Chapter Nine.
An Anonymous Letter.
Barney’s infectious spirits were a godsend to his sisters, who, truth to tell, were beginning to experience a reaction from their first elation, and to realise how many weary rungs of the ladder had to be ascended before success was gained. Theo felt that she was condescending sadly when she sent off her MS to the editor of a threepenny magazine; but that gentleman evidently differed from her opinion, for he sent it back again with admirable promptitude, with only a printed rejection by way of criticism. Hope received no answer from Miss Minnie Caldecott, and Madge found herself ranked with other new-comers in the antique room at the Slade School, and treated with patronising disdain by the older pupils. These latter worked “in the life,” and had merry little lunches together in the corridors, while she ate sandwiches in the dreary cloak-room in the basement, and sadly reflected that she was not the genius she had imagined. Her talent lay in caricature and bright original design, and pray how was she to have a chance of exhibiting these gifts in a copy of the Venus de Milo? The probabilities of earning money seemed to retreat into the dim distance, and poor Philippa realised as much, and sighed more and more heavily over the weekly bills.
It was a relief to all to listen to Barney’s merry voice, and to sun themselves in his radiant presence. The account of his luncheon in town was a daily amusement; for he had strongly objected to coming home in the middle of the day, and had finally been allowed the lordly sum of eight-pence by the head of the exchequer.
“It is twice as much as your return fare in the Tube, so I calculate that would be about the cost of your lunch here. If you go to the right places, Steve says, you can get quite a comfortable meal for eight-pence—a plate of warm, nourishing soup, or a cup of chocolate and sandwiches.”
So spoke Philippa in her wisdom, but Barney was too much of a schoolboy to condescend to warm and nourishing diet while sweetmeats were within his reach. On a chill and rainy day he would make a selection of three custard-tarts and a bottle of lemonade, or a cold mince-pie, a slice of plum-cake, and a glass of milk; after which exploit he would return home in the best of health and spirits, to eat at one meal as much as his four sisters put together.
As to his business experiences, Barney was curiously reticent, but he pronounced the office “not bad sport,” talked of the heads of departments by their Christian names, alluded to the manager as “Old Waxworks,” and was so uncomplaining about the long confinement that Philippa cherished the fondest hopes of his success. The boy had settled down far better than she had expected, and if he were a trifle uproarious at home, it was not to be wondered at. Before his arrival Hope had played favourite classics for the amusement of her sisters during the evening, but Master Barney had little patience with such a tame performance. He preferred to hear popular street ditties, coached Hope in the airs in a loud, cracked treble, and insisted on a chorus, as often as not throwing in a step-dance by way of improvement. From time to time one of his sisters would offer a mild protest: “Don’t, Barney—don’t!” “Barney, be quiet!” Whereupon Barney would give a louder stamp than before, or, by way of reply, elegantly wave a foot over the head of the protester.
On one of these convivial occasions there sounded once again that eloquent echo from below; but the performer was happily unconscious, and his sisters, rolling meaning eyes, exerted every device to divert his attention in another direction. Well they knew that if Mr Barney once grasped the nature of the message his energy would increase tenfold, and he would dance until he dropped, if only to prove his free and independent spirit!
Then one evening came the formal opening of the war.
At an unorthodox hour of the night the letter-box clanked, and an undirected note fell into the box. Philippa read it, and grew pale with anger; Madge read it, and grew flaming red; Hope cried, “Oh! oh!” and Theo tossed her head like a tragedy queen. The note was short and to the point; it bore neither address nor signature:
“If the occupants of flat Number 10 would have the consideration to remember the existence of their neighbours, it would add greatly to the comfort of the other dwellers in the mansions. Such establishments could not continue to exist if rowdiness and horseplay were permitted without protest. It is sincerely to be hoped that the matter may be remedied before appeal be necessary to those in authority.”
“Anonymous, too! As if we did not know perfectly well who wrote it!” Philippa cried, with curling lip. “Cranky, sallow-faced wretch! He ought to live in a den, and not among ordinary flesh-and-blood mortals. I’ll write an answer! I’ll settle him!”
“He banged on the ceiling one day when I was practising,” chimed in Hope, with smouldering resentment. “It isn’t as if I were a schoolgirl and couldn’t play.”
“Thinks we make too much noise, does he?” murmured Barney thoughtfully. “Sweet innocent! He doesn’t know he is born. Wait a bit until I have really given my mind to the subject.”
