The Cockaynes in Paris Part 8

As for Mrs. c.o.c.kayne, to deny that she was highly contented at the family's intimacy with a Viscount, would be to falsify my little fragmentary chain of histories. She wrote to her husband that she met the very best society at Mrs. Rowe's, extolled the elegant manners and enclosed the photograph of the Vicomte de Gars, and said she really began to hope that she had persuaded "his lordship" to pay them a visit in London. "Tell Mrs. Sandhurst, my dear c.o.c.kayne, that I am sure she will like the Vicomte de Gars."

The Vicomte de Gars was a little man, with long wristbands. Miss Tayleure described him as all eye-gla.s.s and shirt-front. Comic artists have often drawn the moon capering on spider-legs; a little filling out would make the Vicomte very like the caricature. He was profound--in his salutations, learned--in lace, witty--thanks to the _Figaro_. His attentions to Miss Theodosia c.o.c.kayne, and to Madame her mother, were of the most splendid and elaborate description. He left flowers for the young lady early in the morning.

It was very provoking that Theodosia had consented to be betrothed to John Catt of Peckham.

"Carrie, my dear," Mrs. c.o.c.kayne observed, having called her daughter to her bedroom for a good lecture, "once for all, I WILL NOT have you on such intimate terms with the people of the house. What on earth can you be thinking about? I should have thought you would show more pride. I am quite sure the Vicomte saw you yesterday when you were sitting quite familiarly with Miss Rowe in the bureau. I WILL NOT have it."

"Mamma dear, Lucy Rowe is one of the most sensible and, at the same time, best informed girls I ever knew; and her sentiments are everything that could be desired."

"I will not be answered, Carrie; mind that. I wonder you haven't more pride. A chit like that, who keeps the hotel books, and gives out the sugar."

"Her father was----"

"Never mind what her father was. What is she? I wonder you don't propose to ask her home on a visit."

"She would not disgrace----"

This was too much for Mrs. c.o.c.kayne. She stamped her foot, and bore down upon Carrie with a torrent of reasons why Miss Rowe should be held at a distance.

"You wouldn't find Theodosia behaving in such a manner. She understands what's becoming. I dare say she's not so clever as you are----"

"Dear mamma, this is cruel----"

"Don't interrupt me. No, no; I see through most things. This Miss Howe is always reading. I saw her just now with some novel, I've no doubt, which she shouldn't read----"

"It was Kingsley's----"

"Hold your tongue, child. Yes, reading, and with a pen stuck behind her ear."

"She's so very lonely: and Mrs. Howe is so very severe with her."

"I have no doubt it's quite necessary; there, go and dress for the table d'hote, and mind what I say."

Poor Lucy wondered what on earth could have happened that Carrie c.o.c.kayne avoided her: and what those furtive nods of the head and stolen smiles at her could mean? On the other hand, how had she offended Mrs.

c.o.c.kayne? Happily, Mrs. Rowe was on Lucy's side; for it had pleased Mrs.

c.o.c.kayne to show her social superiority by extravagant coldness and formality whenever she had occasion to address "the landlady." One thing Mrs. c.o.c.kayne admitted she could NOT understand--viz., Why Jane the servant took so much upon herself with her mistress; and what all the mystery was about a Mr. Charles, who seemed to be a dark shadow, kept somewhere as far as possible in the background of the house.

Mrs. Rowe, on her side, was amply revenged for Mrs. c.o.c.kayne's airs of superiority, when Mr. c.o.c.kayne arrived in the company of Mr. John Catt, the betrothed love of Theodosia.

"You must be mad, Mr. c.o.c.kayne," was his wife's greeting directly they were alone--"raving mad to bring that vulgar fellow John Catt with you.

Didn't you get my letters?"

"I did, my dear; and they brought me over, and John Catt with me. I, at least, intend to act an honourable part."

"Perhaps you will explain yourself, Mr. c.o.c.kayne."

"I have travelled from Clapham for that purpose. Who the devil is this Viscount de Gars, to begin with?"

Mrs. c.o.c.kayne drew herself up to her full height, and looked through her husband--or meant to look through him--but just then he was not to be cowed even by Mrs. c.o.c.kayne.

With provoking coolness and deliberation over the exact relative quant.i.ties, Mr. c.o.c.kayne mixed himself a gla.s.s of grog from his brandy flask; while he proceeded to inform his wife that Mr. John Catt, who had been engaged, with their full consent, to their daughter, had, at his instigation, travelled to Paris to understand what all this ridiculous twaddle about Viscount de Gars meant.

"You will spoil everything," Mrs. c.o.c.kayne gasped, "as usual."

"I don't know, madam, that I am in the habit of spoiling anything; but be very certain of this, that I shall not stand by and see my daughter make a fool of a young man of undoubted integrity and of excellent prospects, for the sake of one of these foreign adventurers who swarm wherever foolish Englishwomen wake their appearance. I beg you will say nothing, but let me observe for myself, and leave the young people to come to an understanding by themselves."

