Melissa, who had thankfully shed several pounds in weight since leaving Mrs. Cassington’s seminary, looked charming in a gown of pink muslin decorated with sprays of white flowers, her chestnut hair dressed demurely in a chignon. She had not forgotten her previous encounter with Helen’s masterful brother, and as he bowed over her hand, her face coloured just sufficiently to match the tint of her gown.
“Dear me,” he murmured in a tone which did not carry beyond her own ear, “can this be the little schoolgirl I had the privilege of assisting not so many months back?”
She was not displeased in spite of the mocking light in his very blue eyes; and when he made his excuses and rose to go after a short interval, she felt disappointed. This was soon dispelled, however, at the prospect of seeing him again before long, for Helen reminded him of his promise to accompany her to Astley’s Circus.
“That is, if you will permit, ma’am,” she added, turning to Lady Chetwode.
“Oh, certainly, if you would like it, my dear,” her hostess agreed. “And your brother will be the very person to accompany you there, as I should not care for it, myself. The first positive engagement I have made for you is an evening at the Opera next Tuesday, for you must hear Catalini. But otherwise nothing is fixed upon for the next few days.”
“And may Melissa go with us, too?” asked Helen, correctly interpreting her friend’s pleading look.
“If you would have no objection to extending your party to include myself,” intervened Philip Chetwode, addressing James, “I should very much like to accompany you. I haven’t been to Astley’s since I was a boy, and the equestrian feats there are very fine.”
James readily agreed to this, and Lady Chetwode was quite content to fall in with an engagement for the day after tomorrow, when he chanced to be free.
As soon as James Somerby had departed, the two girls found an opportunity to slip away to the bedchamber which had been prepared for Helen, in order to enjoy a private chat. As they had seen nothing of each other since quitting the Seminary last July, there was a good deal of news to exchange; and so eager were their tongues that scarcely any one topic was pursued to a conclusion.
“And did it take you long to recover from your partiality for Monsieur Falaise?” asked Helen, with an arch glance at her friend. “I recall you were quite in despair at the prospect of parting from him for ever!”
“Oh, that was a mere schoolgirl’s fancy,” replied Melissa, with dignity. “You know how it is when one is young. Why, I am almost a year older now, and have very different notions!”
“Have you indeed?” teased Helen. “Don’t tell me that you’ve fallen in love again!”
“What nonsense you do talk, Helen! But when I compare our late dancing master with — with other gentlemen whom I’ve met, he does seem a frippery fellow, and I wonder at myself for ever thinking him anything at all out of the common way!”
“And have you met a great many other gentlemen?”
“Well, some,” replied Melissa, avoiding her friend’s observant eye, “though of course since I am not yet out, I haven’t been to any but family parties so far. But Philip brings his friends here sometimes, though in general they meet at the clubs or in the gentlemen’s chambers which most of them occupy.”
“Have you ever met Viscount Shaldon? I collect he is a friend of your brother’s.”
“Yes, he did come here once, some months back, and I thought him prodigiously handsome — but, of course, you must know him well, Helen, since you live on his estate. And Cynthia Lydney does, too. I remember how she mentioned him when we were at school, and said that he had Other Interests than matrimony. I didn’t understand her at the time, but now I think I do. It is very shocking, of course, and a great pity, but Mama says one must beware of him, as he’s a monstrous flirt even with girls of his own Quality.”
“And yet when he came to call on us at Alvington a few weeks since,” remarked Helen, reflectively, “he didn’t seem at all dangerous, nor in the least disposed to flirt with me, at all events. But then he thinks of me as a sister, so he says. That would account for it. Evidently I have no need to beware of him. It’s a lowering thought,” she added, mischievously.
Melissa forgot herself so far as to let out a schoolgirl giggle. “Oh, Helen, you aren’t a bit changed, and I’m monstrous glad of it! Do you know, in spite of all the excitement of my come-out, things have seemed so dull here lately? But with someone of my own age to share in my activities and to laugh with me, everything will be different — we shall have such fun together, won’t we?”
“Indeed we shall. And I quite pity the Polite World to have two such madcaps descend upon it in one season! But you’ve grown delightfully slender, Melissa,” concluded Helen, in a typical non sequitur.
This remark was all that was needed to make her friend’s day complete.
CHAPTER XX
Surprisingly close to the magnificence of Westminster Abbey and the pleasant verdure of St. James’s Park lay a district of a vastly different nature called Tothill Fields. The only field in evidence here was a rubbish dump that served to fatten pigs after the local inhabitants had picked it over for possible additions to their own meagre diet. The principal buildings were an ugly Bridewell as full as it could hold with felons, a row of dingy almshouses and a charity school where both the charity and the schooling were of so grudging a nature that recipients of these blessings might have fared little worse in the streets from which they were drawn. These same streets were narrow and dirty, with dark alleys and courts leading off them crowded with filthy hovels and dingy tenements. Here London’s poorest inhabitants found some kind of shelter by stuffing rags into cracked walls and boarding up broken windows; even if no remedy could be found for the prevailing damp from a leaky roof or the icy cold in winter caused by an ill fitting door — sometimes no door at all — and the lack of fuel for a fire.
