Chapter Five.
Lady Ursula.
Hetty slept fairly well. I sat broad awake by her bedside. I was too young, too fresh, too strong to be exhausted by this evening’s excitement and hurry. I was not tired enough to drop asleep in the hard chair by my sister’s bedside. My pulses were beating high. I sat all through the long night, excited, anxious, full of a thousand forebodings and troubles. I gave my patient Brand’s jelly and grapes when she woke in the night, and early in the morning I boiled an egg, made some crisp toast, and a teapot of fragrant tea, and gave Hetty her breakfast. Afterwards I washed and dressed her; I combed out her hair, and tied it into a soft mass. I straightened the bed, and made it look as tidy as such a miserable bed could be, and then putting some grapes within reach, and the flowers on a little table, where she could look at them, I ran down-stairs to interview the landlady.
“I am glad to tell you,” I said, “that my sister seems much better this morning.”
“Oh, ay, miss, I’m sure I’m pleased to hear it.” The landlady was all beams and curtsies. “I always said, pore dear, that it was care she wanted—and all I could I give her, as Mr Gray can testify; but when a woman has got to ’arn her living ’ard, she has no power to spend much time a-cookin’, and a-cleanin’, and a-nursin’, and a-messin’. It’s always a-nursin’ and a-messin’ with the sick, and I han’t got the time, so I’m glad you has come in, miss.”
“Yes, but I must go away for some hours,” I said, “and I want my sister to be taken all possible care of in my absence. Will you do that for me, Mrs Ashton? I will come back as early in the afternoon as I can.”
“To be sure I will, my dear.”
“Here is a piece of paper on which I have written what she is to eat, and how often she is to be fed.”
“Well, dear, I’ll do my ’umble best. I’m not good at readin’ and writin’, but Mary Ann in the kitchen can spell out what you has writ down, miss, I make no doubt.”
I left the paper in Mrs Ashton’s hands, and went back again to Hetty.
“Hetty,” I said, “I must go away for a few hours. Mrs Ashton will take all possible care of you.” I stopped, distressed by the piteous, helpless expression on her face.
“Mrs Ashton doesn’t take any care of me,” said Hetty. “She leaves me all day long, and never, never comes near the room. Yesterday the fire went out, and I got so hungry, so dreadfully hungry. Then the hunger went off, and I felt only cold and very faint. I thought perhaps I was dying. Don’t leave me with Mrs Ashton, miss.”
“You must call me Rosamund, Hetty. Now listen. Don’t tremble, dear. I am obliged to leave you. I have a mother and father, and—and—brothers. Your Jack is one of my brothers. I will come back again as soon as ever I can; and when I come I shall probably bring you a message from Jack.”
“Won’t Jack come to see me himself to-day?”
“I’m afraid not. Jack does not forget you, Hetty, but the fact is, he is ill. He has a bad headache, and has to be nursed.”
“Oh,” she said gently, and without any of the alarm I had anticipated. “Sometimes his head aches fearfully, I know; I have seen it. I have sat up all night nursing his headache. Who is taking care of him now?”
“His mother and mine, the tenderest and best of human beings.”
I felt a break in my voice as I said this. I knew my mother was no longer first in Jack’s affections. I felt an unreasonable and ridiculous sense of jealousy on my mother’s account.
“Good-bye, Hetty,” I said hastily; “I will bring you news of Jack; and try and believe one thing—the Mrs Ashton of yesterday and the Mrs Ashton of to-day are two distinctly different people. You will be taken care of, my dear, and remember I expect to see you looking quite bright and well this evening.”
Then I ran down-stairs and out of the house. It was still too early to go to Madame Leroy’s, but the comfortable chink of gold in my purse enabled me to spend my time profitably. I laid in fresh provisions both for Hetty and for Jack. At twelve o’clock exactly I arrived at Madame Leroy’s. To my surprise Susan herself opened the door for me. I think she must have been waiting on the mat inside, for the moment I rang, the door was pulled open, and Susan said breathlessly:
“Oh, come in, Miss Rosamund, come up-stairs.”
“Where is my ring, Susan?” I said, resisting her impetuous push. “Give me back my ring at once and let me go. I have really a great deal to do, and have not time to wait to chat with you.”
“It isn’t me, miss, as wants to keep you, it’s Madame Leroy herself.”
“Madame Leroy? What do you mean?”
“And I haven’t got the ring, miss. When I asked Madagie for it this morning, she said, ‘When the young person calls, show her up to my private room at once.’ She said ‘young person,’ miss, meaning no offence, but the moment she claps her eyes on you she’ll know you are a lady born.”
“I don’t care what she calls me, Susan; if I must see her, I must, I suppose. Show me to her room at once.”
Susan ran on before me, past the first floor, and the second, and on to the third floor of the great house; where she paused, and knocked deliberately at a certain door which wanted paint, and was altogether very shabby.
“Come in,” said a voice, and I found myself in the presence of Madame Leroy.
I suppose this great artiste, as she would term herself, had a certain figure, manner, eye, tone which were capable of not only inspiring awe, but of tickling vanity, of whetting desire, of ministering to the weakest passions of the silliest of her sex. I may as well own at once that her arts were thrown away on me.
