Sophia: A Romance

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XX

  A FRIEND IN NEED

  Sophia's knees shook under her, her flesh shuddered in revolt, but sheheld her ground until Hawkesworth's footsteps and the murmur of hiscompanions' jeering voices sank and died in the distance. Then, witheyes averted from the bed, she crept to the head of the stairs anddescended, her skirts gathered jealously about her. She reached thekitchen. Here, in the twilight that veiled the shrouded cradle, andmercifully hid worse things, she listened awhile; peering with scaredeyes into the corners, and prepared to flee at the least alarm.Satisfied at last that those she feared had really withdrawn, shepassed out into the open, and under the night sky, with the freshbreeze cooling her fevered face, she drank in with ecstasy a firstdeep breath of relief. Oh, the pureness of that draught! Oh, thefreedom and the immensity of the vault above her--after thatcharnel-house!

  She felt sure that the men had retired the way they had come, andafter a moment's hesitation she turned in the other direction, andventuring into the moonlight, took the road that Betty had taken. Nowshe paused to listen, now on some alarm effaced herself in the shadowcast by a tree. By-and-by, when she had left the plague-stricken housetwo or three hundred paces behind her, her ear caught the pleasantripple of water. Her throat was parched, and she stopped, and tracedthe sound to a spring that, bubbling from a rock, filled a mossycaldron sunk in the earth, then ran to waste in a tiny rill beside theroad. The hint was enough; in a second she had dragged off her outergarment, a green riding-coat, and shuddering, flung it from her; inanother she had thrown off her shoes and loosened her hair. A momentshe listened; then, having assured herself that she was not pursued,she plunged head and hair and hands in the fountain, let the coolwater run over her fevered arms and neck, revelled in the purifyingtouch that promised to remove from her the loathsome infection of thehouse. She was a woman, she had not only death, but disfigurement tofear. One of the happy few who, under the early Georges, when eveninoculation was in its infancy, had escaped the disease, she clung toher immunity with a nervous dread.

  When she had done all she could, she rose to her feet and knotted upher hair. She had Betty on her mind; she must follow the girl. Butmidnight was some time past, the moon was declining, and her strength,sapped by the intense excitement under which she had laboured, wasnearly spent. The chances that she would alight on Betty were slight,while it was certain that the girl would eventually return, or wouldsend to the place where they had parted company. Sophia determined toremain where she was; and with the music of the rill for company, anda large stone that stood beside it for a seat, hard but dry, the worstdiscomfort which she had to fear was cold; and this, in her ferventgratitude for rescue from greater perils, she bore without complaint.

  The solemnity of the night, as it wore slowly to morning, the depth ofsilence--as of death--that preceded the dawn, the stir of thanksgivingthat greeted the birth of another day, these working on a naturestirred by strange experiences and now subject to a strange solitude,awoke in her thoughts deeper than ordinary. She saw in Betty'srecklessness the mirror of her own; she shuddered at Hawkesworth,disclosed to her in his true colours; and considered Sir Hervey'spatience with new wonder. Near neighbour to death, she viewed life asa thing detached and whole; with its end as well as its beginning. Andshe formed resolutions, humble at the least.

  By-and-by she had to rise and be walking to keep herself warm; for shewould not resume her riding-coat, and her arms were bare. A littlelater, however, the sun rose high enough to reach her. In the greatoak that overhung the spring, the birds began to flit like movingshadows; a squirrel ran down the bark and looked at her. And in herveins a strange exhilaration began to stir. She was alive! She wassafe! And then, on a sudden, she heard a footstep close at hand.

  She cowered low, seized with terror. It might be Hawkesworth! Thevillain might have repented of his fears, have gathered courage withthe light, have returned more ruthless than he had gone. Fortunately,the panic which the thought bred in her was short-lived. An asthmaticcough, followed by the noise of heavy breathing, put an end to hersuspense. Next moment an elderly man wearing a rusty gown and a shabbyhat decked with a rosette, came in sight. He leant on a stout stick,and carried a cloak on his arm. He had white hair and a benevolentaspect, with features that seemed formed by nature for mirth, andcompelled by circumstance to soberer uses.

  Aware of the oddity of her appearance--bare-armed and in her stockingfeet--Sophia hung back, hesitating to address him; he was quite closeto her when he lifted his eyes and saw her. The good man's surprisecould scarcely have been greater had he come upon the nymph of thespring. He started, dropped his stick and cloak, and stared, his jawfallen; it even seemed to her that a little of the colour left hisface.

  At last, "My child," he cried, "what are you doing here, of allplaces? D'you come from the house above?"

  "I have been there," she answered.

  He stared. "But they have the smallpox!" he exclaimed. "Did you knowit?"

  "I went there to avoid worse things," she cried; and fell totrembling. "Do you live here, sir?"

