The Grand Sophy

Chapter 8

THE TWO ladies did not meet again until the day of the expedition to Merton, Miss Wraxton, convinced that she had become notorious, having decided to pay a long deferred visit to her elder sister, who lived in Kent, and was famous for turning her guests to good account. Eugenia was not fond of running Lady Louisa’s errands or of playing with her numerous offspring, but she was strongly of the opinion that she would be wise to absent herself from London until the inevitable whisperings had died down. The Rivenhalls thus enjoyed immunity from her punitive descents upon them for seven whole days, which was felt by almost all to be an advantage far outweighing the ills of Sophy’s indiscretion. This did not reach the ears of Lady Ombersley, but was naturally known to the younger members of the household, some of whom were much shocked, while others, notably Hubert and Selina, considered that their cousin had taken a splendid lark. No apparent repercussions followed her exploit, and although she was obliged to endure much chaffing from her young relatives, even this very soon took a turn in another direction. A much more fruitful topic for jests presented itself in the shape of young Lord Bromford, who swam suddenly into the Rivenhalls’ ken, and was regarded by them as so much manna dropped from heaven.

Lord Bromford, who was almost unknown to the Polite World, had but lately, upon the death of his father, succeeded to a modest barony. He was the only surviving child of his parents, every one of his brothers and sisters (varying in number, according to popular report from seven to seventeen) having died in infancy. It may have been for this reason that his mother had from the start deemed him unfit to be wrested from her care. No other reason was observable; although, as Sophy fair-mindedly pointed out to her cousins, a florid complexion and a full habit of body were not infallible signs of a robust constitution. He had been educated at home, and although there had been a project afoot to send him up to Oxford, a providential chill had intervened to save him from the perils of University life. It was well known to Lord Bromford that his heir’s lungs were delicate, and it was only necessary for Lady Bromford to point out to him every day for several weeks the evils that would accrue from exposing Henry to the rigors of Oxford to induce him to give his consent to an alternative plan.

Henry, accompanied by a clerical gentleman in whom Lady Bromford reposed the greatest confidence, was sent to Jamaica, on a visit to his uncle, the Governor. The climate was said to be beneficial to persons with weak lungs, and it was not until Henry had been four days at sea that his mama discovered that the island was periodically devastated by hurricanes. It was then too late to recall Henry, who proceeded on his voyage, being extremely seasick, but arriving at Port Royal without any trace of the cough which had cast his mama into such a fever of anxiety. No hurricane occurred during his visit to sweep him away, and when he returned to England, a few months before attaining his majority, he was so stout that his mama was able to congratulate herself on the success of her scheme. She did not immediately perceive that his eighteen-month sojourn apart from her had had the effect of making him occasionally disinclined to submit to her benevolent rule. On her advice, he changed his socks, wound mufflers round his neck, swathed his legs in warm rugs, and eschewed all harmful forms of sustenance; but when she advised him not to subject his person to the racket of London he said, after due consideration, that he rather thought he should like to live in London; and when she proposed a very eligible match for him, he said he was much obliged to her, but had not yet made up his mind what sort of a female he wished to marry. He did not argue. He merely turned his back on the eligible match and took up his residence in London. His mother began to tell her friends that Henry could be led but not driven; his valet, a plain-spoken man, said that his lordship was as obstinate as a pig.

He had been upon the town for some time before the Rivenhalls were more than vaguely aware of his existence, His intimates (whom Hubert stigmatized as a dull set of gudgeons) were not among their particular friends, and it was not until he met Sophy at Almack’s, and stood up with her in a country dance, that the full glory of his personality burst upon them.

For Lord Bromford, impervious alike to Cecilia’s beauty and to the eligibility of his mama’s choice, had made up his mind that Sophy would make him a suitable wife. He called in Berkeley Square, and at a moment when Hubert and Selina were with Lady Ombersley. He stayed for half an hour, imparting information to his hosts on such varied topics as the vegetation in Jamaica and the effects of paregoric draughts upon the human system, and the Rivenhalls listened to him in stunned indignation until Sophy entered the room. Then the scales fell from before their eyes and they perceived why his lordship had honored them with a morning call, and their boredom changed to unholy glee. Sophy’s beau became in a trice the solid foundation upon which a lively set of young persons built the most preposterous of fabrications.

