CHAPTER XII
DON QUIXOTE
Coke had spent a dozen seasons in London; and naturally to those wholived about town his figure was almost as familiar as that of SirHanbury Williams, the beau of the last generation, or that of LordLincoln, the pride and hope of the golden youth of '42. The chairmanwho had never left the rank in St. James's Street in obedience to hisnod was as likely as not to ask the way to Mrs. Cornely's rooms; thehackney-coachman who did not know his face and liveries was a strangeralso to the front of White's, and to the cry of "Who goes home?" thaton foggy evenings drew a hundred link-boys to New Palace Yard. In hispresent difficulty his principal, and almost his only hope of escapingfrom a degrading scuffle lay in this notoriety.
It bade fair to be justified. The two men who slouched into the roomin obedience to Mrs. Clark's excited cry had scarcely crossed thethreshold when they turned to him and grinned, and the foremostmade him a sort of bow. Sir Hervey stared, and wondered where he hadseen the men before; but in a twinkling his doubt, as well as thehalf-smothered cry that at the same instant burst from madam's lips,were explained.
"Mrs. Oriana Clark, otherwise Grocott?" the elder man muttered, and,stepping forward briskly, he laid a slip of paper on the table beforeher. "At suit of Margam's, of Paul's Churchyard, for forty-seven, six,eight, debt and costs. Here's the _capias_. And there's a detainerlodged." So much said, he seemed to feel the official part of his dutyaccomplished, and he turned with a wink to Grocott. "Much obliged tothe old gentleman for letting us in. As pretty a capture as I evermade! Trigg, mind the door."
The miser who sees his hoarded all sink beneath the waves; the leaderwho, in the flush of victory, falls into the deadly ambush and knowsall lost; the bride widowed on her wedding morn--these may in somedegree serve to image madam at that moment. White to the lips, hereyes staring, she plucked at the front of her dress with one hand,and, leaning with the other against the wall, seemed to struggle forspeech.
It was Tom who stepped forward, Tom who instinctively, like the bravesoul he was, screened her from their eyes. "What is it?" he saidhoarsely. "Have a care, man, whom you speak to! What do you mean, andwho are you?"
"Easy asked and soon answered," the fellow replied, civilly enough."I'm a sworn bailiff, it's a _capias_ forty-seven, six, eight, debtand costs--that's what it is. And there's a detainer lodged, so it'sno use to pay till you know where you are. The lady is here, and I ambound to take her."
"It's a mistake," Tom muttered, his voice indistinct. "There's somemistake, man. What is the name?"
"Well, it's Clark, _alias_ Grocott on the writ; and it's Clark,_alias_ Hawkesworth----"
"Hawkesworth?"
"Yes, Hawkesworth, on the detainer," the bailiff answered, smiling. "Idon't take on myself to say which is right, but the old gentleman hereshould know."
At that word the unhappy woman, thwarted in the moment of success,roused herself from the first stunning effects of the blow. With a cryshe tore her handkerchief into two or three pieces, and, thrusting oneend into her mouth, bit on it. Then, "Silence!" she shrieked."Silence, you dirty dog!" she continued coarsely. "How dare you layyour tongue to me? Do you hear me?"
But Tom interfered. "No, one moment," he said grimly. That word,Hawkesworth, had chilled his blood. "Let us hear what he has to say.Listen to me, man. Why should the old gentleman know?"
The man hesitated, looking from one to the other. "Well, they say he'sher father," he answered at last. "At any rate he brought her up; thatis, until--well, I suppose you know."
She shrieked out a denial; but Tom, without taking his eyes from thebailiff's face, put out his hand, and, gripping her arm, held herback. "Yes, man, until what?" he said hoarsely. "Speak out. Untilwhat?"
"Well, until she went to live with Hawkesworth, your honour."
"Ah!" Tom said, his face white; only that word. But, dropping his handfrom her arm, he stood back.
