A Fluttered Dovecote

Tiresome light! How terribly it began to dance about! I thought that part of the line must be much out of repair, for the carriage wobbled excessively. My eyes, too, were dim as the light, and I had to try again and again to read the postscript which met my frightened gaze:

“Mrs Fortesquieu de Blount desires her best respects and compliments, and – ”

“Qu’est ce que c’est, mon ange?” murmured Achille, as I dropped the fatal letter, and nearly swooned away; for – oh, how could I have been so foolish! – I had marked the envelopes so as not to make any mistake, and yet had put in the wrong letters, sending word home that I had eloped, and giving them ample notice of my intentions.

I caught the letter up again, and tried to pass it off as nothing – only a sudden pang, for I dare not tell Achille; but who can imagine my agony as we sped on for the rest of our journey? For we could not converse, on account of the other passengers, and my brain was in a whirl.

All at once the train began to slacken, and, in the comparative quiet, I hoped and thought possible a dozen things: the letter might have miscarried, or been sent wrong; it might have been lost; papa and mamma might have been out – plenty of things might have happened in my favour; and then we drew up at another dismal station, whose bleared lights we could see through the rain spotted windows. Here the tickets were collected, and I felt sure that the ticket collector looked suspiciously at both Achille and me; while, as we waited, I could hear them clanking in the milk tins into the great wild beast cage upon wheels that they have upon the night trains of that and, I suppose, all railways. At last, just as we were about to start, the door opened again, and a wet man jumped in, and sat there staring at us all the rest of the way.

London at last, in the darkness and misery of the early morning! It was of no use to try and keep them back, the tears would come, and even the reassuring pressure of Achille’s hand was of no avail to cheer me; for, oh! it did look so very, very, very miserable in the dark, cheerless, wet time, and I hardly knew how to stand.

“This way, sir,” said a man who appeared to be one of the guards, for he was dressed just like one. “Cab all ready, sir.”

“Merci,” replied Achille; and I clung to his arm as we followed the civil guard under the long row of dismal hanging lamps, some alight and some out, past the hissing engine, with its bright light, and warm, ruddy, glowing fire; and at that moment I did so wish that I was a happy, careless engine driver, warming myself in the cheery heat – anything but what I then was; for I was dreadfully unhappy, and, I am afraid, even a little disappointed that my fears had no suite, so strange a contradiction is a woman’s heart. However, on we went to where another man was waiting by a cab, and as soon as we approached he opened the door.

Weak, faint, and miserable, I hurried in, and leaned back trembling in a corner, expecting Achille the next moment would be at my side; but, to my horror, I saw a slight scuffle take place, and Achille dragged off. The guard-like man jumped in, shut the door after him, and pulled up the glass; while at the same moment the horrid wet cab jangled off, and the creature lowered the front window and gave some instructions to the driver.

“Oh, stop, stop!” I cried, in agony, as I jumped up. “There is some mistake. Where is Monsieur Achille – the gentleman who was with me?”

“That clinches what didn’t want no clinching, my dear,” said the horrid wretch, shouting at me, for the cab made so much noise – “that clinches it, my dear. I hadn’t a doubt before; and as to now, why, it’s right as right, and there’s no mistake. Now sit down, my dear. I shan’t hurt you, so don’t be frightened; and it’s of no use for you to try and jump out, because I don’t mean to let you. There now, see what you’ve done – you’ve broke the window! Not very surprising, though, for they always makes cab windows of the thinnest glass they can get hold of for the benefit of their fares. Make a handsome thing out of the profits, some owners do, being mostly broken by noisy swells who can pay up. Helps the shoeing bill, you know, my dear. Now, do sit still. What a struggling little bird it is!”

I was horrified and mad; for the wretch had caught me in his arms as I started from my seat and beat at the window till it fell shattered to pieces; but in spite of my struggles he held me down upon the seat by his side.

“It’s all right, my dear Miss Laura Bozerne. And you needn’t be in the least bit afraid of me; for I’m an old married man, sent by some one you know very well, working under the advice of my wife, and I’m to be depended upon. So sit still, my little dove, you’re saved out of the hawk’s claws this time.”

What could I do but sink back with a hysterical sob, my mind in a state of chaos? I really, I’m sure, did not know then whether I was pleased or sorry, though I had felt it incumbent upon me to struggle a little at first. I’m sure my brains were all anyhow, as I wondered who the man was by my side, and where he was taking me. Had Achille betrayed me and fled? Oh, no – impossible! Papa must have taken steps to stop us; and this wretch by my side was, I felt sure, a detective.

