“Oh, Ma!”
“So pink your cheeks! Like flowers!”
“I’m blushing, Ma.”
“And how else should a man know ven he’s kindled a fire? Gott is kind. Make a kiss with the lips, liebchen, and ve turn them into a rose.”
“Not the lip rouge, Ma! It tastes like physic.”
“And so it is, liebchen—but not for you! Now look in the glass and see how your ma knows best!”
Tizzy looked, but her eyes were misty from the belladonna, so she took her mother’s word.
“And now, liebchen, it’s time for the lesson; and may both of you learn.”
As Tizzy rustled out of the room, Mrs. Alexander stared after her with tears in her worn blue eyes. They were tears of pride and hope, of memories and regrets. Then she turned back to the glass and gazed at her large, sad self. But her eyes were misty, too, and it seemed to her that the mirror still held Tizzy’s reflection. “Gott is kind,” she whispered. “Something sveet has come out of it all!”
Tizzy heard from somewhere the murmur of voices, then the loud laughter of Sir Walter Sorley. She bit her lip, tasted the lip rouge, made a face and attempted to hurry down the stairs. But cautiously. She could not see very well; and light made matters worse. Even a glimpse of the dull afternoon sky through a window provoked a rush of tears and turned the Academy into a house under the sea where stairs swam and walls were drifting and vague.
“Oh, Ma,” she muttered as she stumbled and all but fell on the bottom stair, “a woman ought to be able to see where she’s going!”
At last she found the classroom door. Will it be Ancient History all over again, she wondered with a quickly beating heart? Or will he see at last that there’s something wonderful in the world today? She knocked.
“Come in.”
Mr. Brett was standing. Little points of light seemed to be all over him. Tizzy could hardly bear to look at him, he was so splendid.
“Sit down,” he said; and Tizzy thought she heard a tremble in his voice. She lowered her eyes and found her place in the front row where Bostock sat during the day.
The seat and desk were on the small side and her yellow muslin gown overflowed and streamed to the floor like a pool of dappled sunshine. She tried to arrange it becomingly, and knocked down a book. Mr. Brett moved to pick it up but Tizzy inadvertently forestalled him. She looked up, and his face glimmered large. She wasn’t sure whether he was looking at the book or at her. She blushed and didn’t know whether to bless or blame her ma. But either way there was something about Mr. Brett that had never been before . . . and, for a moment, Tizzy really fancied he was drowning in her eyes.
“Where were we?” he said, resuming his place. Tizzy’s heart misgave her; was it really to be Ancient History again? She braved the light and turned her eyes to where she dimly saw his face.
Just then a corner of the sun broke through the thick sky and sent a dusty golden shaft down into the room. The flies danced like tiny jewels and Mr. Brett dissolved in glory.
“Did I tell you of how Jupiter loved Io?” asked Mr. Brett softly.
“And turned her into a cow,” said Tizzy, thinking of many marriages and with tears welling helplessly out of her eyes.
“Did I tell you how Leander loved Hero?” murmured Mr. Brett.
“And was drowned for it,” said Tizzy, smiling sadly at Mr. Brett through her salty veils.
“Did I tell you how Antony loved Cleopatra?” whispered Mr. Brett, moved powerfully by Tizzy’s emotion.
“And killed himself,” nodded Tizzy. “And then she did, too, and they were buried in the same grave.”
She tried to make out how Mr. Brett was looking—if he was smiling or serious. But she could not be sure; her drugged eyes had changed him into something dreamlike. His wig seemed turned to a silver helmet with a nodding plume, and the face beneath seemed carved out of the softer parts of sleep.
“Did I tell you of how Romeo loved Juliet?” breathed Mr. Brett.
“And did himself in like Antony before him?” whispered Tizzy. “Poor Juliet, poor Cleopatra, poor Hero! Is love always such a widowing thing?”
“Did I ever tell you,” sighed Mr. Brett, now fathoms deep in Tizzy’s eyes, “that your eyes are like mysterious, twilit pools, and your lips are a pair of kissing cherries?”
“No,” whispered Tizzy. “You never did.”
Then his face grew perfectly enormous and she stood up to meet him and hoped he could see better than she, the nearest way to a kiss.
