Felicity - Stands By

by Richmal Crompton

  She stopped with a start. On her bed was a tiger—a real live tiger. Felix was having a comfortable rest, but he heard the word “right” and mistook it for “fight.” He bared his teeth and snarled. With a wild scream Lady Montague turned and ran downstairs faster than she had run anywhere in the last forty years. She ran into the smoking-room, locked the door, moved the sofa across the door, put up the shutters, and then had hysterics in comfort.

  “It’s all right, aunt,” said Felicity, soothingly, when Lady Montague had come out of hysterics, removed the sofa and unlocked the door. “It was quite harmless. It had escaped from a van—er—just near. It’s all right now.”

  “It’s not all right, Felicity,” said Lady Montague, sitting up with great dignity and smoothing her ruffled hair. “I’m upset. I’m more upset than I’ve been for years! I’m—I’m really ill! I’m going straight home. I’m going to stay in bed for a week. I’m not even going to stay to pack. I’m—I’m really upset. Please ring the bell and order the motor at once!”

  “Yes, aunt,” said Felicity meekly.

  Felicity went into the library and took her usual seat on her grandfather’s desk.

  Franklin looked up from his desk.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Frankie, have you heard a lot of commotion this afternoon?”

  “A fair amount.”

  “Have you heard three motors go past the window?”

  “Yes.”

  “The first”—Felicity checked them off on her fingers— “the first was Lord Rowman going home. He’s done for himself. Rosemary will never speak to him again. The second was Miss Bloke going home. She’s going to the Scottish earl because she’d rather have trade than profanity. The third was Aunt going back to the Dower House. She’s going to bed for a week.”

  Franklin laid down his pen and looked at her sternly.

  “Felicity,” he said, “what have you been up to?”

  “I’ve been killing birds,” said Felicity calmly. “I mean, proverbially speaking. I’ve been killing three birds with one stone. Fate played into my hand. Fate and Mr. Smith—and James, of course. When I think of all the things that might have gone wrong this afternoon and didn’t—it makes me hot and cold all over. But it doesn’t matter, because it didn’t—thanks to Fate and Mr. Smith and James. It’s a long story, Frankie. I’ll tell you some time, but not now. I’m rather busy just now. You see, in half an hour Mr. Smith should start for home.”

  “Who’s Mr. Smith?” said Franklin, patiently.

  “He’s a nice man, Frankie. Aunt wouldn’t like him. He’s low, but nice. Anyhow, he wants to start off home in half an hour, and I’ve temporarily mislaid two of his hannymals—a tiger and a snake. They’re somewhere about the house. Do come and help me look for them!”

  Chapter Three

  Felicity and Socialism

  Felicity awoke that morning with a distinct feeling that something was going to happen. Yet, so far as she knew, there was nothing that could possibly happen. On the contrary, the day promised to be more than ordinarily dull. Lady Montague was staying in the house, and in whatever house Lady Montague stayed things moved slowly. Nothing ever “happened” (in the true sense of the word) in the vicinity of Lady Montague. Things only “moved,” and moved with Victorian decorum and stateliness.

  Sir Digby was suffering from one of his periodic attacks of gout. During such times he stayed in his room, and though his stentorian voice could frequently be heard roaring at Crampton, his long-suffering valet, he himself rarely issued forth. When he did, of course, things hummed.

  Rosemary was, as usual, away from home staying with friends.

  Ronald, Felicity’s favourite brother, seldom came to Bridgeways Hall. Ronald was an attractive young officer in the Guards and found the atmosphere of Bridgeways Hall a little too oppressive for his youthful spirits. He visited it usually only when his funds were in need of replenishing. Felicity adored him, and, to do him justice, he gave Felicity a good time whenever it was at all possible.

  In the library Franklin sat down at a small desk and began to sort Sir Digby’s correspondence. There was another large desk in the room which, Felicity thought, Franklin would have found more convenient. She suspected that he sat at the small desk because from it he could see the photograph of Rosemary that was on the mantelpiece. Rosemary’s calm, beautiful face looked at him from the photograph as coldly as it did in real life. That, however, was a subject on which Felicity never teased him.

