The Digue was crowded by that time. All Heyst had turned out to enjoy the evening air and to partake in the gaiety of the place. A band was playing on the movable orchestra, which was towed by three skinny little donkeys, day after day, from one end of the Digue to the other. To-night, it was its turn to be in the middle, where a large company of people was sitting on green painted chairs that cost ten centimes for hire each, whilst children danced, or ran madly round and round its base. Everyone had changed his, or her, seaside garb for more fashionable array—even the children were robed in white frocks and gala hats—and the whole scene was gay and festive. Harriet Brandt ran from one side to the other of the Digue, as though she also had been a child. Everything she saw seemed to astonish and delight her. First, she was gazing out over the calm and placid water—and next, she was exclaiming at the bits of rubbish in the shape of embroidered baskets, or painted shells, exhibited in the shop windows, which were side by side with the private houses and hotels, forming a long line of buildings fronting the water.
She kept on declaring that she wanted to buy that or this, and lamenting she had not brought more money with her.
“You will have plenty of opportunities to select and purchase what you want to-morrow,” said Mrs. Pullen, “and you will be better able to judge what they are like. They look better under the gas than they do by daylight, I can assure you, Miss Brandt!”
“O! but they are lovely—delightful!” replied the girl, enthusiastically, “I never saw anything so pretty before! Do look at that little doll in a bathing costume, with her cap in one hand, her sponge in the other! She is charming—unique! Tout ce qu’il y a de plus beau!”
She spoke French perfectly, and when she spoke English, it was with a slightly foreign accent, that greatly enhanced its charm. It made Mrs. Pullen observe:
“You are more used to speaking French than English, Miss Brandt!”
“Yes! We always spoke French in the Convent, and it is in general use in the Island. But I thought—I hoped—that I spoke English like an Englishwoman! I am an Englishwoman, you know!”
“Are you? I was not quite sure! Brandt sounds rather German!”
“No! my father was English, his name was Henry Brandt, and my mother was a Miss Carey—daughter of one of the Justices of Barbadoes!”
“O! indeed!” replied Mrs. Pullen. She did not know what else to say. The subject was of no interest to her! At that moment they encountered the nurse and perambulator, and she naturally stopped to speak to her baby.
The sight of the infant seemed to drive Miss Brandt wild.
“O! is that your baby, Mrs. Pullen, is that really your baby?” she exclaimed excitedly, “you never told me you had one. O! the darling! the sweet dear little angel! I love little white babies! I adore them. They are so sweet and fresh and clean—so different from the little niggers who smell so nasty, you can’t touch them! We never saw a baby in the Convent, and so few English children live to grow up in Jamaica! O! let me hold her! let me carry her! I must!”
She was about to seize the infant in her arms, when the mother interposed.
“No, Miss Brandt, please, not this evening! She is but half awake, and has arrived at that age when she is frightened of strangers. Another time perhaps, when she has become used to you, but not now!”
“But I will be so careful of her, pretty dear!” persisted the girl, “I will nurse her so gently, that she will fall to sleep again in my arms. Come! my little love, come!” she continued to the baby, who pouted her lips and looked as if she were going to cry.
“Leave her alone!” exclaimed Elinor Leyton in a sharp voice. “Do you not hear what Mrs. Pullen says—that you are not to touch her!”
She spoke so acridly, that gentle Margaret Pullen felt grieved for the look of dismay that darted into Harriet Brandt’s face on hearing it.
“O! I am sorry—I didn’t mean—” she stammered, with a side glance at Margaret.
“Of course you did not mean anything but what was kind,” said Mrs. Pullen, “Miss Leyton perfectly understands that, and when baby is used to you, I daresay she will be very grateful for your attentions. But to-night she is sleepy and tired, and, perhaps, a little cross. Take her home, Nurse,” she went on, “and put her to bed! Good-night, my sweet!” and the perambulator passed them and was gone.