For an instant she wondered if the lip rouge would put him off; but it didn’t—not in the smallest degree. Oh, Ma, thought Tizzy, through a gap in her joy, you was right after all!
“I’ve loved you for so long, Tizzy Alexander!” murmured Mr. Brett, drawing breath for another kiss. “With all my heart and strength!”
“Then why didn’t you say so before?” said Tizzy. “Because I’ve loved you, James Brett, for at least as long as you’ve loved me!”
Then they kissed again while the classroom flies danced in the shaft of sunlight and the world spun idly like a child’s toy, a million miles below.
“Mr. Brett!” The voice came like a sword between them, and severed, they fell apart.
“For God’s sake, Mr. Brett—and you, girl—have you no shame?”
Mrs. Bunnion stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing and her fine bosom heaving. “And in a classroom, too!” Fully prepared to sacrifice herself, she had come gently to Mr. Brett, thus her sense of outrage at the scene that confronted her was quite sincere. She was appalled. “I don’t blame you, sir. I blame that—that Miss Alexander. First my own son—now you. But you must understand, sir, I—we cannot have it! Not in the school. You must leave, Mr. Brett. At once!”
In every way Mrs. Bunnion was an exceptional woman. Her sense of justice never deserted her. She could still defend Mr. Brett’s character even though, at the same time, she was able to urge his departure for the good of all. No one could have said that the thought of private advantage had moved her in the least.
“And as for you, miss,” she said, staring bitterly at the tearful and disheveled Tizzy, “I shall spare your mother and father what I have just seen. Not for your sake, but for theirs; they have suffered enough on your account. I trust that you, Mr. Brett, will also be discreet. Please go quietly. Leave a note; say you have been called away on family affairs. I will support you, sir—and also respect you for sparing us all any further unpleasantness.”
Here the quality of Mrs. Bunnion’s virtue proved more than its own reward. If Mr. Brett did oblige and leave as discreetly as she proposed, then her own somewhat high-handed dismissal of him would never come out. Being human, she couldn’t help feeling a distinct sense of satisfaction at the convenience of it all.
“Go?” said Mr. Brett palely. “Now? After I’ve—?” He glanced at Tizzy as if the sight of her loveliness was more eloquent than further words. Mrs. Bunnion shrugged her shoulders.
“No!” said Mr. Brett suddenly—to everyone’s surprise and his own most of all. “I will not go. Let your husband dismiss me himself. And let him find a better reason—if he can—than my love for Miss Alexander. You may shout the house down, Mrs. Bunnion—but I won’t go!”
Mrs. Bunnion stared at him. There was amazement and even terror in her eyes. A fly buzzed and settled on her pale cheek; but she seemed not to notice. Then, as if awakening from a sudden dream, she turned abruptly and left the room. She had been shaken to the depths of her soul. Mr. Brett’s refusal had been like an earthquake in which the firm pavements of her existence had cracked and yawned asunder. Mr. Brett’s departure had been her only hope of avoiding the discovery of her damning letter. Now that hope was gone. Her marriage, her life itself would be laid in ruins.
She did not return to her husband. She was not able to face him. Instead she went to their bedroom and looked about it with inexpressible anguish. She remained thus for several minutes till at last, dully surmising that life must go on to its
bitter end, she set to work gathering together such intimate belongings as she and her husband would require for the night. Since they were obliged to make way for Sir Walter, they had fixed on sleeping in Mr. Brett’s room and Mr. Brett was to be with the boarders. Mechanically she plucked at the pillows and opened and closed drawers without understanding or even seeing anything that lay within. How—how had it all come about, she wondered miserably. In a few days—no more—in a few days her brisk and comfortable world had been plunged into despair. How had it happened?
Bostock and Harris, in a mood of tense exultation, were on their way to the poorhouse. Bostock was wearing his oversized blue coat and was carrying an embroidered quilt from his mother’s bed as the evening was windy and Adelaide might catch cold.
Yes; at last the time had come. On their last visit to the poorhouse Mrs. Bonney had been in so advanced a state of oblivion that Harris was convinced a mortal frame could withstand no more. Success this evening was certain; Bostock’s waning confidence in his friend was quite restored, and Harris pointed out that when it was all over they would still be eight shillings in pocket.
