National Velvet (35 page)

    
“Tinkler's?”

    
“In Worthing.”

    
“Is it expensive? Could we get a yard?”

    
“Ask them to give you a sample bit with the label pinned to it.”

    
“Will they?”

    
“Get Velvet to ask them.”

    
“Oh, yes, of course.”

    
That was one of Velvet's very little burdens. The sisters always pushed her forward to ask for anything they wanted. Nobody refused Velvet anything. She became aware of this and grew delicate and obstinate.

    
When she went out she felt an insistent desire on the part of other people to get in touch with her. And once in touch it was quite literal–they touched her. They shook or held her hand, since the hand is not private but only the body.

    
They came with a rush, with eagerness, as though they could get virtue, as though they could draw meat and drink. And when the “touching” was over and the child's hand had been shaken they hovered a second with baffled hunger, and murmuring “It was fine,” retired. It crossed Velvet's mind occasionally to think they wanted something more of her.

    
Mally kept the “collection” with energy. It was in a box in the bedroom and was beginning to look like a ragbag. There was a powder-puff called “The Velvet,” in gold letters on printed voile, and a mechanical piebald horse that wound up and hopped across the floor. There was a cartoon in one of the evening papers of Velvet coming over Becher's sitting between the wings of Pegasus, and all the other horses looking scared. It was called “The Unseen Adversary.” There were marvellous
love letters from strangers, and boys at school, and workmen. One of the best began “Divine Equestrians–but they all got very crumpled up and difficult to find.

    
There may be wonder in money, but, dear God, there is money in wonder. And nothing is so cheap as a newspaper, where, when true news is truly breaking it starts up under the feet like a hare on the downs, and prince and poor man come in on the equal and swing along for their pennies while the news runs. And now the news was running hot and strong and pouring from it, as it ran, the true authentic scent. No basket hare this, let out and egged on to trot tamely by its keeper, and while Velvet lasted there was no need to bring carted news to the Meet.

    
While the day approached for the sitting of the National Hunt Committee, the whole world was made to believe it was waiting for details.

    
“Coo lummy . . .” said Velvet, late on Monday night. And Mr. Brown found this excusable.

    
“Can't eat you,” said Mrs. Brown, and glanced at Mi. It was Mi they could eat, she felt.

    
“Well get away an' up to London early,” said Mi. “We don' want to be messed up with hand-shaking tomorrow.”

I
N
an upper room in 15, Cavendish Square, round a Board Table, the Board had assembled. It was a distinguished company, mainly of robust and kindly men. They had as their spokesman, Messrs. Weatherby's lawyer, Mr. Simkin, and as their Chairman, Lord Tun-marsh. The others were Colonel “Ruby” Allbrow, a man with an extraordinarily scarlet forehead, which turned his name into a better joke than it already was, Mits Schreiber, who had ridden in the National three times, Lord Henry Vile, Mr. Little (a descendant of Captain Joseph Lockhart Little), and Mr. Thomas, who was no descendant of “Mr. Thomas” (since the famous bearer rode under a pseudonym) but liked to think he was, Mr. Seckham, Mr. Coleman, Sir Harry Hall, and others. The Clerk, Cotton, was in attendance.

    
“Sickening, this Velvet uproar,” said Mr. Little, as they met.

    
“I've read none of it,” said the Chairman, taking his seat, “or as little as I could help. I'm in a position to judge the case on its merit. I only read
The Times.”

    
“What about the evening papers?”

    
“The evening papers,” said Lord Tunmarsh, “are for the servants' hall. Is the girl here?”

    
“She's downstairs, waiting.”

    
“Very well, Mr. Simkin! Will you tell us our position? Is it a case for prosecution? Is it a case coming under our own laws, how we stand in fact?”

    
Mr. Simkin delivered a small oration on the laws of impersonation, standing as a black silhouette against the windows facing on Cavendish Square. He sat down. “It's beyond my imagination,” he finished—“that is why I find it so difficult to give you, gentlemen, a crisp ruling–it's beyond my imagination to suppose that a female should have done such a thing. Should have so deceived US.”

    
“But a female
has
done it, you ass!” (muttered Mits Schreiber). “Very much done it.”

    
Simkin rose and went to a row of yellow calf volumes on the shelf.

    
He took down one. Over clapped the pages, flying under his dusty thumb. His long upper lip closed over his teeth.

    
“Attempting to defraud,” he muttered. He looked sharply over his shoulder. “It's understood that we judge the case entirely—” There was an irritable and suspicious note in his voice.

    
The Chairman looked up sharply. “You're not referring to the newspaper hurly-burly, I hope, are you, Mr. Simkin?”

    
“No, well, I hardly imagined, Mr. Chairman, no. And this is a case of–(if I'm not mistaken) of fraud. I have it here. 'Attempting to obtain money under' . . . 'Obtaining money under' . . . no, she hasn't 'obtained.' Attempting to obtain. That's it. Attempting to obtain.
It's very clear.” He looked up. “We can prosecute.”

    
“Legal, is it?”

    
Lord Tunmarsh looked uncomfortable. “Let's see the girl first. She's waiting?”

    
“Downstairs.”

    
“Let's see her,” said Colonel “Ruby” Allbrow. “Have her up. After all it was a good show. A first class show she put up. What's her age?”

