A CHAIR AND A COACH
The glasses of the chair, which had been standing some time at the
door, were dimmed by moisture, and in the dusk of the evening its
trembling occupant had no cause to fear recognition. But as the men
lifted and bore her from the door, every blurred light that peeped in
on her, and in an instant was gone, every smoking shop-lamp that
glimmered a moment through the mist, and betrayed the moving forms
that walked the sideway, was, to Sophia, an eye noting and condemning
her. As the chairmen swung into Portugal Street, and, turning
eastwards, skirted the long stand of coaches and the group of link-men
that waited before Burlington House, she felt that all eyes were upon
her, and she shrank farther and farther into the recesses of the
chair.
A bare-footed orange girl, who ran beside the window waving ballads or
bills of the play, a coach rattling up behind and bespattering the
glass as it passed, a link-boy peering in and whining to be hired,
caused her a succession of panics. On top of these, the fluttering
alarms of the moment, pressed the consciousness of a step taken that
could never be retraced; nor was it until the chairmen, leaving
Piccadilly behind them, had entered the comparative quiet of Air
Street, and a real difficulty rose before her, that she rallied her
faculties.
The men were making for Soho, and if left to take their course, would,
in a quarter of an hour set her down at the door of Lady Betty's home
in King's Square. That would not do. But to stay them, and to vary the
order from "Home" to Mr. Wollenhope's house in Davies Street, where
her lover lodged, did not now seem the simple and easy step it had
appeared a few minutes earlier, when the immediate difficulty was to
escape from the house. Lady Betty had said that the men knew her. In
that case, as soon as Sophia spoke to them they would scent something
wrong, and, apprised of the change of fares, might wish to know more.
They might even decline to take her whither she bade them!
The difficulty was real, but for that very reason Sophia's courage
rose to meet it. At present she knew where she was; a minute or two
later she might not know. The sooner she took the route into her own
hands, therefore, the better it would be; and as the men turned from
the narrow street of Air into Brewer Street and swung to the right
towards Soho, she tapped the glass. The chair moved on. With
impatience, natural in the circumstances, Sophia tapped again and more
sharply. This time the front bearer heard, and gave the word. The
chair was set down, and the man, wiping his brow, raised the lid.
"What is it, my lady?" he said, with a rich Irish accent. "Shure, and
isn't it right ye are? If we went by Windmill Street, which some would
be for going, there's a sight of coaches that way."
"I don't want to go to King's Square," Sophia answered firmly.
"Eh, my lady, no? But you said 'Home.'"
"I want to go to the West End again," Sophia said.
"I've remembered something; I want to go to Davies Street."
"Faith, but it's a fine trate your ladyship's had," the Irishman
cried good-humouredly, "and finely I should be scolded if his noble
lordship your father knew 'twas with us you went; but it's home now
you must go; you've played truant long enough, my lady! And--holy
Mother!"--with a sudden exclamation--"'Tis not your ladyship! Oh, the
saints, Micky, she's changed!"
The second chairman came round the chair, stared, and rubbed his head;
and the two gazed in perplexity at poor Sophia, whose face alone
appeared above the side of the conveyance. "Take me to Davies Street
by Berkeley Square," she commanded, tapping the front impatiently. "To
Mr. Wollenhope's house. What does it matter to you where I go?"
"To Davies Street?"
"Yes; cannot you hear?"
"Faith, and I hear," the Irishman answered, staring. "But then, the
saints help us, 'tis not yourself. 'Twas her ladyship hired me to go
to Arlington Street, and to take her home, and it's not leaving her
I'll be!"
"But her ladyship lent me the chair!" Sophia cried desperately.
"She'll take another. Cannot you understand? She knows all about it.
Now take me to Davies Street."
Her voice trembled with anxiety, for at any moment she might be seen
and recognised. A lamp in an oilman's window, one of the few lights
that at long intervals broke the dull gloom of Brewer Street, shone on
the group. Already a couple of chairs had swung by, the carriers
casting, as they passed, a curious look at the stationary chair; and
now a coach, approaching from the Soho direction, was near at hand.