  She sat on the desk by him, swinging her slim, shapely legs. “Have you had your hair permanently waved, Frankie?” she said, her laughing blue eyes fixed on his bent head. “Or do you go every fortnight?”

  “I go every fortnight,” he said. “Now, Pins dear, run away and play with your dolls. I’m going to be busy.”

  “What are these?” said Felicity, taking up a pile of letters. “Love letters or bills?”

  “Begging letters,” said Franklin.

  Felicity opened the top one and read it in silence.

  “This is terrible,” she said at last. “I hope you’re going to do something about it . . . a poor woman called Marie Smyth-Bruce with no money and no food, and suffers from chronic legs, and her landlord’s going to turn her out into the street because she can’t pay any rent— what are chronic legs, Frankie?—anyway, they sound nasty—and no money at all, she says, and the larder empty. How much are you going to send her, Frankie?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?” said Felicity.

  Her blue eyes looked severe.

  “They’re all frauds, my child. It’s going into the waste-paper basket with the others.”

  “Frankie, I’m disappointed in you. You’re a nasty, cold-hearted, grinding miser.”

  He laughed.

  “It’s nothing to do with me, anyway. Your grandfather’s orders are that begging letters are all to be put into the waste-paper basket.”

  “Then grandfather’s a nasty, cold-hearted, grinding miser.”

  “Tut, tut!”

  “Frankie, I’ve told you before that I’m a Socialist. Here you sit in—in the lap of luxury with every comfort around you.” She looked about the desk vaguely. “Stamp-lickers and calendars and—and inkpots and everything like that,” she looked him up and down, “well clothed, with your hair nicely waved . . . well fed . . . with two lumps of sugar in your coffee . . . and you harden your heart against this poor woman. Frankie,” earnestly, “how would you like to have chronic legs and no money and no food? Aren’t you going to send her ten pounds?”

  “No, I’m not. I bet you sixpence that she’s got plenty of money and plenty of food.”

  “You’ll be saying her legs aren’t chronic next,” said Felicity sternly. “I’m convinced her legs are chronic. I thought better of you than this, Frankie. I—–”

  Moult entered the room in his best manner. Moult as a butler was almost too perfect to be true. He gave you the impression of a very clever actor interpreting the part of a butler in a romantic comedy of high life . . .

  “Her ladyship,” he said primly to Felicity, “is confined to her room with a headache, and would like a few words with you in her bedroom.”

  Felicity entered her aunt’s bedroom singing to herself.

  “Felicity dear,” said Lady Montague, without opening her eyes. “Please!”

  Lady Montague lay majestically on her bed. She suggested a stately recumbent monument in the chancel of an old church. With a ruff round her neck and a little lion at her feet the resemblance would have been almost complete.

  “Good-morning, aunt!” said Felicity cheerfully as she sat down. “How are you?”

  “I am suffering, Felicity,” said Lady Montague, with great dignity. “I am suffering, but I make no complaints.” She peeped at Felicity through half-closed lids. “Felicity,” she said faintly, “don’t cross your legs!” Felicity uncrossed them.

  “People do nowadays, aunt,” she said.

  “Not the bes
t people,” said Lady Montague crushingly.

  “What are chronic legs, aunt?” said Felicity.

  “Please don’t be vulgar, Felicity!” said Lady Montague.

  Felicity sighed.

  “I sent for you, Felicity,” said Lady Montague, “because I find myself in a quandary.”

  “A quan—–?” said Felicity.

  “A dilemma,” said Lady Montague.

  “Oh, yes, I know,” said Felicity, “a thing with horns.” Lady Montague stretched out a languid hand for the pile of letters that lay on the table by her bed.

  “A distant cousin of ours is arriving in England from Russia and wishes to come and see us. She says”—Lady Montague turned over the letter, then closed her eyes as if exhausted by the effort—“she says she will probably arrive in London by the twelve-thirty train at St. Pancras, and would like to be met there by one of us and accompanied to Marleigh, as she finds travelling in England so confusing. You follow me, Felicity?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Felicity; “but who’s going to meet her?”

  Lady Montague raised a hand to her head.

