THE WELCOME HOME
"Your Grace is very good to call," Mrs. Northey said, working her fan
with a violence that betrayed something of the restraint which she was
putting on her feelings. "But, of course, the mischief is done now,
the girl is gone, and----"
"I know, my dear, I know," the duchess answered soothingly. "Believe
me, I am almost as sorry as if she were one of my own daughters."
"La, for the matter of that, it may be yet!" Mrs. Northey answered,
unable to behave herself longer. "Begging your Grace's pardon. Of
course, I hope not," she continued sourly, "but, indeed, and in truth,
young ladies who show the road are very apt to follow it themselves."
"Indeed, I fear that is so; too often," her Grace answered patiently.
"Too often!" She had come prepared to eat humble pie, and was not
going to refuse the dish.
"I hope, at any rate, that the young lady will take the lesson to
heart!" Mrs. Northey continued, with a venomous glance at Lady Betty;
who, much subdued, sat half-sullen and half-frightened on a stool
beside and a little behind her mother. "I hope so for her own sake."
"It is for that reason I brought her," the duchess said with dignity.
"She has behaved naughtily, very naughtily. His Grace is so angry that
he will not see her. To-morrow she goes into the country, where she
will return to the schoolroom until we leave town. I hope that that
and the scandal she has brought upon us may teach her to be more
discreet in future."
"And more steady! I trust it may," Mrs. Northey said, biting her lip
and looking daggers at the culprit. "I am sure she has done mischief
enough. But it is easier to do than to undo, as she would find to her
sorrow if it were her own case."
"Very true! Very true, indeed! Do you hear, miss?" the duchess asked,
turning and sharply addressing her daughter.
"Yes, ma'am," Lady Betty whispered meekly. Quick of fence as she was
with men, or with girls of her own age, she knew better than to
contradict her mother.
"Go, and sit in the window, then. No, miss, with your back to it. And
now," the duchess continued, when Lady Betty had withdrawn out of
earshot, "tell me what you wish to be known, my dear. Anything I can
do for the foolish child--she is very young, you know--I will do. And,
if I make the best of it, I have friends, and they will also make the
best of it."
But Mrs. Northey's face was hard as stone. "There is no best to it,"
she said.
"Oh, but surely in your sister's interest?" the duchess expostulated.
"Your Grace was misinformed. I have no sister," Mrs. Northey replied,
her voice a trifle high, and her thin nostrils more pinched than
usual. "From the moment Miss Maitland left this house in such a way as
to bring scandal on my husband's name, she ceased to be my sister.
Lord Northey has claims upon us. We acknowledge them."
The duchess stared, but did not answer.
"My husband has claims upon me, I acknowledge them," Mrs. Northey
continued with majesty.
The duchess still stared; her manner betrayed that she was startled.
"Well, of course," she said at last, "that is what we all wish other
people to do in these cases; for the sake of example, you know, and to
warn the--the young. But, dear me," rubbing her nose reflectively with
the corner of her snuff-box, "it's very sad! I don't know, I really
don't know that I should have the courage to do it--in Betty's case
now. His Grace would--would expect it, of course. But really I don't
know!"
"Your Grace is the best judge in your own case," Mrs. Northey said,
her breath coming a little quickly. "For our part," she added, looking
upward with an air of self-denial, "Mr. Northey and I have determined
to give no sanction to a connection so discreditable!"
The duchess had a vision of her own spoiled daughter laid ill in a
six-shilling lodging, of a mother stealing to her under cover of
darkness, and in his Grace's teeth; of a tiny baby the image of Betty
at that age. And she clutched her snuff-box tightly, "I suppose the
man is--is impossible?" she said impulsively.
"He is quite impossible."
"Mr. Northey has not seen him?"
"Certainly not," Mrs. Northey exclaimed, with a virtuous shudder.
"But if she--if she were brought to see what she has done in its true
light?" the duchess asked weakly; her motherly instinct still
impelling her to fight the young thing's battle.
"Not even then," Mrs. Northey replied with Roman firmness. "Under no
circumstances, no circumstances whatever, could Mr. Northey and I
countenance conduct such as hers."
"You are sure that there's--there's no mistake, my dear?"
"Not a shadow of a mistake!" madam answered with acrimony. "We have
traced her to the man's lodging. She reached it after dark, and
under--under the most disgraceful circumstances."