Up and down street after street, all dark, dismal, and deserted, as I could see when the wretch rubbed the steaming glass with his sleeve. The lamps were all burning; and here and there we passed a policeman, and, every time the light shone upon their wet capes, fresh tears gushed from my eyes as I thought of Achille and his probable fate. Then, too, I thought again of where they were bearing me. Was I to be imprisoned – taken before a magistrate? Oh, it was horrible! and the long, jangling ride seemed as though it would never end.

“Now, that’s what I call sensible, my dear,” said the wretch, all at once – shouting so that I’m sure the driver could almost have heard. “Some people, you see, never do know when they’re took, but keep on fighting agen it when there’s no more chance of getting away than flying. That’s right, take it coolly, and a good cry will do you no end of good, I dare say.”

Then, finding me quiet and resigned, my captor appeared to take but little more notice of me, only turning his head my way from time to time as we passed a lamp. I would have given anything to have known where we were going; but, of course, under the circumstances, I could not summon courage enough to ask; but at last I seemed to recognise places that we passed, first one and then another becoming familiar, till it seemed almost like returning home from a ball. And – yes – no – yes – no – yes, it was our own house before which we had driven up, and the driver was ringing furiously at the bell!

Oh, yes, it was all plain enough now. I had been entrapped and brought home, and I knew that I had betrayed myself by my own folly.

“Oh, Achille, Achille!” I murmured.

“He’s all right, miss, I dare say,” said my captor, who certainly possessed a preternatural sharpness of hearing; “and I should think that we had better sit here in the dry till the door opens, though I dare say that won’t be long, for they expex us.”

And he was right; for, with swimming eyes, I saw the flash of light, while I could not help blessing the darkness of the cold, winterly morn, which hid me from the gaze of the vulgar. The people on either side were doubtless asleep, and there was no one visible but a policeman, who helped to carry me over the wet pavement into the hall, where, trembling and dizzy, I stood for a moment before papa in his dressing-gown, and then really and truly I fainted dead away.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Memory the Twenty-Fourth – Fate

I never saw Achille again, and I never once dared to ask either mamma or papa about his fate; for they were both so kind and tender all the time that I was seriously ill from the cold, exposure, and agitation to which I had been subjected. It was quite a month before I was able to go out again; while now – heigho! – would that I had never had a heart!

No: I never saw Achille again; but never, oh never will I believe that newspaper report, though papa marked it all round thickly with a quill pen, and left it where I could not avoid seeing it! It was in one of the horrible evening papers, and said that one Achille de Tiraille had been committed for trial upon a charge of swindling; but, even if it were true, it could not have been my Achille – the soul of truth, honour, and chivalry, whom I had once known.

Shall I ever be happy again? I feel seared and blighted; and, except that pink is pleasing, I care little for dress. Papa is very kind, so is mamma, and they have never even hinted at the past; while as for the Cedars, such a place might never have been in existence. They take me to all the operas, but “Trovatore” seems to be my favourite, since I cannot help comparing the sorrows of two real individuals known to the reader with those of the fictitious people of the opera. Yes – the sorrows of Leonora and her poor Trovatore seem quite to refresh me, though the sole pleasure of my life of late has been the committing of these tear-bedewed confessions to paper, for the benefit of all who may read them.

I have written again to Soeur Charité, and she sends me in return such kind, loving words. I know she would be glad were I once more beneath the shelter of her dove-like wings; but neither papa nor mamma would, I am sure, ever again listen to any proposition for me to leave home. So I practise self-denial, and try to improve upon the lessons inculcated by Mr Saint Purre, who often calls, mamma being very fond of his society.

Postscript

“Eldersmere, June 4th, 1800.

“My dearest Laura – Pray excuse haste, for we are just off to ‘Parigi O cara,’ to see the Exposition – papa, mamma, your humble servant, and Effie Campanelle Brassey. I will write at length from there. But just a line to say that we are delighted to hear of your engagement, and Effie and I will be doubly delighted to be bridesmaids. What fun, though, to think of all the school frolics, and – and – but there, I won’t say a word; only mind this, I mean to come and stay for months with you when you are Mrs Saint Purre. And so he is to have a living down in the country? My! what fun, to see the saintly Laura attending, basket in hand, to her poor, and her Sunday school children! Heigho! and poor me without so much as an offer yet. Do, there’s a dear, have a few nice fellows at the wedding, just out of pity, you know; for, only think, both Effie and I will soon be eighteen! You say that the Cedars is never to be mentioned; but I must tell you that in the advertisements it is now, ‘Lady Principals, Mrs Fortesquieu de Blount and Miss Furness.’ Goodbye, my own dear, dear pet, sweet, darling Laura; and I am, as I always shall be, in spite of hundreds of tiffs, your affectionate friend, —

“Clara Fitzacre.”

The End