The Little Girl in the Lace Frock

Introduction

“The Little Girl in the Lace Frock” was published in volume 24 of The Strand magazine in the year 1902. Famous for publishing the Sherlock Holmes series (written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), The Strand aimed at mass marketing for families. “The Little Girl in the Lace Frock” was an excellent fit for The Strand magazine’s intended audience while also dealing with complex concepts worthy of the attention of literary scholars. Unfortunately, the only information in the magazine pertaining the story’s authorship is the name: Winifred Graham. Since The Strand provides no biographical information, it is difficult to make a concrete claim as to which Winifred Graham might have actually written this piece. Currently, the short story is usually accredited to Matilda Winifred Muriel Graham (author, anti-Mormon activist, and the wife of Theodore John Cory) who was born in 1874 and died in 1950.

The female author seems to use this story to elevate the most vulnerable segment of society. “The Little Girl in the Lace Frock” features two young girls, and while the children are portrayed as curious, they are never depicted as silly or insignificant. On the contrary, it is the small things (and people) which have the greatest power and influence within the story.  A great deal of attention is given to clothing, hats, jewelry, etc. and Graham seems to be making a point that people (especially women) tend to have their identity reduced down to what they are wearing. Class systems are brought into the discussion somewhat subtly at first, and then overtly by the story’s second page. Victorine (as made apparent by her lace frock) is upper class, while her friend Herminie (who’s frock is mentioned far less, as it is worth far less money) comes from a less affluent family, and is also quite ill.

The premise of the story threatens to be cliché, and may even dip into those waters from time to time, but it is the way the story is told which makes it uniquely its own. Though Katherine Mansfield’s “The Garden Party" would not be published until twenty years later, glimmers of her story seem to shimmer off of Victorine’s sunbonnet as she crosses the divide between the rich and the poor to cater to and care for her sick, impoverished friend.

Transcription

I.

 

It was the height of the summer season, and on the crowded pier a little girl in a lace frock, who had frolicked with greater vigour than any of her kindred spirits on the threshold of life’s day, paused for breath, tossing back her elaborate sun-bonnet, with its overpowering strings of broad white satin ribbon. A sigh of relief escaped her as the wind made merry with her curls.

"'Take care your bonnet doesn't blow away," said a voice at her elbow, while a kindly hand, small and fragile, saved the frilled headgear from falling to the ground.

Victorine, of the lace and curls, looked up with a quick "Thank you."

She saw beside her a little girl of her own height and size, but the stranger could boast no dimples or wayward curls, no chiffons and laces.

Her sharp face had a pinched, unchildish look, which bespoke suffering.

A keen observer would have known at once the stern hand of the oppressor, either poverty or ill-health, played some part in the life of that thin little morsel of humanity. She was dressed in serviceable blue serge, her straw hat had seen better days, and yet every detail of her attire, every movement of the emaciated frame, every word and feature, stamped her as well bred.

"What is your name?" asked Victorine.

This was a question by which the little girl in the lace frock always manifested her interest in the unknown.

"Herminie Tempest," replied the child, leaning up against the rail dividing them from the musicians.

She looked curiously at Victorine, her eyes glowing suddenly at the sight of her turquoise necklace and the tiny gold bangles clasping the plump little arms. A miniature chain dotted with charms hung from her waist, and she wore a wee brooch with her name in pearls.

The children hardly knew why, but the delights of dancing round the bandstand faded to insignificance, and instead they lingered talking. Victorine discovered that Herminie had been ill; she was here for her health, and not simply because her people were tired out by the London season.

"What is it like to be ill?" asked Victorine, curiously.

"Oh, you lie in bed, and it's horrid!" Herminie declared.

At last the chiming of a great clock on the pavilion warned them they must part.

"Miss Maybourn, my governess, is beckoning me," whispered Victorine. "Can't we walk back together? Who is looking after you?"

Herminie pointed to an insignificant little maid.

"She is the servant at our lodgings; she likes coming on the pier. I will tell her I want to go home now."

The children trotting in front of their attendants managed to keep together.

"That is where I am staying," said Herminie, pointing across the road.
"Oh, what a nasty little house!" cried Victorine, expressing her thoughts aloud.

"Yes, it is rather stuffy indoors," Herminie confessed, "but I go out a great deal, and then I don't smell the dinner cooking. It's always like that when you go away from home, but I did not mind it before I was ill. Is your place very stuffy, too?"

Victorine's big, round eyes opened widely. "Oh, no! We are staying at the Hotel Imperial, and it's ever so big!"

