UPON THE following day, Sophy did not encounter her cousin. He visited Amabel at an hour when he knew Sophy to be resting and was not at home to dinner. Lady Ombersley feared that something had occurred to vex him, for although his manner toward her was unfailingly patient, and he abated none of his solicitude for her comfort, his brow was clouded, and he replied to many of her remarks quite, at random. He submitted, however, to the penance of a hand at cribbage with her; and when the game was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Fawnhope, with a copy of his poem for Lady Ombersley and a posy of moss roses for Cecilia, he was sufficiently master of himself to greet the visitor, if not with enthusiasm, at least with civility.
Mr. Fawnhope, having written some thirty lines of his tragedy the previous day, with which he was not dissatisfied, was in a complaisant humor, neither chasing an elusive epithet nor brooding over an infelicitous line. He said everything that was proper, and, when all inquiries into the invalid’s condition were exhausted, conversed on various topics so much like a sensible man that Mr. Rivenhall himself quite in charity with him and was only driven from the room by Lady Ombersley’s request to the poet to read aloud to her his lyric on Amabel’s deliverance from danger. Even this abominable affectation could not wholly dissipate the kindlier feelings with which he regarded Mr. Fawnhope, whose continued visits to the house gave him a better opinion of the poet than was at all deserved. Cecilia could have told him that Mr. Fawnhope’s intrepidity sprang more from a sublime unconsciousness of the risk of infection than from any deliberate heroism, but since she was not in the habit of discussing her lover with her brother he continued in a happy state of ignorance, himself too practical a man to comprehend the density of the veil in which a poet could wrap himself.
He never again visited the sickroom at a moment when he might expect to find his cousin there, and when they met “at the dinner table, his manner toward her was so curt as to border on the brusque. Cecilia, knowing how very much obliged to Sophy he thought himself, was astonished, and more than once pressed her cousin to tell her whether they had quarreled. But Sophy would only shake her head and look mischievous.
Amabel continued to mend, although slowly, and with many setbacks and all the irrational fidgets of a convalescent. For twelve hours nothing would do for her but to have Jacko brought to her room. Only Sophy’s forcible representations prevented Mr. Rivenhall from posting down to Ombersley Court to bring back the indispensable monkey, so anxious was he that nothing should be allowed to retard his little sister’s recovery, But Tina, hitherto excluded, to her great indignation, from attendance on his mistress in the sickroom, made an excellent substitute for Jacko, and was only too content to curl up on the quilt under Amabel’s caressing hand.
At the beginning of the fourth week of the illness. Dr. Baillie began to talk of the propriety of removing his patient into the country. But here he encountered an unexpected and obstinate opposition from Lady Ombersley. He had once mentioned to her the possibility of a relapse, and this had taken such strong possession of her mind that no inducement could serve to make her consent to Amabel’s going out of reach of his expert care. She represented to him the unwisdom of restoring Amabel to the society of her sisters and her noisy brother soon to be enjoying his summer holiday at Ombersley. The little girl was still languid, disinclined for any exertion, and wincing at sudden sounds. She would do better in London, under his eye, and in the fond care of her mama. Now that all danger was past, Lady Ombersley’s maternal instinct could assert itself. She, and she alone, should bear the charge of her youngest daughter’s convalescence. In the event, to lie upon the sofa in Mama’s dressing room, to drive sedately out with her in the barouche, just suited Amabel’s present humor, and so it was settled, both Cecilia and Sophy disclaiming any desire to leave London for the country.
Town was very thin of company, but the weather was not so sultry as to make the streets disagreeable. The month was showery, and few were the days when even the most modish young lady cared to venture forth without a pelisse or a shawl.
Others besides the Ombersley family had chosen to remain in town until August. Lord Charlbury was still to be found in Mount Street;’ Mr. Fawnhope in his rooms off St. James’s; Lord Bromford, deaf to the entreaties of his mother, refused to retire into Kent; and the Brinklows found several excellent excuses for remaining in Brook Street. As soon as all danger of infection was over, Miss Wraxton was once more to be seen in Berkeley Square, gracious to everyone, even caressing toward Lady Ombersley and Amabel, and very full of wedding schemes. Mr. Rivenhall found pressing business to attend to on his own estates; and if Miss Wraxton chose to assume that his frequent absences from town were accounted for by his desire to set his house in order for her reception, she was quite at liberty to do so.
