RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
'MISS MARY says you are to go up at once and finish her dress. She is in an awful way because you are so late.'
The neatly-dressed, trim parlourmaid gave the message, with her comments upon it, and, with a toss of her head, turned away as if it did not become her to be any longer in the society of her mistress's companion than was absolutely necessary.
Outside it had been snowing, and the front of Ellen Ashwood's cheap jacket was powdered with white crystals. It had been a long walk from Westbourne Grove to the stores where she had been told to purchase the one small piece of lace which Mrs. Maysfield and her two daughters considered absolutely necessary for the completion of the latter's costume at the great Covent Garden ball that night.
Ellen was very tired; but her position in the house was too precarious, and Mrs. Maysfield's tongue—not to mention the tongues of her two daughters—was too sharp, to let her even think of resting. She ran up the broad flight of stairs to the little bare bed-sitting-room she occupied at the top of the house, slipped off her wet things, and, hurrying down to the first floor, tapped timidly at a bedroom door. A sharp voice that seemed to suggest the last stages of feminine irritation told her to come in.
'Oh. that's you, is it, Ellen, at last? I don't know what you've been doing to be so long. Let me see what you've bought.'
Mary Maysfield, in a state of deshabillé, snatched the little paper package from Ellen's hand, and, opening it, examined its contents.
'Of course, it's not what I wanted,' she said, with a frown that made her fat, freckled face look even more unpleasant than usual. 'But there's no time to change it now.'
At that moment Mrs. Maysfield entered the room.
'So, you have come back, Ellen?' she exclaimed tartly. 'Now, for goodness' sake, do finish my poor child's dress. The lack of interest you have shown in this dance is quite shameless.'
Ellen, worn out with all the work she had done during the day, was moved to a mild expression of rebellion.
'You see, I'm not going to the ball, Mrs. Maysfield,' she said.
Mrs. Maysfield was one of those persons who believe that charity not only begins but ends at home.
Ellen might be regarded as the one exception to this principle that she had ever permitted herself.
But, even from a strictly commercial point of view, the girl's position in the house could hardly be classed under the heading of charity, for she did the work of a competent housemaid, lady's maid, sempstress, and companion for the meagre wages of twelve pounds a year. She was, however, the orphan child of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Ashwood, who had left her completely penniless, and, as Mrs. Ashwood had for a short time been Mrs. Maysfield's school fellow, Mrs. Maysfield considered that, in permitting Ellen to perform these duties for such inadequate remuneration, she was laying up for herself a crown of gold in heaven.
'Going to the ball, indeed!' she exclaimed. 'I should think not. You ought to remember who you are and what your position in life would have been had not my husband and I taken pity on you. Now, kindly have the goodness to finish Mary's dress, and don't try my forbearance by making such wicked suggestions.'
With her lips firmly set and a little spot of colour upon her beautiful face, Ellen hurried away to the sanctuary she occupied at the top of the house. She was very near to tears, but with an effort she restrained them lest they should fall upon the costly fabric that her nimble fingers were handling.
Mrs. Maysfield's speech made her realise, more than anything had ever done before, the utter friendlessness and loneliness of her position.
Except for a mysterious godfather—a friend of her father's—to whom she wrote dutifully every Christmas in Australia, and received a brief acknowledgment in reply, accompanied by some trifling present, the Maysfields, with their cold, calculating charity, were the only persons she knew in the world. She was a drudge—a worse drudge than the highly-paid parlourmaid, who occasionally condescended to call her 'miss.'
As Mrs. Maysfield had said, the idea of her going to a ball, or of having any amusements or recreations, was preposterous, though she was more than good-looking and only nineteen years of age.
The dress was finished at last; but her labours were not at an end. Mary insisted that she must stay to put it on her properly. She was in the middle of this trying ordeal—trying, because Mary's temper, never of the best, was in a state of irritable eruption—when the parlourmaid entered the room.
'There's a gentleman to see Miss Ellen,' she said.
Everybody present was astonished. Ellen could hardly credit her ears; Mary stared at the maid as if she had suddenly gone mad.
Mrs. Maysfield was the first to recover from her amazement.
'I never heard of such a thing!' she exclaimed. 'How dare he call here at such an hour. I don't allow my companion to receive male visitors in my house. Perhaps you would have the goodness to explain who it is, Ellen?'
