‘The writer’s views are indeed expressed with an unbecoming warmth,’ was Mr. Darnley’s reply, ‘but any reasoning being must admit the justice of much that he says.’
‘I’m damned if they must,’ cried my father, hardly able to contain himself. ‘French indeed! Why, one Englishman can beat any three Frenchmen! Who is the writer? Who is the atheistical, disloyal scoundrel?’
‘Publicola, sir,’ said Ned.
‘A dirty ruffian that skulks behind a name out of the Latin Grammar,’ said my father. ‘I wish old Keate had him up for flogging. He would so trounce him that he couldn’t sit to write his treasonous rubbish for a week.’
‘Publicola, Mr. Harcourt,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘does but conceal the name of Mr. Fox, one of our ablest writers.’
‘Lassy me!’ cried Emily, ‘I thought Mr. Fox dead, lord knows how long ago.’
‘Well, it’s all one,’ said my father angrily, ‘Fox is a damned treacherous, revolutionary name. I’d shoot any one called Fox.’
‘What, sir, would you shoot a fox?’ asked Mr. Darnley laughing.
‘It’s what you and your Radical friends would do,’ grow led my dear father. ‘I daresay you would give poachers silver spoons to eat your partridge, and pheasants too.’
At this Mr. Darnley made a strong protest, and it appeared that his views as a landowner and magistrate were so completely in accord with those of my father and Ned on the subject of poaching that peace reigned once more. I confess I also had thought that Fox was dead, but then politics are entirely beyond me, and I find it does not matter a rap whether one understands them or not, for the gentlemen will talk about them just the same. But I felt, for the first time, that there might be something to be said for the Radicals, if Mr. Darnley was on their side.
Ned now remarked that there was a balloon ascent that evening from the Royal Surrey Zoological Gardens, and made a proposal that we should all go.
‘It was famous fun when Mr. Green and Mr. Gye went up in their monster balloon a year or two ago,’ said Ned. ‘I was at Vauxhall with a party of fellows and I assure you it was famous. They came down in Russia or Prussia or somewhere, and we all got famously drunk that night.’
At this Emily, looking archly at Ned, hummed a line of his song of the previous evening:
But what does it matter, my boys, when there’s fun
To be found every night on the river!
Ned had the grace to look a little ashamed, and hurriedly rang the bell to order a hackney coach, our horses still being tired after the journey. Accordingly we all set out, accompanied by Mr. Darnley. The view of the town as we drove towards Westminster Bridge was truly impressive, and Mr. Darnley was obliging enough to point out to us his club, the Reform, which was a magnificent mansion in Whitehall.
‘We are to build a club in Pall Mall,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘which will far surpass our present temporary home. But I hope I may be permitted to offer the hospitality of this building, such as it is, to Miss Harcourt and Miss Dacre, for the purpose of viewing the Coronation procession. Our French cook is to give a magnificent breakfast for about two thousand people, and it will be quite one of the events of the day.’
My dear father here said he would be damned if any of his family should set foot in a low Radical Club.
‘It is truly kind of you, and I know you will not notice papa,’ said I, ‘but I fear we are already engaged to see the procession from the club of Mr. DeLacy Vavasour, a friend of my father’s.’
‘Vavasour who wrote Jocelyn FitzFulke?’ asked Mr. Darnley.
‘I do not know,’ was my reply. ‘He said he had written a number of novels, but I am ignorant of their names. He promised, however, that he would send me copies of his works.’
Mr. Darnley did not reply. At this moment we were crossing Westminster Bridge and my father pointed out to us the site where the Houses of Parliament had formerly stood until burnt down, a misfortune which he seemed to take very much to heart. Ned, who had been laughing and talking with Emily, drew our attention to the ballast machines in the river outside the House of Lords, where preparations for building were taking place.
‘Those coffer dams have set up some strong eddies, Hal,’ he said, ‘and we are likely to have trouble when we pass them. It’s a lucky job that both crews have watermen that know these reaches of the Thames like their own pockets.’
