A DISCOVERY
The scene in the gardens had moved Sophia's feelings so deeply that,
notwithstanding the glamour Hawkesworth's exploit had cast over her, a
word of kindness addressed to her on her arrival in Arlington Street
might have had far-reaching results. Unfortunately her sister's temper
and Mr. Northey's dulness gave sweet reasonableness small place.
Scarcely had the chairmen been dismissed, the chairs carried out, and
the door closed on them before Mr. Northey's indignation found vent.
"Sophia, I am astonished!" he said in portentous tones; and, dull as
he was, he _was_ astonished. "I could not have believed you would
behave in this way!"
"The more fool you!" Mrs. Northey snapped; while the girl, white and
red by turns, too proud to fly, yet dreading what was to come, hung
irresolute at the foot of the stairs, apparently fumbling with her
hood, and really growing harder and harder with each reproach that was
levelled at her.
"After all I said to you this morning!" Mr. Northey continued, glaring
at her as if he found disobedience to orders such as his a thing
beyond belief. "When I had prohibited in the most particular manner
all communications with that person, to go and--and meet him in a
place of all places the most scandalous in which to be alone with a
man."
"La, Northey, it was that made her do it!" his wife rejoined sourly.
"Go to bed, miss, and we will talk to you to-morrow. I suppose you
thought we were taken in with your fine tale of your brother?"
"I never said it was my brother!" Sophia cried, hotly.
"Go to bed. Do you hear? I suppose you have sense enough to do that
when you are told," her sister rejoined. "We will talk to you
to-morrow."
Sophia choked, but thought better of it, and turning away, crept
upstairs. After all, she whispered, as her hands squeezed convulsively
the poor hood that had not offended her, it mattered little. If he
were good to her what recked it of others, their words, or their
opinion? What had they ever done for her that she should be guided by
them, or what, that she should resign the happiness of her life at
their bidding? They had no real care for her. Here was no question of
father or mother, or the respect due to their wishes; of kindness,
love, or gratitude. Of her brother-in-law, who bullied her in his
dull, frigid fashion, she knew little more than she knew of a man in
the street; and her sister spared her at the best a cold selfish
affection, the affection of the workman for the tools by which he
hopes he may some day profit.
Naturally, her thoughts reverted to the lover who that evening had
shown himself in his true colours, a hero worthy of any poor girl's
affection. Sophia's eyes filled with tears, and her bosom rose and
fell with soft emotion as she thought of him and pictured him; as she
flushed anew beneath his ardent glances, as she recalled the past and
painted a future in which she would lie safe in the haven of his love,
secured from peril by the strength of his arm. What puny figures the
beaux and bloods of town looked beside him! With what grace he moved
among them, elbowing one and supplanting another. It was no wonder
they gazed after him enviously, or behind his back vented their petty
spite in sneers and innuendos, called him Teague, and muttered of
Murphies and the bog of Arran. The time would come--and oh, how she
prayed it might come quickly--when the world would discover the part
he had played; when, in a Stuart England, he would stand forward the
friend of Cecil, the agent of Ormonde, and the town would recognise in
the obscurity in which he now draped himself and at which they
scoffed, the cloak of the most daring and loyal conspirator that ever
wrought for the rightful king!
For this was the secret he had whispered in Sophia's ear; this was the
explanation he had given of the cold looks men cast on him in public.
Nor was it too incredible for the belief of a romantic girl. In that
year, 1742, the air in London was full of such rumours, and London,
rumour said, was full of such men. The close of Sir Robert Walpole's
long and peaceful administration, and the imminence of war with
France, had raised the hopes of the Jacobites to the highest pitch.
Though the storm did not break in open war until three years later, it
already darkened the sky, and filled the capital with its rumblings.
Alike in the Cabinet, where changes were frequent and great men few,
and in the country where people looked for something, they hardly knew
what, unrest and uneasiness prevailed. Many a sturdy squire in
Lancashire and Shropshire, many a member at Westminster, from Shippon
and Sir Watkyn downwards, passed his glass over the water-jug as he
drank the King; and if Sophia, as she drew her withered flower from
its hiding-place, that it might lie beneath her pillow through the
night, prayed for King James and his cause, she did only what many a
pretty Jacobite, and some who passed for Whigs, were doing at the same
hour.
In the meantime, and pending the triumph for which she longed so
passionately, her dear hero's pretensions helped her not a whit; on
the contrary, were they known, or suspected, they would sink him lower
than ever in the estimation of her family. This thought it was that,
as she lay revolving matters, raised in her mind an increasing barrier
between her and her sister. The Northeys were firm Whigs, pledged not
less by interest than by tradition to the White Horse of Hanover. They
had deserted Sir Robert at his utmost need, but merely to serve their
own turn; because his faction was drooping, and another, equally
Whiggish, was in the ascendant, certainly with no view to a Stuart
Restoration. Her Hawkesworth's success, therefore, meant their defeat
and downfall; his triumph must cost them dear. To abide by them, and
abide by him, were as inconsistent as to serve God and Mammon.
