The Trellised Lane, page 7
“Nothing at all,” shouted the good old lady.
“Preserve us from temptation!” cried Fitzgerald, raising his eyes to heaven.
“I knew you would agree, Fitz,” said Julia, who had known nothing of the kind. “You are so very good to me.”
“Hush,” said Fitzgerald, in an angry tone. “Please,” he added. “Look there,” he said, a few minutes later. “‘Heal and Son, Featherbed and Mattress Makers’; did not Mrs. Gill say that the mattresses needed replacing?”
“O yes, Fitz; quite right. And look, there is an upholsterer round the corner. Do let me get out here; I shall only be a few moments.”
Julia’s request was granted, but her approximation of the time she would need proved a trifle optimistic. She was twenty minutes in the shop of Heal and Son, and a good half-hour more at the upholsterer’s. By the time she re-entered the curricle, Fitzgerald was fairly bursting with impatience and Miss Piffin confessed that she was beginning to feel faint again. Julia despaired of restoring the company to good spirits, so the three drove home in the most awful silence to find dinner waiting and Gill and Hale bickering over a dish of chicken. Fortunately, Miss Piffin thought she would take dinner in her own room, if no one would mind, and since no one did, Fitzgerald and Julia were able to enjoy their meal in something like peace and quiet. They solved the argument between housekeeper and butler by refusing to speak to either one, and shut themselves up in the library after dinner in tolerably good humour.
“I really am sorry about Miss Piffin,” said Julia as she sank into one of the shabby armchairs. “We shall never take her out with us again, I promise.”
“Hmmmm,” Fitzgerald replied, flinging himself full-length upon a sofa. “Mmmmm,” he continued. “Never mind about it then, Julia. I’d just as soon forget this whole day. I wonder what Gill and Hale are on the outs about?”
“Question of authority, no doubt. I heard Mrs. Gill saying something about chickens—I rather think she threatened to pluck Mr. Hale.”
“They are a pair,” said Fitzgerald pensively. “I wonder Lady Edgehampton sent them down together; did she not know they would quarrel?”
“I daresay she did not,” Julia answered. “We shall have to write to Father soon, Fitz. He will be anxious.” As she said these words she dropped her head onto her hand and curled up more effectively in the chair, an attitude that pretty fairly precluded letter-writing.
“You write, Julia, won’t you? I loathe writing letters.”
“Yes, of course,” she sighed. “But later. What shall we do to-night?”
“Goodness, Julia, I don’t know. Perhaps we can play at cards?” he said doubtfully.
“No,” said the lady. “That really would be too dismal.”
Fitzgerald yawned.
In the end they did next to nothing. Julia played on the pianoforte for an hour, while Fitzgerald took a walk in the neighbouring streets. Later, they bespoke a light supper and Fitzgerald went early to bed. Julia read in her parlour far into the night, until at last, with visions of Scottish cliffs and heavy brocades floating before her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter VII
The next morning, Julia awoke feeling refreshed. Ringing for Anne, she decided to wear a handsome morning dress of deep crimson with sleeves gathered at the wrist, elbow, and just below the shoulder, and ruching round the hem. It was a new dress, and one that made her feel very gay and daring, for in general she had not been used to wear so striking a colour as red. Feeling yet more enthusiastic, she asked Anne to experiment with her hair until a new and unconventional coiffure had been found. In the end, they braided her tresses into thick, glossy plaits, and wound them round her head in a high coronet. It was a charming style, said Anne, that suited her La’ship very well, and made her forehead look ever so white and smooth. Julia descended the staircase feeling very happy and exceptionally pretty, and in a sort of a daydream that was interrupted by some very strange clattering issuing from the drawing room.
Upon entering that apartment, she found that the workmen from the upholsterers had already arrived and were busily tearing away piles of fabric and stuffing, and measuring the new materials she had bespoken. She peeked in at the door for a moment and, turning away, found herself set upon by Mrs. Gill, who had evidently been standing quietly directly behind her.
“O!” she said.
