The Trellised Lane, page 9
Mr. Compton not only drank his, but took another. He was engrossed in seeking to make himself agreeable to a Miss Dancing, and as that damsel did all she could to further his endeavour, he had not a moment nor a glance to spare for his friend. This was unfortunate, since Fitzgerald had been trying desperately to catch his eye, while at the same time he conversed with Miss Velvet, in order to ask him a silent but pointed question. Mr. Cadwell and Mr. Whipstan had disappeared into the recesses of the house, along with Miss Montez and Miss Lancer. Where had they gone? This was the query Fitzgerald was attempting to pose to Stacey, but alas, he had eyes for none but Miss Dancing. To Fitzgerald’s even greater alarm, Madame Gracecape, excusing herself to the gentlemen, took the third lady by the hand and led her out of the room. Fitzgerald was aching to interrupt his friend, but he dared not until it was too late.
“Stacey?” he ventured at last.
“Just going, Fitz, old fellow. You needn’t worry about us!” returned that gentleman, with a wink; and he was gone, Miss Dancing with him.
Fitzgerald was in a fever of despair. To be left alone with a female, and one whom he barely knew! It was a novel and frightening situation. What was he to say, or (worse yet) do? Miss Velvet’s topics of discourse were severely limited; in fact, there were but two: fashion and herself. They had all but exhausted the first by the time Fitzgerald braced himself to approach the second.
“What a pretty name you have!” he said at last.
“Yes,” she replied, “madame thought of it. My real name is Plimpter. Madame didn’t care for it,” she added.
“No, I can see—that is, Velvet is very nice.”
“Yes. She let me keep my Christian name, though. It’s Rose.”
“Rose! How lovely. Though a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he quoted, in a paroxysm of awkwardness.
“Don’t you wish to put your arm about me, or nothing?”
“O God,” thought Fitzgerald, whose left leg had inexplicably and irretrievably begun to bounce up and down at a nervous pace too rapid to be reckoned. “Blast this collar; I can hardly turn my head. And blast this heat!” Taking his thoughts in hand, however, and assuring himself that putting one’s arm round a woman’s waist was no more than one was obliged to do when waltzing, he controlled the quiver welling up in his throat and succeeded in speaking:
“I should be delighted to—if you would not mind.”
“Blast!” he thought. “If you would not mind! What a clunch I am; what a gudgeon!” Miss Velvet’s waist was particularly small and neat, as Fitzgerald could easily discern through her gauzy frock. She sidled over towards him on the sofa, as if to make it more easily reached. He clenched and unclenched his damp fingers once, and then thrust his arm behind her with a violence that was wholly unintended. Miss Velvet started a little at the spasmodic grasp, crying “O” in a faintly audible voice, and smiling. Her waist, for all its neatness, was soft at the sides; it felt to Fitzgerald a little like the scruff of an old hound’s neck—without the hair, of course. This observation having flashed uninvited through his brain, he immediately shied away from its ghastly carnality, and endeavoured to smile back at Miss Velvet. It was a very crooked smile.
“Perhaps,” said the lady, “Perhaps you have not known too many women.”
The opportunity for honesty was irresistible. “No!” gasped Fitzgerald, and then in a more natural tone, “No, indeed I have not. I have just come to London from the country—one meets few—ladies there; in the country, I mean.”
“Of course,” she said kindly, for though she was only sixteen, she understood what it meant to be nervous, and she pitied him a little. “Perhaps you should like to kiss me, and that will make you more easy. Go on,” she added, as Fitzgerald continued to stare at her. “I won’t bite you!” She raised her chin toward him, closed her eyes, and did her best to make her pale mouth look appealing. Fitzgerald drew a deep breath and leaned over her. It was no use. He closed his eyes. Still no use. He forgot where her mouth was. He opened his eyes again, and she opened hers.
“Ain’t you going to kiss me?” she asked, in a slightly exasperated tone. “You’re very handsome; I shouldn’t mind at all.”
“How old are you—if I may ask?”
