Harriet had wished to write to Captain Pullen and ask for an explanation of his conduct but the Baroness conjured her not to do so, even threatened to withdraw her friendship if the girl went against her advice. The probabilities were, she said, that the young man was staying with his sister-in-law wherever she might be, and that the letter would be forwarded to him from the Camp and fall into the hands of Mrs. Pullen or Miss Leyton. She assured Harriet that it would be safer to wait until she had ascertained his address and was sure that any communication would reach him at first hand.
“A man’s never the worse for being let alone, ’Arriet,” she said. “Don’t let ’im think ’e’s of too much consequence and ’e’ll value you all the more! Our fellows don’t care for the bird that walks up to the gun. A little ’olesome indifference will do my gentleman all the good in the world!”
“O! but how can I be indifferent when I am burning to see him again, and to hear why he never wrote to say that he could not come to Brussels,” exclaimed Harriet, excitedly. “Do you think it was all false-hoods, Madame Gobelli? Do you think that he does not want to see me any more?”
Her eyes were flashing like diamonds—her cheeks and hands were burning hot. The Baroness chuckled over her ardour and anxiety.
“He! he! he! you little fool, no, I don’t! Anyone could see with ’alf an eye, that he took a fancy for you! You’re the sort of stuff to stir up a man and make ’im forget everything but yourself. Now don’t you worry. ’E’ll be at the Red ’Ouse like a shot, as soon as ’e ’ears we’re back in London. Mark my words! it won’t be long before we ’ave the ’ole lot of ’em down on us, like bees ’umming round a flower pot.”
After this flattering tale, it was disheartening to arrive in town on a chilly September day, under a pouring rain, and to see the desolate appearance presented by the Red House.
It was seven in the evening before they reached Holloway and drove up the dark carriage drive, clumped by laurels, to the hall door.
After the grand description given by Bobby of his Mamma’s barouche lined with olive green satin, Harriet was rather astonished that they should have to charter cabs from the Victoria Station to Holloway instead of being met by the Baroness’s private carriage. But she discovered after-wards that though there was a barouche standing in the coach-house, which had been purchased in a moment of reckless extravagance by Madame Gobelli, there were no horses to draw it, and the only vehicle kept by the Baroness was a very much patched, not to say disreputable looking Victoria, with a spavined cob attached to it in which William drove the mistress when she visited the boot premises.
The chain having been taken down, the hall door was opened to them by a slight, timid looking person who Harriet mistook for an upper housemaid.
“Well, Miss Wynward,” exclaimed the Baroness, as she stumped into the hall, “’ere we are, you see!”
“Yes! my lady,” said the person she addressed, “but I thought, from not hearing again, that you would travel by the night boat! Your rooms are ready,” she hastened to add, “only—dinner, you see! I had no orders about it!”
“That doesn’t signify,” interrupted the Baroness, “send out for a steak and give us some supper instead! ’Ere William, where are you? Take my bag and Miss Brandt’s up to our rooms, and Gustave, you can carry the wraps! Where’s that devil Bobby? Come ’ere at once and make yourself useful! What are you standing there staring at ’Arriet for? Don’t you see Miss Wynward? Go and say ‘’ow d’ye do’ to ’er?”
Bobby started, and crossing to where Miss Wynward stood, held out his hand. She shook it warmly.
“How are you, Bobby?” she said. “You don’t look much stronger for your trip. I expected to see you come back with a colour!”
“Nonsense!” commenced the Baroness testily, “what rubbish you old maids do talk! What should you know about boys? ’Ow many ’ave you got? ’Ere, why don’t you kiss ’im? You’ve smacked ’im often enough, I know!”
Miss Wynward tried to pass the coarse rejoinder off as a joke but it was with a very plaintive smile that she replied, “I think Bobby is growing rather too tall to be kissed, and he thinks so too, don’t you Bobby?”
Bobby was about to make some silly reply when his Mamma inter-rupted him, “O! does he? ’E’ll be wanting to kiss the gals soon, so ’e may as well practise on you first! Come! Bobby, do you ’ear what I say? Kiss ’er!”