'I'm sure I don't know,' Ellen answered miserably.
Mrs. Maysfield sniffed. 'I will go and see this man myself and send about him about his business. And kindly see that you dress my daughter properly, Ellen.'
She sailed out of the room bristling with indignation, and, with a cold, aloof hauteur, entered the drawing-room. A tall, burly man in an easy-fitting tweed suit turned as she entered. For a moment there was a look of astonishment, in his eyes and then he laughed.
'Well, you can't be Miss Ashwood,' he said; that's a dead cert. I told the slavey that I wanted to see Miss Ashwood. You must be Mrs. Maysfield.'
'Miss Ashwood is my companion,' Mrs. Maysfield replied icily. 'It is not my custom to permit my companion to receive visitors in my house.'
The stranger's big blue eyes opened wide.
'Say, you make me feel as if I was in the freezing-room on board the steamer. I always thought you were a pal of Miss Ashwood's mother and had given her a home when her parents died. Leastways, that's what Ellen told me.'
'That is quite correct,' Mrs. Maysfield retorted, in some surprise.
'Well, I'm her godfather, George Harding. I don't savvy this business about her being your companion. Anyway, I've got to see her—it was her father's wish—so, if you please, just trot her out.'
For a fraction of a second Mrs Maysfield hesitated. She was not accustomed to be spoken to in this way and she would have liked to resent it, but there was something so grimly determined about George Harding that she gave way.
In a few seconds Ellen was down in the drawing-room alone with her mysterious godfather.
'Well,' he said, staring at her with a broad grin, 'you're the real picture of poor old Dick. I'd have known you anywhere.'
He sunk his voice to a hoarse whisper and jerked a very rough thumb towards the door. 'Say, do you like living with old Frozenface, my dear, because I shouldn't.'
For one second Ellen caught her breath and then went off into an uncontrollable peal of laughter. It was the first time she had laughed since her parents' death, a year before, and somehow it seemed to shake off the load of misery that had been accumulating upon her shoulders ever since.
'Oh, hush,' she said. 'Mrs. Maysfield gave me a home, you know. I don't know what I should have done without her help, for father and mother hadn't any money to leave me.'
George Harding's face grew serious.
'I never knew that or I'd nave helped,' he said. 'But look here, my dear, I think I've tumbled to this business. I'll bet that old iceberg makes you earn every penny of your keep, and more besides. Anyway, we needn't talk of that just now,' he went on in a lighter tone. 'The question is, how are we going to celebrate this meeting? You've got to come out with me tonight, of course.'
'I don't think Mrs. Maysfield would let me,' Ellen sad timidly. 'Besides, I am wanted to dress her daughters for the great ball they're going to at Covent Garden.'
Her words seemed to give George Harding an inspiration, for he suddenly clapped his hands together.
'Lor' I remember going to Covent Garden with your father. That's just the very thing. It'll be like the fairy tale—only I'll have to be the fairy godfather instead of the fairy godmother. Buck along, my dear, and get your hat on—this is going to be just It.'
At that moment the parlourmaid entered the room! 'Miss Mary says you are to go up at once and finish dressing her, miss.'
She would have flounced out of the room again had not George Harding, with a few. strides, stopped her at the door.
'Here.' he said, 'you look a nice sort of girl. You'll do a favour for me, I know.'
He pressed something into the girl's hand, and, glancing at this something, she saw it was two sovereigns.
'I say, my dear,' George Harding went on in a confidential whisper, 'don't you think you could go and tell Miss Mary that Miss Ashwood had had to go to bed—faint, you know, or something of that sort--shock at seeing me—something that a clever girl like you can think of that's likely to go down.'
The parlourmaid giggled feebly.
'You will, won't you?' George Harding exclaimed; 'and you might at the same time fetch down Miss Ashwood's hat and coat.' The girl nodded understanding and, still giggling, hurried out of the room.
George Harding turned to Ellen and winked. 'I'll fix it all right, my dear, don't you fret. I'm a fairy godfather, you just see.'
As if in proof of the boast, the parlourmaid appeared presently with Ellen's coat and hat.
'Oh, miss, I didn't half have to tell a tale ' she exclaimed breathlessly. 'I said you'd been taken ill sudden, and was lying down, and so as you couldn't see anybody, you'd locked your door.'
Certain qualms of conscience forced Ellen to utter a feeble protest; but George Harding swept all objections aside.
