CHAPTER VII
IN DAVIES STREET
The chairmen pushed on briskly through Piccadilly and Portugal Streetuntil they reached the turnpike on the skirts of the town. There,turning to the right by Berkeley Row, they reached Berkeley Square, atthat time a wide, implanted space, surrounded on three sides by newmansions, and on the fourth by the dead wall of Berkeley House. Forlack of lighting, or perhaps by reason of the convenience the buildingoperations afforded, it was a favourite haunt of footpads. Sophia wasa prey to anxieties that left no room in her mind for terrors of thisclass; and neither the dark lane, shadowed by the dead wall ofBerkeley Gardens nor the gloomy waste of the square, held any tremorsfor her; but the chairmen hastened over this part of their journey,and for a time her attendant squire was so little in evidence that inthe agitation into which the prospect of arrival at her lover's threwher, she forgot his presence. She strained her eyes through thedarkness to distinguish the opening of Davies Street, and at oncelonged and feared to see it. When at last the chair halted, and,pressing her hand to her heart to still the tumult that almost stifledher, she prepared to descend, it was with a kind of shock that shediscovered the little dandy mincing and bowing on the pavement, hishand extended to aid her in stepping from the chair.
The vexation she had suppressed before broke out at the sight. Shebowed slightly, and avoided his hand. "I am obliged to you, sir," shesaid ungraciously; "I won't trouble you farther. Good night, sir."
"But--I shall see you back to Arlington Street, ma'am?" he lisped."Surely at this hour an escort is more than ever necessary. I declareit is past eight, ma'am."
It was; but the fact put in words stung her like a whip. She wincedunder all that the lateness of the hour implied. It seemed intolerablethat in a crisis in which her whole life lay in the balance, in whichher being was on the rack until she found the reception that shouldright her, converting her boldness into constancy, her forwardnessinto courage--when she trembled on the verge of the moment in whichher lover's eyes should tell her all--it was intolerable that sheshould be harassed by this prating dandy. "I shall find an escorthere," she cried harshly. "I need you no longer, sir. Good night."
"Oh, but ma'am," he protested, bowing like a Chinese mandarin, "it isimpossible I should leave you so. Surely, there is something I can dofor your ladyship."
"You can pay the chairmen!" she cried contemptuously; and turning fromhim to the door before which the chair had halted, she found it halfopen. In the doorway a woman, her back to the light, stood blockingthe passage. Doubtless, she had heard what had passed.
Sophia's temper died down on the instant. "Is this Mr. Wollenhope's?"she faltered.
"Yes, ma'am."
An hour before it had seemed simple to ask for her lover. Now themoment was come she could not do it. "May I come in?" she muttered, togain time.
"You wish to see me?"
"Yes."
"Is the chair to wait, ma'am?"
Sophia trembled. It was a moment before she could find her voice.Then, "No," she answered faintly.
The woman looked hard at her, and having the light at her back, hadthe advantage. "Oh!" she said at last, addressing the men, "I thinkyou had better wait a minute." And grudgingly making way for Sophia toenter, she closed the door. "Now, ma'am, what is it?" she said,standing four-square to the visitor. She was a stout, elderly woman,with a bluff but not unkindly face.
"Mr. Hawkesworth lodges here?"
"He does, ma'am."
"Is he at home?" Sophia faltered. Under this woman's gaze she felt asudden overpowering shame. She was pale and red by turns. Her eyesdropped, her confusion was not to be overlooked.
"He is not at home," the woman said shortly. And her look, hostilebefore, grew harder.
Sophia caught her breath. She had not thought of this, and for amoment she was so overpowered by the intelligence, that she had tosupport herself against the wall. "When will he return, if youplease?" she asked at length, her lip quivering.
"I'm sure I couldn't say. I couldn't say at all," Mrs. Wollenhopeanswered curtly. "All I know is he went out with the young gentlemanat five, and as like as not he won't be home till morning."
Sophia had much ado not to burst into tears. Apparently the womanperceived this, and felt a touch of pity for her, for, in an alteredtone, "Is it possible," she asked, "you're the young lady he's tomarry to-morrow?"
The words were balm to the girl's heart. Here was sure footing atlast; here was something to go upon. "Yes," she said, more boldly. "Iam."
