Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

“Has 6000 guineas charged on T. M.’s estate. If T. M. marries without consent of guardians has £10,000 more. Mrs. N. the same. T. is at Cambridge, aged eighteen. To make all sure, T. must be married first — query Oriana, if she can be found? Or Lucy Slee — but boys like riper women. Not clinch with S. M. until T. is mated, nor at all if the little Cochrane romp (page 7) can be brought to hand. But I doubt it, but S. M. is an easy miss, and swallows all. A perfect goose.”

  Sophia sat awhile in a chair and shivered, her face white, her head burning. The words were so clear that, the initials notwithstanding, it was not possible to misinterpret them; or to set on them any construction save one. They cut her as the lash of a whip cuts the bare flesh. It was for this — thing that she had laid aside her maiden pride, had risked her good name, had scorned her nearest, had thrown away 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 the greater perils of his company. For this — but she had not words adequate to the loathing of her soul. Outraged womanhood, wounded pride, contemned affection — which she had fancied love — seared her very soul. She could have seen him killed, she could have killed him with her own hand — or she thought she could; so completely in a moment was her liking changed to hatred, so completely destroyed on the instant 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, dreadful smartness that told her they were no mere memorandum, but had served in 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, and swallows all. A perfect goose!” Oh, she would never recover it! She would never regain her self-respect!

  The last embers had grown grey behind the bars; the last ash had fallen from the grate while she sat. The room was silent save for her breathing, that now came in quick spasms as she thought of the false lover, 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. She sprang up and gazed about her in affright, remembering that she had no longer any business there, nay, that in no room in the world had she less business.

  In the terror of the moment she flew to the door; she must go, but whither? More than ever, now that she recognised her folly, she shrank from her sister’s scornful eyes, from Mr. Northey’s disapproving stare, 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 the laughing-stock of the town. It was the silliest, the most romantic; a school-girl would cry fie on it. Sophia’s cheek burned at the thought of facing a single person who had ever known her; much more at the thought of meeting her sister or Mrs. Martha, or the laced bumpkins past whom she had flitted in that ill-omened hour. She could not go back to Arlington Street. But then — whither could she go?

  Whither indeed? It was nine o’clock; night had fallen. At such an hour the streets were unsafe for a woman without escort, much more for a girl of gentility. Drunken roysterers on their way from tavern to tavern, ripe for any frolic, formed a peril worse than footpads; and she had neither chair nor link-boys, servants nor coach, without one or other of which she had never passed through the streets in her life. Yet she could not stay where she was; rather would she lie without covering in the wildest corner of the adjacent parks, or on the lonely edge of Rosamond’s pond! The mere thought that she lingered there was enough; she shuddered with loathing, grew hot with rage. And the impulse that had hastened her to the door returning, she hurried out 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 along the passage, masked the voice. But she had heard enough — it was Hawkesworth’s — and her eyes grew wide with terror. She should die of shame if he found her there! If he learned, not by hearsay, but eye to eye, that she had come of her own motion, poor, silly dupe of his blandishments, to throw herself into his arms! That were too much; she turned to fly.

  Her first thought was to take refuge on the upper floor until he had gone into his room and closed the door; two bounds carried her to the landing she had left. But here she found an unexpected obstacle in a wicket, set at the foot of the upper flight of stairs; one of those wickets that are still to be seen in old houses, in the neighbourhood of the nursery. By the light that issued from the half-open doorway of the room, Sophia tugged at it furiously, but seeking the latch at the end 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 she loved, and now knew she hated, were on the stairs. And the gate would not yield! Penned on the narrow landing, with discovery tapping her on the shoulder, she fumbled desperately with the latch, even, in despair, flung her weight against the wicket. It held; in another second, 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 to blow them out, then to take her chance of passing the man before they were relighted. But as she gained the table and stooped to extinguish them, she heard his step so near the door that she knew the sudden extinction of the light must be seen; and her eyes at the same moment alighting 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 but the blind, unthinking impulse to hide herself. For here retreat was cut off; she was now between her enemy and the inner room. She dared not move, and in a few minutes at most must be discovered. But the thing was done; there was no time to alter it. As her hoop slipped from sight behind the wooden seat, the Irishman entered, and with a laugh flung his hat and cane on the table. A second person appeared to cross the threshold after him; and crouching lower, her heart beating as if it would choke her, Sophia heard the door flung to behind them.

