IT COULD not have been said that Lady Ombersley’s family dinner party had been entirely successful, but it gave rise to a good deal of speculation in the minds of most of those who had been present at it. Miss Wraxton, who had seized the opportunity afforded by the rest of the company’s sitting down to a round game to draw near to her prospective mother-in-law and to engage her in low-voiced conversation, returned to her own home quite convinced that however little harm there might be in Sophy, she had been very badly brought up and stood in need of tactful guidance. She had told Lady Ombersley that she was sorry indeed that the bereavement in her family had postponed her wedding day, for she felt, in all sincerity, that she could have been both a support and a comfort to her mother-in-law under her present affliction. When Lady Ombersley said, rather defiantly, that she did not feel the visit of her niece to be an affliction, Miss Wraxton smiled at her in a way that showed how well she understood the brave front she was determined to present to the world, pressed her hand, and said that she looked forward to the time when she would be able to relieve dear Lady Ombersley of so many of the duties which now fell to her lot. Since this could only refer to the young couple’s scheme of occupying one floor of the family mansion, a profound depression descended upon Lady Ombersley. The arrangement would not be an unusual one, but Lady Ombersley was able to think of many examples where it had been proved a failure, notably in the Melbourne household. Miss Wraxton would certainly not render the Ombersley house hideous by hysterical spasms, or really dreadful scandals, but Lady Ombersley derived small comfort from this knowledge. Almost as insupportable as Lady Caroline Lamb’s frenzied behavior would be Miss Wraxton’s determination to exert a beneficent influence over her young brothers- and sisters-in-law and her conviction that it was her duty to take upon her own shoulders many of the burdens which Lady Ombersley was not at all anxious to relinquish.
Charles, who had enjoyed a few minutes’ grave talk with his betrothed before handing her into her carriage at the end of the evening, went to bed with mixed feelings. He could not but acknowledge the justice of his Eugenia’s criticisms, but since he was himself of a forthright disposition he was inclined to like Sophy’s frank, open manners, and obstinately refused to agree that she put herself forward unbecomingly. He did not think that she had put herself forward at all, which made it difficult to see just how it was that she contrived to introduce quite a new atmosphere into the house. She had certainly done this. He was not sure that he approved of it.
As for Sophy herself, she retired to her bedchamber with even more to think about than her hosts. It seemed to her that she had taken up her residence in an unhappy household. Cecilia held Charles accountable for this, which no doubt he was. But Sophy was no schoolroom miss, and it had not taken her more than ten minutes to get Lord Ombersley’s measure. Unquestionably Charles had had much to bear from that quarter; and since the rest of his family plainly held him in awe, it was not marvelous that a naturally stern and autocratic temper, thus unchecked, should have turned him into a domestic tyrant. Sophy could not believe that he was past reclaim, for not only had Tina made friends with him, but when he laughed his whole personality underwent a change. The worst she yet knew of him was that he had selected for his bride a very tiresome girl. She felt it a pity that so promising a young man should be cast away on one who would make it her business to encourage all the more disagreeable features of his character.
There was no need to worry about the children, she decided, but her quick intelligence had informed her, during the course of the evening, that all was not well with Mr. Hubert Rivenhall. She had a strong suspicion that some undisclosed trouble nagged at him. He might forget this in admiration of Salamanca or in playing an absurd game with his juniors, but when nothing else occupied his mind the trouble crept back into it, and he grew silent until somebody looked at him, when he instantly began to talk again, in a rattling, overcheerful style which seemed to satisfy his relations. Sophy, guided by her experience of young officers, thought that he was probably in some foolish scrape which would turn out to be far less serious than he imagined. He ought, of course, to tell his elder brother about it, for no one could doubt, looking at Mr. Rivenhall’s countenance, that he was competent to deal with any scrape; but since Hubert was obviously afraid to do so, it might be a good thing to persuade him to confide in his cousin.
