Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Indeed!” Sir Hervey said. And great as was his amazement, he managed to cloak it after a fashion. In the first burst of Tom’s confession he had glanced from him to the lady, and had surprised a black — a very black look. That same look he caught on Grocott’s face; and in a wonderfully short space of time he had drawn his conclusions. “Indeed!” he repeated. “And whom have I — perhaps we might step into this room, we shall be more of a family party, eh? — whom have I to felicitate on the possession of Sir Thomas Maitland’s heart?”

  He bowed so low before madam that she was almost deceived; but not quite. She did not answer.

  “Oriana, tell him,” Tom cried humbly. He was deceived. His eyes were shining with honest pride.

  Coke caught at the name. “Oriana!” he repeated, bowing still lower. “Mistress Oriana — —”

  “Clark,” she said drily. And then, “You are not much wiser now.”

  “My loss, ma’am,” Sir Hervey answered politely. “One of Sir Robert Clark of Snailwell’s charming daughters, perhaps? Until now I had only the pleasure of knowing the elder, but — —”

  “You know no more now,” she retorted, with an air of low breeding that must have opened any eyes but a lover’s. “I don’t know your Sir Robert.”

  “Indeed!” Sir Hervey said. “One of the Leicestershire Clarks, of Lawnd Abbey, perhaps?”

  “No,” madam answered sullenly, hating him more and more, yet not daring to show it. How she cursed her booby for his indiscretion!

  “Surely not a daughter of my old friend, Dean Clark of Salisbury? You don’t say so?”

  She bit her lip with mortification. “No,” she said, “I don’t say so. I ain’t that either.”

  Tom intervened hurriedly. “You are under a misapprehension, Sir Hervey,” he said. “Clark was Oriana’s — her husband’s name. Captain Clark, of Sabine’s Foot. He did not treat her well,” poor Tom continued, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table — they were all in the room now. “But I hope to make the rest of her life more happy than the early part.”

  “Oh, I beg pardon,” Sir Hervey said, a trifle drily. “A widow! Your humble servant, ma’am, to command. You will excuse me, I am sure. You are waiting for Mrs. Northey, I suppose?” he continued, looking from one to the other in seeming innocence.

  Tom’s face flamed. It was in vain Grocott from the doorway made signs to him to be silent. “They don’t know,” he blurted out.

  Sir Hervey looked grave. “I am sorry for that,” he said. “I am sure this lady would not wish you, Sir Tom, to do anything — anything underhand. You have your guardians’ consent, of course?”

  “No,” Tom said flatly; “and I am not going to ask for it.”

  Outwardly, Sir Hervey raised his eyebrows in protest; inwardly, he saw that argument would be thrown away, and wondered what on earth he should do. He had no authority over the boy, and it was not likely that Dr. Keith, an irregular parson, would pay heed to him.

  Madam Oriana, scared for a moment, discerned that he was at a loss, and smiled in triumph.

  “Well, sir, have you anything more to say?” she cried.

  “Not to Tom,” Sir Hervey answered.

  “And to me?”

  “Only, ma’am, that a marriage is not valid if a false name be used.”

  The shot was not fired quite at large, for he had surprised Grocott calling her not Oriana, but Sallie. And, fired at large or not, her face showed that it reached the mark. Whether Captain Clark of Sabine’s Foot still lived, or there had never been a Clark; whether she had foreseen the difficulty and made up her mind to run the risk, or had not thought of it at all, her scowling, beautiful face betrayed dismay as well as rage.

  “What have you to do with my name?” she hissed.

  “Nothing,” he said politely. “But my friend here, much. I hope he knows it, and knows it correctly. That is all.”

  But Tom was at the end of his patience.

  “I do,” he cried hotly, “I do know it! And I’ll trouble you, Sir Hervey, to let it alone. Oriana, don’t think that anything he can say can move me. I see, Sir Hervey, that you are no true friend to us. I might have known it,” he continued bitterly. “You have lived all your life where — where marriage is a bargain, and women are sold, and — you don’t believe in anything else. You can’t; you can’t believe in anything else. But I am only sorry for you! Only — only you’ll please to remember that this lady is as good as my wife, and I expect her to be treated as such. She’ll not need a defender as long as I live,” poor Tom continued, gallantly, though his voice shook. “Come, Oriana, the coach is waiting. In a few minutes I shall have a better right to protect you; and then let any one say a word!”

