Sophia, Stanley J. Weyman [new ebook reader TXT] 📗

in difficulties, and there was a Society of the Sons of the Clergy, and there were other societies of a like kind; and in the country infirmaries were beginning to be founded on the patterns of Winchester and Shrewsbury, and to subscribe to such objects after dining well and drinking deeply, was already, under the Walpoles and the Pelhams, a part of a fine gentleman's life. But for a man of condition to play the Borromeo--to stoop to give practical help and run risks among the vulgar, was still enough to earn for him a character as eccentric as that of the famous nobleman who had seen more kings and more postilions than any of his contemporaries.

In the eyes of the world, but not in Sophia's, or why this dimness of vision, as she gazed at Sir Hervey's picture? Why the unrest of the bodice that threatened to find vent in sobs? Why the sudden rush of self-reproach? More sharply than any kindness shown to her in the long consistent course of his dealings with her, more keenly than his forethought for her brother, this stabbed her. This was the man she had flouted, the man whose generous, whose unselfish offer she had accepted to save her reputation; but whose love she had deemed a floor-clout, not worthy the picking up! Was it wonderful that cynical, taciturn, almost dull as the world thought him, he was not the less considered here?

At twenty-one he had been handsome, with wit and laughter and the gay insouciance of youth written on his face. Time, the lapse of thirteen years, had robbed his features of their bloom, his lips of their easy curve, his eyes of their sparkle. But something, surely, time had given in return. Something, Sophia could not say what. She could not remember; she could only recall a smile, kindly, long-suffering, a little quizzical, with which he had sometimes met her eyes. That she could recall; and as she did so, before his portrait in the stillness of this long-abandoned room, with the dead air of old pot-pourris in her nostrils, she grew frightened. What was it she had thrown away? And how would it fare with her if she could not recover it?

Twisting one hand in the other, she turned to the second portrait, and looked, and looked. At length she glanced round with a guilty air, perceived a tall, narrow mirror that stood framed between the windows, and went towards it. Furtively assuring herself that she was not watched from the terrace, she viewed herself in it.

She saw a pale grave face, barely redeemed from plainness by eloquent eyes and a wealth of hair; a face that looked sombrely into hers, and grew graver and more sombre as she looked. "He is more like his old self than I am like her," she thought. "Why did he choose me! Why did he not choose Lady Betty? She is such another now as Lady Anne was then!"

She was still peering at herself when she heard his voice in the hall, and started guiltily. She would not for the world he caught her in that room, and she darted to the door, dragged it open, and was half-way across the long drawing-room when he entered. She felt that her face was on fire, but he did not seem to notice it.

"A thousand pardons that I was not with you before," he cried pleasantly. "I'd business, and--no I must not touch you, my dear. I have been nearer than was pleasant to one of your friends with the smallpox."

"You have run--no risk, I hope?" she asked faintly.

"Not a whit!" he answered, striking his boot with his whip and looking round the room as if he seldom entered it. "I've had it, you know. I've also had the whole story of your adventures from Betty, whom I met as I was going to my room."

She was agitated; he was at his ease. "I am sorry that we managed so clumsily," she murmured.

"So bravely, I think," he answered lightly; and then, looking round, "This is your part of the house, you know, Sophia. You must make what changes you please here."

"Thank you," she said. "You are very good."

"These rooms have been little used since my mother's death," he continued, again surveying them. "So I have no doubt they want refurnishing. You must talk it over with Lady Betty. And that reminds me, I saw your brother slipping away a few minutes ago, and he had something--the air of following her." And Sir Hervey laughed and sat down on one of the stiff-backed chairs. "For my part, I think he ought to be told," he continued, tapping the toe of his boot with his whip.

Sophia smiled faintly. "You think he is taken with her?"

"Who would not be?" Sir Hervey answered bluntly. "Maid or mistress, he'll be head over ears in love with her before twenty-four hours are out!"

Sophia sat down. "It's her fancy that he should not know," she said languidly. "Of course, if you wish it I will tell him."

"No, no, child, have it your own way," he answered with good humour. "I suppose she is prepared to pay for her frolic."

"Well--I think she likes him."

"And 'twould do very well on both sides--in a year or two!"

"I suppose so."

Sir Hervey rose. "Then let be," he said. And he wandered across the room, taking up things and setting them down again as if he did not think it quite polite to leave her, yet had nothing more to say. Sophia watched him with growing soreness. Was it fancy, or was it the fact that she had never seen him so cold, so indifferent, so little concerned for her, so well satisfied with himself as now? A change, so subtle she could not define it, had come over him. Or was it that a change had come over her?

