Sophia: A Romance

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE STROLLING PLATERS

  He pushed on sturdily until he came to the high road, and the turnthat led to Beamond's farm. There his heart began to misgive him. Theimpression which Sophia's manner had made on his mind was growingweak; the improbability of her story rose more clearly before him.That a woman tramping the roads in her petticoats could be Lady Coke,the young bride of the owner of all the country side, seemed, now thathe weighed it in cold blood, impossible. And from misgiving he was notslow in passing to repentance. How much better it would have been, hethought, had he pursued his duty to the dead and the parish with asingle eye, instead of starting on this wild-goose chase. How muchbetter--and even now it was not too late. He paused; he as good asturned. But in the end he remembered that he had given the girl hisword, and, turning his back on Beamond's farm, he walked in theopposite direction.

  He had not gone far when he saw a young man of a strange raffishappearance coming along the road to meet him. The man swung a stick ashe walked, and looked about him with a devil-may-care air which on theinstant led the good parson to set him down for a strolling player. Assuch he was for passing him with a good day, and no more. But theother, who had also marked him from a distance, stopped when they cameto close quarters.

  "Well met, Master Parson!" he cried. "And how far may you have come?"

  "A mile or a little less," the vicar answered mildly. And seeing, nowthat they were face to face, that the stranger was little more than alad, he went on to ask him if he could be of service to him.

  "Have you seen a lady on the road?"

  The clergyman started. "Dear, dear!" he said. "'Tis well met, indeed,sir, and a mercy you stayed me. To be sure I have! She is no fartheraway than my house at this moment!"

  "The devil she is!" the young man answered heartily. "That's to thepurpose then. I was beginning to think--but never mind! Come on, andtell her woman where she is."

  "Certainly I will. Is she here?"

  "She's sitting in the hedge at the next corner. It's on your way.Lord!" with a sigh of relief, not unmixed with pride, "what a night Ihave had of it!"

  "Indeed, sir," his reverence said with sympathy; and as they turned toproceed side by side, he eyed his neighbour curiously.

  "Aye, indeed, and indeed!" Tom answered. "You'd say so if you'd beencalled out of bed the moment you were in it, and after a long day'stramp too! And been dragged up and down the country the wholelive-long night, my friend."

  "Dear me; is it so, sir? And you were in her ladyship's company whenshe was stopped, I suppose, sir?"

  "I? Not at all, or it would not have happened. I've never set eyes onher."

  "Her servants fetched you then?"

  "Her woman did! I've seen no more of them."

  The vicar pricked up his ears. "Nor the carriage?" he ventured.

  "Not I. Hasn't she got the carriage with her?"

  Mr. Michieson rubbed his head. "No," he said slowly; "no, she has not.Do I understand then, sir, that--that you are yourself a completestranger to the parties?"

  "I? Totally. But here's her woman. She can tell you about it. Oh, youneed not look at me," Tom continued with a grin, as the vicar,startled by the sight of the handsome gipsy-like girl, looked at himdubiously. "She's a pretty piece, I know, to be straying the country,but I'm not in fault. I never set eyes on the little witch until lastnight." And then, "Here, child," he cried, waving his hat to her,"I've news! Your lady is at the parson's, and all's well! Now you canthank me that I did not let you go into the smallpox."

  Lady Betty clasped her hands. Her face was radiant. "Are you sure? Areyou quite sure?" she cried, her voice trembling. "Are you sure she issafe?"

  "She is quite safe," Mr. Michieson answered slowly; and he looked inwonder from one to the other. There was something suspiciously alikein their tumbled finery, their dishevelled appearance. "I was even nowon my way," he continued, "to Coke Hall to convey the news to SirHervey."

  It was Tom's turn to utter a cry of astonishment. "To Sir Hervey?" hesaid. "To Sir Hervey Coke, do you mean?"

  "To be sure, sir."

  "But--why, to be sure, I might have known," Tom cried. "Was she goingthere?"

  "She is his wife, sir."

