedale running round in a wide circle, of which they were the centre. Every few yards he paused, threw up his head, and uttered a queer little sniggering whine. There was something clownish about him, and the children laughed.

  “He’s playing,” said Alice. “He’s chasing his tail, like a kitten.”

  Treff ran after the animal, who hesitated, seemed to scrutinize him, and then set off again. The two girls joined in, racing at Treff’s heels. “It’s the Caucus Race!” cried Alice. “We’ll all win and all get prizes!” They were enjoying the sport immensely, when all at once a most dreadful thing happened. The dog stopped, uttered a last cry of despair, and fell down in a fit. His body jerked all over, white foam was forming on his muzzle: the three children drew back in horror.

  “He wasn’t playing,” breathed Alice. “He’s mad.…”

  Adelaide took an uncertain step towards him, but her cousin held her. Treff burst into tears. They looked desperately round for adult aid, but Miss Bryant and Miss Grigson and the nurse were far from view, and it was extraordinary how the Gardens, a moment ago thronged, had suddenly emptied.

  “Suppose he isn’t mad at all, only ill?” said Adelaide.

  “I don’t care. If he bites us, we’ll all go mad too,” said Alice.

  Adelaide shivered. Mad dog, mad dog! An anguished sympathy filled her heart, but Alice held her fast. The animal’s whimperings were now dreadful to hear, but they could not tear themselves away; impotent, they could not quite desert him. All around the Gardens stretched away in the sunshine, filled with the peculiar emptiness of London out-of-doors when no one is about.

  It was Treff who broke the stricken silence with his famous railway-engine shriek. He had seen a young man walking swiftly up from the Serpentine; at the ear-splitting sound the man began to hurry, then to run. He ran faster than any grown-up they had ever seen, straight to where the dog lay, whipping off his jacket as he came. The children soon saw why: dropping on his knees the young man swiftly muffled the animal’s head, then began to rub his hand along its heaving flanks, talking all the while in kind admonishing tones. The Airedale’s name was Bob. Quite soon the heaving subsided and Bob lay still, whimpering no more.

  “Is he—dead?” whispered Alice.

  “No,” said the young man, over his shoulder. “He’s had a fit. He ran off when he felt it coming.”

  “If I hadn’t whistled, you’d never have found him,” said Treff importantly.

  But the dog’s master was not interested in them, and with a sense of being in the way (as so often happened in cases of illness) the three children walked slowly and silently off. It was not until they were in sight of Miss Bryant and the others that Alice spoke again.

  “He knew he was going to have a fit, and we laughed at him,” she said remorsefully. “He must have thought we were beasts …”

  They all felt rather uncomfortable. By common consent, because the incident was of importance and deeply felt, they did not mention it to their elders.

  4

  Sitting beside her mother in the carriage, Adelaide gazed superiorly down on the foot-traffic of the Bayswater Road. They were driving towards Mayfair. Adelaide had on her best blue velvet coat. Mrs. Culver wore a velvet jacket over her new magenta moire. Though thirty-five, and therefore middle-aged, Mrs. Culver was still a handsome woman, and Adelaide at that moment admired her mother very much. But she couldn’t understand why they were both so grandly dressed—as for a call of the first water—when they were really on an errand of mercy. “Aren’t we going to take a basket?” Adelaide had asked, as they got into the carriage; but Mrs. Culver either did not, or decided not to, hear. The children were used to these parental deafnesses, and Adelaide realized she had made a mistake. She was disappointed, however; she enjoyed taking out the tea or the jellies, pressing them into thankful hands, and listening to the expressions of gratitude they always evoked. (Or nearly always: there was an ex-housemaid with a Radical brother-in-law whose name could no longer be mentioned.)

  “Addie, put your hat forward,” said Mrs. Culver.

  Adelaide tilted her blue velvet toque, with the ermine’s head in front, till she could feel its hard rim pressing on her eyebrows. Mrs. Culver nodded absently. Adelaide never expected much notice from her mother, which was odd, since Mrs. Culver considered that she devoted her life to her children. She did in fact devote herself to the work of making nine hundred pounds a year do the work, or at least produce the effect, of twelve, and so from one point of view was possibly right.

  The carriage turned into Park Lane. The tension—it was now nothing less—increased. They drove on and turned into Curzon Street, turned again into a smaller but still very elegant thoroughfare, where the narrow houses had each a tiny balcony along the first floor. (As in Britannia Mews.) The carriage stopped. “Half an hour, Benson,” said Mrs. Culver. She rang the bell and the door was opened to them by the smartest page Adelaide had ever seen.

  Mrs. Burnett was at home.

  5

  Adelaide’s immediate thought, as they entered Mrs. Burnett’s drawing-room, was that she would like to be left there a long time, by herself, so that she could look at everything thoroughly. It was a wonderful room: the walls, hung with very pale yellow damask, were covered with sketches and paintings: two cabinets, and three or four little tables, offered the most fascinating array of luxurious bric-à-brac; a stand in the window overflowed with flowers. Adelaide was so occupied with all this that she missed the first greetings between her mother and their hostess; she was still agape when the former’s hand descended firmly on her shoulder.

