Felicity - Stands By

by Richmal Crompton

  Felicity’s musical laugh rang out.

  “How lovely! And did you?”

  “Well, miss,” said the man proudly, “we’ve got our reppetation to consider. We sent two of each.”

  “Are—are they in the van?” said Felicity, breathless with excitement “One of each,” said the man. “He’s chosen the ones he wanted. I’m takin’ the hother three back ’ome.”

  “Oh!’’ gasped Felicity. “Do let me look!”

  She ran to the caravan and opened the door. The man rose slowly, knocked out his pipe, and followed her.

  There they were in roomy cages inside the caravan—a green, evil-looking snake, an adorable little tiger cub, and a parrot with a glinting, cynical eye.

  “Go right in an’ look at ’em, miss,” he encouraged her. “They won’t do you any harm. That there snake he’s called Judas, same as the Judas in the Bible—he’s had his fangs took out an’ he’s as gentle as a lamb, though not because he wants to be, believe me. While Felix”—he pointed to the tiger cub—“Felix is as playful as a kitten.” He opened the cage door and put in his hand. The tiger cub began to lick it and gambol about playfully. “’E’s smart, too,” went on the man affectionately. “Tricks he can do an’ all—fight, Felix,” he commanded. The tiger cub bared his teeth and snarled, then darted round after a piece of straw like a kitten. “And here’s ole Foxy”— he pointed to the parrot.

  “He doesn’t seem to be swearing much,” said Felicity, disappointed.

  “’E’s all right so long as he’s not covered up,” said the man. “When he’s covered up you’d ’ardly believe the words that bird knows, miss. It’s somethink orful! It fair gives me the creeps sometimes!”

  “Do cover him up,” pleaded Felicity.

  “No, miss,” he said firmly, “you don’t ’ardly know what you’re askin’, miss. You don’t reely. I dunno where the bird picked ’em up. I almost has to put cotton wool in my ears sometimes. ’E’s got to be covered else he doesn’t sleep. But the first five minutes—well, it’s a hedducation to listen to ’im. No, miss. I’ve never covered ’im up before a lady yet, an’ I never will.”

  Felicity was not listening to him or looking at him. She was standing very still, the speedwell-blue eyes fixed dreamily on the far horizon, the lovely lips parted over small white teeth.

  “It’s Fate,” she said at last, slowly.

  “Beg pardon, miss?” said the man.

  “I said it was Fate,” said Felicity distinctly.

  The man looked anxious.

  “It is a bit ’ot, miss,” he said. “I’ve known it affect people sudden-like before. S’pose you go an’ sit down quiet a bit over there by the ’edge or—–”

  “Now, listen,” said Felicity imperiously. “Would you like some—some beer or something, and something to eat and a nice rest for—say—two hours?”

  The man was still looking at her anxiously.

  “Wouldn’t I?” he said jocularly. “Specially the beer. But you sure you’re feelin’ all right, miss?”

  “Will you come with me,” said Felicity, “up to the Hall and they’ll give you some beer and a good meal and a rest, and you can go on later when it’s cooler. Could you get back in time?”

  “Yes,” said the man; “but”—pointing to the caravan—“what about me hannymals?”

  “They’ll be all right,” said Felicity. “Bring it along. I’ll tell you just where to leave it.”

  He looked at Felicity. Felicity’s eyes were blue limpid pools of innocence.

  “Look here, miss,” he said slowly, “do you want to go monkeyin’ about with me hannymals?”

  Felicity took out her purse and handed him her pound note.

  “When you start off home,” she said, “your animals will be just where you left them.”

  The man looked at Felicity, then at the note, then at the caravan. Then he looked back from the caravan to the note and from the note to Felicity. Then he took the note, folded it up, and put it into his pocket.

  “Right you are, miss,” he said.

  “Now,” said Felicity briskly, “let’s get off home. Come along!”

  He took the nose-bag off the horse. She seated herself on the low board in front; he took up the reins and they set off at a walk down the road, Felix growling softly inside the van. Felicity enjoyed the drive except for one thing. No one saw her. If Miss Bloke or her aunt had seen her her cup of happiness would have been full.

