CHAPTER XVI
AN IMPOSSIBLE FAMILY
Amelia Welwyn, grievously overweighted by a tray containing her father'sbreakfast, tacked unsteadily across the floor of the drawing-room atRussell Square; and, having reached the door of her parent's bedroom,proceeded to arouse the attention of its occupant by permitting theteapot to toboggan heavily into one of the panels.
"Don't come in!" said a muffled voice.
"Half-past eleven, Daddy," announced Amelia cheerily. "Your breakfast!"
"In the fender, my child," replied the voice.
Amelia obediently put over her helm, and despite a heavy list tostarboard induced by a sudden shifting of ballast (in the form of thehot-water jug) ultimately weathered the sofa and deposited the breakfasttray in the fender, without throwing overboard anything of greatermoment than a piece of buttered toast.
By the fireside, in a very large armchair, sat a small, alert, wizened,and querulous old lady of eighty-one.
"Cup of tea, Grannie?" said Amelia.
"What's that?" enquired Mrs. Josiah Banks--late of Bedfordshire (orCambridgeshire).
"Will you have a cup of tea?" repeated the child in a louder voice.
"No," replied her aged relative; "I won't."
"Very well, then," said Amelia good-temperedly. "Now you two, not somuch of it, if you please!"
This warning was addressed to her younger brother and sister, who,together with herself, had joined the Welwyn family at a date subsequentto that upon which we first made its acquaintance. Amelia was twelveyears of age, The Caution five, and The Cure some twenty minutesyounger. At present the latter young lady, in the course of alife-and-death struggle for the possession of the jettisoned piece ofbuttered toast, had become involved in an embrace with her brother, soinvolved that it seemed as if no one unfamiliar with the use ofletter-locks could ever unravel them. However, the experienced Ameliasucceeded; and having shaken the skirts of The Cure a little lower andpulled the knicker-bockers of The Caution a little higher, dumped bothcombatants upon the sofa and divided the now hopelessly mangled bootybetween them.
"And don't let me catch you at it again," she added magisterially."Only Monday morning, and your pinnies no more use than nothing! Comein!"
At the sight of the figure which appeared in the doorway in response tothis invitation The Caution and The Cure set up a combined howl ofapprehension, only to be quelled by a dole of lump-sugar--hush-money inthe most literal sense of the word--supplied by the resourceful Amelia.
"Come in, Mr. Mehta Ram! What can we do for you this morning?" sheenquired maternally. "Never mind those two"--indicating the quakinginfants on the sofa. "It's their consciences, that's all. You see, Ialways threaten to give them to you when they are naughty, and now theythink that you have really come for them. It's all right," she added,turning reassuringly to the culprits. "Mr. Ram won't eat you thistime."
Benevolent Mr. Mehta Ram beamed upon the chubby buccaneers through hisgold spectacles.
"Believe me, Miss Amelia," he replied, "I could cherish no cannibalisticdesigns upon such jolly kids. Is your excellent mother within herdomicile, or has she gone for a tata?" (Mr. Ram prided himself upon hisknowledge of colloquial English.)
"She is out--shopping. Tell me your trouble," said businesslike Amelia.
"I came here," began the Bengalee, "to address your mother in heroffeecial capacity."
"I know," said Amelia swiftly. "It was that kipper you had forbreakfast. I thought it was wearing a worried look while mother wascooking it. Well, you shan't be charged for it."
Mr. Mehta Ram waved a fat and deprecating hand.
"Far be it from me," he replied, "to reflect upon the culinary abilityof your excellent mother Welwyn. I came about a very different pair ofshoes."
Mr. Ram then proceeded, in the curious blend of Johnsonian English andstreet-boy slang which constitutes the vocabulary of thatall-too-precocious linguist, the Babu, with all the forensic earnestnessand technical verbiage of the student who has spent the past six monthsgrappling with the intricacies of English Law, to bring a weightyindictment against the gentleman on the second-floor back.
"In brief," he concluded, "Mr. Pumpherston has impounded mysugar-basin."