Cecilia, less robust than her cousin, did not recover so quickly from the anxiety and exertion of her four weeks’ incarceration. She was a good deal pulled down and had lost a little of her bloom. She was rather silent, too, a fact that did not escape her brother’s eye. He taxed her with it; and, when she returned an evasive answer, and would have left the room, detained her, saying, “Don’t go, Cilly!”
She waited, looking inquiringly at him. After a moment, he asked abruptly, “Are you unhappy?”
Her color rose, and her lips trembled in spite of herself. She made a protesting gesture, turning away her face, for it was impossible to explain to him the turmoil raging in her own heart.
To her surprise, he took her hand and pressed it, saying awkwardly, but in a softened tone, “I never meant you to be unhappy. I did not think — You are such a good girl, Cilly. I suppose, if your poet will but engage on some respectable profession, I must withdraw my opposition and let you have your way.”
Amazement held her motionless, only her startled eyes flying to his face. She allowed her hand to lie in his, until he released it and turned away, as though he did not choose to meet her wide gaze.
“You thought me cruel — unfeeling! No doubt I must have seemed so, but I have never desired anything but your happiness. I cannot be glad of your choice, but if your mind is made up, God forbid I should have any hand in parting you from one whom you sincerely love, or in promoting your marriage to a man you cannot care for!”
“Charles!” she uttered faintly.
He said over his shoulder, and with some difficulty, “I have come to see that nothing but misery could result from such a union. You at least shall not be subjected to a lifetime of regret! I will speak to my father. You have resented my influence with him. This time it shall be exerted in your favor.”
At any other moment his words must have prompted her to have inquired into their unexpressed significance, but shock seemed to suspend her every faculty. She found not a word to say, and experienced the greatest difficulty in preventing herself from bursting into tears. He turned his head, and said, with a smile, “What an ogre I must appear to you, to have so taken your breath away, Cilly! Don’t stare at me so unbelievingly! You shall marry your poet; my hand on it!”
She put out her own mechanically, managed to speak two words, “Thank you!” and ran out of the room, unable to say more, or to control her emotion.
She sought the seclusion of her own bedchamber, her thoughts in such disorder that it was long before her agitation had at all subsided.
Never had opposition been withdrawn at so inopportune a moment; never had a victory seemed more empty! Almost without her knowledge, her sentiments, during the “past weeks, had been undergoing a change. Now that her brother had accorded her his permission to marry the man of her choice, she discovered that her feeling for Augustus had been more than the infatuation Charles had always thought it. Opposition had fostered it, leading her into the fatal error of almost publicly announcing her unalterable determination to marry Augustus or no one. Lord Charlbury, so superior to Augustus in every way, had accepted her rejection of his suit and had turned his attention elsewhere; and whatever unacknowledged hope she might have cherished of seeing his affections reanimate toward her must now be quite at an end. To confess to Charles that he had been right from the start, and she most miserably mistaken, was impossible. She had gone too far; nothing now remained to her but to accept the fate she had insisted on bringing on herself; and, for pride’s sake, to show a smiling face to the world.
She showed it first to Sophy, resolutely begging her to felicitate her upon her happiness. Sophy was thunderstruck. “Good God!” she exclaimed, stupefied. “Charles will promote this match?”
“He does not wish me to be unhappy. He never wished it. Now that he is convinced that I am in earnest he will place no bar in my way. Indeed, he was so good as to promise that he would speak to Papa for me! That must decide it. Papa always does what Charles desires him to.” She saw that her cousin was regarding her fixedly, and continued quickly, “I have never known Charles kinder! He spoke of the misery of being forced into a marriage against one’s inclination. He said I should not spend a lifetime of regret. Oh, Sophy, can it be that he no longer cares for Eugenia? The suspicion cannot but obtrude!”
“Good gracious, he never did care for her!” replied Sophy scornfully. “And if he had but just discovered it, that is no reason for — ” She broke off, darting a swift glance at Cecilia and perceiving much more than her cousin would have wished. “Well! This is a day of miracles indeed!” she said. “Of course I felicitate you with all my heart, dearest Cecy! When is your betrothal to be announced?”
“Oh, not until Augustus is settled in — in some respectable occupation!” Cecilia answered. “But that will not be long, I am persuaded! Or his tragedy may take, you know.”