She should have known that all was lost then; that the game was playedout. But, womanlike, she could not accept defeat. "It's a lie!" sheshrieked. "A dirty, cowardly lie! It's not true! I swear it is nottrue! It's not true!" And breathless, panting, furious, she turnedfirst to one and then to another, stretching out her hands, heapingsenseless denial on denial. At last, when she read no relenting in theboy's face, but only the quivering of pain as he winced under thelash of her loosened tongue, she cast the mask--that had alreadyslipped--completely away, and, turning on the old man, "You fool! oh,you fool!" she cried. "Have you nothing to say now that you haveruined me? Pay the beast, do you hear? Pay him, or I'll ruin you!"
But the clock-maker, terrified as he was, clung sullenly to his money."There's a detainer," he muttered. "It's no good, Bess. If s no good,I tell you!"
"Well, pay the detainer! Pay that, too!" she retorted. "Pay it, youold skinflint, or I'll swear to you for gold clipping! and you'll hangat Tyburn, as your friend Jonathan Thomas did! Have a care, will you,or I'll do it, so help me!"
The old man screamed a palsied curse at her. Sir Hervey touched thelad's arm. "Come," he said sternly. And he turned to the door.
Tom shuddered, but followed at his heels as a beaten hound follows.The woman saw her last chance passing from her, sprang forward, andtried to seize his arm; tried to detain him, tried to gain his ear fora final appeal. But the bailiff interfered. "Softly, mistress,softly," he said. "You know the rules. Get the old 'un to pay, and youmay do as you please."
He held her while Tom was got out, dizzy and shaking, his eyes openedto the abyss from which he had been plucked back. But, though Cokeclosed the door behind them, the woman's voice still followed them,and shocked and horrified them with its shrill clamour. Tom shudderedat the dreadful sound; yet lingered.
"I must get something," he muttered, avoiding his companion's eyes."It is upstairs."
"What is it?" Coke answered impatiently. And, anxious to get the ladout of hearing, he took his arm, and urged him towards the street."Whatever it is, I'll send my man for it."
But Tom hung back. "No," he said. "It's money. I must get it."
"For goodness' sake don't stay now," Sir Hervey protested.
But Tom, instead of complying, averted his face. "I want to pay this,"he muttered. "I shall never see her again. But I would rather she--shewere not taken now. That's all."
Coke stared. "Oh Lord!" he said; and he wondered. But he let Tom goupstairs; and he waited himself in the passage to cover his retreat.He heard the lad go up and push open the door of the littlethree-cornered room, which had been his abode for a week; the littleroom where he had tasted to the full of anticipation, and whence hehad gone aglow with fire and joy an hour before. Coke heard him nofarther, but continued to listen, and "What is that?" he mutteredpresently. A moment, and he followed his companion up the stairs; atthe head of the flight he caught again the sound he had heard below;the sound of a muffled cry deadened by distance and obstacles, butstill almost articulate. He looked after Tom; but the door of the roomin which he had disappeared was half open. The sound did not issuethence. Then he thought it came from the room below; and he was on thepoint of turning when he saw a door close beside him in the angle ofthe stairs, and he listened at that. For the moment all was silent,yet Sir Hervey had his doubts. The key was in the lock, he turned itsoftly, and stepped into an untidy little bedroom, sordid and dull;the same, in fact, through which Sophia had been decoyed. He noticedthe door at the farther end, and was crossing the floor towards it,with an unpleasant light in his eyes--for he began to guess what heshould find--when the door of the room below opened, and a man cameout, and came heavily up the stairs. Sir Hervey paused and lookedback; another moment and Grocott reaching the open door stood glaringin.
Sir Hervey spoke only one word. "Open!" he said; and he pointed withhis cane to the door of the inner room. The key was not in the lock.
The clock-maker, cringing almost to the boards, crept across thefloor, and producing the key from his pocket, set it in the loc
k. Ashe did so Coke gripped him on a sudden by the nape of the neck, andirresistibly but silently forced him to his knees. And that was whatSophia saw when the door opened. Grocott kneeling, his dirty, flabbyface quivering with fear, and Sir Hervey standing over him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and stepped back in amazement; but, so muchthought given to herself, her next was for Tom. She had been aprisoner nearly two hours, in fear as well as in suspense, assailed atone time by the fancy that those who had snared her had left her tostarve, at another by the dread of ill-treatment if they returned. Butthe affection for her brother, which had roused her from her owntroubles, was still strong, and her second thought was of Tom.
