Mr. Beaumaris looked from her to the unkempt and filthy mongrel at his feet, and said: “Are you quite sure that you want to take him with you, ma’am?”
“Why, of course! You do not suppose that I would leave him here, for those wretches to torment as soon as we were out of sight! Besides, you heard what they said! He has no master—no one to feed him, or take care of him! Please give him to me!”
Mr. Beaumaris’s lips twitched, but he said with perfect gravity: “Just as you wish, Miss Tallant!” and picked up the dog by the scruff of his neck. He saw Miss Tallant’s arms held out to receive her new protégé, and hesitated. “He is very dirty, you know!”
“Oh, what does that signify? I have soiled my dress already, with kneeling on the flag-way!” said Arabella impatiently.
So Mr. Beaumaris deposited the dog on her lap, received his whip and gloves from her again, and stood watching with a faint smile while she made the dog comfortable, and stroked its ears, and murmured soothingly to it. She looked up. “What do we wait for, sir?” she asked, surprised.
“Nothing at all, Miss Tallant!” he said, and got into the curricle.
Miss Tallant, continuing to fondle the dog, spoke her mind with some force on the subject of persons who were cruel to animals, and thanked Mr. Beaumaris earnestly for his kindness in knocking the horrid boys’ heads together, a violent proceeding which seemed to have met with her unqualified approval. She then occupied herself with talking to the dog, and informing him of the splendid dinner he should presently be given, and the warm bath which he would (she said) so much enjoy. But after a time she became a little pensive, and relapsed into meditative silence.
“What is It, Miss Tallant?” asked Mr. Beaumaris, when she showed no sign of breaking the silence.
“Do you know,” she said slowly, “I have just thought—Mr. Beaumaris, something tells me that Lady Bridlington may not like this dear little dog!”
Mr. Beaumaris waited in patient resignation for his certain fate to descend upon him.
Arabella turned impulsively towards him. “Mr. Beaumaris, do you think—would you—?”
He looked down into her anxious, pleading eyes, a most rueful twinkle in his own. “Yes, Miss Tallant,” he said. “I would.”
Her face broke into smiles. “Thank you!” she said. “I knew I might depend upon you!” She turned the mongrel’s head gently towards Mr. Beaumaris. “There, sir! that is your new master, who will be very kind to you! Only see how intelligently he looks, Mr. Beaumaris! I am sure he understands. I daresay he will grow to be quite devoted to you!”
Mr. Beaumaris looked at the animal, and repressed a shudder. “Do you think so indeed?” he said.
“Oh, yes! He is not, perhaps, a very beautiful little dog, but mongrels are often the cleverest of all dogs.” She smoothed the creature’s rough head, and added innocently: “He will be company for you, you know. I wonder you do not have a dog already.”
“I do—in the country,” lie replied.
“Oh, sporting dogs! They are not at all the same.”
Mr. Beaumaris, after another look at his prospective companion, found himself able to agree with this remark with heartfelt sincerity.
“When he has been groomed, and has put some flesh on his bones,” pursued Arabella, serene in the conviction that her sentiments were being shared, “he will look very different. I am quite anxious to see him in a week or two!”
Mr. Beaumaris drew up his horses outside Lady Bridlington’s house! Arabella gave the dog a last pat, and set him on the seat beside his new owner, bidding him stay there. He seemed a little undecided at first, but being too bruised and battered to leap down into the road, he did stay, whining loudly. However, when Mr. Beaumaris, having handed Arabella up to the door, and seen her admitted into the house, returned to his curricle, the dog stopped whining, and welcomed him with every sign of relief and affection.
“Your instinct is at fault,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “Left to myself, I should abandon you to your fate. That, or tie a brick round your neck, and drown you.”
His canine admirer wagged a doubtful tail, and cocked an ear. “You are a disgraceful object!” Mr. Beaumaris told him. “And what does she expect me to do with you?” A tentative paw was laid on his knee. “Possibly, but let me tell you that I know your sort! You are a toadeater, and I abominate toadeaters. I suppose, if I sent you into the country my own dogs would kill you on sight.”
The severity in his tone made the dog cower a little, still looking up at him with the expression of a dog anxious to understand.
