BUT it was not until the Easter holidays were a week old that Sophia arrived in Berkeley Square. The only intelligence received by her aunt during the intervening ten days was a brief scrawl from Sir Horace, conveying the information that his mission was a trifle delayed, but that she would assuredly see her niece before very long. The flowers which Cecilia so prettily arranged in her cousin’s room withered and had to be thrown away; and Mrs. Ludstock, a meticulously careful housekeeper, had twice aired the sheets before, in the middle of a bright spring afternoon, a post chaise and four, generously splashed with mud, drew up at the door.
It so happened that Cecilia and Selina had been driving with their Mama in the Park, and had returned to the house not five minutes earlier. All three were just about to ascend the staircase when Mr. Hubert Rivenhall came bounding down, uttering, “It must be my cousin, for there is a mountain of baggage on the roof! Such a horse! By Jupiter, if ever I saw such a bang-up piece of flesh and blood!”
This extraordinary speech made the three ladies stare at him in bewilderment. The butler, who had only a minute before withdrawn from the hall, sailed back again with his attendant satellites, and trod across the marble floor to the front door, announcing, with a bow to his mistress, that he apprehended Miss Stanton-Lacy had that instant arrived. The satellites then threw open the double door, and the ladies had a clear view not only of the equipage in the road but of the awed and inquisitive faces of the younger members of the family, who had been playing at bat-and-ball in the garden of the Square and were now crowded close to the railings, gazing, in spite of Miss Adderbury’s remonstrances, at the animal which had brought Hubert in such pelting haste down the stairs.
Miss Stanton-Lacy’s arrival was certainly impressive. Four steaming horses drew her chaise, two outriders accompanied it, and behind it rode a middle-aged groom, leading a splendid black horse. The steps of the chaise were let down, the door opened, and out leaped an Italian greyhound, to be followed a moment later by a gaunt-looking female, holding a dressing bag, three parasols, and a bird cage. Lastly, Miss Stanton-Lacy herself descended, thanking the footman for his proffered help, but requesting him instead to hold her poor little Jacko. Her poor little Jacko was seen to be a monkey in a scarlet coat, and no sooner had this magnificent fact dawned on the schoolroom party than they brushed past their scandalized preceptress, tore open the garden gate, and tumbled out into the road, shouting, “A monkey! She has brought a monkey!”
Lady Ombersley, meanwhile, standing as though rooted to her own doorstep, was realizing, with strong indignation, that the light in which a gentleman of great height and large proportions regarded his daughter had been misleading. Sir Horace’s little Sophy stood five feet nine inches in her stocking-feet, and was built on generous lines, a long-legged, deep-bosomed creature, with a merry face, and a quantity of glossy brown ringlets under one of the most dashing hats her cousins had ever seen. A pelisse was buttoned up to her throat, a very long sable stole was slipping from her shoulders, and she carried an enormous sable muff. This, however, she thrust into the second footman’s hands so that she was the better able to greet Amabel, who was the first to reach her. Her dazed aunt watched her stoop gracefully over the little girl, catching her hands, and saying laughingly, “Yes, yes, indeed I am your cousin Sophia, but pray won’t you call me Sophy? If anyone calls me Sophia I think I am in disgrace, which is a very uncomfortable thing. Tell me your name!”
“It’s Amabel, and oh, if you please, may I talk to the monkey?” stammered the youngest Miss Rivenhall.
“Of course you may, for I brought him for you. Only be a little gentle with him at first, because he is shy, you know.”
“Brought him for me?” gasped Amabel, quite pale with excitement.
“For you all,” said Sophy, embracing Gertrude and Theodore in her warm smile. “And also the parrot. Do you like pets better than toys and books? I always did, so I thought very likely you would too.”
“Cousin!” said Hubert, breaking in on the fervent assurances of his juniors that their new relative had gauged their tastes with an accuracy utterly unequaled in all their experience of adults. “Is that your horse?”
She turned, surveying him with a certain unselfconscious candor, the smile still lingering on her mouth. “Yes, that is Salamanca. Do you like him?”
“By Jove, I should think I do! Is he Spanish? Did you bring him from Portugal?”
“Cousin Sophy, what is your dear little dog’s name? What kind of a dog is it?”
“Cousin Sophy, can the parrot talk? Addy, may we keep it in the schoolroom?”