  “That, Felicity,” she said, “is the difficulty . . . Pass me my smelling salts.”

  Felicity passed them.

  “I,” went on Lady Montague, “am so prostrate that I cannot speak or see or move.”

  “I’m so sorry, aunt!” murmured Felicity sympathetically.

  “It is impossible for me to contemplate going up to town. Your sister Rosemary is away staying with friends. She does not return until this afternoon. There remains—–”

  “There remains me—or is it I?” said Felicity. “Which is it? There remains me . . . There remains I . . .”

  “Felicity, kindly refrain from anticipating me. I was about to observe that there remains you——”

  “You’s nice and safe, of course,” said Felicity dreamily.

  “And my first thought was to send you to meet Cousin Mary—escorted, of course, by Brown.”

  Felicity groaned.

  “But, unfortunately,” said Lady Montague, “Brown is also indisposed as the result, I gather, of—going on the roundabout at the village fair last night.”

  “How inconsiderate of Brown to be indisposed!” said Felicity, with mock indignation.

  “Exactly, Felicity,” said Lady Montague heartily. “Just what I said to Freen this morning. I said, ‘Surely the woman has not reached her age without discovering whether she can or cannot take a ride on a roundabout with impunity.’”

  “Which can you, aunt?” said Felicity, with interest.

  “I have never considered it consistent with my dignity to ascertain. Brown is one thing, I am another. But to return, after deep thought—very deep thought and very serious thought—I have decided that you shall ring up your sister-in-law Violet”—Felicity made a grimace—“whom I can trust in every possible way, and ask her to meet you at the London terminus; that together you meet Cousin Mary, and that you then bring her back here. Violet will see you both off at the London terminus. That leaves the first portion of the journey—from here to London—to be performed alone.

  “It is,” continued Lady Montague solemnly, “entirely against my principles to allow a young girl of your age to travel alone and unescorted, but I think on this occasion there is perhaps no harm in it.”

  “What is Cousin Mary like?” said Felicity.

  “That again is a difficulty—–”

  “Quite a herd of dilemmas,” murmured Felicity.

  “She has never been to England before. Her mother was a Russian. And we have no photograph of her recent enough to be any guide to identification. But doubtless, with Violet’s help, you will identify her.”

  “Doubtless,” murmured Felicity.

  “You will, then, Felicity, first ring up Violet and ask her to meet you at the London terminus, then you will proceed there alone, and—Felicity—–”

  “Yes, aunt.”

  “Go first-class.”

  “Yes, aunt. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. Oh, and Felicity——”

  “Yes, aunt.”

  “Don’t lean out of the carriage window.”

  “No, aunt. Good-bye.”

  Felicity opened the door.

  “Good-bye—oh, and Felicity—–”

  ‘‘Yes, aunt.”

  “Don’t speak to any stranger.”

  “No, aunt. Good-bye.”

  Felicity closed the bedroom door.

  “Felicity!”

  Felicity groaned and opened it again.

  ‘‘Yes, aunt?”

  “Don’t get out till the train’s quite stopped.”

  Felicity closed the door and went out into the corridor. “Heaven above us!” she remarked feelingly to a bust of Sir Walter Scott that stood there.

  Twenty minutes later Felicity stepped into the library, dressed in her outdoor things.

  “I’m having a day out, Frankie,” she said. “I’m going to perform the journey to town alone and unescorted”—she began to tick her sentences off on her fingers—“first-class, not leaning out of the carriage window, not speaking to strangers, and not getting out of the carriage till the train stops—–”

  Franklin interrupted her.

  “What on earth is it all about, Pins?”

  ‘‘Ah,” she said mysteriously. “I’m supposed to ring up Sister-in-law Violet from Mayfair and meet Cousin Mary from Russia, but it’s just possible I may forget that part of it.” She blew him a kiss. ‘‘Good-bye, Frankie.” In the train Felicity took out the letter signed “Marie Smyth-Bruce,” and the mischief died out of her blue eyes. She took very seriously her recent conversion to Socialism and the fact that she had as yet done nothing to justify it weighed on her conscience. But she would justify it now. She would seek out this Marie Smyth-Bruce with the strange handwriting and chronic legs, and hold out to her the right hand of fellowship. She would, if necessary, suffer for her belief. There was every probability that her beliefs would not be encouraged at home and that she would provide yet another dilemma for poor Aunt Marcella. But still, that was Aunt Marcella’s fault for being a hide-bound aristocrat. She, Felicity, was a Socialist, and she must live up to her principles.