'Don't you fret, my dear. This is my night out, and I'll take all the responsibility.'
During the space of the next few hours Ellen thought she was in dreamland. She was conscious of driving about London in a car, of knocking up a famous modiste, who made a speciality of providing fancy costumes at the shortest notice, of a gorgeous hotel, where she changed into these wonderful clothes, and then she partially woke up, to find herself in the great ballroom at Covent Garden.
Under normal circumstances she would have been overwhelmed by shyness, for never in her life had she been to such a ball; but she wore over her eyes a little velvet mask, and George Harding was there to support her, gallantly looking after her, and seeing that she had no lack of partners.
'You just enjoy yourself, my dear; that's what you've got to do. Don't bother about me. I'm an old fogey, and I'll look after myself.'
In accordance with these instructions Ellen danced every dance. The splendid scene in which she found herself, the music, the laughter, the dresses, the colours, seemed to change her into a very different person from the tired, broken-spirited girl of a few hours before. Except at supper time—and she had never tasted such a supper before in her life—she saw little of her godfather; but once, in the middle of a dance, she thought she detected him clumsily making the circuit of the room with a partner on his arm.
And the strange part of it all was that the partner seemed extraordinarily like Mary Maysfield.
She questioned him on this point at supper, but his only reply was to smile. 'Perhaps you were dreaming,' he said.
The great night for her came to an end at last. At 4 o'clock in the morning she found herself back again in her little bed-sitting-room at the top of Mrs. Maysfield's house. Mrs. Maysfield, and her two daughters had not yet returned, and she scrambled into bed without any member of the household being aware of where she had been or the hour at which she had come back—except, perhaps, the parlourmaid, who had become suddenly wonderfully discreet and attentive.
She rose at the usual hour; but, she might just as well have stayed in bed, as there was no sign of breakfast until ten o'clock, when Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters appeared, very out of temper and looking plainer than usual after their night's dissipation.
They at once flew at Ellen. How dare she be so tiresome as to pretend to be ill when they were in the middle of dressing; her conduct had almost spoilt the whole dance.
Ellen, used to these tirades, sat demurely silent, and presently the conversation turned to the subject of the ball. Mary had made a conquest, it appeared, and was proud of the fact.
'He was really a charming gentleman, mother,' she explained to Mrs. Maysfield, 'and I'm sure, from the way he spoke, he must be immensely wealthy. The worst of it is he never told me his name.'
'Perhaps he had very good reasons for not telling you,' snappily remarked her sister, who was envious of Mary's success.
'Oh, he's promised to call,' Mary went on airily. 'He particularly asked for my address.'
As she spoke the parlourmaid entered the room with a magnificent bouquet of flowers.
'A gentleman sent these for you, miss? ' she said, handing them to Mary, 'and be says he'd be so grateful if he could speak to you for one moment.'
Mary jumped delightedly from her chair, glancing triumphantly at her sister. Mrs. Maysfield also rose.
'You'd better receive him here, Mary,' she said. 'Show the gentleman in here, Jane. One moment. Jane. What name did he give?'
'He didn't give no name,' the girl replied with some vague signs of confusion.
'Well, anyway, show him in here!' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed.
A few seconds later the door opened, and a man appeared. At the sight of him Ellen flushed with confusion, and a look of uneasy surprise played on Mrs. Maysfield's face. It was George Harding.
He walked, smiling and unmoved, towards Mary, and held out his hand. 'I hope my charming partner is none the worse for last night,' he said, and then, turning to Mrs. Maysfield, he added. 'It's most surprising, Mrs. Maysfield. that circumstances should have brought me to your house twice so strangely—once last night on a matter of business, and now this morning on a matter of pleasure.'
He bowed slightly to Mary as he spoke. Ellen he ignored completely.
'It was so kind of you to send my daughter those lovely flowers,' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed, awkward and ill-at-ease. 'She has just been saying how delightful you made the ball for her last night. This is my other daughter—and Ellen, of course, you know.'
He shook hands with the other Miss Maysfield, but contented himself with a cold, distant bow to Ellen.
'I was wondering if you'd give me the pleasure of all coming to lunch with me today,' he said. 'I am mostly a stranger in London, and when I've made real nice friends, as I hope I may regard you—well, I like to make the most of them. Now, do say you will, Mrs. Maysfield.'