  They entered the hall grounds by an inconspicuous gate. The caravan halted at Felicity’s direction near a side door. Then Felicity took the man to the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. French, the housekeeper, was a great friend of Felicity’s. Mr. Moult, the butler, was not. Mr. Moult was a perfect gentleman and approved only of perfect ladies. Though he adored the family pedigree he had come reluctantly to the conclusion that Miss Felicity was not a perfect lady. Her behaviour pained him on an average a dozen times a day. He forgave her on the score of her youth, but he looked forward to her future with apprehension . . . So Felicity had learnt to look for no help from Moult . . .

  “Mrs. French,” said Felicity, with her most winning smile (and Felicity’s most winning smile was a very decided winner). “This is Mr.—–what is your name?” she said to the nice low man.

  “Smith,” said the nice low man.

  “Smith, of course,” said Felicity graciously. “This is Mr. Smith, Mrs. French. He’s a great friend of mine. I want him to have some beer and something to eat, and a nice rest for the next two hours. You’ll be an angel and look after him, won’t you?”

  Mrs. French smiled her motherly, all-embracing smile. It embraced Felicity, and the nice low man, and the canary in the window, and every article of furniture in the room. That smile had never yet failed Felicity.

  “Certainly, dearie,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll see to it!”

  Felicity blew her a kiss and went out into the corridor. Then she stood for a moment, her brow drawn into a frown, one hand at her lips, the other on her hip, her glorious pigtail as usual over her shoulder. She needed a little more help here. Moult was no good. Lewis, the head footman, was no good. But James—James, the under-footman, adored her. James was young and romantic, and a smile from Felicity’s blue eyes increased his pulse from normal to 100. Rosemary did not appeal to him. Rosemary was too arctic. And Rosemary never smiled at him. Felicity’s brow cleared. She ran lightly down the corridor through the green baize door into the hall. There she rang the bell. James appeared.

  “James,” said Felicity, “I want you to help me. Will you?”

  “Certainly, miss,” said the devoted James.

  “Without asking any questions or ever telling anyone about it?” Felicity smiled as she spoke and James’ pulse leapt from normal to 100. He wished she’d asked him to fight giants or lions for her. Something really difficult.

  “Certainly, miss,” said James dizzily.

  Lord Rowman had arrived, and was in the drawing-room talking with, or rather being talked to by, Lady Montague. He was not feeling his brightest and best. He had celebrated his last evening in town as an unencumbered bachelor (for he meant to return as the fiancé of the beautiful Miss Rosemary Harborough) by what was known to his lordship and his friends as a “jag to the nth.” His morning headache was still a going concern, and the solid things of the world were still to his lordship’s vision apt to appear unsteady. He was in a mood easily to feel annoyed. And he felt annoyed.

  He’d arrived quite an hour ago and he’d seen no one but this harridan who was talking rock gardens to him (Rock Gardens—by gad!). Although everyone knew that he’d come down to propose to Rosemary, Rosemary had not yet appeared. He had been calmly told that she was out and would be in soon. That was cool cheek, thought his lordship. She knew he was coming. She ought to have been there to greet him, dressed in her prettiest frock and wearing her prettiest smile. And she wasn’t. Confound her, she wasn’t! He was boxed up instead with this Early-Victorian monument discussing�
��rock gardens. He’d thought of quite a lot of pretty things to say to Rosemary and instead he had to talk about rock gardens. Another thing that annoyed him was that he looked yellow. Every time he looked into a mirror (and there seemed to be a confounded lot of mirrors about the room) he saw himself looking yellow. And it annoyed him. He’d like to smash the beastly things.

  “Saxifrages are so pretty, don’t you think?” said Lady Montague. His lordship stood up, glared ferociously at his yellow countenance in the mirror over the mantelpiece and then turned to Lady Montague.

  “I have some letters to write before tea,” he snarled, “if you will kindly excuse me.”

  Lady Montague inclined her head majestically and smiled graciously.

  “Certainly,” she said. “Rosemary will probably be in by tea-time.”

  He began to smile, then caught sight of his yellow face again in the mirror and scowled instead.

  He went up to his bedroom. Now Felicity had chosen the snake for Lord Rowman simply because she considered it the most suitable. To do Felicity justice she had no idea that the snake was a reptile to which his lordship had a particular aversion.