Mrs. Northey referred to the arrest by bailiffs, the news of which had
reached Arlington Street through Lane the mercer. But the duchess took
her to mean something quite different; and her Grace was shocked.
"Dear, dear," she said in a tone of horror; and looking instinctively
at her daughter, she wished that Lady Betty had not seen so much of
the girl, wished still more fervently that she had not mixed herself
up with her flight. "I am infinitely sorry to hear it," she said.
"Infinitely sorry! I confess I did not think her that kind of girl. My
dear, you have indeed my sympathy."
Mrs. Northey, though she knew quite well what the duchess was
thinking, shook her head as if she could add much more, but would not;
and the duchess, her apologies made, rose to take leave; resolved to
give her daughter such a wigging by the way as that young lady had
never experienced. But while they stood in the act of making their
adieux, Mr. Northey entered; and his dolorous head shaking, which
would have done credit to a father's funeral, detained her so long,
that she was still where he found her, when an exclamation from Lady
Betty, who had profited by her mother's engrossment to look out of the
window, startled the party.
"Oh, la, ma'am, here she is!" the girl cried. "I vow and declare she
is!"
"Betty!" her Grace cried sharply. "Remember yourself. What do you
mean? Come, we must be going."
"But, ma'am, she's at the door," Lady Betty replied with a giggle. And
turning and thrusting her muff into her mouth--as one well
understanding the crisis--she looked over it at the party, her eyes
bright with mischief.
Mrs. Northey's face turned quite white. "If this--if your daughter
means that the misguided girl is returning here," she cried, "I will
not have it."
"It is not to be thought of!" Mr. Northey chimed in. "She would not
have the audacity," he added more pompously, "after her behaviour."
And he was moving to the window--while the kind-hearted duchess wished
herself anywhere else--when the door opened, and the servant
announced, "Sir Hervey Coke!"
The duchess gave vent to a sigh of relief, while the Northeys looked
daggers at Lady Betty, the author of the false alarm. Meantime Coke
advanced, his hat under his arm. "I am really no more than an
ambassador," he said gaily. "My principal is downstairs waiting leave
to ascend. Duchess, your humble servant! Lady Betty, yours--you grow
prettier every day. Mrs. Northey, I have good news for you. You will
be glad to hear that you were misinformed as to the object of your
sister's departure from the house--about which you wrote to me."
"Misinformed!" Mrs. Northey exclaimed with a freezing look. "I was
misinformed, sir?"
"Completely, at the time you wrote to me," Sir Hervey answered,
smiling on the party. "As you will acknowledge in one moment."
"On whose authority, pray?" with a sniff.
"On mine," Coke replied. "'Twas an odd coincidence that you wrote to
me, of all people."
"Why, sir, pray?"
"Because----" he began; and there he broke off and turned to the
duchess, who had made a movement as if she would withdraw. "No," he
said, "I hope your Grace will not go. The matter is not private."
"Private?" Mrs. Northey cried shrilly--she could control her feelings
no longer. "The hussy has taken good care it shall not be that!
Private, indeed? It is not her fault if there is a man in the town who
is ignorant of her disgrace!"
"Nay, ma'am, softly, if you please," Sir Hervey interposed, with the
least touch of sternness in his tone. "You go too far."
Mrs. Northey glared at him; she was pale with anger. "What?" she
cried. "Hoity-toity! do you think I shall not say what I like about my
own sister?"
"But not about my wife!" he answered firmly.
She stepped back as if he had aimed a blow at her, so great was her
surprise. "What?" she shrieked. "Your wife?" While the others looked
at him, thunderstruck; and Lady Betty, who, on the fringe of the
group, was taking in all with childish dilated eyes, uttered a scream
of delight.
"Your wife?" Mr. Northey gasped.
"Precisely," Coke answered. "My wife."
But Mrs. Northey could not, would not, believe it. She thought that he
was lending himself to some cunning scheme; some plan for bringing
about a reconciliation. "Your wife?" she repeated. "Do you mean that
Sophia, my sister----"
"Preferred a quiet wedding _a deux_," he answered, helping himself to
a pinch of snuff, and smiling slightly, as at the recollection. "Your
Grace will understand," he continued, turning with easy politeness to
the duchess, "how it amused me to read Mrs. Northey's letter under
such circumstances."
