Читать книгу Quicksands - B. M. Croker - Страница 6

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Before Christmas my relations departed to Nice. Aunt Mina, who suffered from bronchitis, went in search of a little sun, my cousins in quest of amusement. The Riviera was gay, and they were by all accounts a large and congenial party. Perhaps their consciences may have troubled them with regard to me, for they sent me unusually nice presents—a large box of chocolate, a fan, and a gay parasol. There was not much occasion for these latter at Beke in winter time, but one must not look a gift-horse in the mouth! Our Christmas was profoundly dull, not to say depressing; it was cold work decorating the bleak old church—assisted by Lizzie, the schoolmistress, the landlady of “The Beetle,” and many others, including Tossie and her most recent admirer, a smart young “vet” from Newmarket.

As we pricked our frozen hands and made a great holly wreath for the font she said,

“You look awfully down, dear, and I suppose there is no fun going on at ‘The Roost’ on Christmas Day—no party, eh?”

“Need you ask?” I retorted derisively. “We are to have early dinner, as Clarice has a holiday, and the professor indigestion.”

“You will be getting a letter from your brother to cheer you. My! he is the best-looking fellow I ever saw, although he is on the small side; I admire his whole style, his neat little moustache, and the lovely scent on his hair. Only that the others are so pressing I would wait for him, I declare I would.” And Tossie burst into a loud laugh. “See now, listen, Evie, I have a splendid plan for you.”

“A plan?” I echoed.

“Yes, give me over that ball of twine, and I will tell you all about it. On New Year’s Eve there is to be a grand kick-up at ‘The Plough and Harrow’ in Mirfield village; it is an hotel that was a fine place in old times, and has a great big room at the back, where they used to have routs, and soirées—whatever they were. The inn is getting up a dance; tickets half a crown for ladies, and I have got yours.”

“As if Lizzie would allow me to go!”

“Wait now,” urged Tossie impressively; “the company will be extra respectable, just farmer folk; there will be a piano and a fiddle, and a bit of supper, tea, and coffee and sandwiches. Mother is sending the soup, and she will chaperon us. We will have the top put on the old wagonette, which will hold six inside, and you must come and dine and sleep at the Manor, as you have done before of a wet night. I know you are mad keen on dancing. They say the floor is splendid, and you won’t mind with whom you dance, so long as he is sober and a good partner—so say you will come?”

“Yes, you may be sure I shall, if Lizzie will let me.”

“Oh, bother Lizzie! You must assert yourself, Evie, and not allow people to walk over you. It is all very well for her to be living in Beke; she is forty and has all she wants, and enjoys playing about the parish with the rector. You just talk up to her and say you intend to have a little fling. I am sure she will see it. Liz has been young herself, and she is awfully fond of you.”

“Who are your party?” I inquired.

“Freddy Block the vet, and I am sure he looks good enough for any society; my cousin Bob from Leeds, he is in a big outfitter’s; Annie Green, Dr. Mercer, Mother, brother Sam, and ourselves. It will be rather a crowd, but Sam can go outside.”

“Tossie, it is too kind of you, and I should love to go. I have not been to a dance since I left school, and I will fall on my knees to Lizzie—but what about my frock?”

“Oh, your black will do elegantly, and stick a bit of mistletoe in your hair! Now mind you don’t disappoint me, but try to get hold of Liz when she feels Christmassy and soft.”

I believe Lizzie was a little sorry for me on Christmas Day; my letters and cards had been so few and there was nothing from India. The drawing-room fire smoked, the turkey was nearly raw, the groaning professor had retired upstairs; on the whole we had a miserable festival.

The village itself wore a convivial air, and from my post in a deep-seated window I commanded a view of the street, and enviously noted the many cheery couples and families passing to and fro. From my niche I was summoned by Lizzie; according to immemorial custom the school-children were to have a treat on Boxing Day, and I was bound to lend a hand with the preparations. Accordingly, I spent the remainder of the holiday helping to ticket presents—taking care to see that there was no cause for jealousy or rivalry in their distribution; for instance, that the Cobbs received nothing that might outshine the Bolters, that little Tommy Ware was not endowed with a knife, or the “Beetle” baby with a box of paints. With unscrupulous subtlety I seized upon this exceptional opportunity, as my confederate had advised, to “talk up to Lizzie.”

