CHAPTER XCI
Wherein the Heir of the Ffolliotts falls the Victim to a Limited Badinage
Itwas the First-Night of an historic Shakespeare revival; and the theatre of the Lyceum was emptying its fashionable crowd of richly dressed women and men into the garrulous murk of the noisy night. The upturned faces of the gaping crowd, that stood along the great portico in the yellow haze of the street, gazed with serious admiration at the glowing splendour that enveloped the fashionable and the rich—the solemn intentness of their unspoken admiration rippling now and again into a good-natured grin upon some street-wag’s sally at the wrinkles of a lean dowager or the comic aspect of an over-plump matron or plain daughter or inane youth or the dozen and one whimsical aspects of things that catch the rambling humour of the people.
Across their gaze swept out of the bawling tumult of the night sundry wreaths of fog, torn from the mists that rose from the river hard by.
On the steps, under the classic portals, stood Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, with Quogge Myre and another; and, blowing the cigarette smoke through his nose, where he stood magnificent above the people, Ffolliott was in a stream of languid babble upon the strange fancy that took people to sit through the gloom of a tragedy at considerable personal discomfort and expense “sitting in a dull hole of a place, watching people pretendin’ to be dead and that sort of rot,” when gayer wits were being fascinated by the movements of women’s legs in a good break-down at a musical comedy, or “havin’ a good hearty laugh” at the comicalities of the latest comic craze at the music-halls. Thus P. W. Ffolliott—when his eyes were caught by the bold inviting eyes of a handsome young woman that passed.
“Damned pretty woman!” he drawled—“I’m off. Ta-ta, Myre! I suppose you’ll want me to meet you at that other dead-house to-morrow, eh? All right. I’ll be there. Good-night.”
He waved a gay salute, and was gone, disappearing into the bustling throng of the street.
The girl pretended to hurry, but Ffolliott, elbowing his way through the moving crowd, soon overtook her. She was pleasedto be seen with a gentleman of fashion. She was also a little frightened at the insistence of his admiration.
She lifted her skirts above her ankles and picked her way daintily across the Strand, through the riot of passing vehicles and bawling cads, walking serenely amidst the roar of the bewildering traffic.
He kept by her side.
She reached the pavement, and turned towards Charing Cross.
“By jove,” said he—“you are a stunning pretty girl.”
She laughed airily.
“That ain’t my fault,” said she.
“But you are.”
“Well, you know”—she spoke with a marked cockney accent that strangely sullied the handsome red lips—“my looking-glass tells me that—more than once a day.”
“Yes—ha, yes; of course,” he drawled, gazing at her admiringly—“of course it does. How stupid of me—how immaculately stupid! But we had better get into a hansom and have some supper somewhere, eh! Rather strenuous idea that—eh!” He haw-hawed.
She laughed, tossed her head—stopped abruptly. And he, looking at her, saw that her face was deathly white. She grasped his arm suddenly:
“Come down here,” she said hoarsely—“quick!”
She turned into the foggy blackness of a dingy street that descended to the river, walking hurriedly—and he, expostulant, followed her:
“By George—a very pretty figure,” said he. “But look here,” he added plaintively, “where are we going?... It’s getting so damned foggy I shall lose you if you hurry so, don’t you know.”
She came to a halt under a dingy gas-lamp, and faced him; and he saw that she was very beautiful. The colour had left her face. She was white as marble.
“I saw a man—I was once engaged to him—see?” she said.... “He is a dangerous man. Wait here a bit—he’ll miss us in the fog.... My Gord!” she added hoarsely, “he has followed us!”
The great wreaths of mist swept by them and filled the black hollows of the narrow way with yellow smoke; and into the sombre gleam of the lamp-light, from out the black murk, came the pallid faces of three dark figures—rough-looking fellows that strode down upon them.
One, more genial than the others, cried:
“Chi-hike! that you, Em’ly?”
They halted before the lamp-post.
The girl stood rigid; and faced the three men with contempt.
The wag of the party grinned:
“Engaged, Em’ly?” he asked.