“What’s that to do with any thing? Are you going to kiss me ever?” she cried, with more than a touch of irritation.
“You look so young,” he protested. “Are you certain—”
“Of course, I’m certain. Now go on, damn it!”
Never had Fitzgerald heard such language from a lady’s lips, and only rarely from a man. It was impossible to touch the lips that could speak them. Miss Velvet had closed her eyes once more, and was tilting her face up to him, but he was no longer looking. The combined forces of breeding, natural delicacy, nervousness, and the toxic liquors that were now rebelling in his stomach had overcome him; he snatched his arm away from her and buried his head in her lap. The sudden movement, he knew, destroyed both his opportunity and the arrangement of his collar. It also destroyed the delicate balance that had hitherto been maintained in his bodily system: He wanted, needed, desperately to retch.
Miss Velvet perceived his condition at last, and was clever enough not to be offended. Instead, she fetched a basin from a corner of the room and placed it at his feet. He was sick. It was all too much. He became aware of what he had done with a miserable sense of failure and shame; Miss Velvet was attempting to calm him with an account of another gentleman who had done the very same thing—who had been sick several times, in fact, and had yet stayed to enjoy himself, and succeeded. Such a tale was impossible to listen to. As soon as he could, Fitzgerald, dizzy and with a dreadful taste in his mouth, leaped up and fled from the house, remembering only as he reached the door to thrust some paper money back inside. The air outdoors refreshed him somewhat; he staggered up to Oxford Street and more or less fell into a hackney coach.
The jarvey, fortunately, was a charitable man, and he made no complaint at having to drive all the way out to Hampstead, though he thought privately that it was a journey that might better have been accomplished on the Hampstead stage. His passenger, however, looked to be quite plump in the pocket, so the coachman kept his meditations to himself.
The drive was completed as quickly as possible, and Fitzgerald was glad to find that his stomach was fairly well able to bear the inevitable jolting of travel. He still felt quite ill when they arrived at Heathedge, but he was at least able to descend from the carriage by himself. Leaning a little on the coach, he asked how much he owed the driver, and reached into his pocket. It was empty. Where could he…? The money he had thrown to Miss Velvet! He had given her all he had! It was the crowning misery—there had been at least fifteen pounds in his pocketbook, and he had flung it away for the doubtful privilege of being wretched.
There was no way now to retrieve it, for even if he could have claimed it, he would sooner have died than return to that place. He asked the jarvey to wait and stumbled up to the door. Mr. Hale admitted him.
“Where is Julia?” he groaned.
“Miss is in the library,” came the answer.
Fitzgerald staggered on. “Julia! How good it is to see you! Please don’t ask any questions now. There’s a coachman outside—just go out and pay him whatever he asks, will you? You have got some money, have you not?”
Julia, for some very good reasons of her own, was in no humour to be kind to her brother, but he looked so dreadful, and seemed so happy to see her, that she found herself obeying his instructions without question. The coachman demanded what seemed to her an outrageous sum but her mind was on Fitzgerald and she did not question him. Re-entering the library, she found Fitzgerald stretched full-length on the sofa. His face was green.
“Julia, I have been so sick,” he said simply.
She took his hand. “Whatever happened, my dear?” she cried. “You look awful! Is there any thing you wish for?”
“I wish we had never come to London, that is what I wish for,” he replied, in dramatic accents.
“Well, we can not change that now,” Julia said reasonably. “But where have you been? How came you to be so ill? Was the prizefight too revolting?”
“O no,” he said, “that was well enough.” It had suddenly occurred to him that Julia was going to demand the whole story. Was there no alternative but to come clean? He paused, trying to think of a feasible lie.
“Where is your curricle, Fitz? Did you have an accident?”
An accident! Thar was it! “O yes, a terrible accident.” He thought a moment longer. “With robbers! It was terrible—on my way home. They took all my money.”
“Robbers!” repeated Julia, in astonishment. “In broad daylight? But where are your friends? Why were they not with you?”