  “Tom,” Sir Hervey said gravely, “don’t do this.”

  Madam marked his altered tone, and laughed derisively. “Now he’s in his true colours!” she cried. “What will you do, Sir Thomas? La! they shall never say that I dragged a man to church against his will. I’ve more pride than that, though I may not be a dean’s daughter.”

  Tom raised her hand and kissed it, his boyish face aglow with love. “Come, dear,” he said. “What is his opinion to us? A little room, if you please, Sir Hervey. We are going.”

  “No,” Coke answered. “You are not going! I’ll not have this on my head. Hear sense, boy. If this lady be one whom you may honestly make your wife, you cannot lose, and she must gain, by waiting to be married in a proper fashion.”

  “And at a nice expense, too!” she cried, with a sneer.

  “She is right,” Tom said manfully. “I’m not going to waste my life waiting on the pleasure of a set of old fogies. Make way, Sir Hervey.”

  “I shall not,” Coke returned, maintaining his position between the two and the door. “And if you come near me, boy — —”

  “Don’t push me too far,” Tom cried. From no one else in the world would he have endured so much. “Sir Hervey, make way!”

  “If he does not, we will have him put out!” madam cried, pale with rage. “This is my room, sir! and I order you to leave it. If you are a gentleman you will go.”

  “I shall not,” Coke said. He was really at his wits’ end to know what to do. “And if the boy comes near me,” he continued, “I will knock him down and hold him. He’s only fit for Bedlam!”

  Tom would have flown at his throat, but madam restrained him. “Grocott,” she cried, “call in a couple of chairmen, and put this person out. Give them a guinea apiece, and let them throw him into the street.”

  Grocott hung a moment in the doorway, pale, perspiring, irresolute. He could not see the end of this.

  “Do you hear, man?” madam repeated, and stamped her foot on the floor. “Call in two men. A guinea apiece if they turn him out. Go at once. I’ll know whether the room is mine or his,” she continued, in a fury.

  “Yours, ma’am,” Sir Hervey answered coolly, as Grocott shambled out. “I ask nothing better than to leave it, if Sir Thomas Maitland goes with me.”

  “You’ll leave it without him!” she retorted contemptuously. And, as Tom made a forward movement, “Sir Thomas, you’ll not interfere in this. I’ve had to do with nasty rogues like him before,” she continued, with growing excitement and freedom, “and know the way. You’re mighty fine, sir, and think to tread on me. Oh, for all your bowing, I saw you look at me when you came in as if I was so much dirt! But I’ll not be put upon, and I’ll let you know it. You are a jackanapes and a finicky fool, that’s what you are! Aye, you are! But here they come. Now we’ll see. Grocott!”

  “They are coming,” the clock-maker muttered, cringing in the doorway. The fine of action adopted was too violent for his taste. “But I hope the gentleman will go out quietly,” he rejoined. “He must see he has no right here.”

  It was no question of courage; Sir Hervey had plenty of that. But he had no stomach for a low brawl; and at this moment he wished very heartily that he had let the young scapegrace go his own way. He had put his foot down, however, wisel
y or unwisely; and he could not now retreat.

  “I shall not go,” he said firmly. And as heavy, lumbering footsteps were heard coming along the passage, he turned to face the door.

  “We’ll see about that,” Mrs. Clark cried spitefully. “Come in, men; come in! This is your gentleman.”

  CHAPTER XII

  DON QUIXOTE

  Coke had spent a dozen seasons in London; and naturally to those who lived about town his figure was almost as familiar as that of Sir Hanbury Williams, the beau of the last generation, or that of Lord Lincoln, the pride and hope of the golden youth of ‘42. The chairman who had never left the rank in St. James’s Street in obedience to his nod was as likely as not to ask the way to Mrs. Cornely’s rooms; the hackney-coachman who did not know his face and liveries was a stranger also to the front of White’s, and to the cry of “Who goes home?” that on foggy evenings drew a hundred link-boys to New Palace Yard. In his present difficulty his principal, and almost his only hope of escaping from a degrading scuffle lay in this notoriety.