He was set aside by an evil-looking ruffian:
“By God, Em’ly; two years has made a lady of you—don’t you make any mistake about it.”
She, handsome in her sudden dignity, stood facing the men calmly:
“I ain’t chi-hiked by cab-runners,” she said; “and I ain’t Emily—except to my friends.”
The man laughed roughly. He jerked a thumb at Ffolliott:
“This—one of your friends?” he asked with a sneering raw mouth.
“Yes,” she said—“you leave him alone—or——”
“Yuss?” he jeered, inquiringly.
“I’ll put my bonnet-pin in your face,” she said calmly.
“You make your friendship pretty prompt, Em’ly,” said he; and added with a mirthless laugh: “I saw your bleery aristocrat follow you from the bleery the-ayter—I saw the whole bleery scandal. Yer see, I’ve been sleepin’ out under the blue a night or two, and lookin’ slippy for a light job, so I have my two eyes about me when I fall up against a the-ayter door at closin’ time and the audience is a-gettin’ the chuck-out. See?”
The girl put her hand before her mouth:
“Excuse me yawnin’,” she said, “but you make me sleepy.”
“Yer ain’t goin’ to sleep too much to-night,” he said, scowling upon her.
“I don’t see where I come in,” she said, carelessly shrugging her shoulders; and she stooped and gathered up her skirts in her gloved hand as though to be moving again.
“Well, yer see,” said he—“it seems to me as you’re what the poet bloke calls the Juliet of a Night—and I’m goin’ to be your bloomin’ Romeo, see?”... He stepped nearer to her.... “Hold up yer bloomin’ mouth, and let’s kiss yer head.”
Ffolliott put out his hand:
“Go away, you vulgar fellow,” said he—“you smell.”
He was hustled from behind and tripped across the kerb-stone—threw up his hands—lurched forward and fell across the footway. As he fell he rolled over, showing a white face that gleamed death-like under the dim light of the gas-lamp. He lay very still.
The girl whimpered, pulled herself together, and fixed her eyes sternly on the scowling fellow before her, his hands thrust in his coat pockets:
“I saw you do it,” she said.
“And after that?” he asked with a sneer, his chin thrust out at her.
“When twelve men talk about these kind of accidents,” she said with biting precision and level voice, “I’ve heard them call it murder; and the judge——”
She shrugged her shoulders.
The wag of the party, he whom they called Charlie, interfered:
“Look here, Henery,” said he—“you’ll be ’ittin’ a bloke harder nor what yer wish for, one evenin’, and meetin’ yer Gawd without a cellar-flap to dance your bloomin’ double-shuffle on, see? The girl’s right, see?”
The scowling fellow stooped down, emptied the money out of the pockets of the fallen man, the gold from one trouser pocket,the silver from the other, and banknotes from the breast-pocket of the coat. He put back a few shillings in silver, and growled at one of the others to let the watch be and keep his dirty hands from messing the toff’s clothes.
“Mates,” said he, “rub your hands clean on the seats of yer trouseys, and help me lift the aristocracy on to the road, so’s the dint in his head fits the curb, see!”
They lifted him amongst them.
“Steady. Now over ’ere a bit. That’s it. The curb just about fits where the bloomin’ lead hit his skull.... What a lovely accident he looks to be sure!... Charlie,” he winked at the others, “yer hit him harder than there was need for—he’s got a hole in his thinking-box yer could put a good character into.... Steady. That’s it, leave him alone, can’t yer!... Now, mates, shall we go and make ourselves conspicuous a-helpin’ the aristocracy to find their cabs—or shall we call the police?... On the whole, I’m for helpin’ the aristocracy. The police might think the lady had led the gent down here—for reasons. Good-night, lady.”
He took off his hat with mock solemnity.
Charlie gave a warning whistle:
“I hear a friend of mine coming down the road,” he said. “Scatter.”
They strode off into the darkness.
The girl stooped down and looked at the fallen man.
“My God!” said she, brushing tears from her eyes—“yes. They might think I had—lured the poor fool—to it!”
She stepped into the fog and followed the sound of the retreating footsteps up the street to the hurly-burly of the town.