"Oh!" Mrs. Wollenhope ejaculated. "Oh!" After which she stared at thegirl, as if she found a difficulty in fitting her in with notionspreviously formed. At last, "Well, miss," she said, "I think if youcould call tomorrow?" with a dry cough. "If you are to be marriedto-morrow--it seems to me it might be better."
Sophia shivered. "I cannot wait," she said desperately. "I must seehim. Something has happened which he does not know, and I must seehim, I must indeed. Can I wait here? I have no where to go."
"Well, you can wait here till nine o'clock," Mrs. Wollenhope answeredless dryly. "We shut up at nine." Then, after glancing behind her, shelaid her hand on Sophia's sleeve. "My dear," she said, lowering hervoice, "begging pardon for the liberty, for I see you are a lady,which I did not expect--if you'll take my advice you'll go back. Youwill indeed. I am sure your father and mother----"
"I have neither!" Sophia said.
"Oh, dear, dear! Still, I can see you've friends, and if you'll takemy advice----"
She was cut short. "There you are again, Eliza!" cried a loud voice,apparently from an inner room. "Always your advice! Always youradvice! Have done meddling, will you, and show the lady upstairs."
Mrs. Wollenhope shrugged her shoulders as if the interruption were nouncommon occurrence. "Very well," she said curtly; and turning, ledthe way along the passage. Sophia followed, uncertain whether to beglad or sorry that the good woman's warning had been cut short. As shepassed the open door of a room at the foot of the stairs she had aglimpse of a cheery sea-coal fire, and a bald-headed man in his shirtsleeves, who was sitting on a settle beside it, a glass of punch inhis hand. He rose and muttered, "Your servant, ma'am!" as she passed;and she went on and saw him no more. But the vision of the snugback-parlour, with its fire and lights, and a red curtain hangingbefore the window, remained with her, a picture of comfort and quiet,as far as possible removed from the suspense and agitation in whichshe had passed the last two hours.
And in which she still found herself, for as she mounted the stairsher knees quaked under her. She was ashamed, she was frightened. Atthe head of the flight, when the woman opened the door of the room andby a gesture bade her enter, she paused and felt she could sink intothe ground. For the veriest trifle she would have gone down again. Butbehind her--behind her, lay nothing that had power to draw her; toreturn was to meet abuse and ridicule and shame, and that not inArlington Street only, for the story would be over the town: Lane themercer, whose shop was a hotbed of gossip, the little dandy who hadthrust himself into her company, and tracked her hither, the coachmanwho had witnessed the arrest, even her own friend Lady Betty--allwould publish the tale. Girls whom she knew, and from whoseplain-spoken gossip she had turned a prudish ear, would sneer in herface. Men like Lord Lincoln would treat her with the easy familiarityshe had seen them extend to Lady Vane, or Miss Edwards. Women sherespected, Lady Pomfret, the duchess, would freeze her with a look.Girls, good girls like Lady Sophia, or little Miss Hamilton--no longerwould these be her company.
No, she had gone too far; it was too late to turn back; yet she felt,as she crossed the threshold, it was the one thing she longed to do.Though Mrs. Wollenhope hastened to light two candles that stood on atable, the parlour and the shapes of the furniture swam beforeSophia's eyes. The two candles seemed to be four, six, eight; nay, theroom was all candles, dancing before her. She had to lean on a chairto steady herself.
By-and-by Mrs. Wollenhope's vo
ice, for a time heard droning dully,became clear. "He was up above," the good woman was saying. "But he'snot here much. He lives at the taverns of the quality, mostly. 'Twasbut yesterday he told me, ma'am, he was going to be married. You canwait here till nine, and I'll come and fetch you then, if he has notcome in. But you'd best be thinking, if you'll take my advice, whatyou'll do."
"Now, Eliza!" Mr. Wollenhope roared from below; to judge from thesound of his voice he had come to the foot of the stairs. "Advisingagain, I'm bound. Always advising! Some day your tongue will get youinto trouble, my woman. You come down and leave the young lady toherself."
"Oh, very well," Mrs. Wollenhope muttered, tossing her headimpatiently. "I'm coming. Coming!" And shielding her light with herhand, she went out and left Sophia alone.