  It bade fair to be justified. The two men who slouched into the room in obedience to Mrs. Clark’s excited cry had scarcely crossed the threshold when they turned to him and grinned, and the foremost made him a sort of bow. Sir Hervey stared, and wondered where he had seen the men before; but in a twinkling his doubt, as well as the half-smothered cry that at the same instant burst from madam’s lips, were explained.

  “Mrs. Oriana Clark, otherwise Grocott?” the elder man muttered, and, stepping forward briskly, he laid a slip of paper on the table before her. “At suit of Margam’s, of Paul’s Churchyard, for forty-seven, six, eight, debt and costs. Here’s the capias. And there’s a detainer lodged.” So much said, he seemed to feel the official part of his duty accomplished, and he turned with a wink to Grocott. “Much obliged to the old gentleman for letting us in. As pretty a capture as I ever made! Trigg, mind the door.”

  The miser who sees his hoarded all sink beneath the waves; the leader who, in the flush of victory, falls into the deadly ambush and knows all lost; the bride widowed on her wedding morn — these may in some degree serve to image madam at that moment. White to the lips, her eyes staring, she plucked at the front of her dress with one hand, and, leaning with the other against the wall, seemed to struggle for speech.

  It was Tom who stepped forward, Tom who instinctively, like the brave soul he was, screened her from their eyes. “What is it?” he said hoarsely. “Have a care, man, whom you speak to! What do you mean, and who are you?”

  “Easy asked and soon answered,” the fellow replied, civilly enough. “I’m a sworn bailiff, it’s a capias forty-seven, six, eight, debt and costs — that’s what it is. And there’s a detainer lodged, so it’s no use to pay till you know where you are. The lady is here, and I am bound to take her.”

  “It’s a mistake,” Tom muttered, his voice indistinct. “There’s some mistake, man. What is the name?”

  “Well, it’s Clark, alias Grocott on the writ; and it’s Clark, alias Hawkesworth — —”

  “Hawkesworth?”

  “Yes, Hawkesworth, on the detainer,” the bailiff answered, smiling. “I don’t take on myself to say which is right, but the old gentleman here should know.”

  At that word the unhappy woman, thwarted in the moment of success, roused herself from the first stunning effects of the blow. With a cry she tore her handkerchief into two or three pieces, and, thrusting one end into her mouth, bit on it. Then, “Silence!” she shrieked. “Silence, you dirty dog!” she continued coarsely. “How dare you lay your tongue to me? Do you hear me?”

  But Tom interfered. “No, one moment,” he said grimly. That word, Hawkesworth, had chilled his blood. “Let us hear what he has to say. Listen to me, man. Why should the old gentleman know?”

  The man hesitated, looking from one to the other. “Well, they say he’s her father,” he answered at last. “At any rate he brought her up; that is, until — well, I suppose you know.”

  She shrieked out a denial; but Tom, without taking his eyes from the bailiff’s face, put out his hand, and, gripping her arm, held her back. “Yes, man, until what?” he said hoarsely. “Speak out. Until what?”

  “Well, until she went to live with Hawkesworth, your honour.”

  “Ah!” Tom said, his face white; only that word. But, dropping his hand from her arm, he stood back.

  She should have known that all was lost then; that the game was played out. But, womanlike, she could not accept defeat. “It’s a lie!” she shrieked. “A dirty, cowardly lie! It’s not true! I swear it is not true! It’s not true!” And breathless, panting, furious, she turned first to one and then to another, stretching out her hands, heaping senseless denial on denial. At last, when she read no relenting in the boy’s face, but only the quivering of pain as he winced under the lash of her loosened tongue, she cast the mask — that had already slipped — completely away, and, turning on the old man, “You fool! oh, you fool!” she cried. “Have you nothing to say now that you have ruined me? Pay the beast, do you hear? Pay him, or I’ll ruin you!”