“Have no fear!” Mr. Beaumaris assured him, laying a fleeting hand on his head. “She clearly wishes me to keep you in town. Did it occur to her, I wonder, that your manners, I have no doubt at all, leave much to be desired? Do your wanderings include the slightest experience of the conduct expected of those admitted into a gentleman’s house? Of course they do not!” A choking sound from his groom, made him say over his shoulder: “I hope you like dogs, Clayton, for you are going to wash this specimen.”
“Yes, sir,” said his grinning attendant.
“Be very kind to him!” commanded Mr. Beaumaris. “Who knows? he may take a liking to you.”
But at ten o’clock that evening, Mr. Beaumaris’s. butler, bearing a tray of suitable refreshments to the library, admitted into the room a washed, brushed, and fed mongrel, who came in with something as near a prance as could be expected of one in his emaciated condition. At sight of Mr. Beaumaris, seeking solace from his favourite poet in a deep winged chair by the fire, he uttered a shrill bark of delight, and reared himself up on his hind legs, his paws on Mr. Beaumaris’s knees, his tail furiously wagging, and a look of beaming adoration in his eyes.
Mr. Beaumaris lowered his Horace. “Now, what the devil—?” he demanded.
“Clayton brought the little dog up, sir,” said Brough. “He said as you would wish to see how he looked. It seems, sir, that the dog didn’t take to Clayton, as you might say. Very restless, Clayton informs me, and whining all the evening.” He watched the dog thrust his muzzle under Mr. Beaumaris’s hand, and said: “It’s strange the way animals always go to you, sir. Quite happy now, isn’t he?”
“Deplorable,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “Down, Ulysses! Learn that my pantaloons were not made to be pawed by such as you!”
“He’ll learn quick enough, sir,” remarked Brough, setting a glass and a decanter down on the table at his master’s elbow. “You can see he’s as sharp as he can stare. Would there be anything more, sir?”
“No, only give this animal back to Clayton, and tell him I am perfectly satisfied with his appearance.”
“Clayton’s gone off, sir. I don’t think he can have understood that you wished him to take charge of the little dog,” said Brough.
“I don’t think he can have wanted to understand it,” said Mr. Beaumaris grimly.
“As to that, sir, I’m sure I couldn’t say. I doubt whether the dog will settle down with Clayton, him not having a way with dogs like he has with horses. I’m afraid he’ll fret, sir.”
“Oh, my God!” groaned Mr. Beaumaris. “Then take him down to the kitchen!”
“Well, sir, of course—if you say so!” replied Brough doubtfully. “Only there’s Alphonse.” He met his master’s eye, apparently had no difficulty in reading the question in it,, and said: “Yes, sir. Very French he has been on the subject. Quite shocking, I’m sure, but one has to remember that foreigners are queer, and don’t like animals.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Beaumaris, with a resigned sigh. “Leave him, then!”
“Yes, sir,” said Brough, and departed.
Ulysses, who had been thoroughly, if a little timidly, inspecting the room during this exchange, now advanced to the hearth-rug again, and paused there, suspiciously regarding the fire. He seemed to come to the conclusion that it was not actively hostile, for after a moment he curled himself up before it, heaved a sigh, laid his chin on Mr. Beaumaris’s crossed ankles, and disposed himself for sleep.
>
“I suppose you imagine you are being a companion to me,” said Mr. Beaumaris.
Ulysses flattened his ears, and gently stirred his tail.
“You know,” said Mr. Beaumaris, “a prudent man would draw back at this stage.”
Ulysses raised his head to yawn, and then snuggled it back on Mr. Beaumaris’s ankles, and closed his eyes.
“You may be right,” admitted Mr. Beaumaris. “But I wonder what next she will saddle me with?”
X
When Arabella had parted from Mr. Beaumaris at the door of Lady Bridlington’s house, the butler who had admitted her informed her that two gentleman had called to see her, and were even now awaiting her in the smaller saloon. This seemed to her a trifle unusual, and she looked surprised. The butler explained the matter by saying that one of the young gentlemen was particularly anxious to see her, since he came from Yorkshire, and would not be unknown to her. A horrid fear gripped Arabella that she was now to be exposed to the whole of London, and it was with an almost shaking hand that she picked up the visiting-card from the salver the butler was holding out to her. But the name elegantly inscribed upon it was unknown to her: she could not recall ever having heard of, much less met, a Mr. Felix Scunthorpe.