  Tom laughed with a knowing air. "Oh, but that's a flam at any rate!"he said. "Sir Hervey's not married. I saw him myself, ten days ago."

  The girl stood up. "Where?" she said.

  "Where?"

  "Aye, where, sir, where, since you are so free with his name?"

  "In Clarges Row, in London, if you must know," Tom answered, his facereddening at the reminiscence. "And if he'd been married, or hadthoughts of being married then, he'd have told me."

  Lady Betty stared at him, her breath coming quickly; something beganto dawn in her eyes. "Told you, would he?" she said slowly. "He'd havetold you? And who may you be, if you please?"

  "Well," Tom answered a trifle sharply, "my name is Maitland, and forthe matter of that, my girl, you need not judge me by my clothes. Iknow Sir Hervey, and----"

  He did not finish. To his indignation, to the clergyman'sastonishment, the girl went into a fit of laughter; laughing till shecried, and drying her eyes only that she might laugh again. Sir Tomstared and fumed and swore; while the vicar looked from one to theother, and asked himself--not for the first time--whether they wereacting together, or the man was as innocent as he appeared to be.

  One thing he could make clear, and he hastened to do it. "I don't knowwhy you laugh, child," he said patiently. "At the same time, thegentleman is certainly wrong in the fact. Sir Hervey Coke is married,for I had it from the steward some days ago, and I am to go with thetenants to the Hall to see her ladyship."

  Tom stared. "Sir Hervey Coke married!" he cried in amazement, andforgot the girl's rudeness. "Since I saw him? Married? Impossible!Whom do you say he has married?"

  The vicar coughed. "Well, 'tis odd, sir, but it's a lady of the samename--as yourself."

  "Maitland?"

  "Yes, sir! A Miss Maitland, a sister of Sir Thomas Maitland, ofCuckfield."

  Sir Tom's eyes grew wide. "Good Lord!" he cried; "Sophia!"

  "A relation, sir? Do I understand you that she's of your family?"

  "My sister, sir; my sister."

  The clergyman stared a moment, and then without comment he walkedaside and looked over the hedge. He smiled feebly at the well-knownprospect. Was it possible, he asked himself, that they thought hecould swallow this? That they deemed him so simple, so rustic, thatsuch a piece of play-acting as this could impose upon him? Beyond adoubt they were in league together; with their fine story and theirapt surprise, and "my lady" in his garden. The only point on which hefelt doubt was the advantage they looked to draw from it, since themoment he reached the Hall the bubble must burst.

  He turned by-and-by, thinking in his honest cunning to resolve thatdoubt. He found Tom in a sort of maze staring at the ground, and thegirl watching him with a strange smile. For the first time the goodvicar had recourse to the wisdom of the serpent. "Had I not better goto the Hall at once," he said blandly, "and send a carriage for mylady?"

  "Go to the Hall without seeing her?" Tom cried, awakening from hisreverie. "Not I! I go to her straight. Sophia? Sophia? Good Lord!"

  "And so do I, sir, by your leave," the girl cried pertly. "And atonce. I know my duty."

  "And you're the man to show us the way," Tom continued heartily,slapping his reverence on the back. "No more going up and down atrandom for me! Let's to her at once! We can find a messenger to go tothe Hall, when we have seen her. But Lord! I can't get over it! Whenwas she married, my girl?"

  "Well," Betty answered demurely, "'twas the same day, I believe, asyour honour was to have been married."

  Tom winced and looked at her askance. "You know that, you baggage, doyou?" he cried.

  "So it went in the steward's room, sir!"

  But the vicar, his suspicions confirmed by their decision not to go to
the Hall, hung back. "I think I had better go on," he said. "I thinkSir Hervey should be warned."

  "Oh, hang Sir Hervey!" Tom answered handsomely. "Why is he not lookingafter his wife? Lead on! Lead on, do you hear, man? How far is it?"

  "About a mile," the vicar faltered; "I should say a--a long mile," headded, as he reluctantly obeyed the pressure of Tom's hand.