  He opened the bedroom door jauntily. He’d escaped from that monumental harridan, anyway. He could lie down till tea-time and try to get rid of his foul head.

  He opened the door.

  A great green snake was crawling across the red carpet.

  His lordship’s face went from yellow to green. He skipped back to the corridor and closed the door sharply.

  “Snakes!” he said.

  He looked round wildly. Croombs, his valet, was coming along the corridor. His lordship put his hand to his throat.

  “Croombs!” he said weakly. “I’m seeing snakes. Great green snakes crawling over carpets. I’d better get home. I—I can’t see snakes here!”

  “Let me get you a drop of something, my lord,” said Croombs solicitously.

  “The trouble is I’ve had too many drops of something,” said his lordship. “Croombs, open that door and see if you can see a green snake.”

  Croombs opened the door. His lordship had caught Judas on a voyage of discovery across the bedroom. By the time Croombs opened the door Judas had found a nice warm corner behind the radiator that just suited him, and was no longer visible.

  “Is there a snake there, Croombs?” said his lordship anxiously.

  “No, my lord,” said Croombs; “how could there be?”

  “Exactly,” said his lordship, ‘‘how could there be? But I saw one. A nasty green thing crawling across the carpet. Heaven alone knows what I shall be seeing next. Croombs, pack up at once. We’re catching the next train to town.”

  “Oh, there you are, Felicity!” said Lady Montague. “Where have you been?”

  Felicity, stretched at length on the Chesterfield in the smoking-room, tried to look as if she had been there all the afternoon, and eyed her aunt warily. Lady Montague looked put out. Most decidedly put out. There was a streak of red across her ladyship’s cheekbones that always accompanied the state of “put outness” with her ladyship. Also she breathed hard. When Lady Montague breathed hard you knew that something had happened.

  “Did I hear a motor going or coming?” said Felicity with well-simulated sleepiness.

  “Going!” snapped her ladyship. “Lord Rowman said he felt ill one minute and said he was summoned to town on urgent business the next. Behaved most curiously. Unfortunately he met Rosemary coming in just as he was going out and she was so annoyed by the way he was behaving that she wouldn’t speak to him. Just walked past him. You know what Rosemary can be like. Most unfortunate—most unfortunate.”

  “However, I’ve been looking for you all afternoon, Felicity—it’s all most tiresome. That Miss—Miss Bloke” (it certainly was an unfortunate name, thought her ladyship, irritably) “has been in the morning-room all the afternoon. I’ve had to entertain Lord Rowman (he was so much interested in rock gardens) and I haven’t had time to see to her. Felicity dear, I want you to go to her now and show her the school-room where you’re going to work, and your little sitting-room that she will share with you.”

  “Yes, aunt,” said Felicity meekly.

  After a considerable interval Felicity joined Miss Bloke in the morning-room.

  Miss Bloke was very thin and very angular. She wore pince-nez, a pained expression, and a dress that Victoria the Great and Good would have looked upon with entire approval. Her hair was scraped back from her high-furrowed brow and dressed in a little bun half-way up the back of her head. She had been chosen by Lady Montague out of dozens of applicants as being Lady Montague’s ideal of all that a governess should be. She held out a bony hand.

  “So this is Felicity?” she said precisely. “Felicity— from a Latin word meaning happiness. I am sure, dear, that you and I will get on together beautifully. You stoop a little, darling, don’t you? But we can soon remedy that. Felicity! Happiness! Very pretty. How Old are you, dear? Sixteen? Your skirt is just a lee-tle short for sixteen. But we can soon remedy that. You know, when your dear aunt persuaded me to come to you (a Scottish earl badly wanted me for his daughters, too, but the family was mixed up with trade, and I felt it wouldn’t do) I knew that we’d get on well together. We will read and walk together—nice little gentle walks, I mean. I believe,” wagging a forefinger playfully, “that my Felicity’s been going out without gloves. But we can soon remedy that. A lady’s hands, dear, are never tanned. Never. And—–”

  “Aunt asked me to show you the school-room,” said Felicity.

  “Certainly, dear, certainly!” said Miss Bloke briskly. “Let us visit the little sanctum where we will spend so many happy hours together.”