“Not wanting to disturb your Ladyship,” said Mrs. Gill, “I am feeling I’d best talk to to you a bit.”
“You surprised me, Mrs. Gill. What is it?”
“These men here arrived at the crack of dawn to-day and would not go away. Nothing would do but that they come in and start ripping away at our furniture. They said you told them to come, but I told them if that was so, I never heard a word of it, and that I will swear to.” There was more than a trace of reproof in her voice; in fact, she sounded so disapproving that Julia forgot for a moment who was mistress and who was servant. “It was Hale let them in, miss. Shall I send them on their way?”
“O no, indeed, please do not,” said Julia, feeling terribly blameable. “I am so sorry—I ought to have told you. I did ask them to come here, yesterday, when I was in town.”
“Well, a body cannot know if she ain’t told,” said Mrs. Gill.
“Of course not—I am dreadfully sorry; you must have been extremely confused. It is all my fault.”
“I’d say the word for my feelings was more distressful than confused, miss,” Mrs. Gill retorted sharply. “If the housekeeper ain’t told what is to be going on, the house don’t get run properly.”
“Of course not. I apologize most—” Julia stopped short, suddenly remembering to whom she was speaking. “In the future you may expect workmen at any time of the day. They are to be let in. You will be apprised regularly if any other callers are to be expected. This was a mere oversight, which I hope will not be repeated. If you have any further questions you may apply to me.”
Mrs. Gill’s expression had grown cold, but she curtsied and said, “Very good, miss,” and hurried away promptly. Julia felt that the problem had been handled well, and had regained her humour of dreamy glory by the time she reached the dining parlour. There she found Fitzgerald about to depart for another excursion to London (an excursion on which she was pointedly not invited), and Miss Piffin buttering muffins with an air of composure.
Good mornings were said all round, and Julia sipped some coffee with a distracted expression on her countenance, but she soon felt that the day was too fine to remain shut up in the house and, pocketing a muffin, betook herself to the garden in back. It was, of course, a shambles, but Julia found to her great delight that several brave crocuses had already poked their heads up through the slightly soggy earth, and she felt a camaraderie with these bold flowers who apparently sensed, as she did, that spring was irrevocably coming. She had found her way to the high wall that enclosed the garden and was pacing round its perimeter, munching her muffin pensively, when a thought that had been hovering evasively in her mind the night before suddenly flew into full consciousness. “Of course! It was Cortland,” she thought to herself. “What a cake I have been not to have realised! D’Arbois is the very image of him.” At this point her calm meditation was interrupted by a deep blush. “O dear, can I still be so susceptible to his remembrance? But it has been years since I have seen him, or even recalled him to mind!” This last reflection was not, as Julia well knew, entirely true. Indeed, she had not seen Mr. Cortland for years, for he had been Fitzgerald’s tutor when she was only fourteen, and her brother had long since stopped taking lessons. However, she had in fact thought of him quite often since his departure, frequently to her chagrin.
Mr. Cortland had been her first and only tendre. Of course, it had come to nothing, and she had not said a word to any one, but she had sometimes fancied that he was attracted to her as well, and it was the recollection of these embarrassing, youthful daydreams that now made her blush. Her honesty caught up to her train of thought in a moment, and made her continue her contemplations thus: “So, you have not quite forgotten him, have you? You little goose! But is Monsieur d’Arbois so very like him? His appearance is similar, I think, and his address, so charming, and yet so melancholy…yes, they are very like, very like indeed,” she mused, and she blushed furiously as she came to understand the root and nature of her fascination with the Frenchman. In truth, there were great differences between them, and Julia grasped eagerly at these. Mr. Cortland had been five-and-thirty when she had known him; he must be quite middle-aged by now. D’Arbois, exiled from his country for so many years, had led a far more interesting life than the sheltered Mr. Cortland, and these circumstances must have shaped the characters of both men distinctly, even if they shared a common nature. Still, Julia’s throat tightened a little, and her heart quivered when she thought of Mr. Cortland, and the idea of d’Arbois began to evoke in her much the same response. She was absorbed in attempting to ignore these interesting physiological symptoms when Mrs. Gill appeared at the back door of the house, calling for her Ladyship with a look of deep disapproval on her face.
