Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  CHAPTER VII

  IN DAVIES STREET

  The chairmen pushed on briskly through Piccadilly and Portugal Street until they reached the turnpike on the skirts of the town. There, turning to the right by Berkeley Row, they reached Berkeley Square, at that time a wide, implanted space, surrounded on three sides by new mansions, and on the fourth by the dead wall of Berkeley House. For lack of lighting, or perhaps by reason of the convenience the building operations afforded, it was a favourite haunt of footpads. Sophia was a prey to anxieties that left no room in her mind for terrors of this class; and neither the dark lane, shadowed by the dead wall of Berkeley Gardens nor the gloomy waste of the square, held any tremors for her; but the chairmen hastened over this part of their journey, and for a time her attendant squire was so little in evidence that in the agitation into which the prospect of arrival at her lover’s threw her, she forgot his presence. She strained her eyes through the darkness to distinguish the opening of Davies Street, and at once longed and feared to see it. When at last the chair halted, and, pressing her hand to her heart to still the tumult that almost stifled her, she prepared to descend, it was with a kind of shock that she discovered the little dandy mincing and bowing on the pavement, his hand extended to aid her in stepping from the chair.

  The vexation she had suppressed before broke out at the sight. She bowed slightly, and avoided his hand. “I am obliged to you, sir,” she said 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 declare it is past eight, ma’am.”

  It was; but the fact put in words stung her like a whip. She winced under all that the lateness of the hour implied. It seemed intolerable that in a crisis in which her whole life lay in the balance, in which her being was on the rack until she found the reception that should right her, converting her boldness into constancy, her forwardness into courage — when she trembled on the verge of the moment in which her lover’s eyes should tell her all — it was intolerable that she should be harassed by this prating dandy. “I shall find an escort here,” she cried harshly. “I need you no longer, sir. Good night.”

  “Oh, but ma’am,” he protested, bowing like a Chinese mandarin, “it is impossible I should leave you so. Surely, there is something I can do for your ladyship.”

  “You can pay the chairmen!” she cried contemptuously; and turning from him to the door before which the chair had halted, she found it half open. In the doorway a woman, her back to the light, stood blocking the 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 the moment was come she could not do it. “May I come in?” she muttered, to gain 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, had the advantage. “Oh!” she said at last, addressing the men, “I think you had better wait a minute.” And grudgingly making way for Sophia to enter, 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 a sudden overpowering shame. She was pale and red by turns. Her eyes dropped, her confusion was not to be overlooked.

  “He is not at home,” the woman said shortly. And her look, hostile before, grew harder.

  Sophia caught her breath. She had not thought of this, and for a moment she was so overpowered by the intelligence, that she had to support herself against the wall. “When will he return, if you please?” she asked at length, her lip quivering.

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say. I couldn’t say at all,” Mrs. Wollenhope answered curtly. “All I know is he went out with the young gentleman at five, and as like as not he won’t be home till morning.”

  Sophia had much ado not to burst into tears. Apparently the woman perceived this, and felt a touch of pity for her, for, in an altered tone, “Is it possible,” she asked, “you’re the young lady he’s to marry to-morrow?”

  The words were balm to the girl’s heart. Here was sure footing at last; here was something to go upon. “Yes,” she said, more boldly. “I am.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Wollenhope ejaculated. “Oh!” After which she stared at the girl, as if she found a difficulty in fitting her in with notions previously formed. At last, “Well, miss,” she said, “I think if you could call tomorrow?” with a dry cough. “If you are to be married to-morrow — it seems to me it might be better.”

  Sophia shivered. “I cannot wait,” she said desperately. “I must see him. Something has happened which he does not know, and I must see him, I must indeed. Can I wait here? I have no where to go.”

  “Well, you can wait here till nine o’clock,” Mrs. Wollenhope answered less dryly. “We shut up at nine.” Then, after glancing behind her, she laid her hand on Sophia’s sleeve. “My dear,” she said, lowering her voice, “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. You will 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 take my advice — —”

  She was cut short. “There you are again, Eliza!” cried a loud voice, apparently from an inner room. “Always your advice! Always your advice! Have done meddling, will you, and show the lady upstairs.”