No street singer could lift his voice in the Square but what Hubert or Cecilia would declare it to be Lord Bromford serenading Sophy; when he was confined to his house for three days with an internal disorder he was held to have fought a duel for the sake of her fine eyes; and the serial story of his adventures in the West Indies, conceived, added to, and improved upon by three fertile brains, grew so outrageous as to draw protests from Lady Ombersley and Miss Adderbury. But Lady Ombersley, though she might deprecate such an excess of high spirits, could not help but be amused by the determination shown by Lord Bromford in his pursuit of her niece. He was forever calling in Berkeley Square on the most slender of pretexts; he daily promenaded in the Park only to waylay Sophy and be taken up into her phaeton; he even purchased a showy hack, and rode solemnly up and down the Row every morning in the hope that she might be exercising Salamanca there.

More wonderful still, he prevailed upon his mama to cultivate the acquaintance of Lady Ombersley and to invite Sophy to go with her to one of the Concerts of Ancient Music. He was impervious to snubs, and when his mama hinted to him that Sophy would scarcely make a suitable wife for a serious man, being wholly given over to frivolity, he said that he was confident that he would be able to direct her thoughts into more sober channels.

The cream of the jest, thought the young Rivenhalls, was that Charles, in general so impatient of pretension, was, for inscrutable reasons, encouraging his lordship. Charles said that there was a great deal of good in Lord Bromford. He said that Lord Bromford’s conversation showed him to be sensible and that his descriptions of Jamaica were extremely interesting. Only Selina (who was growing up, Charles said, to be disagreeably pert) ventured to observe that Lord Bromford’s entrance into the house seemed to be the signal for Charles’s departure for his club.

What with his lordship’s courtship, the plans for the ball, the stream of visitors to the house, even Sophy’s indiscretion, life in Berkeley Square had become all at once full of fun and excitement. Even Lord Ombersley was aware of it. “By God, I don’t know what’s come over you all, for the place was used to be as lively as a tomb,” he declared. “I’ll tell you what, Lady Ombersley. I daresay I can prevail upon York to look in on your party. Nothing formal, y’know, but he’s fixed in Stableyard for the present and will very likely be pleased enough to drop in for half an hour.”

“Prevail upon the Duke of York to come to my party?” echoed Lady Ombersley, in the greatest astonishment. “My dear Ombersley, you must be out of your senses. Ten, or perhaps twelve couples, getting up a dance in the drawing room, and a couple of card tables set out in the Crimson Saloon! I beg you will do no such thing!”

“Ten or twelve couples? No, no, Dassett would not be talking of red carpets and awnings for such a paltry affair as that!” said his lordship.

These ominous words struck a chill into his wife’s soul. Beyond fixing the date for the party, and warning Cecilia not to forget to send a card to a very dull girl, who was her goddaughter, and must be invited, she had not as yet thought much about the engagement. She now nerved herself to ask her niece how many people were expected on the fatal night. The answer almost brought on one of her spasms. She was obliged to drink a little hartshorn and water, thoughtfully pressed into her hand by Cecilia, before she could recover herself sufficiently to protest. She sat, alternately sipping the hartshorn and sniffing her vinaigrette, and moaning that she shuddered to think what Charles would say. It took Sophy twenty minutes to convince her that since he was not to be asked to defray the expenses of the entertainment, it was no concern of his, and even then Lady Ombersley dreaded the inevitable moment of discovery and could scarcely see him walk into the room without giving a nervous start.

Fortunately for the success of the expedition, the truth had not dawned upon Charles when the Ombersley party set out to visit the Marquesa de Villancanas at Merton. The omens seemed to be propitious. The Marquesa had written a very pretty letter to Lady Ombersley, expressing her pleasure in the proposed meeting and begging her bring with her many of her interesting children as would care to come; the sun shone, and the day was warm, with no threat of showers; and Miss Wraxton, who had returned to the metropolis in time to share in the treat, was in her most amiable humor, not even excluding Sophy from her good graces.

At the last moment, Hubert suddenly announced his intention accompanying the party, saying the he too wanted to see giraffe. Sophy frowned him down, and as his mother had not caught what he said, but at once began to express delight in having his company, the awkward moment passed unnoticed. Mr. Rivenhall, having greeted Sir Vincent Talgarth with perfect civility, was standing exchanging conversation with him while the three ladies who were to drive in the landaulet arranged themselves in it, Miss Wraxton begging to be allowed to take the back seat, and Cecilia insisting that she should not. Everything seemed to be in train for a day of enjoyment when Mr. Fawnhope came round the corner of the Square, saw the cavalcade, and at once crossed the road toward it.