“Lizzie,” I began, “I am still legally what is called an infant, and I should like a treat, too!”

“I only wish I could see my way to your having one, my poor child,” she replied, “I know this is a deadly existence for you, and I realise that you do have a very poor time, but what is the alternative?”

“We need not discuss that now, Liz, but the treat is to hand; the Plough and Harrow Inn, at Mirfield, is giving a dance on New Year’s Eve, it will be quite a respectable affair, with a piano, a fiddle and sandwiches. Mrs. Soady will chaperon me. Do let me go, my dear Lizzie,” and I seized her by the arm, “let me just have one dance, to circulate my blood, and try to feel like other girls!” I paused, and hung almost breathless on her answer. It was a long time in coming, but at last she said,

“Well, of course, the Soadys are all right, but they are not in your class, nor are their friends.”

“Now you are talking exactly like Aunt Mina! Never mind the classes—I should like to dance with the masses.”

“Oh Eva,” and as she spoke her face seemed to lengthen by inches, “what would your aunt say?”

“She will never know,” I rejoined with easy confidence, “and you might not have known either. If I had just gone to dine and sleep at the Manor, you would not dream in your wildest moments that I was dancing the New Year in at the Plough and Harrow, in Mirfield. You see, it is five miles from here, and quite out of our beat; not a soul will recognise me. But I could not play you such a trick, Liz—whatever I am, I am not sly!”

“Well, I really do not know what to say,” declared Lizzie sitting down with a Noah’s Ark in her lap. “I halt between two opinions. On the one hand, I should like you to enjoy yourself and have a little bit of amusement for once; on the other, I must say I rather shrink from the idea of your making your debut, chaperoned by old Mother Soady, and dancing with such partners as Sam and Bob Tate. If you do go——”

Here I broke in,

“Oh, you dear good Lizzie, and I shall have no end of funny things to tell you afterwards.”

“If you do go,” she reiterated, “the whole thing must be a dead secret; above all, not a word to Uncle Sep; he talks—and when he went over to ‘The Beetle’ for tobacco he would tell the village all about it; it is also to be a dead secret from me. Understand, that I give you permission to dine and sleep at the Manor; however they may entertain you there is no longer my affair.”

“Oh, Liz, what a nice Jesuitical way of looking at it! But whatever happens I have your official consent.” Then I fell upon her and kissed her.

We certainly were a tight fit, and a noisy party, in the old wagonette, which was somewhat severely tried by the weight of the company and the slap-dash pace of a fine pair of young horses. Nevertheless, we arrived safely at the “Plough and Harrow,” and in capital time. The old inn was all lit up, spectators were crowding round the door, gigs, phaetons and even milk carts were depositing happy guests. The ladies’ cloakroom was crammed; here we unpinned, uncloaked and reported upon one another’s appearance, as there was not the smallest chance of approaching the one looking-glass. Tossie looked blooming in blue and white. Annie Green was in flowered muslin of a bold and lurid design—somewhat resembling a perambulating wall-paper. The style, she informed us, “was the very latest thing in Paris.”

Mrs. Soady, chiefly remarkable for her kind heart and her circumference, was dressed in her best black satin, which was many inches too short in front, a large plaid bow crowned her good-looking smiling face, and an enormous cameo brooch fastened under her chin imparted the effect of a martingale.

As soon as we had emerged from the struggling mass of women in the cloakroom we were joined by our cavaliers; thus supported, as we entered the ballroom in a body, I was sensible of an atmosphere of delicious adventure! The ballroom was long, narrow, and wainscoted, and held a powerful atmosphere of potatoes—no wonder, since, as Sam informed me, several tons of this useful root had been but recently removed.

