CHAPTER XI.

A MAIDEN LADY.

"Severe, sedate, and highly bred, Sad-tinted gown and cap on head. In high-backed chair she grimly sits, And frowns, and fumes, and talks, and knits, Her nephews, nieces, tremble still, Whene'er she talks about her will, And wonder oft in glad surmise What they will get at her demise. No King upon his throne in State Was ever such a potentate. Let others face her eye--I can't, I quail before my maiden aunt."

Few people are acquainted with Delphson Square, no doubt from the fact that it lies on the extreme edge of the great vortex of London life, isolated in a great measure by its position and character. Those concerned with business or pleasure know not this severely respectable neighbourhood, but occasionally men and women, weary of the restless excitability of the metropolis, glance off from the huge central whirl, and drift helplessly into this haven of rest in order to spend the rest of their days in peace.

Not a tempting place certainly, with its four sides of forbidding-looking houses painted a dull brown, with grim iron balconies attached to each window like prison gratings. No bright flowers in oblong boxes to lighten the austerity of these conventual retreats, flowers being regarded as frivolous by the utilitarian inhabitants of the square. Spotless white blinds, heavy dark-red curtains, occasionally a cage in some glaring window, containing a depressed-looking canary, irreproachable white steps, exasperatingly bright brass knockers on massive doors; these were the principal adornment of the four rows of dwellings.

In the centre of the small quadrangle grew a quincunx of heavy-foliaged elms, encircled by a spiky iron fence of defiant appearance, and under one of the trees a weather-stained statue of some dead and gone warrior, with a suitable inscription in choice Latin, which no one could read. Over all this prim locality an air of Sabbath quiet.

The doors of the houses always seemed to be closed. Rarely were any signs of life seen behind the half screens of the windows, the well-swept streets were empty both of traffic and pedestrians, and viewed under a dull, leaden-coloured London sky, with a humid feeling in the air, Delphson Square looked like some deserted city waiting to be re-peopled.

As to the inhabitants, they mostly resembled their dwellings, being elderly, grim, and forbidding, dressed in the plainest puritanical fashion, yet one and all stamped with the impress of wealth.

Sad tints but rich stuffs, serious faces with port-wine complexions, little jewellery, but what there was, massive in the extreme--no ostentation, but a quietly-prosperous air, telling of snug banking accounts. Respectable-looking carriages, with fat horses and still fatter coachmen, at the grim doors every morning to take them drives in the Park. A general air of subdued religion about the place--they were all Broad Church, and held strong opinions about the ritual. No newspaper admitted into the square except the _Times_, which was heavy and respectable, hansoms unknown, even the sweeper who swept the crossings was serious-minded and given to dreary hymns in wet weather. Everybody went to bed at nine o'clock and rose at the same time in the morning; the tradesmen were always punctual and deferential, and the clocks were never out of order.

Miss Angelica Corbin lived in this delightful locality, and, as her residence there dated from the early part of the Victorian age, she was regarded as one of the oldest inhabitants.

A maiden lady of uncertain age and certain income, her life was conducted in a methodical fashion, which enabled her in a great measure to defy Time. As Miss Corbin was ten years ago she was at present, and would in all human probability be at the end of another decade. Quite at variance with the new-fangled ways of the present generation, this old gentlewoman looked like some disdainful spectre of a sedate past, solitary amid a frivolous present.

Her room, old-fashioned and changeless as herself, had about it the aroma of a former generation, when D'Orsay led the fashions, and people were still talking about Lord Byron, Waterloo, and the Reform Bill.

Situated on the ground floor above the basement, it had three windows of small-paned glass looking out on to the dreary square, and was large and airy, having an oval roof painted with designs of flowers, fruit, birds, and butterflies.

Under this cheerful ceiling a remarkably comfortable room, furnished in an antique style. Warm-coloured Turkish carpet, rather threadbare in places, woolly mats of different tints, heavy mahogany chairs and sofa, with slippery horsehair coverings; a solid-looking table of the same wood, draped with dark-green cloth; out-of-date piano, rigid against the wall, with faded drawn blue silk and tassels above its yellow ivory keys. An ancient fireplace with elaborate brass dogs' between which generally blazed a fire of logs (no coal for Miss Corbin, as she thought it detestable), and a massively-carved mantelpiece with quaint ornaments of Dresden china, in front of a gold-framed mirror swathed in green gauze.