“Mama, Mama, Cousin Sophy has brought us a monkey!”
This last shout, from Theodore, made Sophy look quickly round. Perceiving her aunt and her two other cousins in the doorway, she ran up the steps, exclaiming, “Dear Aunt Elizabeth! I beg your pardon! I was making friends with the children! How do you do? I am so happy to be with you! Thank you for letting me come to you!”
Lady Ombersley was still dazed, still clutching feebly at the fast vanishing picture of the shy little niece of her imaginings, but at these words that insipid damsel was cast into the limbo of things unregretted and unremembered. She clasped Sophy in her arms, raising her face to the glowing one above her, and saying tremulously, “Dear, dear Sophy! So happy! So like your father! Welcome, dear child, welcome!”
She was quite overcome, and it was several moments before she could recollect herself enough to introduce Sophy to Cecilia and Selina. Sophy stared at Cecilia, and exclaimed: “Are you Cecilia? But you are so beautiful! Why don’t I remember that?”
Cecilia, who had been feeling quite overpowered, began to laugh. You could not suspect Sophy of saying things like that only to please you. She said exactly what came into her head. “Well, I did not remember either!” she retorted. “I thought you were a little brown cousin, all legs and tangled hair!”
“Yes, but I am — oh, not tangled, perhaps, but all legs, I assure you, and dreadfully brown! I have not grown into a beauty! Sir Horace tells me I must abandon all pretensions — and he is a judge, you know!”
Sir Horace was right. Sophy would never be a beauty. She was by far too tall; nose and mouth were both too large; and a pair of expressive gray eyes could scarcely be held to atone entirely for these defects. Only you could not forget Sophy, even though you could not recall the shape of her face or the color of her eyes.
She had turned again toward her aunt. “Will your people direct John Potton where he may stable Salamanca, ma’am? Only for tonight! And a room for himself? I shall arrange everything just as soon as I have learnt my way about!”
Mr. Hubert Rivenhall made haste to assure her that he would himself conduct John Potton to the stables. She smiled, and thanked him, and Lady Ombersley said that there was room and to spare for Salamanca in the stables, and she must not trouble her head about such matters. But it seemed that Sophy was determined to trouble her head, for she answered quickly, “No, no, my horses are not to be a charge on you, dear aunt! Sir Horace most particularly charged me to make my own arrangements, if I should be setting up my stable, and indeed I mean to do so! But for tonight it would be so kind of you!”
There was enough here to set her aunt’s brain reeling. What kind of a niece was this, who set up her stable, made her own arrangements, and called her father Sir Horace? Then Theodore created a diversion, coming up with the scared monkey clasped in his arms, demanding that she should tell Addy that he might take it to the schoolroom, since Cousin Sophy had given it to them. Lady Ombersley shrank from the monkey, and said feebly, “My love, I don’t think — oh, dear, whatever will Charles say?”
“Charles is not such a muff as to be afraid of a monkey!” declared Theodore. “Oh, Mama, pray tell Addy we may keep him.
“Indeed, Jacko will not bite anyone!” Sophy said. “I have had him with me for close on a week, and he is the gentlest creature! You will not banish him, Miss — Miss Addy? No, I know that is wrong!”
“Miss Adderbury, but we always call her Addy!” Cecilia explained.
“How do you do?” Sophy said, holding out her hand. “Forgive me! It was impertinent, but I did not know! Do permit the children to keep poor Jacko!”
Between her dismay at having a monkey thrust upon her and her desire to please this glowing girl, who smiled so kindly down at her and extended her hand with such frank good nature, Miss Adderbury lost herself in a morass of half-sentences. Lady Ombersley said that they must ask Charles, a remark which was at once interpreted as permission to take Jacko up to the schoolroom at once, none of the children thinking so poorly of their brother as to believe that he would raise the least objection to their new pet. Sophy was then led up to the Blue Saloon, where she at once cast her sables onto a chair, unbuttoned her pelisse, and tossed off her modish hat. Her aunt, fondly drawing her down to sit beside her on the sofa, asked her if she were tired from the long journey, and if she would like to take some refreshment.
“No, indeed! Thank you, but I am never tired, and although it was a trifle tedious, I could not count it as a journey!” Sophy replied. “I should have been with you this morning, only that I was obliged to go first to Merton.”
“Go first to Merton?” echoed Lady Ombersley. “But why, my love? Have you acquaintances there?”