“We could lay two shillings on Ralph Bunnion for tomorrow,” said Harris shrewdly. Bostock nodded. Like everyone else, he was on the school hero’s side. The heavy odds on Ralph Bunnion’s victory in the coming duel was really no reflection on Major Alexander’s ability. It was the expression of a general hope rather than a certainty that the best man would win. Had the Major been the deadliest marksman in all the land and Ralph the poorest, such hearts as Bostock’s would still have wagered all on Ralph’s success; and so, too, would Harris’s—though a shade less impulsively.
“Here we are, Bosty, old friend,” whispered Harris as they reached the scratched and battered door of the poorhouse. “If Mrs. Bonney ain’t in the Old Ship, she’ll be in her bed as brandied as a butterball.”
The two friends entered the gloomy house in which the unmoving air was ripe with the smell of babies, gin and fish. They crept upstairs to the long, low room where the foundlings bubbled and slept.
“There she is, Bosty,” breathed Harris triumphantly. “Down at the end.”
Bostock advanced, his coat unbuttoned and ready, and flapping gently like the grubby plumage of some ancient bird. He had actually laid the embroidered quilt across the bleak little cot when . . .
“Gor’ bless me! If it ain’t me two little Christians come to cheer me Friday night!”
Mrs. Bonney, veiled in brandy, had risen from her bed. She stood in the doorway, blinking and swaying, but unmistakably awake. Her frame must have been more than mortal. Six shillings’ worth of spirits had done little more than dent her.
“All donations is welcome,” she said and stumbled down the room with hands outstretched. Even in her present state, charity was uppermost in her mind.
Harris, whiter than Bostock had ever seen him, fumbled in his pocket.
“Here, ma’am!” he croaked. “For—for the poor!” In a panic he gave her the whole eight shillings.
“If only there was more like you,” said Mrs. Bonney moistly, “this ol’ world would be a ’appier place. You’ll go straight to ’eaven, Master H. You’ll gallop right through them gates in a coach and four! And so will you, Master B.— right alongside of ’im!”
She had seen the embroidered quilt. She took it up and pressed it to her glassy cheek. “All donations is very welcome . . .”
“My ma took three years to make that quilt,” muttered Bostock in the street outside, overcome by his misfortune. “What’ll she say when she finds it’s gone?”
“What’s a quilt compared to a live baby?” said Harris with the weary bitterness of one plagued by trifles. “We ain’t got Adelaide, either.”
“Three years,” said Bostock, hurt by Harris’s attitude. “And it don’t take as long as that to make a baby, Harris.”
Harris, a shade unnerved by the unusual workings of Bostock’s mind, looked at him almost with respect. “Bosty, old friend, we can’t give up now. We’re so near to it. As sure as my name’s Harris, eight shillings’ worth of brandy’ll pickle her cold. Tomorrow morning, Bosty. Early. We’ll try for the last time. I promise, it’ll be the last time.”
Bostock thought, then shrugged his shoulders and sighed. After all, they were friends. “We’ll miss the duel, Harris.”
“We’ve got nothing left to bet with, Bosty. And anyway, my sister comes first. Poor little Adelaide! She must be wondering what’s happening.”
Mrs. Bonney, divided between taking the beautiful quilt up to grace her bed and going straight to the Old Ship, decided on the latter. She fancied she’d heard Mr. Bonney come in so it wasn’t as though she was leaving the foundlings untended.
“Evening all,” she said to the little parlor at large, and sat herself down to a night of very good cheer indeed. God alone knew she’d earned it. Nobody but a lady in a similar walk of life could know the trials of charitable work. With high satisfaction she observed, out of the dim corner of her eye, that the brute with the clubfoot had taken himself off into the shadows to avoid her. Good riddance! He crowded her; and once in her cups, Mrs. Bonney liked plenty of room to swim.
Mr. Raven went up to his lonely little room. There was an ache in his heart as he stared at the forlorn and empty bed. He remembered Sorley and the warmth of confession. He remembered looking after him . . . until that devil Brett had taken him away. He, Raven, had been powerless to prevent it. His strength was all in his mind; he would have been no match for a man like Brett—and his wry foot put pursuit out of the question. But tomorrow he would hurl his thunderbolt!
