Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  While Grocott, listening on the stairs, chuckled grimly. “You thought you were going to stop my girl’s marriage, did you?” he muttered, shaking his fist in the direction of the sounds. “You thought you’d stop her being my lady, did you? Stop her now if you can, my little madam. I have you like a mouse in a trap; and when you are cooler, my Lady Maitland shall let you out. My lady, ha! ha! What a sound it has. My Lady Maitland!”

  Then reflecting that Hawkesworth, whom he hated, and had cause to hate, had placed this triumph in his grasp — and would now, as things had turned out, get nothing by it — he shook with savage laughter. “Lady Maitland!” he chuckled. “Ho! ho! And he gets — the shells! The shells, ho! ho!”

  CHAPTER X

  SIR HERVEY TAKES THE FIELD

  In his rooms at the corner house between Portugal Street and Bolton Street, so placed that by glancing a trifle on one side of the oval mirror before him he could see the Queen’s Walk and the sloping pastures of the Green Park, Sir Hervey Coke was being shaved. A pile of loose gold which lay on the dressing-table indicated that the evening at White’s had not been unpropitious. An empty chocolate cup and half-eaten roll stood beside the money, and, with Sir Hervey’s turban-cap and embroidered gown, indicated that the baronet, who in the country broke his fast on beef and small beer, and began the day booted, followed, in town, town fashions. To-day, however, early as it was — barely ten — his wig hung freshly curled on the stand, and a snuff-coloured coat and long-flapped waistcoat, plainly laced, were airing at the fire; signs that he intended to be abroad betimes, and on business.

  Perhaps the business had to do with an open letter in his lap, at which the man who was shaving him cocked his eye inquisitively between strokes. Or perhaps not, for Sir Hervey did not seem to heed this curiosity; but the valet had before had reason — and was presently to have fresh reason — to know that his taciturn master saw more than he had the air of seeing.

  Suddenly Sir Hervey raised his hand. Watkyns, the valet, stood back. “Bring it me!” Coke said.

  The man had heard without hearing, as he now understood without explanation. He went softly to the door, received a note, and brought it to his master.

  “An answer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then finish.”

  The valet did so. When he had removed the napkin, Sir Hervey broke the seal, and, after reading three or four lines of the letter, raised his eyes to the mirror. He met the servant’s prying gaze, and abruptly crumpled the paper in his hand. Then, “Watkyns,” he said, in his quietest tone.

  “Sir?”

  “ABOUT THE TWO GUINEAS — YOU STOLE THIS MORNING ...”

  “About the two guineas you — stole this morning. For this time you may keep them; but in the future kindly remember two things.”

  The razor the man was cleaning fell to the floor. His face was a sickly white; his knees shook under him. He tried to frame words, to deny, to say something, but in vain. He was speechless.

  “Firstly,” Coke continued blandly, “that I count the money I bring home — at irregular intervals. Secondly, that two guineas is a larger sum than forty shillings. Another time, Watkyns, I would take less than forty shillings. You will understand why. That is all.”

  The man, still pale and trembling, found his tongue. “Oh, sir!” he cried, “I swear, if you’ll — if you’ll forgive me — —”

  Coke stopped him. “That is all,” he said, “that is all. The matter is at an end. Pick that up, go downstairs, and return in five minutes.”

  When the man was gone, Sir Hervey smoothed the paper, and, with a face that grew darker and darker as he proceeded, read the contents of the letter from beginning to end. They were these: —

  “Dear Sir,

  “The honour you intended my family by an alliance with a person so nearly related to us as Miss Maitland renders it incumbent on me to inform you with the least possible delay of the unfortunate event which has happened in our household, an event which, I need not say, I regret on no account more than because it must deprive us of the advantage we rightly looked to derive from that connection. At a late hour last evening the misguided (and I fear I must call her the unfortunate) girl, whom you distinguished by so particular a mark of your esteem, left the shelter of her home, it is now certain, to seek the protection of a lover.