“No, no, but Sir Horace particularly desired it!”
“My dear, do you always call you papa Sir Horace?” asked Lady Ombersley.
The gray eyes began to dance again. “No, if he makes me very cross I call him Papa!” Sophy said. “It is of all things what he most dislikes! Poor angel, it is a great deal too bad that he should be saddled with such a maypole for a daughter, and no one could expect him to bear it!” She perceived that her aunt was looking a little shocked, and added, with her disconcerting frankness, “You don’t like that. I am so sorry, but indeed he is a delightful parent, and I love him dearly! But it is one of his maxims, you know, that one should never allow one’s partiality to blind one to a person’s defects.”
The startling proposition that a daughter should be encouraged to take note of her father’s faults so much horrified Lady Ombersley that she could think of nothing to say. Selina, who liked to get to the root of everything, asked why Sir Horace had particularly desired Sophy to go to Merton.
“Only to take Sancia to her new home,” Sophy explained. “That was why you saw me with those absurd outriders. Nothing will convince poor Sancia that English roads are not infested with bandits and guerilleros!”
“But who is Sancia?” demanded Lady Ombersley, in some bewilderment.
“Oh, she is the Marquesa de Villacañas! Did Sir Horace not tell you her name? You will like her; indeed, you must like her! She is quite stupid, and dreadfully indolent, like all Spaniards, but so pretty and good natured!” She saw that her aunt was now wholly perplexed, and her straight, rather thick brows drew together. “You don’t know? He did not tell you? Now, how infamous of him! Sir Horace is going to marry Sancia.”
“ What?” gasped Lady Ombersley.
Sophy leaned forward to take her hand, and to press it coaxingly. “Yes, indeed he is, and you must be glad, if you please, because she will suit him very well. She is a widow, and extremely wealthy.”
“A Spaniard!” said Lady Ombersley. “He never breathed a word of this to me!”
“Sir Horace says that explanations are so tedious,” said Sophy excusingly. “I daresay he might have felt that it would take too long. Or,” she added, a mischievous look in her eyes, “that I would do it for him!”
“I never heard of such a thing!” said Lady Ombersley, almost roused to wrath. “Just like Horace! And when, pray, my dear, does he mean to marry this Marquesa?”
“Well,” said Sophy seriously, “that, I fancy, is why he did not care to explain it all to you. Sir Horace cannot marry Sancia until I am off his hands. It is so awkward for him, poor dear! I have promised to do my best, but I cannot engage to marry anyone I don’t like! He understands my feelings perfectly. I will say this for Sir Horace, that he is never unreasonable!”
Lady Ombersley was strongly of the opinion that these remarks were quite unsuited to her daughters’ ears, but she saw no way of stemming them. Selina, still delving to the roots, asked, “Why cannot your papa be married until you are, Sophy?”
“On account of Sancia,” replied Sophy readily. “Sancia says she does not at all wish to be my stepmama.”
Lady Ombersley was smitten to the heart. “My poor child!” she said, laying a hand on Sophy’s knee. “You are so brave, but you may confide in me! She is jealous of you. I believe all Spaniards have the most shockingly jealous natures! It is too bad of Horace! If I had known this! Is she unkind, Sophy? Does she dislike you?”
Sophy went off into a peal of laughter. “Oh, no, no, no! I am sure she never disliked anyone in all her life! The thing is that if she married Sir Horace while I am still on his hands everyone will expect her to behave to me like a mama, and she is much too lazy! Then, too, with the best will in the world, I might continue to manage Sir Horace, and his house and everything that I have been accustomed to do. We have talked it over, and I can’t but see that there is a great deal in what she says. But as for jealousy, no indeed! She is much too handsome to be jealous of me, and much too good natured as well. She says that she has the greatest imaginable affection for me, but share a house with me she will not. I do not blame her. Pray do not think I blame her!”
“She sounds a very odd sort of a woman,” said Lady Ombersley disapprovingly. “And why does she live in Merton?”
“Oh, Sir Horace hired the prettiest villa for her there! She means to live retired until he comes back to England. That,” said Sophy, with a gurgle of mirth, “is because she is excessively idle. She will lie in bed until the morning is half gone, eat a great many sweetmeats, read a great many novels, and be perfectly pleased to see any of her friends who will give themselves the trouble of driving out to visit her. Sir Horace says she is the most restful female of his acquaintance.” She bent to stroke her little dog, which had all the time been sitting at her feet. “Except Tina here, of course! Dear ma’am, I hope you do not dislike dogs? She is very good, I promise you, and I could not part with her!”
