Mr. Jervis, Vol. 2 (of 3)

Mrs. Langrishe gave an exceedingly languid acquiescence to the constant remark, “What a charming girl Miss Gordon is! and what a favourite she has become! Her aunt and uncle are quite devoted to her.” She was thinking sadly on these occasions of her own niece, Lalla, who danced like a fairy, or moonbeams on the sea, who was always surrounded at balls, whose banjo playing and smart sayings made her indispensable; no entertainment was considered complete without Miss Paske.

These social triumphs were delightful; but, alas! the fair Lalla was Joie de rue, douleur de maison, and her aunt, who smiled so complacently in public when congratulated on her young relative’s social successes, knew in her heart that that same relative had proved a delusion and a cruel fraud. Fanny had been much cleverer than she supposed in passing on a veritable infliction—a very base little counterfeit coin. It was true that Fanny had not actually lied in her description. Lalla was good-looking, piquante, accomplished, and even-tempered; but an uneven temper would have been far easier to cope with. When remonstrated with, or spoken to sharply, the young lady merely smiled. When desired not to do such and such a thing, she did it—and smiled. When her aunt, on rare occasions, lost her temper with her, she positively beamed. She never attempted to argue, but simply went her own way, as steadily obdurate as a whole train of commissariat mules.

She was distinctly forbidden to go to Sunday picnics, but went to them nevertheless. She was requested not to sit in “kala juggas” (dark corners) at balls. Mrs. Langrishe might have saved her breath, for at balls, if she happened by chance to glance into one, she was almost certain to see some young man in company with her incorrigible niece, who would nod at her with a radiant expression, and laughingly refuse to go home.

Poor Mrs. Langrishe! she could not make a scene. Lalla, crafty Lalla, was well aware that her aunt would patiently submit to any private indignity sooner than the world should suspect that her niece was wholly out of hand, and that she could not manage her. Miss Paske traded comfortably on this knowledge, until she nearly drove her stately chaperon crazy.

The young lady was determined to be amused, and to make the best of life, and possibly to marry well. She treated herself in her aunt’s house as an honoured and distinguished guest—ordered the servants about, upset existing arrangements, and asked men constantly to lunch or tea, or—oh, climax!—dinner. If remonstrated with, she merely remarked, with her serene, bewitching smile—

“Oh, but, darling”—she always called Mrs. Langrishe “darling,” even at the most critical moments—“I always did it at Aunt Fanny’s! she never objected; she was so hospitable.”

She gave no assistance in the house, and usually sat in her own room curling her fringe, studying her parts, or writing letters. Her chief intimate was Mrs. Dashwood, who had been on the stage, and the men of the theatrical set; and she blandly informed her horrified chaperon that she had been considered the fastest girl in India, and gloried in the distinction.

“In Calcutta they called me ‘the sky-scraper,’” she added, with a complacent laugh.

What was to be done? This was a question Mrs. Langrishe put to Granby, and then to herself. Never, never had she spent such a miserable time as during this last two months. To be flouted, mocked, and ordered about under her own roof; to be defied, caressed, and called endearing names by a penniless, detestable minx, who was dependent on her even for money for postage stamps and offertory! Should she pay her passage and pack her off home? No, she would not confess herself beaten—she, the clever woman of the family! She would marry the little wretch well—in a manner that would redound to her own credit—and then wash her hands of her for ever.

The first series of theatricals were an immense success. Miss Paske was the principal lady in the piece, and looked charming from across the footlights. Captain Waring, who was fond of the stage, had gone behind the scenes, and painted Lalla’s pert little face at her own request, which same civility occasioned considerable heartburning and jealousy among the other ladies, especially as the result was a complete artistic triumph.

Every one was carried away by the Prima Donna’s vivacious acting and sprightly dancing, which was both dashing and graceful—in short, the very poetry of motion. Her dress, too—what there was of it—was perfect in every detail. Skirt-dancing was as yet in its infancy—a lady figurante was a rare spectacle on an Indian stage, and the novel and astonishing character of the performance swept the spectators off their feet, and Lalla and Toby Joy shared the honours of the night between them.

Mrs. Langrishe was secretly horrified. She had only seen Lalla’s costume in the piece; Lalla and the Dirzee (whom she entirely monopolized) had composed it together—she had planned, he had carried out her sketch. There had been mysterious conferences and tryings on, from which her aunt had been rigidly excluded, and Mrs. Langrishe was much too proud to affect an interest or curiosity in the matter; but in her wildest moments she had never dreamt of the character of the dress—or its limits!

As she sat in the front row, gazing at the waving arms and supple limbs of her odious niece, little did her neighbours guess that a social martyr was among them,—a martyr whose sufferings were still further aggravated by the self-satisfied smirk and airy kiss the fair dancer had deigned to fling her!

Afterwards, when Lalla, closely cloaked and hooded, was modestly receiving the congratulations of her friends, she remarked to them bashfully—

“Oh, you have no idea how nervous I was at first! My poor little knees were actually shaking under me.”

“Were they? I did not notice them,” rejoined Mrs. Brande in her severest manner; and listeners allowed that on this occasion “old mother Brande had scored!”

