_Wherein the Heir of the Ffolliotts falls the Victim to a Limited
Badinage_
It was 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 pleased to 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.