Sophy agreed to this without a blink and listened with an assumption of interest to Cecilia’s various schemes for the future. That these were couched in somewhat melancholy terms she allowed to pass without comment, merely repeating her congratulations and wishing her cousin every happiness.
But behind these mendacities her brain was working swiftly. She perfectly understood the fix Cecilia was in, and never for an instant thought of wasting her breath in expostulation. Something far more drastic than expostulation was needed in this case, for no lady who had entered into an engagement in the teeth of parental opposition could be expected to cry off from it the instant she had gained the sanction she had so insistently demanded.
Willingly could Sophy have boxed Mr. Rivenhall’s ears. To remain adamant when opposition could only strengthen his sister’s resolve had been bad enough; to withdraw his opposition at a moment when Charlbury was in a fair way to ousting the poet from her affections was an act of such insanity that it put Sophy out of all patience with him. Thanks to Alfred Wraxton’s predilection for gossip, Cecilia’s secret engagement to Mr. Fawnhope was widely known. She had, moreover, been at some pains to display to Society her determination to wed him. It would need something very drastic indeed to induce so gently bred a girl to fly in the face of all convention.
If Mr. Rivenhall had agreed to the match, Sophy could not suppose that the official announcement would be long delayed; once this had appeared in the Gazette nothing, she thought, would prevail upon Cecilia to brand herself a jilt. It was even doubtful if she could be induced to cry off before the announcement had been made, for she presumably had a greater dependence on the strength of Mr. Fawnhope’s attachment than her shrewder cousin could share; and her tender heart would shrink from giving such pain to one who had been so faithful a lover.
As for Mr. Rivenhall’s extraordinary change of face, this was not perhaps so inexplicable to Sophy as to his sister; but although the sentiments which had prompted it could not but gratify her, she was unable to deceive herself into thinking that he had any intention of terminating his engagement to Miss Wraxton. It was not to be expected of him; careless of appearances he might be, but no man of his breeding could offer such an affront to a lady. Nor could Sophy suppose that Miss Wraxton, surely aware of the tepid nature of his regard for her, would herself put an end to an alliance that held so little prospect of future happiness for either of the contracting parties. Miss Wraxton’s talk was all of her approaching nuptials, and it was quite evident that marriage to a man with whom she scarcely shared a thought was preferable to her than a continued existence as a spinster.
Sophy, cupping her chin in her hands, sat weaving her toils, undismayed by a situation which would certainly have daunted a less ruthless female than herself. Those who knew her best would have taken instant alarm, knowing that, her determination once taken, no consideration of propriety would deter her from embarking on schemes that might well prove to be as outrageous as they were original.
“Surprise is the essence of attack.”
The phrase, once uttered by a general in her presence, came into her head. She pondered it and found it good. Nothing short of surprise would wrench Charles or Cecilia from the paths of convention, so surprise they should have, in full measure..
The immediate outcome of all this cogitation was an interview with Lord Ombersley, caught on his return to Berkeley Square from a day at the races. His lordship, firmly led into his own sanctum, scented danger, and made haste to inform his niece that he was pressed for time, having a dinner engagement that must be kept within the hour.
“Never mind that!” said Sophy. “Have you seen Charles this day, sir?”
“Of course I have seen Charles!” replied his lordship testily. “I saw him this morning!”
“But not since then? He has not spoken to you of Cecilia’s affairs?”
“No, he has not! And I’ll tell you this, Sophy! I want to hear no more of Cecilia’s affairs! My mind’s made up. I won’t have her marrying this poet fellow!”
“My dear sir,” said Sophy, warmly clasping his hand, “do not budge from that stand! I must tell you that Charles is about to counsel you to sanction the engagement, and you must not!”
“What?” ejaculated his lordship. “You’re certainly out there, Sophy! Charles won’t hear of it and for once he’s right! What should get into the silly chit to make her reject as good a man as you may find — I was never more incensed! To whistle Charlbury, with all his fortune, down the wind — ”
His niece firmly drew him to the sofa and obliged him to sit down on it beside her. “Dear Uncle Bernard, if you will only do precisely as I bid you she will marry Charlbury!” she assured him. “But you must promise me most faithfully not to permit Charles to overbear your judgment!”
“But, Sophy, I keep telling you — ”
“Charles has told Cecilia that he will no longer withhold his consent.”
“Good God, has he taken leave of his senses, too? You must be mistaken, girl!”