Every second she delayed there was a second on the rack. What would
Sir Hervey or Lord Lincoln, what would any of the hundred
acquaintances she had made since she came to town say of a girl found
unprotected, after nightfall, astray in the public streets?
Alas, the men still hesitated, and while they stood staring the coach
came up. Before Sophia could add reproaches to her commands, it was
checked opposite the group. The coachman leant down, and in a tone of
disappointment--as if it were only then he saw that the chair was
occupied--"You've a fare, have you?" he said. "You can't take a lady
to Crown Court, King Street?"
Before the Irishman could answer, "Here my man," a woman's voice cried
from the coach, "I want to go to Crown Court, St. James's, and the
coach can't enter. Double fare if you are quick! Here, let me out!"
"But, faith, ma'am, I've a fare," Mick cried.
"They've a fare," the coachman explained, leaning down anew.
"The fare can take my coach," the voice answered imperiously; and in a
twinkling, a smartly dressed woman, wearing red and white and plenty
of both, yet handsome after a fashion, had pushed, first her hoop and
then herself out of the coach. "See here, ma'am," she cried, seeing
Sophia's scared face, "the coach is paid, and will take you anywhere
in reason. 'Twill make no difference to you and all to me, and a mite
of good nature is never thrown away! I've to go where a coach cannot
go. Up a court, you understand."
Sophia hesitated. Why did not the lady, whose bold eyes did not much
commend her, pursue her way to Portugal Street, and descend there,
where chairs might be had in plenty? Or why, again, was she in such a
clamorous hurry and so importunate? On the other hand, if all were
right, nothing could have fallen out more happily for herself; it was
no wonder that, after a momentary hesitation, she gave a grudging
assent. One of the chairmen, who seemed willing enough to make the
change, opened the door; she stepped out and mechanically climbed into
the coach. "To Davies Street, Mayfair," she said, sinking back. "To
Mr. Wollenhope's, if you please."
Quickly as she took her part, the strange lady was quicker; in a
second she was in the chair and the chair was gone. It seemed to
vanish. A moment and the coach also started, and lumbered westwards
along Brewer Street. Now at last Sophia was at liberty to
consider--with no obstacle short of Mr. Wollenhope's door--how she
should present herself to her lover, and how it behoved him to receive
her.
She found it more easy to answer the second question than the first.
Well indeed she knew how it became him to receive her. If in men
survived any delicacy, any reverence, any gratitude, these were her
due who came to him thus; these must appear in his greeting, or the
worst guided, the most hapless of maids, was happy beside her. He must
show himself lover, brother, parent, friend, in his one person; for he
was her all. The tenderest homage, the most delicate respect, a tact
that foreran offence, a punctilio that saw it everywhere, the devotion
of a Craven, the gratitude of a Peterborough, were her right who came
to him thus, a maiden trusting in his honour. She was clear on this;
and not once or twice, but many times, many times as she pressed one
hand on the other and swallowed the tell-tale lump that rose and rose
in her throat, she swore that if she did not meet with these, if he
did not greet her with them, plain in eye and lip--aye, and with a
thousand dainty flowers of love, a thousand tender thoughts and
imaginings, not of her, but for her--she had better have been the mud
through which the wheels of her coach rolled!
It was natural enough that, so near, so very near the crisis, she
should feel misgiving. The halt in the dark street, the chill of the
night air, had left her shivering; had left her with an overwhelming
sense of loneliness and homelessness. The question was no longer how
to escape from a prison, but how, having escaped, she would be
received by him, who must be her all. The dice were on the table, the
throw had been made, and made for life; it remained only to lift the
box. For a little, a very little while, since a matter of minutes only
divided her from Davies Street, she hung between the old life and the
new, her heart panting vaguely for the sympathy that had been lacking
in the old life, for the love that the new life had in store. Would
she find them? Child as she was, she trembled now that she stood on
the brink. A few minutes and she would know. A few minutes, and----
The coach stopped suddenly, with a jerk that flung her forward. She
looked out, her heart beating. She was ready to descend. But surely
this was not Davies Street? The road was very dark. On the left, the
side on which the door opened, a dead wall, overhung by high trees,
confronted her.
"Where am I?" she cried, her hand on the fastening of the door, her
voice quivering with sudden fright. "We are not there?"