  The school-room window curtains were blue, and on a stool near them was a large parrot in a cage that was decorated by a blue bow to match the curtains.

  “A parrot!” guessed Miss Bloke brightly.

  “Yes,” said Felicity; “we’re all awfully fond of parrots.”

  As she spoke she carelessly drew the curtains across the cage.

  It is impossible to reproduce in print the stream of profanity that issued from the shrouded wires.

  “Merciful heavens!” gasped Miss Bloke, as she fled precipitately from the room.

  “Grandfather teaches them to talk,” said Felicity un-blushingly as she joined her outside. “He is awfully successful with them!”

  Miss Bloke said nothing. She still looked rather shaken.

  “Now shall we go and look at the sitting-room?” said Felicity, her spirits rising.

  “Er—yes,” said Miss Bloke, recovering herself with an effort.

  It appeared that Felicity had to leave Miss Bloke in the morning-room while she went to see whether the sitting-room was ready to receive visitors. Soon, however, she returned.

  “It’s quite tidy, Miss Bloke,” she said. “Are you ready to come?”

  Miss Bloke said she was. They went there in silence. Some fine touch of assurance had vanished from Miss Bloke’s manner.

  The curtains of the pleasant little sitting-room were pink. Near them was a parrot in a large cage decorated with a pink bow to match the curtains.

  “Another parrot,” said Miss Bloke, with a mirthless smile.

  “Oh, yes,” said Felicity; “we have parrots in most of the rooms.”

  She drew the curtain lightly across the cage, and at the words that followed Miss Bloke fled, trembling, into the corridor. Even Felicity found them, as Mr. Smith had predicted, a “hedducation.”

  “That one talks very nicely, doesn’t he?” said Felicity, innocently, as she joined her instructor. “Much better than the others.”

  “I must just sit down a minute somewhere!” gasped Miss Bloke. “I’m feeling rather faint.”

  “Let’s go back to the morning-room,” suggested Felicity. “There’s a sofa there. I’ll leave you quite alone to rest for a few minutes. Then I’d like to show you my bedroom.”

  Miss Bloke had scarcely had time to close her eyes
when Felicity came to take her to her bedroom.

  “I’m still feeling faint,” said Miss Bloke. “D-did you say your grandfather—er—trained the birds, dear?”

  “Yes,” said Felicity with a bright smile, “but we’re all awfully fond of them. They’re delightful pets, and so intelligent.”

  Miss Bloke swallowed hard but said nothing.

  “This is my bedroom,” said Felicity, throwing open a door. It was a pretty little bedroom. Its window curtains were orange, and near them was a parrot in a large cage that was decorated with an orange bow.

  Miss Bloke gave a low moan and fled from the room with her hands to her ears. Her nerves had gone completely.

  “I’m going home,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear it. Never in all my life have I heard such expressions. It’s a wicked place. I—I—I’m going home. I’m going to the Scottish earl. I’d—I’d rather have trade than profanity.”

  Coming out of her bedroom half an hour later, Felicity met her aunt. Lady Montague looked more put out than ever. The scarlet patch had spread from her cheekbones all over her face. Her breathing was suggestive of a motor-cycle with a defective silencer.

  “Did I hear a motor going down the drive just now, aunt dear?” said Felicity.

  “I simply don’t know what’s come over everyone!” said Lady Montague, tearfully. “She had wonderful testimonials. Not one of them mentioned that she was mad. They ought to have told me that she was mad. It simply wasn’t fair to let her come like that. Mad! Raving! Almost dangerous!”

  “Was she mad, aunt?” said Felicity wonderingly.

  “Raving! She’s just gone. She suffers from hallucinations. She came to me and said she couldn’t stay in a house that had profane parrots in every room. Profane parrots in every room. Those are the very words she used. Profane parrots in every room! Have you ever heard of such a thing? You know, I’m getting too old to have all these upsets, Felicity. First, Lord Rowman behaving in that strange way, and then this woman talking about profane parrots in every room.”

  Lady Montague was going to her bedroom. Felicity accompanied her. Her ladyship opened her bedroom door, still talking. “She’s mad. It wasn’t right—–”