The Osbornes

by E. F. Benson

“There’s some things called ‘Hundreds,’” she said. “I seem to remember that all England is cut up into Hundreds, which is a queer thing to think upon. It’ll be worth while seeing in what Hundred the East End of Sheffield lies.”

“There’s something in that,” said Mr. Osborne, “and it would bring the business into it. Lor’, Mrs. Osborne, my lady, I’m glad I had nothing to say to a knighthood five years ago. I’d have been put on the shelf for good if I’d jumped at it. But not I! It’s this parliamentary business coming on top of all I did at Sheffield that has given the extra turn. And I’ve been liberal, I’m sure, to the party. What was the name of the street now where I built the church in Sheffield? I declare it’s gone out of my head. Thinking of new names drives the old ones out.”

“Commercial Road, my dear,” said Mrs. Osborne, “for I thought of the name myself when you was building the street.”

“Then we ain’t no further on yet. Grote, too; that’s not to be thought of, as it’s Lord Austell’s second title.”

“After all, we only take the place on hire,” said Mrs. Osborne, “and it doesn’t bring the business in.”

“That’s what beats me,” said Mr. Osborne. “How to bring the business in! Lord Hardware, Tinware; that would be a thing to laugh at.”

The matter was still in debate on that morning when Mrs. Osborne went through her engagement book down at Grote and found so heavy a programme in front of her. And somehow to-day she did not feel markedly exhilarated by it. The journey back from Venice had tired her very much, and though she had felt sure that a good night’s rest coupled with a day or two of solid English food would set her up again, she still felt overdone and devitalized. She was disposed to attribute this in the main to the unnutritious character of Venetian diet, where, if you got a bit of veal for your dinner, that was as much butcher’s meat as you were likely to see; while, to make up, there would be nothing more than a slice of some unknown fish and the half of a chicken that was no bigger than a blackbird. As for a nice filet of beef or a choice leg of lamb, it was a thing unheard of. Yet she had not felt much inclined for the filet of beef when it was accessible again; it seemed to suit her as little as the rice and maccaroni had done. For the last week, too, she had had from time to time little attacks of internal pain. No doubt it was of no consequence, but it was a pain that she did not know and could not quite localize.

Once or twice she had thought of consulting a doctor, a thing that Mr. Osborne had urged on her before the Venetian visit, but some vague and curious fear prevented her—the fear of being told that something was seriously wrong, and that she would have to give up their London programme which she had planned so delightedly. That was a thing not to be contemplated; the London plans were, to her mind, part of the immutable order of things, and it was therefore essentially important that Mr. Osborne should not guess that she was out of sorts, for she well knew, if he had so much as a guess of that, he would have carried her off, by force if necessary, and not let go of her till he had deposited her in some eminent consulting room, with specialists dangling at the end of the telephone. But she had never been lacking in spirit, and it would be a singular thing if she could not be genial and hearty to all the world for a few weeks more.

But what she doubted was her power of getting through the physical strain of it. She knew how tiring the standing about and the receiving was, and every day now she felt tired even before the fatigues of it had begun. If only she had a daughter, who could quite naturally take some of this off her hands, and let her sit down while the “company” were arriving. And then an idea struck her.

Dora and Claude were intending to occupy the flat in Mount Street till the end of the summer. After that they would come down to Grote, and soon, please God! the flat in Mount Street would be too small for them “and what would be theirs”—this elegant circumlocution was exactly the phrase that passed through Mrs. Osborne’s mind—and when they returned to London again in the autumn, it would be to a house of their own in Green Street with place for a nursery. This, however, they were only going to take at Michaelmas; but Dora had written to her mother-in-law this very morning (and her innocent letter suggested possibilities to Mrs. Osborne), saying that Mount Street really seemed to be hotter than Venice, and dreadfully stuffy, which Venice was not. What if Dora and Claude would come and live with them in Park Lane till the end of July? She remembered how Dora had acted hostess down at Grote in the winter, and they might play the game again. But this time there would be a real object to be served by it; Dora would help her in the entertaining, which prospectively, as she planned it, had seemed so delightful, but now appeared so difficult. It was an excellent idea, if only she could compass it.