# Mr. Rackett's Queen Elizabeth

Extracted from Windsor magazine, V17 1902-03, pp. 257–263. Accompanying illustrations by Will Owen (UK, d. 1957) omitted.
MR. RACKETT'S QUEEN ELIZABETH
BY COSMO HAMILTON
"…. only Aunt Brooke—a perfect duck of a thing. Granny, she'll tell you ghost stories, but you must listen—and, of course, Dad, the Mater, and all the boys will be here. Later on, if possible, one of Teddy's 'Varsity chums may drop in. They tell me he is great fun. I'm longing to see him. And we all hope you will join us at dinner—half-past one sharp—and excuse short notice. The Mater asked me to write because she knows I hate writing, and, being Christmas Eve, she thought a little penance would be good for me.
"Yours very sincerely, "Elizabeth."
"P.S.—I insist on your coming."
"'Yours very sincerely'"—Rackett lingered on the words as though they were old wine—"isn't it ripping? Wish she'd underlined the 'very,' though. But 'I insist on your coming.' Much as to say 'Can't do without you.' By Jove! I must give something away to-night. I never felt so utterly, absolutely, almost confoundedly happy in my life. She—she—'pon my soul, she's better than I thought she was, the darling!"
Rackett bounced out of his armchair, holding the letter to his lips, and walked three times round his table. Hardly walked—danced, jigged, waltzed, gavotted, singly, in pairs, in a jumble. Then, pushing his fingers through his hair, he put the letter under the lamp, drew his chair up to the table, sat down, and started to read it all over again from the beginning. It took some time, as it was necessary to go back every now and then. In a lady's letter there is more between the lines than on them. When, however, he arrived at the last full stop, he stuck a thumb into each side of his waistcoat and stared into the depths of his lamp-shade.
"'I insist,' underlined. Which makes it 'I in .. sist.' … I can see her eyebrows come up like two new moons as she said it, with a little tightening of her lips, which immediately afterwards honoured the quill by holding it between them, while she—with now a little tender flicker in her eye—such a grey eye—stuck down the envelope before writing 'Chichele Rackett, Esq., 102a, King's Bench Walk, Temple. Immediate.'" His voice sank into a whisper. "Elizabeth Rackett. Mrs. Chichele Rackett. Goodness! how well it sounds! If she says 'Yes 'to-morrow—if she only does—I believe I shall be obliged to go mad and break things."
He bent over the letter as though it were a long, sweet, slender hand whose delicious nails each contained a rising sun, and kissed it. And then he told it how he would be so grateful because he loved her so; how, if she married him, he would be a clean, loving, honest chap—tender when she was irritable, true to himself for her sake, never argumentative … and all those other things we have all said, or have yet to say, on similar occasions.
Propping the precious letter up against the lamp, so that the full light might fall upon it—the little queer moisture in his eyes didn't seem to affect his sight—he loaded his pipe. That best of pipes. The last before the first.
Then, for the tenth time, louder, something more irritably, the knocking he hadn't heard was repeated on the door.
This time, being saner, he heard it, ran his fingers through his hair, hastily secured his letter—the only letter in the world—and finally, as the handle of an umbrella smote its panels, opened the door.
"My dear Mrs. Biggles, I'm so sorry. Come in. Hope you have not been knocking long?"
Mrs. Biggles lifted her thin chin so high that two long, hard cords started out and ran down into the frill round the neck of her dress. "Oh, no, sir," she said, with Bunyan-like meekness; "I only 'eard Big Ben strike two quarters, and it ain't freezin' so 'ard now, thank you kindly, sir."
To make amends, Rackett became more cordial than a log fire. "My dear Mrs. Biggles, you must be worn out. Do sit down and——"
"Thank you kindly, sir. I'd as lief stand, Mr. Rackett."
Thrown back upon himself by a frontispiece more coldly dignified—almost, indeed, more rudely polite—than the bluest of Blue Books, Rackett found himself wondering what "lief" was derived from, and why "rather" did not do as well.
"You will at least join me in a glass of whisky"—inspiration sat upon every feature—"to wish me, while I wish you, a merry Christmas? This is excellent whisky, though there is not much left, Mrs. Biggles."