"Broken it, you mean?"
"No, Miss Amelia. He has confiscated it--pinched it, in fact.And"--Mr. Ram swept onward to his peroration, his brown face glisteningwith mild indignation--"although I have assured him upon my word ofhonour that there will be father and mother of a row if same is notreturned forthwith, he merely projects the sneer of scorn upon my humblepetition."
"Oh, does he?" exclaimed Miss Amelia, with heat. "Mr. Pumpherston hasbeen enquiring for trouble for a long while now, and this time he isgoing to get it. Mother"--as Mrs. Welwyn, humming a cheerful air,entered the room and began to deposit parcels upon the table, much as amountain deposits an avalanche--"here is Mr. Ram says Mr. Pumpherstonhas sneaked his sugar-basin and won't give it back."
"What's that, Ducky?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, breaking off her littletune. She was a large, still handsome, and most unsuitably attiredmatron of about forty-five. Her task (and be it added, her joy) in lifewas the support of a rather useless husband, of whom she wasinordinately proud because he happened to have been born a gentleman;and all the energy and resource of her honest simple nature had beendevoted to the single aim of raising her children to what she consideredhis level rather than permit them to remain upon her own. In the caseof the girls she had been singularly successful. Percy was her failure,but fortunately she regarded him as her greatest triumph. (Providenceis very merciful to mothers in this respect.) And her love had not beenutterly vain, for although her taste in dress was disastrous and hercontrol of the letter "h" uncertain, her family were devoted to her.
"You ask Mr. Mehta Ram all about it!" replied Amelia darkly.
"The aforesaid Pumpherston," resumed Mr. Ram at once, "has threatened mewith personal violence--to wit, a damn good skelp in the eyeball. Iquote his _ipsissima verba_."
"Oh, _has_ he?" replied Mrs. Welwyn, with decision. "Well that puts thelid on Pumpherston, anyway. He's behind with his rent as it is; so themoment our Perce gets home to-night, up goes Perce to the second-floorback, and out goes my lord Pumpherston! I never could abide Scotchies,anyhow."
"Martha," enquired a piping but painfully distinct voice from thefireside, "what does that black 'eathen want in 'ere?"
"All right, Mother," replied Mrs. Welwyn. She turned soothingly to theBabu. "We'll put things straight for you, Mr. Ram," she saidreassuringly. "You'll get justice in this country, never fear!Good-morning!"
Mr. Mehta Ram, inarticulate with gratitude, salaamed himself out of theroom, to the manifest relief of The Caution and The Cure. Mrs. Welwynfollowed him onto the landing.
"You'll get your sugar-basin back, double-quick!" she announced in aloud voice. "That'll frighten Pumpherston," she observed grimly,re-entering the room and shutting the double doors behind her.
"It's a pity losing a lodger, Mother," said Amelia.
"Yes, dearie, it is," agreed Mrs. Welwyn with a sigh. "But it can't behelped. I'll tell you what, though. Run after that blackamoor and askhim if he has n't got a friend wants a room--a nice peaceable creaturelike himself. The Museum Reading-Room is full of them, Father says.Tell him to pick us a good one. Take the children up with you. Fatherwill be in here for his breakfast in a minute."
As the door closed upon Amelia and her charges, Mrs. Welwyn crossed theroom to her surviving parent's side.
"Well, Mother," she enquired cheerily, arranging the old lady's shawl,"how goes it to-day? World a bit wrong?"
The genial Mrs. Banks did not answer immediately. Obviously she wasmeditating a suitable repartee. Presently it came.
"When is that good-for-nothing 'usband of yours going to get up?" sheenquired.
Mrs. Welwyn flushed red, but patted her cantankerous parentgood-humouredly on the should
er.
"That's all right, Mother," she said. "You mind your business and I'llmind mine. Lucius sits up very late at night, working,--long after youand I have gone to bed,--so he's entitled to a good long lay in themorning."