  She walked lightly down the London platform. A well-tailored youth with a weak mouth and no chin gave her an ogling smile as tribute to her beauty. He received in return from ice-blue eyes a glance of such freezing hauteur that for the minute (though only just for the minute) he felt the worm he was.

  At the exit of the station Felicity halted. Cousin Mary weighed rather heavily on her conscience. Then, with an effort, she pushed Cousin Mary off her conscience. She had no time, she told herself sternly, for females who could not find their way across London without help. Cousin Mary must be left to her own resources. It would do her good. It would be much better for Cousin Mary’s character than to meet her and pilot her across London. And Felicity, the Socialist, was bent on the rescue of Marie Smyth-Bruce, the sufferer from cruel landlords and chronic legs.

  She gave the taxi man the address and leant back in her seat with a mixture of apprehension and elation in her heart. She’d show Frankie and her grandfather and the rest of them that she really was a Socialist. They wouldn’t dare not to take her seriously once she’d rescued Marie Smyth-Bruce from cruel landlords and chronic legs.

  The taxi stopped at a little house in a little street, and Felicity looked at it with interest as she paid the man his fare.

  It was most satisfactorily dirty and dilapidated. It would have been rather disappointing to find Marie Smyth-Bruce in a clean and prosperous house.

  A female with a squint and incipient beard opened the door. Felicity’s heart sank. She hoped that this was not Marie Smyth-Bruce. She was prepared to love Marie Smyth-Bruce, but she felt that she could not love a squint and an incipient beard.

  “Does Miss Smyth-Bruce live here?” said Felicity. “I am Miss Felicity Harborough, and I have called to see her.”

  The w
oman wiped her hands and face on her apron.

  “Well, I’m—–” she began in utter amazement as she looked up and down Felicity. “Well, I’ll be—–’old ’ard a minute, miss, I’ll go an’ tell ’er.”

  She disappeared up the narrow stairs still murmuring. “Well—I’ll be—–” and Felicity ’eld ’ard in the narrow hall below. There seemed to be a great amount of whispering and shuffling going on overhead. At last the squint and incipient beard descended and said: “Will you go hup now, miss. She lives in the room at the top of the stairs.”

  Felicity went up, and the door at the top of the stairs was promptly flung open to receive her, revealing Miss Smyth-Bruce. Words cannot do justice to Miss Smyth-Bruce. She was thin and tall and battered and dingy and blowsy, but with an overpowering air of derelict elegance. Her long, thin nose was indubitably red and her short thin hair was wispy. She wore a dress that in the dim and far-back ages, before it began to go the round of all the dress agencies in London, must have been a very star in the firmament of fashion. It swept. It trailed. Around it hung festoons of torn lace. Miss Smyth-Bruce had evidently hastily changed into her robe of ceremony with the help of the squint and incipient beard. She advanced upon Felicity with hand held high in air and a radiant smile which revealed teeth as battered-looking as the rest of her.

  “How do you do, dear?” she said. “So good of you to call. Take a pew, won’t you, dearie?”

  Felicity took a pew. It was rather an unsteady pew, but she managed with an effort to recover her balance and take another.

  “You wrote to my grandfather,” began Felicity.

  “I did indeed, dearie,” affirmed Miss Smyth-Bruce, “an’ trew it was in he very word, although I had to swallow my natural pride before I could bring meself to do it—me what’s been brought up genteel an’ honest, like you ’ave yourself, dearie, rejewced to habject poverty, an’ threw no fault of me own.”

  She took out a handkerchief which had seen better days and dried one eye. The other was fixed keenly on Felicity.

  Felicity didn’t know quite what to say. The career of a Socialist was more difficult than she had thought. She murmured, “I’m so sorry,” and Miss Smyth-Bruce continued.