He seized the bottle breezily.
Mrs. Biggles' chin resumed its place. "Thank you, sir; it may starve off the chill."
He handed her a tumbler, hiding with infinite thoughtfulness the fact that he was well aware how large her share had been in reducing the whisky to its present level. Was she not the good lady who "did for him"? Is not the flesh always weak when there is spirit in the cupboard?
Holding her glass high, she stared into it solemnly—her wedding-ring, very worn in places, reminded Rackett of the steps to his chambers—wrestled with a sniff, and said: "There ain't no doubt but as 'ow your Christmas will be merry spent—most like—in the succle of peace and plenty, with sossages likewise, and snap-dragon to follow. But as ter mine——"
With a great gust of tears the poor soul put her untasted whisky on the table and covered her worn face with two thin, mottled hands.
Rackett blushed. What a blackguard he was, to be going to sit at a table groaning with Christmas cheer—Elizabeth's father was a solicitor with the largest clientèle in London—next to the dearest girl the world had ever held, with her hand, perhaps, in his under the table-cloth——
"My dear Mrs. Biggles," he said hurriedly, "do let me help you for once. I was only saying just now that I wanted to give something to somebody, and nothing——"
With a hysterical, shrill laugh the charwoman took her wet fingers from her smudged face, gathered up her apron, and threw it over her head. The Gloire de Dijon in her little black bonnet, feeling itself to be an imitation of the most three-farthing description, sighed with relief.
With presence of mind unique in so young a man, Rackett took the shaking lady by the elbows and ran her sympathetically into his armchair. She sat there in a heap, sniffing loudly, her week-old apron making a none too spotless tent over her attenuated figure.
"There, there, cheer up, Mrs. Biggles. No one must be unhappy on Christmas Eve. You were afraid you and your kiddies wouldn't manage a Christmas dinner, eh? That's the trouble, isn't it?"
Mrs. Biggles dropped her apron, smothered her sobs, and rose impressively. "I say to you, Mr. Rackett, that you are a round hole … You 'ave found your plice in life … Why, anyone 'ud think you'd been in the Divorce Court all your time. I do believe as 'ow you kin see through a brick wall."
Rackett blushed with pleasure. "Look here, Mrs. Biggles, how much does it require to buy all you want to fill—is it fourteen mouths now?"
"Thirteen and a 'arf, sir."
"Now, Mrs. Biggles, let's be business-like. Take this sheet of paper and this pencil"—Mrs. Biggles treated it as though it were a sugar-stick—"and jot the items down…. Now, there are thirteen children and a baby, yourself and one husband, and perhaps an aunt or an uncle. That's sixteen and a half mouths. The turkey must, therefore, weigh at least thirty-two pounds."
Mrs. Biggles' eyes danced. "Oh! but what price the oven, sir?" she said.
"Never mind about the oven. Cook it in front of the fire. How much will it cost?"
Perplexity laid a heavy hand on Mrs. Biggles. "Well, sir, the nearest thing I've ever bought to a turkey was a pigeon, what was one and six. But look 'ere, Mr. Rackett, I tell you what. I'll go out as the shops are shuttin' and get a bargain. They chuck 'em away—if you'll excuse the expression—lite at night. Anyway, Mrs. Midwinter, a widder-lidy as lives next door to me, as chars, says to me, last Christmas, she says——"
"Put down a sovereign, Mrs. Biggles," said Rackett, unconsciously catching the manner of a great one for whom he longed to devil. "Then there'll be—let me see. Will two dozen sausages do?"
Illustration: "Wiped her hand on her apron, and stretched it out to Rackett."
"Sossages? Oh, crums!"
"Right. Twopence a piece, twice twenty-four, forty-eight—four shillings."
"What!" cried Mrs. Biggles excitedly. "Knock off a couple of bob, sir, and that'll have a margin; because I does charing for a gent as makes 'em a specialarity, and he'll——"
"Then," said Rackett, who felt that the woolsack itself would have to be re-lined for him to sit upon, "there are the etceteras."
"Oh! Mr. Rackett, keep off the grass. We don't want nothink French. It'd be all over our street."