  "Here? No; but I live in the valley below," he answered, stillcontemplating her with astonishment. "I am only here," he continued,with a touch of sternness which she did not understand, "because myduty leads me here. I am told--God grant it be not true--that thereare three dead at the farm, and that the living are fled."

  "It is true," she answered briefly. And against the verdure, framed inthe beauty of this morning world, with its freshness, its dancingsunlight, and its flitting birds, she saw the death-room, the f[oe]tidmist about the smoking guttering candles, the sheeted form. Sheshuddered.

  "You are sure?" he said.

  "I have seen them," she answered.

  "Then I need go no farther now," he replied in a tone of relief. "Ican do no good. I must return and get help to bury them. It will be noeasy task; my parishioners are stricken with panic, they think only oftheir wives and families. Even in my own household--but I amforgetting, child. You are a stranger here? And, Lord bless me, whathas become of your gown?"

  She pointed to the place where it lay a little apart, in a heap on theground. "I've taken it off," she explained, colouring slightly. "Ifear it carries the infection. I was attacked in my carriage on theother side of the ford. And robbed. And to avoid worse things I tookrefuge in the house above."

  "Lord save us!" he cried, lifting his hands in astonishment. "I neverheard of such a thing! Never! We have had no such doings in theseparts these twenty years!"

  "Perhaps you could lend me your cloak, sir?" she said. "Until I canget something."

  He handed it to her. "To be sure, to be sure," he answered. And then,"In your carriage?" he continued. "Dear, dear, and had you any onewith you, ma'am?"

  "My friend escaped," she explained, "with--with some jewels I had. Thepostboys had been sent ahead to Lewes to get fresh horses. Watkyns,one of the servants, had returned towards Fletching, to see if hecould get help in that quarter. My woman was so frightened that shewas useless, and the two grooms had been made drunk on the road, andwere useless also!"

  She did not notice, that with each item in her catalogue, the oldclergyman's eyes grew wider and wider; nor that towards the endsurprise began to give place to incredulity. This talk of horses, andgrooms, and servants, and maids, and postboys in the mouth of a girlfound hatless and shoeless by the roadside--a creature with tumbledhair, without a gown, and in petticoats soaked with water, and stainedwith dust and dirt, over-stepped the bounds of reason. Unfortunately,a little before this a young woman had appeared in a town not far off,in the guise of a countess; and with all the apparatus of the rank hadtaken in no less worshipful a body than the mayor and corporation ofthe place, who in the issue had been left to bewail their credulity.The tale was rife along the country-side; the old clergyman knew it,and being by nature a simple soul--as his wife often told him--had thecunning of simplicity. He bade himself be cautious--be cautious; andas he
listened bethought him of a test. "Your carriage should bethere, then?" he said. "Where you left it, ma'am?"

  "I have not dared to return and see," she answered. "We might do sonow, if you will be kind enough to accompany me."

  "To be sure, to be sure. Let us go, child."

  But when they had crossed the ridge--keeping as far as they could fromthe door of the plague-stricken house--he was no whit surprised tofind no carriage, no servants, no maid. From the brow of the hill theycould trace with their eyes the desolate valley and the road by whichshe had come; but nowhere on the road, or beside it, was any sign oflife. Sophia had been so much shaken by the events of the night thatshe had forgotten the possibility of rescue at the hands of her ownpeople. Now that the notion was suggested to her, she found theabsence of the carriage, of Watkyns, of the grooms, inexplicable. Andshe said so; but the very expression of her astonishment, followingabruptly on his suggestion that the carriage should be there, did butdeepen the good parson's doubts. She had spun her tale, he thought,without providing for this point, and now sought to cover the blot byexclamations of surprise.

  He had not the heart, however, good honest soul as he was, to unmaskher; on the contrary, he suffered as great embarrassment as if thedeceit had been his own. He found himself constrained to ask in whatway he could help her; and when she suggested that she should rest athis house, he assented. But with little spirit.

  "If it be not too far?" she said; struck by his tone, and with athought also for her unshod feet.

  "It's--it's about a mile," he answered.

  "Well, I must walk it."

  "You don't think--I could send," he suggested weakly, "and--and makeinquiries--for your people, ma'am?"

  "If you please, when I am there," she said; and that left him noresource but to start with her. But as they went, amid all the careshe was forced to give to her steps, she noticed that he regarded heroddly; that he looked askance at her when he thought her eyeselsewhere, and looked away guiltily when she caught him in the act.

  They plodded some half-mile, then turned to the right, and a triflefarther came in sight of a little hamlet that nestled among chestnuttrees in a dimple of the hill-face. As they approached this, hisuneasiness became more marked; nor was Sophia left in ignorance of itscause. The first house to which they came was a neat thatched cottagebeside the church. A low wicket-gate gave access to the garden, andover this appeared for a moment an angry woman's face, turned in thedirection whence they came. It was gone as soon as seen; but Sophia,from a faltered word which dropped from her companion, learned to whomit belonged; and when he tried the wicket-gate she was not surprisedto see it was fastened. He tried it nervously, his face grown red;then he raised his voice. "My love," he cried, "I have come back. Ithink you did not see us. Will you please to open the gate?"

