Hawkesworth tried to speak, tried to carry off the surprise; but a feeble smile was all he could compass. Even Irish wit, even native impudence were unequal to this emergency. The blow was so sudden, so unexpected, he could not in a moment arrange his thoughts, or discern his position. He saw that for some reason or other she had come to him before the time; but he could not on the instant remember how far he had disclosed his hand before her, or what she had learned from him while she lay hidden.
Naturally Tom was the quicker to recover himself. His first thought on seeing his sister was that she had got wind of his plans, and was here to prevent his marriage. And it was in this sense that he interpreted her opening words. But before she had ceased to speak, the passion which she threw into her denunciation of Hawkesworth, turned his thoughts into a new and a fiercer channel. With an oath, “Never mind him!” he cried, and stepping forward gripped her, almost brutally, by the wrist. “I’ll talk with him afterwards. First, miss, what the devil are you doing here?”
“Ask him,” she answered; and again pointed her finger at Hawkesworth. “Or no, I will tell you, Tom. That man, the man who calls himself your friend, and called himself my lover, has plotted to ruin us. He has schemed to get us into his net. To-morrow he would have married you to — to, I know not, whom. And when he had seen you married, and knew you had forfeited a fortune to me, then — then I should have been a fit match for him! I! I! And in the evening he would have married me! Oh, shame, shame on us, Tom, that we should have let ourselves be so deluded!”
“He would have married you!” Tom cried, dropping her hand in sheer astonishment.
“The same day!”
“Hawkesworth? This man here? He would have married you?”
“You may well say, he!” she answered, a wave of crimson flooding her cheeks and throat. “The thought kills me.”
Tom looked from one to the other. “But I can’t understand,” he said. “I didn’t know — that he knew you, even.”
“And I didn’t know that he knew you!” she answered bitterly. “He is a villain, and that was his plan. We were not to know.”
Tom turned to the Irishman; and the latter’s deprecatory shrug was vain. “What have you to say?” Tom cried in a voice almost terrible.
But Hawkesworth, who did not lack courage, was himself again, easy, alert, plausible. “Much,” he said coolly. “Much, dear lad. The whole thing is a mistake. I loved your sister” — he bowed gravely in her direction, and stole a glance as he did so, to learn how she took it, and how far he still had a chance with her. “I loved her, I say, I still love her, though she has shown that she puts as little faith in me, as she can ever have entertained affection for me. But I knew her as Miss Maitland, I did not know that she was your sister. Once I think she mentioned a brother; but no more, no name. For the rest, I had as little reason to expect to find her here as you had. That I swear!”
The last words hit Tom uncomfortably; her presence in this man’s room was a fact hard to swallow. The brother turned on the sister. “Is this true?” he hissed.
Sophia winced. “It is true,” she faltered.
“Then what brought you here?” Tom cried, with brutal frankness.
The girl shivered; she never forgot the pain of that moment, never forgot the man who had caused her that humiliation. “Ask him!” she panted. “Or no, I will tell you, Tom. He swore that he loved me. He made me, poor silly fool that I was, believe him. He said that if I would elope with him to-morrow, he would marry me at Dr. Keith’s chapel; and fearing they — my sister — would marry me against my will to — to another man, I consented. Then — they were going to send me away in the morning, and it would have been too late. I came away this afternoon to tell him, and — and — —”
“There you have the explanation, Sir Thomas,” Hawkesworth interposed, with an air of candid good nature. “And in all you’ll say, I think, that there is nothing of which I need be ashamed. I loved your sister, she was good enough to fancy that she was not indifferent to me. My intentions were honourable, but her friends were opposed to my suit. I had her consent to elope, and if she had not on a sudden discovered, as she apparently has discovered, that her heart is not mine, we should have been married within a few days.”
“To-morrow, sir, to-morrow!” Sophia cried. And would have confronted him with his letter; but it was in the folds of her dress, and she would not let him see where she kept it.