But Mr. Darnley, doubtless feeling that Ned would talk for ever if not checked, described to us in a very lively way the burning of the Houses of Parliament, which he had personally been lucky enough to witness. My father was inclined to ascribe the conflagration to the Radical party, but did not persist. We thus passed by the Obelisk, which reminded me of Mrs. Bellows’s ‘Obbylicks’ and as we approached the Zoological Gardens the crowd became so dense that our coach could only proceed with difficulty. It consisted chiefly of the lower classes, and I expressed my fears to Mr. Darnley that we might find ourselves with rather unpleasant neighbours who would jostle or incommode us.
‘If any rude fellow presumed to jostle Miss Harcourt,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘it would give me the greatest pleasure.’
I looked my astonishment.
‘For,’ added he, ‘I should then have the pleasure of knocking him down.’
‘Ay, Hal’s a famous bruiser,’ cried Ned. ‘You can tell that by his smashed proboscis. He stood up against the Babraham Pet for ten rounds at Cambridge the year I came up.’
‘Allow me to compliment you, sir,’ said my father. ‘There’s nothing like the fists for Englishmen, but things are sadly altered now. In my young days we had Mendoza and Belcher and the Game Chicken and a dozen more. Now it’s all fighting on the cross.’
He then shook hands warmly with Mr. Darnley, and said he was sure the pretty girls would like a young fellow none the worse for having a broken nose.
‘I never heard that the shape of a man’s nose prevented his kissing a lady,’ said my father, in high good humour, at which Ned guffawed.
‘I dare to say your father is thinking of me,’ said Emily to me in a whisper, ‘but he is wrong. The very thought is quite shocking to me.’
I did not relish her remark, and merely replied that I was sure my father had no such thing in his mind.
We had by now arrived at the Gardens and alighted. Knowing that my dear father would, as invariably occurs, enter into an altercation with the coachman as to the amount of the fare, Emily and I withdrew to a slight distance. After some high words had passed, attracting the attention of the crowd, my father rejoined us. From his conversation we gathered that he had tendered three shillings to the coachman, who had strongly maintained that his legal fare was four.
‘In my young days, the coachman would have fought us for the fare,’ said my father sadly, ‘but these fellows are too tame to show fight. I had half a mind to call one of these policemen and give him in charge.’
‘I believe,’ said Mr. Darnley mildly, ‘that he was within his rights in demanding four shillings.’
At this Emily pinched Mr. Darnley’s arm, nodding so significantly that he said no more, while I, hastening to avert the explosion which I saw to be imminent, asked my father how’ he had settled the matter.
‘I can tell you, Fan,’ said Ned, interrupting. ‘The coachman pitched a yarn about a wife and twenty children, and the governor gave him five shillings.’
My father growled something about an impudent puppy, but was forced to join in the general laugh and confess that Ned had been right. We then entered the gardens, which were both tasteful and magnificent, statuary with gushing fountains, glass houses for exotic plants, and large cages for the feathered tribes being among their attractions. Emily expressed a wish to see the animals, but it was already getting late, so following the crowd we made our way towards a large piece of ornamental water.
‘Never mind, Miss Dacre,’ said Ned. ‘I will bring you here another day with Fan, and you shall see the rhinoceros and the giraffes.’
‘I do long,’ said Emi
ly, ‘to see the female gorilla. She must be a doat of an animal. And I would dearly love to see the kangaroos swallow their young.’
At this Ned again rudely burst into a loud guffaw, while Mr. Darnley, pained as I could see by Emily’s shocking use of the word female, endeavoured to cover the confusion which she did not feel by relating to me a charming anecdote about a black spaniel, who had strayed by chance into the lion’s cage. The King of Beasts, instead of killing the dog, took it under his protection, and fondled and played with it, and when the spaniel died the lion, broken-hearted, did not survive the loss of his companion more than a few days.
I was truly touched by this story and was about to shed a tear, but the crowd became here so thick and noisy that I could only express by a look the interest that I felt. On the opposite side of the lake we could distinguish the yet flaccid form of the balloon. Boats were rowing across the lake with combustibles for the rarefying apparatus which, so Ned said, was to inflate the balloon, and all was bustle and movement. Around us the crowd was becoming restless, several people saying in loud voices that they had paid their money and waited quite long enough, while booings and hisses began to arise in an alarming way. Presently we observed a man putting up placards in various parts of the grounds. Approaching the nearest, what was our disappointment to read as follows:
‘The Balloon cannot ascend, but in compensation for the unavoidable disappointment an Eruption will take place at dusk.’
