Benjamin sank into a chair. “Sit down,” he offered, forgetting that he was not in his own house. His friend sat. “Now, try to remember, Harry. When you were in France, did you ever hear of a Comte d’Arbois? Anything like that?”

  “D’Arbois,” repeated Harry. “D’Arbois. Whatever do you wish to know for?”

  “That does not signify. Please try to think.”

  “I don’t need to think, Norcross.”

  “What a relief that must be to you!” cried Benjamin.

  “No, I mean no one need think to remember that; the comte is quite well-known. Very well-known, indeed, and vastly rich.”

  “Is he?” Norcross sounded disappointed. “O.”

  “Well, that sounds dreary! Come now, why do you ask?”

  “Nevermind,” said his friend. “Does he have a son?”

  “Let me see…a son…No, not one that I ever saw. Of course, he might have a dozen sons, and I would be none the wiser. They are very grand, you know, a trifle or three above my touch.”

  “Come on and think!” said Mr. Norcross. “A son, a younger d’Arbois, a Monsieur Guy d’Arbois. Surely you must know!”

  “Sorry, old man,” said his friend, shaking his head. “I just can not recall…O! Yes, of course, there was a son, I think, but he has come to England. Seems to me there was something—something of a scandal about him. No, perhaps it was not a scandal, but an honour he was given—distinguished service to the country, or some such thing. I’m terribly sorry, Norcross, I’d like to oblige you, but I can’t do better than that. Is it enough?”

  “No,” said Mr. Norcross bluntly. “It is not enough. You must try to exert yourself. I am obliged to be going, but promise me you will try, I entreat.”

  “Yes, indeed, I shall try to think what it was, and I shall not press you about why you wish to know…though I am awfully curious,” he added pointedly.

  “Thank you,” said his friend, on whom the hint was lost. “I must charge you to say nothing of this visit to any one. Will you give me your word?”

  “Gad, yes!” Mr. Burnett swore. “Not a word to anyone, I promise. But what an air of mystery you have! You haven’t been reading Walpole, have you, my dear fellow?”

  “Do not be absurd, please. I assure you, it is of the utmost consequence that you keep silent. And that you write to me as soon as you remember any thing. Will you?”

  “For the sake of heaven, yes!” cried Mr. Burnett, exasperated. “I swear. You make me feel like Hamlet in the ghost scene. Now I protest, I wish you will leave, before you force me to take an oath to pursue vengeance. Don’t like to appear inhospitable, my dear fellow, but please do go!”

  “Forgive me, Harry, for leaving you so quickly,” said Mr. Norcross, who, in his abstraction, had heard nothing of his friend’s last entreaty, “but I must be going. Perhaps I shall see you at the club. I must be off—write to me as soon as you may.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Burnett, pushing him out of the door. “Do come again, old fellow; delightful to see you,” he added with mock courtesy and a gesture of amused despair—a gesture of course, that was totally lost on Benjamin. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said the other, and was gone on these words, leaving his stout friend to ponder on the curiosity of his behaviour. He did not allow it to puzzle him long, however; instead, he bespoke a rather copious luncheon from his well-stocked kitchen, and was soon as absorbed in it as it was soon to be absorbed in him. The strange matter of Norcross was deferred to another time.

  It was quite late in the afternoon when Fitzgerald returned to Heathedge—so late, in fact, that Mrs. Forster was in high dudgeon regarding the fate of the dinner she had prepared, and which Julia had caused her to postpone until Fitzgerald returned. The cook and Mrs. Gill had for long been embroiled in an interesting and rather treasonable caucus when the young gentleman tripped in; the two good ladies had found that they shared a surprising number of opinions with regard to the scandalously irregular habits of their young master and mistress, and were just proceeding from a thorough discussion of unexpected calls and delayed meals to one of how these things might possibly be avoided, when the necessity of serving dinner interrupted them. The discourse on ways and means was, of force, postponed.

  Fitzgerald had been to Lock’s, where, in addition to bespeaking a new top hat, he had run into their friend Mr. Compton.

  “What a capital fellow he is!” he said now to his sister. “There is to be a mill several miles from London tomorrow, and only think, Stacey has asked me to go with him and his friends! Jolly nice friends he seems to have, too.”