“To-morrow, certainly, if it had been your pleasure,” Hawkesworth answered smoothly. “The sole, the only point it concerns me to show, is, Sir Tom, that I did not know my Miss Maitland to be your sister. I give you my word, Sir Tom, I did not!”
“Liar!” she cried, unable to contain herself.
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. “There is but one Sir Thomas Maitland,” he said, “but there are many Maitlands. Miss Maitland may hold what opinion she pleases, and express what view of my character commends itself to her, without fear that I shall call her natural guardians to account. But I cannot allow a gentleman to doubt my word. I repeat, Sir Tom, that I did not know that this lady was your sister.”
The boy listened, scowling and thinking. He had no lack of courage, and was as ready to fly at a man’s throat as not. But he was young; he was summoned, suddenly and in conditions most perplexing, to protect the family honour; it was no wonder that he hesitated. At this, however, “Then why the deuce were you so ready to bet,” he blurted out, “that she would be married at Keith’s?”
Before Hawkesworth could frame the answer, “That is not all!” Sophia cried; and with a rapid movement she snatched from the table the book that had first opened her eyes. “Here, here,” she cried, tapping it passionately. “In his own handwriting is the plot! The plot against us both! Tom, look; find it! You will find it under my name. And then he cannot deny it.”
She held out the book to Tom; he went to take it. But Hawkesworth, who knew the importance of the evidence, was too quick for them. With an oath he sprang forward, held Tom back with one hand, and with the other seized the volume, and tried to get possession of it. But Sophia clung to it, screaming; and before he could wrest it from her hold, Tom, maddened by the insult and her cries, was at his breast like a wild cat.
The fury of the assault took the Irishman by surprise. He staggered against the wall, and alarmed by the girl’s shrieks, let the book go. By that time, however, Sophia had had enough of the struggle. The sight of the two locked in furious conflict horrified her, her grasp relaxed, she let the book fall; and as Hawkesworth, recovering from his surprise, gripped her brother’s throat and by main force bent him backwards — the lad never ceasing to rain blows on the taller man’s face and shoulders — she fled to the door, opened it, and screamed for help.
Fortunately it was already on the road. Mr. Wollenhope, crying, “Lord, what is it? What is it?” was halfway up the stairs when she appeared, and close on his heels followed his wife, with a scared face. Sophia beckoned them to hasten, and wringing her hands, flew back. They followed.
They found Hawkesworth dragging the boy about, and striving savagely to force him to the floor. As soon as he saw Wollenhope, he cried with fury, “Will some one take this mad dog off me? He has tried his best to murder me. If I had not been the stronger, he would have done it!”
Wollenhope, panting with the haste he had made, seized Tom from behind and held him, while Hawkesworth disengaged himself. “You’ll — you’ll give me satisfaction for this!” the lad cried, gasping, and almost blubbering with rage. His wig was gone, so was his cravat; the ruffle of his shirt was torn from top to bottom.
The other was busy readjusting his dress, and staunching the blood that flowed from a cut lip. “Satisfaction, you young booby?” he answered, with savage contempt. “Send you back to school and whip you! Turn ’em out, Wollenhope! Turn them both out! That devil’s cub sprang on me and tried to strangle me. It’s lucky for you, sir, I don’t send you to Hicks’s Hall!”
“Oh, Lord, let�
��s have none of that!” Wollenhope interposed hastily. “Mine’s a respectable house, and there’s been noise enough already. A little more and I shall be indicted. March, young sir, if you please. And you too, miss.”
Tom swelled with fresh rage. “Do you know who I am, fellow?” he cried. “I’d have you to know — —”
“I don’t want to know!” Wollenhope rejoined, cutting him short. “I won’t know! It’s march — that’s all I know. And quick, if you please,” he continued, trying to edge the lad out of the room.
“But, William,” his wife protested, and timidly touched his arm, “it’s possible that they may not be in fault. I’m sure the young lady was very well spoken when she came.”
“None of your advice!” her husband retorted.
“But, William — —”
“None of your advice, I say! Do you hear? Do you understand? This gentleman is our lodger. Who the others are, I don’t know, nor care. And I don’t want to know, that’s more.”
