pledge them, who else could have brought them? They were taken to Mr.
James's on the 27th, remember."
"That's the puzzle of it."
"We must find out Mrs. Hughes, and then contrive to bring her within
sight of Mr. James."
"The Whitneys know where she lives. Anna and Helen have been to call
upon her."
"Then our way is pretty plain. Mind you don't breathe a syllable of this
to mortal ear, Johnny. It might defeat our aims. Miss Cattledon, always
inquisitive, will question where we have been this morning with her
curious eyes; but for once she will not be satisfied."
"I should not keep her, Miss Deveen."
"Yes you would, Johnny. She is faithful; she suits me very well; and her
mother and I were girls together."
* * * * *
It was a sight to be painted. Helen Whitney standing there in her
presentation dress. She looked wonderfully well. It was all white,
with a train behind longer than half-a-dozen peacocks' tails, lace and
feathers about her hair. The whole lot of us were round her; the young
ones had come from the nursery, the servants peeped in at the door; Miss
Cattledon had her eye-glass up; Harry danced about the room.
"Helen, my dear, I admire all very much except your necklace and
bracelets," said Miss Deveen, critically. "They do not match: and do not
accord with the dress."
The necklace was a row of turquoises, and did not look much: the
bracelets were gold, with blue stones in the clasps. The Whitney family
did not shine in jewels, and the few diamonds they possessed were on
Lady Whitney to-day.
"But I had nothing else, Miss Deveen," said Helen, simply. "Mamma said
these must do."
Miss Deveen took off the string of blue beads as if to examine them, and
left in its place the loveliest pearl necklace ever seen. There was a
scream of surprise; some of us had only met with such transformations in
fairy tales.
"And these are the bracelets to match, my dear. Anna, I shall give you
the same when your turn for making your curtsey to your queen comes."
Anna smiled faintly as she looked her thanks. She always seemed
regularly down in spirits now, not to be raised by pearl necklaces. For
the first time her sad countenance seemed to strike Tod. He crossed
over.
"What is wrong, Anna?" he whispered. "Are you not well?"
"Quite well, thank you," she answered, her cheeks flushing painfully.
At this moment Sophie Chalk created a diversion. Unable to restrain
her feelings longer, she burst into tears, knelt down outside Helen's
dress, and began kissing her hand and the pearl bracelet in a transport
of joy.
"Oh, Helen, my dear friend, how rejoiced I am? I said upstairs that your
ornaments were not worthy of you."
Tod's eyes were glued on her. Bill Whitney called out Bravo. Sophie,
kneeling before Helen in her furbelows, made a charming tableau.
"It is good acting, Tod," I said in his ear.
He turned sharply. But instead of cuffing me into next week, he just
sent his eyes straight out to mine.
"Do you call it acting?"
"I am sure it is. But not for you."
"You are bold, Mr. Johnny."
But I could tell by the subdued tone and the subdued manner, that his
own doubts had been at last awakened whether or not it _was_ acting.
Lady Whitney came sailing downstairs, a blaze of yellow satin; her face,
with flurry, like a peony. She could hardly say a word of thanks for the
pearls, for her wits had gone wool-gathering. When she was last at Court
herself, Bill was a baby in long-clothes. We went out with them to the
carriage; the lady's-maid taking at least five minutes to settle the
trains: and Bill said he hoped the eyes at the windows all round enjoyed
the show. The postillion--an unusual sight in London--and the two men
behind wore their state liveries, white and crimson; their bouquets
bigger than cabbages.
"You will dance with me the first dance to-night?" Tod whispered to
Sophie Chalk, as they were going in after watching the carriage away.
Sophie made a slight pause before she answered; and I saw her eyes
wander out in the distance towards Bill Whitney.
"Oh, thank you," she said, with a great display of gratitude. "But I
think I am engaged."
"Engaged for the first dance?"
"Yes. I am so sorry."
"The second, then?"
"With the greatest pleasure."
Anna heard it all as well as I. Tod gave Sophie's hand a squeeze to seal
the bargain, and went away whistling.
Not being in the world of fashion, we did not know how other people
finished up Drawing-room days (and when Helen Whitney went to Court they
_were_ Drawing-rooms), but the Whitneys' programme was this: A cold
collation in lieu of dinner, when Fate should bring them home again, and
a ball in the evening. The ball was our joint invention. Sitting round
the schoolroom fire one night we settled it for ourselves: and after Sir
John and my lady had stood out well, they gave in. Not that it would be
much of a ball, for they had few acquaintances in London, and the house
was small.