  CHAPTER VIII

  UNMASKED

  There are men who find as much pleasure in the intrigue as in the fruits of the intrigue; who take huge credit for their own finesse and others’ folly, and find a chief part of their good in watching, as from a raised seat, the movements of their dupes, astray in a maze of their planting. The more ingenious the machination they have contrived, the nicer the calculations and the more narrow the point on which success turns, the sweeter is the sop to their vanity. To receive Lisette and Fifine in the same apartment within the hour; to divide the rebel and the minister by a door; to turn the scruple of one person to the hurt of another, and know both to be ignorant — these are feats on which they hug themselves as fondly as on the substantial rewards which crown their manœuvres.

  Hawkesworth was of this class; and it was with feelings such as these that he saw his nicely jointed plans revolving to the end he desired. To mould the fate of Tom Maitland at Cambridge, and of Sophia in town, and both to his own profit, fulfilled his sense of power. To time the weddings as nearly as possible, to match the one at noon and to marry the other at night, gratified his vanity at the same time that it tickled his humour. But the more delicate the machinery, the smaller is the atom, and the slighter the jar that suffices to throw all out of gear. For a time, Oriana’s absence, at a moment when every instant was of price, and the interference of Tom’s friends was hourly possible, threatened to ruin all. It was in the enjoyment of the relief, which the news of her arrival afforded, that he returned to his lodging this evening. He was in his most rollicking humour, and overflowed with spirits; Tom’s innocence and his own sagacity providing him with ever fresh and more lively cause for merriment.

  Nor was the lad’s presence any check on his mood. Hawkesworth’s joviality, darkling and satirical as it was, passed with Tom for lightness of heart. What he did not understand, he set down
for Irish, and dubbed his companion the prince of good fellows. As they climbed the stairs, he was trying with after-supper effusiveness to impress this on his host. “I swear you are the best friend man ever had,” he cried, his voice full of gratitude. “I vow you are.”

  Hawkesworth laughed, as he threw his hat and cane on the table, and proceeded to take off his sword that he might be more at ease. His laughter was a little louder than the other’s statement seemed to justify; but Tom was in no critical mood, and Hawkesworth’s easy answer “You’ll say so when you know all, my lad,” satisfied the boy.

  “I do say it,” he repeated earnestly, as he threw himself on the settle, and, taking the poker, stirred the embers to see if a spark survived. “I do say it.”

  “And I say, well you may,” Hawkesworth retorted, with a sneer from which he could not refrain. “What do you think, dear lad, would have happened, if I’d tried for the prize myself?” he continued. “If I’d struck in for your pretty bit of red and white on my own account? Do you remember Trumpington, and our first meeting? I’d the start of you then, though you are going to be her husband.”

  “Twenty minutes’ start,” Tom answered.

  Hawkesworth averted his face to hide a grin. “Twenty minutes?” he said. “Lord, so it was! Twenty minutes!” The boy reddened. “Why do you laugh?” he asked.

  “Why? Why, because twenty minutes is a long time — sometimes,” Hawkesworth answered. “But there, be easy, lad,” he continued, seeing that he was going too far, “be easy — no need to be jealous of me — and I’ll brew you some punch. There is one thing certain,” he continued, producing a squat Dutch bottle and some glasses from a cupboard by the door. “You have me to thank for her! There is no doubt about that.”