What trade there was in the district took place in the many seedy taverns and gin shops, where for a penny the miserable inhabitants could purchase a short period of forgetfulness of their wretched state. A few disreputable pawnbrokers and rag dealers also eked out a paltry living in unsavoury premises. Occasionally a street cry would be heard, offering the humbler kinds of merchandise or demanding old iron, but few customers were forthcoming.
The inhabitants were frowsty women, made prematurely old from childbearing and malnutrition, and men brutalised by their environment, earning a precarious livelihood as road crossing sweepers, chimney sweeps, coal heavers, scavengers, and the like. In spite of the high infant mortality, the alleys and courts were filled with filthy, half-naked children playing among the mangy curs and lean cats that prowled in the gutters and garbage heaps.
In one of these miserable hovels in a place which rejoiced in the name of Star Court lived a woman who called herself Mrs. Dorston. In spite of its name, the inhabitants of Star Court were never privileged to gaze on the stars, as their light was completely blocked out by the crowded buildings. Mrs. Dorston occupied a small, cheerless room in one of the tumbledown, neglected tenements. She was one of the few people in the Court, or indeed in the whole area, to enjoy the privilege of a room entirely to herself; most of her neighbours were obliged to crowd a family of as many as ten or twelve members of varying ages and both sexes into a similar space. It was not a place where people were curious about their neighbours’ antecedents, for the endless struggle against poverty and disease demanded all their energies; but it was generally supposed that Old Peg, as they familiarly called her, had once seen better days, had perhaps been a servant in one of the grand mansions in the brightly lit squares and wide thoroughfares which were not so far away in distance, though as remote from their way of life as another world. This supposition was based on the fact that when she had first come among them, some years ago, she had been more gently spoken than themselves, although she had long since acquired the slovenly idiom of the neighbourhood. At that time, suspecting that she might have money or valuables conceal
ed on the premises, they had made several raids on her room whenever she chanced to be absent. The results had proved disappointing, however, and soon she was taken for granted as being one of themselves.
Moreover, it did not pay to quarrel with Old Peg, as they soon discovered. She was a useful woman at a lying-in, a not infrequent contingency in a neighbourhood where the only pleasures were those of the flesh and the gin shop. The fine ladies of London might have their accoucheurs or fashionable man midwives to attend on such occasions; in Tothill Fields, females counted themselves lucky if they knew of a neighbour who would oblige.
On certain days of the week, Mrs. Dorston arrayed herself in the most presentable garments she possessed, an old rusty black cloak and a shapeless bonnet acquired for a few pence at the local rag shop, and set out for Westminster Abbey. She was acquainted with a flower seller who had a pitch close by the magnificent building, and who paid Mrs. Dorston a meagre fee to act as her deputy on occasion. It was neither a very brisk nor a remunerative business, but it made some small contribution to Old Peg’s subsistence.
She was just about to start on this errand one afternoon when she was hailed by one of her neighbours, a scrawny female with lank hair hanging about her unwashed face and neck, and clad in a tattered garment which barely concealed her emaciated bosom.
“Hi, Peg, gi’ us a penny for a dram,” she said, in a mendicant’s whine.
“Ain’t got it,” replied Mrs. Dorston, shaking her head firmly.
“Garn! Bain’t for me, ’tis for Moll. ’Er’s near barmy wi’ the pains. Reckon she’ll be needin’ yer soon, too.”
But Mrs. Dorston had lived here too long to be taken in by this moving tale. She knew that to hand over money to anyone was only to invite a host of similar applications from others; moreover, the wretched Moll most certainly would not be the recipient of her beneficence. So she shook her head again, slammed her door and locked it firmly, then pushed unceremoniously past the other woman on her way to the street. The unsavoury female as a matter of course gave vent to a few choice Billingsgate expressions, but she bore Old Peg no real malice. It was always worth a try to get something out of the old woman, but there had been no serious expectation of success. She shrugged and went back to her evil-smelling room in the basement, where five or six unwashed, semi-naked young children were creating Bedlam.
Mrs. Dorston continued on her way until she reached the road fronting the Abbey, where she paused for a moment to draw a breath of air. It was clean and fresh compared to that of Star Court, in spite of the dust raised by a constant stream of traffic. She saw her friend the flower seller standing in the usual place, only twenty yards or so away, and raised her arm in greeting. As she did so, she lost her balance for a moment and stumbled out into the road directly in the path of an oncoming post chaise. As usual, the vehicle was being sent along at the gallop; and though the postillion pulled up his horses in time to avoid actually running over the unfortunate woman, she was hurled to the ground and lay there motionless.
Earlier on that same afternoon, Helen had set out with her brother and the Chetwodes for Astley’s Amphitheatre in Westminster Bridge Road. As they were to pass so close to the Abbey, she had pleaded that they might spend just a little while in looking over this famous burial place of so many of Britain’s great men.
“If you should not object, that is?” she asked diffidently, addressing Philip Chetwode. “For you must have often been there before.”
“Not for some years,” he confessed. “And I know my sister had never set foot inside, so I am sure she will find it interesting. By all means let us stop on our way. We will set out in good time.”