“My…O…O Julia, what is the use? If I tell you what occurred, will you promise not to think the worse of me? And, above all, not to tell our father?”
“Fitz!” Julia exclaimed. “You got into a scrape!”
He told her the whole truth, leaving no detail or circumstance out, and apologising each time he was obliged to use the word “lightskirt.” Julia listened in perplexity, surprise, and compassion by turns. At the end she laughed irrepressibly.
“O Fitz,” she shouted, trying to contain her mirth. “O pardon me, Brother, but—Fitz! you are the greatest innocent! What a story! Forgive me, my dear, I know you feel queasy but—” she choked on a laugh—“but it is so very amusing!”
He looked at her in amazement. “Then you are not angry with me?”
“How should I be angry with you, when you are so droll!” She vented another burst of merriment. “I am sorry, my dear, I know it must have been awful. Anyway, it is all over now; you are home and safe, and you need never go there again.”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“Except—” she began.
“Except?”
“O Fitz, Mrs. Forster will be in such a taking! I can not bear to face her. What shall I say?”
“What has she to do with any thing?”
“Well, unless you feel ready to eat enough dinner to satisfy five men, we are in a vast deal of trouble.”
“Julia, please,” Fitzgerald moaned. “Please do not mention—food.”
“O dear. I am sure I can not eat much either. It will have to be given to the servants. Forster will be in a pucker, but it can not be helped! She was already angry before you came home, dear, for it is rather late, and she has been keeping it warm this hour. She has popped her head in here to scold me every five minutes, and as it was your fault, I was quite out of patience with you. But never mind…we must make the best of things. I shall go and tell her what must be done. Fitz, do you think you will be well enough this evening to go to the opera? We have had an invitation from Monsieur d’Arbois and—forgive me—I told him you would come.”
“The opera!” exclaimed the gentleman in disgust. “Whatever for?”
Julia stiffened a little. “I have never seen an opera, Brother, and I expect to enjoy this one a great deal. Since Monsieur d’Arbois was kind enough to invite us both, I did not know how to beg off for you without refusing for myself. For if you did not come, I should have to take Piffin, and I scarcely knew how to invite her without his consent. Come, now, it will not be so very bad; it is just a small party, as I understand it.”
“O all right,” said Fitzgerald sullenly. “I suppose such a punishment is no more than I deserve.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, kissing him. “You shall rest now; I am sure you will soon feel fine.” She marched off bravely to confront the cook.
It took a bit of doing, but by eight o’clock that evening they were in the carriage and on their way to London. Mrs. Forster had taken the news with surprising calm, though she looked extremely annoyed. Fitzgerald was revived enough to take a stab at tying his cravat in Mr. Norcross’s style (though he did not succeed), and Julia discovered that a sumptuous meal of raised pies, lobster, and jellies, caused a remarkable improvement in her maid’s abilities. Together they had effected a most pleasing toilette, which left Julia looking more beautiful than she had ever felt before. She wore a dress of dark-green satin, veiled with Brussels net; the sleeves were long and full, and drawn tight at the wrist, and the neckline was (for Julia) rather daring. Lady Edgehampton would have been proud to see how well her stepdaughter draped a long cashmere shawl over her shoulders, and with what grace she carried a small fan adorned with silver tinsel. Clasped close round her throat was a delicate silver chain, from which was suspended a small pendant set with emeralds, and this, with a silver-and-emerald ring, was all her jewellery.
She felt quite as pretty as she looked, and Fitzgerald too, for all his grumbling, presented an excellent appearance. They arrived in good time, to find their friend Monsieur d’Arbois standing in the lobby of the theatre, conversing with an unusual looking young couple whose acquaintance they had not yet made.
