Books: The Professional Aunt
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Mary C.E. Wemyss >> The Professional Aunt
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Pauline was glad the sales were on. She loved them, and yet she
didn't like them, because she didn't think they brought out the
best side of a woman's character. "I think," she said, "a woman's
behavior at sales is a test, don't you?"
I said I thought her behavior as regarded swing-doors was a surer
one. She said she hadn't thought of that.
"But I know what you mean; I do dislike the flouncing, pushing
woman. I think every one should be taught to be courteous and
gentle, don't you?" She added, "I hate being pushed."
I told her of a woman next me in a 'bus one day, who said, "You're
a-sittin' on me!" How I rose and politely begged her pardon,
whereupon she said, "Now you're a-standin' on me!" And we agreed
that there is no pleasing some people.
Pauline returned to the perusal of the catalogue, in which she had
put a large cross against the picture of a coat and skirt. She
said she was stock-size. She didn't suppose any really smart
women were. "Or would own to it," I suggested, but she didn't
answer; she never does if she detects any savor of malice in a
remark. She was very anxious I should admire the illustration. I
did, but I felt it my duty as a London cousin to a country cousin
to tell her that the illustration might lead her to expect too
much. She warmly agreed that of course as regarded the figure,
etc., the illustration was misleading, because she, of course,
could never look so beautifully willowy as that. She was inclined
to come out where the illustration went in, and she could never be
so slanty, never; but apart from that, of course the coat and
skirt would be exactly as it was pictured. Her figure would be to
blame, of course. Her figure happens to be a very pretty one, but
she didn't give me time to say so. I repeated that I should not
put implicit faith in the illustration. She was a little hurt.
She did not think it right to cast aspersions on the character of
so respectable a firm as that whose name headed the catalogue. I
said I didn't see it quite in the same light. Pauline looked at
me
reproachfully, and said drawing a lie was as bad as telling one.
The argument was beyond me; besides, I like Pauline to look
reproachfully at me, she is so pretty. Being as pretty as she
undoubtedly is, I often wonder why she is not more effective.
The right kind of country beauty is very convincing to the jaded
Londoner; but to convince, one must be convinced, and that is
exactly what Pauline is not. She never thinks whether she is
beautiful or not, and I am sure it often lies with the woman
herself, how beautiful people think her, except in the rare cases
of real beauty, when there can be but one opinion. But in the
case of ordinary beauty, the woman is appraised at her own value.
Then there is the art of putting on clothes, of which Pauline is
absolutely ignorant. There is even a studied untidiness which
passes under the name of picturesque. All of this is a closed
book to Pauline, and, after all, she is a delightful creature; but
the trouble to me was that, at the time she came up to shop with
me, she didn't wear good boots, and to do that I hold is part, or
should be part, of a woman's creed. She gets her. boots from the
village shoemaker because his wife died. Her eyes filled with
tears at the mere thought of the man, and she told me she thought
it right to encourage local talent. In the boots I saw evidences
of locality, -- bumps, for instance, -- but not of talent.
Pauline was very indignant and said she had no bumps on her feet.
"But you see my position?" I did, but I persuaded her to have
some good boots made in London. This she consented to do, rather
unwillingly and on the distinct understanding that in the country
she should continue to encourage local talent. On wet days," I
ventured.
And at flower-shows, she added.
I have seen Pauline in the country, against a background of golden
beech trees and brown bracken, look even beautiful; but in London
she lacks something, possibly the right background. She has
glorious hair, but her maid can't do it. Pauline admits it, but
she says she can't send a nice woman away on that account;
besides, she suffers from rheumatism, and Pauline's particular
part of the country suits her better than any other.
"Couldn't she learn?" I suggested.
"No, she can't," said Pauline. "She had lessons once, and she
came back and did my hair like treacle, all over my head, -- no
idea, absolutely. I should never look like you, whatever I did."
"My dear Pauline," I said, "what nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense. Father was saying only the other day that you
are a beautiful creature, only no one seems to see it."
"Dear Uncle Jim," I said; "how delightful, and how like him!"
"But it's true you are beautiful; only the part about the people
not seeing it isn't true: that's father's way of putting it. You
are beautiful!"
"My dear child!"