But Mrs. Northey was furious. "If this be true," she said hoarsely,
"but I do not believe it is, why did you do it? Tell me that? Until I
know that I shall not believe it!"
Sir Hervey shrugged his shoulders. "Mr. Northey will believe it, I am
sure," he said, with a look in that gentleman's direction. "For the
rest, ma'am, it was rather Lady Coke's doing than mine. She heard that
her brother was about to make a ruinous marriage, and discovered that
he was actually in the company and under the influence of the
Irishman, Hawkesworth, whom you know. There were those who should more
properly have made the effort to save him, but these failed him; and
the result of it was, thanks to her, he was saved. Thanks to her, and
to her only," Sir Hervey repeated with a look, beneath which Mr.
Northey quailed, and his wife turned green with rage, "since, as I
said, those who should have interfered did not. But this effected, and
Keith, who should have married her brother, being in attendance--well,
we thought it better to avail ourselves of his services. 'Twould have
been a pity, your Grace, to lose a guinea," Coke added, his eyes
twinkling, as he turned to the duchess. "It was the best instance I've
ever known of 'a guinea in time saves ninety!'"
The duchess laughed heartily. "'Twas cheap at any rate, Sir Hervey,"
she said. "I am sure for my part I congratulate you."
"I don't!" Mrs. Northey cried, before he could answer. "She has
behaved abominably! Abominably!" she repeated, her voice quivering
with spite. For, strange human nature! here was the match made, on
making which she had set her heart; yet so far was she from being
pleased, or even satisfied, she could have cried with mortification.
"She has behaved infamously!"
"Tut, tut!" Sir Hervey cried.
But the angry woman was not to be silenced. "I shall say it!" she
persisted. "I think it, and I shall say it."
"Of Miss Maitland, as often as you please," he retorted, bowing. "Of
Lady Coke only at your husband's peril. Of course, if you do not wish
to receive her, ma'am, that is another matter."
But on this Mr. Northey interposed. "No, no," he cried, fussily. "Mrs.
Northey is vexed, if I may say so, not unnaturally vexed by the lack
of confidence in her, which Sophia has shown. But that--that is quite
another thing from--from disowning her. No, no, let me be the first to
wish you happiness, Coke!" And with an awkward essay at heartiness,
and an automaton-like grin, he shook Sir Hervey by the hand. "I'll
fetch her up," he continued, "I'll fetch her up! My dear, ahem!
Congratulate Sir Hervey. It is what we wanted from the first, and
though it has not come about quite as we expected, nothing could give
us greater pleasure. It's an alliance welcome in every respect. Yes,
yes, I'll bring her up."
He hurried away, while the duchess hastened to add a few words of
further congratulation, and Mrs. Northey stood silent and waiting, her
face now red, now pale. She had every reason to be satisfied, for
except in the matter of Tom--and there Sophia had thwarted her selfish
plans--all had turned out as she wished. But not through her, there
was the rub! On the contrary, she had been duped, she felt it. She had
been tricked into betraying how little heart she had, how little
affection for her sister; and bitterly she resented the exposure.
But even her face cleared in a degree when Sophia appeared. As the
girl moved forward on Sir Hervey's arm--who went gallantly to the door
to meet her--so far from exhibiting the blushing pride of a woman vain
of her conquest, glorying in the trick she had played the world, she
showed but the timid, frightened face of a shrinking child. Her eyes
sought the floor, nervously; her bearing was the farthest removed from
exultation it was possible to conceive. So different, indeed, was she
from all they had looked to see in the new Lady Coke, the heroine of
this odd romance, that even Mrs. Northey found the cold reconciliation
on which her husband was bent more feasible, the frigid kiss more
possible than she had thought; while to the duchess the bride's aspect
seemed so unnatural, that she drew Sir Hervey aside and questioned him
keenly.
"What have you done to her?" she said. "That a runaway bride? Why, if
she had been dragged to the altar and sold to a Jew broker she could
hardly look worse, or more down-hearted! Sho, man, what is it?"
"She's troubled about her brother," Coke explained elaborately. "She's
saved him from a wretched match, but he's taken himself off, and we
don't know where to look for him."