“Two gentlemen?” she said.
“The other young gentleman, miss, did not disclose his name,” replied the butler.
“Well, I suppose I must see them,” Arabella decided. “Pray tell them that I shall be downstairs directly! Or is her ladyship in?”
“Her ladyship has not yet returned, miss.”
Arabella hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. She went up to her room to change her soiled gown, and came down again some few minutes later hoping that she had schooled her face not to betray her inward trepidation. She entered the saloon in a very stately way, and looked rather challengingly across it. There were, as the butler had warned her, two young gentleman standing by the window. One was a slightly vacuous looking youth, dressed with extreme nicety, and holding, besides his tall hat, an ebony cane, and an elegant pair of gloves; the other was a tall, loose-limbed boy, with curly dark hair, and an aquiline cast of countenance. At sight of him, Arabella uttered a shriek, and ran across the room to cast herself upon his chest. “Bertram!”
“Here, I say, Bella!” expostulated Bertram, recoiling. “Mind what you are about, for the lord’s sake! My neck-cloth!”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, but I am so glad to see you! But how is this? Bertram, Papa is not in town?”
“Good God, no!”
“Thank heaven!” Arabella breathed, pressing her hands to her cheeks.
Her brother found nothing to wonder at in this exclamation. He looked her over critically, and said: “Just as well he ain’t, for he’d be bound to give you one of his scolds for dressing-up as fine as fivepence! I must say, Bella, you’re turned out in prime style! Slap up to the mark, ain’t she, Felix?”
Mr. Scunthorpe, much discomposed at being called upon to give an opinion, opened and shut his mouth once or twice, bowed, and looked despairing.
“He thinks you’re complete to a shade,” explained Bertram, interpreting these signs. “He ain’t much of a dab with the petticoats, but he’s a great gun, I can tell you! Up to every rig and row in town!”
Arabella looked at Mr. Scunthorpe with interest. He presented the appearance of a very mild young man; and although his fancy waistcoat bespoke the man of fashion, he seemed to her to lack address. She bowed politely, which made him blush very much, and fall into a fit of stuttering. Bertram, feeling that some further introduction might be considered desirable by his sister, said: “You don’t know him: he was at Harrow with me. He’s older than I am, but he’s got no brains, y’know: never could learn anything! I ran into him in the High.”
“The High?” repeated Arabella.
“Oxford, you know!” said Bertram loftily. “Dash it, Bella, you can’t have forgot I’ve been up to take my Smalls!”
“No, indeed!” she said. “Sophy wrote that you were gone there, and that poor James was unable to accompany you, because of the jaundice. I was so sorry! But how did you go on, Bertram? Do you think you have passed?”
“Lord, I don’t know! There was one devilish paper—but never mind that now! The thing is that I met old Felix here, the very man I wanted!”
“Oh, yes?” Arabella said, adding with a civil smile: “Were you up for Smalls too, sir?”
Mr. Scunthorpe appeared to shrink from such a suggestion, shaking his head, and making a sound in his throat which Arabella took to be a negative.
“Of course he wasn’t!” said Bertram. “Don’t I keep telling you he can’t learn anything? He was visiting some friends in Oxford! He found it pretty dull work, too, didn’t you, Felix? They would take him to blue-parties, all professors, and Bag-wigs, and the poor fellow couldn’t follow the stuff they talked. Shabby thing to do to him, for he was bound to make a cake of himself in that sort of company! However, that’s not what I want to talk about. The thing is, Bella, that Felix is going to show me all the sights, because he’s at home to a peg in London—been on the town ever since they threw him out of Harrow.”
“And Papa gave his consent?” exclaimed Arabella.
“As a matter of fact,” said Bertram airily, “hedon’t know I’m here.”
“Doesn’t know you’re here?” cried Arabella.
Mr. Scunthorpe cleared his throat. “Given him the bag,” he explained. He added: “Only thing to do.”
Arabella turned her eyes wonderingly towards her brother. He looked a little guilty, but said: “No, you can’t say I’ve given him the bag!”