Sophia, drawn to her lover by the strength of maiden fancy, saw this;
she felt the interval between her and her family increase the longer
she dwelt on the course to which her mind was being slowly moved. The
consciousness that no compromise was possible had its effect upon her.
When she was summoned to the parlour next day, a change had come over
her; she went not shyly and shamefacedly, open to cajolery and
kindness, as she had gone the previous day, when her opinion of her
lover's merit had fallen short of the wrapt assurance that this
morning uplifted her. On the contrary, she went armed with
determination as solemn in her own sight as it was provoking in the
eyes of older and more sagacious persons.
Mrs. Northey discerned the change the moment Sophia entered the room;
and she was proportionately exasperated. "Oh, miss, so you'll follow
Miss Howe, will you?" she sneered, alluding to a tale of scandal that
still furnished the text for many a sermon to the young and flighty.
"You'll take no advice!"
"I hope I shall know how to conduct myself better, ma'am," Sophia said
proudly.
Mr. Northey was less clear-sighted than his wife. He saw no change; he
thought in all innocence that the matter was where he had left it.
After clearing his throat, therefore, "Sophia," he said with much
majesty, "I hope you have recovered your senses, and that conduct such
as that of which you were guilty last night will not be repeated while
you are in our charge. Understand me; it must not be repeated. You are
country bred, and do not understand that what you did is a very
serious matter, and quite enough to compromise a young girl."
Sophia, disdaining to answer, spent her gaze on the picture above his
head. The withered flower was in her bosom; the heart that beat
against it was full of wondering pity for her sister, who had been
compelled to marry this man--this man, ugly, cold, stiff, with no
romance in his life, no secret--this man, at the touch of whose hand
she, Sophia, shuddered.
"I consider it so--so serious a transgression," Mr. Northey resumed
pompously--little did he dream what she was thinking of him--"that the
only condition on which I can consent to overlook it is that you at
once, Sophia, do your duty by accepting the husband on whom we have
fixed for you."
"No," Sophia said, in a low but determined tone, "I cannot do that!"
Mr. Northey fancied that he had not heard aright. "Eh," he said,
"you----"
"I cannot do that, sir; my mind is quite made up," she repeated.
From her chair Mrs. Northey laughed scornfully at her husband's
consternation. "Are you blind?" she said. "Cannot you see that the
Irishman has turned the girl's head?"
"Impossible!" Mr. Northey said.
"Don't you hear her say that her mind is made up?" Mrs. Northey
continued contemptuously. "You may talk till you are hoarse, Northey,
you'll get nothing; I know that. She's a pig when she likes."
Mr. Northey glowered at the girl as if she had already broken all
bounds. "But does she understand," he said, breathing hard, "that
marriage with a person of--of that class, is impossible? And surely no
modest girl would continue to encourage a person whom she cannot
marry?"
Still Sophia remained silent, her eyes steadily fixed on the picture
above his head.
"Speak, Sophia!" he cried imperatively. "This is impertinence."
"If I cannot marry him," she said in a low voice, "I shall marry no
one!"
"If you cannot marry that--that Irish footman?" he gasped, bursting
into rage. "A penniless adventurer, who has not even asked you."
"He has asked me," she retorted.
"Oh, by Gad, ma'am, I've done with you," Mr. Northey cried, striking
his fist on the table; and he added an expletive or two. "I hand you
over to madam, there. Perhaps she can bring you to your senses. I
might have known it," he continued bitterly, addressing his wife.
"Like and like, madam! It's bred in the bone, I see!"
"I don't know what you mean, Northey," his wife answered with a sneer
of easy contempt. "If you had left the matter to me from the
beginning, 'twould have been done by now. Listen to me, Miss
Obstinate. Is that the last word you'll give us?"
"Yes," Sophia said, pluming herself a little on her victory.
"Then you'll go into the country to-morrow! That's all!" was Mrs.
Northey's reply. "We'll see how you like that!"
The blow was unexpected. The girl's lips parted, and she looked wildly
at her sister. "Into the country?" she stammered.
"Ay, sure."
"To--to Cuckfield?" she asked desperately. After all, were she sent to
her old home all was not lost. He had heard her speak of it; he knew
where it was; he could easily trace her thither.
