Lord of the Far Island Page 3

  My imagination—so exciting at times when I was in control of it—now showed itself as a ruthless enemy. I saw Esmeralda snatched up by some evil characters like Fagin from Oliver Twist teaching her to pick pockets. Of course she would never learn, I promised myself, and would be arrested immediately and brought home to her family. Perhaps Gypsies would take her. There was a fortuneteller in the market. They would darken her skin with walnut juice and make her sell baskets. Someone might kidnap her and hold her to ransom; and I had done this. The market adventure was so daring that it could only have been undertaken when it was possible to sneak into the house as we had sneaked out. Only on such a day when there was to be an important dinner party had it been possible.

  And now Esmeralda was lost. What could I do? I knew. I must go back to the house. Confess what I had done and search parties would be sent out to find her.

  This was distasteful to me, for I knew it was something which would never be forgotten and might even result in my being sent into an orphanage. After I had committed such a sin Cousin Agatha would in her opinion be justified in sending me away. I suspected that she only needed such justification. I therefore found it difficult to leave the market. Just one more look, I promised myself, and I wended my way through the place keeping my eyes alert for Esmeralda.

  Once I thought I caught a glimpse of her and gave chase, but it was a mistake.

  It must be getting late. Coming here would have taken half an hour and I must have been here an hour and now there was the journey back.

  I went to the omnibus stop and waited. What a long time I waited! I was getting frantic. Silly Esmeralda! I thought, finding some comfort in blaming her. Stupid little thing! Why couldn't she have stayed with me?

  At last the omnibus arrived. What was I going to say? What trouble there would be! How could she have found her way home? Oh, what had happened to Esmeralda!

  I descended from the omnibus and made my way to the house, intending to creep in by the servants' entrance. I saw with a shudder that the red awning was up and the red carpet down and that guests were arriving. I ran round to the back of the house. Rose was the one to find. She would be most sympathetic. She might well be in the mews, because the Carrington coachman would be there and she wouldn't want to miss a moment of his company.

  I went to the mews. She was not there. Oh dear, the only thing for me to do was to go to the house and confess to the first person I saw. Cook? She would be blustering in the kitchen putting the last-minute touches to the dinner. Nanny Grange perhaps, because she knew that I had what she called reckless blood in me and wouldn't blame me so much for what I had done. "It's her blood," she would whisper knowledgeably.

  I went in through the servants' entrance. No one seemed to be about. I made my way up the stairs to the hall and then I heard voices.

  A policeman stood there, respectful, competent and reassuring, and beside him, looking very small in comparison, was a pale-faced Esmeralda.

  "Found wandering," the policeman was saying. "Lost. We brought her home as soon as she told us where, Ma'am."

  It was like a tableau and one I believed I should never forget.

  Cousin Agatha, aglitter in a low-cut gown twinkling with emeralds and diamonds, and Cousin William Loring, immaculate in his evening clothes, had been brought down to the hall from the top of the staircase where they had been receiving their guests to receive instead their truant daughter brought home by a policeman.

  Several guests stood on the stairs. The Carringtons were just arriving—Mr. Carrington, Lady Emily and the great Rollo.

  I noticed the intense mortification in every line of Cousin Agatha's statuesque form; her emerald earrings quivered with passionate indignation. Esmeralda began to cry.

  "It's all right now, Missy," said the policeman.

  "My dear," said Lady Emily, "what on earth has happened?"

  Cousin William began: "Our daughter was lost..." But he was immediately silenced by Cousin Agatha.

  "Where is Nanny? What has she been doing? Esmeralda, go to your room."

  Esmeralda saw me suddenly through her tears and cried: "Ellen."

  Cousin Agatha turned and her basilisk gaze was directed straight at me.

  "Ellen!" she said in a voice full of evil omen.

  I came forward. "We only went to the market," I began.

  "Wilton!" There he was, urbane, discreet in all his butlerian dignity.

  "Yes, Madam," he said. "I will have the young ladies taken to the nursery." And to the policeman: "If you would care to follow me you will be refreshed and our appreciation shown to you. Ah, Madam, here is Nanny."