An awkward silence ensued between the three women after this little incident. Elinor Leyton walked somewhat apart from her companions, as if she wished to avoid all further controversy, whilst Margaret Pullen sought some way by which to atone for her friend’s rudeness to the young stranger. Presently they came across one of the cafés chantants which are attached to the seaside hotels, and which was brilliantly lighted up. A large awning was spread outside, to shelter some dozens of chairs and tables, most of which were already occupied. The windows of the hotel salon had been thrown wide open, to accommodate some singers and musicians, who advanced in turn and stood on the threshold to amuse the audience. As they approached the scene, a tenor in evening dress was singing a love song, whilst the musicians accompanied his voice from the salon, and the occupants of the chairs were listening with rapt attention.
“How charming! how delightful!” cried Harriet Brandt, as they reached the spot, “I never saw anything like this in the Island!”
“You appear never to have seen anything!” remarked Miss Leyton, with a sneer. Miss Brandt glanced apologetically at Mrs. Pullen.
“How could I see anything, when I was in the Convent?” she said, “I know there are places of entertainment in the Island, but I was never allowed to go to any. And in London, there was no one for me to go with! I should so much like to go in there,” indicating the café. “Will you come with me, both of you I mean, and I will pay for everything! I have plenty of money, you know!”
“There is nothing to pay, my dear, unless you call for refreshment,” was Margaret’s reply. “Yes, I will go with you certainly, if you so much wish it! Elinor, you won’t mind, will you?”
But Miss Leyton was engaged talking to a Monsieur and Mademoiselle Vieuxtemps—an old brother and sister, resident in the Lion d’Or—who had stopped to wish her Good-evening! They were dear, good old people, but rather monotonous and dull, and Elinor had more than once ridiculed their manner of talking and voted them the most terrible bores. Mrs. Pullen concluded therefore, that she would get rid of them as soon as courtesy permitted her to do so, and follow her. With a smile and a bow therefore, to the Vieuxtemps, she pushed her way through the crowd with Harriet Brandt, to where she perceived that three seats were vacant, and took possession of them. They were not good seats for hearing or seeing, being to one side of the salon, and quite in the shadow, but the place was so full that she saw no chance of getting any others. As soon as they were seated, the waiter came round for orders, and it was with difficulty that Mrs. Pullen prevented her companion purchasing sufficient liqueurs and cakes to serve double the number of their company.
“You must allow me to pay for myself, Miss Brandt,” she said gravely, “or I will never accompany you anywhere again!”
“But I have lots of money,” pleaded the girl, “much more than I know what to do with—it would be a pleasure to me, it would indeed!”
But Mrs. Pullen was resolute, and three limonades only were placed upon their table. Elinor Leyton had not yet made her appearance, and Mrs. Pullen kept craning her neck over the other seats to see where she might be, without success.
“She cannot have missed us!” she observed, “I wonder if she can have continued her walk with the Vieuxtemps!”
“O! what does it signify?” said Harriet, drawing her chair closer to that of Mrs. Pullen, “we can do very well without her. I don’t think she’s very nice, do you?”
“You must not speak of Miss Leyton like that to me, Miss Brandt,” remonstrated Margaret, gently, “because—she is a great friend of our family.”
She had been going to say, “Because she will be my sister-in-law before long,” but remembered Elinor’s request in time, and substituted the other sentence.
“I don’t think she’s very kind, though,” persisted the other.
“It is only her manner, Miss Brandt! She does not mean anything by it!”
“But you are so different,” said the girl as she crept still closer, “I could see it when you smiled at me at dinner. I knew I should like you at once. And I want you to like me too—so much! It has been the dream of my life to have some friends. That is why I would not stay in Jamaica. I don’t like the people there! I want friends—real friends!”
“But you must have had plenty of friends of your own age in the Convent.”