"You are as far as you'll go, mistress," a rough voice answered from
the darkness. "Sorry to alter your plans. A fine long chase you've
given us." And from the gloom at the horses' heads, two men advanced
to the door of the coach.
She took them for footpads. The dead wall had much the appearance of
the wall of Burlington Gardens, where it bounds Glasshouse Street; at
that spot, she remembered, a coach had been robbed the week before.
She prepared to give up her money, and was groping with a trembling
hand for a little knitted purse, when the men, still grumbling, opened
the door.
"I suppose you know what's what," the foremost said. "At suit of
Margott's of Paul's Churchyard. You'll go to my house, I take it?
You'll be more genteel there."
"I don't understand," Sophia muttered, her heart sinking.
"Oh, don't come the innocent over us!" the man answered coarsely.
"Here's the _capias_. Forty-eight, seven, six, debt and costs. It's my
house or the Marshalsea. One or the other, and be quick about it. If
you've the cash you'd better come to me."
"There's some mistake," Sophia gasped, involuntarily retreating into
the furthest corner of the coach. "You take me for some one else."
The bailiffs--for such they were--laughed at the joke. "I take you for
Mrs. Clark, alias Grocott, alias anything else you please," the
spokesman answered. "Come, no nonsense, mistress; it's not the first
time you've been behind bars. I warrant with that face you'll soon
find some one to open the door for you."
"But I'm not Mrs. Clark," Sophia protested. "I'm not indeed."
"Pooh, pooh!"
"I tell you I am not Mrs. Clark!" she cried. "Indeed, indeed, I am
not! It has nothing to do with me," she continued desperately. "Please
let me go on." And in great distress she tried to close the door on
them.
The bailiff prevented her. "Come, no nonsense, mistress," he repeated.
"These tricks won't serve you. We were waiting for you at the Ipswich
stage; you got the start there, and very cleverly, I will allow. But
my mate got the number of the coach, and if we had not overtaken you
here we'd have nabbed you in Davies Street. You see we know all about
you, and where you were bound. Now where's it to be?"
Sophia, at the mention of Davies Street, began to doubt her own
identity; but still repeated, with the fierceness of despair, that she
was not the person they sought. "I am not Mrs. Clark!" she cried. "I
only took this coach in Brewer Street. You can ask the coachman."
"Ah, I might, but I shouldn't get the truth!"
"But it is the truth!" Sophia cried piteously; truly punishment had
fallen on her quickly! "It is the truth! It is indeed!"
The bailiff seemed to be a little shaken by her earnestness. He
exchanged a few words with his fellow. Then, "We'll take the risk," he
said. "Will you come out, ma'am, or shall I come in?"
Sophia trembled. "Where are you going to take me?" she faltered.
"To my house, where it's ten shillings a day and as genteel company as
you'd find in St. James's!" the fellow answered. "S'help me, you'll be
at home in an hour! I've known many go in all of a shake, that with a
glass of mulled wine and cheerful company were as jolly by nightfall
as Miss at a fair!" And without waiting for more, the man climbed into
the coach and plumped down beside her.
Sophia recoiled with a cry of alarm. "La!" he said, with clumsy good
nature, "you need not be afraid. I'm a married man. You sit in your
corner, ma'am, and I'll sit in mine. Bless you, I'm sworn to do my
duty. Up you get, Trigg!"
The second bailiff mounted beside the coachman, the coach was turned,
and in a trice Sophia was once more trundling eastwards through the
streets. But in what a condition!
In the power of a vulgar catchpoll, on her way to a low sponging
house, she saw herself borne helpless past the house that, until
to-day, she had called her home! True, she had only to prove who she
was in order to be released. She had only to bid them turn aside and
stop at Mr. Northey's mansion, and a single question and answer would
set her free. But at what a cost! Overwhelmed and terrified, at her
wits' end how to bear herself, she yet shrank from such a return as
that!
Gladly would she have covered her face with her hands and wept tears
of bitter mortification. But the crisis was too sharp, the difficulty
too urgent for tears. What was she to do? Allow herself to be carried
to her destination, and there incarcerated with vile persons in a
prison which her ignorance painted in the darkest colours? Or avow the
truth, bid them take her to her brother-in-law's, and there drain the
cup of ignominy to the dregs? In either case decision must be speedy.
