At this moment I keenly felt the indelicacy of my conduct in having attracted the attention of a stranger of the opposite sex, and I reflected how extremely embarrassing it would be if we should ever meet again. Yet I could not altogether banish the hope that chance might bring us together. There was something wild and romantic about his pale face and dark eyes which played strangely upon my fancy.
‘Imperent young man,’ said Mrs. Bellows, drawing me away from the window. ‘Come inside, miss. I can see you don’t know London. Why, for two pins the young fellow would have bowed to you. I could see he was struck all of a heap. You can’t be too careful, miss. There may be chance meetings that lead to all sorts of things that I wouldn’t mention to a young lady like you. That was the way the family I was telling you about became so notorious, miss. Their father, Mr. Dubochet, a Swiss he said he was, but there, all those foreigners are alike, kept a shop for mending stockings at number twenty-three, and the girls were up and down the street morning, noon, and night. There used to be a lot of fine young gentlemen always hanging about, particularly an Honourable Mr. Craven who lived at the big house you can see, miss, if you put your head out of the window, with the obbylicks at the front door. One of the girls ran away with this young gentleman’s brother and took the name of Harriette Wilson. A lively little thing she was, I remember her well, no beauty, but she had a way with the gentlemen, and a kind heart. Well, no one knows what has become of her now. But if she and her sister hadn’t looked out of the window so much, many things mightn’t have happened, though one of them did marry a real lord.’
‘Well, Mrs. Bellows,’ said I, ‘if looking out of the window is to catch me a lord for a husband, perhaps I may look again.’
So saying, I returned to the window, when to my astonishment I saw my Unknown turning the corner into Queen Street again. Surprise and curiosity held me rooted to the ground while he passed, once more raising his eyes with a fixed gaze to my face. Half gratified, half ashamed, I withdrew and resumed my writing, though with a fluttering at my heart which I could not still.
However, not long afterwards all my dreams were not unpleasantly dispelled by a loud ringing at the door-bell, a hurried rush of steps on the stairs, and the entrance of my brother Ned. So much news had we to exchange that we could scarcely hear one another speak. After showing a proper though somewhat hurried interest in our mother’s illness, Ned informed me that he had got two nights’ leave from Cambridge and would be coming up to London later for a longer period. It appeared that he was engaged, with some of the other Under Graduates, to take part in a race upon the river against a club of oarsmen named Leander.
‘It will be famous sport, Fanny,’ he cried. ‘Last year we had a match against the Leander club, famous rowing men they are, and we beat them hollow. So this year they challenged us to a return match, and though very few on the river can go their pace, I have no doubt we shall whop them finely. Our fellows are all coming to town shortly to practise for the race, and then I warrant you’ll see something worth seeing.’
‘How truly delightful, dear Ned,’ said I. ‘But I fear your friends must be a terribly fast set. Rowing men always are.’
At this insinuation Ned became quite indignant, and then held forth at such length and so very boringly about watermen and oars and strokes that my thoughts withdrew into themselves once more and played fancifully about the Unknown, till I was roused by a second violent ringing at the front door-bell and more steps on the stairs. It was Emily Dacre.
Confused at not finding me alone she stopped in the doorway, and though I prefer for my part a more refined and ethereal type of beauty than dear Emily’s, I must confess that she looked vastly well in her green silk walking dress and hat. I flew to her arms, and when our mutual transports had subsided I presented Ned to her.
‘Nay, Mr. Ned Harcourt,’ said she archly, ‘we are not strangers. I even know your name, you see. Your sister’s partiality to a beloved brother has made it familiar to my ears.’
Ned, who is no ladies’ man, muttered something about ‘honoured and obliged’ and ‘necessity of taking his leave.’
‘Besides,’ added Emily, ‘the gentleman, an old friend of my family’s, who was kind enough to offer me and my maid a seat in his chariot to-day, is also, I believe, a Cambridge acquaintance of yours, Mr. Henry Darnley.’
‘God bless my soul,’ cried Ned. ‘Hal Darnley? Where is he?’