Then there was Cecilia, so lovely, and so helpless! Her affairs might be much more difficult to arrange satisfactorily, for although Sophy, reared in quite a different school, thought it iniquitous to force any girl into a distasteful marriage, she was by no means determined to further the pretensions of Augustus Fawnhope. Sophy, strongly practical, could not feel that Mr. Fawnhope would make a satisfactory husband, for he lacked visible means of support, and was apt, when under the influence of his Muse, to forget such mundane considerations as dinner engagements, or the delivery of important messages. However, he would certainly be preferable to a middle-aged man with mumps, and if Cecilia’s passion for him proved to be more than a mere infatuation, her friends must busy themselves in finding for him some well-paid and genteel post in which his handsome person and charm of manner would outweigh his erratic habits. Sophy was still trying to think of such a post when she fell asleep.
Breakfast was served, at Ombersley House, in a parlor at the back of the house. Only the three ladies sat down to the table at nine o’clock; for Lord Ombersley, a man of nocturnal habits, never left his room until noon, and his two elder sons had breakfasted an hour earlier and gone off to ride in the Park.
Lady Ombersley, whose indifferent health made restful nights rarities in her life, had employed some part of her wakeful hours in planning entertainments for her niece, and as she dipped fingers of dry toast into her tea she propounded a scheme for an evening party, with dancing. Cecilia’s eyes brightened, but she said rather skeptically, “If Charles will permit it.”
“My dear, you know your brother has no objection to any rational enjoyment. I do not mean that we should give a really large ball, of course.”
Sophy, who had been watching in some awe her aunt’s languid consumption of tea and toast, said, “Dear ma’am, I would infinitely prefer that you should not put yourself out for me.”
“I am quite determined to give a party for you,” replied Lady Ombersley firmly. “I promised your father that I would do so. Besides, I am very fond of entertaining. I assure you, we are not in general so quiet as you find us at present. When I brought dear Maria out, we gave a ball, two rout-parties, a Venetian breakfast, and a masquerade! But then,” she added, with a sigh, “poor Cousin Mathilda was still alive, and she sent out all the invitation cards, and arranged everything with Gunter’s. I miss her sadly. She was carried off by an inflammation of the lung, you know.”
“No, but if that is all that troubles you, ma’am, pray do not give it another thought!” said Sophy. “Cecy and I will arrange everything, and you shall have nothing to do but choose what dress you will wear, and receive your guests.”
Lady Ombersley blinked at her. “But, my love, you could not!”
“Indeed I could!” asserted Sophy, smiling warmly at her. “Why, I have managed all Sir Horace’s parties since I was seventeen years old! And that puts me in mind of something I must do at once! Where shall I find Hoare’s Bank, Aunt Lizzie!”
“Find Hoare’s Bank?” echoed Lady Ombersley blankly.
“What in the world can you want to know that for?” asked Cecilia.
Sophy looked a little surprised. “Why, to present Sir Horace’s letter of authorization, to be sure!” she answered. “I must do so at once, or I may find myself quite at a loss.” She perceived that her aunt and cousin were looking, if anything, rather more bewildered than ever, and lifted her brows. “But what have I said?” she asked, between amusement and dismay. “Hoare’s, you know! Sir Horace banks with them!”
“Yes, my dear, I daresay he may, but you do not have an account with a bank!” expostulated Lady Ombersley.
“No, alas! It is such a bore! However, we settled it that I should draw upon Sir Horace’s funds for my needs. And for the expenses of the household, of course, but at this present we have no house,” said Sophy, lavishly spreading butter on her fourth slice of bread.
“My love! Young ladies never — why, I myself have never entered your uncle’s bank in my life!” said Lady Ombersley, deeply moved.
“No?” said Sophy. “Perhaps he prefers to settle all the bills himself? Nothing teases Sir Horace more than to be forever applied to for money! He taught me years ago to understand business, and so we go on very happily.” Her brow wrinkled. “I hope that Sancia will learn to manage for him. Poor angel! He will very much dislike it if he must study the bills, and pay all the wages.”
“I never heard of such a thing!” said Lady Ombersley. “Really, Horace — but never mind that! Dear child, you cannot possibly need to draw funds while you are with me!”
Sophy could not help laughing at her aunt’s evident conviction that Hoare’s Bank must be a haunt of vice, but she said, “Indeed I shall need funds! You have no notion how expensive I am, ma’am! And Sir Horace warned me most particularly not to allow myself to be a charge on you.”
