# Ainslee's Magazine/The Pretenders/Aunt Philippa

from Ainslee's magazine, 1907 Sept, pp. 109–113.
IV
AUNT PHILIPPA
I WAS sitting in the armchair reading the evening paper when Omi rushed in and sat on me with a bang.
“Jimmy!” she cried, “The worst is going to happen!”
“It's only his teeth,” I protested. I thought she meant the baby.
“It isn't the Wonder,” she explained. “It's Aunt Philippa.”
“What is the matter with her?” I inquired,
“She is coming to stay with us! For a whole week!”
“Why shouldn't she?” I asked. I did not know Aunt Philippa, but she had given us a very handsome wedding-present; and when the Wonder arrived, she had sent a pleasant little check in a pleasant little letter. So I was predisposed in her favor.
“James Edward,” Omi said solemnly, “you don't know my mother's family.”
“Naomi Rachel,” I answered, “I know one; and that is sufficient.”
“I'm not a bit like them,” she declared. “I take after father; and I've always lived with his people. Mother's family are quite different. They're ever so good; appallingly good! They belong to the—the Strict Something! It's a sort of sect that doesn't approve of cards or music or dancing or theaters or novels—anything! We shall have to hide our story-books and songs; and lock up the pictures and the statuary—especially the bronze Venus that Brush gave you. I shall have to wear my dowdiest things; and buy some dowdier! And we'll have to tell all the dear bad people we know to keep away; and go to chapel twice in the week, and three times on Sunday; and never laugh. Laughing is frivolous.”
Omi puckered her mouth. I unpuckered it.
“That is worse than frivolous,” she protested. “I am sure the Strict Somethings disapprove of it. I'd write and make excuses, only—you see, she might take a fancy to the Wonder. He's nine months old; and we must begin to think of his future.”
“Ye-es. The old lady has behaved rather decently to us, O. Are you sure she is so—strict? You haven't seen her since you were ten, have you?”
Omi had lived abroad with her paternal grandmother till I carried her off to smoky London.
“They're all alike.” Omi shook her hair loose and pushed it up again. “Poor old dad was in mortal terror of them; and granny would never let me visit them, because they cut off my curls when I was little and stayed there. Curls are frivolous! This is a frivolous scarf of yours, Jimmy!” She adjusted it. “You'll have to get a black one. You'll humor her, won't you, for the Wonder's sake?”
“Anything for a quiet life!” I promised.
“My boy!” said Omi. “You don't know what a quiet life is; but you soon will!”
So Omi wrote to tell Aunt Philippa that we should be delighted to see her on Monday next. We warned off our set—they are the nicest set any people could have the luck to be in; literary and artistic and musical, with a touch of the drama; and we call ourselves The Clan, and meet every fortnight at Villiers'.
On Sunday we stowed our mundane treasures away in a cupboard and hired some pastoral oleograph for the walls, and a hideous vase to put in the place of the bronze Venus. It's a gem!
On the Monday morning Omi brushed her curly hair straight, and put on a plain brown dress and a felt hat—even then she looked saucy!—and went to meet Aunt Philippa. When I came home from the office I found them sitting opposite to each other talking with long faces. I nearly started laughing when I saw Omi's; and when she spoke I was scarcely able to contain myself.
“James,” she said primly, “this is Aunt Philippa.”
Aunt Philippa rose and held out her hand. She was a slight, tall lady, a little under forty; very quiet in manner and dress, and rather pale, but unmistakably handsome. I rather took to her, and if Omi hadn't warned me I should have said: “Let's be friends, aunt,” and kissed her. As it was, I made a very solemn bow.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” I informed her.
She bowed very stiffly. The atmosphere seemed to be starched.
“Have you obtained the tickets for the magic-lantern to-night, James?” Omi inquired.
“Yes, Naomi,” I said.
“Magic-lantern?” Aunt Philippa spoke in a doubtful tone.