“That shows you don’t know anything about a convent! It’s the very last place where they will let you make a friend—they’re afraid lest you should tell each other too much! The convent I was in was an Ursuline order, and even the nuns were obliged to walk three and three, never two, together, lest they should have secrets between them. As for us girls, we were never left alone for a single minute! There was always a sister with us, even at night, walking up and down between the rows of beds, pretending to read her prayers, but with her eyes on us the whole time and her ears open to catch what we said. I suppose they were afraid we should talk about lovers. I think girls do talk about them when they can, more in convents than in other places, though they have never had any. It would be so dreadful to be like the poor nuns, and never have a lover to the end of one’s days, wouldn’t it?”
“You would not fancy being a nun then, Miss Brandt!”
“I—Oh! dear no! I would rather be dead, twenty times over! But they didn’t like my coming out at all. They did try so hard to persuade me to remain with them for ever! One of them, Sister Féodore, told me I must never talk even with gentlemen, if I could avoid it—that they were all wicked and nothing they said was true, and if I trusted them, they would only laugh at me afterwards for my pains. But I don’t believe that, do you?”
“Certainly not!” replied Margaret warmly. “The sister who told you so knew nothing about men. My dear husband is more like an angel than a man, and there are many like him. You mustn’t believe such nonsense, Miss Brandt! I am sure you never heard your parents say such a silly thing!”
“O! my father and mother! I never remember hearing them say anything!” replied Miss Brandt. She had crept closer and closer to Mrs. Pullen as she spoke, and now encircled her waist with her arm, and leaned her head upon her shoulder. It was not a position that Margaret liked, nor one she would have expected from a woman on so short an acquaintance, but she did not wish to appear unkind by telling Miss Brandt to move further away. The poor girl was evidently quite unused to the ways and customs of Society, she seemed moreover very friendless and dependent—so Margaret laid her solecism down to ignorance and let her head rest where she had placed it, resolving inwardly meanwhile that she would not subject herself to be treated in so familiar a manner again.
“Don’t you remember your parents then?” she asked her presently.
“Hardly! I saw so little of them,” said Miss Brandt, “my father was a great doctor and scientist, I believe, and I am not quite sure if he knew that he had a daughter!”
“O! my dear, what nonsense!”
“But it is true, Mrs. Pullen! He was always shut up in his laboratory, and I was not allowed to go near that part of the house. I suppose he was very clever and all that—but he was too much engaged in making experiments to take any notice of me, and I am sure I never wanted to see him!”
“How very sad! But you had your mother to turn to for consolation and company, whilst she lived, surely?”
“O! my mother!” echoed Harriet, carelessly. “Yes! my mother! Well! I don’t think I knew much more of her either. The ladies in Jamaica get very lazy, you know, and keep a good deal to their own rooms. The person there I loved best of all, was old Pete, the overseer!”
“The overseer!”
“Of the estate and niggers, you know! We had plenty of niggers on the coffee plantation, regular African fellows, with woolly heads and blubber lips, and yellow whites to their eyes. When I was a little thing of four years old, Pete used to let me whip the little niggers for a treat, when they had done anything wrong. It used to make me laugh to see them wriggle their legs under the whip and cry!”
“O! don’t, Miss Brandt!” exclaimed Margaret Pullen, in a voice of pain.
“It’s true, but they deserved it, you know, the little wretches, always thieving or lying or something! I’ve seen a woman whipped to death, because she wouldn’t work. We think nothing of that sort of thing, over there. Still—you can’t wonder that I was glad to get out of the Island. But I loved old Pete, and if he had been alive when I left, I would have brought him to England with me. He used to carry me for miles through the jungle on his back,—out in the fresh mornings and the cool, dewy eves. I had a pony to ride, but I never went anywhere, without his hand upon my bridle rein. He was always so afraid lest I should come to any harm. I don’t think anybody else cared. Pete was the only creature who ever loved me, and when I think of Jamaica, I remember my old nigger servant as the one friend I had there!”
“It is very, very sad!” was all that Mrs. Pullen could say.