“You’ll smart for this!” Tom cried, getting in a word at last. He was almost bursting with chagrin and indignation. “I’d have you know, my fine fellow, I am Sir — —”
“I don’t want to know,” Wollenhope retorted, stubbornly. “I don’t care who you are; and for smarting, perhaps I may. When you are sober, sir, we’ll talk about it. In the meantime, this is my house, and you’ll go, unless you want me to fetch the constable. And that mayn’t be best for the young lady, who seems a young lady. I don’t suppose she’ll like to be taken to the Round house, nor run the risk of it. Take my advice, young sir, take my advice; and go quietly while you can.”
Tom, half-choked with rage, was for retorting, but Sophia, who had quite broken down and was weeping hysterically, clutched his arm. “Oh, come,” she cried piteously, “please come!” And she tried to draw him towards the door.
But the lad resisted. “You’ll answer to me for this,” he said, scowling at Hawkesworth, who remained in an attitude, eyeing the two with a smile of disdain. “You know where to find me, and I shall be at your service until to-morrow at noon.”
“I’ll find you when you are grown up,” the Irishman answered, with a mocking laugh. “Back to your books, boy, and be whipped for playing truant!”
The taunt stung Tom to fresh fury. With a scream of rage he sprang forward, and, shaking off Wollenhope’s grasp, tried to close with his enemy. But Sophia hung on him bravely, imploring him to be calm; and Wollenhope seized him again and held him back, while Mrs. Wollenhope supplied, for assistance, a chorus of shrieks. Between the three he was partly led and partly dragged to the door, and got outside. From the landing he hurled a last threat at the smiling Hawkesworth, now left master of the field; and then, with a little rough persuasion, he was induced to descend.
In the passage he had a fresh fit of stubbornness, and wished to state his wrongs and who he was. But Sophia’s heart was pitifully set on escaping from the house — to her a house of bitter shame and humiliation — and the landlord’s desire was to see the last of them; and in a moment the two were outside. Wollenhope lost not a moment, but slammed the door on them; they heard the chain put up, and, an instant later, the man’s retreating footsteps as he went back to his lodger.
CHAPTER IX
IN CLARGES BOW
If Tom had been alone when he was thus ejected, it is probable that his first impulse would have been either to press his forehead against the wall and weep with rage, or to break the offender’s windows — eighteen being an age at which the emotions are masters of the man. But the noise of the fracas within, though dulled by the walls, had reached the street. A window here and a window there stood open, and curious eyes, peering through the darkness, were on the two who had been put out. Tom was too angry to heed these on his own account, or care who was witness of his violence; but for Sophia’s sake, whose state as she clung to his arm began to appeal to his manhood, he was willing to be gone without more.
After shaking his fist at the door, therefore, and uttering a furious word or two, he pressed the weeping girl’s hand to his side. “All right,” he said, “we’ll go. It’ll not be long before I’m back again, and they’ll be sorry! A houseful of cheats and bullies! There, there, child, I’ll come. Don’t cry,” he continued, patting her hand with an air that, after the reverse he had suffered, was not without its grandeur. “I’ll take care of you, never fear. I’ve rooms a little way round the corner, taken to-day, and you shall have my bed. It’s too late to go to Arlington Street to-night.”
Sophia, sobbing and frightened, hung down her head, and did not answer; and Tom, forgetting in his wrath against Hawkesworth the cause he had to be angry with her, said nothing to increase her misery or aggravate her sense of the folly she had committed. His lodgings were in Clarges Row, a little north of Shepherd’s Market, and almost within a stone’s throw of Mayfair Chapel. Four minutes’ walking brought the two to the house, where Tom rapped in a peculiar manner at the window-shutter; when this had been twice repeated, the door was opened grudgingly by a pale-faced, elderly man, bearing a lighted candle-end in his fingers.