Without waiting for an answer, or so much as apologizing for his coarse expression, he bounded to the window and threw up the sash, shouting, ‘Hal, my good fellow, come upstairs!’
‘Mr. Ned is so delightfully natural,’ said Emily to me, ‘But really I am quite embarrassed. If Mr. Darnley thought it was on my account that he was invited upstairs, I should sink through the ground with confusion.’
‘Rest assured, my love,’ said I, ‘that if Ned and this Mr. Darnley were at Cambridge together, they will prose away by the hour and take no notice of our charms.’
Emily appeared a little piqued by my remark, but at this moment Mr. Darnley entered the room. In him I beheld a tall young man, well made and active, dressed in quiet but gentlemanly taste. His face, which would otherwise have been not ill looking, was somewhat marred by a nose which appeared to have felt the effects of the pugilist’s art. His manner when introduced was easy but respectful, and I thought I could detect in it a certain pleasure at finding two members of the opposite sex.
‘I must tell you, ladies,’ said he when we were seated, ‘that Ned here is my deadly enemy for at least three weeks to come. Since I came down from Cambridge I have had the honour to be elected to the Leander club which is to meet the Cambridge Under Graduates in a match upon the river in June. But I fear for our reputation, for we are an elderly set compared with these young bloods.’
‘That is all very well, Hal,’ cried Ned, ‘but you have practised together. In our crew there are but two from the same college, and all row in different styles. I can tell you, Noulton will have to damn and curse us up and down the river to get us to his liking.’
‘Noulton,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘is the best waterman and the best coxswain on the river here except for our waterman, Parish, so I dare say that all will be even enough. But this conversation, Ned, can have but little interest for Miss Harcourt and Miss Dacre.’
Ned, quite undeterred by being so pointedly set down, continued to talk with great spirit about the match, but Mr. Darnley, with the polished ease of a man of the world, insensibly led the conversation to the theatre, the opera, and the charms of literature, so that the time passed very agreeably, Ned sitting half asleep in an arm-chair, till the gentlemen rose to take their leave. Mr. Darnley offered to drive Ned in his chariot wherever he wished to go, and begged to be allowed the honour of calling upon us again soon.
When he had gone Emily became so unbearably simpering and affected in her talk about him that friendship was strained in a manner which could only be repaired by an inspection of our joint wardrobes and a discussion of the purchases we wished to make.
My father presently came home and welcomed Emily with his usual boisterous heartiness. He informed us that he had some very welcome news. It appeared that going into town to make inquiries about seats to view the Coronation procession, he had met the son of an old friend, a young man studying law in London, who had cordially pressed him to accept two ladies’ tickets for a stand in front of his club, as his mother and sister who were to have used them were detained in the country by the illness of a near relation.
‘So that’s what I call a good stroke of luck,’ said my father, ‘and though the young man is a bit of a puppy, I daresay you girls won’t like him any the worse for that. I say God bless our young Queen as heartily as any one, and damn all Radicals, but I’m not going to sit on a bit of board all day for the pleasure of seeing her. You girls can have that to yourselves. Well, haven’t either of you a kiss for the old Squire for getting you seats and a young man to keep you company?’
Emily, who, doubtless from her deprivation from early years of a mother’s care, has not all the delicacy that her dearest friends would wish, kissed my father readily, but I confess that gratitude was not among the first of my feelings.
‘Good heavens, Papa!’ I cried. ‘Will there not be great impropriety in our accepting these tickets? A young man whom we do not know? To sit in so exposed a situation as a club? and without a chaperone?’
Upon this my dear father took great offence, saying I was just like my mother, and ridiculing what he called my old maid’s notions so unmercifully that tears came to my eyes, and with very little effort I sobbed aloud.
‘There, there, Fan,’ said my father. ‘It was but a joke, and you girls must always turn on the waterworks when no harm is intended. Mr. Vavasour is coming to take tea with us this evening with his aunt, and then perhaps your prudery will be satisfied.’
‘Lassy me!’ cried Emily, ‘a gentleman to tea? I must make some change in my toilette,’ and the giddy creature ran upstairs, followed at a less impetuous pace by the writer of these Memoirs.
