Miss WRAXTON, learning of Mr. Rivenhall’s consent to his sister’s marriage to Mr. Fawnhope, was so genuinely shocked that she could not forbear remonstrating with him. With her customary good sense she pointed out the evil consequences of such a match, begging him to consider well before he abetted Cecilia in her folly. He heard her in silence, but when she had talked herself out of arguments he said bluntly, “I have given my word. I cannot but agree with much of what you have said. I do not like the match, but I will have no hand in forcing my sister into a marriage she does not desire. I believed that she must soon recover from what seemed to me a mere infatuation. She has not done so. I am forced to acknowledge that’ her heart is engaged, not her fancy only.”
She raised her brows, her expression one of faint distaste. “My dear Charles! This is not like you! I daresay I have not far to seek for the influence which prompts you to utter such a speech, but I own that I scarcely expected you to repeat sentiments so much at variance with your disposition and, I must add, your breeding.”
“Indeed! You will have to explain your meaning more fully, if I am to understand you, Eugenia, for I am quite abroad!”
She said gently, “Surely not! We have so often conversed on this head! Are we not agreed that there is something very unbecoming in a daughter’s setting up her will in opposition to her parents?”
“In general, yes.”
“And in particular, Charles, when it comes to be a question of her marriage. Her parents must be the best judges of what will be most proper for her. There is something very forward and disagreeable in a girl’s falling in love, as the common phrase is. No doubt underbred persons make quite a practice of it, but I fancy a man of birth and upbringing would prefer to see rather more restraint in the lady he marries. The language you have adopted — forgive me, dear Charles — surely belongs more to the stage than to your mother’s drawing room!”
“Does it?” he said. “Tell me, Eugenia! Had I offered for your hand without the consent of your father, would you have entertained my suit?”
She smiled. “We need not consider absurdities! You, of all men, would not have done so!”
“But if I had?”
“Certainly not,” she replied, with composure.
“I am obliged to you!” he said satirically.
“You should be,” she said. “You would scarcely have wished the future Lady Ombersley to have been a female without reserve or filial obedience!”
His eyes were very hard and keen. “I begin to understand you,” he said.
“I knew you would, for you are a man of sense. I am no advocate, I need scarcely say, for a marriage where these is no mutual esteem. That could hardly prosper! Certainly, if Cecilia holds Charlbury in distaste, it would have been wrong to have compelled her to marry him.”
“Generous!”
“I hope so,” she said gravely. “I should not wish to be other than generous toward your sisters — toward all your family! It must be one of my chief objects to promote their welfare, and I assure you I mean to do so!”
“Thank you,” he said, in a colorless tone.
She turned a bracelet upon her arm. “You are inclined to regard Miss Stanton-Lacy with indulgence, I know, but I think you will allow that her influence in this house has not been a happy one, in many respects. Without her encouragement, I venture to think that Cecilia would not have behaved as she has.”
“I don’t know that. You would not say that her influence was not a happy one had you seen her nursing Amabel, supporting both my mother and Cecilia in their anxiety That is something I can never forget.”
“I am sure no one could wish you to. One is glad to be able to praise her conduct in that emergency without reserve.”
“I owe it to her also that I stand now upon such easy terms with Hubert. There she has done nothing but good!”
“Well, on that point we have always differed, have we not?” she said pleasantly. “But I have no wish to argue with you on such a subject! I only hope that Hubert continues to go on well.”
“Very well. I might almost say too well, for what must the ridiculous fellow do but think himself in honor bound to make up some lost study during this vacation! He is gone off on a reading party!” He laughed suddenly. “If he does not fall into a melancholy through all this virtue, I must surely expect to hear that he is in some shocking scrape soon!”
“I am afraid you are right,” she agreed seriously. “There is an instability of purpose that must continually distress you.”
He stared at her incredulously, but before he could speak Dassett had ushered Lord Bromford into the room. He at once went forward to shake hands, greeting this new guest with more amiability than was usual, but saying, “I fear you are out of luck; my cousin has gone out driving.”
“I was informed of it at the door — How do you do, ma’am? — but I considered it proper to step upstairs to felicitate you upon your sister’s happy recovery,” replied his lordship. “I have had occasion to call in our good Baillie — excellent man — and he swore upon his honor there was not the least lingering danger of infection.”
Judging from the curl of Mr. Rivenhall’s lip that he was about to make a sardonic rejoinder, Miss Wraxton intervened rather hastily. “Have you been indisposed, dear Lord Bromford? This is sad hearing! No serious disorder, I must hope?”
“Baillie does not consider it so. He thinks the season has been uncommonly sickly, such inclement weather, you know, and very likely to produce affections of the throat, to which I am peculiarly susceptible. My mother has been, you may imagine, quite in a worry, for my constitution is delicate — It would be idle to deny that it is delicate! I was obliged to keep my room above a week”
Mr. Rivenhall, leaning his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece, drove his hands into the pockets of his breeches and presented all the appearance of a man willing to be amused. Lord Bromford did not recognize the signs, but Miss Wraxton did and was cast into an agony of apprehension. She once more hurried into speech. “Sore throats have been very prevalent, I believe. I do not wonder Lady Bromford was anxious. You were well nursed, I know!”