Mr. Rivenhall’s face hardened; he shot an accusing look at Sophy, but she shook her head. Mr. Fawnhope, shaking hands with Lady Ombersley, asked whither she was bound. She told him, Merton, and he said elliptically, “Statutes. Nolumus leges Angliae mutare.”

“Very likely,” said Lady Ombersley almost tartly. Miss Wraxton, who could never resist the temptation to display her superior education, smiled quite kindly at Mr. Fawnhope, and said, “Very true. King John, you know, is said to have slept at the priory the night before he signed the Great Charter. It is a very historic spot, for we are told that it was the scene of the murder of Cenulph, King of Wessex. It has, of course, more recent historic associations,” she added, but repressively, for these more recent historic associations regrettably included a quite unmentionable female.

“Nelson!” said Mr. Fawnhope. “Romantic Merton! I will go with you.” He then climbed into the carriage and took his place beside Cecilia, smiling seraphically at Lady Ombersley, and saying, “Now I know what it is I wish to do. I had no notion when I got up this morning but was filled with a vast discontent. I will go to Merton.”

“You cannot wish to go to Merton!” said Lady Ombersley, very much put out, and hoping that Charles would not put her to the blush by saying something cutting to this tiresome young man.

“Yes,” said Mr. Fawnhope. “There will be verdure, and that, I think, is what my soul craves. I, with my fair Cecilia, to Merton now will go, Where softly flows the Wandle, and daffodils that blow — What an ugly word is Wandle! How displeasing to the ear! Why do you frown at me? May I not go with you?”

This sudden change from rapt poet into cajoling boy threw Lady Ombersley off her balance, and she replied in a mollified voice, “I am sure we should be pleased to take you, Augustus, but we are going to visit the Marquesa de Villacañas, and she will not be expecting you.”

“Now there,” said Mr. Fawnhope, “is a beautiful name! Villacañas! It is most rich! A Spanish lady, with ‘garments gay and rich as maybe, Decked with jewels had she on!’”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Lady Ombersley crossly. Sophy, much amused by Mr. Fawnhope’s utter imperviousness to hints that he was not wanted, said laughingly, “Yes, pearls worth a king’s ransom. She even loves an English man, my father!”

“How splendid!” said Mr. Fawnhope. “I am so glad I came!”

Short of ordering him point-blank to get out of the carriage, there seemed to be no way of getting rid of him. Lady Ombersley cast her eldest son a despairing glance and Cecilia an imploring one; and Miss Wraxton smiled in a reassuring way that was designed to show him how perfect was her comprehension and how firm her resolve to keep an eye on Cecilia.

“Who is this Adonis?” Sir Vincent asked Mr. Rivenhall. “He and your sister, seated side by side, quite take one’s breath away!”

“Augustus Fawnhope,” replied Mr. Rivenhall curtly. “Cousin, if you are ready, I will hand you up!”

Lady Ombersley, gathering that she had received a tacit consent to Mr. Fawnhope’s presence, told her coachman to start, Sir Vincent and Hubert fell in behind the carriage, and Mr. Rivenhall said to Sophy, “If this is your doing — !”

“I promise you it is not. If I thought that he had the smallest notion of your hostility, I should say that he had rolled you up, Charles, foot and guns!”

He was obliged to laugh. “I doubt if he would have the smallest notion of anything less violent than a blow from a cudgel. How you can tolerate the fellow!”

“I told you that I was not at all nice in my ideas. Come, don’t let us talk of him! I have sworn an oath to heaven not to quarrel with you today.”

“You amaze me! Why?”

“Don’t be such an ape!” she begged. “I want to drive your grays, of course!”

He took his place beside her in the curricle and nodded to the groom to stand away from the grays’ heads. “Oh, that! When we are clear of the town, you shall do so.”

“That,” said Sophy, “is a remark calculated, I daresay, to make me lose my temper at the outset. I shall not do it, however.”

“I don’t doubt your skill,” he said.

“A handsome admission. It cost you an effort to make it, perhaps, and that makes it the more valuable. But the roads are so good in England that not much skill is required. You should see some of the tracks in Spain!”

“Deliberate provocation, Sophy!” said Mr. Rivenhall. She laughed, disclaimed, and began to ask him about hunting.