The girl remained where she had paused on entering, a little withinthe door, her hand resting on a chair. And presently, as she lookedabout her, the colour began to creep into her face. This was his home,and at the thought she forgot the past; she dreamed of the future. Hishome! Here he had sat thinking of her. Here he had written the letter!Here, perhaps in that cupboard set low in the wainscot beside thefire, lay the secret papers of which he had told her, the Jacobitelists that held a life in every signature, the Ormonde letters, theplans for the Scotch Rising, the cipher promises from France! Here,surrounded by perils, he wrote and studied far into the night, thepistol beside the pen, the door locked, the keyhole stopped. Here hehad lain safe and busy, while the hated Whig approvers drew their netselsewhere. Sophia breathed more quickly as she pictured these things;as she told herself the story Othello told the Venetian maid. Theattraction of the man, the magic of the lover, dormant during thestress she had suffered since she left Arlington Street, revived; thegirl's eyes grew soft, blushes mantled over her cheeks. She lookedround timidly, almost reverently, not daring to advance, not daring totouch anything.
The room, which was not large, was wainscotted from ceiling to floorwith spacious panels, divided one from the other by fluted pillars inshallow relief, after the fashion of that day. The two windows werehigh, narrow, and roundheaded, deeply sunk in the panelling. Thefireplace, in which a few embers smouldered, was of Dutch tiles. Onthe square oak table in the middle of the floor, a pack of cards laybeside the snuffer tray, between the tall pewter candlesticks.
She noted these things greedily, and then, alas, she fell from theclouds. Mrs. Wollenhope had said that he had lived in the rooms aboveuntil lately! Still, he had sat here, and these were his belongings,which she saw strewn here and there. The book laid open on thehigh-backed settle that flanked one side of the hearth, and masked thedoor of an inner room, had been laid there by his hand. The cloak thathung across the back of one of the heavy Cromwell chairs was his. Thepapers and inkhorn, pushed carelessly aside on one of the plain woodenwindow-seats, had been placed there by him. His were the blackriding-wig, the whip, and spurs, and tasselled cane, that hung on ahook in a corner, and the wig-case that stood on a table against thewall, alongside a crumpled cravat, and a jug and two mugs. Allthese--doubtless all these were his. Sophia, flustered and softened,her heart beating quick with a delicious emotion, half hope, halffear, sat down on the chair by the door and gazed at them.
He was more to her now, while she sat in his room and looked at thesethings, than he had ever been; and though the moment was at hand whenhis reception of her must tell her all, her distrust of him had neverbeen less. If he did not love her with the love she pictured, why hadhe chosen her? He whose career promised so much, who under the cloakof frivolity pursued aims so high, amid perils so real. He must loveher! He must love her! She thought this almost aloud, and seeing thewicks of the candles growing long, rose and snuffed them; and in theperformance of this simple act of ownership, experienced a strangethrill of pleasure.
After that she waited awhile on her feet, looking about her shyly, andlistening. Presently, hearing no sound, she stepped timidly and ontip-toe to the side table, and lifting the crumpled cravat, smoothedit, then, with caressing fingers, folded it neatly and laid it back.Again she listened, wondering how long she had waited. No, that wasnot a step on the stairs; and thereat her heart began to sink. Thereaction of hope deferred began to be felt. What if he did not come?What if she waited, and nine found her still waiting--waiting vainlyin this quiet room where the lights twinkled in the polished panels,and now and again the ash of the coal fell softly to the hearth? Itmight--it might be almost nine already!
She began to succumb to a new fever of suspense, and looked aboutfor something to divert her thoughts. Her eyes fell on the book thatlay open on the seat of the settle. Thinking, "He has read thisto-day--his was the last hand that touched it--on this page his eyesrested," Sophia stooped for it, and holding it carefully that shemight keep the place for him, reverently, for it was his, she carriedit to the light. The title at the head of the page was _The IrishRegister_. The name smacked so little of diversion, she thought it apolitical tract--for the book was thin, no more than fifty pages orso; and she was setting it back on the table when her eye, in the veryact of leaving the page, caught the glint, as it were, of a name.Beside the name, on the margin, were a few pencilled words andfigures; but these, faintly scrawled, she did not heed at the moment.
"Cochrane, the Lady Elizabeth?" she muttered, repeating the name thathad caught her eye, "How strange! What can the book have to do withLady Betty? It must be some kind of peerage. But she is not Irish!"