Lady Ombersley assured her that she had no objection to dogs, but was by no means partial to monkeys. Sophy laughed, and said, “Oh, dear! Was it wrong of me to bring him for the children? Only when I saw him, in Bristol, he seemed to me to be just the thing! And now that I have given him to them, I daresay it will be difficult to persuade them to give him up.”
Lady Ombersley rather thought that it would be impossible, and as there did not seem to be anything more to be said on that subject, and she was feeling quite bemused by her niece’s various disclosures, she suggested that Cecilia should escort Sophy up to her room, where she would no doubt like to rest for awhile before changing her dress for dinner.
Cecilia rose with alacrity, ready to add her persuasions to her mother’s if it should be necessary. She did not suppose that Sophy wished to rest, for the little she had seen of her cousin had been enough to convince her that a creature so full of vitality rarely stood in need of rest. But she felt herself strongly drawn to Sophy and was anxious to make a friend of her as soon as possible. So when it was discovered that Sophy’s maid was unpacking her trunks in her bedchamber, she begged Sophy to come to her own room for a chat. Selina, finding that she was not to be admitted to this tête-à-tête, pouted, but went off, deriving consolation from the reflection that to her would fall the agreeable task of describing to Miss Adderbury every detail of Sophy’s conversation in the Blue Saloon.
Cecilia’s disposition was shy, and although her manners lacked the forbidding reserve which distinguished those of her elder brother, they were never confiding. Yet within a very few minutes she found herself pouring into her cousin’s ears some at least of the evils of her situation. Sophy listened to her with interest and sympathy, but the constant recurrence of Mr. Rivenhall’s name seemed to puzzle her, and she presently interrupted to say, “I beg your pardon, but this Charles — is he not your brother?”
“My eldest brother,” said Cecilia.
“Well, that is what I collected. But what has he to say to anything?”
Cecilia sighed. “You will soon discover, Sophy, that nothing may be done in this house without Charles’s sanction. It is he who orders everything, arranges everything, and rules everything!”
“Now, let me understand this!” said Sophy. “My uncle has not died, has he? I am sure Sir Horace never told me so!”
“Oh, no! But Papa — I should not be talking about him, and of course I don’t know precisely — but I think poor Papa found himself in difficulties! In fact, I know it was so, for I found my mother in great distress once, and she told me a little, because she was so distracted she hardly knew what she was doing. In general, she would never say a word about Papa to any of us — except Charles, I suppose, and I daresay Maria, now that she is a married lady. Only then my great-uncle Matthew died, and he left all his fortune to Charles, and I don’t understand exactly how it was, but I believe Charles did something with mortgages. Whatever it was, it seems to have placed poor Papa quite in his power. And I am very certain that it is Charles who pays for Hubert and Theodore, besides settling all the debts, for that Mama did tell me.”
“Dear me, how very uncomfortable it must be for your Papa! remarked Sophy. “My cousin Charles sounds a most disagreeable creature!”
“He is quite odious!” said Cecilia. “I sometimes think he takes a delight in making everyone miserable, for I am sure he grudges us the least pleasure, and is only anxious to marry us to respectable men with large fortunes, who are quite middle-aged, and sober, and can do nothing but catch the mumps!”
Since Sophy was far too intelligent to suppose that this embittered speech was a mere generalization, she at once pressed Cecilia to tell her more about the respectable man with mumps, and after a little hesitation, and a good deal of circumlocution, Cecilia not only divulged that a marriage between herself and Lord Charlbury had been arranged (though not as yet announced), but favored her with a word picture of the Honorable Augustus Fawnhope which must have seemed like the ravings of delirium to anyone who had not been privileged to behold that beautiful young man. But Sophy had already met Mr. Fawnhope, and instead of coaxing her cousin to lie down upon her bed with a cooling draught, she said in the most matter-of-fact way, “Yes, very true. I have never seen Lord Byron, but they tell me that he is nothing to Mr. Fawnhope. He is quite the most handsome man I think I ever saw.”
“You know Augustus!” Cecilia breathed, clasping her hands at her palpitating bosom.
