‘You did, Mrs. Bellows,’ said Upton, ‘and I said to Mrs. Bellows, there’s more in that than meets the eye, and I shouldn’t be surprised if the poor dear Queen had some shocking accident or didn’t live through the night, and someone ought to shoot that bird, flying about like that, and everyone said it was a shame and bound to bring bad luck, and so it was.’
‘And the soldiers were that military, miss,’ continued Mrs. Bellows, ‘and then there was the rain, and never in all my born days did I see so many umbrellas, quite a grove as you might say, and then the men came along to water the roads, though not necessary, as you well may say, miss, but orders is orders. And the sun come out, and the carriages come rolling through the gate, and the crowd began to squeege, and I wouldn’t have missed it for five hundred pound.’
‘And Mrs. Bellows’s nephew was very genteel, miss,’ said Upton, ‘and he saw two men with his own eyes that had their legs broke in the crowd, and a poor woman that had been kicked in the face by a horse. All knocked to a jelly before her eyes her face was, and they say she’ll never look out of one eye again.’
‘And I lost my umbrella coming back, and Mrs. Upton had her bonnet knocked right over her eyes,’ said Mrs. Bellows, ‘but here I stand gossiping when what you young ladies want is a nice cup of tea, and my girl gone trapesing out I’ll be bound, and good gracious if there isn’t my front door bell,’ upon which she left the room in great haste, followed by Upton.
The Coronation has indeed brought all classes together and at no other time could I have tolerated such conversation from Upton, who will doubtless need taking down after this.
The front door bell turned out to be Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, just back from the Abbey. He came to tell us that his family had decided to drive out and see the illuminations after dinner, and invited us to join them. We were not to make any change in our toilettes, and he offered to wait and escort us to Mivart’s. Emily and I accepted with alacrity. I would have liked to have some news of my father and Ned, but knowing that they would probably be out till late, I contented myself with leaving a message with Mrs. Bellows to tell them where we had gone.
On our arrival at Mivart’s we sat down to dinner in the Ingoldsbys’ private room.
‘Well, girls,’ said old Mr. Ingoldsby, ‘we had a rare time in the Abbey, I can tell you, and the fun of it is I saw some neighbours of ours in the country who had paid four times as much as we paid and weren’t in half such good places. My Tom is a good hand at a bargain, and I don’t regret the money I spent on our tickets.’
‘I have never got up so early in my life,’ said Mrs. Sea-forth. ‘Only fancy, Emily, we were woken by the horrid cannon at four o’clock and we had to be in our places in the Abbey by six o’clock, or I am sure we never should have got in. But it all looked very fine, and after all one need never go to a coronation again.’
‘It was certainly a complete change,’ said Mr. Tom Ingoldsby, ‘from the venerable grey stone building to which we are accustomed. The monuments were all boarded over to preserve them from injury, galleries were erected everywhere and hung with rich draperies. The musicians were a fine sight in their gallery, which was draped with crimson and yellow. The choristers were, of course, in white, the canons in their black gowns and red hoods, while the orchestra were dressed in some kind of uniform richly trimmed with gold. Sir George Smart, their leader, seemed to have lent his name to the appearance of his helpers.’
‘Did you notice the Prussian Ambassador?’ asked Mr. Seaforth. ‘When he arrived in his place he took one look at the musicians’ gallery and actually screamed with delight. He must have wanted to scream to a different tune when the music began, for anything more execrable I have never heard.’
‘Come, come, Charles,’ said Mr. Tom, ‘you are unreasonable. Say that the oboes and bassoons were united in a sturdy English determination to play out of tune; say that Sir George Smart cannot conduct and play the organ simultaneously, except as a means of earning double fees; say that the Westminster boys gave the most inharmonious and murderous scream of greeting that ever was heard — but do not, Charles, oh do not say that the music was not in the best English tradition.’
‘It seemed very peculiar to me to hear people cheer in the Abbey,’ said Mrs. Seaforth. ‘I mean it did not give one the impression of an ordinary service, did it?’
‘Well, my love, we may say that it was quite extraordinary,’ replied her husband, ‘and I must say the cheers for the Duke of Wellington were particularly gratifying to an old soldier like myself, though even they were nothing compared with the noise of the people and the instruments when the Queen at last came in from her tiring room.’