  Mrs. Wollenhope shrugged her shoulders as if the interruption were no uncommon occurrence. “Very well,” she said curtly; and turning, led the way along the passage. Sophia followed, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry that the good woman’s warning had been cut short. As she passed the open door of a room at the foot of the stairs she had a glimpse of a cheery sea-coal fire, and a bald-headed man in his shirt sleeves, who was sitting on a settle beside it, a glass of punch in his 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 snug back-parlour, with its fire and lights, and a red curtain hanging before the window, remained with her, a picture of comfort and quiet, as far as possible removed from the suspense and agitation in which she had passed the last two hours.

  And in which she still found herself, for as she mounted the stairs her knees quaked under her. She was ashamed, she was frightened. At the head of the flight, when the woman opened the door of the room and by a gesture bade her enter, she paused and felt she could sink into the ground. For the veriest trifle she would have gone down again. But behind her — behind her, lay nothing that had power to draw her; to return was to meet abuse and ridicule and shame, and that not in Arlington Street only, for the story would be over the town: Lane the mercer, whose shop was a hotbed of gossip, the little dandy who had thrust himself into her company, and tracked her hither, the coachman who had witnessed the arrest, even her own friend Lady Betty — all would publish the tale. Girls whom she knew, and from whose plain-spoken gossip she had turned a prudish ear, would sneer in her face. Men like Lord Lincoln would treat her with the easy familiarity she had seen them extend to Lady Vane, or Miss Edwards. Women she respected, Lady Pomfret, the duchess, would freeze her with a look. Girls, good girls like Lady Sophia, or little Miss Hamilton — no longer would 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 a table, the parlour and the shapes of the furniture swam before Sophia’s eyes. The two candles seemed to be four, six, eight; nay, the room was all candles, dancing before her. She had to lean on a chair to steady herself.

  By-and-by Mrs. Wollenhope’s voice, for a time heard droning dully, became clear. “He was up above,” the good woman was saying. “But he’s not here much. He lives at the taverns of the quality, mostly. ’Twas but yesterday he told me, ma’am, he was going to be married. You can wait here till nine, and I’ll come and fetch you then, if he has not come in. But you’d best be thinking, if you’ll take my advice, what you’ll do.”

  “Now, Eliza!” Mr. Wollenhope roared from below; to judge from the sound of his voice he had come to the foot of the stairs. “Advising again, I’m bound. Always advising! Some day your tongue will get you into trouble, my woman. You come down and leave the young lady to herself.”

  “Oh, very well,” Mrs. Wollenhope muttered, tossing her head impatiently. “I’m coming. Coming!” And shielding her light with her hand, she went out and left Sophia alone.

  The girl remained where she had paused on entering, a little within the door, her hand resting on a chair. And presently, as she looked about 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. His home! Here he had sat thinking of her. Here he had written the letter! Here, perhaps in that cupboard set low in the wainscot beside the fire, lay the secret papers of which he had told her, the Jacobite lists that held a life in every signature, the Ormonde letters, the plans for the Scotch Rising, the cipher promises from France! Here, surrounded by perils, he wrote and studied far into the night, the pistol beside the pen, the door locked, the keyhole stopped. Here he had lain safe and busy, while the hated Whig approvers drew their nets elsewhere. Sophia breathed more quickly as she pictured these things; as she told herself the story Othello told the Venetian maid. The attraction of the man, the magic of the lover, dormant during the stress she had suffered since she left Arlington Street, revived; the girl’s eyes grew soft, blushes mantled over her cheeks. She looked round timidly, almost reverently, not daring to advance, not daring to touch anything.

  The room, which was not large, was wainscotted from ceiling to floor with spacious panels, divided one from the other by fluted pillars in shallow relief, after the fashion of that day. The two windows were high, narrow, and roundheaded, deeply sunk in the panelling. The fireplace, in which a few embers smouldered, was of Dutch tiles. On the square oak table in the middle of the floor, a pack of cards lay beside the snuffer tray, between the tall pewter candlesticks.

  She noted these things greedily, and then, alas, she fell from the clouds. Mrs. Wollenhope had said that he had lived in the rooms above until lately! Still, he had sat here, and these were his belongings, which she saw strewn here and there. The book laid open on the high-backed settle that flanked one side of the hearth, and masked the door of an inner room, had been laid there by his hand. The cloak that hung across the back of one of the heavy Cromwell chairs was his. The papers and inkhorn, pushed carelessly aside on one of the plain wooden window-seats, had been placed there by him. His were the black riding-wig, the whip, and spurs, and tasselled cane, that hung on a hook in a corner, and the wig-case that stood on a table against the wall, alongside a crumpled cravat, and a jug and two mugs. All these — doubtless all these were his. Sophia, flustered and softened, her heart beating quick with a delicious emotion, half hope, half fear, 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 these things, than he had ever been; and though the moment was at hand when his reception of her must tell her all, her distrust of him had never been less. If he did not love her with the love she pictured, why had he chosen her? He whose career promised so much, who under the cloak of frivolity pursued aims so high, amid perils so real. He must love her! He must love her! She thought this almost aloud, and seeing the wicks of the candles growing long, rose and snuffed them; and in the performance of this simple act of ownership, experienced a strange thrill of pleasure.