“Yes,” he concurred. “Not that my complaint was of such a nature as to — In short, even Mama owns herself to have been moved by the devotion of Miss Stanton-Lacy to her little cousin!” He moved to Mr. Rivenhall, who graciously inclined his head in acknowledgment of the courtesy, only spoiling the effect by a peculiarly saturnine grin. “I have been put in mind of certain lines from Marmion, in this connection.”
Miss Wraxton, who had heard enough of Sophy’s perfections in a sickroom, could only be grateful to Mr. Rivenhall for interpolating, “Yes, we know them well!”
Lord Bromford, who had started to repeat “O woman, in our hours of ease!” was thrown a little out of his stride by this, but recovered directly, and pronounced, “Any doubts that might have been nourished of the true womanliness of Miss Stanton-Lacy’s character, must, I venture to say, have been lulled to rest.”
At this moment, Dassett reappeared to announce that Lady Brinklow’s carriage was at the door. Miss Wraxton, who had only been set down in Berkeley Square while her parent executed a commission in Bond Street, was obliged to take her leave. Lord Bromford said that since neither Lady Ombersley nor her niece was at home he would not trespass longer upon the premises, and within a very few minutes Mr. Rivenhall was able to have his laugh out in comfort. Lord Bromford, who was a favorite with Lady Brinklow, was offered a seat in the landaulet, and beguiled the short drive to Brook Street with an exact account of the symptoms of his late indisposition.
Mr. Rivenhall, for all his resolve to hold his cousin at arm’s length, could not resist the temptation of recounting this passage to her. She enjoyed the joke just as he had known she would but put an abrupt end to his amusement by exclaiming involuntarily, “How well he and Miss Wraxton would suit! Now, why did I never think of that before?”
“Possibly,” said Mr. Rivenhall frostily, “you may have recalled that Miss Wraxton is betrothed to me!”
“I don’t think that was the reason,” said Sophy, considering it. She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Offended, Charles?”
“Yes!” said Mr. Rivenhall.
“Oh, Charles, I wonder at you!” she said, with her irrepressible gurgle of mirth. “So untruthful!”
As she beat a strategic retreat upon the words, he was left to glare at the unresponsive door.
He told his mother roundly that Sophy’s conduct went from bad to worse, but the full measure of her iniquity did not burst upon him until two days later, when, upon ordering his groom to harness his latest acquisition to his tilbury, he was staggered to learn that Miss Stanton-Lacy had driven out in this equipage not half an hour earlier.
“Taken my tilbury out?” he repeated. His voice sharpened. “Which horse?” he demanded.
The groom shook visibly. “The — the young horse, sir!”
“You harnessed the young horse for Miss Stanton-Lacy to drive?” said Mr. Rivenhall, giving his words such awful weight as almost to deprive his henchman of all power of speech.
“Miss said — miss was sure — you would have no objection, sir!” stammered this unfortunate. “And seeing as how she has twice driven the grays, sir, and me not having no orders contrary and her saying as all was right — I thought she had your permission, sir!”
Mr. Rivenhall, in a few pungent words, swept this illusion from his mind, adding a rider which summarily disposed of any pretensions his groom might have cherished of being able to think at all. The groom, not daring to venture on an explanation of the circumstances, waited in miserable silence for his dismissal. It did not come. Mr. Rivenhall was a stern master but also a just one, and even in his wrath he had a very fair notion of the means his unprincipled cousin must have employed to gain her ends. He checked himself suddenly, and rapped out, “Where has she gone? To Richmond? Answer!”
Seeing the culprit quite unable to collect his wits, Lord Ombersley’s own groom intervened, saying obsequiously, “Oh no, sir! No, indeed! My lady and Miss Cecilia set out in the barouche an hour ago for Richmond! And Miss Amabel with them, sir!”
Mr. Rivenhall, who knew that a visit had been arranged to a cousin who lived at Richmond, stared at him with knit brows. It had certainly been agreed that Sophy was to have accompanied her aunt and cousins, and he was at a loss to imagine what could have caused her to change her mind. But this was a minor problem. The young chestnut she had had the temerity to drive out was a headstrong animal, quite unaccustomed to town traffic and certainly unfit for a lady to handle. Mr. Rivenhall could control him, but even so notable a whip as Mr. Wychbold had handsomely acknowledged that the brute was a rare handful. Mr. Rivenhall, thinking of some of the chestnut’s least engaging tricks, felt himself growing cold with apprehension. It was this fear that lent the edge to his anger. A certain degree of anger he must always have felt at having his horse taken out without his permission, but nothing to compare with the murderous rage that now consumed him. Sophy had behaved unpardonably — and that her conduct was strangely unlike her he was in no mood to consider — and might even now be lying upon the cobbles with a broken neck.