  An ominous silence was the only answer. He tried the gate a secondtime, in a shamefaced way. "My dear," he cried aloud, a quaver in hispatient tone, "I have come back."

  "And more shame to you," a shrill voice answered, the speakerremaining unseen. "Do you hear me, Michieson? More shame to you, youunnatural father! Didn't you hear me say I would not have you going tothat place? And didn't I tell you if you went you would not come hereagain! You thought yourself mighty clever, I'll be bound," thetermagant continued, "to go off while I was asleep, my man! But nowyou'll sleep in the garden house, for in here you don't come! Who'sthat with you?"

  "A--a young lady in trouble," he stammered.

  "Where did you find her?"

  "On the road, my love! In great trouble."

  "Then on the road you may leave her," the shrew retorted. "No, my man,you don't come over me that way. You brought the hussy from thathouse. Tell me she's not been in it, if you dare? And you'd bring herin among your innocent, lawful children, would you, and give 'em theirdeaths! Fie," with rising indignation, "you silly old fool! If youweren't a natural, in place of such rubbish, you'd have been over toSir Hervey's and complimented madam this fine morning, and been'pointed chaplain. But 'tis like you. Instead of providing for yourwife and children, as a man should, you're trying to give 'em theirdeaths, among a lot of dead people that'll never find you in a bit ofbread to put in their bellies, or a bit of stuff to put on theirbacks! I tell you, Michieson, I've no patience with you."

  "But, my dear----"

  "Now send her packing. Do you hear me, Michieson?"

  He was going to remonstrate, but Sophia intervened. Spent withfatigue, her feet sore and blistered, she felt that she could not go ayard further. Moreover, to eyes dazed by the horrors of the night, thethatched house among the rose-briars, with its hum of bees and scentof woodbine and honey-suckle, seemed a haven of peace. She raised hervoice. "Mrs. Michieson," she said, "your husband need not go to SirHervey's. I am Lady Coke."

  With a cry of amazement a thin, red-faced woman, scantily dressed inan old soiled wrapper that had known a richer wearer--for Mrs.Michieson had been a lady's maid--pushed through the bushes. Shestared a moment with all her eyes; then she burst into a rude laugh."You mean her woman, I should think," she said. "Why, you saucy piece,you must think us fine simpletons to try for to come over us with thatstory. Lady Coke in her stockinged feet, indeed!"

  "I have been robbed," Sophia faltered, trying not to break down. "Youare a woman. Surely you have some pity for another woman in trouble?"

  "Aye, you are like enough to have been in trouble! That I can see!"the parson's lady answered with a sneer. "But I'll trouble you not tocall me a woman!" she continued, tossing her head. "Woman, indeed! Apretty piece you are to call names, trapesing the country like a guy,and--why, whose cloak have you there? _Michieson!_" in a voice likevinegar. "What does this mean?"

  "My dear," he said humbly--Sophia, on the verge of tears, could say nomore lest she should break down, "the--the lady was robbed on theroad. She was travelling in her carriage----"

  "In her carriage?"

  "And her servants ran away--as I understand," he explained, rubbinghis hands, and smiling in a sickly way, "and the postboys did notreturn, and--and her woman----"

  "Her woman!"

  "Well, yes, my dear, so she tells me, was so frightened she stayedwith the carriage. And her friend, a--another lady, escaped in thedark with some jewels--and----"

  "_Michieson!_" madam cried, in her most awful voice, "did you believethis--this cock and bull story that you dare to repeat to me?"

  He glanced from one to the other. "Well, my dear," he answered inconfusion, "I--at least, the lady told me----"

  "Did you believe it? Yes or no! Did you believe it?"

  "Well, I----"

  "Did you go to look for the carriage?"

  "Yes, my dear, I did."

  "And did you find it?"

  "Well, no," the clergyman confessed. "I did not."

  "Nor the servants?"

  "No, but----"

  She did not let him explain. "Now," she cried, with shrill triumph,"you see what a fool you are! And where you'd be if it were not forme. Did she say a word about being Lady Coke until she heard her namefrom me? Eh? Answer me that, did she?"

  Very miserable, he glanced at Sophia. "Well, no, my dear, I don'tthink she did!" he admitted.

  "So I thought!" madam cried. And then with a cruel gesture, "off withit, you baggage! Off with it!" she continued. "Do you think I don'tknow that the moment my back is turned you'll be gone, and a goodcloak with you! No, off with it, my ragged madam, and thank your starsI don't send you to the stocks!"