But now, had any aid been wanted by Miss Deveen to carry out her plans,
she could not have devised better than this. For the Whitneys invited
(all unconsciously) Mrs. Hughes to the ball. Anna came into Miss
Deveen's after they had been sending out the invitations (only three
days before the evening), and began telling her the names as a bit of
gossip. She came at last to Mrs. Hughes.
"Mrs. Hughes," interrupted Miss Deveen, "I am glad of that, Anna, for I
want to see her."
Miss Deveen's seeing her would not go for much in the matter of
elucidation; it was Mr. James who must see her; and the plan by which he
might do so was Miss Deveen's own. She went down and arranged it with
him, and before the night came, it was all cut and dried. He and she and
I knew of it; not another soul in the world.
"You will have to help me in it a little, Johnny," she said. "Be at hand
to watch for Mr. James's arrival, and bring him up to me."
We saw them come back from the Drawing-room between five and six, Helen
with a brilliant colour in her cheeks; and at eight o'clock we went in.
London parties, which begin when you ought to be in your first sleep,
are not understood by us country people, and eight was the hour named in
the Whitneys' invitations. Cattledon was screwed into a rich sea-green
satin (somebody else's once), with a water-lily in her thin hair; and
Miss Deveen wore all her diamonds. Sir John, out of his element and
frightfully disconsolate, stood against the wall, his spectacles lodged
on his old red nose. The thing was not in his line. Miss Deveen went up
to shake hands.
"Sir John, I am rather expecting a gentleman to call on me on business
to-night," she said; "and have left word for him to step in and see me
here. Will you forgive the liberty?"
"I'm sure it's no liberty; I shall be glad to welcome him," replied Sir
John, dismally. "There'll not be much here but stupid boys and girls. We
shall get no whist to-night. The plague only knows who invented balls."
It was a little odd that, next to ourselves, Mrs. Hughes should be the
first to arrive. She was very pale and pretty, and her husband was a
slender, quiet, delicate man, looking like a finished gentleman. Miss
Deveen followed them with her eyes as they went up to Lady Whitney.
"She does not look like it, does she, Johnny?" whispered Miss Deveen to
me. No, I was quite sure she did not.
Sophie Chalk was in white, with ivy leaves in her spangled hair, the
sweetest fairy to look at ever seen out of a moonlight ring. Helen, in
her Court dress and pearls, looked plain beside her. They stood talking
together, not noticing that I and Tod were in the recess behind. Most of
the people had come then, and the music was tuning up. The rooms looked
well; the flowers, scattered about, had come up from Whitney Hall. Helen
called to her brother.
"We may as well begin dancing, William."
"Of course we may," he answered. "I don't know what we have waited for.
I must find a partner. Miss Chalk, may I have the honour of dancing the
first dance with you?"
That Miss Chalk's eyes went up to his with a flash of gratitude, and
then down in modesty to the chalked floor, I knew as well as though they
had been behind her head instead of before it.
"Oh, thank you," said she, "I shall be so happy." And I no more dared
glance at Tod than if he had been an uncaged crocodile. She had told
_him_ she was engaged for it.
But just as William was about to give her his arm, and some one came and
took away Helen, Lady Whitney called him. He spoke with his mother for a
minute or two and came back with a cloud on his face.
"I am awfully sorry, Sophie. The mother says I must take out Lady Esther
Starr this first time, old Starr's wife, you know, as my father's
dancing days are over. Lady Esther is seven-and-thirty if she's a day,"
growled Bill, "and as big as a lighthouse. I'll have the second with
you, Sophie."
"I am _afraid_ I am engaged for the second," hesitated Miss Sophie. "I
think I have promised Joseph Todhetley."
"Never mind him," said Bill. "You'll dance it with me, mind."
"I can tell him I mistook the dance," she softly suggested.
"Tell him anything. All right."
He wheeled round, and went up to Lady Esther, putting on his glove.
Sophie Chalk moved away, and I took courage to glance sideways at Tod.
His face was white as death: I think with passion. He stood with his
arms folded, never moving throughout the whole quadrille, only looking
out straight before him with a fixed stare. A waltz came next, for which
they kept their partners. And Sophie Chalk had enjoyed the luck of
sitting down all the time. Whilst they were making ready for the second
quadrille, Tod went up to her.
"This is our dance, Miss Chalk."