  Nanny Grange appeared; she took me by one hand and Esmeralda by the other. Her anger was apparent in the grip of her fingers. I would have some explaining to do, I was sure, but at the moment I could only be relieved that Esmeralda was safe. There was one other thing that impressed itself on me. And that was the interested blue stare of the Great Rollo. His eyes were fixed temporarily on me. I wondered what he was thinking as Nanny hustled us up the stairs. Guests looked at us curiously. Some of them smiled. Then we were mounting the second stairs on up to the nursery.

  "We only thought we'd like to see the market," I explained. "This could well cost me my job," muttered Nanny Grange venomously. "And I know who was at the bottom of this, Miss Ellen, and don't you go trying to put it on Miss Esmeralda. She was led." Esmeralda murmured: "I wanted to go, Nanny." "You were led," said Nanny. "Don't I know Miss Ellen?" "Well, it was my idea," I said. "And you shouldn't blame Esmeralda."

  "What Madam is going to say to you, Miss, I don't know. But I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."

  We were sent to bed without supper—not that we cared about that—and I lay in bed wondering what life was like in orphanages.

  Rosie came in late that night just as the guests were leaving. She was bright-eyed—the way she looked when she had been enjoying the company of her coachman. She sat on the edge of the bed and giggled.

  "You are a one. You didn't ought to have took Miss Esmeralda. She was sure to get lost or something."

  "How was I to know she'd be so silly!"

  "And to go off on your own like that. My word, you're in for trouble."

  "I know," I said.

  "Well, cheer up. Worse troubles at sea, as my first intended used to say. He was a sailor."

  "What's an orphanage like?"

  Rosie's face softened suddenly. "My cousin Alice was brought up in one. Quite the lady. Went governessing. No common housemaiding for her. Lots of company. There are a good many orphans in the world." She stooped down and kissed me. I knew she was trying to comfort me. She had been happy with her coachman and wanted all the world to be as happy as she was.

  I supposed I'd be all right at the orphanage.

  Cousin Agatha sent for me next morning. She looked as though she had had a sleepless night.

  "Such conduct," she was saying. "Do you know I despair of you? I know that these inclinations come to you. It's in the blood, but as I said to Mr. Loring, what can we do with the child? Most people would send you away. After all we have our own daughter to consider. But blood is thicker than water and you are of our family. You try our patience sorely, Ellen—mine and Mr. Loring's. I must warn you that you will have to mend your ways if you wish to stay under our roof."

  I said I hadn't known Esmeralda would get lost and if she hadn't no one would have known we had been to the market.

  "Such deceit," she cried, "is intolerable. I am glad that Esmeralda did get lost—even though it ruined my evening. At least we know what a wicked child we have under our roof."

  She had given Nanny instructions that I was to stay in my room until I had learned the Quality of Mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice. Perhaps that would teach me to be grateful for those who had—and let it be remembered that this could well be the last time—shown mercy towards me. I should have nothing but bread and water until I had perfected the piece, and while I was in seclusion I might well ref
lect on the havoc I had wrought. "What the Carringtons thought of you, I can't imagine. I shall not be surprised if you are not allowed to be with Philip again."

  I was dismissed and learned my piece in a very short time. Later Cousin Agatha discovered that I loved poetry and it was no hardship to me to learn it; then I was given needlework to do, which was another matter. To read and reread beautiful arrangements of words delighted me; to cobble stitches was torture. But she had at that time to discover this.

  Poor Esmeralda could not learn her piece half as quickly as I could and when she was obliged to say it before our governess I crept close to her and prompted her through it.

  By Christmastime the affair of the market began to be forgotten. Philip appeared during school holidays and he was allowed to play with us in the Park. I told him about the market and how Esmeralda had got lost and in an excess of contempt he pushed her into the Serpentine. Esmeralda screamed and Philip stood on the bank laughing at her while I waded in and dragged her to the bank. Then Nanny Grange came along and we were all hustled back to the house to get our wet things off before we caught our deaths.