Chapter IX
The couple was introduced as Captain and Mrs. Hey wood Hurst. Captain Hurst appeared to be his wife’s senior by some twenty years; Julia felt an immediate sympathy for Mrs. Hurst, but there was some thing in the captain’s manner—some thing one should almost call rudeness—that intimidated her. The ladies were soon chatting easily, and calling one another by their given names, but Julia focussed a small part of her attention on the gentlemen’s discourse. From what she could hear of it, Captain Hurst was subjecting Fitzgerald to a severe grilling on his military achievements (none) and ambitions (few). It was the last time the captain spoke that night, for he soon set Fitzgerald down as a lily-liver, and this was a breed to whom he had nothing to say. The rest of the party, however, contrived to amuse themselves admirably; Fitzgerald and Monsieur d’Arbois discussed such manly topics as the art of gambling, and the ladies shared opinions on decorating houses.
By the time they were settled in their box, Julia felt quite at her ease. D’Arbois was an excellent host. Though he could not coax Captain Hurst to talk, he was still at great pains to engage his attention by addressing every second remark to him. With a man whose interests were as limited as the captain’s, this was the best one could do, and Julia admired the Frenchman’s ability to make all his guests at least appear to take part in the general conversation. It was plain to her that it was Emma Hurst who was responsible for her husband’s acquaintance with Monsieur d’Arbois, and she wondered how she had persuaded the captain, who was clearly a misanthropist, to join the party at all. Mrs. Hurst was one of those women whose features, though rather vague, create a general impression of sweetness and amiability, and her character was much the same. It would be difficult to name in her any one particular quality, but she communicated a feeling of warmth and softness as a whole, and by the end of the second interval, Julia found herself confiding to this new friend the reason for her visit to London and the progress she had made thus far. Fitzgerald, too, had warmed towards Monsieur d’Arbois, who showed to advantage in his position as host; Julia perceived this out of the corner of her eye, and it made her happy to see her brother thus enjoying d’Arbois’s company.
The opera itself was delightful. It was, of course, Mozart—The Marriage of Figaro—and even Fitzgerald appreciated it, though he thought it rather a shame that such a jolly comedy should be weighted down by so much singing. Julia was a trifle disappointed; she had wished to see a tragic performance, but she soon accepted the spirit of the thing and was laughing with the rest. From what she could see of the captain, who was seated a little behind her, he was not partial to opera, but she stole a glance every now and then at d’Arbois, who sat to her left, and was happy to find in his countenance evidence of a wholehearted pleasure that was very far from the cynical and rigid amusement he sometimes manifested. The evening was a greet success.
They supped lightly after the opera, and parted all on the best of terms. Emma insisted that Julia wait upon her as soon as possible; d’Arbois and Fitzgerald were somewhat more vague in their plans, but they were quite as cordial, and even the captain looked a little bit genial. Fitzgerald, though thoroughly exhausted, felt he should not be able to rest while his curricle remained at Mr. Compton’s, and he went off alone to retrieve this last evidence of his unfortunate escapade, entrusting Julia to Kitt. Due to the fleetness of Fitzgerald’s horses, and the awkwardness of Julia’s equipage, the two vehicles arrived at Heathedge almost simultaneously. Mr. Hale was awaiting them with an expression of great anxiety on his face, but the young people were too weary to inquire into its cause, and they went to bed directly.
Morning enlightened them. They ran into one another on their way downstairs, both still yawning sleepily, for it had been a late night. As they entered the dining parlour, they observed a most unwelcome sight. Miss Piffin was sitting at a table eating some thing that looked exceedingly black, and not very palatable. The tablecloth had a number of stains on it, there was no tray beneath the teapot, the butter had crumbs in it, and there was an heavy, ominous odour lurking in the air. A very brief investigation discovered to them that this aroma issued from the coffee urn. Miss Piffin greeted them with a rather nasty smile, saying, “I expect you shall wish to speak to Hale, miss.”
“I had much rather speak with Mrs. Forster, Miss Piffin, and with Mrs. Gill.”
“I am afraid that will be impossible,” returned Piffin, the malicious smile widening as her lips narrowed and pressed together. “I advise you summon Hale.”
Julia rang the bell as Fitzgerald slipped into a chair and poured a thick, dark brew out of the urn. “Has some one put treacle in the coffee?” he asked.