“Upon my honor, I am not! It is the stupidest thing and will very likely wreck everything, unless you can be trusted to remain firm. Now, my dear Uncle, never mind why Charles has taken this start! Only attend to me! When Charles speaks to you about this, you must refuse to entertain the notion of Cecy’s marrying Augustus Fawnhope. In fact, it would be an excellent stratagem if you were to say that you are of the same mind as ever and mean her to marry Charlbury!”
Lord Ombersley, slightly bewildered, entered on a feeble expostulation. “Much good would that do, when Charlbury has withdrawn his offer!”
“It is of no consequence at all. Charlbury is still extremely desirous of marrying Cecilia, and, if you choose, you may tell her so. She will say that she means to marry her tiresome Augustus, because she is in honor bound to do so. You may rave at her as much as you please — as much as you did when she first made her resolve known to you! But the most important thing, dear sir, is that you should remain adamant! I will do the rest.”
He looked suspiciously at her. “Now, Sophy, this won’t do! It was you who helped her to live in that damned poet’s pocket, for Charles told me so!”
“Yes, and only see with what splendid results! She no longer has any real desire to wed him and has come to see how superior Charlbury is! If Charles had not meddled, all would have gone just as you would have wished!”
“I don’t understand a word of this!” complained his lordship.
“Very likely not. It has in great measure been due to poor little Amabel’s illness.”
“But,” persisted her uncle, painstakingly attempting to follow the thread of her argument, “if she is now willing to listen to Charlbury, why the devil don’t he renew his suit?”
“I daresay he would, if I would let him. It would be useless. Only consider, sir, in what a fix poor Cecy finds herself! She has kept Augustus dangling after her for months, has sworn she will wed him or none! You have only to consent to the alliance, and she must feel herself bound to marry him! At all costs, any formal announcement must be stopped! You may do this, and I beg you will! Do not listen to anything Charles may say to you!” Her expressive eyes laughed at him. “Be as disagreeable to Cecilia as you were before! Nothing could serve the purpose better!”
He pinched her cheek. “You rogue! But if Charles has changed his mind — You know, Sophy, I am no hand at argument!”
“Then do not argue with him! You have only to fly into a towering passion, and that, know, you are well able to do!”
He chuckled, seeing in this pronouncement a compliment. “Yes, but if they give me no peace — ”
“My dear sir” you may seek refuge at White’s! Leave the rest to me! If you will but do your part, I fancy I cannot fail to do mine. I have only this to add! On no account must you divulge that I have been speaking to you on this matter! Promise!”
“Oh, very well!” said his lordship. “But I’ll tell you what, Sophy! I’d as lief take young Fawnhope into my family as that sour creature Charles must needs bring into it!”
“Oh, certainly!” she responded coolly. “That could never answer! I have known it since first I came to London, and I now entertain a reasonable hope of terminating that entanglement. Only do your part, and we may all come about!”
“Sophy!” exclaimed her uncle explosively. “What the devil do you mean to be about now?”
But she would only laugh and whisk herself out of the room.
The upshot of this interview staggered the household. For once Mr. Rivenhall failed to bend his parent to his will. His representations to Lord Ombersley of the enduring nature of Cecilia’s passion fell quite wide of the mark and were only productive of an outburst of rage that surprised him. Knowing that his heir would speedily out argue him, and dreading nothing so much as a struggle against a will far stronger than his own, Lord Ombersley scarcely allowed him an opportunity to open his mouth. He said that however highhanded Charles might be in the management of the estates, he was still not his sisters’ guardian. He added that he had always considered Cecilia more than half promised to Charlbury and would not consent to her marriage with another.
“Unfortunately, sir,” said Charles dryly, “Charlbury no longer affects my sister. His eyes are turned in quite another direction.”
“Pooh! Nonsense! The fellow haunts the place!”
“Exactly so, sir! Encouraged by my cousin!”
“Don’t believe a word of it!” said his lordship. “Sophy wouldn’t have him.” Charles gave a short laugh. “And if he did offer for her, I still wouldn’t permit Cecilia to marry that nincompoop of hers, and so you may tell her!”
Mr. Rivenhall did tell her, but as he added consolingly that he had little doubt of being able to talk his father round to his way of thinking, he was not surprised at her calm manner of receiving the news. Not even a tirade from Lord Ombersley, delivered over the dinner table, quite shattered her composure, although she had the greatest dislike of angry voices and could not help wincing a little and changing color.
