Читать книгу Caroline Terrace - Warwick Deeping - Страница 3

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The sea was old, the human stage colourful and new. Captain Bullard appeared upon the balcony of No. 3 Caroline Terrace, with a spy-glass under his arm, and his wooden leg tapping the timbered floor. A chair had been placed for him, and he sat down, starched as to collar and blue as to coat, his breeches superlatively white, his brass buttons gleaming. Trousers, those new conventions, might have concealed a wooden leg, but Captain Bullard would have none of those damned new-fangled bags. He had patrolled his quarter-deck in breeches, and breeches he would wear until a timber box engulfed him.

Captain Bullard surveyed the scene. He was fresh of colour and white of head, and he had the blue eyes of a seaman. The month was May, and the bathing season in. Below him the Shrubbery rose in bosky greenness, with three tall Lombardy poplars rising as high as the houses. The black-timbered pier jutted out into a satin sea, for the tide was in and the morning windless. On the beach below the hill two boats were setting their sails, and two bathing-machines had their wheels in the water, with their white hoods down. Three boatmen in long boots and white shirts were gossiping, with a black dog listening attentively. Above the toll-house of the pier the Marine Library displayed its double semicircular windows with green veranda roofs like the lace on the pendant drawers of immature young gentlewomen. The white façade of the Assembly Room was visible beyond the Royal Hotel.

A pleasant and a peaceful scene, and the little gardens of the Terrace were gay with stocks and sweet-williams. The green spires of the poplars gleamed like steeples. Doorsteps were immaculate; brass knockers shining. The balconies of the Terrace were contrasts in colour, some green, others brown, a few fresh cream. Captain Bullard sat and suffered the sun to warm his tummy.

Yes, a pleasant scene, decorous and perhaps to Captain Bullard slightly dull. He had an eye for a petticoat, and could still appreciate things feminine, not—indeed—as a lusty sailor whose gig had landed him at many ports, but as a mischievous old gentleman with a human liking for pretty faces.

Captain Bullard pulled out his telescope, and turned it upon the bathing-machine below the jetty. He had seen signs of movement under the great white hoods, and could postulate shy nymphs bobbing up and down in the salt water. Strange convention—this—that healthy girls should remain concealed beneath those monstrous petticoats, and not dare either the eyes of man or the laughing sea. It had been rather different in those islands where dusky beauties had—ahem—yes!

But one of the water-nymphs had ventured into the light, swathed in blue, pleated flannel, and Captain Bullard focused his glass. Was this unexpected vision provocative? No, it was not. The youngest of the Lardner girls, Miss Caroline, was flouncing up and down, and Captain Bullard had no illusions about the Lardner ladies. They were known to their neighbours as Faith, Hope, and Charity, and Hope remained eternal, and Charity titteringly acid. As for Miss Faith the eldest, she was faithful to God and good works, and the lecturing of other people’s children.

‘Naughty, naughty!’ said a female voice.

Captain Bullard telescoped his spy-glass, and grinned at the lady on the next balcony.

‘Hullo, Jane. Like a peep?’

Miss Jane Massingbird shook her ringlets at him. She was a tall, lean, merry gentlewoman, who, as a gossip, could be genial and tolerant.

‘The Lardner ladies, I think.’

‘By my top-gallants, you have good eyesight. And Caroline has broken loose.’

‘Poor wench—why not? Ah, someone has plucked her back under virtue’s awning. Dear Faith, I presume. Young sisters should not stray.’

Captain Bullard produced a large, yellow bandanna, and blew his nose, and he blew it as though sounding a fog-horn.

‘Verbum sap. I often wonder, Jane, if too much virtue is becoming.’

‘Virtue is always becoming——’

‘Aye—what?’

‘A little too tight in the lacing.’