"Pack o' nonsense!" observed Mr. Welwyn's mother-in-law. "I'd learn'im!"
"Good-morning, good people!"
Lucius Welwyn strode into the room with all the buoyancy andcheerfulness of a successful man of forty. As a matter of fact he was afailure of fifty-nine, but he still posed to himself with fair successas a retired man of letters. His role was that of the philosophiconlooker, who prefers scholarly ease and detachment to the sordidstrivings of a commercial age. In reality he was an idle, shiftless,slightly dissipated, but thoroughly charming humbug. He was genuinelyattached to his wife, and in his more candid moments readily andbitterly acknowledged the magnitude and completeness of his debt to her.He possessed a quick smile and considerable charm of manner; and when hewas attired, not as now in a dressing-gown and slippers, but in thegarments of ceremony, he still looked what he undoubtedly was--a scholarand gentleman.
"Good-morning, Father. Your breakfast is all ready. Sit down, do, andtake it while it's hot," Mrs. Welwyn besought him.
"Breakfast?" exclaimed Mr. Welwyn with infectious heartiness."Capital!" He seated himself before the tray. "A good wife and a goodbreakfast--some men are born lucky!"
"Some men," remarked an acid voice, "are born a deal luckier than whatthey deserve to be."
Mr. Welwyn, who was sitting with his back to the oracle, did not turnround.
"That you, Grandma?" he said lightly, pouring out his tea. "You are inyour usual beatific frame of mind, I am glad to note."
"None of your long words with me, Lucius Welwyn!" countered his agedrelative with spirit. "I never 'ad no schooling, but I knows a wasterwhen I sees 'un."
"Kidneys? Delicious!" remarked Mr. Welwyn, lifting the dish-cover."Martha, you spoil me."
This pronouncement received such hearty endorsement from the firesidethat Mrs. Welwyn crossed the room and laid a firm hand upon hersprightly parent's palsied shoulder.
"Now then, Mother," she said briskly, "you trot across the landing toyour own room. I'm going to turn this one out presently. I've lit afire for you."
Mrs. Banks, who knew full well that behind a smiling face her daughtermasked a hopelessly partisan spirit, rose to her infirm feet anddeparted, grumbling. At the door she paused to glare malignantly uponthe back of her well-connected son-in-law. But that unworthy favouriteof fortune was helping himself to kidneys.
"Seems to me," remarked Mrs. Welwyn apologetically, as the door closedwith a vicious snap, "that Mother got up on the wrong side of her bedthis morning. You don't mind, do you, Father dear?"
"I? Not in the least," replied Mr. Welwyn with much cheerfulness. "Ifind your worthy mother, if anything, a tonic. You are a good soul,Martha. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me: it must be some timesince you breakfasted. Take mine."
He pushed his brimming cup towards his wife.
"Oh, no, Father!" said Mrs. Welwyn, quite distressed. "I'll get one formyself."
She rose, and went to the sideboard.
"On consideration," interposed her husband, as if struck by a suddenidea, "I think--yes, I think--I should prefer a tumbler. I was workinglate last night; and possibly--I rather feel--You know what the doctorsaid. A man of letters--thank you, dearest. You anticipate everywish!"
The man of letters helped himself from the decanter and siphon which hisprescient spouse had already laid beside the tray, and attacked thekidneys with renewed confidence.
"Father," observed Mrs. Welwyn presently, nervously sipping hersecond-hand cup of tea, "there's trouble among the lodgers again."
Mr. Welwyn gave her a reproving little glance.
"I think, dearest," he said gently, "that we agreed to call them payingguests."
"That," retorted Mrs. Welwyn with sudden indignation, "is just whatthey're not. Pumpherston has paid nothing for three weeks, and now he isthreatening to murder poor old Mehta Ram."
"In my house?" exclaimed Mr. Welwyn grandly. "Impossible! This muststop. Where is Percy?"
"Percy," replied matter-of-fact Mrs. Welwyn, "is where you would expecthim to be at this hour, you dear old silly--earning his living atCratchett and Raikes's!"