Rackett began to feel a much greater respect for Mrs. Biggles. He had an enormous dislike to artificiality. She was beginning to be delightfully natural. "Er—potatoes, two shillings. Those cabbages that try to imitate roses and don't succeed——"
"Spraughts?"
"Good. Another two shillings."
"Lor! What a beno!"
"And the pudding——"
"'Ere! are we to 'ave a puddin'?"
If the lion underneath Nelson's statue would only condescend to melt into laughter, its expression would exactly resemble that worn by Mrs. Biggles. Involuntarily her feet commenced to move as they had done many years ago to a piano-organ. A wave of gratitude and astonishment crept over her. Something upon which she instantly placed a thumb and finger fell from her eyes to the paper over which she had scrawled in a shaky, schoolgirl hand.
"I believe ten shillings would get you a regular thumping pudding, Mrs. Biggles," said Rackett, pretending not to notice Mrs. Biggles' condition. "And, now, is that everything?"
"Everythink, and a bit more, sir," she said, between smiles and tears.
"No; we are wrong. There's port wine yet."
"Forty wine, sir? Oh! I couldn't; I couldn't indeed."
"My dear Mrs. Biggles, what would any Christmas dinner be without port wine and—by Jove! good again—walnuts. There, there, old lady, don't cry. I'll just go and get the money from my room while you sip your whisky."
Gathering his dressing-gown more tightly round him—there are those who will be shocked to hear that he had been sitting all the evening in pyjamas for economy's sake; writing in trousers bags them so at the knee—Rackett darted into his bedroom, leaving Mrs. Biggles trembling with anticipation, excitement, and suppression. She longed to plunge into the bosom of her family with loaded arms.
Suddenly there came from the bedroom an exclamation of disgust and horror. With pale face, Rackett came into his sitting-room. "Mrs. Biggles," he said, "I'm the biggest idiot in the Temple. I've just discovered that the cheques and postal orders I expected from the papers I do work for have not arrived. I haven't a penny in the place."
Mrs. Biggles rose to her feet. She looked like an electric light suddenly switched off.
"But this is the best thing we can do. Would you very much mind making a bundle of some of those clothes you'll find scattered about my bedroom, and taking them to pawn? I'm so sorry to ask you to do such a thing a thing, but I really haven't anything else upon which to raise money. My watch and rings went for the rent a few days ago."
Illustration: "'We shall be most awfully late for dinner.'"
"Mind, sir? Not me!" cried Mrs. Biggles, switched on again to sixteen-candle power. "Uncle and me don't stand on no ceremony."
Rackett gave a sigh of relief. He would rather himself go without dinner than disappoint this worn mother of thirteen and a half.
"Well, then, Mrs. Biggles, there they are, hanging up and lying about. Pack them up and hurry away to do your shopping. Bring me the ticket next time you come. Hurry; it's already quite late."
She returned in no time with a huge bundle. This she put on the floor by the door, wiped her hand on her apron, and stretched it out to Rackett.
"A merry Christmas to yer, sir, and—and God bless yer for feeding the 'ungry——"
"So glad you came, Mrs. Biggles. Good night. Have a good time on Christmas day, and—and drink this toast to-morrow: 'Mr. Rackett's Queen Elizabeth.' Don't forget. Good night."
With a warm glow at his heart, Rackett, briefless barrister and struggling author, returned to his armchair, to his letter, to his hopes, doubts, and fears.
Under his pillow that night lay the letter, whose every word he knew by heart.
When Rackett woke about half-past eight on Christmas morning, the first thing he did was to scramble to the foot of the bed like a schoolboy to see what Santa Claus had left. Which conclusively proved what a ruling power habit is. He found nothing at the end of the bed. One sock was by the door, and the other in the fireplace with his collar. He stood in the middle of the room and chuckled. At any rate, it showed that if he had not yet made a name and reputation, he had plenty of time left in which to do so.
Before doing anything else he thought it better to make himself reacquainted with the contents of his letter. This he did, walking up and down the room, till his bare feet with one accord voted for shoes, and his body for a dressing-gown. It was Christmas Day, indeed. On his window were traced, with the delicate touch of a wood-engraver, exquisite fern leaves and banks of flowers upon which Titania might have lain. Putting a towel round his neck, he threw up the window. Everything was white. The walk below, the high railings, every single blade of grass in the gardens, every tree, every branch, every twig—a dainty, sparkling white. The barges on the river, the wharves, the high chimneys beyond, the air itself—whitest of white. Only the river, moving heavily and quietly down to the sea, was black.