"No, miss, not to Cuckfield," her sister replied, triumphing cruelly,
for she read the girl's thoughts. "You'll go to Aunt Leah at
Chalkhill, and I wish you joy of her tantrums and her scraping. You'll
go early to-morrow; Mr. Northey will take you; and until you are away
from here I'll answer there shall be no note-palming. When you are in
a better mind, and your Teague's in Bridewell, you may come back. I
fancy you'll be tamed by that time. It will need mighty little
persuasion, I'm thinking, to bring you to marry Sir Hervey when you've
been at Aunt Leah's for three months."
Sophia's lip began to tremble; her eyes roved piteously. Well might
the prospect terrify her, for it meant not only exile from her lover,
but an exile which she saw might be permanent. For how was he to find
her? To Cuckfield, the family seat, he might trace her easily; but in
the poor hamlet on the Sussex coast, where her aunt, who had tripped
in her time and paid the penalty, dragged on a penurious existence as
the widow of a hedge-parson, not so easily. There a poor girl might
eat out her heart, even as her aunt had eaten out hers, and no redress
and no chance of rescue. Even had she the opportunity of writing to
her lover she did not--unhappy thought--know where he lived.
Mrs. Northey read her dismay, saw the colour fade in her cheek, and
the tears gather in her eyes, and with remorseless determination, with
cruel enjoyment, drove the nail home.
"There'll be no Vauxhall there," she sneered, "and mighty few drums or
routs, my dear! It's likely your first masquerade will be your last;
and for the wine-merchant actor that you were to see at Goodman's
Fields tomorrow, you may whistle for him; and for your dear Amorevoli.
It's to be hoped, Miss Lucy, you'll find your Thomas worth it," she
continued, alluding to the farce that held the town, "when you get
him." And then, changing her ground, with no little skill, "See here,
child," she said, in the tone of one willing to argue, "are you going
on with this silliness? Think, my dear, think, while it is time, for
'twill be too late at Chalkhill. You don't want to go and be buried in
that hole till your brother comes of age?"
Sophia, resentful but terrified, subdued both by the prospect and by
the appeal to her reasonableness, had hard work to refrain from tears
as she uttered her negative. "No, I--I don't want to go," she
stammered.
"I thought not; then you shall have one more chance," Mrs. Northey
answered, with a fair show of good nature. "If you'll give me your
word not to write to him, you shall have a week to think of it before
you go. But you'll keep your room--on that I must insist; there you'll
have time to think, and I hope by the end of the week you'll have come
to your senses, my dear. If not, you'll go to Aunt Leah."
The mixture of severity and kindness was clever, and it had its effect
upon poor Sophia, who stood weighing the alternatives with a rueful
face. While she remained in town, if she might not see him, she was
still near him, and he near her. She would not be lost to him nor he
to her; and then, what might not happen in a week? "I will promise,"
she murmured, in a low uncertain tone.
"Good," Mrs. Northey answered; "then you may go to your room."
And to her room Sophia would have gone, in a mood fairly open to the
influence of reason and solitude. But in an evil moment for himself
Mr. Northey, smarting under a defeat which his wife's victory rendered
the more humiliating, thought he espied an opportunity of restoring
his dignity.
"Yes, you may go," he said sourly; "but take this with you. You will
see there," he continued, fussily selecting a letter from a pile on
the table, and handing it to her, "what are the terms in which a
gentleman seeks an alliance with a lady. It is from Sir Hervey, and I
shall be much surprised if it does not produce a very different
impression on you from that which that person has made."
"I do not want it," Sophia answered; and held out the letter between
her finger and thumb, as if it had an evil odour.
"But I insist on your taking it," Mr. Northey replied with temper; and
in spite of the warnings which his wife's contemptuous shrugs should
have conveyed to him, he repeated the command.
"Then I will read it now," the girl answered, standing very upright,
"if you order me to do so."
"I do order you," he said; and still holding the folded sheet a little
from her, she opened it, and with a curling lip and half averted eye,
began to read the contents. Suddenly Mrs. Northey took fright; Mr.
Northey even was surprised by the change. For the girl's face grew red
and redder; she stared at the letter, her lips parting widely, as in
astonishment. At last, "What? What is this?" she cried, "Tom? Then it
was--it was Tom I saw last night."
"Tom!" Mr. Northey exclaimed.
"Yes, it was Tom!" Sophia cried; "and--oh, but this is dreadful! This
must be--must be stopped at once!" she continued, looking from the
paper to them and back again with distended eyes. "He is mad to think
of such a thing at his age; he is only a boy; he does not know what he
is doing." Her voice shook with agitation.
"What the deuce do you mean, miss?" her brother-in-law thundered,
rising furious from his chair. "Have you taken leave of your senses?
What do you mean by this--this nonsense."
[Illustration: "THIS MUST BE--MUST BE STOPPED AT ONCE!"]