  "I'll be blamed for that," I told Philip.

  "Serve you right," he cried. He didn't care a bit if Esmeralda caught her death. He added to me: "You wouldn't. You're not so silly as she is."

  When Esmeralda did catch a cold Nanny Grange reported the incident to some of the servants; I knew they were all of the opinion that I had pushed Esmeralda into the water.

  Poor Esmeralda! I'm afraid we were very careless of her. It was not exactly that Philip and I banded together against her, but simply that she lacked our adventurous spirit and we were too young to respect the fact that she was different from ourselves. I remember how terrified she was of Dead Man's Leap. The very name was enough to strike terror into the timid and it certainly did to Esmeralda. This particular spot was not far from Trentham Towers. There was a climb up to it and at the peak the drop was considerable; it really was dangerous, for the narrow path was right on the edge of the steep drop and during wet weather was treacherously slippery. All along the path through the woods there were warning notices such as "At Own Risk" and "Road Unsafe"—just the sort of thing to spur on people like Philip and myself.

  It was not only a dangerous spot, it was also uncanny, for it was said to be haunted because of the number of people who had committed suicide there. There was a saying in the neighborhood if anyone looked melancholy. "What's the matter with you? Thinking of jumping off Dead Man's Leap?"

  This was therefore a favorite spot of ours and we jeered at Esmeralda if she showed any reluctance in accompanying us. Philip liked to stand on the very edge of this precipice to show how intrepid he was, and of course I had to do the same.

  Once we were seen there and when this was reported to the tutor who was coaching Philip at the time, we were forbidden to go; but this naturally only made the place more desirable, and it became a meeting place for us. "See you at Dead Man's Leap," Philip would say casually, half hoping I would be afraid to go there by myself. I always went when thus challenged, although I was a little scared, for the place did have an eerie atmosphere, particularly when one was there alone.

  Time started to pass very quickly, but there was one other incident in our childhood which brought me notoriety and I think I did give Cousin Agatha the justification to be rid of me. I was fourteen—at an age when I should have known better. Philip was fifteen and this happened in the country.

  Philip wanted to have tea out of doors. We would make a fire and boil a kettle on it and live like Indians or Gypsies—he wasn't sure which it would be—whatever seemed best at the time. The great thing was to make a fire. We needed a kettle, which I had to bring.

  "There are lots in your kitchen," said Philip. "There must be. Bring some tea and water in a bottle, and cakes. And we'll make a fire."

  I made Esmeralda get the cakes from the kitchen and I got the kettle. Philip was bringing paraffin, which he said was fine for making fires.

  "We'd better be Gypsies," he said. "We've kidnapped Esmeralda. She has been spirited out of her house and we'll tie her up and ask a ransom for her."

  Esmeralda wailed: "Can't I be a Gypsy?"

  "No, you can't," said Philip tersely. Poor Esmeralda! She was always cast for the victim.

  The outcome of that adventure was that we had reckoned without the paraffin. Philip had collected some bracken and poured the oil liberally over it. The blaze first delighted us and then alarmed us. We couldn't get near it, and Esmeralda, both her ankles tied together, a gag over her mouth, very uncomfortable and longing to be allowed to play another part, was very near to it.

  We tried to beat out the flames but they spread. I had the foresight to untie Esmeralda and by that time it seemed as though the whole field was ablaze.

  There was nothing to be done but call for help. All the servants were busy trying to beat it out and to prevent its spreading to the cornfields.

  There was great trouble about that.

  "And on the Carringtons' land," said Cousin Agatha, as though we had desecrated some sacred temple. It was fortunate that one of the Carringtons had been involved but Cousin Agatha laid most of the blame on me.

  I heard her say to Cousin William: "It is quite clear that Ellen is unmanageable. Into what disaster she will lead Esmeralda next I tremble to think."

  I was given another lecture.