“Saddle Thunderer and the brown hack!” he commanded suddenly. “Quick!”
Both grooms flew to carry out this order, exchanging glances that spoke volumes. No ostlers, trained to change coach horses in fifty seconds, could have worked faster, and while a couple of stable hands still stood gaping at such unaccustomed doings, Mr. Rivenhall, followed at a discreet distance by his groom, was riding swiftly in the direction of Hyde Park.
He had judged correctly, but it was perhaps unfortunate that he should have come up with his cousin just as the young chestnut, first trying to rear up between the shafts at the sight of a small boy flying a kite, made a spirited attempt to kick the floor board out of the carriage. Mr. Rivenhall, who had almost believed that he could forgive all if only he should find his cousin unharmed, found that he had been mistaken. Pale with fury, he dismounted, dragged the bridle over Thunderer’s head, thrust it into the groom’s hand, with a brief order to him to lead the horse home, swung himself into the tilbury, and possessed himself of the reins. For several moments he was fully occupied with his horse, and Sophy had leisure to admire his skill. She did not think she had managed so very badly herself, for, with the best will in the world to do so, the chestnut had not bolted with her; but she did not pretend to Mr. Rivenhall’s mastery over a high-couraged, half-broken animal. Assuaging Mr. Rivenhall’s wrath formed no part of her schemes, but in spite of herself she exclaimed, “Ah, you are a capital whip! I never knew how good until today!”
“I don’t need you to tell me so!” he flashed, face and voice at curious variance with his steady hands. “How dared you do this? How dared you? If you had broken your neck you would have come by your desserts! That you have not broken my horses’s knees I must think a miracle!”
“Pooh!” said Sophy, atoning for her previous error by laying this promising faggot upon the smoldering fire.
The result was all that she had hoped it might be. The drive back to Berkeley Square did not occupy very many minutes, but Mr. Rivenhall crammed into them every pent-up exasperation of the past fortnight. He tore his cousin’s character to shreds, condemned her manners, her morals, and her upbringing, expressed his strong desire to have the schooling of her, and, in the same breath, pitied the man who should be fool enough to marry her, and fervently looked forward to the day when he should be relieved of her unwelcome presence in his home.
It was doubtful whether Sophy could have stemmed the tide of this eloquence. In the event, she made no attempt to do so, but sat with folded hands and downcast eyes beside her accuser. That his rage had been fanned, quite irrationally, to white heat by finding her unhurt she had no doubt at all. There had been moments during her escapade when she had doubted her ability to bring either herself or the horse off safely. She had never been more glad to see her cousin; and one glance at his face had been enough to assure her that he had suffered a degree of anxiety out of all proportion to the concern even the keenest whip might be expected to feel for his horse. He might say what he pleased; she was not deceived.
He set her down in Berkeley Square, telling her roughly that she might alight without his assistance. She obeyed him, and without so much as waiting to see her admitted into the house, he drove off toward the mews.
That was shortly after noon. Mr. Rivenhall did not return to the house, and, as soon as she was satisfied that there was no fear of his walking in on her, his wholly unchastened cousin first summoned the underfootman to her, and sent him on an errand to the nearest livery stables; and then sat down to write several careful notes. By two o’clock, John Potton, puzzled but unsuspicious, was trotting down to Merton with one of these in his pocket. Had he been privileged to know its contents he might not have ridden so cheerfully out of London.
“Dearest Sancia,” Sophy wrote. “I find myself in the most dreadful predicament, and must earnestly beg of you to join me at Lacy Manor immediately. Do not fail me, or I shall be utterly ruined. Ashtead lies only ten miles from Merton, so you need not fear to be fatigued. I leave London within the hour, and wholly depend upon you. Ever your devoted Sophy.”
Upon the footman’s return from his errand, he was gratified to receive half a guinea for his pains and set forth again with alacrity to deliver two sealed letters. One of these he left at Mr. Wychbold’s lodging; the other he carried from Lord Charlbury’s house to Manton’s Shooting Gallery, and thence to Brooks’s Club, where he finally ran his quarry to earth. Lord Charlbury, summoned to the hall to receive the billet in person, read it in considerable astonishment, but handsomely rewarded the bearer, and charged him to inform Miss Stanton-Lacy that he was entirely at her disposal.
Meanwhile, Miss Stanton-Lacy, who had thoughtfully given her too zealous maid a holiday, instructed a startled housemaid to pack her night gear in a portmanteau and sat down to write two more letters. She was still engaged on this task when Lord Charlbury was shown into the salon. She looked up, smiling, and said, “I knew I might depend on you! Thank you! Only let me finished this note!”
He waited until the door had closed behind Dassett before demanding, “What in heaven’s name is amiss, Sophy? Why must you go to Ashtead?”