Mrs. Langrishe the next morning, having first fortified herself with a glass of wine, entered her niece’s bower, in order to administer a really sound scolding, the gist of which was (as repeated by the listening Ayah to other deeply interested domestics, as she took a pull at the cook’s huka)—

“As long as you are in my house, and under my care, you must behave yourself properly. If this is impossible, as I fear it is, I shall send you straight home. The Ayah will take you to Bombay, and see you off second-class, though the class that best suits your manners is really the steerage. Your acting, and, to a certain extent, your dancing, was all very well; but I do not wonder that Mrs. Brande was shocked at your dress, or rather the want of it—scarcely below your knees!”

“Mrs. Brande is a narrow-minded old toad!” cried Lalla contemptuously. “I don’t believe she was ever in an English theatre in her life. She should see some of the dresses at home!”

“This is not the way to get yourself settled, and you know it,” pursued her aunt. “It was most fortunate that Sir Gloster was not present—he is a man with very correct ideas.”

“That stupid, sluggish bumpkin! what are his ideas to me?” scoffed Lalla, with a maddening smile.

“I wish he had an idea of you,” retorted her aunt. “I’m sure I should be most thankful. However, you are aware that we go down in four months, and remember, that this is your last chance!”

Hereupon, according to the Ayah, Miss Sahib “plenty laugh.”

But Miss Sahib evidently laid the advice to heart. For a few days she was extremely piano and demure, accepting her recently-won honours and the appellation of “Miss Taglioni” with an air of meek protest that was simply delightful.

The play was soon succeeded by a concert at the club; and here Miss Gordon, with her violin, put Miss Paske completely in the shade for once. What a contrast they presented. The little smirking, bowing, grimacing figure in pink, with clouds of fluffy hair, and banjo, streaming with gay ribbons, who made up for lack of voice, by expression, chic, and impudence, and threw Tommy Atkins, in the four anna seats, into a delirium of enthusiasm.

Then came the tall young lady in white, with statuesque arms, who gradually cast a spell of enchantment over her listeners, and held the emotions of her audience in the hollow of the small hand that guided her bow.

For once Mrs. Brande felt conscious that Honor had quite, as she mentally expressed it, “snuffed out that brazen little monkey,” and though personally she preferred the banjo and nigger melodies, the audience in the two rupee places apparently did not, for they applauded enthusiastically, and stamped and shouted, “Encore! encore!” and seemed ready to tear the house down. And even young Jervis, usually so retiring and undemonstrative, had clapped until he had split his gloves.

Mrs. Langrishe was not behindhand with her plaudits. She would not leave it in any one’s power to declare that she was jealous of Miss Gordon’s overwhelming success, but to herself she said—

“Oh, if Honor Gordon was but her niece! How thankfully would she exchange relations with Mrs. Brande. Here was a simple, well-bred girl, who could shine anywhere, and was quite thrown away in her present hands. It was true that Sir Gloster seemed much struck; everyone saw that, except the girl herself, and her old bat of an aunt. He had never taken his eyes off her, as she stood before the footlights, and she had made an undeniably charming picture, slim and graceful, with an old-fashioned air of maidenly dignity, and how she played!”

She glanced at her own special young lady, now coming forward to sing yet another ditty, amidst the uproarious encouragement of the back benches.

Lalla was pretty, her fair soft hair was wisped up anyhow (a studied art), her eyes were bright, her style piquante, but her expression was everything, and oh, what a little demon she was!

And then she sang—certainly she was the most successful cantatrice who ever sang without a voice.

“What a charming inmate your niece must be, Mrs. Langrishe,” observed a lady next her. “So amusing and bright, quite a sunbeam in the house.”

To which the poor martyr rejoined with a somewhat rigid smile, “Oh yes, indeed, quite delightful.”

She envied Mrs. Brande her treasure still more, when, as they were leaving the club, she noticed Honor affectionately wrapping up her aunt—for it had turned out a wet night—and making some playful joke as she tied a hood under her ample chin. Her niece had helped herself to the only mackintosh, and had rolled away in her rickshaw, among the first flight, with a young man riding beside her.

“She went off with Toby Joy! I really am astonished that Mrs. Langrishe allows her to be so independent,” said a voice (a woman’s) in the dark, close beside that ill-used lady, and happily unaware of her vicinity.

Miserable Mrs. Langrishe, if they only knew all, the most stony-hearted would surely commiserate her.

She returned home alone, firmly resolved to give Lalla a talking to, but when she arrived—her anger had ebbed. She discovered the culprit reclining in an easy-chair, smoking a friendly cigarette with Granby, and entertaining him with inimitable mimicry of some of her fellow performers.

“Oh, so you have appeared at last!” cried Lalla, with languid surprise. “Fie, fie, how late you are, darling! I’ve been home ages. I took the waterproof to cover up my beloved banjo—I ‘wrapped it up in its tarpaulin jacket,’ you know the song. I was sure, as I did not see you, that some horrible bore had got hold of you, and I knew you would hate to keep me waiting in the rain, so I dashed off home at once.”