Before he closed the window, Rackett fetched a handful of bread and, breaking it into tiny mouthfuls, scattered it in the walk and on the window-sill, whistling. With shrill thanks, down came a bevy of intimate sparrows, elbowing each other good-humouredly for the largest pieces, darting up with others too heavy to carry, dropping them for quick little rascals to seize upon.
Under the railings opposite, with a muzzle hanging under his chin, sat a casual dog, with expectation in its eyes. "Well, my friend," thought Rackett, "so you shall." He went to the cupboard in his sitting-room, took up a chop he had been unable to tackle the previous evening, by the end, returned, and with unerring aim sent it whizzing to the dog's astonished feet. Then he shut the window and, singing snatches of the Eton boat song, shaved with cold, too cold, water, lit the fire in his sitting-room with the ease born of constant practice, tidied yesterday's litter, blew the smuts from his papers, put on a saucepan to boil by the side of the phlegmatic kettle, laid his breakfast-cloth, and returned to tub and dress.
"Now," he said to himself, "the momentous question of what to wear presents itself. To make a good impression on the elders, tall hat, frock-coat, patent boots, and quiet tie would be the thing. But, personally, I rather fancy myself in tweeds and brown boots. How would Betty like it, though? No, I'll make a compromise. Black, short coat, microbe tie, nearly new, blue waistcoat with red dits, and black trousers. Orthodox, and yet leaving a little room for originality. The microbe tie, a delightful thing in sudden reds and unexpected yellows, will do that for me, and the waistcoat—by the way, did I sew those buttons on, or not? Hullo! there's the kettle. Coming, sir."
He darted into the sitting-room, filled the teapot, put a couple of eggs into the saucepan, and, seduced by the warmth of the fire, stood in front of it with hands outstretched.
Between the bars, seated side by side, were two small black coals surrounded by glowing yellows. The smaller one had hair of delicate gold turning to brown, a sweet oval face, a little nose as straight and proud as the two clear grey eyes above it, and eyebrows which moved with every varying thought. The larger one, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, was clean-shaven and dark, not so good looking as he wished, but better looking than he thought. They were hand in hand, and on the third finger of the hand of the smaller one, the left hand, was a plain gold ring, in which was engraved "Chiche——" Crack!
"Oh! my hat! if that isn't an egg bust! Dreamer and romancist, attend to the cooking of thy inner requirements."
Deftly Rackett whipped out the eggs, on both of which sat a small white blob, and placed them in their cups. "So to breakfast. I will make a picture of myself afterwards and proceed to Elizabeth's church. A walk through the Park with her—Mr. and Mrs., and the youngsters ahead—will be divine. If I could only think how I'm to put it. 'Elizabeth, if you think you could ever care enough about me to——' Shopun, and deuced nasty at that! Jove! and I'm frightfully sharp-set. If the other isn't all right, I must fall back on New Zealand mutton."
The other was all right. But the mutton was fallen on, nevertheless. Talking aloud, waving knife and fork as emphasisers one moment, singing snatches of an opera or a ballad the next, this briefless and whimsical person somewhat resembled, for sheer healthy optimism, that great creation of Defoe's, or better, that greater one of Cervantes', although, for that matter, neither was he bearded, stout, and dressed in skins with parrot on shoulder; nor tall, spare, and sunken-eyed, dressed in patched ironware with exaggerated lance and a tubby Sancho at his heels. But he was like them both, in that he was also capable of the deepest despair and the heaviest depression.
Leaving the breakfast table and whistling gaily, he strolled back into his bedroom to array himself in the clothes mentally decided upon. He flung the wardrobe open—nothing. He still whistled. He drew out the top drawer—nothing. The whistling became jerky. The other three followed all too easily. The whistling stopped. He crept, trembling, to the pegs behind the door, to the pegs at the far side of the wardrobe, to every peg in any corner of the room—nothing. Not a single coat, waistcoat, or a pair of trousers. The last night's bundle dangled before his eyes. "Good Heavens! what, in the name of all that's awful——"
Rackett fell heavily into a chair. Mrs. Biggles had been too unimaginative. Not even his oldest suit was left. Flannels, dress clothes, tweeds, everything had gone. All he had was a dressing-gown and pyjamas.
