‘That’s just like you, Sherry,’ observed Miss Wantage patiently. ‘You never would pay the least heed to anything I said, and then you blamed me when things went awry! Always! You know very well I asked you to let me pack a portmanteau. Now what shall we do?’
‘Well, it can’t be helped. And I never said a word of blame, not one!’
‘No, but you were just about to,’ replied Hero, with a mischievous look. ‘I know you, Sherry!’
He grinned. ‘Little cat! I’ll tell you what we shall do. We’ll drive straight to my lodging; send my man, Bootle, out to buyyour trunks; take a hackney to Bond Street; purchase what you stand in need of for the night; take everything back to my lodging; pack ’em up; and drive off to Grillon’s with ’em. I shall say you’re my sister – no, that won’t do: ten to one, they know I haven’t got a sister! I’ll say you’re my cousin. Going back to school in Bath. Come up from Kent – that’s true enough! – spending the night in London – I promised I’d meet you – abigail broke her leg getting out of the chaise – taken to hospital – no female relative in town – what am I to do? Nothing for it, of course! Take you to a respectable hotel! Couldn’t be better!’
Miss Wantage having no fault to find with this scheme, the rest of the journey was pleasantly beguiled by elaborating the Viscount’s ingenious story, filling in a few details, and laughing heartily over the approaching discomfiture of their respective relations. When the metropolis was reached, a slight squabble arose between them through Miss Wantage’s urgent desire to look about her, and the Viscount’s determination that she should keep her hood drawn well forward to hide her face. This soon blew over, however, and nothing could have been sunnier than Miss Wantage’s mood when she presently jumped down from the curricle outside the Viscount’s lodging.
His lordship’s valet, Bootle, was of necessity a long-suffering and phlegmatic personage, but the sudden arrival of his master, with a shabby young lady on his arm, palpably shook his iron calm. By the time he had grasped that he beheld his future mistress, he had schooled his countenance into an expression of one inured to calamity, and expectant of any outrage. When he learned that he was to sally forth immediately, to procure such baggage as was suited to a lady of quality, his feelings were only betrayed by the faintness of the voice in which he uttered the words: ‘Very good, my lord!’
But when the Viscount had swept Miss Wantage out again, he so far forgot himself as to confide to the interested proprietor ofthe lodgings that if Fate had not decreed that he should have a swollen jaw upon the day fixed for the Viscount’s return to his ancestral home, and if the Viscount had been less obliging in granting him a holiday to have the offending tooth drawn, a chain of circumstances, which he foresaw could only end in disaster, would never have been set up. The proprietor, a literal-minded gentleman, said that he had never seen Mr Bootle nor anyone else, for that matter, managing to check any of his lordship’s starts. He apostrophised his lordship as a regular dash, turf or turnpike, a vulgarism which offended Bootle so much that he went off to execute the Viscount’s commission without vouchsafing another word to his crony.
The Viscount, meanwhile, conveyed Miss Wantage to a certain mantua-maker’s establishment in Bond Street, where he was not unknown. Here, after a few moments’ brief and startlingly frank colloquy with the astonished proprietress, he handed Miss Wantage over, to be fitted out as became her station. Nothing occurred to disturb the harmony of these proceedings, except a slight contretemps arising out of Miss Wantage’s burning desire for a very dashing confection of sea-green gauze, with silver ribbons, and the Viscount’s flat refusal to permit her to wear any garment so outrageously unsuited to a young lady supposedly on her way to a select seminary in Bath. This trifling quarrel was adjusted by the mantua-maker, who, foreseeing a valuable customer in the future Lady Sheringham, spared no pains to exercise all the tact at her command. She suggested that his lordship should buy a demure (and extremely expensive) gown for Miss Wantage to wear in the immediate future, at the same time laying by, for a later occasion, the sea-green gauze which had so taken Miss’s fancy. The Viscount agreed to this, and was at once obliged to call Miss Wantage to order for hugging him in public.
By the time these purchases, with a few others of a more intimate nature, had been made; a hat to match the muslin dresschosen at a milliner’s shop farther down the street; a pair of lavender kid gloves procured; such items as brushes, combs, and Joppa soap added to the list of necessities; and a faithful promise made to Miss Wantage that she should visit this entrancing thoroughfare again upon the morrow to make further purchases, dusk was falling. The betrothed couple returned to the Viscount’s lodgings, Miss Wantage in a state of inarticulate bliss, and her cavalier divided between amusement at her pleasure in her first new gown, and a strong inclination for his dinner. Bootle having proved himself worthy of his trust, nothing further remained to do but to pack the various purchases in two neat trunks, and to summon another hackney to convey them to Grillon’s Hotel.
Seated in this homely vehicle, Miss Wantage slipped a small, gloved hand into Sherry’s, and said in a quivering voice: ‘Thank you, Sherry! Oh IwishI could tell you –! You see, no one has ever given me anything before!’
‘Poor little soul!’ said his lordship, patting her in a friendly way. ‘There, don’t cry! You may have anything you like now, you know. Anything except that shocking hat with the purple feathers, that is! Mind, you’re not to buy that tomorrow, Kitten! I shall have it taken straight back, if you do!’
‘No, Sherry, I promise I won’t,’ said Miss Wantage submissively.