On the left-hand side of the fireplace a tall book-case, with glass doors, fitting into a shallow recess and surmounted by a plaster of Parts bust of Shakespeare, imprisoned first editions of books popular in their owner's youth, editions priceless to bibliomaniacs. These, though now worth their weight in gold, never saw the light of day.

On the red-papered walls, smoky-looking oil pictures in tarnished frames, one or two yellow samplers, worked by dead and gone school-girls on the table wax flowers, Berlin wool mats, and velvet-bound Books of Beauty, from whose faded pages simpered large-eyed beauties of the Dudu type; on the floor treacherous footstools, always in the way, and a long bead-worked cushion, elevated on six square mahogany legs, in front of the brass fender. Here and there gaudy porcelain jars filled with withered rose-leaves and dried lavender, which gave forth a faint, dreamy odour, redolent of bygone days and vanished summers.

Surrounded by all this faded splendour, in a straight-backed chair placed by the fire-side, her feet resting on a foot-stool, and constantly knitting, sat Miss Angelica Corbin, better known to her friends and relations as Aunt Jelly.

Tall, stiff and commanding, with rigid features, cold grey eyes, iron-grey hair, always dressed in the same kind of silken slate-coloured gown, with a dainty lace apron, lace cap, China crape shawl on her shoulders, lisle thread mittens, and old-fashioned rings on her withered hands, she never changed in the smallest degree.

Her father had been a very wealthy man, connected with the H.E.I.C.S., and on his death left his property equally divided between his three daughters, Jane, Angelica, and Marian, the first and the last of whom married respectively Sir Frederick Errington and Mr. Martin Gartney. Both sisters and their husbands had long since departed this life, leaving Guy Errington and Eustace Gartney, who thus stood in the relation of nephews to Miss Corbin.

That lady had never married, which did not seem strange to those who knew her at present, but without doubt she must have been a handsome woman in her youth, and presumably had had her romance, like the rest of her sex. As a matter of fact, she had been engaged to marry Harry Sheldon, the father of her ward, but owing to some misunderstanding, an explanation of which was forbidden by the pride of both, they separated, and Sheldon went out to seek his fortune in Australia, where in due course he married Miss Macjean, and Miss Corbin, devoting herself to perpetual maidenhood, had removed to Delphson Square, where she had remained ever since.

Having a handsome income well invested in the Funds, Miss Corbin lived in excellent albeit old-fashioned style, and, in spite of her apparent hardness and brusque manner, was not an ungenerous woman. When her old lover, dying in Australia, sent home his orphan child to her guardianship, she had promptly accepted the charge, and loved the girl for the sake of that dead and buried romance which was still fresh in her heart. To Victoria she was strict but kind, and the presence of this bright young girl made a pleasant variety in her dull, methodical life, although she never, by word or deed, betrayed such a weakness.

Hard she undoubtedly was, and but little given to sentimental feelings, which was a great grief to her companion, Miss Minnie Pelch, who was tender-hearted in the extreme, and had oceans of tears on every possible occasion, from a wedding to a funeral.

Miss Pelch was a weak, soulful creature, the daughter of a clergyman who had been curate at Denfield, a village near Errington Hall. The Rev. Pelch was a widower, and his sole offspring was the fair Minnie, but having only a small income, he saved nothing: so when he died she was left destitute, with a doubtful future before her. She had not enough brains for a governess, no talents except a pretty taste in poetry, which was not a marketable commodity, and no beauty to attract marriageable young men, so Minnie wept over the mistake of having been born, and Heaven only knows what would have become of her had not Miss Corbin, like a kind-hearted vulture, swooped down on the poor creature and taken her up to London as her companion.