She pointed to a palatial building on the esplanade, with gold balconies full of flowers.

Miss Maybourn drew nearer and Herminie darted away, rejoining the breathless little maid, panting after her under the shade of a dirty white carton parasol.

"I hope you haven't been dull," said Victorine, with one of her coaxing smiles, as she took Miss Maybourn's hand; "but, you see, I made friends with that little girl. When you make friends with a person, you like to talk to them, don't you?"

"I thought she looked a very nice child," replied Miss Maybourn, who had noticed the inborn air of distinction which Herminie unconsciously possessed.

 

II.

 

The following day being Sunday, Victorine, in a still more elaborate frock of exquisite lace, accompanied her mother to church.

Mrs. Ambleton made a truly remarkable figure, for she knew no moderation in dress, and advertised her great wealth by displaying the fabulous fancies of fashion to a daring extent. She took with her to church an ivory prayer-book, a jewelled scent-bottle, and an extremely pretty child, toying with each in turn, and rustling out before the sermon, well aware she had attracted the attention of many curious eyes.

Her husband, a stout man with a red beard, joined her on the esplanade, where, by mutual consent, the community paraded either to criticise their neighbours, exercise their limbs, or inhale the salt sea breezes.

Victorine looked eagerly for her new friend, but despaired of finding her in the crowd.

Suddenly Mrs. Ambleton felt an excited pull at her arm, and a moment later she was aware that Victorine had publicly saluted, both by bolting, waving, and smiling, a shabbily- dressed little girl with a tall woman in rusty black.

In a few breathless words the child told how they had met.

Mrs. Amble-ton's face grew red, even under its coating of powder.

"You must never mix with children of that stamp," she said. " I don't mind if you play with some of the smart little boys and girls in the hotel, but it is dreadful to talk to people on the pier! If you see her again, remember you are not to speak!"

A lump rose in Victorine's throat, so that she could not answer; a mist gathered before her eyes, yet the sun still shone brightly as before.

Meanwhile Herminie was vanishing in the distance, explaining to her mother, the Hon. Mrs. Tempest, why she had been so warmly recognised by the little girl in the lace frock.

"But, my dear, she is the child of that exceedingly vulgar-looking woman!" gasped Mrs. Tempest. "I know the mother well by sight, and have been told they own a large upholstery establishment in London. I don't like your having any acquaintance with such people. Pray do not talk to Victorine again."

Though terribly poor, Mrs. Tempest was exceedingly proud. Herminie felt a pang of disappointment, for the child, whose whole appearance suggested wealth and luxury, fascinated and dazzled her.

Mrs. Tempest thought how wan, tired, and ill she looked, and her own face grew paler, while her heart-beats quickened. To the lonely widow this one ewe lamb converted a grey, cheerless life into something worth the living. For Herminie's sake she bitterly resented the reverses of fortune which made the struggle so hard; for Herminie her heart bled.

"Is it wicked to have an upholstery place?" asked the child, with a very deep sigh.

"Wicked! Why, of course not! What ever put such an idea into your head?"

"Because I am not to talk to Victorine."

"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Tempest, "that is a very different matter, but you will understand some day."

Herminie wondered how soon "some day" would come, when all these queer problems might be made plain. She looked back, but Victorine was out of sight.

"I shall keep away from the pier," she inwardly resolved. "It would be horrid to be there and not to speak!"

Her spirits flagged, she walked slowly, and every time her mother asked if she were tired Herminie shook her head. She was afraid of making her mother sad; she knew the old feeling of illness, recognising its familiar touch, conscious of the enemy's return.

“Mother must not be bothered," she thought; "I shall be well, perhaps, tomorrow; I don't want her to feel anxious."

In the small, wasted frame there burnt brightly the spirit of endurance. She was too unselfish to complain, too unselfish even to tell her mother how fond she had grown, during one short hour, of the little girl in the lace frock.

 

III.

 

It was not till a week later that Victorine happened to see the lodging-house maid who had been with Herminie on the pier.

They were both looking into the same shop window, richly decked with fruits and flowers.

Victorine edged up against her, avoiding ' Miss Maybourn's eye.

"How is Herminie?" she asked.

The girl started. She was leaning forward, resting both hands on the round wooden knob of her cotton sunshade.

"She's mortal bad, thank you, missy. I was just wishing I could take her some of those fine, big grapes. Her mother is regularly distracted; she thinks the doctor here is not treating her right."

Victorine stared. Then she brushed the curls from her eyes, and had only time to exclaim, "I didn't know she was ill. Oh, I am so sorry!" before Miss Maybourn hurried her away.