It was illuminated by wall lamps, and profusely garlanded with Christmas greenery. At one end was the band (piano, flute and violin), and the first set of lancers was promptly arranged. There were few forms for sitting out, as most of the company were young and meant business; in other words, they had come to dance—and dance they did! I found myself as a partner in flattering demand. I waltzed with Doctor Mercer, who bore me round in a series of leaps and bounds; the next waltz was with the “vet,” a most creditable performer; then I danced with young Sam, who gambolled about like a clumsy colt, talking all the time at the top of his voice.

I was resting after my second waltz with Mr. Block, the vet, when he drew my attention to two men who were contemplating the scene from an opposite doorway. They were in shooting dress; one I had never seen before, but instantly I recognised his companion as “the stranger.” The couple had evidently just looked in casually, to see what was going on, and had happened upon a most animated gathering. There could be no possible doubt of the company’s enjoyment.

“You see those two fellows over there?” said my partner, “they are officers stopping here for the duck shooting.”

Almost before he had ceased speaking, I beheld the stranger dodging about among the dancers. He came straight up to me, bowed, and said,

“May I have the honour of a dance?”

In for a penny in for a pound! Without a moment’s hesitation I replied,

“Yes, with pleasure.”

“The next?”

I was engaged to the local telegraph clerk for the next. Should I throw him over? No.

“I can give you number twelve,” I said looking at my card.

“I say, and what about me?” clamoured the stranger’s companion, who had now joined us, clicking his heels together and bowing before me with exaggerated respect.

Somehow I did not feel favourably disposed towards this would-be partner; he had not, like his friend, an arresting personality. I disliked his prominent nose and teeth and bold goggling eyes, and fixed him with my best imitation of Aunt Mina’s glare.

“But why should I be left out?” he argued, totally unabashed; “you have given him one, and you dance like an angel.”

“This lady and I have met before,” coolly interposed the stranger. Then to me, “I shall look forward to number twelve”; and taking the other forcibly by the arm, he removed him from my vicinity. Subsequently, as I swam round the room in the charge of the telegraph clerk, I noticed the two watching us closely from the doorway, and as soon as the waltz was over I was promptly claimed.

My new partner danced admirably, our step suited, the floor was in first-rate condition, and the old “Amoureuse” was one of my favourites.

“Why do you try to steer?” inquired my partner, when we halted.

“I am sorry,” I replied, “but I suppose it is because, being one of the tall girls, I always danced gentleman at school.”

“And since?”

“This is my first dance—elsewhere.”

“Then I am afraid your people must live in a desperately dull neighbourhood?”

“I do not live with my people,” I replied, “in fact, I may tell you, I have no people to live with. My parents died when I was quite small, and my only brother is in India.” I paused abruptly, and felt myself growing red with self-consciousness. Why should I offer all this autobiography to an absolute stranger? What were my affairs to him? As usual my tongue had run away with me, and I felt stricken with confusion and remorse.

After a short silence, he said,

“Possibly you may not remember me, but we passed one another on the marshes some time ago. I was so astonished to see a young lady walking alone in that dreary side of the country, I might have thought you were an apparition but for the dog. Do you live in that part of the world?”

“Yes,” I replied, “within a few miles.”

Mrs. Soady, passing by on the arm of the doctor, patted me on the arm and said,

“Come along and get some soup before it’s all gone. I hope you are enjoying yourself, dearie?”

I nodded an emphatic assent, and as she disappeared in the direction of refreshments my companion looked at me interrogatively.

“My chaperon,” I briefly explained.

“I see,” he assented, nevertheless it was evident that he was greatly puzzled. He surveyed my neat black frock, my well-fitting gloves, my beautiful French fan—also perhaps my smart satin shoes and silk stockings, which were crossed in front of me, for I never made any secret of the fact that I had remarkably pretty feet.

After this we talked perfunctorily of the weather and of dogs; presently he conducted me to the buffet in the hotel dining-room, where, as I stood sipping coffee, I noticed that many eyes were upon us, including those of the landlady. To this attention I was serenely indifferent; beyond our own party not a soul in the room, or among the company, had the least idea as to who I was, or that they were honoured by the presence of the great granddaughter of a duke! After a very short “interval for refreshments,” we returned to the ballroom and danced two delightful waltzes; as the last sad strain sobbed itself to an end, my companion said:

“I am aware that we have become acquainted in rather an unusual fashion. Would you think me awfully presumptuous if I were to ask you to tell me your name?” I nodded my head with, I fear, ungracious emphasis. “I see,” he exclaimed. “Well, all right—then I shall call you Miss Incognita. Mine is Captain Falkland—Brian Falkland.”