He muttered his surprise on seeing Tom, but made way for him, grumbling something about the late hour. When he saw the girl about to follow, however, he started, and seemed to be going to refuse her entrance. But Tom was of those who carry off by sheer force of arrogance a difficult situation. “My sister, Miss Maitland, is with me,” he said. “She’ll have my room to-night. Don’t stare, fellow, but hold a light for the lady to go up.”
The man’s reluctance was evident; but he let them enter, and barred the door after them. Then snuffing his candle with his fingers, he held it up and surveyed them. “By gole,” he said, chuckling, “you don’t look much like bride and bridegroom!”
Tom stormed at him, but he only continued to grin. “You’ve been fighting!” he said.
“Well what’s that to you, you rogue!” the lad answered sharply. “Light the lady up, do you hear?”
“To be sure! To be sure! But you’ll be wanting a light in each room,” he continued with a cunning look, as he halted at the head of a narrow boarded staircase, up which he had preceded them. “That’s over and above, you’ll remember. Candles here and candles there, a man’s soon ruined!”
Tom bade him keep a civil tongue, and himself led the way into a quaint little three-cornered parlour, boarded like the staircase; beyond it was a bedroom of the same shape and size. The rooms had a small window apiece looking on the Row, and wore an air of snugness that would have appealed to Sophia had her eyes been open to anything but her troubles. Against the longer wall of the little parlour stood a couple of tall clocks; a third eked out the scanty furniture of the bedroom, and others, ticking with stealthy industry in the lower part of the house, whispered that it was a clock-maker’s shop.
Sophia cared not. She felt no curiosity. She put no questions, but accepted in silence the dispositions her brother made for her comfort. Bruised and broken, fatigued in body, with a sorely aching heart she took the room he gave her, sleep offering all she could now hope for or look for, sleep bounding all her ambitions. In sleep — and at that moment the girl would fain have lain down not to rise again — she hoped to find a refuge from trouble, a shelter from thought, a haven where shame could not enter. To one in suspense, in doubt, in expectation, bed is a rack, a place of torture; but when the blow has fallen, the lot been drawn, the dulled sensibilities sink to rest in it as naturally as a bird in the nest — and as quickly find repose.
She slept as one stunned, but weak is the anodyne of a single night. She awoke in the morning, cured indeed of love by a radical operation, but still bleeding; still in fancy under the cruel knife, still writhing in remembered torture. To look forward, to avert her eyes from the past, was her sole hope; and speedily her mind grew clear; the future began to take shape. She would make use of Tom’s good offices, and through him she would negotiate terms with her sister. She would not, could not, go back to Arlington Street! But any penanc
e, short of that, she would undergo. If it pleased them she would go to Chalkhill; or in any other way that seemed good to them, she would expiate the foolish, and worse than foolish escapade of which she had been guilty. Life henceforth could be but a grey and joyless thing; provided she escaped the sneers and gibes of Arlington Street, she cared little where it was spent.
She was anxious to broach the subject at breakfast; but, through a natural reluctance to open it, she postponed the discussion as long as she dared. It was not like Tom to be over careful of her feelings; but he, too, appeared to be equally unwilling to revert to past unpleasantness. He fidgeted and seemed preoccupied; he rose frequently and sat down again; more than once he went to the window and looked out. At last he rose impulsively and disappeared in the bedroom.
By-and-by he returned. He was still in his morning cap and loose wrapper, but he carried a shirt over each arm. “Which ruffles do you like the better, Sophy?” he asked; and he displayed one after the other before her eyes. “Of course I’d like to look my best to-day,” he added, shamefacedly.
She stared at him, in perplexity at first, not understanding him; then in horror, as she discerned on a sudden what he meant. “To-day?” she faltered. “Why to-day, Tom, more than on other days?”
His face fell. “Is’t odd,” he said, “to want to look one’s best to be married? At any rate, I never thought so. Until yesterday,” he added with a glance at her dress.
She was sitting on the narrow window-seat; she stood up, her back to the window. “To be married?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Tom! It is impossible — impossible you intend to go on with it, after all you have heard!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 345