Once beyond the narrow streets he let his horses lengthen their stride, and overtook, and passed the landaulet. Miss Wraxton was seen to be conversing amicably with Mr. Fawnhope, while Cecilia was looking bored. The reason was explained by Hubert, who rode beside the curricle for a little way and disclosed that the subject under discussion was Dante’s Inferno. “And this I will say for Fawnhope!” he added handsomely. “He knows that Italian stuff much better than your Eugenia, Charles, and can go on at it for hours, never at a loss! What’s more, there’s another fellow, called Uberti, or some such thing, and he knows him too. Sad stuff, if you ask me, but Talgarth — I say, he’s a bang-up fellow, isn’t he? — says he’s devilish well read. Cecilia don’t like it above half. Jupiter, I should laugh if Eugenia were to cut her out with the poet!”

Receiving no encouragement from his brother to expatiate on this theme, he fell behind again to rejoin Sir Vincent. Mr. Rivenhall handed over the reins to Sophy, observing as he did so that he was glad not to be sitting in the landaulet. She refrained from making any comment, and the rest of the drive passed very pleasantly, no controversial topics arising to mar the good relations between them.

The house procured for the Marquesa by Sir Horace was a spacious Palladian villa, prettily situated in charming gardens, and with a bluebell wood attached, which, though fenced off from the pleasure grounds, could be reached through some graceful iron gates, brought from Italy by a previous owner. A few shallow steps led up from the carriage sweep to the front door, and this, upon the’ approach of the curricle, was flung open, and a thin man, dressed in black, came out of the house, and stood bowing on the top step. Sophy greeted him in her usual friendly fashion, and at once asked where Mr. Rivenhall could stable his horses. The thin man snapped an imperative finger and thumb, rather in the manner of a conjuror, and a groom seemed to spring up out of nowhere, and ran to the grays’ heads.

“I’ll see them stabled, Sophy, and come in presently with my mother,” Mr. Rivenhall said.

Sophy nodded, and walked up the steps, saying, “There are two more in the party than you were expecting, Gaston. You won’t mind that, I daresay.”

“It makes nothing, mademoiselle,” he replied grandly. “Madame awaits you in the salon.”

The Marquesa was discovered reclining upon a sofa in a drawing room facing the south lawn. The April sunshine was not overpowering, but the blinds had been drawn a little way across the windows to exclude it. As these were green, like the upholstery on the chairs, a sub aqueous light dimly lit the apartment. Sophy immediately flung back the curtains, exclaiming as she did so, “Sancia, you cannot go to sleep when your visitors are almost at the door!”

A faint moan came from the sofa. “Sophie, my complexion! Nothing so injurious as sunshine! How often have I said it?”

Sophy walked over to her and bent to kiss her. “Yes, dearest Sancia, but my aunt will think you quite odd if you lie there in darkness while she gropes her way to you by guess. Do get up!”

“Bien entendido I get up when your aunt approaches,” said the Marquesa, with dignity. “If she is at the door, it shall be now. I grudge no effort.”

In proof of this statement she disentangled a singularly beautiful embroidered shawl from about her feet, dropped it on the floor, and allowed Sophy to help her to rise. She was an opulent brunette, dressed more in the French style than the English, and with her luxuriant black locks covered only by a mantilla, draped over a high comb. Her gown was of gauze over satin, drawn in tightly below her full breasts, and revealing a good deal more of her shape than Lady Ombersley was likely to think seemly. This, however, was slightly concealed by the various scarves and shawls which she draped round herself as protection against treacherous draughts. The mantilla was pinned to her low corsage by a large emerald brooch; more emeralds, set in massive gold, dangled from the lobes of her ears; and she wore her famous pearls, twisted twice round her throat, and hanging almost to her waist. She was extremely handsome, with large, sleepy brown eyes, and a creamy complexion, delicately tinted by the hand of an artist. She was little more than thirty-five, but her plumpness made her appear to be older. She did not look in the least like a widow, which was the first thought that occurred to Lady Ombersley when she presently entered the room and took the languid hand held out to her.

“Comoestá?” she said, in her rich, lazy voice. This terrified Hubert, who had been assured that she spoke excellent English. He cast a burning look of reproach at Sophy, who at once intervened, calling her future stepmother to order. The Marquesa smiled placidly, and said, “De seguro! I speak French and English, and both very well. Also German, but that not so well, yet better than most people. It is a profound happiness to meet the sister of Sir Horace, though you do not, I find, resemble him, senora. Valgam! Are these then all your sons and daughters?”