  “How lovely,” Julia returned, with a tone and countenance full of disgust.

  “I am sorry you can not come with us,” said he, apologetically.

  “Come with you! To view a horrid, disgusting, brutal display of pugilism! I beg you will spare me your sympathy.”

  “Well, I should not cell it horrid,” said her brother, a bit sulkily, for he would rather have been envied his treat than censured for it. “One would think it was a gathering of people to chew on raw meat, to hear you talk.”

  “O!” shuddered the lady. “Let us hear no more of it, I beg you. Only tell me when you will be going and when you mean to return, so I may tell Mrs. Forster.”

  “I shall have to breakfast early, for I am to meet Stacey at eight in the morning. I expect I shall be home in time for supper. I say, Julia, would you mind if I brought the fellows back to dinner? It seems the least I can do.”

  “If you like,” she said indifferently. “Only you must caution them to expect no culinary masterpieces. I shall tell Mrs. Forster to prepare dinner for six. Will that be about right?”

  “Yes, Julia, and you are a dear,” said her brother.

  It was an opinion that was not shared by Mrs. Forster. Upon receiving Julia’s instructions pertaining to the morrow’s dinner, she only curtsied and said, “Very good, miss,” but her thoughts were a different thing. “No culinary masterpieces!” they ran. “Culinary masterpieces, indeed! And how, I should like to know, should I cook, when there’s no telling when the meal will be wanted? I shall masterpiece them, I shall. Such a dinner as they’ve never had before, that is what they’ll get.” And she began to plan an enormous repast, one that would need at least three cooks with more than four times her experience to prepare properly.

  Julia left with no suspicion of her plans and went to join Fitzgerald in the drawing room, which had been vastly improved by the efforts of the workmen this morning. The upholstery had all been carried out on a scheme of dark blue and gold, which suited admirably the heavy blue-velvet drapery and the Oriental rug, which was red and blue on a field of white. The chairs and sofa had been done in the Italian brocade Julia had chosen at the drapers; if she had had more time to choose, she might have found a less costly fabric that would have done as well, for this was very expensive indeed. At the time, however, she had not wished to keep her brother and Miss Piffin waiting any longer than was necessary, and she had decided on what was available. At least it looked very beautiful, and she did not think her father would be angry with her purchases. The workmen were to return on the morrow to refurbish the library; it was to be done in a crimson and bleu-celeste brocade Julia had likewise chosen at the draper’s, and about which she was now somewhat apprehensive, for although the carpet in that room was red, she had no idea how the two would look together. It was useless to try to share her apprehensions with Fitzgerald, for that gentleman could think of nothing but his prize fight. In the end, Julia decided to write a letter to her family, only requesting that Fitzgerald remain in the room and try to think of a message to send to them. Then, sitting down at a large mahogany writing table, she took up a pen and wrote:

  “To my very dear family,

  You will hardly believe how well we have done thus far; we have had hardly a difficulty yet. We are all in spirits, particularly Fitzgerald, who is to go to a mill tomorrow. The Norcrosses have been as kind as one could wish, and will no doubt be of great assistance to us.

  The furniture at Heathedge wanted repairing desperately, and I have made that my especial project. You will be happy to know that I am chusing upholstery that is appropriate to the period in which the frames were made, though it appears very odd to our modern eyes. The drawing room was done to-day, and looks quite well, I fancy.

  Miss Piffin had an unfortunate episode in Bond Street the other day, but she is quite recovered now, and has not embarrassed us too badly as yet. The other servants argue a great deal among themselves, but I do not think they shall overwhelm us.

  I do hope you all go on well. I wish, if you please, to be remembered particularly to Stephen, Kathryn, and Elizabeth, though I doubt the last two last will remember me if I stop away too long. Please assure Stephen that I shall be home as soon as I may, and that I do not yet discern any sign of my growing less jolly. Fitzgerald desires his best love to all. We are both exceedingly grateful to our dear family, who have allowed us this excursion with such good wishes, and remain yours in affection,

  Julia and Fitzgerald”

  This letter was folded, sealed, and prepared for the post, Julia berating Fitzgerald all the while for having discovered nothing more interesting to send than his “best love.” The squabble was hardly settled before they went to bed, Julia to reflect upon the events of the morning, and Fitzgerald to anticipate the joys of the morrow—joys that were, in the end, of a very different nature from what he expected.