"Talking of Cratchett and Raikes," said Mr. Welwyn, characteristicallyforgetting all about Mr. Pumpherston, "is there a letter this morningfrom Gandy and Cox?"
"No," said Mrs. Welwyn quickly. "Why?"
"Nothing, nothing," said Mr. Welwyn, rising to look for hiscigarette-case. "They have been rather pressing over their littleaccount lately. In fact, they have had the presumption to threaten mewith distraint."
"How much was the bill, dear?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, removing thebreakfast-tray to the sideboard.
"A mere trifle," was the airy reply. "Seven pounds odd, I fancy, for acase of champagne which I had a year or two ago, when my heart was alittle--you recollect? The doctor--"
"Yes, lovey," said Mrs. Welwyn. "It was an anxious time for all of us.But"--her brow puckered--"did n't you pay cash for it? I seem toremember giving you the money."
"Now you mention it," said Mr. Welwyn, lighting a cigarette, "I believeyou did--ah--hand me the money. But I fear I was weak--quixotic, if youwill. I gave it away." He raised a deprecating hand. "No! Please! Ibeg! Do not ask me more, dearest. It was one of those privatedisbursements for which a man with a weakness for his fellow-creaturesoften finds himself made liable. A little nameless charity. It willappear upon no subscription-list; no public acknowledgment will be made.But--I have my reward. Do not embarrass me, Martha, by alluding to thematter again."
Mr. Welwyn, quite affected by the memory of his own generosity, took hiswife tenderly in his arms and kissed her upon the forehead. He thenblew his nose violently, evidently ashamed of his own weakness, and satdown by the fire with the newspaper.
Mrs. Welwyn knew only too well what the little nameless charity hadbeen; but, after all, seven pounds odd was a small price to pay for theaffection of such a husband as hers. She accepted the embracegratefully, sighed, and said:--
"Very well, dearie. It's a good thing," she added inconsequently, "thatthe house is our own and we don't have to bother about rent. Rates arebad enough. The butcher has been a bit crusty of late; and what withPumpherston not paying for his room and Tilly giving up herblouse-designing, I don't believe there's change for a sovereign in thehouse."
Mr. Welwyn arose from his armchair, finished the refreshment containedin the tumbler (which he had placed conveniently upon the mantel-piece),and smiled indulgently upon his care-worn helpmeet.
"You women, you women!" he said, shaking his handsome head in playfulreproach. "No breadth of view! No sense of proportion! Martha,dearest, how often have I begged you never to judge a situation by itsmomentary aspect? Cultivate a sense of perspective. Step back--"
Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Welwyn trod heavily upon thefire-irons in the fender. These resentfully retaliated, the knob of theshovel springing up and striking him a sharp rap upon the knuckles,while the tongs nipped him viciously in the ankle.
After the clatter had subsided and Mr. Welwyn had said what many a lessdistinguished man would have said under similar circumstances, hishabitual placidity of temper returned, and he resumed his lecture whereit had been interrupted.
"I was about to urge you, Martha," he continued, "to cast your mind_forward_--forward to the time when you will possess a wealthyson-in-law."
Mrs. Welwyn, who was endeavouring to remove from the sofa certain tracesof its recent occupancy by the glutinous Caution and the adhesive Cure,turned suddenly and faced her husband.
"Lucius," she said gravely, "I have a feeling that there is going to betrouble over this business."
"Over what business?" enquired Mr. Welwyn.
"Over this son-in-law business," said Mrs. Welwyn doggedly. "Mr.Mainwaring--
"
"Richard, dear--Richard!"
"All right--Richard! I don't think Richard will take very kindly to uswhen he sees us at home, and he'll have to see us here sometime, youknow. Things look different in Russell Square from what they do at theTrocadero. And if he sheers off after all--well, it'll break our Tilly'sheart."
At this moment the door burst open, to admit the sisters Welwyn, lockedin an affectionate embrace and dancing a two-step to a whistledaccompaniment. Tilly had returned.