  “It’s what I’ve always said,” Tom answered. He was easily appeased. “If you’d not asked my help when your chaise broke down at Trumpington — you’d just picked her up, you remember? — I should never have known her! Think of that!” he continued, his eyes shining with a lover’s enthusiasm; and he rose and trod the floor this way and that. “Never to have known her, Hawkesworth!”

  “Whom, to know was to love,” the Irishman murmured, with thinly veiled irony.

  “Right! Right, indeed!”

  “And to love was to know — eh?”

  “Right! Right, again!” poor Tom cried, striking the table.

  For a moment Hawkesworth contemplated him with amusement. Then— “Well, here’s to her!” he cried, raising his glass. “The finest woman in the world!”

  “And the best! And the best!” Tom answered.

  “And the best! The toast is worthy the best of liquor,” Hawkesworth continued, pushing over the other’s glass; “but you’ll have to drink it cold, for the fire is out.”

  “The finest woman in the world, and the best!” the lad cried; his eyes glowed as he stood up reverently, his glass in his hand. “She is that, isn’t she, Hawkesworth?”

  “She is all that, I’ll answer for it!” the Irishman replied, with a stifled laugh. Lord! what fools there were in the world! “By this time to-morrow she’ll be yours! Think of it, lad!” he continued, with an ugly-sounding, ugly-meaning laugh; at which one of his listeners shuddered.

  But Tom, in the lover’s seventh heaven, was not that one. His Oriana, who to others was a handsome woman, bold-eyed and free-tongued, was a goddess to him. He saw her through that glamour of first love that blesses no man twice. He felt no doubt, harboured no suspicion, knew no fear; he gave scarce one thought to her past. He was content to take for gospel all she told him, and to seek no more. That he — he should have gained the heart of this queen among women seemed so wonderful, so amazing, that nothing else seemed wonderful at all.

  “You think she’ll not fail?” he cried, presently, as he set down his glass. “It’s a week since I saw her, and — and you don’t think she’ll have changed her mind, do you?”

  “Not she!” Hawkesworth answered.

  “She’ll come, you are certain.”

  “As certain,” Hawkesworth cried gaily, “as that Dr. Keith will be ready at the chapel at twelve to the minute, dear lad. And, by the way, here’s his health! Dr. Keith, and long may he live to bless the single and crown the virtuous! To give to him that hath not, and from her that hath to take away! To be the plague of all sour guardians, lockers-up of maidens, and such as would cheat Cupid; and the guardian-angel of all Nugents, Husseys, and bold fellows! Here’s to the pride of Mayfair, the curse of Chancery, and the god-father of many a pretty couple — Dr. Keith!”

  “Here’s to him!” Tom cried, with ready enthusiasm. And then more quietly as he set down his glass, “There’s one thing I’d like, to be perfectly happy, Hawkesworth, only one. I wish it were possible, but I suppose it isn’t.”

  “What is it, lad?”

  “If Sophia, my sister, could be there. They’ll be sisters, you see, and — and, of course, Sophia’s a girl, but there are only the two of us, for Madam Northey doesn’t count. But I suppose it is not possible she should be told?”

  “Quite impossible!” Hawkesworth answered with decision; and he stooped to hide a smile. The humour of the situation suited him. “Quite impossible! Ten to one she’d peach! No, no, we must not initiate her too soon, my boy; though it is likely enough she’ll have her own business with Dr. Keith one of these days!”

  The boy stared at him. “My sister?” he said slowly, his face growing red. “With Dr. Keith? What business could she have with him?”

  “With Dr. Keith?” Hawkesworth asked lightly. “Why not the same as yours, dear boy?”

  “The same as mine?”

  “Yes, to be sure. Why not? Eh, why not?”

  “Why not? Because she’s a Maitland!” the lad answered, and his eyes flashed. “Our women don’t marry that way, I’d have you to know! Why, I’d — I’d rather see her buried.”