    
“Her age,” broke in Mr. Simkin, looking at the Chairman, “is said to be fourteen. This I should say was a romantic understatement on the part of the Press. Might I say, Mr. Chairman, before the . . . young woman . . . comes into the room that I think that it would be a pity if any note of admiration be acknowledged during the interview. If indeed any is felt.”

    
The Chairman nodded. “I think, Mr. Simkin, you can leave that to me. No admiration can be felt for what is practically a criminal proceeding. Involving forgery very probably. We'll have to look into that question of the faked Clearance.”

    
Mits Schreiber addressed the Chairman.

    
“But if she's fourteen, can we prosecute a child of fourteen? Who put her up to do it?”

    
“Apparently nobody.”

    
“Impossible! Are we prepared as to what . . .”

    
“Have her up,” said the Chairman. “We shall know better when we see her. I'm not prepared, any more than Mr. Simkin
is
, to take it from her that she is fourteen. We have been loaded with more or less inaccurate (I daresay) descriptions of this young woman
morning after morning. I need hardly say that— Not that we've any of us read 'em all, but—”

    
“Every bally word, Mr. Chairman!” broke in Mits Schreiber. “I'm a Velvet fan.”

    
Lord Tunmarsh did not smile.

    
“Well, keep it to yourself, Mits. This is a meeting of the National Hunt Committee, and for myself I feel that we have been extremely offended by a piece of vulgarity. Mr. Simkin feels the same on behalf of Messrs. Weatherby. Please ask her to come up.”

    
“Call her up, Cotton.”

    
Velvet was shown up to the Committee Room of the National Hunt Committee.

    
The dusty stairs were dark. The door opened. The room was light.

    
All the men sitting round the table rose. Lord Tunmarsh drew a chair out for her. Velvet sank, sat on the edge, folded her hands. Fourteen men saw a featherweight plain child in a red jersey, dark blue wool skirt, blue wool coat with brass buttons and childish brown shoes with stub toes. They drew a breath.

    
“Good afternoon,” said Lord Tunmarsh at last. “You are Miss Velvet Brown?”

    
“Yes,” Velvet nodded gently. (Oh, God, don't let me be sick . . .)

    
“I really . . .” said Lord Tunmarsh, after a pause, but stopped himself.

    
“Well, was it you all right riding that piebald? It was you, wasn't it, Miss Brown?” broke in Colonel “Ruby” Allbrow on the silence.

    
“Me.”

    
“What put it into your head, girl, to do a frivolous thing like that?”

    
Velvet slowly spread out her thin hands and counted the fan of muscles. She breathed something about the horse.

    
“What's that?”

    
“I knew the horse could do it,” she said again.

    
“But why
you
riding? What d'you want to ride him
yourself?
Why not get a professional?”

    
“He . . .”

    
“Yes?” said Lord Tunmarsh, leaning a little towards her.

    
“He goes very well for me.”

    
There was a pause.

    
Like an explosion, “He DID do that!” from a red-faced gentleman in checks.

    
“I think we shall have,” said Lord Tunmarsh, “to ask Mr. Simkin to explain to her . . . just what . . . what we feel about the matter.”

    
Mr. Simkin rose with alacrity. Rustled his papers. Blew out and drew down his upper lip.

    
Velvet looked up at him with her docile look. The fine bone round her white temple was blue with shadow, her newly-cropped pale hair hung close and uneven round her ears, she raised her head, and watched him with mild, intelligent eyes. Her lips parted slowly over the gold band and white teeth. Lord Tunmarsh whispered to his neighbour “hard to believe” and the neighbour whispered and shook his head.

    
Mr. Simkin read his clause from the yellow volume, under the heading, “Attempting to obtain money under false pretences.”

    
“You being a female,” said Mr. Simkin . . . “and not an accredited male rider . . . come under this heading. It was a . . . for the time being . . . successful deception. Upon . . . ah . . . US. Upon Messrs. Weatherby (and the Committee of the National Hunt). It was done to obtain a prize of . . .”

    
“No, no, it wasn't!” said Velvet.

    
“Eh . . . what . . . why not? You stood to get the prize?”

    
“Yes, sir. Yes, I did. But it wasn't done for that reason. It was done because . . .”

    
“And why was it done? We should like to know that?”

    
“Because,” said Velvet, looking out of the window into the chimney pots of Cavendish Square, “the horse jumps lovely and I wanted him to be famous. I didn't think of the money when I planned it all.”

    
“Ah, and now we come to that!” said Mr. Simkin. “You say you planned it all. That, Miss Brown, is hard to believe. You are, I understand, a child. You have obtained a false certificate from my . . . er . . . people. From US. From Messrs. Weatherby. You posted an Esthonian Clearance to us and in exchange we forwarded to you the usual License. It was a monstrous imposture. How was it done?”

    
Velvet looked at him, her eyes full of light.

    
“There was so much to be done,” she said at length.

    
“You mean that I am choosing only one of the grave impostures which you and your friends have . . . er . . . practised. It is precisely the name of those friends which we wish to have laid before us. This is . . . Miss Brown . . . a very SERIOUS OFFENCE. A grave deceit has been practised not on . . . upon US . . . but upon the Public. The money of the Public is in our trusteeship. We guarantee to the Public that this great and famous race . . . into which you have entered so lightly, so frivolously, so mockingly, is a race which is run in such a way that they can put their money on it . . . er . . . safely.”