For some moments Victorine did not speak. A very active little brain may be busily at work even under a sun-bonnet.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Miss Maybourn, presently, noticing the unusual wistfulness in the baby-face.

"I was thinking of all the money I've saved," answered Victorine. "It would buy such lots and lots of grapes. What do people like when they are ill? I should want a doll in a blue frock that would shut its eyes when it lay down, and a heap of picture-books. I have been keeping my money till my legs grew a little longer, and then I meant to buy a very tiny bicycle, because it would be ages before I could ride a big one. I think I'll try and forget I wanted a bicycle and get some things for Herminie instead. Mother won't mind, because if Herminie is in bed I can't play with her, and I need not say who the things came from."

Miss Maybourn remembered the distinguished looking child who, despite her plain and somewhat worn attire, appeared so unmistakably well bred, and she could not find it in her heart to thwart Victorine.

She knew how eagerly the money had been treasured, and was sure the sacrifice needed a very strong effort—one which would strengthen Victorine's character, though the child certainly looked more like a French doll than a person capable of sacrifice.

"I don't believe," said the little voice, with a suspicious tremor in it, "that a bicycle can be as nice as it looks! I sha'n't want one at all for quite a long time, you know."

The rose-bud mouth was set firm, them were no dimples to be seen. The lodging-house door was never locked, and mysterious parcels with Herminie's name attached to them perpetually made their appearance in the narrow hall. Herminie was quite sure a fairy brought them and told her mother so, with eyes that brightened in spite of weakness and pain. Mrs. Tempest, watching her sick child's pleasure, blessed the unknown donor, forgetting her pride in the warmth of her gratitude.

Such flowers! Such fruit! Such toys! After the first few days of anonymous offerings, Hermione asked regularly what the fairy had sent.

Herminie, with childish intuition, had just the faintest suspicion of who the fairy might be. Mrs. Tempest never thought of Victorine, the little daughter of that flashy Mrs. Ambleton, who boasted no patrician descent, but only the golden key to luxury.

Besides drawing lavishly from her money-box, Victorine found plentiful stores of fruit in the big private sitting-room they occupied on the first floor. This she was at liberty to use, and she had only to scramble on her father's knee and rummage openly in his pockets for him to yield his treasure with a good-natured smile.

Victorine, with custom, grew bolder as she darted into the gloomy hall of what she still called "a nasty little house." Sometimes she even lingered a moment, just to prove her courage to Miss Maybourn, who waited anxiously outside.

She always felt nervous when the dainty figure of her charge vanished from sight, and sighed with relief at its reappearance.

One particularly bright morning Victorine kept her waiting longer than usual, and she could see through the open door the little white figure talking with a tall woman in black.

Mrs. Tempest had telegraphed for a specialist who now Herminie in London. The child was worse and the mother grew desperate. She kept running to the door at every sound in her eagerness for a reply. It was thus she caught the fairy, red-handed.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Her grey eyes were full of tears, she was white to the lips and trembling. Her pitiable look of distress instantly broke down Victorine’s shyness. She held out a minute hand, and looked up sympathetically from the shade of her white bonnet.

"Oh, please don't cry " whispered the little voice; "I have brought some things for Herminie, only I didn't want anyone to know. You see, my mamma said I wasn't to play with her; I may only talk to the children in the hotel, and not to the children on the pier."

The genuine concern in that small pink and white face touched Mrs. Tempest deeply. She bent down and kissed Victorine.

"You have been so kind, so kind!" she said, brokenly. "Dear little girl, why did you think of my Herminie?"

"I don't know," answered Victorine, "but I suppose I love her very much."

Mrs. Tempest remembered that Sunday morning. She could see again the child waving, and hear Herminie's plaintive question, "Is it wicked to have an upholstery place?"

"Telegram!"

The word fell with an ominous sound on Mrs. Tempest's ear. She tore the envelope open in a frenzy of anxiety.

"Dr. Fairholme has left for his holiday on the Continent," she read.

A groan escaped her.

Dr. Fairholme away! It seemed to seal Herminie's doom. He not only thoroughly understood her case, but was a personal friend and aware of their circumstances. He had shown them great kindness in the past, and Mrs. Tempest could have trusted him not to press her for the money.

She forgot Victorine as she turned away with a stifled sob.

"The London doctor can't come!" she said to the landlady, who appeared on the stairs, and her voice vibrated with a dull misery that filled Victorine with a sense of terror.

Without another word the child fled away, haunted by the sound of that melancholy voice, followed by the echo of a deep, low sob.