"Why do you say 'dear child' to me? People would think you were
years and years older than I am. Why do you always talk as if
life were over? Have you a secret sorrow?"
If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had,
she would have been the last person to ask such a question.
"Do I look it?" I asked.
"No-o. Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in
doing things for other people, it makes one suspect that they are
saying to themselves, 'As we can't be happy ourselves, we can see
that other people are.'"
"What a philosopher you are, Pauline! If you go on that
supposition, you must have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden
behind that happy face of yours."
Pauline is not meant to live in London. She thanks people in a
crowd for letting her pass. If she is pushed off the pavement,
she is only sorry that the person can be so rude as to do it . She
never gets into a 'bus or takes any vehicular advantage over a
widow, and she feels choky if she sees any one very old. "Do you
know why?" she asked. "Because they are, so near Heaven, and
sometimes I think you see the reflection of it in their faces."
"Like Cousin Penelope," I said.
We arrived at the shop where the coat and skirt were to be had,
and Pauline, having admired the horse and thanked the cabman, and
the commissionaire, who held his arm over a perfectly dry wheel,
followed me into the shop. She admired everything as she went
through the different departments, and apologized to the
shop walkers for not being able to buy everything; but she lived
in
the country, and although the things were lovely, they would be no
use to her -- dogs on her lap most of the day, and so on.
Everyone looked at Pauline; and old ladies, to whom she always
appeals very much, put their heads on one side, as old ladies do
when they admire anything very much, anything which reminds them
of their own youth, and smiled. Old ladies have this privilege,
that when they arrive at a certain age, they are allowed to think
they were beautiful in their youth, and to tell you so. It is a
recognized thing, and one of the recompenses of old age. We all
know that every one had a beautiful grandmother -- one at least;
and if a portrait of one grandmother belies the fact, then there
is the other one to fall back upon, of whom, unfortunately, no
portrait exists, and she was abs -- so -- lute -- lee lovely!
The coat and skirt were found and eagerly compared with the
illustration, and Pauline turned to me and said with a triumphant
ringing her voice: "It wasn't an exaggeration. I knew it wouldn't
be. Mother has dealt here for years."
Then we went upstairs to try it on. In a few minutes Pauline had
discovered that the fitter was supporting her deceased sister's
husband and six children, the eldest of whom wasn't quite right
and the youngest had rickets. She was so distressed that she
didn't want the back of her coat altered, the woman already had so
much to bear. But I prevailed upon her to have the alteration
made regardless of the woman's domestic anxieties. I felt sure it
would make no difference. But I cannot help feeling that
Pauline's visit to that shop did make a difference to that poor
woman, if only for a few moments in her life. And I think those
children's lives were made happier too; but it is difficult to get
Pauline to talk of these things.
Then we went to the shoemaker, and Pauline told him all about the
widower bootmaker, and of her scruples about having boots made
by any one else. The bootmaker evidently thought that a foot like
Pauline's was worthy of a good boot and Pauline said there were
occasions on which one had to sink one's own feelings. She was
scandalized at London prices, and told the man so. "But of course
it means higher pay for the men, so it's all right."
On our way home I said to Pauline that I couldn't understand why
she was so economical -- ready-made coats and skirts, and afraid
of paying a fair price for good boots! Was her allowance smaller
than it used to be? She got pink and didn't answer. I determined
she should, and at last she did.
"Well, you see, I pay a woman to come and wash the shoemaker's
children on Saturday evenings."
I smiled. "That can't cost much, unless she provides the soap."
Pauline got pinker still. "Well, I pay for the village nurse, and
a few other little things. Then there's a little baby," she
dropped her voice, "who has no mother -- she died -- and who never
had a father, and every one doesn't care for those sort of babies.
-- You do like my coat and skirt, don't you?"
Chapter IX
I think, by the way, that it was on that very day that Mr. Dudley
met Pauline. She, of course, would know the exact date and hour,
but I am almost sure of it, for although it may mean a day of less
ecstatic joy to me than it does to her, it brought much peace and
subsequent happiness into my life, and therefore is writ in red
letters in my book of days. For the visits of Dick Dudley had
latterly become more frequent than I cared for, and much as I
liked him, I began to wish that I had remained in his estimation
under the shadow of Diana's charming personality, for so he had
tolerated me until the fateful day on which I had partaken of
Betty's gray wad. That act of professional valor ignited a spark
of feeling for me in his breast, which, fostered by Hugh's
constant suggestion, sprang into something warmer than I could
have wished, and was fanned into flame on the day on which he
found me paying a visit of consolation to the small fat Thomas.
