The Trellised Lane, page 3
The structure of Heathedge House itself was quite satisfactory to Julia, and confirmed for the most part those vague reminiscences she retained from a visit there some ten years before. It had been built by Julia’s grandfather about the year 1765, and its architecture manifested the Spartan simplicity so typical of that era. The front was brick, set with a series of oblong windows; the door, painted white, was furnished with the requisite pair of pillars, which decorated a porch only slightly grander than most of its contemporaries. This door opened onto a long, wide hall that continued, past the stairwell, all the way to the back entrance. On the left of the hall, as one entered from the front, was a spacious drawing room; behind it lay a slightly smaller kitchen. Opposite to these apartments were a dining parlour and a library. The upper story was likewise divided by a hall, but this ended before the back of the house was reached, leaving space for a small sitting room adjoining one of the bedchambers, which Julia instantly appropriated as her own. On either side of the upstairs corridor were two bedchambers; the extent of one was slightly diminished by a narrow staircase leading to the garrets, which served as quarters for the servants. Despite Julia’s doubts, the whole was quite able to shelter all the party, being rather larger than a cottage, though it was usually termed so by the Edgehamptons.
With the framework of the house, however, satisfaction ended, for it had been unused since 1809, and the state of the furnishings was deplorable. Miss Piffin had greeted the newcomers with her customary vociferousness and ushered them into the drawing room. The appearance of this apartment alone banished all thoughts of chastising Fitzgerald from Julia’s mind, and left her absorbed in mingled horror and disappointment. Mrs. Gill and Mr. Hale, after welcoming the arriving party with respectful cordiality, had a great deal to say to their young mistress. Fitzgerald made a handy escape upstairs as the housekeeper, setting before Julia a tray of tea and biscuits, commenced the following oration.
“I doubt Miss has noticed by now,” she said, “what an unsatisfactoring look this house has to it.” (Mrs. Gill had somewhere picked up the notion that words that ended in “y” should more properly be ended with “ing.”)
Julia agreed that she had observed some disorder at Heathedge.
“Your Ladyship may trust every thing in my powers has been done—” and here she cast a meaningful glance towards Mr. Hale, “—to ’meliorate its miserable condition. I lit fires in every room, and aired ’em out the best they could be—taken off all the Holland covers and all, but I mean to say what was under them covers weren’t much better than the covers themselves. Begging your pardon.” Mrs. Gill paused to direct a glare at Julia that seemed to accuse her of being responsible for this sorry state of affairs. Mr. Hale, who felt himself more sensible of the respect owing to his Lady, had several times tried to dissuade Mrs. Gill from delivering this address, which she had been preparing ever since their arrival at Heathedge. Mrs. Gill, however, stood firm in her resolution to air her many grievances to their mistress as soon as she had come, and the butler, giving up his initial purpose, was determined that he would at least stand by her during the performance to contradict her every word. Consequently, he took advantage of her pause to speak as follows.
“Gill,” said he, at the almost certain risk of increasing that irate lady’s hostility, “does not mean to indicate that the condition of the house is what one could fairly call unsatisfactory. It is understandable—nay, do I say, understandable?—it is only right and proper that a house that has stood uncared for as long as Heathedge has should be a bit musty when it is reopened. Indeed, I trust your Ladyship would not have it any other way. Neither,” he continued after a quelling look at Mrs. Gill, “does she mean to imply that the furnishings with which Heathedge has been fitted up are in any way displeasing. She may refer to the fact that a few of the pieces have mildewed with the damp, but it is of course only natural; furniture rots a bit if it is wet, and neither Mrs. Gill nor any of us, I am sure, would wish to thwart the ways of Nature. In short, we are all quite pleased with the house, and trust that you and master will be happy in it.” Here he stopped, and made a handsome bow.
The good housekeeper stared at Mr. Hale as if to say that while she had a tongue in her mouth, he needn’t trouble himself with interpreting her remarks. Then, as if she had not heard a word he had said, she continued, while Miss Piffin twisted and fidgeted with growing anxiety.