The crowd at once began to express its disapprobation of the news by making towards the balloon in a threatening manner. Our party with some little difficulty succeeded in getting to a slight distance, but even from here the sight was truly terrifying. Some threw stones at the boats on the lake, most of which were stove in and sunk. The greater number of the spectators made for the enclosure where the balloon was lying, and smashing down the palings threw themselves upon the unresisting monster. At first they satisfied themselves by pelting it with stones, but their spirits rising with the growing dusk they dragged the balloon to the edge of the lake and tore it to pieces with frenzied shouts. Emily and I, both seriously alarmed, begged my father to take us away, to which he reluctantly agreed, being half inclined to see the frolic through. As we made our way towards the gate two figures passed us, running at full speed with a crowd at their heels. We learnt next day that they were the unlucky owners of the balloon, who had barely escaped with their lives. At last we reached the exit, where a large notice of ‘Money Returned’ was being posted up, but without waiting for our money we passed rapidly out. All was not yet over, however. Two or three very low-looking individuals, a part of the crowd who had been pursuing the unfortunate owners of the balloon, came jostling about us, and one went so far as to offer to ‘kiss the gals’. Emily and I both screamed. At the same moment a hackney coach drove up, and a voice cried, ‘Get in guv’ner! I’ll drive your lordship anyveres after the werry handsome way your lordship treated me.’
Without ceremony my father hustled Emily and myself in and jumped in after us, followed by Ned. One of the blackguards was attempting to snatch at my shawl, which hung from the window, when Mr. Darnley very coolly stepped up to him and with a well-directed blow laid him senseless on the ground. He then leapt into the coach, telling the man to drive on, and we were soon out of sight of the crowd, though the light of the Eruption of Vesuvius was for some time plainly visible. The journey home was excessively uncomfortable. Not only were Emily and I in a highly nervous state, but the coachman had undoubtedly been spending part of my father’s ill-placed bounty on intoxicating drink, and drove very wildly, causing Emily and myself to shriek at frequent intervals. When we got to Queen Street, Mr. Darnley and Ned took their leave, Mr. Darnley to go to his club, and Ned to spend the night with a Cambridge friend and catch the early coach back to the University.
Emily and I retired to our room, where Emily’s way of taking it for granted that Mr. Darnley had knocked the man down on her behalf made me quite ashamed of her, and I felt it my duty to tell her so. After all it was my shawl that the ruffian had attempted to snatch. We then both burst into tears and went to sleep.
Chapter Four — We Visit the Temples of Art
For the next few days Emily and I were fully occupied in visiting various modistes and mantua-makers recommended to us by Mrs. Vavasour. Willingly would we have ordered a ball dress each, for the materials were truly ravishing. Especially did we dote upon a dress of white organdy embroidered with sprigs of coloured worsted, a coloured print of which Madame Jupon of Hanover Square had shown to us in a French Journal des Modes. It had a very low corsage en cœur, long hall sleeves, and a ceinture of brilliant gorge de pigeon silk, and was worn with white silk stockings and black shoes. But prudence prevailed. It was not likely that we should be asked to any grand balls, and though Emily is an heiress, her mother having left her a handsome fortune, I did not feel inclined to let her eclipse me. I therefore persuaded her that a handsome walking dress and dinner dress each would sufficiently replenish our wardrobe, besides hats, kid gloves, brodequins, shawls, and any other trifles we might require.
Accordingly Emily decided upon a walking dress of violet peau do sole with a low corsage, and a mantelet of green taffetas trimmed with lace. Her hat of green peau de sole was to be trimmed with ribbons and flowers, and formed a deep and becoming frame for her face. For myself I chose a dress of cedar colour gros de Naples worn with a very large shawl of soie chatoyante, whose mingled shades of blue and green were indeed exquisite. My hat was to be of pink gros de Naples with a deep trimming of blonde, ornamented with ribbons and marabout. Madame Jupon promised to have the dresses ready for fitting early in the following week, and with this we were forced to be satisfied.