  Chapter VIII

  Saturday broke pale and pink, promising yet another day of open weather. Fitzgerald rose, filled with pleasant anticipation; he donned such clothing as he considered suitable for a mill, bolted a hasty breakfast (prepared grudgingly by Mrs. Forster, for she had no opinion of people who demanded meals when the rest of the household still slept), and set off in his curricle unattended. He was to meet Mr. Compton at his lodgings in London, whence they were to proceed, with friends, to Wimbledon Common. The mill would not begin till ten o’clock, but it was necessary, according to Stacey, that they arrive early, for Tom Cribb had been challenged by an unknown, and a large crowd was expected. Fitzgerald arrived at Mr. Compton’s abode to find their party already assembled. In addition to Stacey’s two young friends, gentlemen introduced as Mr. Cadwell and Mr. Whipstan, Fitzgerald was astonished to find two young ladies, who were apparently to accompany them. These were presented to him as Miss Lancer and Miss Montez, and since no other explanation was offered of their identity or attendance, Fitzgerald inferred that London ladies, unlike the more provincial of their sex, were fanciers of pugilism, and that these were cousins or such-like of the gentlemen.

  The party drove to Wimbledon in a Bretcha, which had evidently been hired for the occasion. Mr. Compton drove, the ladies and their escorts rode inside, and Fitzgerald, unhappily for him, sat in isolation behind. They arrived in excellent time, and the interlude between their positioning and the commencement of the fight gave Fitzgerald an opportunity to observe the behaviour of his companions.

  It was most singular. Fitzgerald was forced to revise his initial assumption of kinship between the men and women, for they were certainly not related. The gentlemen carried on in a manner very different from what Fitzgerald had been brought up to think was pleasing, yet the ladies seemed well pleased. They smiled, tittered, cast arch looks at one another, and accepted with obvious enjoyment all the offers of the gentlemen—and there were many such offers. Mr. Cadwell offered to encircle Miss Lancer’s waist with his arm, and Mr. Whipstan did the same for Miss Montez. Mr. Cadwell proffered a kiss to his fair companion, which that lady not only accepted, but returned. Whereupon Miss Montez set up a great cry, protesting that she was very much neglected indeed—whereupon Mr. Whipstan favoured her with a similar token of affection.

  Fitzgerald had never seen the like.

  It was singular, very singular, and he could not think it was quite correct. Yet, it seemed to draw no great attention from the occupants of the carriages close by them, and his own friend, Mr. Compton, was laughing with and at the four with what appeared the greatest delight. It occurred to Fitzgerald that these damsels might be lightskirts, for he knew full well that Julia, for instance, would never comport herself thus, but this was a conclusion he would fain deny, and he decided he must give them the benefit of the doubt until Stacey confirmed or negated his unpleasant suspicion. The opportunity for this was not too long in coming, for Mr. Compton suggested that he and his friend take a turn about the grounds before the exhibition began. During this stroll, Fitzgerald addressed Mr. Compton thus:

  “Miss Lancer and Miss Montez are very—spirited ladies, are they not?”

  Mr. Compton chuckled. “And why shouldn’t they be? They are so well provided for—that is, Cadwell is a bit clutch-fisted, but Whipstan is as generous as they come.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I say, they might well be happy, for they’ll be shown a good time to-day.”

  “Indeed. Are you acquainted with them yourself?”

  “Acquainted! Odd way to put it! No, not those two, but I know the house they come from well.”

  “They live together then?” asked Fitzgerald, hoping once again that the party might all be related.

  “Live together? Of course they do! With Madame Gracecape—quite a name that, eh?” He laughed again.

  “Gracecape,” Fitzgerald repeated, “very odd indeed. How is it that—that their names are all so different?”

  “I beg your par—Fitz, old fellow, you do realize what sort of women these are, don’t you? Muslin company, you kn—”

  “Gad, yes, of course,” cried Fitzgerald, interrupting him. “Of course, I know that!” He laughed extremely awkwardly. “I only thought they might…”

  “Might?”

  “Might be kin to one another. They look alike.”