She was a handsome dark-eyed woman, full in figure, tall in stature, and with what would be called a commanding presence. I was only a slip of a girl, badly dressed, and with no presence whatever. Nevertheless, I could not fear the fashionable and pompous being.
“Will you kindly return me my ring, Madame Leroy?” I said brusquely.
Madame favoured me with a sweeping curtsey.
“I presume I am addressing Miss Lindley?” she said. “Pray take a seat, Miss Lindley—I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The moment she spoke I perceived that she was not French. She was an English or an Irish woman, probably the latter. Her name was doubtless an assumed one. I did not take the chair she proffered me.
“I have come for my ring,” I said, in a voice which I really managed to make very firm and business-like. “I brought it to you last night, and you very kindly paid me five pounds for the loan of it. I want it back now. Your servant said that if I called at twelve o’clock I should have the ring back.”
“I wish you would take a chair, Miss Lindley; I want particularly to speak to you about the ring. I am pleased to be able to impart to you some good news. I—” Madame Leroy paused, and slightly smacked her lips. “I have found a purchaser for your ruby ring, Miss Lindley.”
I felt my cheeks turning very red.
“You are kind,” I replied; “I dare say you mean to be good to me when you say you have a purchaser for the ring. But I don’t want to sell it.”
“Not want to sell it!” Madame Leroy looked me all over from the crown of my hat to the tips of my shabby boots. Then putting on her pince-nez she scrutinised my face. I knew perfectly well the thoughts that were filling her mind. She was saying to herself:—“You are a poor specimen of humanity, but if I, the great artiste, had the dressing of you, I might make you at least presentable. The idea of a chit like you presuming to refuse to sell a trinket!”
“I don’t want to sell my ring,” I said. “But it is possible that I may lend it to you another evening. Even that I am not sure about. Give it back to me now, please.”
I held out my hand. Madame Leroy drew back.
“I am very sorry,” she said, reddening; “the fact is, I have not got the ring.”
“Not got my ring?”
“No. Lady Ursula Redmayne borrowed the ring last night. She sent me a messenger this morning with a letter, and no ring. Shall I read you her letter?”
“I do not care to hear it,” I said. “It is no matter to me what Lady Ursula Redmayne writes to you. I want my ring.”
“Well, miss,”—Madame Leroy’s tone was now decidedly angry,—“seeing how very anxious you were last night for the immediate loan of five pounds, you have a mighty independent way with you. Lady Ursula Redmayne, indeed! I can tell you it isn’t every one as has the privilege of getting letters from Lady Ursula.”
While Madame Leroy was speaking I had a great many flashes of thought. Her first words recalled me to myself. A girl who had come in desperation to hire out a family trinket for what she could get for it, was surely inconsistent when she disdained even the suggestion of a future patron. Lady Ursula, whoever she was, would buy the ring. Of course she must not have it, I must be a great deal harder pressed before I could consent to part with my Talisman, my “Open Sesame” into the Land of Romance. But I knew that I did want money. I wanted twenty pounds before Monday, if I would help Jack—I wanted further money if I would continue to assist his wife.
All these thoughts, as I say, flashed through me, and by the time Madame Leroy had finished speaking, I had quite altered my tone.
“I am sorry to appear rude,” I said. “I know you were very kind to help me last night. Will you please tell me what Lady Ursula says about my ring?”
“Candidly, my dear, she wants to buy it from you. Here is her letter. She says:—
”‘Dear Madame Leroy,—You must get me that lovely ruby ring at any price. I refuse to part from it. Name a price, and I will send you a cheque.’
“There’s a chance for you,” said Madame Leroy, flinging down her letter. “You can’t say I have not been a good friend to you after that letter. Name any price in reason for that old ring, and you shall have it—my commission being twenty per cent.”
“But I don’t wish to sell the ring, Madame Leroy.”
“I am sorry, Miss Lindley, I am afraid you have no help for yourself. Lady Ursula Redmayne intends to buy it.”
This was not at all the right kind of thing to say to me. I was very proud, and all my pride flashed into my face.
“You think because I am poor, and Lady Ursula is rich, that she is to have my property?” I said. “You must send a messenger for the ring at once. I will wait here until he returns.”
Poor Madame Leroy looked absolutely stupefied.
“I never met such a queer young lady,” she said. “How can I send a message of that sort? Why, it will offend my best, my very best customer. If you have no pity on yourself, Miss Lindley, you ought to have some on me.”
“What can I do for you, Madame Leroy? I cannot sell the ring.”
“Well, you might go yourself to Lady Ursula. She is eccentric. She might take a fancy to you. You might go to her, and explain your motives, which are more than I can understand. And above all things you might exonerate me; you might explain to her that I did my best to get the ring for her.”
“I could certainly do that.”
“Will you?”
“I will go to Lady Ursula, if it does not take up too much of my time.”
“She lives in Grosvenor Street, not five minutes’ drive from here. You shall go in a hansom at my expense at once.”