Silently she accompanied Miss Maybourn to the beach, and, seated under a breakwater, thought out many things.

Perhaps some guiding angel whispered in her ear, perhaps the song of the sea inspired the little mind. She was thinking especially of a gentleman with a pointed beard and a little bald patch on the top of his head, who had come the previous day to the Hotel Imperial.

Her father pointed him out to her mother as an extremely celebrated London physician. He occupied a suite of rooms next to theirs; he had a very grand, imposing air. Several times she had seen him through the open door, reading, or writing at a table strewn with papers.

Suddenly she grew tired of the beach, and begged Miss Maybourn to take her home.
Dr. Grainger felt he required rest. A great reader, he loved to fling himself into an arm-chair by the flower-laden balcony and enjoy the companionship of a good book.

It was stiflingly hot, and he had left the door of his sitting-room open.

So engrossed was he that the soft patter of little feet hastily approaching his chair failed to attract his attention.

It was not until a small hand gently tapped the back of his book that he looked up, to find a pair of pleading eyes gazing earnestly into his.

For the moment he wondered if he were fully awake, for the beautiful child in her dainty attire looked like some vision of the senses. The glowing cheeks and sunny curls made a pleasing picture, while those tiny fingers still rested with absolute confidence on the heavy volume.

"Oh, if you please," she said, "I want to tell you about Herminie."

"Herminie!"

The name came echoing down a vista of long years. He had once known a "Herminie " in his early youth, a tall, proud girl who had scorned his love, a girl with eyes of marvellous depth and soft, rippling hair. He drew the child nearer; it was odd she was not afraid of him, a grey-haired stranger, with lines of deep study and thought searing his brow.

"Well?" he queried, touching her curls.

"Herminie is very ill," continued Victorine, breathlessly, "and they can't get a doctor from London to come and make her well, and I thought I would ask you to go. Miss Maybourn says they lodge in that nasty little house at the end of the parade because they have no money, and Herminie hasn't any pretty clothes, so I mustn't play with her. But I love her very much, though we only made friends one morning on the pier. Her mother was crying today, and I felt I wanted to help her ever so much, and that made me think of you. I asked Miss Maybourn if doctors cost a lot of money, and she said 'Yes, they are ruinous.' I shouldn't like poor Mrs, Tempest to be bothered about that so I thought I would tell you I have three half-crowns left in my money-box. Would they do instead of Mrs. Tempest having to pay?"

A queer expression flitted over the doctor's face.

He remembered the "Herminie " he once knew and loved had married, some years later, a young and exceedingly reckless Captain Tempest against the wishes of her family. After that he heard nothing more of her; she had sunk into oblivion.

"Tell me the name of the house," he said, rising quickly and letting his book fall with painful force on Victorine's toes. She winced with the pain, but he never noticed her.

"Sea View Lodge," she gasped, as he snatched up his hat and vanished through the open door.

Victorine watched him, her eyes beaming with gratitude. She piped out "Thank you," but the room was empty; only the walls heard.

 

IV.

 

The great doctor, arriving at a critical moment of Herminie's illness, brought all his skill to bear upon her difficult and complicated case.

It seemed to Mrs. Tempest little short of a miracle that this friend of her youth, now an celebrated, should appear as if in direct answer to her prayer for Herminie's recovery.
Night and day he attended the suffering child till the crisis passed and he pronounced her out of danger.

She was sleeping peacefully, and Mrs. Tempest for the first time found herself alone in the small drawing-room with Dr. Grainger.

"How can I ever thank you or show my gratitude?" she said, her voice trembling with deep emotion.

He looked in her face, seeing the same fathomless eyes and pure alabaster skin, while the same soft ripple played across her hair.

A tender expression, a certain quivering of her lips, a little, pathetic gesture gave him encouragement to answer boldly.

"I don't want gratitude, Herminie, I only want yourself."

She drew a step nearer, and her head drooped, such a proud, daintily shaped head, looking like a broken lily in a storm.

A moment later the tired spirit found its refuge in a lover's arms.

"'Tell me," she said at last, "who was the friend that sent you to me—who told you I was here?"

"A tiny child who stole into my room like a fairy. She was staying at the Imperial, and left this morning with her parents. She used to watch so eagerly for news, though she told me she had only met Herminie once. After I saw her drive away I inquired for letters, and found an hotel envelope awaiting me—in it were three half-crowns!"

A smile of intense amusement dawned on his lips, and a kindly expression smoothed the lines which love might yet erase.

But the smile and the tender look just at that moment were all for the little girl in the lace frock.