“Yes — that is to say, I am acquainted with him. I fancy I danced with him once or twice at the balls in Brussels last year. Was he not attached to Sir Charles Stuart in some capacity or another?”
“One of his secretaries, but Augustus is a poet, and of course he has no head for business, or affairs, which is a circumstance that disgusts Charles more than all the rest, I believe! Oh, Sophy, when we met — it was at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, and I was wearing a gown of palest blue satin, embroidered all over with silken rosebuds, and knots of silver twist — we no sooner saw each other than — he has assured me that it was the same with him! How could I suppose that there would be the least objection? The Fawnhopes, you know! I daresay they have been here since the Conquest, or some such thing! If I do not care a button for such things as fortunes or titles, what concern is it of Charles’s?”
“None at all,” said Sophy briskly. “Dear Cecilia, don’t cry, I beg of you! Only tell me this! Does your mama dislike the notion of your marrying Mr. Fawnhope?”
“Dearest Mama has such sensibility that I know she must feel for me!” declared Cecilia, obediently drying her eyes. “She has as good as told me so, but she dare not withstand Charles! That, Sophy, is what governs all in this house!”
“Sir Horace is always right!” declared Sophy, rising, and shaking out her skirts. “I teased him to take me to Brazil, you know, because, to own the truth, I could not imagine how I should contrive to occupy myself in London, with nothing to do but amuse myself in my aunt’s house! He assured me that I should find something to be busy with, and you see that he had gauged the matter exactly! I wonder if he knew of all this? My dear Cecilia — oh, may I call you Cecy instead? Cecilia! Such a mouthful! Only trust me! You have fallen into a fit of despondency, and there is not the least need! In fact, nothing could be more fatal, in any predicament! It encourages one to suppose that there is nothing to be done, when a little resolution is all that is wanted to bring matters to a happy conclusion. I must go to my room, and dress for dinner, or I shall be late, and there is nothing more odious than a guest who comes late to meals!”
“But, Sophy, what can you possibly mean?” gasped Cecilia. “What can you do to help me?”
“I have not the least notion, but I daresay a hundred things. Everything you have told me shows me that you are fallen, all of you, into a shocking state of melancholy! Your brother! Good gracious, what were you about to let him grow into such a tyrant? Why, I would not permit even Sir Horace to become so dictatorial, which is a thing the best of men will do, if the females of their families are so foolish as to encourage them! It is not at all good for them, besides making them such dead bores! Is Charles a dead bore? I am sure he must be! Never mind! If he has a fancy for making eligible matches he shall look about him for a husband for me, and that will divert his mind. Cecy, do come with me to my bedroom! Sir Horace desired me to choose mantillas for you and my aunt, and I daresay Jane will have unpacked them by now. How clever it was of me to have selected a white one for you! I am by far too brown-complexioned to wear white, but you will look enchantingly in it!”
She then swept Cecilia off to her own room, where she found the mantillas, carefully wrapped in silver paper, one of which she instantly carried to Lady Ombersley’s dressing room, declaring that Sir Horace had charged her to present it, with his love, to his dear sister. Lady Ombersley was delighted with the mantilla, a particularly handsome black one; and much touched (as she afterward told Cecilia) by the message that went with it, not one word of which did she believe, but which showed, she said, such thoughtful delicacy in her niece.
By the time Sophy had changed her traveling dress for an evening gown of pale green crape, festooned at the bottom with rich silk trimmings, and confined at the waist with a cord and tassels, Cecilia had completed her own toilet, and was waiting to escort her downstairs to the drawing room. Sophy was trying to clasp a necklace of pearls round her throat while the gaunt maid, adjuring her not to be so fidgety, was equally determined to button up the cuffs of her long, full sleeves. Cecilia, tastefully but not strikingly attired in sprigged muslin, with a blue sash, supposed enviously that Sophy had had her gown made in Paris. She was quite right; nearly all Sophy’s dresses came from Paris.
“One consolation,” said Cecilia naively, “is that Eugenia will dislike it excessively!”
“Good gracious, who is Eugenia?” exclaimed Sophy, wheeling round upon her dressing stool. “Why should she dislike it? I don’t think it ugly, do you?”
“Miss Sophy, drat you, will you sit still?” interpolated Jane Storridge, giving her a shake.
“No, of course I do not!” responded Cecilia. “But Eugenia never wears modish gowns. She says there are more important things to think of than one’s dresses.”