FOUR
UPON THE FOLLOWINGmorning, not very much after ten o’clock, two young gentlemen sat at breakfast together in the front parlour of a house in Stratton Street. The apartment, which was the lodging of Mr Gilbert Ringwood, bore all the signs of being a bachelor abode, the furniture being old-fashioned, and designed rather for comfort than for elegance. A mahogany sideboard supported an array of bottles, rummers, tankards, and punch-bowls; a pair of foils was propped up in one corner of the room; several riding-whips hung on the wall, amongst a collecting of sporting prints and engravings; three snuff-jars, a box of cigars, and a marble clock adorned the mantelpiece; and the imposing mirror hung above it had tucked into its rather loose frame various cards of invitation, and two advertisements: one of a forthcoming event at the Royal Cockpit, and the other of a sparring-contest to be held under the auspices of Mr John Jackson at the Fives-Court, Westminster. Further testimony to the sporting proclivities of the owner of this apartment was provided by a pile ofWeekly Dispatches, and a copy of theRacing Calendar, which reposed on the writing-desk by the window.
In the centre of the room stood an oblong table, spread with a white cloth, and laid with such dishes as might be supposed likely to tempt the appetites of Mr Ringwood and his boon-companion, the Honourable Ferdinand Fakenham. These,however, were poor. Neither gentlemen had been able to fancy the soused herrings, or the buttered eggs, and had done no more than toy with a few slices from the sirloin, and swallow the merest mouthful of a fine York ham. Rejecting the chocolate which had been made for them in a silver pot, they washed down such morsels as they selected for consumption with ale poured from a large brown jug into sizeable tankards.
Mr Ringwood, who, as was proper, sat at the head of the board, was nattily attired in a coat of superfine cloth with pearl buttons; a pair of exquisite Unmentionables; and Hessian boots of startling cut and gloss; but Mr Fakenham, from the circumstance of having slept in his coat, was at present arrayed in one of Mr Ringwood’s dressing-gowns. This was a resplendent garment of brocaded silk, whose rich purple sheen accorded extremely ill with the pallor of Mr Fakenham’s amiable, if slightly vacuous, countenance.
It had not been from any fixed design that the Honourable Ferdinand had spent the night on the sofa in his friend’s lodging. An evening whiled away at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, had engendered in him an affection for Mr Ringwood that led him to accompany this gentleman back to Stratton Street, in preference to directing his erratic footsteps in the direction of the parental home in Cavendish Square. Whether from a natural disinclination to proceed farther on his way, or from a hazy belief that he had reached his proper destination, he had entered the house, arm in arm with his friend, ambled towards the sofa, and stretched himself out upon it, wishing Mr Ringwood – for he was the soul of politeness – a very good night. Mr Ringwood, always a thoughtful host, had spread a carriage-rug over his willowy form, and had sent in his man to remove his boots. As an after-thought, he had himself taken a nightcap in to his guest, and had fitted it tenderly on to his head.
Since neither gentleman was of a loquacious disposition, and both were suffering in some slight degree from the aftermath of a convivial evening, few words were exchanged over the breakfast-table. Mr Ringwood brooded gloomily over the racing news in the morning’s paper, and Mr Fakenham sat with his clouded gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The sound of a vehicle approaching at a smart pace up the street awoke no interest in either mind, but when it drew up outside the house, and a brisk knocking almost immediately fell upon the door, Mr Fakenham palpably winced, and Mr Ringwood closed his eyes with the air of one suffering exquisite discomfort. He opened them again a moment later, for an impatient footstep sounded in the passage, and the door burst open to admit Lord Sheringham, who came briskly in with all the objectionable appearance of one who had not only gone sober to bed, but had also risen betimes.
‘Gil, I want a word with you!’ he announced, tossing his hat and his gloves on to a chair. ‘Hallo, Ferdy!’
‘It’s Sherry,’ Mr Fakenham somewhat unnecessarily informed his host.
‘Yes, it’s Sherry,’ agreed Mr Ringwood, staring fixedly at the Viscount. ‘Thought you was in the country.’
‘So did I,’ confessed Ferdy. He looked at his cousin, and, apparently feeling that something more was required of him, asked with friendly interest: ‘You back, Sherry?’
‘Well, good God, you can see I am, can’t you?’ retorted his lordship. ‘What the deuce are you doing here at this hour, and in that devilish dressing-gown?’
‘Spent the evening at the Daffy Club,’ explained Ferdy simply.
‘Oh, cast-away again, were you? Damme if ever I saw such a fellow!’ said Sherry, hunting on the sideboard for a clean tankard, and pouring himself out a liberal libation of ale. He drew up a chair, pushing various trifles which reposed on it onto the floor, and sat down. ‘Gil, you’re a knowing one: I want your help!’
Mr Ringwood was so much moved by this unexpected tribute that he blushed, and dropped theMorning Chronicle. ‘Anything in my power, Sherry! Know you’ve only to give it a name!’ he said. A disturbing thought occurred to him; he added mistrustfully: ‘As long as it isn’t to carry a message to George!’
‘Carry a message to George?’ repeated Sherry. ‘Why the deuce should I want a message carried to George?’
‘Well, if it isn’t, it don’t matter. For I won’t do it, Sherry, and it’s no use asking me to.’
Mr Fakenham shook his head portentously. ‘Taken one of his pets,’ he said. ‘Came smash up to me in Boodles yesterday, asking where you was. If I’d had my wits about me I’d have said you’d gone off to Leicestershire. Deuced sorry, Sherry! Never at my best before noon!’
‘Oh hang George!’ said Sherry. ‘He needn’t think he’s going to blow a hole through me, because he ain’t.’