Now, strangely enough, that small fat person was nephew to Dick
Dudley. How small the world is! And the mother turned out to
have been exactly the sort of mother I had thought she must be.
One of the nicest things about Dick Dudley was the way he spoke of
that sister) and we had long talks about her, until I awoke to the
fact that that sister and I must have been twins, so alike were
we; then I began to be afraid. For I couldn't tell him that there
was some one far away, for whom I was waiting from day to day.
One can hardly barricade one's self behind such an announcement.
The classification of women is incomplete. There are those who
are engaged and who care; there are those who are engaged and who
don't care; there are those who don't care and, who are not
engaged; then there are those who care and who are not engaged, so
cannot say. It is not their fault if, sometimes, they wound a
passing lover. Mercifully there are Pauline's in this world to
relieve one of unsought affections, and I liked Dick Dudley well
enough, and not too much to be glad when I saw him give ever such
a small start when he walked into my drawing-room and saw Pauline
sitting there, clothed in cool green linen and looking her very
best. I had done her glorious hair on the top -- that, I think is
the expression -- and she sat in the window so that her hair shone
like burnished gold, and she was saying in a voice fraught with
emotion, "If I had my way, there should be no sorrow or
suffering," which of all sentiments was the most likely to appeal
to Dick Dudley, for he is one of those who look upon sorrow and
suffering as bad management on the part of some one, since the
world is really such an awfully jolly place, if only people didn't
make a muddle of their lives. He says it is all very well to talk
of high ideals, you can't live up to them, the best you can do is
to live up to the highest practical ideal. But then his standard
of ideal is very much higher since he saw Pauline for the first
time. Pauline blushed when a strange man walked into the room,
which was all for the best, and made the day a happier one for me.
Not that Dick Dudley was not very loyal to me. He tried, I could
see it was an effort) not to talk too much to Pauline, although
the topic of bearing-reins, under certain circumstances, was a
very engrossing one, and spaniels a never-ending one. Pauline
expressed her surprise that Mr. Dudley should ask her if she lived
in London.
"I thought every one could see I lived in the country," she said.
"Did you mean it for a compliment?" she asked kindly.
Dick Dudley was a little overcome by this, and he said he would
hardly have dared to pay her a compliment, since every one knew
that girls who lived in the country away from bearing-reins and
other hardening and worldly influences, and in close proximity to
spaniels, black, liver and white, cocker, clumber, and otherwise,
were so vastly superior to their London sisters. Here Dick got a
little deep and Pauline kindly rescued him.
"A compliment to my clothes, I meant," she said; "because all my
friends in London tell me my clothes are so countrified."
Dick listened very, very seriously to the reasons why Pauline was
obliged to have most of her clothes made in the country, and I
could see that every moment he thought less of the importance of
clothes and their makers, and more and more of the qualities
essential in woman, simplicity, goodness, frankness, and an
absence of artificiality. I saw it all on his face, dawning
slowly and surely. By the time we had had tea, I could see it was
a matter of mutual satisfaction to both Dick and Pauline to find
that they were going to the same dance that night. The
responsibility of chaperoning Pauline was not mine.
My anxiety as to the ball dress emerging from the small box was
relieved by Pauline telling me that it was to come from the
dressmaker just in time for her to dress for the ball; which it
did. She came to be inspected by Nannie and me before she
started, and she really looked delicious. Her assets as a country
girl counted heavily that night, she looked so fresh, so natural,
and so full of the joy of living. Her hair counted, every hair of
it. Nannie was so touched that she wept aloud and said it was
what I ought to be doing. But I told her professional aunts went
only to children's parties, where they could be of some use.
Pauline wished I was going. "Betty," she said and paused, I am
sure Mr. -- is his name Dudley? feels very much your not going."
I laughed, and marked it down against her that she should have
said, "Is his name Dudley?" It was the first evidence of feminine
guile I had detected in her. Men are answerable for a very great
deal.