Cecilia, her eyes round with wonder, asked, “Does your papa set no limit to what you spend?”
“No, how could he do so, when he has gone quite out of reach, and can have no notion what I might suddenly need? He knows I shall not outrun the carpenter. But I did not mean to tease you with my affairs! Only, in what part of the town is Hoare’s situated, if you please?”
Fortunately, since neither of the other ladies had the smallest idea of the locality of any bank, Mr. Rivenhall came into the room at this moment. He was dressed for riding and had merely looked in to ask his mother if she had any commissions she might desire him to execute in the City, whither he was bound. She had none, but did not hesitate (in spite of his probable disapproval) to divulge to him Sophy’s extraordinary wish to be directed to Hoare’s Bank. He took this with equanimity, and even bore up wonderfully under the disclosure that she was at liberty to draw on her father’s account. He said, “Unusual!” but he seemed to be more amused than disapproving. “Hoare’s Bank is at Temple Bar,” he added. “If your need is urgent, I am driving into the city myself this morning and shall be happy to escort you.”
“Thank you! If my aunt has no objection I shall be glad to go with you. When do you wish to start?”
“I shall await your convenience, Cousin,” he replied politely.
This civility augured well for the expedition and made Lady Ombersley, always inclined to be optimistic, nourish the hope that Charles had taken one of his rare likings to his cousin. He was certainly predisposed in her favor when he found that she did not keep him waiting; and she, for her part, could not think very badly of a man who drove such a splendid pair of horses in his curricle. She took her place beside him in this vehicle; the groom swung himself up behind, as the horses plunged past him; and Sophy, herself no mean whip, preserved a critical but not unappreciative silence while Charles controlled the first ardor of his pair. Reserving her ultimate judgment until she should have seen him with a tandem, or a four-in-hand, she yet felt that she could safely repose confidence in his ability to aid her in the purchase of carriage horses for her own use, and said presently, “I must buy a carriage, and don’t know whether to choose a curricle or a high-perch phaeton. Which do you recommend, Cousin?”
“Neither,” he replied, steadying his horses round a bend in the street.
“Oh?” said Sophy, rather surprised. “What, then?”
He glanced down at her. “You are not serious, are you?”
“Not serious? Of course I am serious!”
“If you wish to drive, I will take you in the Park one day,” he said. “I expect I can find a horse, or even a pair, in the stables quiet enough for a lady to drive.”
“Oh, I fear that would never do!” said Sophy, shaking her head.
“Indeed? Why not?”
“I might excite the horse,” said Sophy dulcetly.
He was momentarily taken aback. Then he laughed, and said, “I beg your pardon. I had no intention of offending you. But you cannot need a carriage in London. You will no doubt drive out with my mother, and if you should wish to go on some particular errand you may always order one of the carriages to be sent round to the house for your use.”
“That,” said Sophy, “is very obliging of you, but will not suit me quite so well. Where does one buy carriages in London?”
“You will scarcely drive yourself about the town in a curricle!” he said. “Nor do I consider a high-perch phaeton at all a suitable vehicle for a lady. They are not easy to drive. I should not care to see any of my sisters making the attempt.”
“You must remember to tell them so,” said Sophy affably. “Do they mind what you say to them? I never had a brother myself, so I can’t know.”
There was a slight pause, while Mr. Rivenhall, unaccustomed to sudden attacks, recovered his presence of mind. It did not take him very long. “It might have been better for you if you had, Cousin!” he said grimly.
“I don’t think so,” said Sophy, quite unruffled. “The little I have seen of brothers makes me glad that Sir Horace never burdened me with any.”
“Thank you! I know how I may take that, I suppose!”
“Well, I imagine you might, for although you have a great many antiquated notions I don’t think you stupid, precisely.”
“Much obliged! Have you any other criticisms you would care to make?”
“Yes, never fly into a miff when you are driving a high-couraged pair! You took that last corner much too fast.”
As Mr. Rivenhall was accounted something of a nonpareil, this thrust failed to pierce his armor. “What an abominable girl you are!” he said, much more amiably. “Come! We cannot quarrel all the way to Temple Bar! Let us cry a truce!”