“They are missionary pictures, aunt,” Omi explained. “We should not think of going to a—a secular entertainment, should we, James?”
“Of course not, Naomi!” I agreed decidedly.
“Of course not,” Aunt Philippa agreed.
“It is connected with the chapel,” Omi added. “The pictures are about the heathen—the converted ones; and the dear missionary lectures!”
“And the minister gives an address, I suppose?” Aunt Philippa inquired, turning up her eyes.
“Certainly,” I stated. “It is on the tickets.”
I showed them to her; and she nodded.
“I have no doubt it will be very improving,” she said; but I feared, from her manner, that she felt some scruples about going.
When I eat an incautious supper, my dreams still take the form of our dinner that evening. Aunt Philippa and Omi sat like two dark-robed statues. Omi kicked my shins whenever I made a secular remark, so I said little. Aunt Philippa said less. Omi would probably have held her tongue if she could, but she can't. So she used up most of “Light on the Daily Path,” which she had bought the day before, and gave us the history of the Sunday-school which she had learned out of the Chapel Magazine.
We went to the lantern performance. The missionary was a cadaverous, sandy, sniveling humbug—the sort that returns safely from respectable lions and cannibals—but Omi was-enthusiastic about him. She felt as though she couldn't bear to hear any more about the poor, dear converted heathen, she Aunt Philippa said that was just how she felt. I said that I felt so, too. It was true!
When we reached home Aunt Philippa went straight to bed. Omi and had a quiet dance round the drawing room. Then we went and got some of our treasures out of the cupboard and gloated over them. She showed me a string with seven pieces of paper on it, and tore one off, because one day of th “visitation” would have to-morrow.
The next day I had a holiday to help take Aunt Philippa out. We went to the British Museum in the morning and St. Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon. She and Omi went to a “meeting” in the evening, but I was not well enough to accompany them. While they were out I ran round to the club and had a couple of rubbers at bridge, and won five and six. Omi called me a horrid, mean wretch when I told her, but I gave her half the winnings, and she forgave me. After Aunt Philippa had gone to bed we went out and had a race round the square. Omi ran into the policeman, but he said he had “run against worse things in his time,” and we all laughed together.
The day after, Omi took Aunt Philippa to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and the Tower. Aunt Philippa was tired, and did not want to go out in the evening. She nursed the Wonder till he fell asleep. She seemed to like him; and I felt sure she wasn't a bad sort in her way. She talked rather sensibly to me while Omi was putting him to bed. We must remember, she said, that religion had its bright side; and that was the side for children; and it was not wise to repress childish playfulness too much, however foolish and frivolous it might seem. promised to bear this in mind.
When Omi came down again she played hymns; and Aunt Philippa began singing softly. She had a lovely voice; and I asked her if she objected to oratorio. She said that she did not, and we ran nearly through “St. Paul” together. So it wasn't such a bad evening
“Do know, Omi girl,” I remarked, when Aunt Philippa had gone to bed, “she means well; and I like her.” And then I told her what she had said about the way to bring up the Wonder.
“I like her, too,” Omi said. “Do you know, Jimmy, she fairly hugged the Wonder when she thought we weren't looking. Poor old auntie! To think of all the things she misses by being so good! I'm sure she would like to be jolly, if she didn't think it was wrong. Oh, Jimmy! It's the Villiers' evening to-morrow; and we can't go. And it's an amusement evening!”
On amusement evenings every one has to do whatever the hostess thinks he can do best to amuse the rest. So Omi has to tell them about the Wonder, and to draw caricatures—she is clever at drawing—and I have to tell them my latest story—I write a little; and Lanebury and Elsie Vane do dialogues; and Ferris gives us a scene out of his last comedy; and Villiers does conjuring tricks; and the singers sing their new songs; the artists outline their new pictures; and the. journalists tell us the latest news; and the authors describe their latest characters; and everybody is jolly with everybody.