So Minnie was provided for by brusque Aunt Jelly, although no one ever knew what a trial she was to that sensible old lady, for Miss Pelch was one of those exasperatingly limp creatures who always pose as martyrs, and shed tears at the least thing.

Aunt Jelly was not unkind by nature, but sometimes the tearful Minnie was too much for her endurance, and if she could have got rid of her she certainly would have had small hesitation in doing so. But there was no chance of this coming to pass, as Minnie was one of those meek creatures who rest where they are thrown, so Miss Corbin, regarding her as a necessary cross, did the best she could to put up with her tears, her milk-and-water conversation and her longings after fame.

Fame! yes! this invertebrate creature, whose intellect was of the smallest, had actually written a book of poems after the style of L.E.L., in which she compared herself to "a withered leaf on the tree of life." She had several times inflicted these weak rhymes, in which mountain rhymed to fountain, and dove to love, on Miss Jelly, but that stout old dame snorted disdainfully at her companion's poetical fancies, whereupon Minnie retired with her manuscript, sat in the twilight, and wished herself dead.

When Eustace visited his aunt, Minnie always attacked him about the publication of her poems, and Eustace, the cynical, the bitter, the scornful, actually read her poor little rhymes and promised to see what he could do with them, which proved that a good deal of his cynicism was only skin deep. Perhaps he was forced into this promise by Aunt Jelly, who thought if Minnie could only get her drivel published she would perhaps hold her tongue for the rest of her life, but this hope seemed too good to be realised.

Miss Pelch had a thin drooping figure, a pensive face with pale skin, pale eyebrows, pale eyes, pale lips, in fact she was all pallid, and wore her thin brown hair in girlish curls, with two drooping over her ears after the style of those called "kiss-me-quicks." She generally wore an ancient black silk dress, with lace cuffs and lace collar fastened by a large brooch containing the portrait (done in oil by a village artist) of her late father.

Seated at the window, in the dull light of an October day, Miss Fetch, having been worsted in an encounter with Aunt Jelly over the question of reading one of her effusions, was drooping like a withered flower over the manuscript, and could hardly read her own scratchy writing for tears.

Aunt Jelly was is her usual place, sitting bolt upright, with her woolly-haired poodle, Coriolanus, at her feet, and no sound disturbed the quiet save an occasional patter of Minnie's tears, or the vicious clicking of Aunt Jelly's needles. On the table in the centre of the room were decanters of port and sherry and a plate of cake, for Miss Corbin was expecting her nephew, Guy, and his wife, to call on her that afternoon, the young couple having just arrived from the Continent, and always gave her visitors wine in preference to tea, which she characterised tersely as "wash."

Miss Corbin opened her mouth once or twice to make a remark, but, casting an angry glance at the tearful Minnie, shut it again without uttering a sound, and knitted with redoubled fury. At last her stoicism could hold out no longer, and she called out in her strong, clear voice:

"For Heaven's sake, Minnie, stop crying. There's plenty of rain outside, without you bringing it into the house."

"Very well, Miss Jelly," said Minnie meekly, and drying her eyes, she slipped her poem into her pocket and sat with folded hands, looking as if she carried the weight of the world on her round shoulders.

Aunt Jelly looked at her keenly for a moment, and then issued another command.

"Come here, child."

Minnie rose to her feet and drifted across the room, for her mode of getting about could hardly be called walking.

"You mustn't cry because I don't listen to your poetry," said Aunt Jelly grimly. "I hate poetry--it's all rubbish, and I can't and won't stand it. But I daresay your poetry's all right--it sounds sing-songy enough. Wait till Mr. Gartney comes home, and then you can read it to him. I've no doubt it's as good as his own. Now take a glass of port, and stop your whimpering."

"Oh, no, Miss Jelly," said Minnie' in a frightened tone. "Oh, yes, Miss Minnie," mimicked the old lady fiercely. "Do what I tell you--it will put some blood into you."

"Tea!" began Miss Pelch nervously.

"Tea! wash!" snorted Aunt Jelly disdainfully, "there's no strength in tea, girl. You might as well drink vinegar. Your blood's like water; I'm sure I don't know how your father reared you."