But Miss Wynward drew up her spare figure with dignity.
“No! my lady!” she said quietly, “I do not wish it!”
“He! he! he!” giggled the Baroness, as she commenced to mount the stairs, “’e ain’t old enough for you, that’s what’s the matter! Come along, ’Arriet, my dear! I’m dog-tired and I daresay you’re much the same! Let us ’ave some ’ot water to our rooms, Miss Wynward!”
Harriet Brandt was now ushered by her hostess into a bedroom on the same floor as her own, and left to unpack her bundles and boxes as she best might. It was not a badly furnished room but there was too much pomp and too little comfort in it. The mantelshelf was ornamented with some rare old Chelsea figures, and a Venetian glass hung above them, but the carpet was threadbare and the dressing-table was inconveniently small and of painted deal. But as though to atone for these discrepancies, the hangings to the bed were of satin, and the blind that shaded the window was edged with Neapolitan lace. Harriet had not been used to luxuries in the Convent, but her rooms in the Lion d’Or had been amply provided with all she could need and she was a creature of sensual and indolent temperament who felt any rebuff in the way of her comfort terribly.
There was an unhomelike feeling in the Red House and its furniture—and a coldness in their reception which made the passionate, excited creature feel inclined to sit down and burst into tears. She was on the very brink of doing so when a tap sounded on the door and Miss Wynward entered with a zinc can of hot water which she placed on the washing-stand. Then she stood for a moment regarding the girl as though she guessed what was in her mind before she said,
“Miss Brandt, I believe! I am so sorry that the Baroness never wrote me with any certainty regarding her arrival, or things would have been more comfortable. I hope you had a good dinner on board!”
“No!” said Harriet, shaking her head, “I felt too ill to eat. But it does not signify, thank you!”
“But you are looking quite upset! Supper cannot be ready for another hour. I will go and make you a cup of tea!”
She hurried from the room again, and presently returned with a small tray on which was set a Sèvres cup and saucer[114] and Apostle teaspoon,[115] with an earthenware teapot that may possibly have cost sixpence. But Harriet was too grateful for the tea to cavil whence it came, and drinking it refreshed her more than anything else could have done.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” she said to Miss Wynward. “I think the long journey and the boat had been too much for me. I feel much better now!”
“It is such a melancholy house to come to when one is out of sorts,” observed her companion, “I have felt that myself! It will not give you a good impression of your first visit to London. Her ladyship wrote me you had just come from the West Indies,” she added, timidly.
“Yes! I have not long arrived in Europe,” replied Harriet. “But I thought—I fancied—the Baroness gave me the idea that the Red House was particularly gay and cheerful, and that so many people visited her here!”
“That is true! A great many people visit here! But—not such people, perhaps, as a young lady would care for!”
“O! I care for every sort,” said Harriet, more gaily, “and you,—don’t you care for company, Miss Wynward?”
“I have nothing to do with it, Miss Brandt, beyond seeing that the proper preparations are made for receiving it. I am Bobby’s governess, and housekeeper to the Baroness!”
“Bobby is getting rather tall for a governess!” laughed Harriet.
“He is, poor boy, but his education is very deficient! He ought to have been sen
t to school long ago, but her ladyship would not hear of it! But I never teach him now! He is supposed to be finished!”
“Why don’t you find another situation then?” demanded Harriet, who was becoming interested in the ex-governess.
She was a fragile, melancholy looking woman of perhaps five and thirty who had evidently been good-looking in her day and would have been so then but for her attenuation and shabby dress. But she was evidently a gentlewoman, and far above the menial offices she appeared to fill in the Red House. She gazed at Harriet for a minute in silence after she had put the last question to her, and then answered slowly;
“There are reasons which render it unadvisable! But you, Miss Brandt, have you known the Baroness before?”
“I never saw her till we met at Heyst and she invited me here!” replied the girl.
“O! why did you come? Why did you come?” exclaimed Miss Wynward, as she left the room.