“What a stupid thing to say!” remarked Sophy. “Naturally there are, but not, I hold, when one is dressing for dinner. Who is she?”
“Miss Wraxton. Charles is betrothed to her, and Mama sent to warn me a few minutes ago that she is dining here tonight. We had all of us forgotten it in the bustle of your arrival. I daresay she will be in the drawing room already, for she is always very punctual. Are you ready? Shall we go down?”
“If only my dear Jane would bestir herself a little!” Sophy said, giving up her other wrist to her maid and casting a roguish look into Miss Storridge’s disapproving face.
The maid smiled rather grimly, but said nothing. She did up the tiny buttons, draped a gold-embroidered scarf over her mistress’s elbows, and gave a little nod of approval. Sophy bent and kissed her cheek, saying, “Thank you! Go to bed, and don’t think I will let you undress me, for I assure you I will not! Good night, Jane dear!”
Cecilia, a good deal astonished, said as they descended the stairs together, “I suppose she has been with you a long time? I fear Mama would stare to see you kiss your maid!”
Sophy lifted her brows at this. “Indeed? Jane was my mother’s maid, and my own kind nurse when my mother died. I hope I may do nothing worse to make my aunt stare.”
“Oh! Of course she would perfectly understand the circumstances!” Cecilia said hastily. “Only it looked so odd, you know!”
A decided sparkle in her cousin’s find eyes seemed to indicate that she did not much relish this criticism of her conduct, but as they had by this time reached the drawing-room door she did not say anything, but allowed herself to be ushered into the room.
Lady Ombersley, her two elder sons, and Miss Wraxton were seated in a group about the fire. All looked round at the opening of the door, and the two gentlemen rose to their feet, Hubert gazing at his cousin in frank admiration, Charles looking her over critically.
“Come in, dear Sophy!” Lady Ombersley said, in a welcoming tone. “You see that I am wearing the beautiful mantilla instead of a shawl! Such exquisite lace! Miss Wraxton has been much admiring it. You will let me introduce Miss Stanton-Lacy to you, my dear Eugenia. Cecilia will have told you, Sophy, that we are soon to have the joy of counting Miss Wraxton one of the family.”
“Yes, indeed!” said Sophy, smiling, and holding out her hand. “I wish you very happy, Miss Wraxton, and my cousin also.” She turned, having briefly clasped Miss Wraxton’s hand, and extended her own to Charles. “How do you do?”
He shook hands, and discovered that he was being looked at in a manner quite as critical as his own. This surprised him, but it amused him too, and he smiled. “How do you do? I shall not say that I remember you very well, Cousin, for I am sure that neither of us has the least recollection of the other!”
She laughed. “Very true! Not even Aunt Elizabeth could remember me! Cousin — Hubert, is it? — tell me, if you please, about Salamanca, and John Potton! Did you see both safely bestowed?”
She moved a little aside, to talk to Hubert. Lady Ombersley, who had been anxiously watching her son, was relieved to see that he was looking perfectly amiable, even rather appreciative. A half smile lingered on his lips, and he continued to observe Sophy until his attention was recalled by his betrothed.
The Honorable Eugenia Wraxton was a slender young woman, rather above the average height, who was accustomed to hearing herself described as a tall, elegant girl. Her features were aristocratic, and she was generally held to be a good-looking girl, if a trifle colorless. She was dressed with propriety but great modesty in a gown of dove-colored crape, whose sober hue seemed to indicate her mourning condition. Her hair, which she wore in neat bands, was of a soft tint between brown and gold; she had long, narrow hands and feet; and rather a thin chest, which, however, was rarely seen, her mama having the greatest objection to such low-cut bodices as (for instance) Miss Stanton-Lacy was wearing. She was the daughter of an Earl, and, although she was always careful not to appear proud, perfectly aware of her worth. Her manners were gracious, and she took pains to put people at their ease. She had had every intention of being particularly gracious to Sophy, but when she rose to shake hands with her she had found herself looking up into Sophy’s face, which made it very difficult to be gracious. She felt just a little ruffled for a moment, but overcame this, and said to Charles in a low voice, and with her calm smile: “How very tall Miss Stanton-Lacy is! I am quite dwarfed.”
“Yes, too tall,” he replied.