The person to be least affected by the parental dictate was Mr. Fawnhope. When informed that it would not be possible immediately to send the notice of the betrothal to the society journals, he blinked, and said vaguely, “Were we about to do so? Did you tell me? I might not have been attending. I am in a great worry about Lepanto, you know. It is useless to deny that battle scenes upon the stage are never felicitous, yet how to avoid it? I have been pacing the floor the better part of the night and am no nearer to solving the problem.”
“I must tell you, Augustus, that it is unlikely that we shall be married this year,” said Cecilia.
“Oh, yes, very unlikely!” he agreed. “I don’t think I should think of marriage until the play is off my hands.”
“No, and we must remember that Charles stipulates that you should find some respectable employment before the engagement is announced.”
“That quite settles it, then,” said Mr. Fawnhope. “The question is how far one might, with propriety, employ the methods of the Greek dramatists to overcome the difficulty.”
“Augustus!” said Cecilia, in a despairing tone. “Is your play more to you than I am?”
He looked at her in surprise, perceived that she was in earnest, and at once took her hand, and kissed it, and said, smiling at her, “How absurd you are, my beautiful angel! How could anything or anyone be more to me than my Saint Cecilia? It is for your sake that I am writing the play. Should you dislike the notion of a chorus, in the Greek style?”
Lord Charlbury, finding that his rival continued, even without the excuse of inquiring after Amabel’s condition, to visit in Berkeley Square, took fright, and demanded an explanation of his preceptress. He was driving her down to Merton in his curricle at the time, and when she told him frankly what had occurred, he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and for several moments said nothing. At last, with a palpable effort, he produced, “I see. When may I expect to see the announcement?”
“Never,” replied Sophy. “Don’t look so hagged, my dear Charlbury! I assure you there is no need. Poor Cecy has discovered these many weeks that she mistook her own heart!”
At that he turned his head quickly to look at her. “Is this so indeed? Sophy, don’t trifle with me! I own, I had thought — I had hoped — Then I shall try my fortune once more, before it is too late!”
“Charlbury, for a sensible man you say the stupidest things!” Sophy told him. “Pray what do you imagine must be her answer in this predicament?”
“But if she no longer loves Fawnhope — if she perhaps regrets turning me off — ?”
“She does, of course, but it is one of those things which appear to be so easy until one considers a little more deeply. Do so! If your situations were reversed — you the impoverished poet, Augustus the man of fortune — perhaps she might be brought to listen to you. But it is not so! Here is her poet, whom she has declared she will marry despite of all her family — and you will allow that he has been uncommonly faithful to her!”
“He — ! If he has a thought to spare for anything beyond his trumpery verses, I will own myself astonished!”
“He has not, of course, but you will scarcely expect my cousin to believe that! He has attached himself to her to the exclusion of every other female since before I came to England, and that, you know, must rank in the eyes of the world as devotion of no common order! You, my poor Charlbury, labor under all the disadvantages of rank and fortune! How heartless Cecilia must be to cast off her poet to wed you! You may depend upon it that this circumstance weighs with her! Her disposition is tender. She will not, without good reason, inflict pain upon one whom she believes loves her with all his heart. There is only one thing to be done. We must give her good reason for doing so.”
He knew her well enough to feel a considerable degree of uneasiness. “For God’s sake, Sophy, what now do you mean to do?”
“Why, make her feel that it is you who are to be pitied, to be sure!”
Uneasiness changed to the deepest foreboding. “Good God! How?”
She laughed. “I daresay it will suit you better not to know, Charlbury!”
“Now, Sophy, listen to me!”
“No, why should I? You say nothing to the point, and, besides, here we are already, and there is no time to enter upon a discussion! You must continue to trust me, if you please!”
The curricle was already bowling up the sweep to the Marquesa’s door. “The lord knows I don’t, and never have!” he retorted.
They found the Marquesa alone, and surprisingly wide awake. She welcomed Sophy affectionately, yet with a little constraint, and soon disclosed that she had only returned two days since from Brighton, where she had been sojourning for a fortnight.
“Brighton!” exclaimed Sophy. “You told me nothing of this, Sancia! Pray, what took you there so suddenly?”
“But, Sophie, how should I tell you anything when you shut yourself up in a sickroom and do not visit me anymore?” complained the Marquesa. “To remain always in one place — majadero!”