She seized Sir Hervey's arm, "Thank Heaven you have come!" she cried."Did he send you? Where is he?"
"Tom?" Coke answered cheerily. "He is all right. He is here."
"Here? And he is not married?"
"No, he is not married," Sir Hervey answered; "nor is he going to beyet awhile."
"Thank God!" she exclaimed. And then, as their eyes met, sheremembered herself, and quailed, the blushes burning in her cheeks.She had not seen him since the evening at Vauxhall, when he hadlaboured to open her eyes to Hawkesworth's true character. The thingsthat had happened, the things she had done since that evening crowdedinto her mind; she could have sunk into the floor for very shame. Shedid not know how much he knew or how much worse than she was he mightbe thinking her; and in an agony of recollection she covered her faceand shrank from him.
"Come, child, come, you are safe now," he said hurriedly; heunderstood her feelings. "I suppose they locked you here that youmight not interfere? Eh, was that it?" he continued, seizing Grocott'sear and twisting it until the old rogue grovelled on the floor. "Eh,was that it?"
"Oh, yes, yes," the clock-maker cried. "That was it! I'll beg thelady's pardon. I'll do anything! I'll----"
"You'll hang--some day!" Sir Hervey answered, releasing him with afinal twist. "Begone for this time, and thank your stars I don't haulyou to the nearest justice! And do you, child, come to your brother.He is in the next room."
But when Sophia had so far conquered her agitation as to be able tocomply, they found no Tom there; only a scrap of paper, bearing a lineor two of writing, lay on the table.
"I'm gone to enlist, or something, I don't care what. It doesn'tmatter," it ran. "Don't come after me, for I shan't come back. LetSophy have my setter pup, it's at the hall. I see it now; it was atrap. If I meet H. I shall kill him.--T. M."
"He has found her out, then?" Sophia said tearfully.
"Yes," Sir Hervey answered, standing at the table and drumming on itwith his fingers, while he looked at her and wondered what was to bedone next. "He has found her out. In a year he will be none the worseand a little wiser."
"But if he enlists?" she murmured.
"We shall hear of it," Coke answered, "and can buy him out." And thenthere was silence again. And he wondered again what was to be donenext.
Below, the house was quiet. Either the bailiffs had removed theirprisoner, or she had been released, and she and they had gone theirways. Even Grocott, it would seem, terrified by the position in whichhe found himself, had taken himself off for a while, for not a soundsave the measured ticking of clocks broke the silence of the house,above stairs or below. After a time, as Sophia said nothing, SirHervey moved to the window and looked into the Row. The coach that hadwaited so long was gone. A thin rain was beginning to fall, andthrough it a pastrycook's boy with a tray on his head was approachingthe next house. Otherwise the street was empty.
"Did--did my sister send you?" she faltered at last.
"No."
"How did you find me?"
"I heard from your brother-in-law," he answered, his face stillaverted.
"What?"
"That you had gone to Davies Street."
"He knew?" she muttered.
"Yes."
She caught her breath. "Is it public?" she whispered. "I supposeeverybody--knows."
"Well, some do, I've no doubt," he answered bluntly. "Women will worrysomething, and, of course, there is a--sort of a bone in it."
She shivered, humiliated by the necessity that lay upon her. She mustclear herself. It had come to this, she had brought it to this, thatshe must clear herself even in his eyes. "My brother was there," shesaid indistinctly, her face covered from his gaze.
"I know," he answered.
"Do they know?"
He understood that she meant the Northeys. "No," he answered. "Notyet."
She was silent a moment. Then--"What am I to do?" she asked faintly.