She could not help being glad that he apparently did not admire his cousin, for although she perceived, on closer scrutiny, that Sophy was not as handsome as herself, her first impression had been of a very striking young woman. She now saw that she had been misled by the size and brilliance of Sophy’s eyes; her other features were less remarkable. She said, “Perhaps, a trifle, but she is very graceful.”
Sophy at this moment went to sit down beside her aunt, and Charles caught sight of the fairylike little greyhound, which had been clinging close to her skirts, not liking so many strangers. His brows rose; he said, “We seem to have two guests. What is her name, cousin?”
He was holding down his hand to the greyhound, but Sophy said, “Tina. I am afraid she will not go to you, she is very shy.”
“Oh, yes, she will!” he replied, snapping his fingers.
Sophy found his air of cool certainty rather annoying, but when she saw that he was quite right, and watched her pet making coquettish overtures of friendship, she forgave him, and was inclined to think he could not be as black as he had been painted.
“What a pretty little creature!” remarked Miss Wraxton amiably. “I am not, in general, fond of pets in the house. My mama, dear Lady Ombersley, will never have even a cat, you know, but I am sure this must be quite an exception.”
“Mama has a great liking for pet dogs,” said Cecilia. “We are not usually without one, are we, ma’am?”
“Fat and overfed pugs,” said Charles, with a grimace at his mother. “I prefer this elegant lady, I confess.”
“Oh, that is not the most famous of Cousin Sophy’s pets!” declared Hubert. “You wait, Charles, until you see what else she has brought from Portugal!”
Lady Ombersley stirred uneasily, for she had not yet broken the news to her eldest son that a monkey in a red coat was now king of the schoolroom. But Charles only said, “I understand, Cousin, that you have brought your horse with you too. Hubert can talk of nothing else. Spanish?”
“Yes, and Mameluke-trained. He is very beautiful.”
“I’ll go bail you’re a famous horsewoman, cousin!” Hubert said.
“I don’t know that. I have had to ride a great deal.” The door opened just then, but not, as Lady Ombersley had expected, to admit her butler, with an announcement that dinner awaited her pleasure. Her husband walked in, announcing that he must just catch a glimpse of his little niece before going off to White’s. Lady Ombersley felt that it was bad enough of him to have refused to dine at home in Miss Wraxton’s honor without this added piece of casual behavior, but she did not let her irritation appear; merely saying, “She is not so very little, after all, my love, as you may see.”
“Good Gad!” exclaimed his lordship, as Sophy rose to greet him. Then he burst out laughing, embraced Sophy, and said: “Well, well, well! You’re almost as tall as your father, my dear! Devilish like him, too, now I come to look at you!”
“Miss Wraxton, Lord Ombersley,” said his wife reprovingly.
“Eh? Oh, yes, how-de-do?” said his lordship, bestowing a cheerful nod on Miss Wraxton. “I count you as one of the family, and stand on no ceremony with you. Come and sit down beside me, Sophy, and tell me how your father does these days!”
He then drew Sophy to a sofa, and plunged into animated conversation, recalling incidents thirty years old, laughing heartily over them, and presenting all the appearance of one who had completely forgotten an engagement to dine at his club. He was always well disposed toward pretty young women, and when they added liveliness to their charms, and guessed exactly how he liked to conduct a flirtation, he enjoyed himself very much in their company, and was in no hurry to leave them. Dassett, coming in a few minutes later to announce dinner, took in the situation immediately, and after exchanging a glance with his mistress withdrew again to superintend the laying of another place at the table. When he returned to make his announcement, Lord Ombersley exclaimed: “What’s that? Dinnertime already? I declare, I’ll dine at home after all!”
He then took Sophy down on his arm, ignoring Miss Wraxton’s superior claims to this honor, and as they took their places at the dining table commanded her to tell him what maggot had got into her father’s head to make him go off to Peru.
“Not Peru; Brazil, sir,” Sophy replied.
“Much the same, my dear, and just as outlandish! I never knew such a fellow for traveling all over the world! He’ll be going off to China next!”
“No, Lord Amherst went to China,” said Sophy. “In February, I think. Sir Horace was wanted for Brazil because he perfectly understands Portuguese affairs, and it is hoped he may be able to persuade the Regent to go back to Lisbon. Marshal Beresford has become so excessively unpopular, you know. No wonder! He does not know how to be conciliating and has not a grain of tact.”