“I see,” I echoed. I cannot imagine what possessed me to mimic him to his face. I felt “fey,” the dancing had exhilarated me, and had gone to my head like champagne.

“This is a queer old inn,” he went on. “The landlady told me that ages ago all the county came here, and in winter had routs in this room. I should say it had routs within the last week,” and he sniffed fastidiously.

At this moment Sam, breathless from his exertions, mopping his big, red face, accosted me.

“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Eva,” he panted; “Mother sent me to look for you. It is after one o’clock and we ought to be getting home,” and turning apologetically to my partner he added: “You see, sir, we farmers are bound to be early folk.”

“So sorry,” said my companion; “I suppose there is no help for it; you must go, but I will only say au revoir, Miss Eva,” and he bowed.

Still possessed by the spirit of giddiness, I made him a profound court curtsy, such as had possibly been executed in the adjacent ballroom a hundred and fifty years previously, and then I walked off attended by Sam. Ten minutes later, when our loud and hilarious party had all been packed into the “Black Maria,” I noticed Captain Falkland and his friend standing on the steps of the “Plough and Harrow,” watching our proceedings with unaffected interest, until our high-spirited horses whirled us away into the darkness of the January night.

On our arrival at the Manor, Tossie followed me into my room for “a talk”; as we unhooked one another, and so to speak disarmed, naturally we discussed the dance.

“I need not ask you if you enjoyed yourself,” she said, “you were quite the beauty. And it was a real treat to see you and that officer dancing together; a good partner, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied, “he holds you so comfortably, and always seems to know where he is going.”

“And you did have what they call a ‘success,’ my dear; everyone was asking who you were, and I told them, a friend from London, who is stopping with me; one may as well tell a good lie when one goes about it. Did you not feel for all the world like a swan in a duck pond?”

“No, but a goose—and very much a goose.”

Before Tossie retired to her own apartment she became most confidential and interesting, and informed me that Fred Block had been on the verge of a proposal, but she had headed him off as she could not yet make up her mind.

“As for you,” she added, “I was very ‘mum’ when they were chaffing you in the bus about your best partner—I believe you gave him five waltzes. I know all about him, and they don’t; shall I tell you?”

“If you like,” I answered with affected nonchalance.

“Don’t drawl,” protested Tossie, “be interested or you shan’t hear a word.”

“Well, go on, I am all ears.”

“Then listen. Captain Falkland is in some cavalry regiment. He has been staying at Landmere for Christmas with the Earl and Countess of Runnymede, his cousins; it is said they want him to marry Lady Amelia, a plain, washed-out thing with weak eyes. He is the only son of General and Lady Louisa Falkland—awfully proud people—and is very good-looking, as you may see; I do love the nice way his hair grows down over his square forehead—I should like to see you married to him, so I would!” and Tossie gave me a playful push.

“I never heard such nonsense!” I exclaimed. “It is not the least likely we shall ever meet again.”

“Then you did not give him a little clue, or tell him your name?” and Tossie thrust her red-and-white face close to mine, and stared into my eyes with her unflinching blue orbs.

“Of course not,” I answered impatiently. “Why should I?”

“If it had been me, I’d have done it! Well now, there is three striking and I must go to my bed. The meet is at Harper’s Cross at eleven—but you can sleep it out!”

On my return from the Manor to “The Roost,” I related to Lizzie the history of my illegitimate outing. With more than usual glibness my tongue wagged freely, as I described the dance, the supper, the music, the most notable costumes, and my various partners—all except one; and she, kind and unsuspicious creature, declared that she was delighted to hear I had enjoyed myself so thoroughly, but added:

“If the tidings of this little escapade were ever to reach the ears of Mrs. Lingard, I believe I should be compelled to emigrate!”