Two days in the company of Melissa’s friend had given Mr. Chetwode a strong inclination to try to please her. Undoubtedly she was an attractive young lady both in looks and personality, but so were several others of his acquaintance. What made Miss Somerby appear superior to these others, to his way of thinking, was the lively, intelligent mind which made her capable of holding a rational conversation. He was too calm a young man to fall madly in love at first sight, but there was no doubt that he did feel himself strongly attracted to Miss Somerby.
So Helen had her way, and the visit to Astley’s Amphitheatre was preceded by a short tour of Westminster Abbey. They had just completed this and were leaving the building to walk across to their waiting carriage, when they were halted by a loud scream and the sound of horses being pulled up suddenly.
“Oh, Heavens!” cried Helen, looking in the direction of the noise. “Someone’s been knocked down — poor thing!”
She darted away to the scene of the accident, where a woman lay prostrate on the ground. At once, Helen went down on her knees to see what could be done.
“Don’t move her, Nell!” ordered James, who had been as quick in arriving at the spot. “Here, let me take a look!”
“Oh, my Gawd!” exclaimed the postillion, who had dismounted and stood looking at the woman in dismay. “She bain’t dead, is she, guv’nor? T’weren’t my fault, not nohow, as Gawd’s my judge. She stepped out suddenly right afore the nags, and ’ard work of it I ’ad not to go clean over ’er!”
By now a crowd was gathering, among them the flower seller, who made her way through to James’s side.
“Be she badly ’urt, sir?” she asked. “Can ye tell?”
“I’m a doctor,” he replied briefly, continuing with his examination. “Concussion and a fracture of the left tibia,” he murmured to Helen, a few moments later. “Nothing more, though that’s enough to be going on with, for one of her age and state of health.”
He stood up, addressing the crowd authoritatively. “Stand back there, and let her have some air. Procure me a hackney, one of you, quick.”
A street urchin from among the crowd ran to do his bidding.
“Will she be all right, sir?” It was the flower seller again. “I know ’er, ye see. She ’elps me in my trade.”
James looked at her compassionately. “It’s hard to say at present, but I should think so. Do you know her well? In that case, you can furnish me with her name and other particulars, and perhaps inform her relatives that I’m taking her to Guy’s Hospital, in the Borough.”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know ’er that well, sir, though I knows ’er name’s Peg Dorston, an’ she lives in Star Court in Tothill. There’s no relatives that I knows of. Leastways, she lives alone.”
While all this was happening, Melissa and her brother had been standing on the edge of the crowd, uncertain what to do. At that moment, the hackney drew up; James signalled to Philip, who came forward, the crowd parting to admit him.
“Will you take the ladies on to Astley’s, Chetwode? I’ll follow as soon as I’ve seen this unlucky female installed at Guy’s.”
“Very well, but won’t you need help in putting her into the hackney?” asked Philip, as he assisted Helen to her feet.
“Yes, but one of the men standing about here can assist me — no point in all of us turning up at the circus looking the worse for wear. I’ll try to get there in time to see some of the show, at any rate, but don’t trouble if I fail to appear.”
At this point, a head poked out of the window of the post chaise.
“How much longer are we to spend here, postillion?” demanded its owner, red in the face with anger. “Surely there’s been enough fuss made over a low female who hasn’t even the sense to keep out of the way of traffic! As for you, my good sir,” addressing James, “permit me to say that you’re wasting your talents on such a patient, for there’ll be no fee!”
James gave an ironical bow. “I thank you for your warning, sir, but beg leave to remind you that all rewards do not come in the shape of coin. Take him to the devil, postillion, or wherever else it is he happens to be off to in such haste.”
The crowd raised a cheer at this; and the postillion hastily remounted to convey his passenger away before it should turn ugly, as crowds sometimes did. A sensible man helped James to place
his patient carefully inside the hackney, and that, too, drove off, leaving the crowd to disperse now that there was nothing further to be seen.
Having given her gown a shake to relieve it of some of the dust gathered from the road, Helen accompanied her friends back to the coach.
“Was not your brother splendid?” exclaimed Melissa, her eyes glowing, as they settled themselves in their seats. “The way he took charge, and in particular the way he depressed the pretensions of that odious man in the post chaise! I have never been half so glad of anything!”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t of much assistance,” said Philip, ruefully, “but to tell the truth, I couldn’t think of anything useful to do.”
“But of course you were!” Helen insisted. “James could not have left us without an escort, you know. As for his part in the affair, his profession enabled him to know just what ought to be done. I am glad the poor woman was not even more badly hurt. For a moment I feared the worst, when I knelt beside her and saw no sign of life.”
Philip was grateful for the kindness which attempted to restore his confidence, but it could not entirely prevent a feeling of inadequacy. He knew that he was not, unfortunately, one of those men who showed up well in a crisis; and at present he would have given much to be able to impress Miss Helen Somerby with the kind of masterful competence which her brother had displayed so unconsciously. However much his reason bade him laugh at such instinctive masculine feelings, which he told himself were akin to the mating displays of animals, he could not shake off their effect upon him.
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