“I know her Ladyship will be wishful to hear how things have proceeded since our coming here, and so I must tell her that Mrs. Forster found not a pot fit to cook a pea in, though she searched the kitchen up and down. I myself had to purchase a broom to sweep the vering floors, for there weren’t so much as that in the house. There wasn’t but two mattresses fit for a body to lay down on, and those two we naturalling left for you and master, so the rest of us has been sleeping on nasting old things what feels like birds’ nests. A fustinger, mustinger, moulderinger place I declare I have never set foot in, so if all is not just as your Ladyship would wish it, at least you’ll know why.” She put a period to her comments; to say truth, Mr. Hale’s obviously increasing outrage had begun to alarm her. She stood her ground, however, curtseying and glaring back at him.
Julia sat through all of this wondering wearily about the history of this debate, which seemed to be a planned engagement rather than a spontaneous skirmish. She appreciated the courtesy of Mr. Hale’s speech, but was infinitely more inclined to believe the truth of Mrs. Gill’s rebuttal. She was too tired, however, to moderate, so that role was left to Miss Piffin, who filled it, as she hoped, to the best of her ability.
“I am sure,” she shouted, “that a great many things are to be settled, but at the moment her Ladyship is fatigued and will like to go to bed.”
This marked the first time, so far as she could recall, that Julia was actually grateful for Miss Piffin’s existence, and she regarded her with a look that expressed both thanks and weariness. Fitzgerald, who had been nosing about in the garrets, heard Miss Piffin’s concluding statement and judged that it must be safe to return to the battlefield. Meeting his sister on his way down the stairs, he bade her goodnight and accepted a kiss (which she bestowed upon him owing to the fact that her disillusionment about the house had made her forget to be angry with him). She and the rest of the household then retired to their rooms to enjoy a long period of unbroken peace.
Julia awoke refreshed, and braced herself with renewed optimism against the onslaught she expected from the servants. Strangely enough, it did not arrive. Anne, her abigail, entered the room and dressed her mistress with her wonted cheerfulness. Later, Julia, venturing into the dining parlour, found Fitzgerald happily gorging himself with quantities of eggs and coffee. Mr. Hale stood by, an expression of satisfaction on his face, and Miss Piffin discovered no other desire than to have the jam passed to her.
Julia was astonished at the harmony of the household, but having no desire to renew hostilities by inquiring into it, she held her peace and made a pleasant breakfast. Her wonderment grew when Mrs. Gill entered, wearing a broad smile, to whisper a word to Mr. Hale. The mystery was not cleared up until the two servants had departed together and Fitzgerald explained that he had gone to each of them separately and promised that whatever they desired should be purchased. He had intimated as well that each would be regarded as supreme in questions of household affairs, and had raised the wages of both for the excellent service they had already shown. Fitzgerald was quite eat up with pride at his diplomacy and utility to his harassed sister, and did not seem to realize that such a solution was doomed to fail before the day was out. Julia could not bring herself to disabuse him of notions that had left him thus content with himself; therefore she only thanked him and sat back to enjoy the peace while it lasted. Fitzgerald, continuing to dwell on the success of his stratagem, confessed that he wondered if the diplomatic service mightn’t be just the place for him, so tactfully had he managed things, and this admission sent Julia into such gales of laughter that he left the dining parlour with an injured expression. Miss Piffin then observed, in her usual ear-splitting tone, that to “laugh at a person was likely to cause him pain,” but Julia had no use for her companion’s sagacity and she continued to giggle for a full ten minutes.
When she felt, at last, that she had regained sufficient control of herself, she went in search of her brother and found him in the library writing a note.
“To whom are you writing, Fitz?” she asked.
“To Mrs. Norcross,” he replied briefly.
“A very good idea indeed,” she said. “I am sure I would never have thought to do it.”
“My stepmother adjured us both to do so at least three times yesterday morning. Besides, it is only natural to apprise them of our arrival.” He returned to his task.