“It is my home, Sir Horace’s house!”
“Indeed! I was not aware — But so suddenly! Your aunt — your cousin — ?”
“Don’t tease me!” she begged. “I will explain it to you on the way, if you will be so good as to give me your escort! It is not far — may be accomplished in one stage, you know!”
“Of course I will escort you!” he replied at once. “Is Rivenhall away from home?”
“It is impossible for me to ask him to go with me. Pray let me finish this note for Cecilia!”
He begged pardon and moved away to a chair by the window. Good manners forbade him to press her for an explanation she was plainly reluctant to offer, but he was very much puzzled. The mischievous look had quite vanished from her eyes; — she seemed to be in an unusually grave mood — a circumstance that threw him off his guard and made him only anxious to be of service to her.
The note to Cecilia was soon finished and closed with a wafer. Sophy rose from the writing table, and Charlbury ventured to ask her whether she desired him to drive her to Ashtead in his curricle.
“No, no, I have hired a post chaise! I daresay it will be here directly. You did not come in your curricle?”
“No, I walked from Brooks’s. You are making a stay in the country?”
“I hardly know. Will you wait while I put on my hat and cloak?”
He assented, and she went away, returning presently with Tina frisking about her in the expectation of being taken for a walk. The hack chaise was already at the door, and Dassett, quite as mystified as Lord Charlbury, had directed a footman to strap Miss Stanton-Lacy’s portmanteau onto the back. Sophy gave her two last notes into his hand, directing him to be sure that Mr. and Miss Rivenhall received them immediately upon their return to the house. Five minutes later she was seated in the chaise beside Charlbury and expressing the hope that the threatened rainstorm would hold off until they had reached Lacy Manor. Tina jumped up into her lap, and she then told his lordship that she had encountered in the Green Park just such another Italian greyhound, who had made no secret of his admiration of Tina. Tina’s coquetry had to be described; this led an amusing account of the jealousy of Mr. Rivenhall’s spaniel, brought up by him from the country for a couple of nights; and in this way, by easy gradations, Lord Charlbury found himself discussing pheasant shooting, fox hunting, and various other sporting pursuits.
These topics lasted until the Kennington turnpike had been passed, by which time his lordship’s faculties, at first bewildered, were very much on the alert. He fancied that the mischief was back in Sophy’s eye. At Lower Tooting, he politely allowed his gaze to be directed to the curious church tower, with its circular form surmounted by a square wooden frame, with a low spire of shingles above it; but when Sophy leaned back again in her corner of the chaise, he said, watching her face, “Sophy, are we by any chance eloping together?”
Her rich chuckle broke from her. “No, no, it is not as bad I as that! Must I tell you?”
“I know very well you have some abominable scheme afoot! Tell me at once!”
She threw him a sidelong look, and he had now no doubt f that the mischief was back in her eye. “Well, the truth is, Charlbury, that I have kidnapped you.”
After a stunned moment, he began to laugh. In this she readily joined him, but when he had recovered from the first absurdity of the notion, he said, “I might have known there was devilry afoot when I saw that your faithful Potton was absent! But what is this, Sophy? Why am I kidnapped? To what end?”
“So that I may be so compromised that you will be obliged to marry me, of course,” replied Sophy matter of factly.
This cheerful explanation had the effect of making him start bolt upright, exclaiming, “Sophy!”
She smiled. “Oh, don’t be alarmed! I have sent John Potton with a letter to Sancia, begging her to come to Lacy Manor at once.”
“Good God, do you place any dependence upon her doing so?”
“Oh, yes, certainly! She has a very kind heart, you know, and would never fail me when I particularly desired her help.”
He relaxed against the squabs again, but said, “I don’t know what you deserve! I am still quite in a puzzle. Why have you done it?”
“Why, don’t you see? I have left behind me a letter for Cecilia, telling her that I am about to sacrifice myself — ”
“Thank you!” interjected his lordship.
“ — and you,” continued Sophy serenely, “so that my uncle may be silenced at last. You know, for I told you so, that I persuaded him to announce to poor Cecy his unalterable decision that she was to wed you! If I know Cecy, the shock will bring her posthaste to Ashtead, to rescue the pair of us. If, my dear Charlbury, you cannot help yourself in that eventuality, I wash my hands of you!”
“I can find it in me to wish you had done so long since!” was his ungrateful response. “Outrageous, Sophy, outrageous! And what if neither she nor the Marquesa comes to Lacy Manor? Let me tell you that nothing will serve to induce me to compromise you!”
“No, indeed! I should dislike it excessively! If that happened, I fear you will be obliged to spend the night at Leatherhead. It is not very far from Lacy Manor, and I believe you may be tolerably comfortable at the Swan. Or you might hire a chaise to carry you back to London. But Sancia at least will not fail.”