I woke to greet Pauline when she came into my sunlit room at five
o'clock in the morning, looking still fresh, untired, and more
than ever full of the joy of living. "Oh, it was lovely," she
said, sitting down on my bed.
"Who saw you home?" I asked professionally.
"Oh, Aunt Adela to the very door; she even waited till I shut it."
"Who did you dance with? " I asked.
"Heaps and heaps of people. I was lucky; all Thorpshire seemed to
be there; and then Mr. Dudley. Betty, I understand now."
"What?" I said, alarmed by the note of tragic kindness in her
voice.
"About Mr. Dudley, he talked about you so beautifully. He agrees
with me absolutely about your character, and he told me about his
sister." Pauline's voice became hushed.
"Did he say she was just a little like you, Pauline?"
"Yes, he did. You knew her, then? He said I reminded him of her
so strangely. I think he would make a woman very happy. I do
really."
"So do I, dear Pauline, really."
"Then won't you?"
"No, darling goose."
"Why?"
"Because I am not the woman. Go to bed, Pauline."
She went -- to sleep? I cannot say. I forget whether a girl goes
to sleep the first night after she has fallen in love. Night? I
suppose I should say morning. But it depends on the hour when she
takes the first step into that bewildering fairyland of first
love. For a fairyland it assuredly is, if she is lucky enough to
find the right guide. He must, to begin with, believe in the
fairyland. He must know that the path may be rough at times,
stony and overgrown with weeds, but he will know that all the
difficulties will be worth while when he brings her out into the
open, and they look away to the limitless horizon of happiness.
A few hours later, Pauline said to me at breakfast, "Betty, I
think I shall tell that bootmaker to make me two pairs of boots
and two pairs of shoes. It is better to have enough while one is
about it, don't you think so?"
So began the regeneration of Pauline, regeneration in the matter
of footgear, I mean, and to wear good boots did her character no
harm, nor the pocket of the country shoemaker either, I am sure.
Good boots could not turn her feet from the pathway of truth and
goodness which from her earliest childhood she had set out to
tread, never pausing except to pick up some one who lagged behind,
or to help some one who had strayed from the path.
Dick Dudley, whose pathway through life had zigzagged
considerably, was astonished to find how easy the pathway was to
keep, guided by Pauline, and how alluring the goal of goodness.
He gave himself up gladly to her guidance, and was touched to find
how much there was of latent goodness in him. He had never before
realized, that was all, how much he loved his fellow-creatures,
how he longed to help them all, how the conditions of the
laboring-classes made his blood boil with indignation, how he
idolized babies, loved old women, reverenced old men.
It was all a revelation to him. It was, moreover, delightful to
be told by Pauline how wonderful she found all these things in
him, and how unexpected. This, she explained, was nothing
personal. "But I often wondered if I should ever meet a man like
you."
"Darling," he answered humbly, "I don't think I am that sort of
man; really, I'm awfully and frightfully ordinary."
Then Pauline, to prove the contrary, would ask him if he didn't
feel this or that or the other? And of course he could truthfully
say he did, because he felt all and everything Pauline wished him
to feel, with her beautiful eyes fixed upon him and the flush of
enthusiasm on her cheeks. Here was something to inspire a man,
this splendidly generous, magnanimous creature. Of course he had
always felt all these things; he had been groping after goodness.
It was the goodness in Diana, and he was kind enough to say in the
professional aunt, which had appealed to him. He had been feeling
after, it for years, but it was only Pauline who had revealed it
to him, in himself. Well, he was very much in love. Most men
engaged to charming girls feel their own unworthiness, and the
girl is sweetly content that they should do so. Not so Pauline.
She revealed to her astonished lover a depth of goodness in his
character that he had least suspected, and he gradually began to
feel how little he had been understood.
Now this is an excellent basis on which to start an engagement. I
forget exactly how and when they became engaged, but it was
certainly before Dick said humbly, "Darling, I don't think I am
that sort of man; really, I'm awfully and frightfully ordinary,"
because, with all Pauline's kindness to sinners, there was none
hardened enough to address her as "darling" without being first
engaged to her; so by that I know they were engaged that evening
at the opera, because it was in a Wagnerian pause that Dick said
those words, in a loud voice from the back of the box. How else
should a professional aunt know these things?