  “Most lightskirts do, old fellow. You know, I think we’d better be going back—looks like the fight is about to begin.”

  Thus their conference ended. Fitzgerald returned to the Bretcha in an extraordinary state of preoccupation which pretty well ruined the pleasure of the exhibition for him. This was a great shame, for the unknown put up a devil of a fight, though of course he was not enough to conquer Cribb. However, Fitzgerald observed but little of this; his thoughts ran rather in this fashion:

  “Ought to go home, yes, good idea, home immediately and no bones—O, blast, no curricle; couldn’t you hire?…No, blast this mill, every carriage in the blasted place will be…Might not want to go, anyhow; might stay and learn—O! What a fighter he is! That must have hurt like the devil…I wonder…Perhaps after we leave, we might…but how will it be if Julia knew! Or father! Won’t know, blast it, I’m twenty-three! O! What a hit! He won’t get up after—O, but he is! I can keep my lip buttoned…Stacey’s all right, not bad company…saved Piffin, didn’t he? Anyway, I can’t go home…what would I say? Dinner! O, blast…what…can he do that? Twist his arm? Must hurt—O, they’re breaking it up; good thing. Anyway, can’t go home, what would I say?” This was the progress of his meditations; by the end of the battle, he had decided that he had no choice but to follow his companions wherever they chose to go, and to suffer the consequences later. He was pretty sure there would be no consequences, anyway, except for the useless dinner cook would have prepared. It was a small penalty, when the reward was so large: He was finally going to see a bit of the world.

  Mr. Compton, observing that a mill can produce quite an appetite in a man, confessed that he was very hungry indeed. The ladies were similarly inclined, and it was decided that the whole party would proceed to a nearby inn, one that Mr. Whipstan was in the habit of frequenting and highly recommended. The company took a small private parlour towards the back of the house. A luncheon was bespoken; the gentlemen took porter and the ladies lemonade (an evidence of propriety for which Fitzgerald was grateful). Fitzgerald had formed a resolution on the way to the hostelry: He was determined to get drunk, or at least a little bosky. This, he reasoned, would aid him in his pursuit of enjoyments to which he was not at all accustomed, in that it would decrease his sense of guilt and increase his boldness. Thus it was that he imbibed somewhat more than five tankards of home-brew in something less than an hour.

  Unfortunately, he was not a good drinker. He had inherited an extremely low tolerance to spirits from his father, who made it a rule never to drink more than two glasses of wine at a meal. This circumstance, however, Fitzgerald chose to forget for the nonce; he was even so foolish as to take no food with his beverage. By the time they left the inn, he was thoroughly foxed.

  Mr. Cadwell proposed that the party drive somewhat further into the countryside, to discover what amusement might be found there; the ladies, however, were decidedly of the opinion that they ought to return immediately to their abode, crying that Madame Gracecape would be angry if they stopped away longer. It was resolved therefore that they should drive back to London posthaste, and Mr. Compton, in an effort at gallantry, sprang the horses. The delicate courtesy of this measure was lost on Fitzgerald, who suspected that he heard, beneath the noise of the galloping horses and the creaking carriage, a distinct sloshing issuing from his own stomach. Whether or not this was so, he was surely feeling a bit queasy by the time the Bretcha rolled into the drive of a little house on a narrow road off Oxford Street. He was glad to have arrived, and made a push to forget his discomfort in anticipating what the next few hours would bring.

  Madame Gracecape met them at the door, and led them into a large but exceedingly dreary parlour, the grimness of which was in no way relieved by the presence of its occupants. These were three young ladies, who looked rather bored, and extremely unhealthy. One, however, a Miss Velvet, as she was called, had that sort of dark hair and eyes that are admirably set off, and even enhanced, by a pallid complexion and a look of langour; to this lady, Fitzgerald paid his most particular addresses as the party dispersed itself about the room. Madame Gracecape distributed a glass of very inferior sherry to each of her guests; the ladies took nothing. Fitzgerald had no desire to drink anything more, but he felt himself obliged to swallow it all as a token both of manhood and of goodwill towards his hostess, particularly as it was so especially poor in quality, a circumstance that he felt would make Madame Gracecape all the more sensitive to offence. He downed it.

 

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