  But her husband plucked up spirit at that.

  "No," he said firmly. "No, she shall keep the cloak till she can get acovering. For shame, wife, for shame," he continued with a smack ofdignity. "Do you never think that a daughter of yours may some daystand in her shoes?"

  "You fool, she has got none!" his wife snarled. "And you'll give herthat cloak, at your peril."

  "She shall keep it, till she gets a covering," he answered.

  "Then she'll keep it somewhere else, not here!" the termagant answeredin
a fury. "Do you call yourself a parson and go trapesing the countrywith a slut like that! And your lawful wife left at home?"

  Sophia, white with exhaustion, could scarcely keep her feet, but atthat she plucked up spirit. "The cloak I shall keep, for it is yourhusband's," she said. "For yourself, ma'am, you will bitterly repentbefore the day is out that you have treated me in this way."

  "Hoity-toity! you'd threaten me, would you?" the other criedviciously. "Here, Tom, Bill! Ha' you no stones. Here's a besomill-speaking your mother. Ah, I thought you'd be going, ma'am," shecontinued, leaning over the gate, with a grin of satisfaction. "It'llbe in the stocks you'll sit before the day is out, I'm thinking."

  But Sophia was out of hearing; rage and indignation gave her strength.But not for long. The reception with which she had met, in a placewhere, of all places, peace and charity and a seat for the wretchedshould have been found, broke down the last remains of endurance. Assoon as the turn in the road hid her from the other woman's eyes, shesank on a bank, unable to go farther. She must eat and drink and rest,or she must die.

  Fortunately, the poor vicar, worthy of a better mate, had not quiteabandoned her cause. After standing a moment divided betweenindignation and fear, he allowed the more generous impulse to haveway; he followed and found her. Shocked to read exhaustion plainlywritten on her face, horrified by the thought that she might die athis door, that door which day and night should have been open to thedistressed, he half led and half carried her to the little gardenhouse to which his wife had exiled him; and which by good fortunestood in an orchard, beyond, but close to the curtilage of the house.Here he left her a moment, and procuring the drudge of a servant tohand him a little bread and milk over the fence, he fed her with hisown hands, and waited patiently beside her until the colour returnedto her face.

  Relieved by the sight, and satisfied that she was no longer in danger,he began to be troubled; glancing furtively at her and away again, andoften moving to the door of the shed, which looked out on a pleasantplot of grass dappled with sunlight, and overhung by drooping boughson which the late blossom lingered. Finally, seeing her remain languidand spiritless, he blurted out what was in his mind. "I daren't keepyou here," he muttered, with a flush of shame. "If my wife discoversyou, she may do you a mischief. And the fear of the smallpox is such,they'd stone you out of the parish if they knew you had been atBeamond's--God forgive them!"

  Sophia looked at him in astonishment. "But I have told you who I am,"she said. "I am Lady Coke. Surely you believe me."

  "Child!" he said in a tone of gentle reproof. "Let be. You don't knowwhat you say. There's not an acre in this parish is not Sir Hervey's,nor a house, nor a barn. Is it likely his honour's lady would bewandering shoeless in the road?"

  She laughed hysterically. Tragedy and comedy were strangely mingledthis morning. "Yet it is so," she said. "It is so."

  He shook his head in reproof, but did not answer.

  "You don't believe me?" she cried. "How far is it to Coke Hall?"

  "About three miles," he answered unwillingly.

  "Then the doubt is solved. Go thither! Go thither at once!" shecontinued, the power to think returning, and with it the remembranceof Lady Betty's danger. "At once!" she repeated, rising in herimpatience, while a flood of colour swept over her face. "You must seeSir Hervey, and tell him that Lady Coke is here, and that Lady BettyCochrane is missing; that we have been robbed, and he must instantly,instantly before he comes here, make search for her."

  The old parson stared. "For whom?" he stammered.

  "For Lady Betty Cochrane, who was with me."

  He continued to stare; with the beginnings of doubt in his eyes."Child," he said, "are you sure you are not bubbling me? 'Twill be apoor victory over a simple old man."

  "I am not! I am not!" she cried. And suddenly bethinking her of thepocket that commonly hung between the gown and petticoat, she felt forit. She had placed her rings as well as her purse in it. Alas, it wasgone! The strings had yielded to rough usage.

  None the less, the action went some way with him. He saw hercountenance fall, he read the disappointment it expressed, he toldhimself that if she acted, she was the best actress in the world."Enough," he said, almost persuaded of the truth of her story. "I willgo, ma'am. If 'tis a cheat, I forgive you beforehand. And if it is thecloak you want, take it honestly. I give it you."

  But she looked at him so wrathfully at that, that he said no more, butwent. He took up his stick, and as he passed out of sight among thetrees he waved his hand in token of forgiveness--if after all she wasfooling him.