"Father was a vegetarian," volunteered Minnie, in mild triumph.

"And a pretty example you are of the system," retorted Miss Corbin. "If I didn't keep my eye on you I don't believe you'd eat meat."

"It's so strong."

"That's more than you are!"

"Dr. Pargowker----" began Miss Pelch once more. "Prescribes iron, I know all about that," said Aunt Jelly wrathfully. "I don't hold with drugs, I never did. Meat and port wine is what you want and what you've got to take. Hold your tongue and do what I tell you."

Thus adjured Minnie did not dare to disobey, and although she hated wine, dutifully swallowed a glass of old port, which was so strong that it made her cough. The revivifying effect was soon seen in the colour which came into her pale cheeks, proving that Aunt Jelly was right in her prescription, as a long girlhood of vegetarianism had weakened the Pelch system.

Minnie now feeling better sat down and took up her work, which consisted in crocheting antimacassars, a mode of employing time of which Aunt Jelly approved. Indeed, the industrious Miss Pelch had manufactured enough antimacassars to stock a bazaar, and she was constantly at work on them except when she took a turn at talking, for Miss Corbin would not allow her to knit, that being her own special weakness. The two sat working in silence for a few minutes, Miss Jelly grim and repellent as the Sphinx and Minnie weakly gay, as the wine had slightly affected her brain.

"Minnie," said Aunt Jelly suddenly, pointing to the table with one lean finger, "wipe your glass."

"Very well, Miss Jelly," responded Miss Pelch with her invariable formula, and thereupon arose from her seat and having wiped the glass with a duster which she took from a drawer, replaced the glass on the tray, folded up and put away the duster, then returned to her chair and antimacassar in meek silence.

Silence, however, did not suit Aunt Jelly, who liked to be amused, so she gave Minnie the last letter she had received from Victoria and made her read it, keeping up a running comment on the contents meanwhile.

"Liked Rome did she!--humph! nothing but pictures and priests no doubt. Cooking wasn't good. Of course not, all oil and garlic. Mr. Trubbles ill! pity that fool doesn't die--not much loss about him I should think. Wait a bit, Minnie, till I count the heel of this stocking. One, two, three, four--go on, I can listen--ten, eleven, twelve. My nephew gone to Cyprus--twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two--he's always going to some out-of-the-way place--forty-five, forty-six. He'll end up by being eaten by cannibals--fifty-three! Humph! I hope his new book will be more respectable than the last one. Eh! The Master of Otterburn. Who is he? Never heard of him. Coming back by Naples!--how can they come back by Naples. Oh! the steamer, yes! I hope Victoria won't flirt with all the young men on board. Perhaps she'll be sea-sick. That'll take all the nonsense out of her. Is that all?--dear me, these girls can't write a letter now-a-days. Here, give it to me back. You read so quietly, I can't hear half you say."

This terrible old woman seized the letter and put it away, frowning on Minnie meanwhile, that damsel having meekly resumed her antimacassar.

"Four o'clock," said Miss Corbin, as the clock struck the hour, "they should be here by now, but none of you young people are punctual now-a-days."

"Perhaps they've been detained," expostulated Minnie timidly.

"Nonsense," snapped Miss Jelly wrathfully. "Why should they be detained? They've been two days in town already. Gadding about I daresay. I don't think much of his wife, but whatever she is he's worse. I don't know however I came to have such a nephew. He hasn't got his mother's brains. That comes of having an idiot for a father."

At this moment Aunt Jelly's courteous conversation was interrupted by a ring at the door, and Miss Pelch being sent to the window to reconnoitre returned with the information that it was Sir Guy and Lady Errington.

Miss Corbin drew her shawl carefully round her angular shoulder, laid her knitting on her lap, and having dismissed Minnie to a distant corner of the room, where she sat in the shadow like an unhappy ghost, was prepared to receive company.

Bickles, the fat, pompous butler of the establishment, threw open the door of the room and announced in a deep voice:

"Sir Guy and Lady Errington."

And the young couple entered into the presence of the old dragon.