He went over to the table and took the papers out of his pocket. He spread them out and studied the affair of Adelaide Harris. The ever-increasing complexity had now extended over two large sheets, and the inquiry agent had some difficulty in remembering how they fitted together.
The whole conspiracy was represented by a tremendous number of lines, crossing, joining, dividing and intertwining to form the pattern of a spider’s web. At various points of intersection, names were trapped like helpless flies: Dr. Harris and his wife, the Bonneys, the Bunnions, the entire Hemp household, Morgan the nurse, the gypsy baby, Adelaide Harris, Frederick and the landlord of the Old Ship who always said “good riddance!” whenever Mr. Raven left the parlor. But right in the middle of this diabolical plan, like the terrible spider he was, crouched the inquiry agent’s great adversary, Mr. Brett.
Long, long he brooded over it, careless of the fading light. He moved his finger from place to place, murmuring, “Et cetera, et cetera,” and drawing ever nearer to the vital spot that, once cut, would destroy the whole unclean thing and reduce it to a heap of meaningless threads; then, with nothing to support it, the deadly creature in the middle would come crashing to the ground to be squashed under the inquiry agent’s avenging boot.
At last his finger halted. He had found the vital spot. “The thunderbolt,” he whispered. “Who would have thought it?”
Chapter Seventeen
NIGHT, dark and impenetrable, seemed to collapse over Dr. Bunnion’s Academy rather than fall in the usual way. Moon, stars and all the high paraphernalia of the heavens were utterly obscured by banking clouds that the wind had gathered in a great black rubbish dump above the town. Here and there uneasy candles gleamed out of windows as curtains were briefly drawn aside.
Major Alexander looked out often. His son Adam had not yet arrived and the Major clung to the frail hope that he would not come. Sometimes he fancied he glimpsed a striding figure in the dark; then he’d hold his breath and wait for a loud knock on the front door. But no such knock came and the Major concluded what he’d seen had been a trick of the shadows or a ghost.
Ghosts were much on his mind; twice he’d imagined he’d seen his own in the long glass in his room. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt there was something ominous in the air—an invisible iron curtain that was slowly shutting him off from the world of men. He felt horribly lonely an
d would have been glad even of his wife’s company; but she was with Tizzy so he cursed her German soul. He should have married an Englishwoman; she at least would have understood him—and understood an Englishman’s honor.
He paused in his pacing and gazed into the glass. He tended to examine his figure rather than his countenance, for it was an unfortunate disability of his that he was unable to look even himself in the face. In his military days, this natural drawback had given him an unlucky reputation for shiftiness, which no efforts on his part had been able to dispel.
Well—he was out of that now. He had kept himself to himself and no one but his wife thought ill of him . . . damn her German soul! If he died tomorrow he would die as the man of honor he really believed he was. It paid to be secretive and not to demean oneself with friends. It was decent strangers who took their hats off when a man of honor’s coffin went by. Filthy friends would be all too apt to say, “There goes shifty Alexander. Caught at last!”
Inadvertently, his eyes met his reflection’s. “Liar!” he whispered. “Liar, liar!” He had seen a face gray with dread, and lips that seemed to writhe over the terrible words, “I don’t want to die! Please, Ralph, don’t shoot me!”
The striding figure the Major had glimpsed in the night had not been a ghost. It had been Mr. Brett. The thought of sleep had been intolerable and the dark grandeur of the night had drawn him out. He looked up and was surprised how low the sky seemed; even the trees were not so tall as they’d seemed yesterday. Mr. Brett felt twice his old height, but very light and strong in his movements.
She loved him! Tizzy—enchanting Tizzy—Tizzy of the marvelous eyes and lips as sweet as ripe cherries—he could taste them yet! Glorious, blushing Tizzy in the sunshine of her dress whose bodice, try as it might, could scarcely subdue the pride of her breasts. She loved him and had said so. What more had the world to offer? Crowns, glory, fortune and even fine weather were but trumpery items, sops thrown to the millions to make up for not having Tizzy.
The Complete Bostock and Harris Page 13