“No, no; none of that now, Barney! If we live in a flat we are bound to keep within bounds,” interrupted Stephen anxiously. He reviewed the past fortnight, and was bound to acknowledge that the writer of the note had some just ground for complaint. “I am afraid we have been rather noisy since you arrived.—But perhaps you can explain in your reply, Phil, that there have been—er—special circumstances—er—not likely to occur again. Smooth him down. Great mistake to quarrel with one’s neighbours.”
Philippa looked her brother over, her head erect, her shoulders squared in the defiant manner he had learned to know. She made no reply in words, but he understood full well what was meant by that look. If he were prepared to give in meekly, she was not; if he would not fight for the rights of the family, she would do it for him; and it would not be to-day nor to-morrow either that she would write an apology in response to so audacious a complaint.
All that evening Philippa sat with pursed-up lips, composing and revising an answer which should be at once haughty, sarcastic, and to the point; and no sooner was Stephen safely out of the way next morning than it was written, submitted to Theo for professional revision, and safely deposited in the “Hermit’s” letter-box:
“Miss Charrington is in receipt of an anonymous letter, the source of which, however, she is at no lose to decide. She agrees with the writer that forbearance and consideration are necessary where several tenants live beneath the same roof, but she would impress upon his notice that such consideration should be mutual and not one-sided. It is unreasonable to expect a large and still young family”—(“Still young! he won’t like that—it implies that he is so old himself!”)—“to live in a condition of absolute inaction; and repeated and varied complaints”—(“That means the rapping on the ceiling”)—“are at least as disagreeable to its members as their musical efforts appear to be to their neighbour.”
“That ought to settle him for some time to come,” cried the girls complacently; and when by chance they met the “Hermit” on the stairs they stared at him beneath haughtily contracted brows, and held their skirts well to the side, lest by chance they should brush against him as they passed.
November was half-way through when a second letter arrived to introduce a little excitement into the daily routine. It bore the postmark of a small Norfolk township, on the borders of which Mr Loftus had his shooting-box. It was addressed to Hope, and was of an import which brought a flush of excitement to her cheeks. Her “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” of surprise were aggravatingly uninstructive, and in the end Madge took forcible possession of the sheet, and glancing over it rapidly, read out the sentences in slow, sententious accents:
“My dear Hope,—As the address will show, we are staying in Norfolk, and I write to ask if you would pay us a visit from Monday next to Tuesday the 30th. We expect to have several big shoots during the week, and as you are distinctly the most presentable of the family, and your musical abilities can be usefully employed in providing free amusement for my guests, I think you will be quite a valuable addition to our house-party. You will find the 11:15 a convenient train, and we will send to the station to meet you, if we have no better use for the carriages.”
“Madge!” cried Hope, aghast.
“What an extraordinary letter!” gasped Philippa, too much stunned by surprise to protest. “Give it to me. Let me see.”
Madge handed it over, with a shrug of the shoulders and a slow, whimsical smile.
“Oh, well,” she admitted, “that’s not a literal rendering. I read between the lines and found the true meaning. Aunt Loftus is all politeness, of course. ‘You don’t look strong—would be better for a change. Can leave London more easily than your sisters. Be sure to bring plenty of music.’ But my reading is the right one, all the same. Bah! Sickening! If you want to be mean, be mean, and don’t try to wrap it up in the form of philanthropy. I might be as ill as I liked, but I should never be asked. Your face is your fortune, Hope. Make the most of it before you grow old and ugly.”
“I won’t go. I shall write and refuse,” said Hope quickly; for she had noticed a shadow fall across Theo’s face, and divined the reason of its presence. Theo would not grudge her a pleasure, but from a professional point of view, could not help wishing that the invitation had fallen to her own share. Life at a shooting-box would be a new experience, a useful background for future stories; and the guests would supply the young author with the opportunity of valuable character-study. Unfortunately Theo’s talent was not of value to a hostess, and she was conscious that her chance of an invitation to her uncle’s shooting-box was not much greater than that of Madge herself. For a moment she was silent, battling against a host of conflicting emotions; then she said bravely:
“You must go, Hope; it is your duty. You may meet people who will take an interest in you and be able to help you on, and we can’t afford to lose opportunities. You can take your own compositions, and sing them whenever you have a chance; it will be quite an advertisement in a small way.”
“It seems mean to pay a visit with an idea of making something out of it,” said Hope, with a sigh. “That is the worst of being poor. The money question seems eternally hovering in the background, whatever one may do. I shall enjoy seeing Avice, of course; and if I can really help Aunt Loftus, it will be comforting to feel that the advantage is mutual. I wonder—What about clothes?”