Lady Ombersley made haste to reassure her and to perform the necessary introductions. The Marquesa lost interest in these before very long, but smiled in a general way upon her guests, and begged them all to sit down. Sophy reminded her that in Sir Vincent she beheld an old acquaintance, so she gave him her hand and said that she remembered him perfectly. No one believed her, least of all Sir Vincent; but when she had been reminded of a certain evening on the Prado, she began to laugh, and said yes, now indeed she did remember him, pechero that he was! She then, having had time to assimilate the perfection of Cecilia’s features, complimented Lady Ombersley on her beauty, which, she said, was in the best English style and much admired upon the Continent. Apparently feeling that something was due to Miss Wraxton, she smiled kindly at her and said that I she also was very English. Miss Wraxton, who did not grudge Cecilia her beauty (for she had been brought up to think beauty only skin deep), replied that she feared that she was not above the ordinary and that in England the fashion was for dark women.

This subject having been pretty well thrashed out, silence fell, the Marquesa lying back against the cushions in one corner of the sofa, and Lady Ombersley wondering what topic of conversation would interest this lethargic lady. Mr. Fawnhope, who had retired to the brocade-covered window seat, sat gazing out upon the verdure his soul craved; Hubert regarded his hostess with a fascinated eye; and Mr. Rivenhall, adapting himself to his company, picked up a periodical from the table at his elbow and casually flicked over the pages. It was left to Miss Wraxton, with her fine social sense, to fill the breach, which she did by telling the Marquesa that she was a great admirer of Don Quixote.

“All the English are,” responded the Marquesa, a little amused. “And they will none of them say that name correctly. In Madrid, when the English army was there, every officer told me that he so much admired Cervantes, though mostly it was not true. But we have also Quevedo, and Espinel, and Montelban, to name only a few. In poetry, too — ”

“El Fenix de Espana,” interpolated Mr. Fawnhope, suddenly entering into the conversation.

The Marquesa looked approvingly at him. “That is so. You are familiar with the works of Lope de Vega? Sophy,” she said, breaking into her own tongue, “this young man with the face of an angel reads Spanish!”

“Very indifferently,” said Mr. Fawnhope, quite unmoved by this embarrassing description of his face.

“We will talk together,” said the Marquesa.

“Certainly not,” said Sophy firmly. “At least, not if you mean to do so in Spanish.”

Fortunately for the success of the party, Gaston came in at this moment to announce that refreshments were laid out in the dining room. It was soon discovered that however indolent a hostess the Marquesa might be, her maitre d’hôtel left nothing to chance. A profusion of succulent foreign dishes awaited the guests, garnished with aspic, or spread with subtle sauces, and served with various light wines. Jellies, trifles, syllabubs, puptons of fruit, and coffee creams in cups of almond paste rounded off what the Marquesa called a light merienda. From the sparing way in which Miss Wraxton partook of a few of the delicacies it was not difficult to see that she considered such lavish hospitality vulgar; but Hubert, making a hearty meal, began to thank the Marquesa a very good sort of a woman after all. When he saw how many coffee creams, Italian rusks, and brandy cherries she herself consumed, in the most negligent fashion, his manner toward her became tinged with respect bordering on awe.

The repast at an end, Gaston bent to his mistress’s ear and reminded her that the gate into the wood had been unlocked. She said, “Oh, yes! The bluebell wood! So pretty! These young people would like to wander through it, senora, while you and I repose ourselves a little.”

It would never have occurred to Lady Ombersley to suggest a siesta to a visitor, but since she invariably dozed during the afternoon she had no real fault to find with this program, and accompanied the Marquesa into the drawing room. Here she at first endeavored to engage the Marquesa in talk of her brother, but without much success. The Marquesa said, “It is not amusing to be a widow, and, besides, I prefer England to Spain, since it is now very impoverished there. But to be madrasta to Sophy! No, and a thousand times no!”

“We are all very fond of my dear niece,” said Lady Ombersley, bristling.

“I also, but she is too fatiguing. One does not know what next she will do, or, which is worse by far, what she will make one do that one does not wish at all.”

Lady Ombersley found herself quite unable to resist the temptation of indulging in a little gentle malice. “My dear ma’am, I am sure my niece could never persuade you to exert yourself in any way disagreeable to you!”

“But yes!” said the Marquesa simply. “It is plain that you do not know Sophy. To withstand her is much, much more fatiguing still!”