‘I am only too ready to oblige any friend of Mrs. Vavasour’s,’ said Madame Jupon, ‘but really you have no idea how pressed we are. There is such uncertainty about the Coronation, some saying it will be in June, and others, according to the newspapers, wishing to put it off till August, so that my customers are quite at a loss, for a dress that would be quite a la mode in June may not be the latest fashion in August; besides I hear from Paris that hats are getting smaller, and then we shall be left with large stocks on our hands. I do assure you, ladies, I am quite distracted and have had to engage eight more young ladies, some of whom are hardly worth the wages I have to pay. They are at work till eleven or twelve every night, but even so I hardly like to take another order, though, of course, I make an exception for any one introduced to me by Mrs. Vavasour.’
Emily’s attention was here attracted to a half-finished dress of mousseline de laine, embroidered with gay bouquets in silk.
‘I see you are looking at that dress,’ Madame Jupon ran on, ‘it is one of the most exclusive we have yet made this season. It is for the Lady Almeria Norbourne, a young lady of great fortune and a famous beauty. She is the ward of your friend Mrs. Vavasour, so doubtless you will make her acquaintance. Now, ladies, what can I show you in the way of dinner gowns or evening dresses? I have the very latest patterns from Paris, you will find nothing more modish anywhere. Miss Smith, bring up the yellow muslin and the pink crape for these ladies to see.’
‘Thank you very much, Madame Jupon,’ said I, ‘but I am too fatigued to see anything more to-day. If your assistants are half as tired as I am, I pity them.’
‘Oh no, miss,’ said Madame Jupon, ‘they are used to it. Miss Smith thinks nothing of it, do you, Miss Smith?’
Miss Smith merely bowed. A faint interest was roused in me by her delicate appearance and the description which Madame Jupon had previously given of the hours of work, but reflecting that I knew nothing of her real situation, nor did I wish to, I took my leave.
‘Why did you hurry away so, Fanny?’ asked Emily as we walked away.
‘I felt such an oppression that I could not stay any longer,’ was my reply. ‘Emily, I would like to see Lady Almeria. A beauty and a fortune — and doubtless she is thrown much into Mr. Vavasour’s society.’
‘My poor Fanny,’ replied Emily, tenderly pressing my arm, ‘I can indeed sympathize with you. But do not let your fancy form too lively images. I too know what it is to feel a flame which I cannot reveal. The other night, after Mr. Darnley’s heroic conduct, I could not sleep a wink.’
Emily is really insufferable at times. As I said before, it was my shawl. Hurrying on to conceal my annoyance, I was nearly knocked over at the corner of Bond Street by a party of ladies and gentlemen proceeding in the opposite direction. I was about to make my apologies, when Emily, pressing forward, greeted them all warmly.
‘My dear Fanny,’ she cried, ‘here we are indeed among friends. Here is our neighbour Mr. Ingoldsby from Tappington Everard, his son, Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, and his daughter and son-in-law Mr. and Mrs. Charles Seaforth. And this is my friend Miss Harcourt, of whom you have often heard me speak, with whom I am on a visit.’
Mutual greetings ensued, and it was decided that we should all go to Gunter’s, the pastrycook’s in Berkeley Square, and take some ices. As soon as we were settled, the conversation naturally turned upon the approaching Coronation which had brought us all to London. I mentioned that Madame Jupon had read that the ceremony was to be postponed, but old Mr. Ingoldsby pooh-poohed this.
‘It is all settled,’ said he, ‘for the twenty-eighth of June, and we are going to see it in the Abbey.’
‘But how will you do that, Mr. Ingoldsby?’ asked Emily. ‘I thought tickets were only to be got through the Earl Marshal’s office, and were not transferable.’
‘That’s what the other geese thought,’ said old Mr. Ingoldsby chuckling, ‘but we country people aren’t such fools as we look. My Tom here has got us tickets from a stationer’s in the Strand. There are plenty of fine lords and ladies who are glad to turn an honest penny by selling their places.’
‘How much did you pay for them, Mr. Ingoldsby?’ Emily inquired, with that want of delicacy that is a distinguishing trait of her character.
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