Miss Massingbird lodged at No. 4, Mrs. Boosey’s apartment house, Captain Hector Bullard with Mrs. Trigg at No. 3. Taken in series the Terrace was a veritable chronicle of fashion. Beginning with a wing of the Royal Hotel it became at once superior in No. 1 where Sir Montague Merriman and family advertised a lean distinction and aloofness. Percival Tryte Esq. occupied No. 2, with a series of interesting ladies who followed each other like pictures of the Seasons. No. 3 was Mrs. Trigg’s apartment house, No. 4, Mrs. Boosey’s. No. 5 housed the Lardner family, and Mr. Lardner had been an eminent jurist, a gentleman who walked very head-in-air, with a long nose suggesting that it was offended by some unseemly smell. Mrs. Webber let lodgings at No. 6, Lawyer Lamb was at No. 7. No. 8 held Dr. William Rollinson, his wife Margaret, and a clutch of blond babies. At No. 9 Miss Bellamy sang sentimental songs, and twittered like a bird in a cage. No. 10 was rented by Humphrey Hapgood Esq., a jaunty gentleman distinguished solely by his waistcoats and his white topper. No. 11 was Mrs. Bumpus’s apartment house. No. 12 held the Rev. Nicholas Parbury, a vicar of St. John’s, a sporting parson and a complete quidnunc whose conversation was full of ‘What-whats?’ At No. 13 dwelt the Misses Megson; at No. 14 Mrs. Cardew let lodgings. Major Miller lived at No. 15, a mild and amiable gentleman who had fought at Waterloo, and who carried a fantastic and stalked wen on the crown of his head which bobbed and swayed like some strange fungus when it was not hatted. No. 16 housed Horatio Harbourn, the Nabob, known by the vulgar as Old White-belly. Mrs. Callow let apartments at No. 17. Sir Hugh Latimer and family represented Literature at No. 18. No. 19 was sacred to the stately Gages, handsome lords of much rich land. At No. 20 Miss Charlotte Cripps, the Terrace’s she-dragon, observed humanity with beady black eyes, and scarified it with a caustic tongue.

Walled gardens joined Caroline Terrace to the stables and cottages of Caroline Mews. Here were housed the coachmen and cabmen who served the greater and the lesser great. Caroline Mews was Caroline Terrace in miniature, coarser in speech, prone to drunkenness and brawling. The Terrace would have suffered surprise had it heard what the Mews sometimes said of it, though good things were spoken of No. 8 and No. 19. Dr. Rollinson was beloved of the people because he happened to be a man who served the poor as sedulously as he served the rich, and the Gages were known as true gentlefolk, and handsome is as handsome does.

Captain Bullard let out a sudden ‘Hallo’, and opened up his spy-glass, and Miss Massingbird, turning to gaze, saw the London coach pulling up outside the Royal Hotel. The coach was blue, with yellow wheels, the four horses white, the coachman in scarlet, and its roof seats were flowing with coloured frocks and poke bonnets.

Captain Bullard turned his glass upon it, and Miss Massingbird observed him.

‘Anything interesting, sir?’

‘No, damn it, the Pankridge crowd. But, wait a bit. Two girls up above.’

‘New speculations?’

‘H’m, yes, and those damned Pankridge children, and a gentleman with flowing locks. Looks like a poet.’

The coach was shedding its inward passengers. Mr. Pankridge was the first to emerge, large, full-fleshed, and pompous, to present a hand to the ladies. Mrs. Pankridge, holding her skirts, extruded a precise and deliberate foot. She was a halcyon blonde, bounteous in outline, and black of dress, Roman-nosed, cold of eye, and excessively genteel. She was the foredestined mistress of all the proprieties, and her hard blue eyes could stare forbiddingly upon the vulgar. Other ladies followed. Meanwhile the Pankridge children, Victoria and Albert, came scrambling to earth. The two maidens up above had no gallant hand to assist in their descent, for the gentleman with the flowing locks had most ungallantly left the coach before them, and was lugging a valise out of the boot.

The Pankridge children were scuttling for the Shrubbery, undeterred by their mother’s throaty admonitions.

‘Vic-tor-iah, Albert, come back imme-diately.’