  “While the least doubt on this point remained, I believed myself justified in keeping the matter even from you, but I have this morning learned from a sure source — Lane, the mercer, in Piccadilly — that she was set down about nine o’clock last night at a house in Davies Street, kept by a man of the name of Wollenhope, and the residence — alas, that I should have to say it! — of the infamous Irishman whose attentions to her at one time attracted your notice.

  “You will readily understand that from the moment we were certified of this we ceased to regard her as a part of our family; a choice so ill-regulated can proceed only from a mind naturally inclined to vice. Resentment on your account no less than a proper care of our household, dictates this course, nor will any repentance on her part, nor any of those misfortunes to which as I apprehend her misconduct will surely expose her, prevail on us to depart from it.

  “Forgive me, dear sir, if, under the crushing weight of this deplorable matter, I confine myself to the bare fact and its consequence, adding only the expression of our profound regret and consideration.

  “I have the honour to remain,

  “Dear sir,

  “Your most obedient, humble servant,

  “J. NORTHEY.”

  “A d —— d cold-blooded fish!” Sir Hervey muttered when he had finished, and he cast the letter on the table with a gesture of disgust. Then he sat motionless for several minutes, gazing at nothing, with a strange expression of pain in his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of the old mansion in Sussex, standing silent and lonely in its widespread park, awaiting — still awaiting, a mistress. Perhaps of plans late made, soon wrecked, yet no less cherished. Perhaps of a pale young face wide-browed and wilful, with eyes more swift to blame than praise; eyes which he had seen seeking — seeking pathetically they knew not what. Or perhaps he was thinking of the notorious Lady Vane — of what she had been once, of what Sophia might be some day. For he swore softly, and the look of pain deepened in his eyes. And then Watkyns returned.

  Sir Hervey stood up. “You’ll go to Wollenhope’s,” he said without preface. “Wollenhope’s, in Davies Street, and learn — you’ll know how — whether the young lady who alighted there last night from a chair or coach is still there. And whether a person of the name of Hawkesworth is there. And whether he is at home. You will not tell my name. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve half an hour.”

  The man slid out of the room, his face wearing a look of relief, almost of elation. It was true then. He was forgiven!

  After that Coke walked up and down, his watch in his hand, until the valet returned. In the interval he spoke once only. “She is but a child!” he muttered, “she’s but a child!” and he followed it with a second oath. When his man returned, “Well?” he said, without looking round.

  “The young lady is not there, sir,” Watkyns replied. “She arrived at eight last evening in a chair, and left a little after nine with a young gentleman.”

  “The person Hawkesworth?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” Sir Hervey turned as he spoke, and looked at him.

  “No, sir. Who it was the landlord of the house did not know or would not tell me. He was not in the best of tempers, and I could get no more from him. He told me that the young gentleman came in with his lodger about a quarter to nine.”

  “With Hawkesworth?”

  “Yes, sir, and found the young lady waiting for them. That the two gentlemen quarrelled almost immediately, and that the young lady went off with the young gentleman. Who was very young, sir, not much more than a boy.”

  “What address?”

  �
��I could not learn, sir.”

  “Watkyns!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may take two guineas.”

  The man hesitated, his face scarlet. “If you please, sir,” he muttered, “I’ll consider I have them.”

  “Very good. I understand you. Now dress me.”

  It took about five minutes, as London then lay, to walk from Bolton Street to Davies Street, by way of Bolton Bow and Berkeley Square. At that hour, it was too early for fine gentlemen of Sir Hervey’s stamp to be abroad, and fine ladies were still abed, so that he fell in with no acquaintances. He had ascertained from Watkyns in what part of the street Wollenhope’s house was situate, and, well within the prescribed space of time, he found himself knocking at the door. It was opened pretty promptly by Mrs. Wollenhope.

  “Does Mr. Hawkesworth lodge here?” Sir Hervey asked, without preamble.

  “Yes, sir, he does,” the good woman answered, curtseying low at the sight of his feathered hat and laced waistcoat; and instinctively she looked up and down the street in search of his chair or coach. “But he is out at present,” she continued, her eyes returning to him. “He left the house about half an hour ago, your honour.”

  “Can you tell me where he may be found?”

