In dire confusion Miss Burden endeavored to disentangle herself from the folds of the window curtains.
“That man is as hollow as a drum,” said the old woman, with a comprehensive wave of her walking-stick, “and as vain as a peacock. Where is your self-respect, Burden? A person of your age, position, and appearance—it is indecent.”
Miss Burden was prepared to swoon. Fifty years earlier in the world’s history there is reason to believe she would have done so. But even the emotional apparatus of a Christian gentlewoman is susceptible to streams of tendency. Swoons are seldom indulged in in these days by the best and most sensitive people. Therefore Miss Burden was content to blush guiltily, to droop her head, and to hoist a hunted look in her mild gray eyes that was really charming.
“Burden,” said the old woman, sternly, “where is your list for the circulating library? I shall have to supervise your reading. It is exercising a pernicious influence upon your mind and character.”
Miss Burden produced the list from the recesses of the small wallet which she bore suspended from her waist.
“Precisely as I thought,” said the old lady, with a snort. “Novels, novels, novels! And by male writers. For some time past, Burden, it has been plain to me that an influence has been at work which has been undermining your sense of delicacy. ‘The Ordeal of Richard Feverel,’ by George Meredith. Cross it out. Substitute Mrs. Turner’s ‘Cautionary Stories.’ ‘The Dolly Dialogues,’ by Anthony Hope. Cross it out. Substitute ‘The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.’ ‘An Old Maid’s Love Story,’ by Anon. Cross it out. Substitute ‘The Pleasures of Life,’ by Lord Avebury. ‘L’Abbé Constantin,’ by ——! Cross it out. Burden, I forbid you to read French authors until the end of May.”
Having issued this Draconian edict, this tyrant, over whose head three and seventy winters had already passed, left her gentlewoman impaled haplessly upon the two-spiked thorn of shame and confusion. She proceeded to indulge in her daily siesta, which advancing years rendered more than ever necessary if her store of natural energy was to remain equal to the demands which were made upon it.
At four o’clock, as I think I have told you already, it was the old lady’s custom, if the weather was favorable, to take the air in her yellow chariot. Upon this momentous day, however, the elements were adverse; and at twenty-seven minutes past four, by the clock in the blue drawing-room, she was to be found in that spacious, somber, yet magnificent apartment. She was wearing her second-best turban, a black silk dress, and a collar of priceless old lace, secured by a brooch which was said to have been given to an ancestress by good Queen Elizabeth, who, for reasons of state, afterwards cut off the head of the recipient. Enthroned before a silver teapot and twelve Crown Derby teacups, with a monogram upon the bottom, prepared to offer some very weak tea and some stale bread and butter to a number of persons who were not in the least likely to appear to claim it, she presented as formidable a figure as any to be found in London.
I lay stress upon the time—twenty-seven minutes past four—for that is the hour at which this history really begins. Then it was that a four-wheeled vehicle of a rapidly disappearing type drew up before the imposing front door of the house in Hill Street. Upon the roof of the “growler” was a dilapidated wooden box, insecurely tied with a cord which had been pieced in three places. And seated modestly enough in its interior was—well, the First Cause of All Romance.
I cannot say more than that. There she was. The first thing appertaining to her that was projected from the dim recesses of the “growler” was her straw hat. Now, as I think I have already observed, there is a great deal in a hat. They are full of character—straw hats especially. And as it is the duty of a historian to extenuate nothing, it has to be said that this was a preposterous hat altogether. In the first place, its dimensions were certainly remarkable; it flopped absurdly; there was a sag of the brims which was irresistibly impossible; while as for the general condition and contour of the hat, the less said upon that subject the better.