Meanwhile, the subject of this exchange was arranging a flower in Hubert’s buttonhole in the formal garden. Mr. Rivenhall had gone off in the direction of the stables, and the four others were wending their way through the shrubbery toward the bluebell wood, Mr. Fawnhope having been visited by inspiration which on the sight of Cecilia in the wood could, he said, bring to fruition. So far, he had only achieved one line of his poem, but he felt it to be promising. “When amidst bluebells my Cecilia treads,” he murmured.

“Quite Carolinian!” remarked Miss Wraxton.

Mr. Fawnhope’s verse was at all times derivative, but he liked being told so no better than any other poet, so he took his Cecilia’s hand and would have led her away had not Miss Wraxton been on the alert to prevent just such a happening. With determination she stayed beside the lovers, and presently, by a happy reference to Cowper, succeeded in diverting Mr. Fawnhope’s attention from Cecilia to herself. Sir Vincent, finding solace for boredom in amusement at this situation, bided his time, and was presently rewarded. Cecilia, unable to bear a part in the elevated discussion in progress (for she was no great reader), began to drop behind. Sir Vincent fell in beside her, and in a very short space of time coaxed her out of her crossness, and, indeed, out of the wood as well. He said that profound as was his admiration for Miss Wraxton’s intellect he found her conversation oppressive. Woods and bluestockings, he said, exercised a lowering effect upon his spirits. He thought the ground was damp, certainly unfit walking for a delicately nurtured lady. He took Cecilia instead to inspect the dovecot, and since he was skilled in the art of flirtation, and she was lovely enough to make a little dalliance a pleasant way of whiling away a dull afternoon, they contrived to pass an agreeable hour together.

While all this was going on, Sophy was walking in the shrubbery with Hubert. She had not failed to notice that during the past few days he had swung between exaggeratedly high spirits and fits of black depression. She had mention the matter to Cecilia, but Cecilia had merely said that Hubert had always been moody and had not seemed to be inclined to think any more about it. But Sophy could not see anyone in the grip of care without instantly wishing to discover the cause, and, if possible, to rectify it. She thought she was now on good enough terms with him to venture to broach the matter to him, and so, it seemed, she was, for although he could not be said to confide in her, he did not, as she had been afraid he might, mount upon a high horse. Yes, he confessed, he was a trifle worried, it was no great matter, and he expected to have put it behind him in a very few days’ time.

Sophy, who had led the way to a rustic seat, now urged him to sit down beside her on it. Tracing a pattern on gravel path with the point of her parasol, she said: “If it is money — and it nearly always is; it is the most odious thing — and you do not care to ask your papa for it, I expect I could help you.”

“Much good it would be to ask my father!” said Huh “He hasn’t a feather to fly with, and what is so dashed unjust, when you consider, the only time I ever applied him he went into a worse rage than Charles does!”

“Does Charles go into a rage?”

“Oh, well! No, not precisely, but I don’t know but what I’d liefer he did!” replied Hubert bitterly.

She nodded. “Then you don’t wish to approach him. Do, pray, tell me!”

“Certainly not!” said Hubert, on his dignity. “Devilish good of you, Sophy, but I haven’t come to that yet!”

“Come to what?” she demanded.

“Borrowing money from females, of course! Besides, there’s no need. I shall come about, and before I go up to Oxford again, thank the lord!”

“How?”

“Never mind, but it can’t fail! If it does — but it will not! I may have a father who — well, no sense in talking of him! And I may have a dashed disagreeable brother, holding tightly to the purse strings, but fortunately for me I’ve a couple of good friends, whatever Charles may say!”

“Oh!” said Sophy, digesting this information. Disagreeable Charles might be, but she was shrewd enough to suspect that if he condemned any of Hubert’s friends there might be much to be said in his defense. “Does he dislike your friends?”

Hubert gave a short laugh. “Lord, yes! Just because they are knowing ’uns, and kick up a lark every now and then, he proses like a Methodist, and — Here, Sophy, you won’t start talking to Charles, will you?”

“Of course I shall do no such thing!” she said indignantly. “Why, what a creature you must think me!”

“No, I don’t, only — Oh, well, it don’t signify! I shall be as merry as a grig in a week’s time, and I don’t mean to get into a fix again, I can tell you!”

She was obliged to be satisfied with this assurance, for he would say no more. After taking another turn round the shrubbery, she left him, and went back to the house. She found Mr. Rivenhall seated under the elm tree on the south lawn with Tina, who was sleeping off a large repast, at his feet. “If you want to see a rare picture, Sophy,” he said, “peep in at the drawing-room window! My mother is sound asleep on one sofa and the Marquesa on another.”