“Yes, indeed,” said Julia, a bit worried at his continued curtness, “but I am sure you have phrased the letter exactly as it ought to be done.” Her brother remained silent. “I hope you will not be cross with me, my dear Fitz, for—for laughing at—at what you said. It is only that I think you—” she hesitated to suppress a smile, “you refine upon your first success a bit too much. Perhaps—” she added hastily, “I only say perhaps.”
“Thank you, Julia,” he said, facing her with a sheepish look. “It is just that, you know, it is not very amusing to be laughed at, even if one has indeed been foolish.”
“Of course, it is not amusing; I know I should not like it myself, and I am sorry. Let us talk of something more pleasant. You know, Mrs. Gill was quite right about the condition of this house. It is really very dreary—or drearing, as she would say. But I have nosed about a bit, and I believe it could be amended without too much difficulty. The carpentry of the furniture is fine; it is only the upholstery that needs renovation, and of course the carpets and curtains must go, but I am perfectly willing to apply myself to redecorating and I have no doubt that it will soon be fitted up admirably. In fact,” she said, her wonted enthusiasm returning, “I shall be delighted to do it; it is just the sort of project I enjoy. I have been thinking, and I do not know but what I might have been positively disappointed to have found things in a better condition.”
Her brother was aware of a gleam in her eye that had become familiar to him and seemed, he knew not how, to be dangerous. He felt instinctively that some part of this undertaking would require his efforts, but for the moment he contented himself with the thought that Julia’s occupation with furnishings would distract her from keeping an overly cautious eye on him. He assented to and even encouraged her projects.
“I think, Fitz,” said his sister, “that I shall take a walk on the heath to-day. Should you like to come with me?”
“A walk on the heath, Julia? But it can only be full of trees and hills; we have those at home. Besides,” he went on, “it looks rather cold and grey outside. Would you not rather take a ride with me into town?”
“No, thank you,” said she. “A bit of air is just what I need. You go to London alone and tell me all about it this evening.” And so the two set off in their different directions, Julia wearing only a light pelisse in spite of Anne’s warnings that a March sky was never to be trusted, and that she thought the weather looked likely to turn.
Hampstead Heath, as the name Heathedge implies, began only a few yards from the corner on which the house stood, and Julia, as she struck out across an open meadow, was excessively happy to find that she was by no means to be bereft of country during her stay near town. Indeed, so happy was she that she had rambled quite three miles before she thought of bending her steps homewards again. Proving herself both hardy and romantic, she had spurned all paths, climbing up and tumbling down hills until her cheeks glowed with exertion. Once having decided, however, to pursue her way home, she was dismayed to discover that she had no notions which way that might be. Her dismay was deepened by the observation that the sky had become whitish and hard looking, and her worst fears were confirmed by several snowflakes that alit on the arm of her thin pelisse.
Julia comforted herself with the thought that as it was late March, this could be no more than a light, brief flurry, but the snow, seemingly less well versed in meteorology than she, began to fall faster and more thickly with alarming rapidity. Determined to chuse a direction at random and then to follow it till it led her, she trusted, to civilisation, she set off towards a grove that looked as if it might be familiar and sped along as well as she could. By the time she reached it, the snow was quite dense and falling in large, heavy flakes through the still air. She could hardly see five yards before her, and thus was both astonished and incredulous when she perceived what seemed to be a man leaning against one of the trees. Surprised at his mere presence, and still more at his seeming ignorance of the storm round him, she approached and was ready to address him, when suddenly, and for no reason she could give herself, she stopped. She stood for several minutes within two feet of him, watching his apparent absorption in what thoughts she knew not. At last, and just when she had been about to decide he must be mad, he ceased his reverie and seemed to observe her for the first time.
“I was writing,” he said, in a voice as hushed as the snowfall itself. “Thank you for not disturbing me.”
Then he had seen her, after all! Why then had he not addressed her? And what was this about having been writing? Julia began to think the stranger a very odd young man.