Mrs. Maysfield was carried away by his air of good nature and his masterfulness.
'It is exceedingly kind of you,' she murmured. 'I'm sure we shall be delighted.'
'Good!' he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. 'I expect all of you, you know, and I'll call for you with the car at a quarter to one.'
When, ten minutes later, he had taken his departure, Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters fell to discussing him in detail. Mary, it was agreed, had certainly made an impression upon him; there could be no doubt of that. Also, it was pretty clear that he was very wealthy.
Mrs. Mayfield declared that she would get her husband to make certain discreet enquiries in the city regarding him, though she considered it obvious, on the face of it, that he was in every way, a most desirable gentleman.
And in all this conversation she took no part. She sat there, miserable and unhappy. The glamour of last night had passed away. Her godfather, who had been so kind and charming, had not even spoken to her—had treated her just as Mrs. Maysfield treated her.
There was, of course, no suggestion that she was to go to the lunch. Such an idea never entered anybody's head. And from her little room upstairs she had to see Mrs Maysfield and her two daughters whirled away in George Harding's motor-car. She had been given come work to do—so that she shouldn't get into idle habits, Mrs. Maysfield said—and she sat there in her room stitching end cutting out blouses for the Misses Maysfield.
At half-past two, however, the parlourmaid appeared, all agog with excitement.
'Oh, miss, Mr. Harding's downstairs, and he says will you please come at once?'
She rose with her work in her hand, hardly crediting her senses: but the parlourmaid snatched it from her, found her shabby coat and hat, and had her dressed in these garments almost before she had time to look round.
Downstairs George Harding was waiting for her.
'What a joke, Ellen,' he said, laughing like an overgrown schoolboy. 'I packed them off to the theatre, so as to keep them out of harm's way, and now we can have the whole afternoon to ourselves.'
And what an afternoon it was for Ellen!
They dashed into the country, took tea at a little inn cosily before the fire, and were back again by five o'clock.
During this wonderful trip George Harding got from her such information of her daily movements as he required. When she set out for her hour's walk on the following day he was there waiting for her with his motor car round the corner of the street. Sometimes in these intervals of recreation she visited art galleries and museums with him, sometimes they went for spins out into the pleasant countryside beyond London; but always she was back for her duties to the moment.
And nearly every day, too, George Harding called at Mrs. Maysfield's house. On these occasions he treated Ellen just as Mrs. Maysfield treated her—as a kind of superior servant, with whom one had to bear but could not be intimate.
One day Ellen did not appear at her usual time. Subsequent enquiries led George Harding to discover that she was ill.
Mrs. Maysfield spoke of it as being very troublesome. Really, she must think of getting rid of the girl, she was always so in the way. George Harding apparently sympathised with these remarks, for he made no comment. But the parlourmaid, while Ellen lay sick, earned many a sovereign by carrying messages to her room.
On the first day that she was strong enough to come downstairs she was allowed to rest in the morning-room—for this once, as Mrs. Maysfield was careful to explain—on the strict understanding that there was to be no shamming or malingering.
In the afternoon Mrs. Maysfield and her daughters went out for an hour. When they returned they saw a familiar hat and stick in the hall. Mr. Harding must have called.
Mary congratulated herself on having returned in time. Where was he? they enquired of the parlourmaid.
Jane looked somewhat guilty when she was at last driven to confess that he was in the morning-room. Quite forgetful of the fact that Ellen had been resting there, Mary and her mother entered the room.
And there a sight met their eyes which almost took their breath away. Mr. Harding was sitting, on the sofa, holding Ellen in his arms, and, even as they opened the door they saw him kiss her hair.
'Mr. Harding!' Mrs. Maysfield exclaimed.
'Ellen!' Mary cried, in a high-pitched voice. 'How dare you?'
George Harding sat where he was, quite composed. 'Don't worry yourselves!' he exclaimed.
'What does this conduct mean, Mr. Harding?' Mrs. Maysfield retorted furiously. 'I find you here with my companion, who certainly shall leave my house this very day?'
'I said, don't worry,' George Harding interrupted her. 'She's going to leave your house all right, and she's got another situation as a companion already. She's going to be my companion, bless her. She's just promised to be my wife, and she isn't going to be bullied and snubbed and underpaid any longer, Mrs. Maysfield—and that's all about it!'