‘It made me proud to be an Englishman,’ said Mr. Ingoldsby. ‘Thady, look after the wine; the gentlemen aren’t drinking. Come Caroline, you need to keep your strength up, you know. I must say I should have been glad of a drink in the Abbey, sitting there all those hours. I can’t think how the Queen got through with it.’
‘Sure, your honour,’ said Thady, Mr. Seaforth’s Irish servant, of whom I had before heard, ‘Her Majesty wasn’t needing to be dry at all, at all. I got a peep into the chapel, King Edward’s Chapel I think it is they call it, because being Protestants they don’t call him a saint, bad cess to them! and there on the altar was a grand refreshment set out for Her Majesty, with custards and jellies and poulthry and nuts and apples and wine and all. Sure, your honour needn’t be unasy about the royal darling.’
‘That’s enough, Thady,’ said Mr. Seaforth. ‘Put the wine on the table and you can go.’
‘Faith, I think the ould Lord that fell down on the steps in front of the Queen must have been at that same chapel,’ said Thady, quite unabashed by his master’s rebuke. ‘It’s myself would have rowled downstairs if I’d had a drop too much of the craythur and then to kneel on the steps in front of the whole world.’
‘Go downstairs, sir,’ said Charles Seaforth, and Thady vanished from the room.
‘I apologize for my man,’ said Mr. Seaforth. ‘He is a good creature, but he drives me out of patience ten times a day.’
As he said these words, Thady reappeared at the door, announcing ‘Mr. Darnley to see the company’, and then departed once more, only pausing in the door to execute a few steps of an Irish jig. Mr. Darnley was cordially welcomed by the Ingoldsbys and placed himself at my side.
‘I could not get away from the club earlier,’ he said. ‘We had about two thousand persons there, and six hundred ladies, and our French chef, Soyer, surpassed himself with the breakfast. I then went to Queen Street, but learning that Miss Harcourt and Miss Dacre had already left, I followed them here. I hope, Miss Harcourt, that your father will relent towards the Reform Club when he learns that they gave the largest patriotic breakfast of any club in London.’
‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘that your sentiments are truly loyal, Mr. Darnley. But as for my father and Ned, I am a little anxious. I know that gentlemen do not like to be asked to account for their actions, but it is not like my father to leave me for so long without news of him, and since what you told me about his playing high at White’s,’ said I, lowering my voice, ‘a sentiment of anxiety has never been absent from my mind.’
‘If what I said has given any uneasiness to you, I wish I had never spoken,’ said Mr. Darnley gravely. ‘But you are tired by to-day’s exertions and exaggerate your fears. If I can be of any assistance, I hope you will command me. I am certain to see Ned somewhere and will make inquiries from him.’
I thanked him, and promised to banish from my mind as far as possible these foolish alarms. But what sense of security his promise of help imparted!
Mrs. Seaforth now pleaded fatigue, so she and her husband stayed in the hotel, while the rest of us, in Mr. Ingoldsby’s carriage, went to see the illuminations. The carriage had to take its place in a long line which was slowly proceeding along the route taken earlier in the day by the Royal Procession. We could hardly proceed at more than a foot pace, and the police ordered the
coachmen to keep to the right of the road. The illuminations were beyond my wildest dreams. All the clubs had vied with one another, and it was difficult to award the palm, though Crockford’s, with the words VICTORIA REGINA in letters of fire six feet high, was among the finest. The Athenaeum had a large bulging British Crown all in gas, and the Ordnance Office was a blaze from top to bottom. We drove slowly along Cockspur Street and part way along the Strand, where we were particularly struck by the premises of the London Tea Company, who had a transparency tastefully outlined with coloured lamps and the words ‘Our Angel Queen, Huzza’.
Returning past the National Gallery whose whole front was hung with lamps, we proceeded past Howell and James’s brilliant gas illuminations in the Quadrant, up Regent Street, and so back to our lodgings.