  “And this,” said Mrs. Culver, “is Adelaide.”

  Adelaide automatically advanced her cheek for the usual kiss—and felt Mrs. Culver’s hand tighten. But Mrs. Burnett evidently wasn’t a “kissing-lady,” she merely stooped gracefully forward, disengaging a faint but very sweet perfume. Adelaide stared up at a beautiful white throat, all the whiter for a sapphire cross, at a pale, pretty face under an enormous chignon of auburn hair.

  “And this is Adelaide,” repeated Mrs. Burnett. “Sit down, chérie, and take off your hat.”

  Adelaide sat down, but kept her hat on. Her Culver blood, always socially suspicious, reminded her that she didn’t yet know the lady as well as that. She folded her hands in her lap and continued to gaze. Mrs. Burnett wore a gown of pale bluish-green silk, the bustle looped by an enormous bow of black velvet: she had heavy gold bracelets, and sparkling rings, and in her ears the most beautiful earrings like bunches of grapes. She wasn’t poor at all: she looked richer than the richest person the Culvers knew. Adelaide shifted her gaze to her mother, now seated opposite Mrs. Burnett by the fire, and for the first time felt dissatisfied with her appearance.
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  “Adelaide, look at the dear little houses!” said Mrs. Culver rather sharply.

  Adelaide obediently turned her attention to the table at her side, which was quite covered with small wooden objects—chalets, gondolas, bears, windmills. They were charming, but she still kept an ear cocked for the conversation by the fire; to her extreme disappointment it was now proceeding in French—which Mrs. Burnett spoke much better than Mrs. Culver: her pretty voice rippled lightly and fluently, never hesitating for a word, while Mrs. Culver’s plodded after. Adelaide could understand hardly anything, but she did pick up the rather surprising fact that the two ladies addressed each other by their Christian names. She distinctly heard Mrs. Burnett call Mrs. Culver “Bertha”; and Mrs. Burnett’s name was “Isabel.” It was interesting, but baffling; Adelaide soon began to look about again and examine the room in more detail.

  The mantelpiece alone was as good as a bazaar. On either side of the enormous mirror rose a tier of little brackets and ledges, each containing some small object of art—porcelain, ivory, or coloured glass. The marble shelf bore a golden clock topped by a female figure; and there were also two china monkeys entirely covered with tiny china forget-me-nots instead of fur. Adelaide thought Mrs. Burnett must be particularly fond of monkeys, for in the cabinet between the fireplace and the door was a whole orchestra of them, each playing a different instrument. Her eye travelled on, noting a picture made of needlework, a trophy of Japanese fans, another cabinet containing blue-and-white china and a collection of tropic shells, and so—Adelaide wriggled round—came back to the stand of flowers behind her and the “wooden-table” at her side.

  There, on the lower shelf, she now observed something that took her fancy more than anything else, something one would hardly have expected to see there at all, or indeed anywhere in a lady’s drawing-room. This object was a cigar box, and within the open lid was one of the loveliest pictures Adelaide had ever seen. In the richest and most glowing hues, embossed and gilt, it depicted Romeo and Juliet on their balcony against a sky unimaginably blue.

  The page brought in tea. It was so splendid a tea, with so many little French cakes, that Adelaide again had the feeling that she would like to be left alone with it; far too soon Mrs. Culver set down her cup—and rose, billowing her magenta silk, settling her jacket, with an air that was very nearly one of relief. Mrs. Burnett did not press her to stay longer; instead, she said kindly:—

  “Adelaide must take a little present. Walk round, child, and see what you would like.”

  With a pretty gesture of her tiny hands, she put the whole room at Adelaide’s disposal. Adelaide glanced quickly at her mother and saw that the offer was acceptable. Then what should she choose? Not the forget-me-not monkeys, much as she desired them; a budding social consciousness warned her that they were too valuable. Indeed, as she circled the room under the eyes of the two ladies, she began to feel as though she were playing Hunt the Thimble, getting now colder, now warmer, as she approached the blue china or the stand of flowers. She was warmest of all by the table with the wooden houses on it, and this suited Adelaide very well. But her mind was on no chalet, or gondola; it was on the cigar box. She had actually put out her hand to it when all at once—colder, colder!—something in the atmosphere warned her again. Mrs. Culver had moved; so had Mrs. Burnett, who with a swift rustle of silk swooped upon a cabinet and whipped out a tropic shell.

  “There, isn’t that pretty?” she exclaimed. “It came all the way from the Indian Ocean!”

  “Adelaide shall look it out on the map,” chimed in Mrs. Culver. “Isn’t it pretty, Adelaide? Say thank you, dear.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Adelaide.

  6

  The drive home proceeded rather silently. Adelaide sat with the shell between her hands. It was really odd rather than beautiful—pink and smooth within, but outside roughened by a sort of white tracery, like worm-casts. It was about the size of a small teapot, and had four blunt spines.

  “What shall I do with it, Mamma?”

  “You may put it on the nursery mantelpiece,” said Mrs. Culver, without looking at it.

  “Am I to share it with Treff?”