“Have you told Cecilia that you have kidnapped me?” he demanded. She nodded, and he exclaimed, “I could murder you! What a trick to play! And what a figure I must cut!”
“She won’t think of that. Do you recall that I told you only the other day that she must be made to pity you instead of Augustus? Besides that, I am persuaded she will suffer perfect torments of jealousy! Only fancy! I was quite at a stand until I remembered what I had once heard pronounced by a most distinguished soldier! ‘Surprise is the essence of attack!’ The most fortunate circumstance!”
“Was it not?” he said sarcastically. “I have a very good mind to get down at the next pike!”
“You will ruin all if you do.”
“It is abominable, Sophy!”
“Yes, if the motive were not pure!”
He said nothing, and she too remained silent for several minutes. At last, having turned it over in his mind, he said, “You had better tell me the whole. That I have only heard half I have no doubt at all! Where does Charles Rivenhall stand in all this?”
She folded her hands on Tina’s back. “Alas! I have quarreled so dreadfully with Charles that I am obliged to seek refuge at Lacy Manor!” she said mournfully.
“And have doubtless left a note behind you to inform him of this!”
“Of course!”
“I foresee a happy meeting!” he commented bitterly.
“That,” she acknowledged, “was the difficulty! But I think I can overcome it. I promise you, Charlbury, you shall come out of this with a whole skin — well, no, perhaps not quite that, but very nearly!”
“You do not know how much you relieve my mind! I daresay I may not be a match for Rivenhall, either with pistols or with my fists, but give me the credit for not being quite so great a poltroon as to fear a meeting with him!”
“I do,” she assured him. “But it can serve no good purpose for Charles to mill you down — have I that correctly?”
“Quite correctly!”
“ — or to put a bullet through you,” she ended, her serenity unshaken.
He was obliged to laugh. “I see that Rivenhall is more to be pitied than I am! Why did you quarrel with him?”
“I had to make an excuse for flying from Berkeley Square! You must perceive that! I could think of nothing else to do but to take out that young chestnut he has bought lately. A beautiful creature! Such grand, sloping shoulders! Such an action! But quite unbroke to London traffic and by far too strong for any female to hold!”
“I have seen the horse. Do you tell me seriously, Sophy, that you took him out?”
“I did — shocking, was it not? I assure you, I suffered a real qualm in my conscience! No harm, however! He did not bolt with me, and Charles came to the rescue before I found myself in real difficulty. The things he said to me — ! I have never seen him in such a fury! If only I could remember the half of the insults he flung at my head! It is no matter, however; they gave me all the cause I needed to fly from his vicinity.”
He closed his eyes for an anguished moment. “Informing him, no doubt, that you had sought my protection?”
“No, there was no need; Cecy will tell him that!”
“What a fortunate circumstance, to be sure! I hope you meant to contribute a handsome wreath to my obsequies?”
“Certainly! In the nature of things, it is likely that you will predecease me.”
“If I survive this adventure there can be no question of that. Your fate is writ clear; you will be murdered. I cannot conceive how it comes about that you were not murdered long since!”
“How odd! Charles himself once said that to me, or something like it!”
“There is nothing odd in it; any sensible man must say it!”
She laughed, but said, “No, you are unjust! I have never yet done the least harm to anyone! It may be that with regard to Charles my stratagems may not succeed; in your case I am convinced they must! That may well content us. Poor Cecy! Only conceive how dreadful to be obliged to marry Augustus and to spend the rest of one’s life listening to his poems!”
This aspect of the situation struck Lord Charlbury so forcibly that he was smitten to silence. He said nothing of deserting Sophy when they stopped at the next pike, but appeared to be resigned to his fate.
Lacy Manor, which lay a little way off the turnpike road, was an Elizabethan house, considerably added to in succeeding generations, but still retaining much of its original beauty. It was reached by an avenue of noble trees and had once been set among well-tended formal gardens. These, through the circumstance of Sir Horace’s being not only an absentee but also a careless landlord, had become overgrown of late years, so that the shrubbery was indistinguishable from the wilderness, and unpruned rose bushes rioted at will in unweeded flower beds. The sky had been overcast all day, but a fitful ray of sunlight, penetrating the lowering clouds, showed the mullioned windows of the house much in need of cleaning. A trail of smoke issued from one chimney, the only observable sign that the house was still inhabited. Sophy, alighting from the chaise, looked about her critically, while Charlbury tugged at the iron bellpull beside the front door.
“Everything seems to be in shocking disorder!” she observed. “I must tell Sir Horace that it will not do! He should not neglect the house in this way. There is work here for an army of gardeners! He never liked the place, you know. I have sometimes wondered if it was because my mother died here.” Lord Charlbury made a sympathetic sound in his throat, but Sophy continued cheerfully. “But I daresay it is only because he is shockingly indolent! Ring the bell again, Charlbury!”
After a prolonged interval, they heard the sound of footsteps within the house, to be followed immediately by the scrape of bolts being drawn back, and the clank of a chain removed from the door.