After dinner we sat in the drawing-room and my dear father desired us to sing. It was a balmy evening. The windows were open and no breath stirred the air. Mrs. Bellows’s pianoforte, though not modern, had by no means an unpleasant tone, and Emily and I mingled our voices in the strains of a duet, to my accompaniment. As the last notes died away, Emily’s contralto echoing my soprano voice, Matthews the footman knocked at the door and announced: Mrs. Vavasour and Mr. DeLacy Vavasour.
It was now dusk in the room, so our greetings were exchanged in some confusion and I could only see that Mrs. Vavasour was of middle height, and her nephew tall and slight. While Matthews was lighting the candle I was better able to study my visitors. Mrs. Vavasour was past her first youth, but most lady-like in appearance and tastefully dressed. Her voice was soft and her manner ingratiating, and I felt strongly predisposed towards her. Meanwhile my father had been talking to Mr. DeLacy Vavasour at the other side of the room, and it was not till Mrs. Bellows entered, bearing one of those brilliant Carcel lamps, that I recognized in him my Unknown of the afternoon!
‘Good God!’ I cried, and then stopped, overcome by emotion and embarrassment.
At the sound of my voice Mr. Vavasour turned and looked towards me. Then with perfect composure he walked over to where I sat and entered into conversation with me and Emily. If I had admired him in the street, how much more admirable did he appear when I could study him closely. His high alabaster forehead was shadowed by dark ringlets, negligently yet becomingly arranged. His Grecian nose was finely chiselled and his mouth expressed sarcasm and feeling. But how can I describe his eyes? Large and lustrous, capable of expressing the tenderest and the sternest emotions, they conveyed a message to me whose meaning I could not mistake. His white hands, with long nervous fingers, played idly with one of the rich gold chains that were twisted about his neck, or were raised now and again to push aside the curls that seemed almost too heavy for his small and well-shaped head.
The conversation, in which I was hardly able to bear my part, presently turned on the approaching Coronation, and when the tea equipage was brought I was thankful to slip into my place behind it and listen in silence. Mrs. Vavasour, in the civilest way possible, begged Emily and myself to consider ourselves as one of her family while we were in London.
‘I shall be delighted, Mr. Harcourt,’ said she, ‘to chaperone your daughter and Miss Dacre whenever they require my services. I am myself going to see the procession from my nephew’s club in Pall Mall, and you may safely trust the young ladies to me.’
My father, who is almost invariably polite to females, other than those of his family, thanked her cordially and accepted on our behalf. Mrs. Vavasour then added:
‘I hear there is a match to be rowed in June on the river, which will be an entertaining spectacle. My nephew has engaged at my request a cutter with excellent watermen, and we are making up a party to view the race. May I hope that Miss Harcourt and Miss Dacre and yourself will be of our number?’
Forgetting my embarrassment I exclaimed aloud, ‘How truly delightful! My brother, dear Mrs. Vavasour, is rowing in the match, and it will afford me the greatest pleasure to observe his exertions. Miss Dacre too knows Mr. Darnley, who is taking part.’
Emily joined her thanks to mine, and Mrs. Vavasour’s face beamed with the pleasure that benevolence alone can impart. I noticed that Mr. Vavasour was silent, and turning to him, my confusion quite forgotten, I asked him whether he thought my brother would win.
His full lip curled with scorn as he answered:
‘Miss Harcourt will pardon me if I observe that rowing is hardly a sport in which a man would take a deep interest. A contest in which any gentleman may be overcome by an ignorant waterman is not what a man would choose. Our fellows are not rowing against Cambridge this year, and time will show that they are right in confining their aquatic efforts to their native Isis.’
I was bewildered and must have shown it all too clearly, for he added; ‘By us, I mean the Oxonians. The Cantabs are so anxious for the vulgar applause of the mob that sooner than forgo a match they are rowing against a private club.’
‘Are you then an Oxonian?’ I asked with some interest, for I had found among Ned’s books a volume entitled The Oxonian, with coloured plates, which, though highly unsuitable for female reading, had caused me to burn the midnight oil for several evenings, when I knew my dear father was not likely to disturb me.