In common with many Englishmen of Timothy c.o.c.kayne's and John Catt's cla.s.s, Theodosia's father at once concluded that the poor polite little Vicomte de Gars was an adventurer, and that his coronet was pasteboard, and his shirt studs stolen. Mr. John Catt distinguished himself on his arrival by loud calls for bottled beer, the wearing of his hat in the sitting-room, and by the tobacco-fumes which he liberally diffused in his wake.

When the little Vicomte made his accustomed appearance in the drawing-room, after the table d'hote, he offered the c.o.c.kayne ladies his profoundest bows, and was most reverential in his att.i.tude to Mr.

c.o.c.kayne, who on his side was red and brusque. As neither Mr. nor Mrs.

c.o.c.kayne could speak a French word, and Mr. John Catt was not in a position to help them, and was, moreover, inclined to the most unfavourable conclusions on the French n.o.bleman, the presentations were on the English side of the most awkward description. The demoiselles c.o.c.kayne "fell a giggling" to cover their confusion; and the party would have made a ridiculous figure before all the boarders, had not the Reverend Horace Mohun covered them with his blandness.

Mr. John Catt was not well-mannered, but he was good-hearted and stout-hearted. He was one of those rough young gentlemen who pride themselves upon "having no nonsense about them." He was downright in all things, even in love-making. He took, therefore, a very early opportunity of asking his betrothed "what this all meant about Monsieur de Gars?" and of observing, "She had only to say the word, and he was ready to go."

This was very brutal, and it is not in the least to be wondered at that the young lady resented it.

I am, as the reader will have perceived, only touching now and then upon the histories of the people who pa.s.sed through Mrs. Rowe's highly respectable establishment while I was in the habit of putting up there.

This John Catt was told he was very cruel, and that he might go; Mrs.

c.o.c.kayne resolutely refused to give up the delights and advantages of the society of the Vicomte de Gars; the foolish girl was--well, just as foolish as her mamma; and finally, in a storm that shook the boarding-house almost to its respectable foundations, the c.o.c.kayne party broke up--not before the Vicomte and Miss Theodosia c.o.c.kayne had had an explanation in the conservatory, and Mrs. c.o.c.kayne had invited "his lordship" to London.

I shall pick up the threads of all this presently.

CHAPTER XI.

MYSTERIOUS TRAVELLERS.

Poor girl! she was timid, frightened. I saw at once that the man with whom she was, and who packed her feet up so carefully in the travelling rug in her state cabin, was not of her cla.s.s. She could not have been daintier in mien and shape than she appeared. Hands round and white as pearls, feet as pretty as ever stole from a man's hand to the stirrup; a sweet wee face, that had innocence and heart in it. Country bred, I thought: nested in some Kentish village: a childhood amid the hops: familiar with b.u.t.termilk and home-baked bread.

Who has not been blessed by looking upon such an English face: ruddy on the cheek, and white and pink upon the brow and neck: the head poised upon the shoulders with a wondrous delicacy? Such girls issue from honest Englishmen's homes to gladden honeymoon cottages, and perpetuate that which is virtuous and courageous in our Saxon race. She lay m.u.f.fled in shawls, pillowed upon a carpet-bag, softened with his fur coat, frightened about the sea, and asking every few minutes whether we were near the port.

He fell into conversation with me before we were clear of Folkestone harbour. He was a travelled man, accustomed to do his journeying socially, and not in the surly, self-contained, and selfish manner of our countrymen generally. I confess--and it is a boldness, knowing all I do know now--that I was drawn towards Daker at the outset. He had a winning manner--just that manner which puts you on a friendly footing with a stranger before you have pa.s.sed an hour in his company. He began, as though it was quite natural that we should become acquainted, in the tone your neighbour at dinner a.s.sumes, although you are unacquainted with his name. We were on an exact level: gentlemen, beyond fear or reproach. I repeat emphatically, I liked Daker's manner, for it was easy and polished, and it had--which you don't often get with much polish--warmth. I was attracted by his many attentions to his young wife. Who could be near her, and not feel the chivalry in his soul warm to such a woman? But Daker's attentions were idiosyncrasies. While he was talking to me at the cabin-door, he saw the fur coat slip, and readjusted it. He divined when she wanted to move. He fanned her; and she sought his eyes incessantly with the deep pure blue of hers, and slaked her ever-thirsty love with long, pa.s.sionate gazing. She took no notice of me: he was all her world.

Daker was in an airy humour--a man I thought without guile or care, pa.s.sing away from England to happy connubial times along the enchanting sh.o.r.es which the Mediterranean bathes. We fell, as fellow-travellers generally do, upon old stories of the ways of the world we had seen. He had taken wider ranges than my duties had ever entailed on me.

Autumn was cooling to winter; it was early November when we met.

"I have been," he said, "killing time and birds pleasantly enough in Suss.e.x."

Mrs. Daker overheard him, and smiled. Then we shifted carelessly, as far as I was concerned, away. He continued--

"And now we're off on the usual tramp. My wife wants a warm winter, and so do I, for the matter of that."

"Nice?" I asked.