  "Well, I am glad it's no further!" the young man answered. "For I'm sosharp set I could eat my sister. You've parson's fare, I suppose?Bacon and eggs and small beer?" he continued, clapping the unfortunateclergyman on the back with the utmost good humour. "Well, sir, youshall entertain us! And while we are dining, the messenger can begoing to the Hall. Soap and a jack-towel will serve my turn, but thegirl--what's your name, child?"

  "Betty, sir."

  "Will be the better for the loan of your wife's shoes and a cap! AndSophy is married? Where was it, my girl?"

  "At Dr. Keith's, sir."

  "The deuce it was!" Tom cried ruefully. "Then that's two hundred outof my pocket! Were you with her, child?"

  "No, sir, her ladyship hired me after she was married."

  Tom looked at her. "But--but I thought," he said, "that you told melast night that you had been brought up with your mistress?"

  Betty bit her lip, unable to remember if she had told him so. "Oh,yes, sir," she said hastily, "but that was another mistress."

  "Also of the name of Sophia?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And for which Sophia--were you weeping last night?" Tom asked withirony.

  Betty's face flamed; her fingers tingled also, though the slip was herown. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to throw offthe mask, and tell the young man who she was. But for a reason, Bettydid not choose to adopt this course. Instead, she stooped, pretendingthat her shoe-buckle was unfastened; when she rose there were tears inher eyes.

  "You are very unkind, sir," she said in a low voice. "I took a--aliberty with my mistress in calling her by her name, and I--I had toaccount for it, and didn't tell quite the truth."

  Tom was melted, yet his eye twinkled. "Last night or to-day?" he said.

  "Both, sir," she whispered demurely. "And I'm afraid, sir, I took aliberty with you, too, talking nonsense and such like. But I'm sure,sir--I am very sorry, and I hope you won't tell my mistress."

  The girl looked so pretty, so absurdly pretty in her penitence, andthere was something so captivating in her manner, that Tom was seizedwith an inordinate desire to reassure her. "Tell, child? Not I!" hecried generously. "But I'll have a kiss for a forfeit. You owe methat," he continued, with one eye on the vicar, who had gone on whileshe tied her shoe. "Will you pay it now, my dear, or to-morrow withinterest?"

  "A kiss? Oh, fie, sir!"

  "Why, what is the harm in a kiss?" Tom asked; and the rogue drew alittle nearer.

  "Oh, fie, sir!" Betty retorted, tossing her head, and moving fartherfrom him. "What harm indeed? And you told me last night I should be assafe with you as my mistress need be!"

  "Well?" Tom exclaimed triumphantly. "And shouldn't I kiss yourmistress? Isn't she my sister? And--pooh, child, don't be silly. Wasever waiting-maid afraid of a kiss? And in daylight?"

  But Betty continued to give him a wide berth. "No, sir, I'll notsuffer it!" she cried tartly. "It's you who are taking the libertynow! And you told me last night you had seen enough of women to lastyou your life!"

  "That was before I saw you, my dear!" Tom answered with impudence. Buthe desisted from the pursuit, and resuming a sober course along themiddle of the road, became thoughtful almost to moodiness; as if hewere not quite so sure of some things as he had been. At intervals heglanced at Betty; who walked by his side primly conscious of hisregards, and now blushing a little, and now pouting, and now when hewas not looking, with a laughing imp dancing in her eyes that musthave effected his downfall in a moment, if he had met her gaze. As itwas he lost himself in thinking how pretty she was, and how fresh; howsweet her voice, and how dainty her walk; how trim her figure, and----

  And then he groaned; calling himself a fool, a double, treble,deepest-dyed fool! After the lesson he had learned, after theexperience through which he had passed, was he really, really going tofall in love again? And with his sister's maid? With a girl pickedup--his vows, his oaths, his resolutions notwithstanding--in the road!It was too much!

  And Lady Betty walking beside him, knowing all and telling nothing,Betty the flirt? "He put his coat on me; I have worn his coat. He saidhe would tie me to the gate, and he would have tied me," with afurtive look at him out of the tail of her eye--that was the air thatran in her mind as she walked in the sunshine. A kiss? Well, perhaps;sometime. Who knew? And Lady Betty blushed at her thoughts. And theycame to a corner where the garden house lay off the road. The vicaragewas not yet in sight.