  “No, sir, I have no notion,” Mrs. Wollenhope answered, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Still,” Sir Hervey rejoined, “you can, perhaps, tell me the name of the young gentleman who was here last evening and took a lady away.”

  Mrs. Wollenhope raised her hands. “There!” she exclaimed. “I said we should hear of it again! Not that we are to blame, no, sir, no! Except in the way of saving bloodshed! And as for the name, I don’t know it. But the address now,” dropping her voice and looking nervously behind her, “the young gentleman did give an address, and — —” with a sudden change of manner. “Are these with you, sir?”

  Coke, following the direction of her gaze, turned about, and found two rough-looking men standing at his elbow. “No,” he said, “they are not. What do you want, my men?”

  “Lord, your honour, no hurry, we can wait till you’ve done,” the foremost answered, tugging obsequiously at the uncocked flap of his hat; while his companion sucked his stick and stared. “Or after all, what’s the odds? Time’s money, and there’s many go in front of us would rather see our backs! Is the lady that came last night in the house, mistress?”

  Sir Hervey stared, while Mrs. Wollenhope eyed the speaker with great disfavour. “No,” she said, “if that’s what you want, she is not!”

  The man slowly expectorated on the ground. “Oh,” he said, “that being the case, when did she leave? No harm in telling that, mistress!”

  “She left within the hour,” Mrs. Wollenhope snapped. “And that’s all I’ll tell you about her, so there! And take yourself off, please!”

  “If the matter of half a crown, now —— ?”

  Mrs. Wollenhope shook her head vigorously. “No!” she cried. “No! I don’t sell my lodgers. I know your trade, my man, and you’ll get nothing from me.”

  The bailiff grinned and nodded. “All right,” he said. “No need to grow warm! Easy does it. She gave us the slip yesterday, but we’re bound to nab her by-and-by. We knew she was coming here, and if we’d waited here yesterday instead of at the coach office, we’d have took her. Come, Trigg, we’ll to the Blue Posts; if she’s had a coach or a chair we’ll hear of it there!” And with a “No offence, your honour!” and a clumsy salute, the two catchpolls lounged away, the one a pace behind the other, his knobby stick still in his mouth, and his sharp eyes everywhere.

  Coke watched them go, and a more talkative man would have expressed his astonishment. He fancied that he knew all that was to be known of Sophia’s mode of life. She might have spent a little more than her allowance at Margam’s or Lane’s, might have been tempted by lace at Doiley’s, or ribbons at the New Exchange. But a writ and bailiffs? The thing was absurd, and for a good reason. Mr. Northey was rich, yet not so rich as he was penurious; the tradesman did not exist, who would not trust, to the extent of his purse, any member of that family. Coke was certain of this; and that there was something here which he did not understand. But all he said was “They are bailiffs, are they?”

  “For sure, sir,” Mrs. Wollenhope answered. “I’ve a neighbour knows one by sight. All day yesterday they were hanging about the door, probing if the young lady was come. ’Twas on that account she surprised me, for I’d been led to look for a fine spendthrift madam, and when she came — Lord ha’ mercy, my husband’s coming down! If you want the address,” she continued in a lower tone, as Wollenhope appeared at the foot of the stairs, “’twas in Clarges Row, at Grocott’s.”

  “Thank you,” Coke said.

  “Grocott’s,” she repeated in a whisper. Then in a louder tone, “No, sir, I can’t say when he will be at home.”

  “Thank you,” Sir Hervey said; and having got what he wanted he did not stay to waste time with the man, but made the best of his way to Charles Street, into which the north end of Clarges Row, now Clarges Street, opened at that date. Deeply engaged with the paramount question in his mind, the identity of the young man in whose company Sophia had left Hawkesworth’s lodgings, he forgot the bailiffs; and it was with some annoyance that, on reaching the Row, he espied one of them lurking in a doorway in Charles Street. It was so plain that they were watching him that Sir Hervey lost patience, turned, and made towards the man to question him. But the fellow also turned on his heel, and retreating with an eye over his shoulder, disappeared in the square. To follow was to be led from the scent; Coke wheeled again, therefore, and meeting a potboy who knew the street, he was directed to Grocott’s. The house the lad pointed out was one of the oldest in the Row; a small house of brick, the last on the east side going north. Sir Hervey scanned the five windows that faced the street, but they told him nothing. He knocked — and waited. And presently, getting no answer, he knocked again. And again — the pot-boy looking on from a little distance.