“By all means,” she agreed cordially. “Let us rather talk about my carriage. Do I go to Tattersall’s for my horses?”
“Certainly not!”
“Dear Cousin Charles, do you wish me to understand that I have the name wrong, or that there is a superior dealer?”
“Neither. What I wish you to understand is that females do not frequent Tattersall’s!”
“Now, is this one of the things you would not like your sisters to do, or would it really be improper in me to go there?”
“Most improper!”
“If you escorted me?”
“I shall do no such thing.”
“Then how shall I manage?” she demanded. “John Potton is an excellent groom, but I would not trust him to buy my horses for me. Indeed, I would not trust anyone, except, perhaps, Sir Horace, who knows exactly what I like.”
He perceived that she was in earnest, and not, as he had suspected, merely bent on roasting him. “Cousin, if nothing will do for you but to drive yourself, I will put my tilbury at your disposal and choose a suitable horse to go between the shafts.”
“One of your own?” enquired Sophy.
“None of my horses is at all suitable for you to drive,” he replied.
“Well, never mind!” said Sophy. “I shall prefer to have my own phaeton and pair.”
“Have you the smallest notion what you would have to pay for a well-matched pair?” he demanded.
“No, tell me! I thought not above three or four hundred pounds?”
“A mere trifle! Your father, of course, would have not the least objection to your squandering three or four hundred pounds on a pair of horses!”
“Not the least, unless I allowed myself to be taken in like a goose, and bought some showy-looking animal for ever throwing out a splint, or a high-stepper found to be touched in the wind at the end of a mile.”
“I advise you to wait until he returns to England, then. He will no doubt choose you the very thing!” was all Mr. Rivenhall would say.
Rather to his surprise, Sophy appeared to take this in perfectly good part, for she made no comment, and almost immediately desired him to tell her the name of the street they were driving down. She did not refer again to the phaeton and pair, and Mr. Rivenhall, realizing that she was merely a little spoiled and in need of a set down, palliated the severe snub he had dealt her by pointing out one or two places of interest which they passed and asking her a few civil questions about the scenery of Portugal. Arrived at Temple Bar, he drew up before the narrow entrance to Hoare’s Bank and would have accompanied her inside had she not declined his escort, saying that he would do better to walk his horses, for she did not know how long she might be detained, and there was a sharp wind blowing. So he waited for her outside; reflecting that however unusual it might be for a young and unattached lady to do business in a bank she could not really come to any harm there. When she reappeared, in about twenty minutes’ time, some senior official of the bank came with her and solicitously handed her up into the curricle. She seemed to be on terms of considerable friendship with this personage, but disclosed, in answer to a somewhat sardonic inquiry made by her cousin as they drove off, that this had been her first meeting with him.
“You surprise me!” said Mr. Rivenhall. “I had supposed he must have dandled you on his knee when you were a baby!”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “He didn’t mention it, at all events. Where do we go now?”
He told her that he had some business to transact near St. Paul’s adding that he should not keep her waiting above five minutes. If this was a shaft aimed at the length of time she had spent in the bank he missed his aim, for Sophy said in the most amiable way that she did not mind waiting. This was a much more successful shaft. Mr. Rivenhall began to think that in Miss Stanton-Lacy he had met an opponent to be reckoned with.
When he presently drew up in a street beside St. Paul’s, Sophy held out her hand, saying, “I will take them.” He therefore put the reins into her hand, for although he did not trust her to control his spirited horses his groom was already at their heads, so that there was no likelihood of any mishap. Sophy watched him walk into the tall building, and pulled off one of her lavender kid gloves. The east wind was blowing quite strongly, certainly strongly enough to whirl a lady’s glove, tossed to it, into the gutter on the farther side of the road. “Oh, my glove!” exclaimed Sophy. “Please run quickly, or it will blow quite away! Don’t fear for the horses. I can handle them!”