Well, she had her share of boldness. She looked steadily in his face,
assuring him that he was mistaken, and vowing through thick and thin
that it was the _third_ dance she had promised him. Whilst she was
excusing herself, Bill came up to claim her. Tod put out his strong arm
to ward him off.
"Stay a moment, Whitney," he said, with studied calmness, "let me
have an understanding first with Miss Chalk. She can dance with you
afterwards if she prefers to do so. Miss Chalk, _you know_ that you
promised yourself to me this morning for the second dance. I asked you
for the first: you were engaged for that, you said, and would dance the
second with me. There could be no mistake, on your side or on mine."
"Oh, but _indeed_ I understood it to be the third, dear Mr. Todhetley,"
said she. "I am dreadfully sorry if it is my fault. I will dance the
third with you."
"I have not asked you for the third. Do as you please. If you throw me
over for this second dance, I will never ask you for another again as
long as I live."
Bill Whitney stood by laughing; seeming to treat the whole as a good
joke. Sophie Chalk looked at him appealingly.
"And you certainly promised _me_, Miss Chalk," he put in. "Todhetley, it
is a misunderstanding. You and I had better draw lots."
Tod bit his lip nearly to bleeding. All the notice he took of Bill's
speech was to turn his back upon him, and address Sophie.
"The decision lies with you alone, Miss Chalk. You have engaged yourself
to him and to me: choose between us."
She put her hand within Bill's arm, and went away with him, leaving a
little honeyed flattery for Tod. But Bill Whitney looked back curiously
into Tod's white face, all his brightness gone; for the first time he
seemed to realize that it was serious, almost an affair of life or
death. His handkerchief up, wiping his damp brow, Tod did not notice
which way he was going, and ran against Anna. "I beg your pardon," he
said, with a start, as if waking out of a dream. "Will you go through
this dance with me, Anna?"
Yes. He led her up to it; and they took their places opposite Bill and
Miss Chalk.
Mr. James was to arrive at half-past nine. I was waiting for him near
the entrance door. He was punctual to time; and looked very well in
his evening dress. I took him up to Miss Deveen, and she made room
for him on the sofa by her side, her diamonds glistening. He must
have seen their value. Sir John had his rubber then in the little
breakfast-parlour: Miss Cattledon, old Starr, and another making it up
for him. Wanting to see the game played out, I kept by the sofa.
This was not the dancing-room: but they came into it in couples between
the dances, to march round in the cooler air. Mr. James looked and Miss
Deveen looked; and I confess that whenever Mrs. Hughes passed us, I felt
queer. Miss Deveen suddenly arrested her and kept her talking for a
minute or two. Not a word bearing upon the subject said Mr. James. Once,
when the room was clear and the measured tread to one of Strauss's best
waltzes could be heard, Lady Whitney approached. Catching sight of the
stranger by Miss Deveen, she supposed he had been brought by some of the
guests, and came up to make his acquaintance.
"A friend of mine, dear Lady Whitney," said Miss Deveen.
Lady Whitney, never observing that no name was mentioned, shook hands at
once with Mr. James in her homely country fashion. He stood up until she
had moved away.
"Well?" said Miss Deveen, when the dancers had come in again. "Is the
lady here?"
"Yes."
I had expected him to say No, and could have struck him for destroying
my faith in Mrs. Hughes. She was passing at the moment.
"Do you see her now?" whispered Miss Deveen.
"Not now. She was at the door a moment ago."
"Not now!" exclaimed Miss Deveen, staring at Mrs. Hughes. "Is it not
_that_ lady?"
Mr. James sent his eyes in half-a-dozen directions.
"Which lady, ma'am?"
"The one who has just passed in black silk, with the simple white net
quilling round the neck."
"Oh dear, no!" said Mr. James. "I never saw that lady in my life before.
The lady, _the_ lady, is dressed in white."
Miss Deveen looked at him, and I looked. _Here_, in the rooms, and yet
not Mrs. Hughes!
"This is the one," he whispered, "coming in now."
The one, turning in at that particular instant, was Sophie Chalk. But
others were before her and behind her. She was on Harry Whitney's arm.
"Why don't you dance, Miss Deveen?" asked bold Harry, halting before the
sofa.
"Will you dance with me, Master Harry?"
"Of course I will. Glad to get you."
"Don't tell fibs, young man. I might take you at your word, if I had my
dancing-shoes on."
Harry laughed. Sophie Chalk's blue eyes happened to rest on Mr. James's
face: they took a puzzled expression, as if wondering where she had
seen it. Mr. James rose and bowed to her. She must have recognized him
then, for her features turned livid, in spite of the powder upon them.