She had gone through so many strange things in the last twenty-fourhours that this which should have seemed the strangest of all--thatshe should consult him--passed with her for ordinary. But not withCoke. It showed him more clearly than before her friendlessness, herisolation, her forlornness, and these things moved him. He knew whatthe world would think of her escapade, what sharp-tongued gossips likeLady Harrington would make of it, what easy dames like Lady Walpoleand Lady Townshend would proclaim her; and his heart was full of pityfor her. He knew her innocent; he had the word of that other innocent,Tom, for it; but who would believe it? The Northeys had cast her off;perhaps when they knew all they would still cast her off. Her brother,her only witness, had taken himself away, and was a boy at most. Hadhe been older, he might have given the gossips the lie and forced theworld to believe him, at the point of the small sword. As it was shehad no one. Her aunt's misfortune was being repeated in a latergeneration. The penalty must be the same.
Must it? In the silence Sir Hervey heard her sigh, and his heart beatquickly. Was there no way to save her? Yes, there was one. He saw it,and with the coolness of the old gamester he took it.
"What are you to do?" he repeated thoughtfully; and turning, he satdown, and looked at her across the table, his face, voice, manner allbusiness-like. "Well, it depends, child. I suppose you have no feelingleft for--for that person?"
She shook her head, her face hidden.
"None at all?" he persisted, toying with his snuff-box, while helooked at her keenly. "Pardon me, I wish to have this clearbecause--because it's important."
"I would rather die," she cried passionately, "than be his wife."
He nodded. "Good," he said. "It was to be expected. Well, we must makethat clear, quite clear, and--and I can hardly think your sister willstill refuse to receive you."
Sophia started; her face flamed. "Has she said anything?" shemuttered.
"Nothing," Coke answered. "But you left her yesterday--to join him;and you return to-day. Still--still, child, I think if we make allclear to her, quite clear, and to your brother Northey, they will bewilling to overlook the matter and find you a home."
She shuddered. "You speak very plainly," she murmured faintly.
"I fear," he said, "you will hear plainer things from her. But," hecontinued, speaking slowly now, and in a different tone, "there isanother way, child, if you are willing to take it. One other way. Thatway you need not see her unless you choose, you need see none of them,you need hear no plain truths. That way you may laugh at them, andwhat they say will be no concern of yours, nor need trouble you. But'tisn't to be supposed that with all this you will take it."
"You mean I may go to Chalkhill?" she cried, rising impetuously. "Iwill, I will go gladly, I will go thankfully! I will indeed!"
"No," he said, rising also, so that only the table stood between them."I did not mean that. There is still another way. But you are young,child, and it isn't to be supposed that you will take it."
"Young!" she exclaimed in bitter self-contempt. And then, "What way isit?" she asked. "And why should I not take it, take it gladly if I canescape--all that?"
"Because--I am not very young," he said grimly.
"You?" she exclaimed in astonishment. And then, as her eyes met hisacross the table, the colour rose in her cheeks. She began tounderstand; and she began to tremble.
"Yes," he said bluntly, "I. It shocks you,
does it? But, courage,child; you understand a little, you do not understand all. Suppose fora moment that you return to Arlington Street to-day as Lady Coke; thedemands of the most exacting will be satisfied. Lady Harringtonherself will have nothing to say. You left yesterday, you returnto-day--my wife. Those who have borne my mother's name have been wontto meet with respect; and, I doubt not, will continue to meet withit."
"And you--would do that?" she cried aghast
"I would."
"You would marry me?"
"I would."
"After all that has passed? Here? To-day?"
"Here, to-day."
For a moment she was silent. Then, "And you imagine I could consent?"she cried. "You imagine I could do that? Never! Never! I think yougood, I think you noble, I thank you for your offer, Sir Hervey; Ibelieve it to be one the world would deem you mad to make, and me madto refuse! But," and suddenly she covered her face with her hands, asif his eyes burned her, "from what a height you must look down on me."
"I look down?" he said lamely. "Not at all. I don't understand you."