The good-natured duchess struck him on the shoulder with her fan.
"Fudge!" she cried. "Her brother? I don't believe it."
"My dear duchess," Coke remonstrated. "Half a dozen witnesses are
prepared to swear to it."
"I don't believe it any the more for that!"
"You think she's unhappy?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well," Sir Hervey answered, and for a moment a gleam which the
duchess could not interpret, shone in his eyes, "wait six months! If
she is not happy then--I mean," he added, hastily correcting himself,
"if she does not look happy then, I have made a mistake."
The duchess stared. "Or she?"
"No, I," he answered, almost in a whisper. "I only, duchess."
She nodded, understanding somewhat; not all. "Oh!" she said; and
looked him over, considering what kind of a lover she would have
thought him in the old days when all men presented themselves in
that capacity, and were measured by maiden eyes. She found him
satisfactory. "What are your plans?" she said.
"I am going to Coke Hall to-night, to give the necessary orders. There
are changes to be made."
"Quick work!" she said smiling. "Leaving her?"
"Yes."
"You are not killing her with kindness then, my friend?"
"She will follow in two or three days."
"In the meantime--does she stay here?" she asked; with a glance round
the room that said much.
"Well, no," Sir Hervey answered slowly, his face growing hard. "I
don't quite know--it has all been very sudden, you know."
"I'll take her if you like," the duchess said impulsively.
Sir Hervey's face grew pink. "You dear, good, great lady!" he said.
"Will you do that?"
"For you, I will," she said, "if it will help you?"
"Will it not," he cried; and, stooping over her hand, he kissed it
after the fashion of the day; but a little more warmly--we were going
to say, a little more warmly than the duke would have approved.
While they talked, Mrs. Northey had left the room, to take order
for "my lady's" packing; and Mr. Northey, who was dying for a word
with her on the astonishing event, had followed, after murmuring an
apology and an indistinct word about a carriage. Sophia was thus left
_tete-a-tete_ with the one person in the room who had not approached
her, or offered felicitation or compliment; but who now, after
assuring herself by a hurried glance that the duchess was out of
hearing, hastened to deliver her mind.
"Wait till you want to elope again, miss," Lady Betty hissed, in a
fierce whisper. "And see if I'll help you! Oh, you deceitful cat, you!
To trick me with a long story of your lover and your wrongs, and your
dear, dear Irishman! And then to come back 'my lady,' and we're all to
bow down to you. Oh, you false, humdrum creature!"
Sophia, in spite of her depression, could not refrain from a smile.
"My dear Lady Betty," she whispered gratefully. "I shall ever remember
your kindness."
"Don't Lady Betty me, miss!" the girl retorted, thrusting her pretty,
eager face close to the other's. "Do you know that I am to go into the
country, ma'am? and be put to school again, and the blackboard; and
lose the Ridotto on the 17th, and the frolic at the King's House Miss
Ham had arranged--and all for helping you? All for helping you, ma'am!
See if I ever do a good-natured thing again, as long as I live!"
"My poor Lady Betty! I am so sorry!"
"But that's not all," the angry little beauty cried. "Didn't you lead
me to think, ma'am--oh yes, madam, you are now," with a swift little
curtsey--"to think that 'twas all for love and the world lost! That
'twas a dear delicious elopement, almost as good as running away
myself! And that all the town would be wild to hear of it, and every
girl envy me for being in it! Romance? And the world well lost! Oh,
you deceitful madam! But see if I ever speak to you again! That's all,
my lady!"
Sophia, with a smile that trembled on the brink of tears, was about to
crave her pardon, when the approach of the duchess and Sir Hervey
closed her mouth. "Your sister has gone upstairs?" her Grace said.
"Only to take order for my packing," Sophia answered.
"I have just been talking to your husband," the duchess continued, and
smiled faintly at the hot blush that at the word rose to Sophia's
brow. "If you are willing, my dear, you shall keep Lady Betty company
until he returns."
"Returns?" Sophia exclaimed.
"From Coke Hall," Sir Hervey interposed glibly. "Whither I must go
to-night, sweet, to give orders for our reception. In the meantime the
duchess has most kindly offered to take care of you, and has also
promised that when you go into the country Lady Betty shall go with
you and keep you company until the duke leaves town."