“Yes, Gill, what is it?” asked Julia, coming to herself.
“There is a gentleman as wishes to see you,” the housekeeper answered darkly. “Mr. Hale has showed him into the library.” She handed Julia a card.
It was Mr. Norcross. “How very tiresome,” thought Julia. “I suppose he felt obliged to come, for I doubt if Mrs. Norcross could endure the rigours of a drive to Hampstead.” She sighed at the thought of having to be shut indoors, and wondered what they would find to discuss. “I shall be in directly,” she said aloud. “Tell Miss Piffin to meet us in the library, please.”
“Very good, Miss,” said Mrs. Gill, and she marched off to fulfill this commission, grumbling about strange callers and the hardships of people that are left in the dark.
Julia found her guest standing by a small, parcel-gilt mahogany table, leafing through a large album that she had placed there earlier. “How do you do?” she said.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Norcross. “What a very curious book this is—I hope you do not mind my looking through it?”
“No, indeed,” Julia answered, as Miss Piffin crept in and took an inconspicuous chair. “It was my mother’s; she was excessively fond of flowers.”
“It is very interesting. I was aware, of course, that folklore ascribes meanings to each flower, but I did not think they were so elaborate as this! Only look here! Eglantine says, ‘I wound to heal’; sweet pea means ‘departure’; and foxglove ‘insincerity.’ How exact a language it is!”
“Yes,” said Julia smiling. “It is very complete. My mother planted the front of Edgely Hall with laurels, for they protect the house with glory. There is one bed in the garden that tells an entire tale of love, if one knows how to read it: It begins with beauty and a declaration of attachment, proceeds through jealousy and pride, and ends tragically with mourning and affection beyond the grave. Quite a silly business, I suppose, but it is beautiful in summer.”
“I am sure it is.”
Their discourse ran thus civilly, Mr. Norcross troubling to direct a question at Miss Piffin now and again, for about ten minutes. At the end of that time, the party was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hale, who had come to announce the presence of a Monsieur d’Arbois in the house, and who wished to know if he ought to be shown in. Julia was vexed that her two morning callers had timed their visits so ill, but there was nothing to be done and she directed the butler to show the new guest in immediately.
D’Arbois entered with a pleasant smile, looking very handsome in buckskins and top-boots. For a moment he ignored Norcross and turned his full attention on Julia. He made a deep bow, took the hand she extended towards him, and brushed it lightly with his lips.
“Mademoiselle is charming this morning,” he murmured in a low tone, “very charming indeed.”
Julia coloured. “How good of you to come, Monsieur d’Arbois,” she said. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Piffin.” The introduction was made, and brief salutations exchanged by the two gentlemen.
“You are French, I think,” shouted Miss Piffin, when the company had all been seated.
Monsieur d’Arbois bowed.
“I have always been told that the French are a most disagreeable people,” continued the good old lady, at the top of her voice, of course.
Julia looked daggers at her. “I am sure no nation can be comprised solely of disagreeable persons. It is dangerous, is it not, to ascribe any single characteristic to so large a group?”
“Indeed,” cried the lady, “one also hears that the English are very cold, and the Irish bloodthirsty.”
“My dear ma’am,” said Julia pointedly, “Perhaps one ought not gossip of nations, just as one ought not gossip of individuals.” She cast a desperately apologetic look at her callers.
“I am sure,” said d’Arbois kindly, “that every rule has its exceptions. Lady Julia, I believe, is Irish in part and she is hardly bloodthirsty. Miss Piffin, you are English, is it not, and so very warm and cordial. And myself, I hope, am not disagreeable.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Norcross, in a tone but faintly audible, “I hope not.”