“I am reconciled, Sophy!” announced Charlbury. “Never did I hope to find myself existing between the covers of a library novel! Will there be cobwebs and a skeleton under the stairs?”
“I fear not, but only think how delightful if there should be!” she retorted. She added, as the door was opened, and a surprised face appeared in the aperture, “Good day, Clavering. Yes, it is I indeed, and I have come home to see how you and Mathilda go on!”
The retainer, a spare man with grizzled locks and a bent back, peered at her for a moment before gasping, “Miss Sophy! Lor’, miss, if we’d thought you was coming! Such a turn as it give me, to hear the bell a-pealing! Here, Matty! Matty, I say! it’s Miss Sophy!”
A female form, as stout as his was lean, appeared in the background, uttering distressful sounds, and trying to untie the strings of a grimy apron. Much flustered, Mrs. Clavering begged her young mistress to step into the house and to excuse the disorder everywhere. They had had no warning of her advent. The master had said he would take order when he returned from foreign parts. She doubted whether there was as much as a pinch of tea in the house. If she had but known of Miss Sophy’s intention to visit them, she would have had the chimney’s swept and the best parlor cleaned and taken out of Holland covers.
Sophy soothed her agitation with the assurance that she had come prepared to find the house in disarray, and stepped into the hall. This was a large apartment, paneled and low pitched, from which, at one end, a handsome staircase of oak rose in easy flights to the upper floors of the house. The chairs were all shrouded in Holland covers, and a film of dust lay over the gate-legged table in the center of the room. The air struck unpleasantly dank, and a large patch of damp on one wall made this circumstance easily understandable.
“We must open all the windows and light fires!” Sophy said briskly. “Has the Marquesa — has a Spanish lady arrived yet?”
She was assured that no Spanish lady had been seen at the manor, a circumstance for which the Claverings seemed to think they deserved to be congratulated.
“Good!” said Sophy. “She will be here presently, and we must strive to make things a little more comfortable before we admit her. Bring some wood and kindling for this fire, Clavering, and do you, Matty, pull off these covers! If there is no tea in the house, I am sure there is some ale! Bring some for Lord Charlbury, if you please! Charlbury, I beg your pardon for inviting you to so derelict a house! Wait, Clavering! Are the stables in decent order? I don’t wish the chaise to drive away, and the horses must be baited and rubbed down, and the postboys refreshed!”
Lord Charlbury, abandoning his scruples to enjoyment of this situation, said, “Will you permit me to attend to that matter for you? If Clavering will show me the way to your stables — ?”
“Yes, pray do so!” said Sophy gratefully. “I must see which rooms are most fit to be used, and, until we have a fire lit here, it will be most uncomfortable for you.”
His lordship, correctly interpreting this to mean that he would be very much in the way if he stayed in the house, went off with Clavering to lead the postboys to the stables, happily still watertight and under the charge of an aged pensioner, whose rheumy eye perceptibly brightened at the sight of even such cattle as job horses. A stout cob, and a couple of farm horses, were the only occupants of the commodious stables, but the pensioner assured him that there was both bedding and fodder enough and further undertook to regale the postboys in his own cottage, which adjoined the stables.
Lord Charlbury then strolled about the gardens until some heavy drops of rain drove him back to the house. There he found that the covers had been taken off the chairs in the hall, a duster employed, and a fire lit in the gigantic hearth.
“It is not really cold,” said Sophy, “but it will make everything appear more cheerful!”
His lordship, dubiously eyeing the puffs of smoke issuing from the fireplace into the room, agreed to this meekly enough, and even made a show of warming his hands at the small blue flame showing amidst the coals. A more violent gust of smoke caused him to retreat, seized by a fit of coughing. Sophy knelt to thrust a poker under the black mass, raising it to let the draught through. “It’s my belief there may be a starling’s nest in the chimney,” she observed dispassionately. “Mathilda, however, says fires always smoke for a while when the chimneys are cold. We shall see! I found some tea in one of the cupboards in the pantry, and Mathilda is bringing it to us directly. She had no notion it was there. I wonder how long it has laid hidden in the cupboard?”
“I wonder?” echoed his lordship, fascinated by the thought of this relic of forgotten days at Lacy Manor.
“Fortunately, tea does not turn bad with keeping,” said Sophy. “At least — does it?”
“I have no idea, but that we shall also see,” returned Charlbury. He began to walk about the hall, inspecting the pictures and the ornaments. “What a shame it is that this place should be left to go to ruin!” he remarked. “That is a charming Dresden group, and I have quite lost my heart to that Harlequin over there. I wonder your father would not rather prefer to hire his house to some respectable people while he is employed abroad than let it rot!”
“Well, for a great many years he allowed my aunt Clara to live here,” explained Sophy. “She was most eccentric, and kept cats, and died two years ago.”
