I
The Duchess of Wrexe died on the morning of May 2nd at a quarter-past three o'clock. The evening papers of that day and the morning papers of the next had long columns concerning her, and these were picturesque and almost romantic. She appealed as a figure veiled but significant, hidden but the landmark of a period—"Nothing was more remarkable than the influence that she exercised over English Society during the thirty years that she was completely hidden from it"—or again, "Although disease compelled her, for thirty years, to retire from the world, her influence during that period increased rather than diminished."
It must be confessed, however, that London Society was not moved to its foundations by the news of her death. People said, "Oh! that old woman; gone at last, I see. She's been dying for years, hasn't she? Quite a power in her day ..." Or, "Oh, the Duchess of Wrexe is dead, I see. I must write to Addie Beaminster. Don't expect the family will miss her much—awful old tyrant, I believe ..." or "I say, see Johnnie Beaminster's old lady's gone? She kept the whip-hand of him in his time.... Damned glad he'll be, I bet."
Two years earlier and it would not have been thus, but now there was the War (daily the relief of Mafeking was frantically anticipated) and fine regal majesty, sitting dignified in a solemn room, irritated the world by its quiescence.
"What we're needing now is for everyone to get a move on. No use sitting around." A few carefully selected American phrases can very swiftly kill a great deal of dignity and tradition.
In the Beaminster camp itself there was an unexpressed disappointment. They had grown accustomed to thinking of her as a fine figure, sitting there where, rather fortunately, they were not compelled to visit her, but where, nevertheless, she had a grand effect. They had known, for a long time now, that she was not so well, but they had expected, in a vague way, that she would go on living for ever. They had been making, during the last two years, a succession of enforced compromises and now the crisis of her death showed them how far they had gone without knowing it.
"Things will never be the same as they were...." And in their hearts they said, "We're getting old—we aren't wanted as we once were."
Meanwhile there was a fine funeral down at Beaminster. The Queen was represented, the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition, all the heads of all the old families in England, artists and one or two very distinguished actor-managers (who looked far more sumptuous than anyone else present).... Everyone was there.
Christopher detected Mrs. Bronson and wondered what the Duchess would think of it if she knew: Brun, also, although Christopher did not see him, flashed upon them from the Continent, was present, neat and solemn and immensely observant. It was all admirable and worthy of the best English traditions.
"She was a fine figure," said the Prime Minister, who had known her and disliked her intensely. "We shall never see her like again," but his sigh was nearer relief than regret.