  But the clock-maker, terrified as he was, clung sullenly to his money. “There’s a detainer,” he muttered. “It’s no good, Bess. If s no good, I tell you!”

  “Well, pay the detainer! Pay that, too!” she retorted. “Pay it, you old skinflint, or I’ll swear to you for gold clipping! and you’ll hang at Tyburn, as your friend Jonathan Thomas did! Have a care, will you, or I’ll do it, so help me!”

  The old man screamed a palsied curse at her. Sir Hervey touched the lad’s arm. “Come,” he said sternly. And he turned to the door.

  Tom shuddered, but followed at his heels as a beaten hound follows. The woman saw her last chance passing from her, sprang forward, and tried to seize his arm; tried to detain him, tried to gain his ear for a final appeal. But the bailiff interfered. “Softly, mistress, softly,” he said. “You know the rules. Get the old ‘un to pay, and you may do as you please.”

  He held her while Tom was got out, dizzy and shaking, his eyes opened to the abyss from which he had been plucked back. But, though Coke closed the door behind them, the woman’s voice still followed them, and shocked and horrified them with its shrill clamour. Tom shuddered at the dreadful sound; yet lingered.

  “I must get something,” he muttered, avoiding his companion’s eyes. “It is upstairs.”

  “What is it?” Coke answered impatiently. And, anxious to get the lad out of hearing, he took his arm, and urged him towards the street. “Whatever it is, I’ll send my man for it.”

  But Tom hung back. “No,” he said. “It’s money. I must get it.”

  “For goodness’ sake don’t stay now,” Sir Hervey protested.

  But Tom, instead of complying, averted his face. “I want to pay this,” he muttered. “I shall never see her again. But I would rather she — she were not taken now. That’s all.”

  Coke stared. “Oh Lord!” he said; and he wondered. But he let Tom go upstairs; and he waited himself in the passage to cover his retreat. He heard the lad go up and push open the door of the little three-cornered room, which had been his abode for a week; the little room where he had tasted to the full of anticipation, and whence he had gone aglow with fire and joy an hour before. Coke heard him no farther, but continued to listen, and “What is that?” he muttered presently. A moment, and he followed his companion up the stairs; at the head of the flight he caught again the sound he had heard below; the sound of a muffled cry deadened by distance and obstacles, but still almost articulate. He looked after Tom; but the door of the room in which he had disappeared was half open. The sound did not issue thence. Then he thought it came from the room below; and he was on the point of turning when he saw a door close beside him in the angle of the stairs, and he listened at that. For the moment all was silent, yet Sir Hervey had his doubts. The key was in the lock, he turned it softly, and stepped into an untidy little bedroom, sordid and dull; the same, in fact, through which Sophia had been dec
oyed. He noticed the door at the farther end, and was crossing the floor towards it, with an unpleasant light in his eyes — for he began to guess what he should find — when the door of the room below opened, and a man came out, and came heavily up the stairs. Sir Hervey paused and looked back; another moment and Grocott reaching the open door stood glaring in.

  Sir Hervey spoke only one word. “Open!” he said; and he pointed with his cane to the door of the inner room. The key was not in the lock.

  The clock-maker, cringing almost to the boards, crept across the floor, and producing the key from his pocket, set it in the lock. As he did so Coke gripped him on a sudden by the nape of the neck, and irresistibly but silently forced him to his knees. And that was what Sophia saw when the door opened. Grocott kneeling, his dirty, flabby face quivering with fear, and Sir Hervey standing over him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, and stepped back in amazement; but, so much thought given to herself, her next was for Tom. She had been a prisoner nearly two hours, in fear as well as in suspense, assailed at one time by the fancy that those who had snared her had left her to starve, at another by the dread of ill-treatment if they returned. But the affection for her brother, which had roused her from her own troubles, was still strong, and her second thought was of Tom.

  She seized Sir Hervey’s arm, “Thank Heaven you have come!” she cried. “Did he send you? Where is he?”