  “But you’re going to marry that way yourself!” Hawkesworth reasoned. The boy’s innocence surprised him a little and amused him more.

  “I? But I’m a man,” Tom answered with dignity. “I’m different. And — and Oriana,” he continued, plunging on a sudden into dreadful confusion and redness of face, “is — is different of course, because — well, because if we are not married in this way, my brother Northey would interfere, and we could not be married at all. Oriana is an angel, and — and because she loves me, is willing to be married in this way. That’s all, you see.”

  “I see. But you would not like your sister to be married on the quiet?”

  Tom glared at him. “No,” he said curtly. “And for the why, it is my business.”

  “To be sure it is! Of course it is. And yet, Sir Tom,” Hawkesworth continued, his tone provoking, “I would not mind wagering you a hundred it is the way she will be married, when her time comes.”

  “My sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Done with you!” the lad cried.

  “Nay, I don’t mind going farther,” Hawkesworth continued. “I’ll wager you the same sum that she does it within the year.”

  “This year?”

  “A year from to-day.”

  Tom jumped up in heat. “What the devil do you mean?” he cried. Then he sat down again. “But what matter!” he said, “I’ll take you.”

  Hawkesworth as he pulled out his betting book turned his head aside to hide a smile. “I note it,” he said. “‘P. H. bets Sir Thomas Maitland a hundred that Miss Sophia Maitland is married at Dr. Keith’s chapel; and another hundred that the marriage is within the year.’”

  “Right!” Tom said, glowering at him. His boyish estimate of the importance of his family, and of the sacredness of his womankind, sucked the flavour from the bet; ordinarily the young scapegrace loved a wager.

  Hawkesworth put up his book again. “Good,” he said. “You’ll see that that will be two hundred in my pocket some day.”

  “Not it!” Tom answered, rudely. “My sister is not that sort! And perhaps the sooner you know it, the
better,” he added, aggressively.

  “Why, lad, what do you mean?”

  “Just what I said!” Tom answered shortly. “It was English. When my sister is to be married, we shall make a marriage for her. She’s not — but the less said the better,” he continued, breaking off with a frown.

  Hawkesworth knew that it would be prudent to quit the subject, but his love of teasing, or his sense of the humour of the situation, would not let him be silent. “She’s not for such as me, you mean?” he said, with a mocking laugh.

  “You can put it that way if you choose!”

  “And yet, I think — if I were to try?”

  “What?”

  “I say, if I were to try?”

  Sir Tom scowled across the table. “Look here!” he said, striking it heavily with his hand, “I don’t like this sort of talk. I don’t suppose you wish to be offensive; and we’ll end it, if you please.”

  Hawkesworth shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, by all means, if you feel that way,” he said. “Only it looks a little as if you feared for your charming sister. After all, women are women. Even Miss Sophia Maitland is a woman, and no exception to the rule, I presume?”

  “Oh, hang you!” the boy cried, in a fury; and again struck his hand on the table. “Will you leave my sister’s name alone? Cannot you understand — what a gentleman feels about it?”

  “HE CANNOT!”

  “He cannot!”

  The words came from behind Sir Tom, who forthwith sprang a yard from the settle, and stood gaping; while Hawkesworth, his glass going to shivers on the floor, clutched the table as he rose. Both stood staring, both stood amazed, and scarce believed their eyes, when Sophia, stepping from the shelter of the settle, stood before them.

  “He cannot!” she repeated, with a gesture, a look, an accent that should have withered the man. “He cannot! For he does not know what a gentleman feels about anything. He does not know what a gentleman is. Look at him! Look at him!” she continued, her face white with scorn; and she fixed the astonished Irishman with an outstretched finger that could scarce have confounded him more had it been a loaded pistol set to his head. “A gentleman!” she went on passionately. “That a gentleman? Why, the air he breathes pollutes us! To be in one room with him disgraces us! That such an one should have tricked us will shame us all our lives!”