She had become fainter and fainter, as the girl leaned against her with her head upon her breast. Some sensation which she could not define, nor account for—some feeling which she had never experienced before—had come over her and made her head reel. She felt as if something or someone, were drawing all her life away. She tried to disengage herself from the girl’s clasp, but Harriet Brandt seemed to come after her, like a coiling snake, till she could stand it no longer, and faintly exclaiming:
“Miss Brandt! let go of me, please! I feel ill!” she rose and tried to make her way between the crowded tables, towards the open air. As she stumbled along, she came against (to her great relief) her friend, Elinor Leyton.
“O! Elinor!” she gasped, “I don’t know what is the matter with me! I feel so strange, so light-headed! Do take me home!”
Miss Leyton dragged her through the audience, and made her sit down on a bench, facing the sea.
“Why! what’s the matter?” demanded Harriet Brandt, who had made her way after them, “is Mrs. Pullen ill?”
“So it appears,” replied Miss Leyton, coldly, “but how it happened, you should know better than myself! I suppose it is very warm in there!”
“No! no! I do not think so,” said Margaret, with a bewildered air, “we had chairs close to the side. And Miss Brandt was telling me of her life in Jamaica, when such an extraordinary sensation came over me! I can’t describe it! it was just as if I had been scooped hollow!”
At this description, Harriet Brandt burst into a loud laugh, but Elinor frowned her down.
“It may seem a laughing matter to you, Miss Brandt,” she said, in the same cold tone, “but it is none to me. Mrs. Pullen is far from strong, and her health is not to be trifled with. However, I shall not let her out of my sight again.”
“Don’t make a fuss about it, Elinor,” pleaded her friend, “it was my own fault, if anyone’s. I think there must be a thunderstorm in the air, I have felt so oppressed all the evening. Or is the smell from the dunes worse than usual? Perhaps I ate something at dinner that disagreed with me!”
“I cannot understand it at all,” replied Miss Leyton, “you are not used to fainting, or being suddenly attacked in any way. However, if you feel able to walk, let us go back to the Hotel. Miss Brandt will doubtless find someone to finish the evening with!”
Harriet was just about to reply that she knew no one but themselves, and to offer to take Mrs. Pullen’s arm on the other side, when Elinor Leyton cut her short.
“No! thank you, Miss Brandt! Mrs. Pullen would, I am sure, prefer to return to the Hotel alone with me! You can easily join the Vieuxtemps or any other of the visitors to the Lion d’Or. There is not much ceremony observed amongst the English at these foreign places. It would be better perhaps if there were a little more! Come, Margaret, take my arm, and we will walk as slowly as you like! But I shall not be comfortable until I see you safe in your own room!”
So the two ladies moved off together, leaving Harriet Brandt standing disconsolately on the Digue, watching their departure. Mrs. Pullen had uttered a faint Good-night to her, but had made no suggestion that she should walk back with them, and it seemed to the girl as if they both, in some measure, blamed her for the illness of her companion. What had she done, she asked herself, as she reviewed what had passed between them, that could in any way account for Mrs. Pullen’s illness? She liked her so much—so very much—she had so hoped she was going to be her friend—she would have done anything and given anything sooner than put her to inconvenience in any way. As the two ladies moved slowly out of sight, Harriet turned sadly and walked the other way. She felt lonely and disappointed. She knew no one to speak to, and there was a cold empty feeling in her breast, as though, in losing her hold on Margaret Pullen, she had lost something on which she had depended. Something of her feeling must have communicated itself to Margaret Pullen, for after a minute or two she stopped and said,
“I don’t half like leaving Miss Brandt by herself, Elinor! She is very young to be wandering about a town by night and alone!”
“Nonsense!” returned Miss Leyton, shortly, “a young lady who can make the voyage from Jamaica to Heyst on her own account, knocking about in London for a week on the way, is surely competent to walk back to the Hotel without your assistance. I should say that Miss Brandt was a very independent young woman!”