I had very little to say during the drive, being, to tell the truth, excessively tired by the day’s exertions and oppressed by a feeling of coming misfortune I could not explain. Emily, on the contrary, was in the highest spirits and laughed and talked with the two Mr. Ingoldsbys all the time. Mr. Darnley also said very little, though what he said was well chosen, and his presence was a solace to me.
Arrived at Queen Street I inquired whether my father or Ned had come in, and learning that neither had been heard of since the morning, my heart sank. Mr. Ingoldsby, with genuine kindness, pressed us to come to his hotel for the night, but I declined.
‘Miss Harcourt,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘I do beg you not to be alarmed. Your father has probably found old friends at his club, and as for Ned, you know what young men are. If it would be of any assistance to you, I will come here early to-morrow morning, to offer my services, though I am certain they will not be needed.’
‘Thank you very much indeed,’ said I. ‘You are kindness itself.’
By this time my fears had communicated themselves to Emily. We sat up till late, listening to the cries from the street, and tormenting ourselves by trying to imagine what had occurred. Emily confessed to me that her seeming gaiety during the-evening had merely masked am aching heart, and we mingled our tears. About four o’clock in the morning an unsteady step was heard on the stairs. Emily and I, who had fallen asleep in our chairs, sprang to our feet. It was Ned, looking as done up as he did after the rowing match.
‘What have you been doing, Ned?’ I asked, drawing aside the curtains and letting the morning light into the room.
‘Been to the theatre,’ said Ned, rather thickly. ‘Been to all the theatres. All free to-night because of Coronation. Went to the lot of them and saw lots of good fellows. Saw the governor in queer company too. Governor says he’ll cut his throat and blow his brains out, but that’s all my eye. Give us soda-water, Fan, there’s a good girl.’
He leaned his head on his arms and at once went to sleep. Emily, with great spirit, shook him violently by the arm and poured some soda-water over his head, which revived him sufficiently to get upstairs, though incapable of speech. The reader may imagine in what agony of sleepless anxiety Emily and I passed the next few hours. The sunlight appeared a mockery, and when we did snatch a little sleep it was feverish and unrefreshing. At nine o’clock Upton brought a message that Mr. Darnley had called and sent his apologies for coming so early, but thought we might like to see him. Much comforted by this proof of reliability I finished dressing and went downstairs with Emily.
Chapter Ten — My Happiest Moment
As soon as I got into the room, ‘I do hope,’ said I to Mr. Darnley, ‘that you will not think it wrong of me to receive you at this hour, but under the circumstances, and as Emily and I have not slept all night, and we are sure you bring news, you will be kind enough to excuse me.’
At this incoherent speech Mr. Darnley pressed my hand kindly and replied, ‘I do bring news of your father, Miss Harcourt, who will shortly rejoin you, I trust. But I regret to say that I could hear nothing of Ned.’
‘He came back at four o’clock this morning, in a very intoxicated state,’ said I severely, ‘and is now asleep.’
‘He needs to sleep,’ said Emily tenderly, ‘after coming home so late. The poor fellow was so exhausted, Mr. Darnley, that he actually fell asleep before our eyes, and we were obliged to rouse him before we could get him to go to bed.’
‘In fact,’ said I, ‘Emily had to pour the soda-water on his head.’
At this Mr. Darnley laughed outright, but Emily was displeased.
‘I blame myself for having done it,’ said she. ‘He looked so pale and noble in his sleep, but we had to get him to go to bed somehow.’
‘But what of my father?’ said I. ‘Pray tell us the worst, Mr. Darnley.’
‘I hope,’ answered Mr. Darnley, ‘that the worst may not be so very bad. I inquired at various clubs and gaming houses last night after I had left you, and heard on various hands that Mr. Harcourt — I cannot disguise it from you — had been playing very heavily and losing. About two o’clock I was fortunate enough to run into him in St. James’s Street. He was in such a state of mind that I could not dare to let him out of my sight, and feeling that his appearance here at such an hour, and in such a condition, would terrify you and Miss Dacre even more than his unexplained absence, I took him to the Hummums in Covent Garden and engaged a room. I remained with him till he fell asleep and have left my man there with orders to bring him to you in my cab when he wakes. I then returned to my club, snatched an hour’s sleep, and came to tell you the result of my efforts.’