“Well, if that is their notion of enjoyment I don’t think we should disturb them,” she replied. “It would not be mine, I do try to remember that some people like to spend half their days doing nothing at all.”

He made room for her to sit down beside him. “No, I fancy idleness is not your besetting sin,” he agreed. “Sometimes I wonder whether it would not be better for the rest of us if it were, but we have agreed not to quarrel today, so I shall not pursue that thought. But, Sophy, what is my uncle about, to be marrying that absurd woman?”

She wrinkled her brow. “She is very good natured, you know, and Sir Horace says he likes reposeful females.”

“I am astonished that you have sanctioned so unsuitable a match.”

“Nonsense! I have nothing to say to it.”

“I imagine you have everything to say to it,” he retorted. “Don’t play off the airs of an innocent to me, Cousin! I know you well enough to be tolerably certain that you rule my uncle with a rod of iron and have probably guarded him from dozens of marquesas in your time!”

She laughed. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But, then, they would none of them have made the poor angel at all comfortable, and I do think perhaps Sancia may. I have long made up my mind to it that he should marry again, you know.”

“Next you will say that this match is of your making!”

“Oh, no! There is never the least need to make matches for Sir Horace!” she said frankly. “He is the most susceptible creature imaginable, and, which is so dangerous, if a pretty woman will but weep on his shoulder he will do anything she wants!”

He did not reply, and she saw that his attention was fixed on Cecilia and Sir Vincent, who had that instant come round a corner of the clipped yew hedge. A slight frown descended on to his brow, which made Sophy say severely, “Now, don’t take one of your pets because Cecy flirts a little with Sir Vincent! You should be thankful to see her taking interest in some other man than Mr. Fawnhope. But there is no pleasing you!”

“I am certainly not pleased with that connection!”

“Oh, you have no cause to feel alarm! Sir Vincent is only interested in heiresses and has no intention of offering for Cecy.”

“Thank you, it is not on that score that I feel alarm,” he answered.

She could say no more, for by this time the other couple had come up to them. Cecilia, who was looking prettier than ever, described how Sir Vincent had been so obliging as to find a servant who gave him some maize for the pigeons. She had fed them, and her cousin thought she had taken far more delight in encouraging them to take maize from between her lips than in listening to Sir Vincent’s practiced compliments.

They were soon joined by Hubert. He shot Sophy a glance so pregnant with mischief that in spite of his high shirt points, his elaborate neckcloth, and his fashionable waistcoat he looked very much more like a schoolboy than the town beau he fancied himself. She could not imagine what mischief he could have found to perform in the little time since she had left him, but before she could speculate very seriously on this problem her attention was diverted by the Marquesa, who appeared at the drawing-room window and made signs indicative of her desire that they should all come into the house. Civility obliged even Mr. Rivenhall to obey the summons.

They found the Marquesa so much refreshed by her nap as to have become quite animated. Lady Ombersley had awakened from slumber, uttering the mystic words, Lotion of the Ladies of Denmark, which had operated so powerfully upon her hostess as to make her sit bolt upright upon her sofa, exclaiming, “But no! Better distilled water of green pineapples, I assure you!” By the time the party on the south lawn entered the house the two elder ladies had thoroughly explored every path known to them that led to the preservation of the complexion, and if they differed on such points as the value of raw veal laid on the face at night to remove wrinkles, they found themselves at one over the beneficial effects of chervil water and crushed strawberries.

It now being at least two hours since the light marienda had been consumed, the Marquesa stood in urgent need of further sustenance, and warmly invited her guests to partake of tea and angel cakes. It was then that Lady Ombersley became aware of the absence of Miss Wraxton and Mr. Fawnhope from the gathering, and demanded to know where they were. Cecilia replied, with a shrug, that they were no doubt quoting poetry to each other in the wood; but when twenty minutes passed without their putting in an appearance not only Lady Ombersley, but her elder son also became a trifle restive. Then it was that Sophy remembered Hubert’s look of mischief. She glanced across at him and saw that his expression was so unconcerned as to be wholly incredible. In deep foreboding she made an excuse to change her seat to one beside his, and whispered, under cover of the general conversation, “You dreadful creature, what have you done?”

“Locked them into the wood!” he whispered in return. “That will teach her to play propriety!”

She had to bite back a laugh, but managed to say with suitable severity, “It will not do! If you have the key, give it to me so that no one will observe you!”