To settle the question, she raised the book anew to the light, and sawthat it consisted of a list of persons' names arranged in order ofrank. Only--which seemed odd--all the names were ladies' names. AboveCochrane, the Lady Elizabeth, appeared Cochrane, the Lady Anne; belowcame Coke, the Lady Catherine, and after each name the address of thelady followed if she were a widow, of her parents or guardians if shewere unmarried.
Sophia wondered idly what it meant, and with half her mind bent on thematter, the other half intent on the coming of a footstep, she turnedback to the title-page of the book. She found that the fullerdescription there printed ran _The Irish Register, or a list of theDuchess Dowagers, Countesses, Widow Ladies, Maiden Ladies, Widows, andMisses of Great Fortunes in England, as registered by the DublinSociety_.
Even then she was very, very far from understanding. But the baldnessof the description sent a chill through her. Misses of large fortunesin England! As fortunes went, she was a miss of large fortune. Perhapsthat was why the words grated upon her; why her heart sank, and theroom seemed to grow darker. Turning to look at the cover of the book,she saw a slip of paper inserted towards the end to keep a place. Itprojected only an eighth of an inch, but she marked it, and turned toit; something or other--it may have been only the position of thepaper in that part of the book, it may have been the presence of thebook in her lover's room--forewarning her; for in the act of turningthe leaves, and before she came to the marker, she knew what she wouldfind.
And she found it. First, her name, "Maitland, Miss Sophia, at the Hon.Mr. Northey's in Arlington Street". Then--yes, then, for that was notall or the worst--down the narrow margin, starting at her name, ran anote, written faintly, in a hand she knew; the same hand that hadpenned her one love letter, the hand from which the quill had fallenin the rapture of anticipation, the hand of her "humble, adoringlover, Hector, Count Plomer"!
She knew that the note would tell her all, and for a moment hercourage failed her; she dared not read it. Her averted eyes soughtinstead the cupboard in the lower wainscot, which she had fancied thehiding place of the Jacobite cipher, the muniment chest where lay,intrusted to his honour, the lives and fortunes of the Beauforts andOrmondes, the Wynns and Cottons and Cecils. Was the cupboard thatindeed? Or--what was it? The light reflected from the surface of thepanels told her nothing, and she lowered the book and stood pondering.If the note proved to be that which she still shrank from believingit, what had she done? Or rather, what had she not done? What warningshad she not despised, what knowledge had she not slighted, whatexperience had she not
overridden? How madly, how viciously, in theface of advice, in the face of remonstrance, in modesty's own despite,had she wrought her confusion, had she flung herself into the arms ofthis man! This man who--but that was the question!
She asked herself trembling, was he what this book seemed to indicate,or was he what she had thought him? Was he villain, or hero?Fortune-hunter, or her true lover? The meanest of tricksters, or thehigh-spirited, chivalrous gentleman, laughing at danger and smiling atdeath, in whom great names and a great cause were content to placetheir trust?
At last she nerved herself to learn the answer to the question. Thewicks of the candles were burning long; she snuffed them anew, andholding the book close to the light, read the words that weredelicately traced beside her name.
"_Has 6000 guineas charged on T. M.'s estate. If T. M. marries withoutconsent of guardians has L10,000 more. Mrs. N. the same. T. is atCambridge, aged eighteen. To make all sure, T. must be marriedfirst--query Oriana, if she can be found? Or Lucy Slee--but boys likeriper women. Not clinch with S. M. until T. is mated, nor at all ifthe little Cochrane romp_ (_page 7_) _can be brought to hand. But Idoubt it, but S. M. is an easy miss, and swallows all. A perfectgoose_."
Sophia sat awhile in a chair and shivered, her face white, her headburning. The words were so clear that, the initials notwithstanding,it was not possible to misinterpret them; or to set on them anyconstruction save one. They cut her as the lash of a whip cuts thebare flesh. It was for this--thing that she had laid aside her maidenpride, had risked her good name, had scorned her nearest, had thrownaway all in life that was worth keeping! It was for this creature,this thing in the shape of man, that she had over-leapt the bounds,had left her home, had risked the perils of the streets, and thegreater perils of his company. For this--but she had not wordsadequate to the loathing of her soul. Outraged womanhood, woundedpride, contemned affection--which she had fancied love--seared hervery soul. She could have seen him killed, she could have killed himwith her own hand--or she thought she could; so completely in a momentwas her liking changed to hatred, so completely destroyed on theinstant was the trust she had placed in him.