‘I was,’ he answered smiling, ‘but for several years I have lived in London, reading law and following the pursuit of literature. Perhaps you may have read some of my novels?’
‘I do not know —I fear not — what are their names?’ I asked, confused.
‘I shall send them to you, if you will allow me,’ said Mr. Vavasour, and drawing his chair nearer co mine he added in a lower tone:
‘Has Miss Harcourt forgiven me my unfortunate boldness of this afternoon?’
‘Sir — Mr. Vavasour — I hardly understand you,’ said I, ready to sink with embarrassment.
‘I admire your delicacy,’ said he, ‘but between acquaintances, I dare not say friends, who are to be thrown much together in the next few weeks, frankness is essential. Miss Harcourt, this afternoon I was passing down Queen Street. I heard the silvery tone of a voice from an upper window. I looked up. I need not tell you what I saw. Conscious of the impropriety of staring at a lady to whom I was unknown, I tore myself away. But Nature, the wild, the primeval, is strong in us. Hardly had I turned the corner than I was irresistibly drawn to retrace my steps. I dared to look up again. You withdrew from the window, and I was left with the conviction that I had deeply offended one whom I reverenced and admired. I met your father. He invited me to bring my aunt to visit him and his daughter. Imagine my feelings as we entered a house which I recognized to be the happy abode of the vision I had lately seen. Now, I beg you, Miss Harcourt, to tell me that I am forgiven.’
His deep manly accents, bearing the stamp of truth, thrilled my nerves. I bowed my head in assent and accidentally managed to drop my handkerchief. He stooped, retrieved it from the carpet, and put it into his bosom. Then, bowing deeply, as though unable to trust himself to speak, he entered into general conversation. Nothing more occurred worthy of notice, and our visitors shortly took their leave.
It was at a late hour that Ned returned, and I heard him as he retired to rest singing loudly:
To keep up our wind round the meadows we run,
And return with a pain in the liver;
But what does it matter, my boys, when there’s fun
To be found every night on the river.
Had he sung this effusion, the remaining words of which I was unable to catch, but once, it would not so have imprinted itself on my memory, but Emily and I, stifling our laughter, heard this ditty, with the addition of many ‘tol-de-rols’ repeated at least twenty times before Morpheus claimed the Cantab for his own.
&nb
sp; On the following day Mr. Darnley came to call. My father received him with his customary heartiness, and all was going well till Mr. Darnley happened to mention that he had seen a certain piece of news in the Weekly Despatch, upon which my father at once flew into one of his rages, stigmatizing the journal in question as a low, subversive, Radical organ. Mr. Darnley was not backward in defending his views, and a quarrel, if not actual blows, seemed imminent, when Ned, who had hitherto been silent, intervened to make matters worse.
‘Pray, Hal,’ he said, drawing a piece of newspaper from his pocket, ‘read this, and then defend your Radical friends if you can. Or rather,’ he continued mischievously, ‘I will read it aloud, that my father may hear.’
In vain did I nod and wink at Ned, who was now in one of the moods when he likes to see cocks or dogs tear each other to pieces, so I contented myself with giving Mr. Darnley a glance expressive of sympathy.
‘Here’s a pretty piece of writing from the Weekly Despatch,’ said Ned. ‘The fellow who wrote it is dead against the Coronation and such a bit of clap-trap you never did hear. “I do most ardently hope,” he says, “that if the disgusting, superstitious, and blasphemous ceremony of the Coronation is to be inflicted upon us, Mr. Plumtre, or some other member of the House of Commons, will move that the day following this absurd mockery of religion may be observed as a General Fast and Humiliation for our sins, in profaning God’s House by a number of men and women assembling to kiss each other in it; by a set of sturdy Bishops unloosing the dress of the Queen to bedaub her body with oil.” Then he adds that the French are far better than we, “for they continue the religion from which these brutalities arose, whilst the English preserve the brutalities after they have got rid of the superstition.” What do you say to that, Hal?’
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