"Who is it, Johnny?" she whispered, in her confusion, loosing Harry's
arm and coming behind.
"Well, you must ask that of Miss Deveen. He has come here to see her:
something's up, I fancy, about those emerald studs."
Had it been to save my fortune, I could not have helped saying it. I saw
it all as in a mirror. _She_ it was who had taken them, and pledged them
afterwards. A similar light flashed on Miss Deveen. She followed her
with her severe face, her condemning eyes.
"Take care, Johnny!" cried Miss Deveen.
I was just in time to catch Sophie Chalk. She would have fallen on my
shoulder. The room was in a commotion at once: a young lady had fainted.
What from? asked every one. Oh, from the heat, of course. And no other
reason was breathed.
Mr. James's mission was over. It had been successful. He made his bow to
Lady Whitney, and withdrew.
* * * * *
Miss Deveen sent for Sophie Chalk the next day, and they had it out
together, shut up alone. Sophie's coolness was good for any amount of
denial, but it failed here. And then she took the other course, and
fell on her knees at Miss Deveen's feet, and told a pitiable story of
being alone in the world, without money to dress herself, and the open
jewel-casket in Miss Deveen's chamber (into which accident, not design,
had really taken her) proving too much in the moment's temptation. Miss
Deveen believed it; she told her the affair should never transpire
beyond the two or three who already knew it; that she would redeem the
emeralds herself, and say nothing even to Lady Whitney; but, as a matter
of course, Miss Chalk must close her acquaintance with Sir John's
family.
And, singular to say, Sophie received a letter from someone that same
evening, inviting her to go out of town. At least, she said she did.
So, quitting the Whitneys suddenly was plausibly accounted for; and
Helen Whitney did not know the truth for many a day.
What did Tod think? For that, I expect, is what you are all wanting to
ask. That was another curious thing--that he and Bill Whitney should
have come to an explanation before the ball was over. Bill went up to
him, saying that had he supposed Tod could mean anything serious in his
admiration of Sophie Chalk, he should never have gone in for admiring
her himself, even in pastime; and certainly would not continue to do so
or spoil sport again.
"Thank you for telling me," answered Tod, with indifference. "You are
quite welcome to go in for Sophie Chalk in any way you please. _I_ have
done with her."
"No," said Bill, "good girls must grow scarcer than they are before I
should go in seriously for Sophie Chalk. She's all very well to talk and
laugh with, and she is uncommonly fascinating."
It was my turn to put in a word. "As I told you, Bill, months ago,
Sophie Chalk would fascinate the eyes out of your head, give her the
chance."
Bill laughed. "Well she has had the chance, Johnny: but she has not done
it."
Altogether, Sophie, thanks to her own bad play, had fallen to a
discount.
When Miss Deveen announced to the world that she had found her emerald
studs (lost through an accident, she discovered, and recovered in the
same way) people were full of wonder at the chances and mistakes of
life. Lettice Lane was cleared triumphantly. Miss Deveen sent her home
for a week to shake hands with her friends and enemies, and then took
her back as her own maid.
And the only person I said a syllable to was Anna. I knew it would be
safe: and I dare say you would have done the same in my place. But she
stopped me at the middle of the first sentence.
"I have known it from the first, Johnny: I was nearly as sure of it as
I could be; and it is that that has made me so miserable."
"Known it was Sophie Chalk?"
"As good as known it. I had no proof, only suspicion. And I could not
see whether I ought to speak the suspicion even to mamma, or to keep it
to myself. As things have turned out, I am very thankful to have been
silent."
"How was it, then?"
"That night at Whitney Hall, after they had all come down from dressing,
mamma sent me up to William's room with a message. As I was leaving
it--it is at the end of the long corridor, you know--I saw some one peep
cautiously out of Miss Cattledon's chamber, and then steal up the back
stairs. It was Sophie Chalk. Later, when we were going to bed, and I was
quite undressed, Helen, who was in bed, espied Sophie's comb and brush
on the table--for she had dressed in our room because of the large
glass--and told me to run in with them: she only slept in the next room.
It was very cold. I knocked and entered so sharply that the door-bolt, a
thin, creaky old thing, gave way. Of course I begged her pardon; but she
seemed to start up in terrible fear, as if I had been a ghost. She had
not touched her hair, but sat in her shawl, sewing at her stays; and she
let them drop on the carpet and threw a petticoat over them. I thought
nothing, Johnny; nothing at all. But the next morning when commotion
arose and the studs were missing, I could not help recalling all this;
and I quite hated myself for thinking Sophie Chalk might have taken them
when she stole out of Miss Cattledon's room, and was sewing them later
into her stays."
