could complain that I knocked too weakly to be heard, as Sir John sometimes had done. Even if Clarissa Roundtree and Elizabeth Hooker were chattering up on the third floor, they would certainly hear my knock as a summons, a demand for attention.
As it happened, however, they were not on the third floor, but just round the corner in a little sitting room near the door. And so it was that Elizabeth came to the door quite immediately. She curtsied grandly, more or less duplicating that curtsy that she had offered me to the delight of the crowd at Covent Garden. Ordinarily, I would have greeted her similarly with a bow; but, wrapped up in my own concerns, I offered nothing of the kind in return. As she started to greet me, I spoke over her rather rudely.
“I’ve come for Clarissa,” said I roughly, as if giving an order.
“I supposed you had.”
Her face quite crumpled in response to my boorish manner. I feared for a moment she might burst into tears, such a delicate child was she. Immediately was I overcome by a sense of guilt.
“You must forgive me,” said I to her. “What I said was in no wise ill-intentioned. I am simply in a great hurry, and I—”
“Oh, Jeremy, you’re always in a hurry.” It was Clarissa’s voice rising above my own. Only then did she appear. “Indeed you are late,” said she, “though not so late as I expected. Nevertheless, as you see, I am ready.”
And true enough, she was. Wrapped in her cloak, she bussed Elizabeth upon the cheek and announced that she had had quite a wonderful time and that soon she would return that they might gab once again.
“I loved your story about the vicar,” said she. “Caught out again, was he? That, I hope, has taught him a lesson.”
And, so saying, they embraced hurriedly, and Clarissa slid by her friend and out the door. There were then further goodbyes called out, waves from both, and only then did the door close after her.
“Goodness,” said she, “I’m so glad that’s over.”
I must have looked at her oddly then, for I was quite unsure that I had heard her correctly.
“Glad, oh yes, glad, Jeremy. I have never, I think, spent a more trying pair of hours in my life—not even in the Lichfield poorhouse.”
“What passed between you two that you should be moved to such a complaint?”
“Nothing! That’s just it, you see—nothing at all. After the first twenty or thirty minutes we had naught to say, one to the other. What an inert being she has become—utterly vapid, without purpose, quite useless, a kitchen slavey she is and she will always be.”
“And yet you—”
“No, I take that back. Her great ambition, it seems, is to be a housekeeper, and she may indeed advance that far! She has not read a book in years—and seems proud of it. She . . . she . . .”
Whether from want of words or breath, her denunciation ceased at about this point, and Clarissa walked beside me quite panting, unable to go further.
“In short,” said I, “you were bored.”
She nodded. We went along in silence all the way up Chandos Street, at which time she resumed in a more moderate and less emotional tone.
“You’ve no idea how fortunate we are, you and I,” said she to me. “When we sit at table, matters are discussed. We’re encouraged to read books and to make plans for the future. I had never quite realized it until now.”
“Sometimes I forget that myself.”
“Just look at Annie—how she has risen—a leading actress in Mr. Garrick’s theatre. Her story must be unique.”
“Perhaps so. I see your point, in any case, and I agree.” Again, I fell silent for a spell. “Nevertheless, Sir John can at times behave in the most confounding manner. Why, I brought to him today our best witness to date in the matter of Maggie Plummer.”
“Who was that again?”
“Maggie Plummer. Oh, you remember—the dead girl who was yesterday pulled from the Thames. I told you all about her on our way over to Dawson’s
As it happened, however, they were not on the third floor, but just round the corner in a little sitting room near the door. And so it was that Elizabeth came to the door quite immediately. She curtsied grandly, more or less duplicating that curtsy that she had offered me to the delight of the crowd at Covent Garden. Ordinarily, I would have greeted her similarly with a bow; but, wrapped up in my own concerns, I offered nothing of the kind in return. As she started to greet me, I spoke over her rather rudely.
“I’ve come for Clarissa,” said I roughly, as if giving an order.
“I supposed you had.”
Her face quite crumpled in response to my boorish manner. I feared for a moment she might burst into tears, such a delicate child was she. Immediately was I overcome by a sense of guilt.
“You must forgive me,” said I to her. “What I said was in no wise ill-intentioned. I am simply in a great hurry, and I—”
“Oh, Jeremy, you’re always in a hurry.” It was Clarissa’s voice rising above my own. Only then did she appear. “Indeed you are late,” said she, “though not so late as I expected. Nevertheless, as you see, I am ready.”
And true enough, she was. Wrapped in her cloak, she bussed Elizabeth upon the cheek and announced that she had had quite a wonderful time and that soon she would return that they might gab once again.
“I loved your story about the vicar,” said she. “Caught out again, was he? That, I hope, has taught him a lesson.”
And, so saying, they embraced hurriedly, and Clarissa slid by her friend and out the door. There were then further goodbyes called out, waves from both, and only then did the door close after her.
“Goodness,” said she, “I’m so glad that’s over.”
I must have looked at her oddly then, for I was quite unsure that I had heard her correctly.
“Glad, oh yes, glad, Jeremy. I have never, I think, spent a more trying pair of hours in my life—not even in the Lichfield poorhouse.”
“What passed between you two that you should be moved to such a complaint?”
“Nothing! That’s just it, you see—nothing at all. After the first twenty or thirty minutes we had naught to say, one to the other. What an inert being she has become—utterly vapid, without purpose, quite useless, a kitchen slavey she is and she will always be.”
“And yet you—”
“No, I take that back. Her great ambition, it seems, is to be a housekeeper, and she may indeed advance that far! She has not read a book in years—and seems proud of it. She . . . she . . .”
Whether from want of words or breath, her denunciation ceased at about this point, and Clarissa walked beside me quite panting, unable to go further.
“In short,” said I, “you were bored.”
She nodded. We went along in silence all the way up Chandos Street, at which time she resumed in a more moderate and less emotional tone.
“You’ve no idea how fortunate we are, you and I,” said she to me. “When we sit at table, matters are discussed. We’re encouraged to read books and to make plans for the future. I had never quite realized it until now.”
“Sometimes I forget that myself.”
“Just look at Annie—how she has risen—a leading actress in Mr. Garrick’s theatre. Her story must be unique.”
“Perhaps so. I see your point, in any case, and I agree.” Again, I fell silent for a spell. “Nevertheless, Sir John can at times behave in the most confounding manner. Why, I brought to him today our best witness to date in the matter of Maggie Plummer.”
“Who was that again?”
“Maggie Plummer. Oh, you remember—the dead girl who was yesterday pulled from the Thames. I told you all about her on our way over to Dawson’s
Similar Books