“I don’t think she took very good care of the house,” said Charlbury, putting up his glass to inspect a landscape in a heavy gilded frame.
“No, I fear she cannot have. Never mind! Sir Horace will soon put it to rights. Meanwhile, Mathilda is to set the breakfast parlor in order, and we may sit there and be cozy presently.” She frowned slightly. “The only thing that troubles me a little is dinner,” she confided. “It does not appear to me that Mathilda has the least notion of cookery, and I must confess that I have not either. You may say that this is a trifling circumstance, but — ”
“No,” interrupted his lordship, with great firmness. “I shall say nothing of the sort! Are we dining here? Must we?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure we must make up our minds to that!” she replied. “I am not quite certain when we may expect to see Cecilia, but I hardly think she will reach us before seven o’clock, for she was gone to Richmond with my aunt, you know, and they will very likely spend the afternoon there. Are you interested in pictures? Shall I take you up to show you the Long Gallery? The best ones are hung there, I think.”
“Thank you, I should like to see them. Are you expecting Rivenhall to accompany his sister?”
“Well, I imagine he will. After all, she will hardly set forth alone, and he must surely be the person she would turn to in such a predicament. There is no saying, of course, but you may depend upon it that if Charles does not come with Cecy he will follow her swiftly. Let us go up to the gallery until tea is ready for us!”
She led the way to the staircase, pausing by a chair to pick up from it her large traveling reticule. The gallery, which ran along the north side of the house, was in sepulchral darkness, heavy curtains having been drawn across its several tall windows. Sophy began to fling these back, saying, “There are two Van Dycks, and something that is said to be a Holbein, though Sir Horace doubts it. And that is my mother’s portrait, done by Hoppner. I don’t remember her myself, but Sir Horace never cared for this likeness; he says it makes her simper, which she never did.”
“You are not very like her,” Charlbury remarked, looking up at the portrait.
“Oh, no! She was thought a great beauty!” Sophy said.
He smiled, but made no comment. They passed on to the next picture, and so the length of the gallery, when Sophy supposed that Mathilda would have set the tea tray for them. She thought the curtains should be drawn again, so Charlbury went to the windows to perform this duty for her. He had shut the light out from two of them, and had stretched out his hand to grasp one of the curtains of the third when Sophy, from behind him, said, “Stay just as you are for an instant, Charlbury. Can you see the summer house from where you stand?”
He stood still, his arm across the window, and had just begun to say, “I can see something through the trees which might be — ” when there was a loud report, and he sprang aside, clutching his forearm, which felt as though a red-hot wire had seared it. For a moment, his senses were entirely bewildered by the shock; then he became aware that his sleeve was singed and rent, that blood was welling up between his fingers, and that Sophy was laying down an elegant little pistol.
She was looking a trifle pale, but she smiled reassuringly at him, and said, as she came toward him: “I do beg your pardon! An infamous thing to have done, but I thought it would very likely make it worse for you if I warned you!”
“Sophy, have you run mad?” he demanded furiously, beginning to twist his handkerchief round his arm. “What the devil do you mean by it?”
“Come into one of the bedchambers, and let me bind it up. I have everything ready. I was afraid you might be a little cross, for I am sure it must have hurt you abominably. It took the greatest resolution to make me do it,” she said, gently propelling him toward the door.
“But why? In God’s name, what have I done that you must needs put a bullet through me?”
“Oh, nothing in the world! That door, if you please, and take off your coat. My dread was that my aim might falter, and I should break your arm, but I am sure I have not, have I?”
“No, of course you have not! It is hardly more than a graze, but I still don’t perceive why — ”
She helped him to take off his coat, and to roll up his sleeve. “No, it is only a slight flesh wound. I am so thankful!”
“So am I!” said his lordship grimly. “I may think myself fortunate not to be dead, I suppose!”
She laughed. “What nonsense! At that range? However, I do think Sir Horace would have been proud of me, for my aim was as steady as though I were shooting at a wafer, and it would not have been wonderful, you know, if my hand had trembled. Sit down, so that I may bathe it!”
He obeyed, holding his arm over the bowl of water she had so thoughtfully provided. He had a very lively sense of humor, and now that the first shock was over, he could not prevent his lip quivering. “Yes, indeed!” he retorted. “One can readily imagine a parent’s pleasure at such an exploit! Resolution is scarcely the word for it, Sophy! Don’t you even mean to fall into a swoon at the sight of the blood?”
She looked quickly up from her task of sponging the wound. “Good God, no! I am not missish, you know!”
At that he flung back his head and broke into a shout of laughter. “No, no, Sophy! You’re not missish!” he gasped, when he could speak at all. “The Grand Sophy!”
“I wish you will keep still!” she said severely, patting his arm with a soft cloth. “See, it is scarcely bleeding now! I will dust it with basilicum powder, and bind it up for you, and you may be comfortable again.”
“I am not in the least comfortable and shall very likely be in a high fever presently. Why did you do it, Sophy?”