Already Arlington Street lay behind them; they were approaching St.
James's Church. They were passing it. Another minute and they would
reach the end of the Haymarket.
Suddenly she clapped her hands. "Stop!" she cried. "Tell them to stop!
There's Lane's. They know me there. They'll tell you that I am not the
person you think. Please stop!"
The bailiff nodded, put out his head, and gave the order. Then, as the
coach drew up to the shop, he opened the door, "Now, no tricks!
ma'am," he said. "If you go a yard from me I nab you. Smooth's my name
when I'm well treated; but if Mr. Lane knows you I'll take his word,
and ask your pardon. I'm not unreasonable."
Sophia did not pause to reply, but descended, and with hot cheeks
hurried across the roadway into the well-known silk-mercer's.
Fortunately, the shop, at certain times of the day the resort of
Piccadilly bloods, was deserted at this late hour. All the lamps but
one were extinguished, and by the light of this one, Mr. Lane and two
apprentices were stowing goods under the counter. A third young man
stood looking on and idly swinging a cane; but to Sophia's relief he
retired through the open door at the back, which revealed the cosy
lights of a comfortable parlour.
The tradesman advanced, bowing and rubbing his hands. "Dear me," he
said, "you are rather late, ma'am, but anything we can do--William,
relight the lamps."
"No," Sophia cried. "I do not want anything. I only--Mr. Lane," she
continued, blushing deeply, "will you be good enough to tell this
person who I am."
"Dear, dear, my lady," Mr. Lane exclaimed, becoming in a moment a very
Hector, "you don't mean that--what is this, my man, what does it mean?
Let me tell you I've several stout fellows on the premises, and----"
"No need," the bailiff answered gruffly. "I only want to know who
the--who the lady is." He looked crestfallen already. He saw by the
lamp-light that his prisoner was too young; a mere girl in her teens.
And his heart misgave him.
"This is Miss Maitland, sister-in-law to the honourable Mr. Northey,
of Arlington Street, and the House," the tradesman answered
majestically. "Now, my man, what is it?"
"You are sure that she is not a--a Mrs. Oriana Clark?" the bailiff
asked, consulting his writ for the name.
"No more than I am!" Mr. Lane retorted, sniffing contemptuously. "What
do you mean by such nonsense?"
"Nothing now," the discomfited bailiff answered; and muttering "I am
sure I beg her ladyship's pardon! Beg her pardon! No offence!" he bent
his head with ready presence of mind and hurried out of the shop; his
retreat facilitated by the fact that Sophia, overcome by her sudden
release, was seized with a fit of giddiness, which compelled her to
cling to the shop-board.
In a moment the good Lane was all solicitude. He placed a chair for
her, called for volatile salts, and bade them close the door into the
street. Sending the staring apprentices about their business, he
hustled out to procure some water; but in this he was anticipated by
the young man whom she had seen in the shop when she entered. Too
faint at the moment to remark from what hand she took it, Sophia
drank, and returned the glass. Then, a little revived by the draught,
and sensible of the absurdity of the position, she tried to rise, with
a smile at her weakness. But the young man who had brought the water,
and who had something of the air of a gentleman, foppishly and
effeminately dressed, implored her to sit awhile.
"Sure, ma'am, you can't be rested yet!" he cried, hanging over her
with a solicitude that seemed a little excessive. "Such an outrage on
divine beauty merits--stap me! the severest punishment. I shall not
fail, ma'am, to seek out the low beast and chastise him as he
deserves."
"There is no need," Sophia answered, looking at the spark with mild
surprise: she was still too faint to resent his manner. "I am better
now, I thank you, sir. I will be going."
"Stap me, not yet!" he cried effusively. "A little air, ma'am?" and he
fell to fanning her with his hat, while his black eyes languished on
hers. "'Twill bring back the colour, ma'am. Has your ladyship ever
tried Florence water in these attacks? It is a monstrous fine
specific, I am told."
"I am not subject to them," Sophia answered, forced to avert her eyes.