The tears rose in Sophia's eyes at this double, this wonderful proof
of his thought for her; and through her tears her eyes thanked him
though it was only by a swift glance, averted as soon as perceived. In
a tremulous voice she made her acknowledgments to the duchess. It was
most kind of her Grace. And any--any arrangement that Sir Hervey
thought fit to make for her--would be to her liking.
"Dear me," the duchess said laughing, "a most obedient wife. My dear,
how long do you think you will play the patient Grizel?"
Poor Sophia drooped, blushing under the question, but was quickly
relieved by Lady Betty. "Oh la!" the young lady cried, "am I really,
really, to go with her? When ma'am? When?"
"When I choose," the duchess answered sharply. "That's enough for you.
Thank your stars, and Sir Hervey, miss, that it's not back to the
schoolroom, as it was to be."
"Yes, ma'am," Lady Betty murmured obediently.
But a little later, when they were alone together in her room, she
fell upon Sophia, and pinched and tweaked her in a way that implied a
full pardon. "Oh, you double-faced madam!" she cried. "You sly thing!
But I'll be even with you! I'll make love to him before your eyes, see
if I don't! After all I like him better than O'Rourke! You remember:
"'O'Rourke's noble fare
Will ne'er be forgot,
By those who were there
And those who were not!'
For Coke, he's as grave as grave! But he's a dear for all that!"
"A dear!" Sophia repeated, opening her eyes.
"Yes, a dear! Not that you need be proud, my lady! I'll soon have his
heart from you, see if I don't. What'll you say to that?"
But Lady Coke, from whom Sir Hervey had parted gravely a few minutes
before, did not answer. She sat silent, conjuring up his face--in a
new light. She did not acknowledge that he was a dear. She felt the
same shrinking from him, the same fear of him, that had depressed her
from the moment she knew the knot tied, the thing done. But she began
to see him in a new light. The duchess liked him, and Lady Betty
thought him a dear? Would Lady Betty--even Lady Betty have taken him?
* * * * *
At that moment, in the little house at the end of Clarges Row, three
persons sat vowing vengeance over Tom's wedding feast. One with the
rage of a gamester baffled by an abnormal run of the cards, beaten by
the devil's own luck, breathed naught but flames and fury, pistols,
and nose-slitting. The second, who stormed and wept by turns, broke
things with her hands and gnawed them, in futile passion, with her
strong white teeth, could have kissed him for that last word. The
third, mulcted in purse, and uncertain on whom to turn, chattered
impotent, senile curses. "I shall die a beggar!" he cried; and cursed
his companions. "I shall die in a ditch! But I'll not die alone, I'll
not be the only one to suffer!"
"By G----d, I'll show you better than that!" the Irishman answered
between oaths. "They are three and we are three. Wait! I'll have them
watched every minute of the day, and by-and-by it'll be our turn. A
little money----"
"Money!" old Grocott shrieked, clawing the air. And he got up
hurriedly, and sat down again. "Always money! More money! But you'll
have none of mine! Not a farthing! Not a farthing more!"
"Why not, fool, if it will bring in a thousand per cent.," Hawkesworth
growled. The thin veneer of fashion that had duped poor Sophia was
gone. With the loss of the venture, on which he had staked his all,
the man stood forth a plain unmitigated ruffian. "Why not?" he
continued, bending his brows. "D'you think anything is to be done
without money? And I shall risk more than money, old skinflint!"
The woman looked at the man, her eyes gleaming; her face, under the
red that splashed it, was livid. "What'll you do?" she muttered,
"what'll you do?" She had been--almost a lady. The chance would never,
never, never recur! When she thought of what she had lost, and how
nearly she had won it, she was frantic. "What'll you do?" she
repeated.
"Hark, I hear the sound of coaches
The hour of attack approaches,
And turns our lead to gold!"
Hawkesworth hummed for answer. "Gold is good, but I'll wait my
opportunity, and I'll have gold and--a pound of flesh!"
"Ah!" she said thirstily. And then to her father: "Do you hear, old
man? You'll give him what he wants."
"I'll not!" he screamed. "I shall die a beggar! I shall die in a
ditch! I tell you I----" his voice suddenly quavered off as he met his
daughter's eyes. He was silent.
"I think you will," she said.
"I think so," the Irishman murmured grimly.