The groom found himself in a quandary. His master would certainly not expect him to leave the grays unattended; on the other hand, someone must rescue Miss Stanton-Lacy’s glove, and the street was momentarily deserted. Judging by what he had been able to hear of the lady’s conversation, she at least knew enough about driving to be able to hold the grays for a minute. They were standing quite quietly. The groom touched his hat and strode across the road.
“Tell your master that it is too chilly to keep the horses standing!” Sophy called after him. “I will tool the curricle round the streets for a few minutes, and come back to take him up when he is ready!”
The groom, who was stooping tot pick up the glove, nearly fell over, so swiftly did he spin round. He had an excellent view of Miss Stanton-Lacy driving at a smart pace up the street. He made a gallant but belated attempt to catch the curricle, but it swept round a corner just as the wind blew his hat off, and sent it bowling down the street.
It was nearly half an hour later when the curricle again came into sight. Mr. Rivenhall, awaiting it with folded arms, had ample opportunity to observe with what precision his cousin rounded the comer and how well she handled the reins and whip, but he did not appear to be much gratified, for he watched the approach of the vehicle with a scowl on his brow and his lips tightly gripped together. Of his groom there was no sign.
Miss Stanton-Lacy, pulling up exactly abreast of Mr. Rivenhall, said cheerfully, “I beg your pardon, I have kept you waiting! The thing is that I do not know my way about London, and became quite lost, and was obliged to inquire the direction no less than three times. But where is your groom?”
“I have sent him home!” replied Mr. Rivenhall.
She looked down at him, her expressive eyes brimful of amusement. “How very right of you!” she approved. “I like a man to think of everything. You could never have quarreled with me really well with that man standing up behind us and overhearing every word you uttered.”
“How dared you drive my horses?” demanded Mr. Rivenhall thunderously. He mounted into his seat, and snapped, “Give me the reins at once!”
She relinquished them and also the whip, but said disarmingly, “To be sure, that was not very well done of me, but you will own that there was no bearing your conduct in talking to me as though I were a silly chit scarcely able to drive a donkey.”
Mr. Rivenhall’s impatient mouth was once more set so rigidly that there seemed to be no likelihood of his owning anything at all.
“At least admit that I am able to handle your pair!” said Sophy.
“Well for you that I had taken the edge off them!” he retorted.
“How ungenerous of you!” said Sophy.
It was indeed ungenerous, and he knew it. He said furiously, “Driving about the City, with not even a groom beside you! Very pretty behavior, upon my word! It is a pity you have not a little more conduct, Cousin! Or are these Portuguese manners?”
“Oh, no!” she replied. “In Lisbon, where I am known, I could not indulge in such pranks, of course. Dreadful, was it not? I assure you, all the Cits were staring at me! But do not put yourself into a pucker on that head! No one knows me in London!”
“No doubt,” he said sardonically, “Sir Horace would have applauded such behavior!”
“No,” said Sophy. “I think that Sir Horace would have rather expected you to have offered to let me drive your horses. Just so that you could have judged for yourself whether I was capable of handling a spirited pair,” she explained kindly.
“I let no one — no one — drive my horses but myself!”
“In general,” said Sophy, “I think you are very right. It is amazing how swiftly a clumsy pair of hands will spoil the most tender mouth!”
Mr. Rivenhall almost audibly ground his teeth.
Sophy laughed suddenly. “Oh, don’t be so out-of-reason cross, Cousin!” she begged. “You know very well your horses have taken no sort of hurt! Will you put me in the way of choosing a pair for my own use?”
“I will have nothing whatsoever to do with such a mad project!” he said harshly.
Sophy took this with equanimity. “Very well,” she said. “Perhaps it would suit you better to find an eligible husband for me. I am very willing, and I understand that you have some talent in that.”
“Have you no delicacy of mind?” demanded Mr. Rivenhall.
“Yes, indeed! I daresay it would astonish you to know how much!”
“It would!”
“But with you, my dear Cousin,” pursued Sophy, “I know I need have no reserve. Do, pray, find me an eligible husband! I am not at all nice in my notions, and shall be satisfied with the barest modicum of virtues in my partner.”
“Nothing,” stated Mr. Rivenhall, showing his cousin, as he swirled round the corner into the Haymarket, how to drive to an inch, “would afford me greater satisfaction than to see you married to some man who would know how to control your extraordinary quirks!”