“Very true, but you had the intention of living retired until Sir Horace’s return. I daresay you may have had tidings of him — ”
“No, I assure you! Not one word!”
“Oh!” said Sophy, slightly disconcerted. “Well, he had a prosperous voyage, and I daresay will be with us again at any time now. For it is not likely that at this time of year they will encounter any very unfavorable weather, you know. Has the Duke of York been staying with his brother?”
The Marquesa opened her sleepy eyes wide. “But, Sophie, how should I know? They are alike, the royal princes — gross and — what is it? Embotado! I do not know one from the other.”
Sophy was obliged to be satisfied. Her escort, when they drove away, asked curiously, “Why were you put out, Sophy? Must not the Marquesa follow the rest of the world to Brighton?”
She sighed. “Not if Sir Vincent Talgarth was there also, which is what I fear. I never saw her so animated!”
“Disappointing! She won my heart originally by falling asleep under my eyes!”
She laughed, and said no more, a slight abstraction possessing her until she was set down in Berkeley Square and found Mr. Rivenhall awaiting her return in considerable ill humor. This instantly revived her, and she had no hesitation in informing him, upon demand, where she had been.
“You did not go alone!”
“By no means. Charlbury drove me there.”
“I see! First you must set the town talking with Talgarth, and now with Charlbury! Famous!”
“I do not perfectly understand you,” said Sophy, as one innocently seeking enlightenment. “I thought your objection to Sir Vincent was that he has the name for being a great rake. Surely you do not suspect Charlbury of this! Why, you were even desirous at one time of wedding your sister to him!”
“I am even more desirous that my cousin should not earn for herself the reputation of being fast!”
“Why?” asked Sophy, looking him in the eye. He made her no answer, and, after a moment, she said, “What right have you, Charles, to take exception to what I may choose to do?”
“If your own good taste — ”
“What right, Charles?”
“None!” he said. “Do as you please! It can be of no consequence to me! You have an easy conquest in Everard! I had not thought him so fickle. Take care you do not lose your other suitor through encouraging this flirtation — for that is all I believe it to be!”
“Bromford? Now, what a shocking thing would that be! You do right to put me on my guard! Charlbury lives in dread of being called out by him.”
“I might have known I should meet with nothing but levity in you!”
“If you will scold me so absurdly. I am not always so.”
“Sophy — !” He took a hasty step toward her, his hand going out, but almost immediately dropping to his side again. “I wish you had never come amongst us!” he said, and turned away, to lean his arm along the mantelpiece, and stare down at the empty grate.
“That is not kind, Charles.” He was silent.
“Well, you will be rid of me soon, I daresay. I depend upon seeing Sir Horace at any time now. You will be glad!”
“I must be glad.” The words were uttered almost inaudibly, and he did not raise his head or make any movement to prevent her leaving the room.
The exchange had taken place in the library. She stepped out into the hall just as Dassett opened the front door to admit Mr. Wychbold, very natty in a driving coat of innumerable capes, shining hessians, and an enormous nosegay stuck into his buttonhole. He was in the act of laying his tall beaver hat down upon a marble-topped table, but at sight of Sophy he used it to lend flourish to his bow. “Miss Stanton-Lacy. Very obedient servant, ma’am!”
She was surprised to see him, for he had been out of town for some weeks. As she shook hands, she said, “How delightful this is! I did not know you were in London! How do you do?”
“Only reached town today, ma’am. Heard of your troubles from Charlbury. Never more shocked in my life! Came at once to inquire!”
“That is like you! Thank you, she is almost well now, although dreadfully thin, poor little dear, and languid still! You are the very person I wished to see! Are you driving yourself? Must you instantly see my cousin, or will you take me for a turn round the Park?”
He was driving his phaeton, and there could be only one answer to her request. With the greatest gallantry he bowed her out of the house, warning her, however, that she would encounter none but Cits in the Park at this season.
“And what, sir, would you have me say to Mr. Rivenhall?” asked Dassett, fixing his disapproving eye on a point above Mr. Wychbold’s left shoulder.
“Oh, tell him I called and was sorry to find him from home!” replied Mr. Wychbold, with an insouciance the butler found offensive.
“Have you been out in your own phaeton, ma’am?” Mr. Wychbold asked, as he handed Sophy into the carriage. “How do your bays go on?”
“Very well. I have not been driving them today, however, but have been to Merton with Charlbury.”
“Oh — ah!” he said, with a slight cough and a sidelong look.