He said, “What a spoilsport you are!” but soon found an opportunity to drop it into her lap, for although it had seemed, at the time, a splendid idea to lock the gate into the wood, he had been realizing for some minutes that to release the imprisoned couple without scandal might prove to be rather more difficult.

“It is so unlike dear Eugenia!” said Lady Ombersley. “I cannot think what they can be about!”

“En verdad, it is not difficult to imagine!” remarked the Marquesa, rather amused. “So beautiful a young man and so romantic a scene!”

“I will go and look for them,” said Mr. Rivenhall, getting up, and walking out of the room.

Hubert began to look a little alarmed, but Sophy exclaimed suddenly, “I wonder if one of the gardeners can have locked the gate again, thinking that we had all left the wood! Excuse me, Sancia!”

She overtook Mr. Rivenhall in the shrubbery, and called out, “So stupid! Sancia, you know, lives in dread of robbers and has trained all her servants never to leave a gate or a door unlocked! One of the gardeners, supposing us all to have gone back to the house, locked the gate into the wood. Gaston had the key; here it is!”

A bend in the gravel walk brought the gates into the wood within view. Miss Wraxton was standing by them, and it was plain to the meanest intelligence that she was in no very amiable humor. Behind her, seated upon a bank, and absorbed in metrical composition, was Mr. Fawnhope, to all appearances divorced from the world. As Mr. Rivenhall fitted the key into the lock, Sophy said, “I am so sorry! It is all the fault of Sancia’s absurd terrors! Are you very bored and chilled, Miss Wraxton?”

Miss Wraxton had endured a trying half hour. Upon finding herself shut into the wood, she had first asked Mr. Fawnhope if he could not climb over the fence, and when he had replied, quite simply, that he could not, she had requested him to shout. But the ode that was burgeoning in his head had by this time taken possession of him, and he had said that the sylvan setting was just the inspiration he needed. After that, he sat down on the bank and drew out his notebook and a pencil, and whenever she begged him to bestir himself to procure her release, all he said, and that in a voice that showed how far away were his thoughts, was “hush!” Consequently she was in a mood ripe for murder when the rescue party at last arrived on the scene and was betrayed into an unwise accusation. “You did this!” she flung at Sophy, quite white with anger.

Sophy, who felt sorry for her being discovered in so ridiculous a situation, replied soothingly, “No, it was a foolish servant, who thought we had all gone back to the house. Never mind! Come and drink some of Sancia’s excellent tea!”

“I don’t believe you! You are unprincipled and vulgar and — ”

“Eugenia!” said Mr. Rivenhall sharply. She gave an angry sob, but said no more. Sophy went into the wood to rouse Mr. Fawnhope from his abstraction, and Mr. Rivenhall said: “It was nothing but an accident, and there is no need to be so put out.”

“I am persuaded your cousin did it to make me a laughing stock,” she said in a low voice.

“Nonsense!” he replied coldly.

She saw that he was by no means in sympathy with her, and said, “I need hardly tell you that my aim was to prevent your sister spending the whole afternoon in that odious young man’s company.”

“With the result that she spent it in Talgarth’s company,” he retorted. “There was no reason for you to be so busy, Eugenia. My mother’s presence, not to mention my own, made your action — I shall say unnecessary!”

It might have been supposed that these words of censure filled Miss Wraxton’s cup to the brim, but upon entering the drawing room she found that she had still to endure the Marquesa’s comments. The Marquesa favored the company with a disquisition on the license allowed to young English ladies, contrasting it with the strict chaperonage of Spanish damsels, and everyone with the exception of Mr. Rivenhall, who was markedly silent, felt for Miss Wraxton in her chagrin and made great efforts to placate her, Sophy going so far as to give up her place in the curricle to her on the homeward journey. She was insensibly mollified, but when, later, she tried to justify her actions to her betrothed, he cut her short, saying too much noise had been made already over a trivial occurrence.

“I cannot believe that any of the servants were responsible,” she insisted.

“You would do better to pretend to believe it, however.”

“Then you do not think so either!” she exclaimed.

“No, I think Hubert did it,” he replied coolly. “And if I am right, you have my cousin to thank for speedily releasing you.”

“Hubert!” she cried. “Why should he do such an un-gentlemanly thing, pray?”

He shrugged. “Possibly for a jest, possibly because he resented your interference in Cecilia’s affairs, my dear Eugenia. He is much attached to his sister.”

She said in a deeply mortified tone, “If that is so, I hope you mean to take him to task!”

“I shall do nothing so ill judged,” responded Mr. Rivenhall, at his most blighting.