  "You are now fourteen years of age. An age when many girls without means have been earning a living for some years. We do not forget that there is a family connection and for that reason we have tried to be good to you. But the time is coming very near, Ellen, when you will have to think of your future. Neither Mr. Loring nor I would wish to turn you adrift, and we shall do all we can to help you in spite of the manner in which you have so often repaid us. Yet this last disastrous escapade makes me feel again that our efforts have been wasted. You show a deplorable lack of discipline. You must be punished. The rod would be desirable. I have told Mr. Loring that it is his duty to administer it and he will be coming to your room to perform this painful duty. In addition you will begin a new sampler, which I myself shall inspect every week. The verse you learn will be 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.' "

  What she went on to say was even more depressing.

  "I have been discussing your future with Mr. Loring and we agree that you must now be prepared to earn your own living. After all, you cannot expect to live on our bounty forever. You have been allowed to be a companion for Esmeralda—not a very good influence alas and one which I have so often thought she would have been better without—but in a few years a husband will be found for her and she will have no further need of your companionship. Mr. Loring and I do not forget that you belong to the family and therefore we should not throw you out into the world indiscriminately. We shall find the right post for you at the right time, for it is inconceivable that any member of our family should take a menial position. Governess or companion is all we would consider. Our circle of acquaintances is large and we hope in due course to find the right post for you. It is not as simple as you might think, for we would not wish you to be in a household which we might visit. That could be most embarrassing. So you see we shall have to choose the place with the utmost care. Meanwhile, you should prepare yourself. Study hard. Work harder especially with your needlework. I'll speak to the governess about that. Then when Esmeralda comes out and marries we shall hope to have the post ready for you. Now I trust you are in a contrite mood. Take your punishment, for you richly deserve it, and go to your room. Mr. Loring will come to you there."

  Poor Cousin William! I was sorry for him. He came gingerly holding a cane with which he was to chastise me. He hated the task. I had to lie face down on my bed while he lightly tapped the cane about my thighs, which made me want to laugh.

  He was red in the face and uncomfortable. Then he said suddenly: "There, I trust that has taught you a lesson."

&nb
sp; It was comforting to be able to laugh at Cousin William, for I was feeling very uneasy about the future.

  That night was one of the occasions when I dreamed again about the room with the red carpet, from which I awoke with the feeling of doom.

  The years sped away. My eighteenth birthday came and went. The time when I must go into the world and earn my own living was coming nearer and nearer. Esmeralda used to comfort me. She would say: "When I'm married, Ellen, you shall always have a home with me."

  I didn't envy Esmeralda. It would have been impossible to do that. She was so mild; it was true she had grown a little pretty, but I couldn't help noticing that when we were out together it was at me that people glanced. My black hair and dark blue eyes were striking and my "inquiring" nose, as Philip called it, made it seem as though I was asking a question. But at least her future was secure. We saw it happening all around us: Girls coming out into society, marriages arranged for them, becoming matrons with young children. It was all most carefully planned.

  It was different for those who had to fend for themselves, as I should have to.

  There had been one or two minor incidents when I had aroused the indignation of Cousin Agatha, but nothing so startling as the visit to the market or setting fire to Carrington land. When we were in the country we had to do more social work. We visited the poor and took them what Cousin Agatha called "delicacies"—usually something which she would not consider worthy of her own table; we decorated the church for harvest festival just before we left for London; we went to the gymkhana and church bazaars, where we had our own stalls. We played the parts of helpers of Lady Bountiful and in town we rode in the Row and at Cousin Agatha's At Homes we helped pass round the refreshments; we sewed for the poor; we worked for the Tories; we walked sedately in the Park and lived the lives of genteel young ladies. But then there was a subtle change. It was nearing the time when Esmeralda should come out and we were beginning to be segregated. Esmeralda was taken to the theater with her parents, and I did not accompany them. Often she went visiting with her mother now and I was left behind. The dressmaker who over the years had taken up residence in the house for several weeks at a time when there were functions ahead now settled in for a spell and worked on lovely new clothes for Esmeralda. There was nothing extra for me—only one spring, summer, autumn and winter dress—one new one per year.