  “I don’t suppose he’d care for it,” said Mrs. Culver.

  Adelaide thought he probably would, for Treff always wanted to go shares in anything that belonged to her. However, she let the subject drop, nor did she ask any other questions.

  But when they reached home, and Benson had driven round to the Mews, she said suddenly, “Mamma, I’ve left my handkerchief in the carriage.”

  “Then run and get it,” said Mrs. Culver impatiently. “What a careless child you are!”

  Adelaide ran through the house, and out at the back-door, and found Benson just backing the carriage into the coach-house; his wife was there too, which was annoying, because she still looked cross with Adelaide after the morning’s encounter. (In some households, at the Hambros’ for example, the servants and the children lived on terms of alliance; at the Culvers’ they were foes.) Adelaide jumped into the carriage and pretended to rummage under the cushions, and Benson rather crossly told her to get out.

  “I’ve lost my handkerchief,” explained Adelaide. “Look, here it is! Benson, who is Mrs. Burnett?”

  “How would I know?” grumbled the coachman. “You get off that seat.”

  “Well, I just thought you might,” said Adelaide. It was her experience that servants knew most things. “I liked her.”

  “Did you, now?” said Benson ironically.

  “Yes, I did. She isn’t a kissing-lady.”

  The coachman and his wife exchanged a peculiar glance. So they did know, thought Adelaide triumphantly. But whatever information they possessed, they were not going to share it; and in fact nearly ten years were to elapse before Adelaide discovered that Mrs. Burnett, born a Culver, was actually her own aunt.

  7

  The long twelvemonths of childhood passed uneventfully. No more little Culvers appeared, and Adelaide’s and Treff’s most intimate friends were still the Hambro children. This was not from any similarity of temperament, but simply on account of the relationship: their parents expected them to be intimate, so intimate they were. Alice, indeed, whose family feeling was very strong, could easily love any cousin, and Adelaide, submitting to be loved, was warmed to a reciprocal affection; but they did not influence one another, for the character of each was formed at home.

  There was no doubt that the little Culvers were much better brought up. Mrs. Culver’s theory of child-management was entirely rational, and confirmed by success. She never forgot, for instance (nor did Adelaide forget either) how Adelaide at seven had been cured of fearing the dark. This was shortly after the child began to sleep alone: and she had a nightmare. Twice in one night did Adelaide flee wailing to her parents’ room, and twice did Mrs. Culver kindly but firmly make her return and conquer her fears by facing them. The second time Adelaide stayed; she was rather white next morning, and sick after breakfast, but never again showed the least fear of the dark. No wonder that Mrs. Culver was complacent; and how foolish of Miss Bryant to suggest a night-light! The latter had no theory of child-management, she was simply used to children, and noticed that Addie’s stomach had become very easily upset. “But why a night-light?” asked Mrs. Culver, much amused; and Miss Bryant could not say. (Treff subsequently had a night-light till the age of ten; but then Treff shrieked till he got it.) No similar crisis could arise at the Hambros’, because Alice shared a room with one little sister, the two others slept together, and the twins from a shockingly early age kept boxes of matches under their pillows; but there was little doubt that they could all have had what illumination they desired.

  Besides meeting daily in the Gardens the children went to tea with each other at least once a week. At Albion Place they did transfers; in Kensington, where the Hambros lived, they played on “the Redan.” (This was a derelict lounge of the type commonly found in hotels—the seat circular about a truncated con
e, the whole covered in red leather. Mr. Hambro had seen it in an auction-room, and with really remarkable intelligence had bought it as a present for his children. He never gave them anything they loved more.) The young Culvers enjoyed going to Kensington more than the young Hambros enjoyed coming to Bayswater; indeed, as the twins grew older they sometimes balked at the “treat” altogether. “It’s their arithmetic!” Alice used to apologize—until one day Adelaide took her up rather sharply by observing that whenever they played Sums in Your Head (a game cunningly introduced by Miss Grigson) the twins always won. They were not bad at arithmetic, they were good at it. Alice flushed. She knew perfectly well that James and John weren’t doing lessons, they were probably Redanning.

  “I expect they’re sliding down the Redan,” said Adelaide unsparingly.

  She slid down it herself whenever she had the opportunity, and made Treff do so too. But Treff was timid and had to be pushed; he preferred playing with Milly and the new baby, Sybil; and then with Milly and Sybil and the new baby, Ellen. He also allowed Alice to hug him, which her own brothers would not, and which Adelaide never attempted. “I can’t understand it!” Alice once exclaimed. “With only two of you, you ought to be so fond of each other!” “Of course we’re fond of each other,” said Adelaide impatiently.

  She felt the comment as a slur, because brothers and sisters were expected to love each other, just as children were expected to love their parents and parents their children: anything else would be very shocking. She might also have retorted that the Hambros went too far in reciprocal indulgence: even at dinner parties the twins came in, if they felt like it, to recite “Lays of Ancient Rome.” One result of Adelaide’s upbringing was that she genuinely reprobated, in the jolly commotion of her cousins’ home, a certain disorderliness; she could echo her mother’s criticism that the children were all over the place.