“Go and fetch my cloak,” she says to him after a while. “I am cold.”
And up he gets and goes out.
She never moved her head, and spoke as though she was merely giving me some order, and I stands behind her chair, respectful like, and answers according to the same tip.
“Ever hear from ‘Kipper’?” she says to me.
“I have had one or two letters from him, your ladyship,” I answers.
“Oh, stow that,” she says. “I am sick of ‘your ladyship.’ Talk English; I don’t hear much of it. How’s he getting on?”
“Seems to be doing himself well,” I says. “He’s started an hotel, and is regular raking it in, he tells me.”
“Wish I was behind the bar with him!” says she.
“Why, don’t it work then?” I asks.
“It’s just like a funeral with the corpse left out,” says she. “Serves me jolly well right for being a fool!”
The Marquis, he comes back with her cloak at that moment, and I says: “Certainement, madame,” and gets clear.
I often used to see her there, and when a chance occurred she would talk to me. It seemed to be a relief to her to use her own tongue, but it made me nervous at times for fear someone would hear her.
Then one day I got a letter from “Kipper” to say he was over for a holiday and was stopping at Morley’s, and asking me to look him up.
He had not changed much except to get a bit fatter and more prosperous-looking. Of course, we talked about her ladyship, and I told him what she said.
“Rum things, women,” he says; “never know their own minds.”
“Oh, they know them all right when they get there,” I says. “How could she tell what being a Marchioness was like till she’d tried it?”
“Pity,” he says, musing like. “I reckoned it the very thing she’d tumble to. I only come over to get a sight of ‘er, and to satisfy myself as she was getting along all right. Seems I’d better a’ stopped away.”
“You ain’t ever thought of marrying yourself?” I asks.
“Yes, I have,” he says. “It’s slow for a man over thirty with no wife and kids to bustle him, you take it from me, and I ain’t the talent for the Don Juan fake.”
“You’re like me,” I says, “a day’s work, and then a pipe by your own fireside with your slippers on. That’s my swarry. You’ll find someone as will suit you before long.”
“No I shan’t,” says he. “I’ve come across a few as might, if it ‘adn’t been for ‘er. It’s like the toffs as come out our way. They’ve been brought up on ‘ris de veau a la financier,’ and sich like, and it just spoils ‘em for the bacon and greens.”
I give her the office the next time I see her, and they met accidental like in Kensington Gardens early one morning. What they said to one another I don’t know, for he sailed that same evening, and, it being the end of the season, I didn’t see her ladyship again for a long while.
When I did it was at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, and she was in widow’s weeds, the Marquis having died eight months before. He never dropped into that dukedom, the kid turning out healthier than was expected, and hanging on; so she was still only a Marchioness, and her fortune, though tidy, was nothing very big – not as that class reckons. By luck I was told to wait on her, she having asked for someone as could speak English. She seemed glad to see me and to talk to me.
“Well,” I says, “I suppose you’ll be bossing that bar in Capetown now before long?”
“Talk sense,” she answers. “How can the Marchioness of Appleford marry a hotel keeper?”
“Why not,” I says, “if she fancies him? What’s the good of being a Marchioness if you can’t do what you like?”
“That’s just it,” she snaps out; “you can’t. It would not be doing the straight thing by the family. No,” she says, “I’ve spent their money, and I’m spending it now. They don’t love me, but they shan’t say as I have disgraced them. They’ve got their feelings same as I’ve got mine.”
“Why not chuck the money?” I says. “They’ll be glad enough to get it back,” they being a poor lot, as I heard her say.
“How can I?” she says. “It’s a life interest. As long as I live I’ve got to have it, and as long as I live I’ve got to remain the Marchioness of Appleford.”
She finishes her soup, and pushes the plate away from her. “As long as I live,” she says, talking to herself.
“By Jove!” she says, starting up “why not?”
“Why not what?” I says.
“Nothing,” she answers. “Get me an African telegraph form, and be quick about it!”
I fetched it for her, and she wrote it and gave it to the porter then and there; and, that done, she sat down and finished her dinner.
She was a bit short with me after that; so I judged it best to keep my own place.
In the morning she got an answer that seemed to excite her, and that afternoon she left; and the next I heard of her was a paragraph in the newspaper, headed – “Death of the Marchioness of Appleford. Sad accident.” It seemed she had gone for a row on one of the Italian lakes with no one but a boatman. A squall had come on, and the boat had capsized. The boatman had swum ashore, but he had been unable to save his passenger, and her body had never been recovered. The paper reminded its readers that she had formerly been the celebrated tragic actress, Caroline Trevelyan, daughter of the well-known Indian judge of that name.
It gave me the blues for a day or two – that bit of news. I had known her from a baby as you might say, and had taken an interest in her. You can call it silly, but hotels and restaurants seemed to me less interesting now there was no chance of ever seeing her come into one again.
I went from Paris to one of the smaller hotels in Venice. The missis thought I’d do well to pick up a bit of Italian, and perhaps she fancied Venice for herself. That’s one of the advantages of our profession. You can go about. It was a second-rate sort of place, and one evening, just before lighting-up time, I had the salle-a-manger all to myself, and had just taken up a paper when I hears the door open, and I turns round.
I saw “her” coming down the room. There was no mistaking her. She wasn’t that sort.
I sat with my eyes coming out of my head till she was close to me, and then I says:
“Carrots!” I says, in a whisper like. That was the name that come to me.
“‘Carrots’ it is,” she says, and down she sits just opposite to me, and then she laughs.
I could not speak, I could not move, I was that took aback, and the more frightened I looked the more she laughed till “Kipper” comes into the room. There was nothing ghostly about him. I never see a man look more as if he had backed the winner.
“Why, it’s ‘Enery,” he says; and he gives me a slap on the back, as knocks the life into me again.
“I heard you was dead,” I says, still staring at her. “I read it in the paper – ‘death of the Marchioness of Appleford.’”
“That’s all right,” she says. “The Marchioness of Appleford