She wondered, and at length plunged desperately into speech. "Is it true," she asked, "that the people who treated us so ill yesterday are coming to see you to-day?"

"Those of them who are householders are coming," he answered soberly. "At four o'clock. But I do not wish you to see them."

"You will not be--too severe with them?"

"I shall not be more severe, I hope, than the occasion requires," he answered.

But his tone was hard, and she felt that what she had heard was true. "Will you grant me a favour?" she blurted out, her voice trembling a little.

"I would like to grant you many," he answered, smiling at her.

"It's only that you will not send them away," she said.

"Send them away?"

"I mean, send them off their farms," she explained hurriedly. "I was told--Tom told me that you were going to do so; and that some had held the land for generations, and would be heartbroken as well as ruined."

He did not answer at once, and his silence confirmed her in her fears. "I don't say that they have not deserved to be punished," she urged. "But--but I should not like my coming here to be remembered by this. And it seems out of proportion to the crime, since they did me no harm."

"Whatever they intended?"

"Yes."

He looked at her gravely. "What led you to think," he said, "that I had it in my mind to punish them in that way?"

"Well, Tom told me," she explained in growing confusion, "that you might do it to--that you might think it would please me. He said that any one in your place--I mean----"

"Any one newly married?"

Sophia's face flamed. "I suppose so," she murmured"--would do it."

"To please his bride? And you agreed with him, Sophia? You thought it was probable?"

"I thought it was possible," she said.

He walked across the room, came back, and stood before her. He looked down at her. "My dear," he said soberly--but she winced under the altered tone of his voice--"you will learn to know me better in a little while. Let me tell you at once that the purpose you have mentioned never entered my head, and that I am, I hope, incapable of it. There are people who might entertain it, and might carry it out to please a mistress or gratify a whim. There are, I know. But I am not one of that kind. I am too old to misuse power to please a woman, even the woman I have chosen. Nor," he continued, stopping her as she tried to speak, "is that all. In the management of an estate we do not act so hurriedly as you appear to think, my dear. Old tenants, like old wine, are the best, and, where it is possible, we keep them. I have sent, it is true, for those who were guilty yesterday, and I shall see that they are made to smart for it. But not to the extent of loss of home and livelihood."

"I am sorry," she muttered.

"There is no need, child," he answered. "And while we are on this, I may as well deal with another matter. I found your note and the jewel case on my table, and as you wish, so it shall be. I might prefer--indeed, I should prefer," he continued prosaically, "to see my wife properly equipped when she goes into the world. But that's a small matter. Lady Coke will always be Lady Coke, and if you will feel more free and more happy without them----"

"I shall," she muttered hurriedly, "if you please."

"So be it. They shall be returned to my goldsmith's as soon as a safe conveyance can be found. I wish, my dear," he added good-naturedly, "I could rid you of all troubles as easily."

"I am much obliged to you," she muttered, and could have shrunk into the floor with shame. For on a sudden she saw herself a horrid creature, imposing all, taking nothing, casting all the burden and all the stress, and all the inconvenience of their strange relations on him. In town and on the road she had fancied that there was something fine, something of the nature of abnegation and dignity in the return of the jewels, and in her determination that she would not go decked in them. But the simplicity with which he had accepted her whim and waived his own wishes, tore away the veil of self-deception, and showed Sophia the childishness of her conduct. She would not wear his jewels; but his name and his title, his freedom and his home she had not scrupled to take from him with scarce a word of gratitude, with scarce one thought for him!

The very distress she was feeling gave her, she knew, a sullen air, and must set her in a worse light than ever. Yet she was tongue-tied. He yielded freely, handsomely, generously; and that bare, that cold "I am much obliged to you" was all she could force her tongue to utter. She was beginning to feel that she was growing afraid of him; and then he spoke.

"There is one other matter," he said, "I wish to name. It touches Mrs. Stokes. She has been here a number of years, and I dare say like this room, smacks a little of good Queen Anne. If you think it necessary to discharge her----"

Sophia started.

"I?" she said.

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"WHY, BETTY," SOPHIA CRIED IN ASTONISHMENT,
"WHAT IS IT?"

"To be sure. I should at the worse pension her. But she has served us faithfully, I believe--beginning, I think," Sir Hervey continued with a slight touch of constraint, "by whipping me when I needed it; and she would be distressed, I fear, if she had to go. If you could contrive to do with her for a while, therefore, I should be much obliged to you."