This movement, as it happened, brought her gaze to the open door of
the parlour; where, to her astonishment, she espied Mr. Lane,
standing, as it were, in ambush, dwelling on the scene in the shop
with a face of childish pleasure. Now he softly rubbed his hands; now
he nodded his head in an ecstasy. A moment Sophia watched him, her own
face in shadow; then she rose a little displeased, and more puzzled.
"I must go now," she said, bowing stiffly. "Be good enough to see if
my coach is there."
The beau, taken aback by her manner, turned to the silk mercer, who
came slowly forward. "Is her ladyship's coach there?" the young
gentleman cried with great stateliness.
Mr. Lane hurried obsequiously to the door, looked out, and returned.
"Dear, dear, ma'am," he said, "I fear those wretches took it. But I
can send for a chair."
"Call one, call one!" the gentleman commanded. "I shall see the lady
to her door."
"Oh, no, no!" Sophia answered quickly. "It is not necessary."
"It is very necessary at this hour," Mr. Lane interposed; and then
apologised for his intervention by rubbing his hands. "I could not
think of--of letting you go from here, ma'am, without an escort!" he
continued, with another low bow. "And this gentleman, Mr.----"
"Fanshaw, man, Fanshaw," the young spark said, stroking his cravat and
turning his head with an absurd air of importance. "Your humble
servant to command, ma'am. Richard Fanshaw, Esquire, of Warwickshire.
'Tis certain I must attend you so far; and--and oh, hang this!" he
continued, breaking off in a sudden fit of rage. For in the act of
bowing to her, he had entangled his sword in a roll of Lyons that
stood behind him. "Fellow, what the deuce do you mean by leaving
rubbish in a gentleman's way?" and he struggled furiously with it.
Sophia could scarcely forbear a smile as Mr. Lane ran to the rescue.
Yet with all his efforts
The bold knight was red
And the good stuff was shred
before the little beau was freed. He cursed all tailors, and, to hide
his confusion, hastened rather clumsily to hand her to the chair.
She was now in a new difficulty. Lane would give the order "Arlington
Street"; Mr. Fanshaw, smirking and tip-tapping at the side, would
insist on seeing her home. And she herself for an instant, as the cold
night air met her on the threshold of the oil-lit street, and she
shivered under its touch, hesitated. For an instant her fears pleaded
with her, bade her take warning from the thing that had already
befallen her, whispered "Home!" At that hour the future, mirrored on
the gloomy surface of the night-street, on the brink of which she
stood, seemed dark, forlorn, uncertain.
But her pride was not yet conquered; and without a vast sacrifice of
pride she could not return. Her escapade would be remembered against
her; she would be condemned for the attempt, and despised for its
failure. Home, in her case, meant no loving mother longing to forgive,
no fond tears, no kisses mingled with reproaches; but sneers and
stinging words, disgrace and exile, a child's punishment. Little
wonder that she grew hard again, since, on the other side, a girl's
first fancy beckoned roseate; or that, when she announced with an easy
air that she had to go to Davies Street, Mr. Lane detected nothing
suspicious in her tone.
"Dear, dear, ma'am, it's rather late," he said. "And the streets not
too secure. But Rich--Mr. Fanshaw will see you safe. Much honoured.
Oh, much honoured, I am sure, ma'am. Delighted to be of service. My
humble obedience to your sister and Mr. Northey."
A last backward glance as she was lifted and borne from the door
showed her Mr. Lane standing in his shop-entrance. He was looking
after her with the same face of foolish admiration which she had
before surprised; and she wondered afresh what it meant. Soon,
however, her thoughts passed from him to the over-dressed little fop
who had added himself to her train, and whose absurd attempts to
communicate with her as he strutted beside the glass, his sword under
his arm and his laced hat cocked, were almost as amusing as the air of
superb protection which he assumed when he caught her eye. Really, he
was too ridiculous. Moreover, she did not want him. His presence was
uncalled for now; and when she reached Davies Street, might involve
her in new embarrassment. She would have dismissed him, but she
doubted if he would go; and to open the glass and make the attempt
might only incite him to greater freedoms. Sophia bit her lip to
repress a smile; the little beau took the smile for encouragement, and
kissed his hand through the glass.