"You thought right, you see."
"Johnny, I am very sorry for her. I wish we could help her to some good
situation. Depend upon it, this will be a lesson to her: she will never
so far forget herself again."
"She is quite able to take care of herself, Anna. Don't let it trouble
you. I dare say she will marry Mr. Everty."
"Who is Mr. Everty?"
"Some one who is engaged in the wine business with Sophie Chalk's
brother-in-law, Mr. Smith."
XVI.
GOING TO THE MOP.
"I never went to St. John's mop in my life," said Mrs. Todhetley.
"That's no reason why you never should go," returned the Squire.
"And never thought of engaging a servant at one."
"There are as good servants to be picked up at a mop as out of it; and
you have a great deal better choice," said he. "My mother has hired many
a man and maid at the mop: first-rate servants too."
"Well, then, perhaps we had better go into Worcester to-morrow and see,"
concluded she, rather dubiously.
"And start early," said the Squire. "What is it you are afraid of?" he
added, noting her doubtful tone. "That good servants don't go to the mop
to be hired?"
"Not that," she answered. "I know it is the only chance farmhouse
servants have of being hired when they change their places. It was the
noise and crowd I was thinking of."
"Oh, that's nothing," returned the Pater. "It is not half as bad as the
fair."
Mrs. Todhetley stood at the parlour window of Dyke Manor, the autumn
sun, setting in a glow, tingeing her face and showing up its thoughtful
expression. The Squire was in his easy-chair, looking at one of the
Worcester newspapers.
There had been a bother lately about the dairy-work. The old dairy-maid,
after four years of the service, had left to be married; two others had
been tried since, and neither suited. The last had marched herself off
that day, after a desperate quarrel with Molly; the house was nearly at
its wits' end in consequence, and perhaps the two cows were also. Mrs.
Todhetley, really not knowing what in the world to do, and fretting
herself into the face-ache over it, was interrupted by the Pater and
his newspaper. He had just read there the reminder that St. John's
annual Michaelmas Mop would take place on the morrow: and he told Mrs.
Todhetley that she could go there and hire a dairy-maid at will. Fifty
if she wanted them. At that time the mop was as much an institution
as the fair or the wake. Some people called it the Statute Fair.
Molly, whose sweet temper you have had a glimpse or two of before,
banged about among her spoons and saucepans when she heard what was in
the wind. "Fine muck it 'ud be," she said, "coming out o' that there
Worcester mop." Having the dairy-work to do as well as her own just now,
the house scarcely held her.
We breakfasted early the next morning and started betimes in the large
open carriage, the Squire driving his pair of fine horses, Bob and
Blister. Mrs. Todhetley sat with him, and I behind. Tod might have gone
if he would: but the long drive out and home had no charms for him, and
he said ironically he should like to see himself attending the mop. It
was a lovely morning, bright and sunny, with a suspicion of crispness in
the air: the trees were putting on their autumn colours, and shoals of
blackberries were in the hedges.
Getting some refreshment again at Worcester, and leaving the Squire at
the hotel, I and Mrs. Todhetley walked to the mop. It was held in the
parish of St. John's--a suburb of Worcester on the other side of the
Severn, as all the country knows. Crossing the bridge and getting well
up the New Road, we plunged into the thick of the fun.
The men were first, standing back in a line on the foot-path, fronting
the passers-by. Young rustics mostly in clean smock-frocks, waiting to
be looked at and questioned and hired, a broad grin on their faces with
the novelty of the situation. We passed them: and came to the girls and
women. You could tell they were nearly all rustic servants too, by their
high colours and awkward looks and manners. As a rule, each held a thick
cotton umbrella, tied round the middle after the fashion of Mrs. Gamp's,
and a pair of pattens whose bright rings showed they had not been in
use that day. To judge by the look of the present weather, we were not
likely to have rain for a month: but these simple people liked to guard
against contingencies. Crowds of folk were passing along like ourselves,
some come to hire, some only to take up the space and stare.
Mrs. Todhetley elbowed her way amongst them. So did I. She spoke to one
or two, but nothing came of it. Whom should we come upon, to my intense
surprise, but our dairy-maid--the one who had taken herself off the
previous day!
"I hope you will get a better place than you had with me, Susan," said
the Mater, rather sarcastically.