The subject was dropped, and the discourse ran along rather more smoothly for some minutes, until d’Arbois requested that Lady Julia favour the company with some Mozart. Julia had indeed brought some of that composer’s music to London with her, but, being not much interested in it, she had left it in a box upstairs. She excused herself and ran to get it, leaving the other three to converse as they might.
“I believe you were active in the war against Bonaparte?” inquired Mr. Norcross.
“Yes,” replied d’Arbois. “And you, sir?”
“I had not even attained my majority during most of it,” replied the other. “My father, however, busied himself with aiding our troops.”
“So many English,” answered d’Arbois, with a peculiarly cold expression that tried to be a smile, “were helpful to our cause.”
“Indeed,” said Benjamin, who was wondering at the meaning of d’Arbois’s unpleasant grimace. “Perhaps it is unpleasant to feel indebted to such a multitude?”
“Debt is always unpleasant, is not it?” A short silence followed this remark.
“May I ask, in what service were you engaged?”
“In the English Correspondence. That is, I intercepted letters and goods that came from France to England.”
“Intercepted the English Correspondence?” inquired Mr. Norcross. “With what end? I believed our troops were stationed rather to further the smuggling than to hinder it.”
“I beg your pardon,” said d’Arbois, who had again grown suddenly rigid. “My command of English does not always serve me well. I meant to say receiving, not intercepting. I was posted at Jersey, and visited the French shore at night.”
They were saved from another awkward silence by the return of Julia, who sat down to her instrument almost immediately. Mr. Norcross stayed but to hear one brief minuet; he then rose, complimented the performer, apologised for rushing off, and took his leave. He looked oddly preoccupied, and Julia could not but think it rude of him to quit Heathedge so abruptly, as though the music had driven him away. She had however, one other listener, and he seemed to be most sincere in his praises. He heard her with a countenance that expressed the utmost satisfaction. Julia was flattered, embarrassed, and pleased; she played for what she feared was an unpardonably long time, and stopped only when her fingers were too tired to obey her. She looked round to find that Monsieur d’Arbois had risen and was standing quite close behind her. His eyes were shining with admiration.
“You play so beautifully,” he said, in almost reverent accents. “It is so rare an accomplishment in an Englishwoman to play Mozart with feeling. Yet, you find the passion beneath his coldness, do not you?”
Julia could not answer; she had not been bred up to discuss passion with gentlemen. Instead, she blushed slightly and made excuses for the weakness of her hands. D’Arbois insisted that however weary they might be, they were most particularly white and lovely. He apologised for having been the cause of their fatigue, and for having stayed so long. He expressed the hope that she would not be in anger with him and took himself off, leaving Julia to resume her morning musings with yet more food for thought.
Mr. Norcross, of course, had not left so suddenly without a cause. He, too, had derived nourishment for contemplation from his colloquy with the Frenchman, and while Julia’s meditations drew her again to the garden, his moved him yet more strongly, and farther. He drove quite briskly to the home of a particular friend of his, a Mr. Harry Burnett, who lived quite on the opposite side of London from Hampstead. Mr. Norcross did not pause till he had reached his destination; yet it was not the warmth of his friendship for Mr. Burnett that drew him so quickly, though their friendship was very warm, nor yet the excellent qualities of Harry’s character, though these were many. It was, rather, a peculiar circumstance in the life of his friend that propelled him thus hastily: Mr. Burnett had passed three years in France.
Mr. Norcross was received as a happy surprise at his destination. Harry Burnett was a portly man—indeed, an excessively portly man. His taste for good eating was equalled only by his taste for company, and he delighted in the one as in the other. He was rather more jolly than he was clever, but to most of his acquaintance, his goodwill more than made up for his lack of sense. He greeted his visitor now with unfeigned pleasure. “Hallo, old fellow, haven’t seen you anywhere in the past few days; I’d almost thought you were hiding. Anything up?” he added, noting the odd expression on his friend’s countenance.
“Harry,” said Mr. Norcross, disregarding all amenities, “I want you to think a bit for me.”
“All right,” said his friend, “though I don’t know why. I’m damned if you can’t think a good deal better than I can. What shall I think about?”