Between meeting Dick and becoming engaged to him, Pauline went
home and came back with a larger box and stayed quite a long time,
as time goes, although, as a time in which to become engaged, it
was very short, and Nannie, feeling this, asked Pauline if she
knew much about Mr. Dudley, and was she wise? In spite of this
anxiety on Nannie's part, she enjoyed it all immensely, and wept
to her heart's content when the engagement was announced. Now
Dick Dudley was a rich young man, and I wondered whether other
people wept too from motives less pure and simple than Nannie's.
Pauline wanted me to join a society called "The Deaf Dog Society."
The obligation enforced on members was that they should kneel
down, put their arms round the neck of any deaf dog they should
chance to meet, and say, "Darling, I love you."
"You see," she said, "a deaf dog doesn't know he is deaf, he only
wonders why no one ever speaks to him, why no one ever calls him.
So you see what a splendid society it is, and there is no
subscription."
Dick made a stipulation that the benefits of the society should be
conferred on dogs only. He made a point of that.
Chapter X
As there was nothing to wait for, happy people, it was agreed by
all parties that the wedding should take place in August, which
kept me rather late in town; it was hardly worth going away, to
come back again, as back again I had to come, as Betty and Hugh
were coming to stay with me for a night on their way to
Thorpshire. It is not astonishing, perhaps, that two children,
modern children in particular, and a nursery-maid can fill to
overflowing a small London house, but it is astonishing how
demoralizing a thing it is. A visiting child to people who have
children of their own means nothing, beyond the changing from one
room to another of some particular child, or the putting up of an
extra bed, or perhaps the joy supreme to some child of sleeping in
something that is not a real bed. We all remember that joy.
Except for that one child, it is an every-day thing and fraught
with no particular excitement. The servants, for instance, in a
house where children are an every-day thing, remain quite calm, if
good tempered, when a visiting child is expected, and the kitchen-
maid, no doubt, cleans the doorstep as usual, and, no doubt, takes
in the milk. But this I know, that if I had happened to possess
such a thing when Betty and Hugh were coming to stay, my doorstep
would never have been cleaned. For once I was glad that I
depended on the services of a very small boy, who thinks he cleans
it. Staid and level-headed as were my maids, they answered no
bells that morning, which was perhaps natural, as I believe none
ring up to the nursery. Of course they had to be interested in
Nannie's arrangements.
It was a hot August day, I remember, and I sat at the window
writing, or pretending to write. As a matter of fact, I was
listening. Among other things to the "Austrian Anthem," played
over and over again, first right hand, then left, then both, but
not together, by, I guessed, a child about ten years old, next
door.
Poor, hot child, how I pitied her.
"Never mind," I thought, "take courage, seaside time is coming.
Within a few days, no doubt, an omnibus will come to the door
empty, to go away full, filled with luggage, crowned by a
perambulator and a baby's bath!" It is only a woman who can
travel with a perambulator and a bath; they are the epitome of
motherhood. A father is always too busy to go by that particular
train.
I heard the twitter of sparrows, the jingle of bells, the hooting
of a siren, or was it my neighbor singing "A rose I gave to you"?
of course it was, -- the rumble of a post-office van, and the cry
of children's voices, rather peevish voices, poor mites! Never
mind, seaside time is coming.
Listening more intently, I beard in the far distance, yet
distinct, the cries of the children who ought to go to the
seaside, children who have never been to the seaside, never
paddled, never built castles, never caught crabs, never seen sea-
anemones or starfish, children whose faces are wan and whose
mothers are too tired to be kind to them. It is often that, I am
sure, too tired to be kind!
Listening again, I heard faintly - it is not with the ears that
one hears these things -- the unuttered complaints of those tired
mothers, worn-out women, despairing men, and the singing, in dark
alleys and in hot areas, of caged birds. There are thousands of
caged creatures, other than birds, in London in August, men,
women, and children. Hats off, then, to the little feathered
Christians who sing for their fellow-prisoners a paean of praise.
It is perhaps easier to sing to the patch of blue sky when you do
not know that it will be hidden behind clouds tomorrow.
"They've come," cried Nannie.
"O Aunt Woggles!" said Hugh, "I've brought you a lovely
caterpillar wrapped up in grass."
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