Harriet stood gazing at the door as it closed behind her. Why had she come? What an extraordinary question to ask her! For the same reason that other people accepted invitations from their friends—because she expected to enjoy herself and have the protection of the Baroness on first entering English society! But why should this governess—her dependant, almost her servant—put so strange a question to her? Why had she come? She could not get it out of her mind. She was roused from her train of speculation by hearing the Baroness thumping on the outside panels of her door with her stick.
“Come along,” she cried, “never mind dressing! The supper’s ready at last and I’m as ’ungry as an ’unter.”
Hastily completing her toilet, Harriet joined her hostess who conducted her down to a large dining-room wrapt in gloom. The two dozen morocco chairs ranged against the wall looked sepulchral by the light of a single lamp, placed in the centre of a long mahogany table which was graced by the fried steak, a huge piece of cheese, bread and butter, and lettuces from the garden. Harriet regarded the preparations for supper with secret dismay. She was greedy by nature, but it was the love of good feeding rather than a superfluity of food that induced her to be so. However, when the Baron produced a couple of bottles of the very best champagne to add to the meal she felt her appetite somewhat revive and played almost as good a knife and fork as the Baroness. Bobby and Miss Wynward, who as it appeared took her meals with the family, were the only ones who did not do justice to the supper.
The lad looked worn-out and very pale, but when Miss Wynward suggested that a glass of champagne might do him good, and dispel the exhaustion under which he was evidently labouring, his mother vehemently opposed the idea.
“Champagne for a child like ’im,” she cried, “I never ’eard of such a thing. Do you want to make ’im a drunkard, Miss Wynward? No! thank you, there ’ave been no ’ard drinkers in our family, and ’e shan’t begin it! ’Is father was one of the soberest men alive! ’E never took anything stronger than toast and water all the time I knew ’im.”
“Of course not, your ladyship,” stammered Miss Wynward, who seemed in abject fear of her employer,
“I only thought as Bobby seems so very tired, that a little stimulant—”
“Then let ’im go to bed,” replied Madame Gobelli. “Bed is the proper place for boys when they’re tired! Come, Sir, off to bed with you at once, and don’t let me ’ear anything more of you till tomorrow morning!”
“But mayn’t I have some supper?” pleaded Bobby.
“Not a bit of it!” reiterated the Baroness, “if you’re so done up that you require champagne, your stomach can’t be in a fit state to digest beef and bread! Be off at once, I say, or you’ll get a taste of my stick.”
“But, my lady—” said Miss Wynward, entreatingly.
“It’s not a bit of good, Miss Wynward, I know more about boys’ insides than you do. Sleep’s the thing for Bobby. Now, no more nonsense, I say—”
But Bobby, after one long look at Harriet Brandt, had already quitted the room. This episode had the effect of destroying Miss Wynward’s appetite. She sat gazing at her plate for a few minutes, and then with some murmured excuse of its being late, she rose and disappeared. The Baron-ess was some time over her meal and Harriet had an opportunity to examine the apartment they sat in, as well as the dim light allowed her to do. The walls were covered with oil paintings and good ones, as she could see at a glance, whilst at the further end, where narrow shelves were fixed from the floor to the ceiling, was displayed the famous dinner service of Sèvres, for which the Baroness was said to have bartered the two thousand lease of her house.
Harriet glanced from the pictures and the china upon the walls, to the steak and bread and cheese upon the table, and marvelled at the incongruity of the whole establishment. Madame Gobelli who, whilst at the Lion d’Or had appeared to think nothing good enough for her, was now devouring fried steak and onions as if they had been the daintiest of fare. But the champagne made amends, on that night at least, for the solids which accompanied it and the girl was quite ready to believe that the poverty of the table was only due to the fact that they had arrived at the Red House unexpectedly. As they reached the upper corridor her host and hostess parted with her, with much effusion, and passing into their own room, shut the door and locked it noisily. As Harriet gained hers she saw the door opposite partly unclose to display poor Bobby standing there to see her once again.
He was clothed only in his long night-shirt and looked like a lanky ghost, but he was too childish in mind to think for one moment that his garb was not a suitable one for a lover to accost his mistress in. She heard him whisper her name as she turned the handle of her own door.