For three long hours, cold and miserable hours, he sat in that small bedroom chair, a more pitifully depressed and despairing object than Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe at their most unfortunate moments. A succession of awful thoughts chased each other through his brain. They would wait, dinner would be spoilt, Mr. and Mrs. would drop him like a hot potato, the boys would chaff, Betty would never speak to him again. Oh! woe, woe! …. There would never be a Mrs. Chichele Rackett. Elizabeth would marry Freddy's beastly 'Varsity chum; he—Rackett—would grow grey, hipped, dyspeptic, a hater of humanity, an enemy to charity, egoistic, cantankerous, pessimistic——
"Good Heavens! what's that?"
Someone was knocking loudly on his oak. Who, in the name of fortune …. He couldn't go—in pyjamas—if it were the Prime Minister, the Lord Chief Justice, even Her Majesty the Queen.
"Mr. Rackett, are you in?"
It was the Queen, his Queen, Queen Elizabeth. He rushed to the door.
"Mr. Rackett, Mr. Rackett! Oh! Molly! what is the matter with him? He must be in, or there would be a ticket on the door. Oh! what am I to do?"
Rackett, with ear to the keyhole, shivering with cold and joy, drank in every word.
"We shall be most awfully late for dinner. Father will rave. The whole thing will be spoilt …. and I shall die of fright. Oh! Chichele, Chichele!"
Betty was crying, he could hear her. He couldn't open the door and let her see him like that—a blue-nosed thing in a dressing-gown; she would think he had gone mad.
Steadying his voice, he said huskily: "Miss Elizabeth, is that you?"
"Yes.… Oh! are you all right? Oh! are you all right? We've been knocking for ever so l—l—long. Please open the door!"
"I can't. I—I'm not well…. It's catching.… I will write to you…. I'm awfully sorry."
Betty began to dry her eyes, ashamed at having been caught.
"But what is it? You must open the door. I believe you're chaffing."
Rackett groaned in a way that made Elizabeth tremble. Chaffing! "Miss Elizabeth, why have you come here?"
"Oh! Mr. Rackett, I'm so frightened! I missed you at church—at least, we all did—thought perhaps you'd been working late, and were not up in time—at least, Freddy did—decided to drive here to see if we could take you back in the carriage…."
Rackett became eager-eyed. "Miss Elizabeth, is Freddy in the carriage?"
"Yes."
"Send him up to me at once. And stay in the carriage, for Heaven's sake! At once, please."
Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height with the dignity of her royal namesake.
"Oh! very well, Mr. Rackett, certainly. For the present, good morning. If you are too ill, pray don't trouble to come to dinner."
Rackett, with a mixture of despair and delight, heard the steps die away and, presently, heavier ones come nearer and nearer.
"I say, Hack, old chap, what on earth's the row?"
The door opened. A roar of laughter made every cobweb within a mile swing agitatedly.
"She took them all, the old sneak, did she? Well, I'm—— Look here, go to bed and get warm, and I'll drive home and get back all I know. I've just time before dinner. I'll bring you the new suit I wore yesterday—a ripper. So long, dear old chap!"
Rackett and Freddy entered the dining-room at the instant all the company were seating themselves. General handshakings and introductions were followed by a whispering, a giggling, and a nudging of elbows. Rackett sank into the vacant chair by Elizabeth, looking at her pleadingly. For a moment her face retained its far-away look. Then, presently, came the first glimmer of a smile. The eyes—and they were grey eyes—turned to him and said: "I know. You are a darling old duck! My hand is waiting under the table-cloth."
At that, moment, in a little, crowded, but very happy room in Paradise Court, a thin, squeaky voice, with tears in it, called out: "Now then, boys and gels, stand up all of yer, and drink to Mr. Rackett's Queen Elizabeth!"
Illustration: "'To Mr. Rackett's Queen Elizabeth!'"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1942, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 81 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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