“Perhaps, by nature, but she has been shut up in a convent for the best part of her life, and that is not considered to be a good preparation for fighting one’s way through the world!”
“She’ll be able to fight her own battles, never fear!” was Elinor’s reply.
Just then they encountered Bobby Bates, who lifted his cap as he hurried past them.
“Where are you going so fast, Mr. Bates?” said Elinor Leyton.
“I am going back to the Hotel to fetch Mamma’s fur boa!” he answered.
They were passing a lighted lamp at the time, and she noticed that the lad’s eyes were red, and his features bore traces of distress.
“Are you ill?” she enquired quickly, “or in any trouble?”
He halted for a minute in his stride.
“No! no! not exactly,” he said in a low voice, and then, as if the words came from him against his will, he went on, “But O! I do wish someone would speak to Mamma about the way she treats me. It’s cruel—to strike me with her stick before all those people, as if I were a baby, and to call me such names! Even the servant William laughs at me! Do all mothers do the same, Miss Leyton? Ought a man to stand it quietly?”
“Decidedly not!” cried Elinor, without hesitation.
“O! Elinor! remember, she is his mother,” remonstrated Margaret, “don’t say anything to set him against her!”
“But I was nineteen last birthday,” continued the lad, “and sometimes she treats me in such a manner, that I can’t bear it! The Baron dare not say a word to her! She swears at him so. Sometimes, I think I will run away and go to sea!”
“No! no! you mustn’t do that!” called Miss Leyton after him, as he quickened his footsteps in the direction of the Lion d’Or.
“What an awful woman!” sighed Mrs. Pullen. “Fancy! striking her own son in public, and with that thick stick too. I believe he had been crying!”
“I am sure he had,” replied her friend, “you can see the poor fellow is half-witted, and very weakly into the bargain. I suppose she has beaten his brains to a pap. What a terrible misfortune to have such a mother! You should hear some of the stories Madame Lamont has to tell of her!”
“But how does she hear them?”
“Through the Baron’s servant William, I suppose. He says the Baroness has often taken her stick to him and the other servants, and thinks no more of swearing at them than a trooper! They all hate her. One day, she took up a kitchen cleaver and advanced upon her coachman with it, but he seized her by both arms and sat her down upon the fire, whence she was only rescued after being somewhat severely burned!”
“It served her right!” exclaimed Margaret, laughing at the ludicrous idea, “but what a picture she must have presented, seated on the kitchen range! Where can the woman have been raised? What sort of a person can she be?”
“Not what she pretends, Margaret, you may be sure of that! All her fine talk of lords and ladies is so much bunkum. But I pity the poor little Baron, who is, at all events, inoffensive. How can he put up with such a wife! He must feel very much ashamed of her sometimes!”
“And yet he seems devoted to her! He never leaves her side for a moment. He is her walking stick, her fetcher and carrier, and her scribe. I don’t believe she can write a letter!”
“And yet she was talking at the table d’hôte yesterday of the Duke of This and the Earl of That, and hinting at her having stayed at Osborne and Windsor. Of course they are falsehoods! She has never seen the inside of a palace unless it was in the capacity of a char-woman! Have you observed her hair? It is as coarse as a horse-tail! And her hands! Bobby informed me the other day that his Mamma took nines in gloves! She’s not a woman, my dear! She’s a female elephant!”
Margaret was laughing still, when they reached the steps of the Lion d’Or.
“You are very naughty and very scandalous, Elinor,” she said, “but you have done me a world of good. My unpleasant feelings have quite gone. I am quite capable of continuing our walk if you would like to do so.”
“No such thing, Madam,” replied Miss Leyton. “I am responsible for your well-doing in Arthur’s absence. Upstairs and into bed you go, unless you would like a cup of coffee and a chasse first. That is the only indulgence I can grant you.”
But Mrs. Pullen declined the proffered refreshment, and the two ladies sought their rooms in company.