"Mean?" his wife answered with bitter emphasis. "She means that,
instead of giving her Coke's letter, you have given her the Cambridge
letter; the letter from Tom's tutor. You have done it, like the fool
you always are, Northey."
Mr. Northey swore violently. "Give it me!" he cried harshly. "Do you
hear, girl? Give it me!" And he stretched out his hand to recover the
letter.
But something in the excess of his chagrin, or in the words of the
reproach Mrs. Northey had flung at him roused suspicion in the girl's
mind. She recoiled, holding the paper from him. "It is five days old!"
she gasped; "you have had it four days--three at least; and you have
said nothing about it. You have not told me! And you have done
nothing!" she continued, her mind jumping instinctively to the truth,
at which Mr. Northey's guilty face hinted not obscurely. "He is on the
brink of ruining himself with this woman, and you stand by though you
are told what she is, and were told three days ago. Why? Why?" Sophia
cried, as Mr. Northey, with an oath, snatched the letter from her.
"What does it mean?"
"Mean? Why, that one unruly child is enough to manage at a time!" Mrs.
Northey answered, rising to the occasion. She spoke with venom, and no
wonder; her hands tingled for her husband's ears. He had improved
matters with a vengeance. "It's fine talking, you little toad," she
continued, with a show of reason; "but if you don't listen to sense
who are here, how are we to persuade him, and he not here? Tell me
that, miss. A nice pattern of discretion and prudence you are to talk.
Hang your impudence!"
"But you have done nothing," Sophia wailed, her affection for her
brother keeping her to the point. "And I saw him last night; it was he
whom I saw at Vauxhall. I could have spoken to him, and I am sure he
would have listened to me."
"Listened to his grandmother!" Mrs. Northey retorted, with acrid
contempt. "We have done what we think right, and that is enough for
you, you baby. A nasty disobedient little toad, running into the very
same folly yourself, and then prating of us, and what we should do!
Hang your fine talking; I've no patience with you, and so I tell you,
miss."
"But," Sophia said slowly, her voice grown timid, "I don't
understand----"
"Who cares whether you understand!"
"Why--why you make so much of marrying me the way you wish, and yet
let him go his way? If he does this, you'll get some of his money I
know, but it cannot be that. It couldn't be that. And yet--and
yet--" she cried, with a sudden flush of generous indignation, as
conviction was borne in upon her by Mr. Northey's hang-dog
face--"yes, it is that! Oh, for shame! for shame! Are you his sister,
and will ruin him? Will ruin him for the sake of--of money!"
"Silence, you minx!" Mrs. Northey cried; and she rose, her face white
with rage, and seizing her sister's arm, she shook her violently. "How
dare you say such things? Do you hear? Be silent!"
But Sophia was beside herself with passion, she would not be silent.
Neither the dead Northeys on the walls, nor the living sister should
stifle the expression of her feelings.
"I take back my promise," she cried, panting with excitement; her
words were scarcely coherent. "Do you hear? Do you understand? I
promise nothing after this. You may beat me if you like; you may lock
me up, it will be all the same. I'll go into the country to-morrow,
but I'll make no promise. I shall see Hawkesworth if I can! I shall
run away to him if I can! I'd rather do anything--anything in the
world after this, than go on living with you."
"You'll not go on living with me!" Mrs. Northey answered through
pinched lips, and her eyes glittered after an ugly fashion. "I'll see
to that, you little scald-tongue! You'll go to Aunt Leah and feed
pigs, and do plain-stitch; I hope it may agree with those dainty hands
of yours. And you'll run away from there if you can. She'll see to
that. I'll be bound she'll break some of that pretty spirit of yours,
grand as you think yourself. So because your precious Tom chooses to
take up with some drab or other, you put it on us, do you? Go, you
little vixen," Mrs. Northey continued harshly, "go to your room before
I do you a mischief! You'll not promise, but the key shall. Up, miss,
up, we will have no more of your tantrums!"
Reduced to tears, and broken down by the violence of her emotions,
Sophia asked nothing better than to escape, and be alone with her
misery. She turned, and as quickly as she could she hurried from the
room. Fast as she went, however, Mrs. Northey pushed after her,
treading on her heels, and forcing her on. What passed between them
Mr. Northey could not hear, but in no long time Mrs. Northey was down
again, and flung a key on the table. "There," she cried, her nose
twitching with the constraint she put upon her rage. "And what do you
think of your management now, Mr. Imbecile?"
"I always said," he answered sullenly, "that we ought to tell her."
"You always said."
"Yes, I did."
"_You_ always said!" his wife cried, her eyes flashing with the scorn
she made no attempt to hide. "And was not that a very good reason for
doing the other thing? Wasn't it, Mr. Northey? Wasn't it? Oh, Lord!
why did God give me a fool for a husband?"