  After that she waited awhile on her feet, looking about her shyly, and listening. Presently, hearing no sound, she stepped timidly and on tip-toe to the side table, and lifting the crumpled cravat, smoothed it, then, with caressing fingers, folded it neatly and laid it back. Again she listened, wondering how long she had waited. No, that was not a step on the stairs; and thereat her heart began to sink. The reaction of hope deferred began to be felt. What if he did not come? What if she waited, and nine found her still waiting — waiting vainly in 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? It might — it might be almost nine already!

  She began to succumb to a new fever of suspense, and looked about for something to divert her thoughts. Her eyes fell on the book that lay open on the seat of the settle. Thinking, “He has read this to-day — his was the last hand that touched it — on this page his eyes rested,” Sophia stooped for it, and holding it carefully that she might keep the place for him, reverently, for it was his, she carried it to the light. The title at the head of the page was The Irish Register. The name smacked so little of diversion, she thought it a political tract — for the book was thin, no more than fifty pages or so; and she was setting it back on the table when her eye, in the very act of leaving the page, caught the glint, as it were, of a name. Beside the name, on the margin, were a few pencilled words and figures; but these, faintly scrawled, she did not heed at the moment.

  “Cochrane, the Lady Elizabeth?” she muttered, repeating the name that had caught her eye, “How strange! What can the book have to do with Lady 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 saw that it consisted of a list of persons’ names arranged in order of rank. Only — which seemed odd — all the names were ladies’ names. Above Cochrane, the Lady Elizabeth, appeared Cochrane, the Lady Anne; below came Coke, the Lady Catherine, and after each name the address of the lady followed if she were a widow, of her parents or guardians if she were unmarried.

  Sophia wondered idly what it meant, and with half her mind bent on the matter, the other half intent on the coming of a footstep, she turned back to the title-page of the book. She found that the fuller description there printed ran The Irish Register, or a list of the Duchess Dowagers, Countesses, Widow Ladies, Maiden Ladies, Widows, and Misses of Great Fortunes in England, as registered by the Dublin Society.

  Even then she was very, very far from understanding. But the baldness of the description sent a chill through her. Misses of large fortunes in England! As fortunes went, she was a miss of large fortune. Perhaps that was why the words grated upon her; why her heart sank, and the room 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. It projected only an eighth of an inch, but she marked it, and turned to it; something or other — it may have been only the position of the paper in that part of the book, it may have been the presence of the book in her lover’s room — forewarning her; for in the act of turning the leaves, and before she came to the marker, she knew what she would find.

  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 not all or the worst — down the narrow margin, starting at her name, ran a note, written faintly, in a hand she knew; the same hand that had penned her one love letter, the hand from which the quill had fallen in the rapture of anticipation, the hand of her “humble, adoring lover, Hector, Count Plomer”!

  She knew that the note would tell her all, and for a moment her courage failed her; she dared not read it. Her averted eyes sought instead the cupboard in the lower wainscot, which she had fancied the hiding pl
ace of the Jacobite cipher, the muniment chest where lay, intrusted to his honour, the lives and fortunes of the Beauforts and Ormondes, the Wynns and Cottons and Cecils. Was the cupboard that indeed? Or — what was it? The light reflected from the surface of the panels told her nothing, and she lowered the book and stood pondering. If the note proved to be that which she still shrank from believing it, what had she done? Or rather, what had she not done? What warnings had she not despised, what knowledge had she not slighted, what experience had she not overridden? How madly, how viciously, in the face of advice, in the face of remonstrance, in modesty’s own despite, had she wrought her confusion, had she flung herself into the arms of this 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 the high-spirited, chivalrous gentleman, laughing at danger and smiling at death, in whom great names and a great cause were content to place their trust?

  At last she nerved herself to learn the answer to the question. The wicks of the candles were burning long; she snuffed them anew, and holding the book close to the light, read the words that were delicately traced beside her name.