  At the gate of the orchard the poor parson waited for them, smilingfeebly, but not meeting their eyes. He was in a state of piteousembarrassment. Persuaded that they were cheats and adventurers,hedge-players, if nothing worse, he knew that another man in his placewould have told them as much, and sent them about their business. Butin the kindness of his heart he could no more do this than he couldfly. On the other hand, his hair rose on end when he pictured hiswife, and what she would say when he presented them to her. What shewould do were he to demand the good fare they expected, he failed toconceive; but at the thought, the dense holly hedge that screened thehouse seemed all too thin. Alas, the thickest hedge is pervious to awoman's tongue!

  In the others' ease and unconsciousness he found something pitiful; orhe would have done so, if their doom had not involved his ownpunishment. "She is here, is she?" Tom said, his hand on the gate.

  The vicar nodded, speechless; he pointed in the direction of thegarden house.

  Betty slipped through deftly. "Then, if you please, sir, I'll gofirst," she said. "Her ladyship may need something before she seesyou--by your leave, sir?" And dropping a smiling curtsey, she coollyclosed the gate on them, and flew down the path in the direction thevicar had indicated.

  "Well, there's impudence!" Tom exclaimed. "Hang me if I know why sheshould go first!" And then, as a joyful cry rang through the trees, helooked at the vicar.

  But Michieson looked elsewhere. He was listening, he was shiveringwith anticipation. If that cry reached her! Tom, however, failed tonotice this; innocent and unconscious, he opened the gate and passedthrough; and, thinking of his sister and his last parting from her,went slowly across the sunlit grass until the low-hanging boughs ofthe apple-trees hid him.

  The parson looked up and down the road with a hunted eye. The positionwas terrible. Should he go to his wife, confess and prepare her? Orshould he wait until his unwelcome guests returned to share the brunt.Or--or should he go? Go about his business--was there not sad,pressing business at Beamond's farm?--until the storm was overpast.

  He was a good man, but he was weak. A few seconds of hesitation, andhe skulked down the road, his head bent, his eyes glancing backwards.He fancied that he heard his wife's voice, and hurried faster andfaster from the dreaded sound. At length he reached the main road andstood, his face hot with shame. He considered what he should do.

  Beamond's? Yes, he must go about that. He must, to save hisself-respect, go about business of some kind. At a large farm twomiles away his churchwarden lived; there he could get help. The farmerand his wife had had the disease, and were in less terror of it thansome. At any rate he could consult them: in a Christian parish peoplecould not lie unburied. In vital matters he was no coward, and he knewthat if no one would help him--which was possible, so great was thepanic--he would do all himself, if his strength held out.

  In turning this over he tried to forget the foolish imbroglio of themorning; yet now and again he winced, pricked in his conscience andhis manhood. After all, they had come to him for help, for food andshelter; and who so proper to afford these as God's minister in thatplace. At worst he should have sent them to one of the farms, andallowed it out of the tithe, and ta
ken the chance when Easter came,and Peg discovered it. Passing the branch-road on his left, which Tomand Betty had taken in the night, he had a distant view of a horsemanriding that way at speed: and he wondered a little, the sight beingunusual. Three minutes later he came to the roadside ale-house whichBetty had visited. The goodwife was at the door, and watched him comeup. As he passed she cried out, to learn if his reverence had news.

  "None that's good, Nanny," he answered; never doubting but she had theillness at Beamond's on her mind. And declining her offer of a mug ofale he went on, and half a mile farther turned off the road by a lanethat led to the churchwarden's farm. He crossed the farmyard, andfound Mrs. Benacre sitting within the kitchen door, picking overgooseberries. He begged her not to move, and asked if the goodman wasat home.

  "No, your reverence, he's at the Hall," she answered. "He was leavinghay in the Furlongs, and was fetched all in a minute this hour past,and took the team with him. The little lad came home and told me."