Young legs scuttled all the faster, doubtless with the urge to stretch themselves after hours on a coach. One of the young gentlewomen up above had risen, and Mrs. Pankridge addressed her.

‘Miss Luce, I fear that you are neglecting your duties. Please oblige me by bringing the children back to the hotel.’

Meanwhile, Master Albert had sighted Captain Bullard on the balcony, and he and Captain Bullard had no affection for each other. Master Albert paused to spread a thumb and fingers at the Captain, and his sister, moved to emulation, put out a small pink tongue. Then, with giggles, they vanished into the Shrubbery’s shadows.

‘Sweet children,’ said Miss Massingbird.

‘Damned urchins! They need smacking twice a day.’

Miss Massingbird’s sharp eyes were on the coach.

‘A new governess, I think.’

‘Poor wretch!’

‘And rather pretty.’

The Captain raised his glass.

‘By Jove, yes. But looks delicate and gentle. Not the kind to cope with those young savages.’

‘Blame the mother,’ said Miss Jane.

The Captain lowered his glass.

‘Poof, that mass of snobbery and selfishness! A bumboat woman’s worth three of her. I’m sorry for the poor girl.’

A porter and a fat boy in buttons were unloading the luggage and carrying it into the hotel. Miss Luce and her new friend descended, and the coachman, expecting no largesse from them, raised a rude and ironic hat. The Pankridge governess stood a moment, looking lost and absent, rather like a child on the threshold of some strange and unfriendly school. She had a dark fragility, a piquant pallor, eyes and mouth suggesting inward silences. Slim and of medium height, she was dressed in black, and her white poke bonnet framed the sensitive oval of a sad, sweet face. Yet, it was not all sugar and sweetness, for the dark eyes under the delicate black eyebrows had a reflective watchfulness. Her lips were full but firm, her chin beautifully sculptured.

‘Well, my dear,’ said her blonde young friend, ‘are you going in search of the little angels?’

A sudden smile parted Isabella Luce’s lips. Her white teeth were perfect.

‘That—is my obligation.’

‘Well, don’t forget Fanny Gurney. I shall be at the old “Ship”.’

The porter touched a greased forelock and addressed the ladies.

‘Your luggage, miss?’

Isabella turned slowly, surveyed the baggage, and pointed deliberately to a shabby black trunk.

‘That—is mine.’

‘Nothing else, miss?’

‘No.’

‘Very good, miss. I think you are No. 13.’

Thirteen? How symbolical! It would be a back bedroom, no doubt, of a shrewd simplicity. She smiled and nodded at Miss Fanny Gurney, who, being an actress, was not socially recognizable, and moved towards the Shrubbery. The dear children must be found and persuaded to obey somebody.

Captain Bullard had left the balcony. He appeared at the door of No. 3 in the act of donning a huge black beaver. His wooden leg stumped emphatically across the gravel of the roadway. He, too, was in pursuit of sense and sensibility.

Miss Luce did not find the children. They had escaped to the beach below the pier, and were employed in pitching pebbles at the two white bathing-machines. A stout old woman with a furious red face came pounding across the sand towards them.

‘You stop that, you filthy little imps.’

The Pankridge children knew the lady, and fled. Old Mother Bugg of the bathing-machines had a hard red hand, and could use it if contact became possible.

But Captain Bullard met the governess wandering back up a steep path, and he raised his hat to her.

‘I’ll deputize, my dear.’

Her face had had a frightened frostiness, but suddenly she smiled. Kindness and courtesy were rare in her world.

‘Thank you, sir, but——’

Captain Bullard stood holding his hat.

‘I’m more limber on my leg than you would think, my dear. You have had a longish journey. A little rest might be indicated. My name is Bullard, Captain Bullard, and at your service.’

His words seemed to warm her fragile little face.

‘Thank you, sir.’

She gave him a shy and grateful glance, and Captain Bullard resumed his hat. By his top-gallants this was a pretty creature, especially so when those douce dark eyes gleamed at you.