“Marshal Beresford,” Miss Wraxton informed Charles, in a well-modulated voice, “is a friend of my father’s.”
“Then you must forgive me for saying that he has no tact,” said Sophy at once, and with her swift smile. “It is perfectly true, but I believe no one ever doubted that he is a man of many excellent qualities. It is a pity that he should be making such a cake of himself.”
This made Lord Ombersley and Hubert laugh, but Miss Wraxton stiffened a little, and Charles shot a frowning look across the table at his cousin, as though he were revising his first favorable impression of her. His betrothed, who always conducted herself with rigid propriety, could not, even at an informal family party, bring herself to talk across the table, and demonstrated her superior upbringing by ignoring Sophy’s remark, and beginning to talk to Charles about Dante, with particular reference to Mr. Cary’s translation. He listened to her with courtesy, but when Cecilia, following her cousin’s unconventional example, joined in their conversation, to express her own preference for the style of Lord Byron, he made no effort to snub her, but on the contrary, seemed rather to welcome her entrance into the discussion.
Sophy enthusiastically applauded Cecilia’s taste, announcing that her copy of The Corsair was so well worn as to be in danger of disintegrating. Miss Wraxton said that she was unable to give an opinion on the merits of this poem, as her mama did not care to have any of his lordship’s works in the house. Since Lord Byron’s marital difficulties were among the most scandalous on dit of the town — it being widely rumored that he was, at the earnest solicitations of his friends, on the point of leaving the country — this remark at once made the discussion seem undesirably raffish, and everyone was relieved when Hubert, disclaiming any liking for poetry, went into raptures over the capital novel, Waverley.
Here again Miss Wraxton was unable to edify the company with any measured criticism, but she graciously said that she believed the work in question to be, for a novel, quite unexceptionable. Lord Ombersley then said that they were all very bookish, but Ruff’s Guide to the Turf was good enough reading for him, and drew Sophy out of the conversation by asking her a great many questions about old friends of his own whom, since they now adorned various embassies, she might be counted upon to know.
After dinner, Lord Ombersley put in no appearance in the drawing room, the claims of faro being too insistent to be ignored, and Miss Wraxton very prettily begged that the children might be permitted to come downstairs, adding, with a smile cast upward at Charles, that she had not had the felicity of seeing her little friend Theodore since he had come home for the Easter holidays. However, when her little friend presently appeared he was carrying Jacko upon his shoulder, which made her shrink back in her chair, and utter an exclamation of protest.
The awful moment of disclosure had come, and, thanks (Lady Ombersley bitterly reflected) to Miss Adderbury’s lamentable lack of control over her young charges, at quite the wrong moment. Charles, at first inclined to be amused, was speedily brought to his senses by Miss Wraxton’s evident disapproval. He said that however desirable a denizen of a schoolroom a monkey might be, which was a question to be discussed later, it was not fit creature for his mother’s drawing room, and ordered Theodore, in a tone that invited no argument, to remove Jacko at once. A sullen scowl descended onto Theodore’s brow, and for a horrid instant his mother feared that she trembled on the brink of an ugly scene. But Sophy stepped quickly into the breach, saying, “Yes, take him upstairs, Theodore! I should have warned you that of all things he most dislikes being brought into company! And pray make haste, for I am going to show you a famous game of cards which I learned in Vienna!”
She thrust him out of the room as she spoke, and shut the door on him. Turning, she found Charles eyeing her frostily, and said, “Am I in disgrace with you for having brought the children a pet you don’t approve of? I assure you, he is perfectly gentle; you need not be afraid of him!”
“I am not in the least afraid of him!” snapped Charles. “Extremely obliging of you to have bestowed him upon the children!”
“Charles! Charles!” said Amabel, tugging at his sleeve. “She has brought us a parrot too, and it talks capitally! Only Addy would put her shawl over its cage, because she said horrid, rough sailors must have taught it to speak. Do tell her not to!”
“Oh, good God, I am quite undone!” Sophy exclaimed, in comical dismay. “And the man promised the wretched bird would say nothing to put anyone to the blush! Now, what is to be done?”
But Charles was laughing. He said, “You must say your Collect to it every day, Amabel, to put it in a better frame of mind. Cousin, my uncle Horace informed us that you were a good little thing, who would give us no trouble. You have been with us for rather less than half a day. I shudder to think what havoc you will have wrought by the end of a week!”