  After that Coke stood back, saw that the windows were still without sign of life, and would have gone away — thinking to return in an hour or two — but a woman came to the door of the next house, and told him, “the old man is at home, your honour; it is not ten minutes since he was at the door.” On which he knocked again more loudly and insistently. Suspicions were taking shape in his mind. The house seemed too quiet to be innocent.

  He had his hand raised to repeat the summons once more, when he heard a dragging, pottering step moving along the passage towards him. A chain was put up, a key turned, the door was opened a little, a very little way. A pale, fat face, with small, cunning eyes, peered out at him. Unless he was mistaken, it was the face of a frightened man.

  “I want to see Miss Maitland,” Sir Hervey said.

  “To be sure, sir,” the man answered, while his small eyes scanned the visitor sharply. “Is it about a clock?”

  “No,” Coke answered. “Are you deaf, man? I wish to see the young lady who is here; who came last night.”

  “You’re very welcome, I am sure, but there is no young lady here, your honour.”

  Sir Hervey did not believe it. The man’s sly face, masking fear under a smirk, inspired no confidence; this talking over a chain, at that hour, in the daylight, of itself imported something strange. Apparently Grocott — for he it was — read the last thought in his visitor’s eyes, for he dropped the chain and opened the door. “Was it about a clock,” he asked, the hand that held the door trembling visibly, “that the lady came?”

  “No,” Sir Hervey answered curtly; he was not deceived by this apparent obtuseness. “I wish, I tell you, to see the young lady who came here with a gentleman last night. She came here from Davies Street.”

  “There is a lady here,” the clock-maker answered, slowly. “But I don’t know that she will see any one.”

  “She will see me,” Coke replied with decision. “You don’t want me to summon her friends, and cause a scandal,
I suppose?”

  “Well, sir, for her friends,” Grocott answered, smiling unpleasantly, “I know nothing about them, begging your honour’s pardon. And, it is all one to me whom she sees. If you’ll give me your name, sir, I’ll take it to her.”

  “Sir Hervey Coke.”

  “Dear, dear, I beg your honour’s pardon, I am sure,” Grocott exclaimed, bowing and wriggling obsequiously. “It’s not to be thought that she’ll not see a gentleman of your honour’s condition. But I’ll take her pleasure if you’ll be so good as to wait a minute.”

  He left Coke standing on the threshold, and retreated up the passage to the door of a room on the left. Here he went in, closing the door after him. Sir Hervey waited until he was out of sight, then in three strides he reached the same door, lifted the latch, and entered.

  “‘Twill take him finely, Sal!”

  The words were in the air — they were all he caught, then silence; and he stood staring. Abrupt as had been his entrance, he was the most completely surprised of the three. For the third in the room, the lady to whom Grocott’s words were addressed, was not Sophia, but a stranger; a tall, handsome woman, with big black eyes, fashionably dressed and fashionably painted. The surprise drew from her a hasty exclamation; she rose, her eyes sparkling with anger. Then, as Sir Hervey, recovering from his astonishment, bowed politely, she sat down again with an assumption of fineness and languor. And, taking a fan, she began to fan herself.

  “A thousand pardons, madam,” Coke said. “I owe you every apology. I came in under a misapprehension. I expected to find a friend here.”

  “That’s very evident, I think, sir!” madam replied, tossing her head. “And one you were in a hurry to see, I should fancy.”

  “Yes,” Sir Hervey answered. He noted that the table, laid with more elegance than was to be expected from Grocott’s appearance, displayed a couple of chickens, pigeons, and a galantine, besides a pretty supply of bottles and flasks. “I trust you will pardon my mistake. I was informed that a young lady came here last evening with a gentleman.”