“Why, Bobby,” she exclaimed, “not in bed yet?”
“Hush! hush!” he said in a low voice, “or Mamma will hear you! I couldn’t sleep till I had seen you again and wished you good-night!”
“Poor dear boy! Are you not very hungry?”
“No, thanks. Miss Wynward is very kind to me. She has seen after that. But to leave without a word to you. That was the hard part of it!”
“Poor Bobby!” ejaculated Harriet again, drawing nearer to him. “But you must not stay out of bed. You will catch your death of cold!”
“Kiss me then and I will go!”
He advanced his face to the opening of the door, and she put her lips to his, and drew his breath away with her own.
“Good-night! good-night!” murmured Bobby with a long sigh. “God bless you! good-night!” and then he disappeared and Harriet entered her own room, and her eyes gleamed as she recognised the fact that Bobby also was going to make a fool of himself for her sake.
The next morning she was surprised, on going downstairs at about nine o’clock, to find a cloth laid over only part of the dining table, and breakfast evidently prepared for one person. She was still gazing at it in astonishment, and wondering what it meant, when Miss Wynward entered the room to express a hope that Miss Brandt had slept well and had everything that she required.
“O! certainly yes! but where are we going to have breakfast?”
“Here, Miss Brandt, if it pleases you. I was just about to ask what you would like for your breakfast.”
“But the Baron and Baroness—”
“O! they started for the manufactory two hours ago. Her ladyship is a very early riser when at home and they have some four miles to drive.”
“The manufactory!” echoed Harriet, “do you mean where they make the boots and shoes?”
“Yes! There is a manufactory in Germany and another in England where the boots and shoes are finished off. And then there is the shop in Oxford Street where they are sold. The Baron’s business is a very extensive one!”
“So I have understood, but what good can Madame Gobelli do there? What can a woman know about such things?”
Miss Wynward shrugged her shoulders.
“She looks after the young women who are employed I believe, and keeps them up to their work. The Baroness is a very clever woman. She knows something about most thi
ngs—and a good deal that were better left unknown,” she added, with a sigh.
“And does she go there every morning?”
“Not always, but as a rule she does. She likes to have a finger in the pie and fancies that nothing can go on properly without her. And she is right so far that she has a much better head for business than the Baron who would like to be out of it all if he could!”
“But why can’t he give it up then, since they are so very rich?” demanded Harriet.
Miss Wynward regarded her for a moment, as if she wondered who had given her the information, and then said quietly, “But all this time we are forgetting your breakfast, Miss Brandt! What will you take? An egg, or a piece of bacon?”
“O! I don’t care,” replied Harriet, yawning, “I never can eat when I am alone! Where is Bobby? Won’t he take his breakfast with me?”
“O! he had his long ago with his Mamma, but I daresay he would not mind a second edition, poor boy!”
She walked to the French windows which opened from a rustic porch to the lawn and called “Bobby! Bobby!”
“Yes, Miss Wynward,” replied the lad in a more cheerful tone than Harriet remembered to have ever heard him use before, “what is it?”
“Come in, my dear, and keep Miss Brandt company whilst she takes her breakfast!”
“Won’t I!” cried Bobby, as he came running from the further end of the disorderly garden with a bunch of flowers.
“They are for you!” he exclaimed, as he put them into Harriet’s hand, “I gathered them on purpose!”
“Thank you, Bobby,” she replied. “It was kind of you!”
She felt cheered by the simple attention. For her hostess to have left her on the very first morning without a word of explanation had struck her as looking very much (notwithstanding all the effusive flattery and protestations of attachment with which she had been laden) as if she were not wanted at the Red House.
But when her morning meal was over, and she had been introduced to every part of the establishment under the chaperonage of Bobby—to the tangled over-grown garden, the empty stables, Papa’s library, which was filled with French and German books, and Mamma’s drawing-room, which was so full of valuable china that one scarcely dared move freely about it—the burning thirst to see or hear something of Ralph Pullen returned with full force upon Harriet and she enquired eagerly of Miss Wynward when her hostess might be expected to return.
The Blood of the Vampire Page 18