The Clan has a lot of country members, and they always time their visits to town so as to take in a meeting; and this time Mrs. Villiers expected Phil Carlyon, the great novelist. She was a woman! She had been only three times in the last three years—since I had belonged—and each time I had missed her; but Omi and I admired her books; and every one talked so much about “dear old Phil” that we were mad to see her. Omi proposed that I should go alone and leave her to look after Aunt Philippa; but I wouldn't do that. So we both had to give it up.
Omi took Aunt Philippa to Exeter Hall in the afternoon. They both came back looking very tired and depressed; but Aunt Philippa brightened up when she found a letter that had been redirected to her.
“I don't know if could excuse me this evening,” asked nervously; “but I have such a very pressing reminder from some old friends of a promise to visit them if I was in town this evening? I wrote to put it off before I left home, but they seem to have asked a lot of people to meet me, and—if you could spare me?”
We thought that we could. When she went to after dinner, I jumped over the sofa; and Omi danced a skirt-dance on the hearth-rug. We sent for a cab and dressed in a quarter of an hour, and tiptoed down the stairs with our fingers on our lips. We did not believe Aunt Philippa would approve of evening dress. Omi looked so fascinating in her finery that I almost wished I hadn't married her, so that I could do it again! And she said I looked like a handsome stranger in my evening dress.
When we got to Villiers' we found The Clan sitting round the fire with the lights low. They put Omi and me in the dark part, next to the engaged couples, because they said we were “still semi-silly.”
“Omi is bursting to tell us something about the Wonder,” Mrs. Villiers said. “So she sha'n't. She does all the talking at home.”
“True!” I interjected.
“And poor Jimmy shall have a chance here. Now, Jimmy! Talk! But remember”—she held up a warning finger—“the Wonder is barred.”
“My dear Mrs. Villiers,” I said, “I have a Wonder to tell you about.”
“Gracious!” cried Mrs. Harraden. “You don't mean to say that you've found out that he's twins!”
“I thought he was too wonderful!” remarked Callers. I mean the artist. Puns are allowed on amusement evenings only.
“He has said 'dada' and 'mama,' too,” suggested Phyllis Meadows, the American soprano.
“Jimmy means that he has two 'heirs,'” stated Ferris, touching the bald spot on his head.
“He said 'dada' and 'mama' a month ago,” Omi stated; “and he has more hair than some people!”
“What is the difference between the monkey's mother and the Prince of Wales?” Ferris asked her. “You ought to know.”
“He's not a monkey,” said Omi; “and it's something about a hairy parent and the heir apparent; and you're very nasty!”
“And you are quite wrong, Madame Omi! He is a monkey; and his mother is a belle; and the Prince of Wales is no-ble!”'
“Oh, Mr. Ferris!” cried Omi, “you're nice!”'
“And what is the difference between the Wonder and me? One's bawled to-day, and the other's bald always!”
“And the new wonder has never enjoyed a ball in her life!” I declared; and then I told them about Aunt Philippa, and our dissipations of the last few days—from the missionary and the magic-lantern to Exeter Hall.
“The worst of it all,” I concluded, “is that she's so uncommonly likable. Somehow, you know—I can't explain exactly what I mean, but—it seems a shame that she should miss all the good things of life; knowing you nice, bad people, and——”
“And Phil Carlyon!” cried Mrs. Villiers. “Here's Phil! Dear old Phil!”
“Phil!” half of them cried, and rushed at a tall, handsome lady in beautiful evening dress, and held on to her. Omi and I gasped and held on to each other; for “Phil Carlyon'” was—Aunt Philippa!
They shook hands for a long time. Then they led her to a big chair in the middle of the circle; and she smiled all round, and looked something like Omi does when she sees the Wonder.
“You dear old friends!” she said. “How good it is to see you again. It always is; but this time it's nicer than ever, because I've come from Iceland!”
“Couldn't you make the sun shine, Philippa?” Mrs. Harraden asked.