  The vicar started, and looked a little odd. "I wanted to see him aboutpoor Beamond," he said.

  "'Tis true, then, your reverence?"

  "Too true. There's nothing like it happened in the parish in my time."

  "Dear, dear, it gives one the creeps! After all, when you've got agood husband, what's a little marking, and be safe? There should besomething done, your reverence. 'Tis these gipsies bring it about."

  The vicar set back the fine gooseberry he had selected. "What time didher ladyship arrive yesterday?" he asked.

  Mrs. Benacre lifted up her hands in astonishment. "La, didn't youhear?" she cried. "But to be sure, you're off the road a good bit, andall your people so taken up with they poor Beamonds too? No time atall, your reverence! She didn't come. I take it, it's about that, SirHervey has sent for Benacre. He thinks a deal of him, as his fatherbefore him did of the old gaffer! I remember a cocking was at theHall," Mrs. Benacre continued, "when I was a girl--'twas a matchbetween the gentlemen of Sussex and the gentlemen of Essex--and theold squire would have Benacre's father to dine with them, and made somuch of him as never was!"

  The vicar had listened without hearing. "She stopped the night inLewes, I suppose?" he said, his eyes on the gooseberries, his heartbumping.

  "'Twasn't known, the squire being at Lewes to meet her. And to-dayI've had more to do than to go fetching and carrying, and never a soulto speak to but they two hussies and the lad, since Benacre went onthe land. There, your reverence, there's a berry should take a prizeso far away as Croydon."

  "Very fine," the parson muttered. "But I think I'll walk to the Halland inquire."

  "'Twould be very becoming," Mrs. Benacre allowed; and made him promisehe would bring back the news.

  As he went down the lane, he saw two horsemen pass the end of it at aquick trot. When he reached the road, the riders were out of sight;but his heart misgave him at this sign of unusual bustle. A quarter ofan hour's walking along a hot road brought him to the park gate; itwas open, and in the road was the lodge-keeper's wife, a childclinging to her skirts. Before he could speak, "Has your reverence anynews?" she cried.

  He shook his head.

  "Well, was ever such a thing?" she exclaimed, lifting up her hands."They're gone to be sure, as if the ground had swallowed them. It'sthat, or the rogues ha' drowned them in the Ouse!"

  He felt himself shrinking in his clothes. "How--how did it happen?" hemuttered faintly. What had he done? What had he done?

  "The postboys left them in the carriage the other side of Beamond's,"the woman answered, delighted to gain a listener. "And went back withfresh horses, I suppose it would be about seven this morning; theycould not get them in the night. They found the carriage gone, andtracked it back so far almost as Chayley, and there found it, and thewoman and the two grooms with it; but not one of them could give anyaccount, except that their ladyships had been carried off by a gang ofmen, and they three had harnessed up and escaped. The postboys cameback with the news, and about the same time Mr. Watkyns came by themain road through Lewes, and knew naught till he was here! He was fitto kill himself when he found her ladyship was gone," the womancontinued with zest; "and Sir Hervey was lit to kill 'em all, andserve 'em right; and now they are searching the country, and a scorewith them; but it's tolerable sure the villains ha' got away with mylady, some think by Newhaven and foreign parts! What? Isn't yourreverence going to the house?"

  "No," his reverence muttered, with a sickly smile. "No." And he turnedfrom the cool shadows of the chestnut avenue, that led to the Hall,and setting his face the way he had come, hastened through the heat.He might still prevent the worst! He might still--but he must gethome. He must get home. He had walked three miles in forty minutes inold days; he must do it now. True, the sun was midsummer high, thetime an hour after noon, the road straight and hot, and unshaded, histhroat was parched, and he was fasting. But he must press on. He mustpress on, though his legs began to tremble under him--and he was notso young as he had been. There was the end of Benacre's Lane! He haddone a mile; but his knees were shaky, he must sit a moment on thebank. He did so, and found the trees begin to dance before his eyes,his thoughts to grow confused; frightened he tried to rise, butinstead he sank in a swoon, and lay inert at the foot of the bank.