Mr. Scunthorpe corrected himself. “Hoaxed him.”
Bertram seemed to be about to take exception to this, too, but after beginning to refute it he broke off, and said: “Well, in a way I suppose I did.”
“Bertram, you must be mad!” cried Arabella, pale with dismay. “When Papa knows you are in town, and without leave—”
“The thing is he won’t know it,” interrupted Bertram. “I wrote a letter to Mama, telling her I had met my friend Felix, and he had invited me to stay with him. So they won’t be in a fret when I don’t go back immediately, and they won’t know where I am, because I didn’t give my direction. And that brings me to what I particularly want to warn you about, Bella! I’m going by the name of Anstey while I’m in town, and while I don’t mind if you tell this godmother of yours that I’m a friend of yours, you are not to say I’m your brother! She’d be bound to write and tell my mother, and then the fat would be in the fire!”
“But, Bertram, how can you dare?” asked Arabella, in an awed voice. “Papa will be so angry!”
“Yes, I know. I shall get a rare trimming, but I shall have had a bang-up time first, and I can stand a lick or two after,” said Bertram cheerfully. “I made up my mind I’d do it, before you came to town. Do you remember my telling you that you might get a surprise? I’ll swear you never thought this would be it!”
“No, indeed I did not!” Arabella said, sinking into a chair. “Oh, Bertram, I am quite in a quake! I cannot understand any of it! How can you afford to be staying in London? Are you Mr. Scunthorpe’s guest?”
“No, no, poor old Felix ain’t standing the huff! I won a ticket in a lottery! Only think of it, Bella! A hundred pounds!”
“A lottery! Good God, what would Papa say if he knew that?”
“Oh, he would kick up no end of a bobbery, of course, but I shan’t tell him. And, you know, once I had won it the only thing to be done was to spend it, because you must see I had to get rid of it before Papa found I had it!” He saw that his sister was looking horrified, and said indignantly: “I must say, I don’t see why you should grudge it to me! I daresay you are having a capital time yourself!”
“No, no, how could you think I would grudge you anything, Bertram? But to have you in town, and to be obliged to pretend I am not your sister, and to deceive Papa and Mama—” She stopped, remembering her own situat
ion. “Oh, Bertram, how wicked we are!”
Mr. Scunthorpe looked very much alarmed at this, but Bertram said: “Fudge! It’s not telling lies precisely just not to mention that you have seen me when you write to Mama!”
“You do not know! It is worse than that!” whispered Arabella. “Bertram, I am in such a scrape!”
He stared at her. “You are? How is this?” He saw her glance towards his friend, and said: “You needn’t mind Felix: he’s no gabster!”
Arabella was easily able to believe this, but she not unnaturally felt reluctant to disclose her story to one who was a stranger to her, even though she had already realized that if he was not to betray her unwittingly he must be taken some way at least into her confidence. Mr. Scunthorpe tweaked his friend’s sleeve. “Must help your sister out of the scrape, dear boy. Happy to be of service!”
“I am very much obliged to you, sir, but no one can help me out of it!” said Arabella tragically. “If only you will be so kind as not to betray me!”
“Of course he won’t betray you!” declared Bertram. “What in thunder have you been about, Bella?”
“Bertram, everyone believes me to be a great heiress!” disclosed Arabella, in a stricken tone.
He stared at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “You goosecap! I’ll wager they don’t! Why, Lady Bridlington knows you are not! You don’t meant that she put such a tale about?”
She shook her head. “I said it!” she confessed.
“You said it? What the devil made you do such a thing? However, I don’t suppose anyone believed you!”
“They do believe it. Lord Bridlington says that every gazetted fortune-hunter in town is dangling after me—and, oh, Bertram, it is true! I have refused five offers already!”
The idea that there could be found five gentlemen ready to marry his sister struck Bertram as being exquisitely humorous, and he went off into another burst of laughter. Arabella was obliged to confess the whole, since he seemed so incredulous. Her narrative was rather disjointed, since he interpolated so many questions; and at one point a considerable digression was caused by Mr. Scunthorpe, who, having regarded her fixedly for some moments, suddenly became loquacious, and said: “Beg pardon, ma’am, but did you say Mr. Beaumaris?”
Arabella Page 17