“No, dear. They don't believe in sunshine, you see. They are too good. I think they really are good, but—— They're a niece of mine; and a nephew-in-law. Such a pretty girl. She has a face that ought to be all mischief, and then it would be delightful.” I pinched Omi. “He's a fine, manly-looking boy, too; just looks enough, and not enough to spoil him.” Omi pinched me. “They have the dearest boy baby. The nurse calls him the Wonder.”
“By Jove!” cried Villiers.
“We have heard of a similar baby,” remarked Laura Green, the actress. She glanced at the shaded sofa where Omi and I sat, and giggled. They all did.
“They say 'mama' and 'dada,'” Elsie Vane remarked.
“And grow hair,” added Ferris.
“And other people envy them,” said Aunt Philippa, with a silvery laugh. “Don't they, Andrew?”
“When they have such delightful aunts,” Ferris agreed promptly.
“That is coals of fire,” said Aunt Philippa. “It burns—horrid!” She gave him a smile. “Well, these foolish young people think it sinful to be proud of their Wonder. They call him 'James'—poor little dot! I want to play bears with him and talk nonsense, but I daren't shock them. Oh, my dears! You don't know what I've been through!”
And then she told them the history of the visit—from the missionary and the magic-lantern to Exeter Hall.
She told it very funnily; and the rest laughed till they nearly fell off their chairs. They asked all sorts of questions about the poor benighted young man, and his poor benighted young wife, and their poor benighted young baby. It was such a relief, they said, to hear of a young couple whose baby wasn't a Wonder; and she would understand their feelings if she knew a pair who came there sometimes. They grinned at the dark place where Omi and I sat; and some who were in the shade threw cushions at us. We were too convulsed with laughter to throw them back. We can enjoy a joke against ourselves; and we knew very well that they liked us all the Better because the Wonder was so wonderful to us.
“He really is a Wonder,” Aunt Philippa concluded; “and they are very nice, too, in their dreadful way. I can't help being fond of them. It makes me quite sad when I think how they miss all the brightness of life; such as knowing all you dear, bad people, and——”
The dear, bad people burst into such a mighty yell of laughter that Aunt Philippa had to stop. She sat staring at them in a half-laughing, half-puzzled way, like Omi looks sometimes when she can't understand things. She and Aunt Philippa are really very like each other.
“I don't know what you are laughing at,” Aunt Philippa protested at last.
Omi flashed across the hearth-rug like a pantomime fairy, and rushed upon Aunt Philippa with a scream like a child.
“Oh, auntie, dear!” she cried. “I do!”
They caught hold of each other and laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks. Everybody did. We often laugh at Villiers', but I never heard such laughter there before; and Aunt Philippa hugged Omi, and Omi hugged her; and I went and hugged her, too. We laughed all the evening, for as soon as we were quiet some one started again. Omi and Aunt Philippa and I laughed all the way home in the cab.
When we got indoors we unlocked the cupboard and put all our treasures in their usual places round the room; and “Phil Carlyon's” five novels were among them; and she declared that we should find ourselves in the sixth. Presently I found the string with four pieces of paper left on it, and brought that out, too, and explained it to Aunt Philippa; but Omi tore up half a quire of note-paper, and stuck it on in little pieces; and vowed that she would never tear any off, because Aunt Philippa was to stay with us whenever she liked, and for as long as she liked; and Aunt Philippa wiped her eyes suddenly.
“One's kin are one's kin,” she said, “and”—she smiled at me—“one's kin-in-law—I have no one else, you know.”
“Oh, yes!” Omi cried. “You have the Wonder!”
“Let us go and look at him,” Aunt Philippa proposed; and we went up-stairs, and held hands round the little chap's bed.
“There was a time, Omi,” Aunt Philippa said softly, “when you were just a little—Wonder.”
“Omi will always be wonderful,” I said.
It is all very wonderful, when you come to think of it—life and love.