“That is just what I have been thinking. We can’t afford anything new just now, for the bills are to heavy,” replied Philippa sadly. “We can only bestow our united treasures upon you, dear, and make you as smart as possible. You shall have mother’s old lace for your evening-frock; but be careful of it, for if you damage it you need never face me again! It is going to trim my wedding-dress one of these days.”
“When the lordly male arrives before whom she is to grovel in the dust! You shall have my feather boa, too. It will hide the shabby front of your jacket;” and Theo sighed, for the feather boa was the pride of her wardrobe, and represented months of saving and self-denial. It was none of your thin, lanky wisps, but a really handsome boa, with a bloom on the feathers like that on a hot-house grape. Theo was fastidious, and would rather do without a thing altogether than accept a poor imitation. She thought of her reduced appearance without the beloved fluffiness, and heaved another sigh.
“Nothing to offer you, my dear. My wardrobe is of so limited a character that if I gave anything away I should have to stay in bed until it was returned,” cried Madge cheerfully in her turn. “Accept my blessing, and my earnest hope that the head of a great musical publishing house may be among the guests, and will recognise in you the coming genius of the day.”
“So likely, isn’t it? That sort of thing happens only in novels. The house will probably be full of sporting men, who don’t know one composer from another, but who find it enlivening to listen to a ‘tune’ in the evening. Oh, if Minnie Caldecott would only write! I look out for that letter every morning, but it never comes. Do you think I might send a little note to jog her memory?”
“Certainly I do. I should think she was the sort of woman who needed a good deal of jogging. Say that you are anxious to know whether she wishes to secure the song, as, if not, you will offer it elsewhere. There is nothing like appearing confident and unperturbed. I am sorry you are going away, Hope, for I wanted you to sit for me as fair Rosamond in the picture I have to show to get permission to draw in the life-room. I’ll have to send in an old one, I suppose. Look over these for me, and tell me which you like best.”
Hope turned over the sketches in the portfolio, smiling with sisterly pleasure as she recognised one old favourite after another. It seemed incredible to her partiality that Madge should not have immediately ranked as a genius among the students of the school, for surely there was something peculiarly original in the treatment of these figures!
She held out a sheet towards her sisters, and cried eagerly, “There! That is my choice. What do you think of that?”
“Good—suggestive—full of atmosphere!” pronounced Theo in her most professional manner; while Philippa put her head on one side, and in all innocence of heart launched a bombshell into their midst.
“Wouldn’t it make a good poster? Doesn’t it look exactly like some of the posters you see upon the hoardings?”
It was seldom indeed that a speech of Philippa’s could wound her faithful friend and admirer, but this time the arrow went home, and Madge’s thin cheek flushed with displeasure. She gathered together the scattered sketches in silence, keeping her head rigorously turned aside, while Hope made strenuous efforts to redeem the situation.
“Well, really, so it does! They say poster-painting is quite an art nowadays. I hear it pays so well that many artists would be thankful to take it up, if it were not that it requires a special talent. Personally I hope it will be cultivated. It would be so delightful to see the old eyesores replaced by really artistic pictures.”
In vain! Madge remained silent, red, and angry. Poster-painting may be admirable in its way, but when a student dreams of becoming a female Leighton or Alma Tadema, the alternative is not welcomed with enthusiasm. Philippa reflected sadly that another unfortunate remark was scored against her; but Madge was of too happy a disposition to harbour a grudge, and in half-an-hour’s time the grievance was dismissed from her mind, and she was once more her own sunny self.
When Barney returned home that evening he joined in the general chorus of lament at Hope’s departure, though his sorrow flowed from a somewhat different source from that of his sisters.
“What a fag!” he cried. “Now that old Hermit Johnny will think that we are quiet because he complained. I wish to goodness I had taken up the flute; I would tootle all the evening for his amusement.” He sat for a while gazing at the ceiling in deep reflection, then slapped his knee ecstatically. “There’s a fellow in the office who belongs to the London Scottish and has a bigpipe. I say, wouldn’t it make the Hermit sit up if I borrowed it and practised reels! McGregor wouldn’t lend it, though. He is a stingy beast who will never do a fellow a good turn. I have a score against him! Well, cheer up, Hope; I’ll do my best to fill your place while you’re away. I’ll find some way of keeping our friend alive, or I’m mistaken.”
“Barney dear—Barney!” murmured Philippa softly.
Barney smiled at her with indulgent tenderness. “Keep your hair on, old lady!” he said encouragingly; and Philippa could only gasp and pant beneath his bear-like hug, and declare that never—no, never—had she met such an unmanageable, disrespectful, vulgar boy!