“I beg your pardon,” he continued. “I ought to have introduced myself. John Keats, ma’am, and your obedient servant. Have you been standing there long?”
“No,” Julia lied, wondering at his eyes, which suffused great expressiveness with a sort of remoteness. He was, in stature, not much taller than herself, yet his fine proportions were evident even through his indifferent attire. She brought herself back to the present situation in a moment. “I am Miss Edgehampton.”
“How do you do?” he asked, oblivious of the snowfall.
“Just at present,” she answered, “I am lost. I have only just arrived here, you see, and I took rather a long walk this morning, and I really have not much of an idea where I am. You wouldn’t happen to know,” she said, trusting devoutly that he would, “the way to Well Walk?”
“Of course I do,” he answered. “I lived in Well Walk only last autumn.” Mr. Keats stopped here as if the issue was at an end.
“Could you point it out to me?” asked Julia, beginning to doubt if his directions could be trusted in any case.
“I am going towards there myself just now. Will you allow me to escort you?”
“Indeed, I should be most grateful,” she replied, “if you are sure it is not out of your way.”
“Not a bit, I assure you. In fact, we are quite close to it now. You have probably been going round in circles.” He looked at her more closely, and then inspected the landscape round them. “Do you know it is snowing?” he demanded, and on this and other questions they conversed until, much to Julia’s relief, they reached Heathedge. The snow had already ceased by the time he said good-bye to her at the gate, for although she invited him in he would not come. As she walked up the drive, Julia set him down as the most peculiar young man she had ever met, though on further consideration she realized how much she was in his debt, and granted that he had been extremely good-natured once he had noticed her.
Her approach to the house did not go unobserved. Miss Piffin stood at the drawing-room window, and seeing her wet and bedraggled, judged fit to meet her at the door with a sharp, and sonorous, rebuke. “Miss Julia,” she cried, “it is all very well to go running about the countryside on your father’s estate, but it will not do here. A young lady wishing to be married does not venture out alone; if you desired to walk out, you should have asked me to accompany you. I, moreover, would have prevented your going, for it was plain as any thing that the weather would not hold.” It did not occur to Miss Piffin that this was the very reason Julia had not consulted her companion before she had set off, and she continued her harangue undaunted. “Now you are wet through, and it is only to be hoped you do not take a chill; more foolish goings-on I have never seen.”
Julia had in fact begun to feel quite chilly, and she was happy enough to be shepherded up to her bedchamber. She shivered out of her wet clothes and into dry ones under the avalanche of words that boomed from her former governess. The fire felt good, and the cup of hot tea Mrs. Forster sent up from the kitchen did much to revive her; it was not until she was quite cosy that she troubled to quell the rare cascade issuing from Miss Piffin with a contrite and almost sincere apology. She chose, rather wisely, not to mention the stranger who had been so helpful until she was alone with Fitzgerald.
That young gentleman burst into the house shortly after Julia’s arrival. He tore up the stair, full of what he had seen in the city; he seemed especially eager to tell her about a row of shops called Burlington Arcade, which, he had been told, had only opened a few days before. He chid her when he learned of her interlude with the odd young man, but on receiving her assurances that it was only her complete confusion that had led her to address him, and that she felt sure she would never see him again, nor would speak with him if she did, he forgave her and launched into a description of the shops in Picadilly.
They compared notes on their adventures throughout the excellent luncheon Mrs. Forster, in the face of all difficulties, had managed to concoct. Just as they were about to quit the dining parlour to attend to their several personal affairs, Mr. Hale entered bearing a note that, he said, had just arrived by messenger. Fitzgerald read the missive, which came from Mrs. Norcross, and requested their presence at a dinner party in her home that very night. Both Fitzgerald and Julia were amazed at such a prompt reply to their note—so prompt, in fact, that it seemed almost impolite—but after a brief conference they agreed that it would be the most shabby behaviour to turn her down, and returned an acceptance to the waiting messenger.