“Very creditably performed!” approved Sophy. “But how would it have been if some dog had strayed into the road, or a poor soul have crossed the street at that moment?”
Mr. Rivenhall’s sense of humor betrayed him. He was obliged to bite back a laugh before replying, “I find it a marvelous circumstance, Cousin, that no one has yet strangled you!”
He found that he had lost his cousin’s attention. Her head was turned away from him, and before he could discover what object of interest had caught her eye she had said quickly, “Oh, if you please, would you stop? I have seen an old acquaintance!”
He complied with this request, and then saw, too late, who was walking down the street toward them. There could be no mistaking that graceful figure, or those guinea-gold locks, revealed by the doffing of a curly-brimmed beaver. Mr. Augustus Fawnhope, perceiving that the lady in the curricle was waving a hand in his direction, halted, took off his hat, and stood with it in his hand, gazing inquiringly up at Sophy.
He was indeed a beautiful young man. His hair waved naturally from a brow of alabaster; his eyes were of a deep blue, a little dreamy, but so exquisitely set under arched brows, of such size and brilliance as to defy criticism; his mouth was moulded in curves to set a sculptor groping for the tools of his art. He was of moderate height, and exact proportions, and had no need to live upon a diet of potatoes steeped in vinegar to preserve his slender figure. Not that it would ever have entered his head to have done so. It was not the least of Mr. Fawnhope’s charms that he was utterly unconcerned with his appearance. It might have been supposed that he could not be unaware of the admiration this excited, but as he was preoccupied with his ambition to become a major poet, paying very little attention to what was said to him and none at all to what was said about him, even his ill wishers (such as Mr. Rivenhall and Sir Charles Stuart) were forced to admit that it was very likely that this admiration had not as yet pierced the cloud of abstraction in which he wrapped himself.
But there was more than abstraction in the gaze turned upward to Miss Stanton-Lacy’s face, and this circumstance was not lost on Mr. Rivenhall, interpreting correctly the blankness and the doubtful smile hovering on Mr. Fawnhope’s lips. Mr. Fawnhope had not the faintest idea of the identity of the lady stretching down her hand to him in so friendly a fashion. However he took it in his, and said, “How-do-you-do,” in his soft, vague voice.
“Brussels,” said Sophy helpfully. “We danced the quadrille at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, do you remember? Oh, are you acquainted with my cousin, Mr. Rivenhall? You must know that I am staying with my aunt, in Berkeley Square, for the season. You must come to call upon us. I know she will be delighted!”
“Of course I remember!” said Mr. Fawnhope, with less truth than good manners. “Enchanting to meet again, ma’am, and so unexpectedly! I shall certainly do myself the pleasure of calling in Berkeley Square.”
He bowed and stepped back. The grays, to whom Mr. Rivenhall’s impatience had communicated itself, bounded forward. Mr. Rivenhall said, “How charming for you to have met an old friend so soon after your arrival!”
“Yes, was it not?” agreed Sophy.
“I hope he will have contrived to recall you name before he avails himself of your invitation to visit you.”
Her lips twitched, but she replied with perfect composure, “Depend upon it, if he does not he will find someone to tell him what it is.”
“You are shameless!” he said angrily.
“Nonsense! You only say so because I drove your horses,” she answered. “Never mind! I will engage not to do so again.”
“I’ll take care of that!” he retorted. “Let me tell you, my dear Cousin, that I should be better pleased if you would refrain from meddling in the affairs of my family!”
“Now, that,” said Sophy, “I am very glad to know, because if ever I should desire to please you I shall know just how to set about it. I daresay I shan’t, but one likes to be prepared for any event, however unlikely.”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes narrowed, and their expression was by no means pleasant. “Are you thinking of being so unwise as to cross swords with me?” he demanded. “I shan’t pretend to misunderstand you, Cousin, and I will leave you in no doubt of my own meaning! If you imagine that I will ever permit that puppy to marry my sister, you have yet something to learn of me!”
“Pooh!” said Sophy. “Mind your horses, Charles, and don’t talk fustian to me.”