“Yes, making myself the talk of the town!” Sophy said merrily. “Who told you so? The archenemy?”
He set his pair in motion, nodding gloomily, “Came smash up to her in Bond Street on my way here. Felt obliged to stop. She has put off her black ribands!”
“And means to marry Charles next month!” said Sophy, who, having reached habits of easy intercourse with Mr. Wychbold, never stood upon ceremony with him.
“Told you so,” he pointed out, with a certain melancholy satisfaction.
“So you did, and I replied that I might need your good offices. Do you make a prolonged stay in town, or are you off again immediately?”
“Next week. But, y’know, ma’am, there ain’t anything to be done! Pity, but there it is!”
“We shall see. What do you think would happen if you were to tell Charles one day that you had seen me driving off in a post chaise and four with Charlbury?”
“He would plant me a facer,” responded Mr. Wychbold, without hesitation. “What’s more, shouldn’t blame him!”
“Oh!” said Sophy, disconcerted. “Well, I am sure I don’t wish him to do that. But if it were true?”
“Wouldn’t believe me. No need for you to ,go off with Charlbury. Not the kind of fellow to engage in such freaks, either.”
“I know that, but it might be contrived. He would not plant you a facer if you only asked him why I was leaving town with Charlbury for my escort, would he?”
After giving this his consideration, Mr. Wychbold admitted that he might be spared the facer on these terms.
“Will you do it?” Sophy asked him. “If I were to send you word to your lodgings, would you make certain that Charles knows of it? Is he not always at White’s in the afternoon?”
“Well, you may generally find him there, but I would not say always,” replied Mr. Wychbold cautiously. “Besides, I shan’t see you driving off!”
“You may, if you choose to give yourself the trouble of walking around to Berkeley Square!” she retorted. “If you have word from me, you will know it to be true and may tell Charles with a clear conscience. I’ll take care he knows of it when he comes home, but sometimes he does not come in to dinner, and that would ruin everything! Well, no, not everything, perhaps, but I have always found it to be an excellent scheme to kill two birds with one stone whenever it may be possible!”
Mr. Wychbold gave this his profound consideration. Having turned all the implications of Sophy’s words over in his brain, he said suddenly, “Know what I think?”
“No, tell me!”
“No wish to throw a rub in the way, mind!” Mr. Wychbold said. “Not a particular friend of mine, Charlbury. Very good sort of fellow, I believe, but he don’t happen to have come much in my way.”
“But what do you think?” demanded Sophy, impatient of this divagation.
“Think Charles may very likely call him out,” said Mr. Wychbold. “Come to think of it, bound to! Devilish fine shot, Charles. Just thought I would mention it!” he added apologetically.
“You are right, and I am very much obliged to you for putting me in mind of such a possibility!” said Sophy warmly. “I would not for the world place Charlbury in jeopardy! But there will not be the least need for such a measure, you know.”
“Ah, well!” said Mr. Wychbold comfortably. “Daresay he won’t do more than drop him a few times, then! Draw his claret, I mean!”
“Fisticuffs? Oh, no! surely he would not!”
“Well, he will,” said Mr. Wychbold, without hesitation. “Last time I saw Charles, don’t scruple to tell you he was in “such a miff with Charlbury he said it would be wonderful if he did not plant him a flush hit one of these days! Devil of a fellow with his fives is Charles! Don’t know how Charlbury displays; shouldn’t think he would be a match for Charles, though.” Waxing enthusiastic, he added, “Prettiest fighter, for an amateur, I ever saw in my life! Excellent science and bottom, never any trifling or shifting! No mere flourishing, and very rarely abroad!” He recollected himself suddenly and broke off in some confusion, and begged pardon.
“Yes, never mind that!” said Sophy, her brow creased. “I must think of this, for it won’t do at all. If I make Charles angry, which, I own, I wish to do — ”
“No difficulty in that,” interpolated Mr. Wychbold encouragingly. “Very quick temper! Always has had!”
She nodded. “And would be only to glad of an excuse to hit someone, I have no doubt. Of course, I see how I could prevent him doing Charlbury a mischief.” She drew a breath. “Resolution is all that is needed!” she said. “One should never shrink from the performance of unpleasant tasks to obtain a laudable object, after all! Mr. Wychbold, I am very much obliged to you! I now see just what I must do, and I should not be at all surprised if it answered both purposes to admiration!”