"_And S. M. is an easy miss, and swallows all. A perfect goose!_"Those words cut more deeply than all into her vanity. She winced, nay,she writhed under them. Nor was that all. They had a clever, dreadfulsmartness that told her they were no mere memorandum, but had servedin a letter, and tickled at once a man's conceit and a woman's ears.Her own ears burned at the thought. "_S. M. is an easy miss, andswallows all. A perfect goose!_" Oh, she would never recover it! Shewould never regain her self-respect!
The last embers had grown grey behind the bars; the last ash hadfallen from the grate while she sat. The room was silent save for herbreathing, that now came in quick spasms as she thought of the falselover, and now was slow and deep as she sat sunk in a shamed reverie.On a sudden the cooling fireplace cracked. The sound roused her. Shesprang up and gazed about her in affright, remembering that she had nolonger any business there, nay, that in no room in the world had sheless business.
In the terror of the moment she flew to the door; she must go, butwhither? More than ever, now that she recognised her folly, she shrankfrom her sister's scornful eyes, from Mr. Northey's disapprovingstare, from the grins of the servants, the witticisms of her friends.The part she had played, seen as she now saw it, would make her thelaughing-stock of the town. It was the silliest, the most romantic; aschool-girl would cry fie on it. Sophia's cheek burned at the thoughtof facing a single person who had ever known her; much more at thethought of meeting her sister or Mrs. Martha, or the laced bumpkinspast whom she had flitted in that ill-omened hour. She could not goback to Arlington Street. But then--whither could she go?
Whither indeed? It was nine o'clock; night had fallen. At such an hourthe streets were unsafe for a woman without escort, much more for agirl of gentility. Drunken roysterers on their way from tavern totavern, ripe for any frolic, formed a peril worse than footpads; andshe had neither chair nor link-boys, servants nor coach, without oneor other of which she had never passed through the streets in herlife. Yet she could not stay where she was; rather would she liewithout covering in the wildest corner of the adjacent parks, or onthe lonely edge of Rosamond's pond! The mere thought that she lingeredthere was enough; she shuddered with loathing, grew hot with rage. Andthe impulse that had hastened her to the door returning, she hurriedout and was half-way down the stairs, when the sound of a man's voice,uplifted in the passage below, brought her up short where she stood.
An instant only she heard it clearly. Then the tramp of feet alongthe passage, masked the voice. But she had heard enough--it wasHawkesworth's--and her eyes grew wide with terror. She should die ofshame if he found her there! If he learned, not by hearsay, but eye toeye, that she had come of her own motion, poor, silly dupe of hisblandishments, to throw herself into his arms! That were too much; sheturned to fly.
Her first thought was to take refuge on the upper floor until he hadgone into his room and closed the door; two bounds carried her to thelanding she had left. But here she found an unexpected obstacle in awicket, set at the foot of the upper flight of stairs; one of thosewickets that are still to be seen in old houses, in the neighbourhoodof the nursery. By the light that issued from the half-open doorway ofthe room, Sophia tugged at it furiously, but seeking the latch at theend of the gate where the hinges were, she lost a precious moment.When she found the fastening, the steps of the man she had fancied sheloved, and now knew she hated, were on the stairs. And the gate wouldnot yield! Penned on the narrow landing, with discovery tapping her onthe shoulder, she fumbled desperately with the latch, even, indespair, flung her weight against the wicket. It held; in anothersecond, if she persisted, she would be seen.
With a moan of anguish she turned and darted into Hawkesworth's room,and sprang to the table where the candles stood. Her thought was toblow them out, then to take her chance of passing the man before theywere relighted. But as she gained the table and stooped to extinguishthem, she heard his step so near the door that she knew the suddenextinction of the light must be seen; and her eyes at the same momentalighting on the high-backed settle, in an instant she was behind it.
It was a step she would not have taken had she acted on anything butthe blind, unthinking impulse to hide herself. For here retreat wascut off; she was now between her enemy and the inner room. She darednot move, and in a few minutes at most must be discovered. But thething was done; there was no time to alter it. As her hoop slippedfrom sight behind the wooden seat, the Irishman entered, and with alaugh flung his hat and cane on the table. A second person appeared tocross the threshold after him; and crouching lower, her heart beatingas if it would choke her, Sophia heard the door flung to behind them.
Sophia: A Romance Page 10