I was unable to speak. Shame at my father’s conduct, apprehension for the future, gratitude to Mr. Darnley, all these roused in my bosom such conflicting emotions that speech was impossible.
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Darnley, misinterpreting my silence, ‘that I have not presumed too far in my anxiety to be of use to Miss Harcourt.’
‘Indeed you have not,’ cried Emily, pushing in as usual. ‘You have acted most kindly and properly, but that is no more than one would expect. Fanny, is not Mr. Darnley the most thoughtful and generous of creatures?’
‘He is, he is,’ I murmured faintly, and extended my hand in gratitude to Mr. Darnley. He raised it respectfully to his lips and saluted it, while a thrill ran through my whole being. We both remained mute, and might have so stayed for a long time, such was our mutual embarrassment, when a loud knocking was heard at the front door. Emily ran to the window.
‘It is your cabriolet, Mr. Darnley,’ she cried. ‘That must be Mr. Harcourt returning.’
My father’s steps were heard on the stairs and he entered. I was so shocked by his appearance that I clung to Emily for support. He had evidently slept in his clothes, his linen was crumpled, his face unshaven, his hair in disorder, and he looked fully ten years older than when I had last seen him.
‘Oh, Papa,’ I gasped, ‘where have you been? Emily and I have been frightened out of our senses. We sat up all night wondering what had become of you. How could you be so inconsiderate? We could not think what had happened.’
‘And now you know, I suppose, as I see Darnley is here before me,’ said my father. ‘You are a good fellow, Darnley, and these girls are fools. Sitting up all night! Sitting up never did any good unless there was something to sit up for. You can sit up for the rest of your life, Fan, for you soon won’t have a bed to lie on. I have been an old fool and played too deep. How to tell your mother I don’t know. Damned scoundrels saw I was a country pigeon and they plucked me clean. Bring me some soda-water, Fan.’
I poured a glass from the remains of what Ned had had last night, sooner than bring the servants into the room.
‘I had better leave you now, sir,’ said Mr. Darnley, ‘and if I can be of any assistance to you in any way, I beg that you will let me know. Do not think that I am presuming on our acquaintance if I suggest that a slight loan might be of use to you.’
I had thought my father would have had one of his rages at such a suggestion, but he answered, ‘You are a Heart of Oak, Darnley, but I’ve enough to settle our bills and go home. It’s the principal that’s gone, my boy,
not the petty cash. Don’t go yet. Where’s that scoundrel Ned?’
As he spoke my unlucky brother Ned made his appearance in a shawl dressing-gown and red morocco slippers. His hair also was ruffled and his cheek unshaven, and his face of surprise at seeing us all would have been comical had we had the spirits to laugh.
‘Good lord, Governor,’ said Ned, ‘so you made a night of it too! If you’ve got a head like mine, I’m confoundedly sorry for you.’
‘You’d better be sorry for yourself,’ said my father angrily.
‘So I am,’ said Ned. ‘We made a real night of it, I and a dozen fellows. It was famous fun, I can tell you. We went to four theatres, they were free you know last night, and we walked down Regent Street arm in arm and the police couldn’t stop us. As for the tapemen, the special policemen you know, they were all beastly intoxicated and lying about in the gutters in a very special fashion. Lord, it was famous! We smashed a lot of coloured lamps, and we went to the Cider Cellar and all got as drunk as lords, and when I got home the girls thought I was the devil! I thought so, too, last night, with infernal red-hot pincers at my head and molten lead in my gullet. Governor, you have all my sympathy. Pass us the soda-water. You look even worse than I do.’
‘Confound you, sir!’ cried my father, hitting the table with such vehemence that a book fell on to the floor, ‘have you no respect for your father?’
‘Not this morning, sir,’ answered Ned coolly, picking up the book. As he replaced it on the table, a paper fluttered from it.
‘Here’s one of Emily’s billy doos,’ said Ned, carelessly perusing it. ‘Oh, ho,’ he cried, his expression changing, ‘it’s not Em’s, it’s Fan’s. Oh, you sly minx! Listen, Hal.
“Oh, turn away those fawn-like eyes, and close the jalousie!
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