“Well,” she said, quite seriously, “Mr. Wychbold said that Charles would either call you out for this escapade, or knock you down, and I don’t at all wish anything of that nature to befall you.”
This effectually put a period to his amusement. Grasping her wrist with his sound hand, he exclaimed, “Is this true? By God, I have a very good mind to box your ears! Do you imagine that I am afraid of Charles Rivenhall?”
“No, I daresay you are not, but only conceive how shocking it would be if Charles perhaps killed you, all through my fault!”
“Nonsense!” he said angrily. “As if either of us were crazy enough to let it come to that, which, I assure you, we are not — ”
“No, I feel you are right, but also I think Mr. Wychbold was right in thinking that Charles would — what does he call it? — plant you a facer?”
“Very likely, but although I may be no match for Rivenhall, I might still give quite a tolerable account of myself!”
She began to wind a length of lint round his forearm. “It could not answer,” she said. “If you were to floor Charles, Cecy would not like it above half; and if you imagine, my dear Charlbury, that a black eye and a bleeding nose will help your cause with her, you must be a great gaby!”
“I thought,” he said sarcastically, “that she was to be made to pity me?”
“Exactly so! And that is the circumstance which decided me to shoot you!” said Sophy triumphantly.
Again, he was quite unable to help laughing. But the next moment he was testily pointing out to her that she had made so thick a bandage round his arm as to prevent his being able to drag the sleeve of his coat over it.
“Well, the sleeve is quite spoilt, so it is of no consequence,” said Sophy. “You may button the coat across your chest, and I will fashion you a sling for your arm. To be sure, it is only a flesh wound, but it will very likely start to bleed again, if you do not hold your arm up. Let us go downstairs, and see whether Mathilda has yet made tea for us!”
Not only had the harassed Mrs. Clavering done so, but she had sent the gardener’s boy running off to the village to summon to her assistance a stout, red-cheeked damsel, whom she proudly presented to Sophy as her sister’s eldest.
The damsel bobbing a curtsy, disclosed that her name was Clementina. Sophy, feeling that Lacy Manor might be required to house several persons that night, directed her to collect blankets and sheets, and to set them to air before the kitchen fire. Mrs. Clavering, still toiling to make the breakfast parlor habitable, had set the tea tray in the hall, where the fire had begun to bum more steadily. From time to time puffs of smoke still gushed into the room, but Lord Charlbury, pressed into a deep chair, and given a cushion for the support of his injured arm, felt that it would have been churlish to have animadverted upon this circumstance.
The tea, which seemed to have lost a little of its fragrance through its long sojourn in the pantry cupboard, was accompanied by some slices of bread and butter and a large, and rather heavy plum cake, of which Sophy partook heartily. Outside, the rain fell heavily, and the sky became so leaden that very little light penetrated into the low-pitched rooms of the manor. A stringent search failed to discover any other candles than’ tallow ones, but Mrs. Clavering soon brought a lamp into the hall, which, as soon as she had drawn the curtains across the windows, made the apartment seem excessively cozy, Sophy informed Lord Charlbury.
It was not long before their ears were assailed by the sound of an arrival. Sophy jumped up at once. “Sancia!” she said, and cast her guest a saucy smile. “Now you may be easy!” She picked up the lamp from the table and carried it to the door, which she set wide, standing on the threshold with the lamp held high to cast its light as far as possible. Through the driving rain she perceived the Marquesa’s barouche-landau drawn up by the porch, and as she watched, Sir Vincent Talgarth sprang out of the carriage and turned to hand down the Marquesa. In another instant, Mr. Fawnhope had also alighted and stood transfixed, gazing at the figure in the doorway, while the rain beat unheeded upon his uncovered head.
“Oh, Sophie, why?” wailed the Marquesa, gaining the shelter of the porch. “This rain! My dinner! It is too bad of you!”
Sophy, paying no heed to her plaints, addressed herself fiercely to Sir Vincent, “Now, what the deuce does this mean? Why have you accompanied Sancia, and why the devil have you brought Augustus Fawnhope?”
He was shaken by gentle laughter. “My dear Juno, do let me come in out of the wet! Surely your own experience of Fawnhope must have taught you that one does not bring him; he comes! He was reading the first two acts of his tragedy to Sancia when your messenger arrived. Until the light failed, he continued to do so during the drive.” He raised his voice calling, “Come into the house, rapt poet! You will be soaked if you stand there any longer!”
Mr. Fawnhope started, and moved forward.
“Oh, well!” said Sophy, making the best of things, “I suppose he must come in, but it is the greatest mischance!”
“It is you!” announced Mr. Fawnhope, staring at her. “For a moment, as you stood there, the lamp held above your head, I thought I beheld a goddess! A goddess, or a vestal virgin!”
“Well, if I were you,” interposed Sir Vincent practically, “I would come in out of the rain while you make up your mind.”