"You do not understand?" she cried, dropping her hands and meeting hiseyes as suddenly as she had avoided them. "You think it possible,then, that I, who yesterday left my home, poor fool that I was, tomarry one man, can give myself a few hours later to another man? Youthink I hold love so light a thing I can take it and give it again asI take or give a kerchief or a riband? You think I put so small aprice on myself--and on you? Oh, no, no, I do not. I see, if you donot, or will not, that your offer, noble, generous, magnanimous as itis, is the sharpest taunt of all that you have it in your power tofling at me."
"That," Sir Hervey said, placidly, "is because you don't understand."
"It is impossible!" she repeated. "It is impossible!"
"What you have in your mind may be impossible," he retorted; "but notwhat I have in mine. I should have thought, child, that on your side,also, you had had enough of romance."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"While I," he continued, raising his eyebrows, "have outgrown it.There is no question, at least, in my offer there was no question, oflove. For one thing it is out of fashion, my dear; for another, at theage I have reached, not quite the age of Methuselah, perhaps," with asmile, "but an age, as you once reminded me, at which I might be yourfather, I need only a lady to sit at the head of my table, to see thatthe maids don't rob me, or burn the Hall, and to show a pretty face tomy guests when they come from town. My wife will have her own wing ofthe house, I mine; we need meet only at meals. To the world we shallbe husband and wife; to one another, I hope, good friends. Of course,"Sir Hervey continued, with a slight yawn, "there was a time when Ishould not have thought this an ideal marriage; when I might havelooked for more. Nor should I then have--you might almost callit--insulted you, _ma chere_, by proposing it. But I am old enough tobe content with it; and you are in an awkward position from which myname may extricate you; while you have probably had enough of whatchildren call love. So, in fine, what do you say?"
After a long pause, "Do you mean," she asked in a low voice, "that weshould be only--friends?"
"Precisely," he said. "That is just what I do mean. And nothing more."
"But have you considered," she asked, her tone still low, her voicetrembling with agitation. "Have you thought of--of yourself? Whyshould you be sacrificed to save me from the punishment of my folly?Why should you do out of pity what you may repent all your life? Oh,it cannot, it cannot be!" she continued more rapidly and with growingexcitement. "I thank you, I thank you from my heart, Sir Hervey, Ibelieve you mean it generously, nobly, but----"
"Let us consider the question--without fudge!" he retorted, stolidlyforestalling her. "Pity has little to do with it. Your folly, child,has much; because apart from that I should not have made thesuggestion. For the rest, put me out of the question. The point is,will it suit you? Of course you might wish to marry some one else. Youmight wish to marry in fact and not in name----"
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, shuddering; and, shaken by the cruelawakening through which she had gone, she fancied that she spoke thetruth.
"You are sure?"
"Quite, quite sure."
"Then I think it lies between Chalkhill and Coke Hall," he said,cheerfully. "Read that, child." And drawing from his pocket the letterin which Mr. Northey had announced her flight, he laid it before her."If I thought you were returning to your sister I would not show it toyou," he continued, watching her as she read. And then, after aninterval, "Well, shall it be Coke Hall?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, shivering under the cruel, heartless phrases of theletter as under a douche of cold water. "If you really are in earnest,if you mean what you say?"
"I do."
"And you will be satisfied with--that?" she murmured, averting hereyes. "With my friendship?"
"I will," he answered. "You have my word for it."
"Then, I thank you," she muttered faintly.
And that was all, absolutely all. He opened the door, and in hersacque and Lady Betty's Tuscan, as she stood--for she had no change tomake--she passed down the stairs before him, and walked beside himthrough the rain across a corner of Shepherd's Market. Thence theypassed along Curzon Street in the direction of the little chapel withthe country church porch--over against Mayfair Chapel, andconveniently near the Hercules Pillars--in which the Rev. AlexanderKeith held himself ready to marry all comers, at all hours, withoutnotice or licence.
It was the common dinner time, and the streets were quiet; they met noone whom they knew. Sophia, dazed and shaken, had scarcely power tothink; she walked beside him mechanically, as in a dream, and couldnever remember in after days the way she went to be married, orwhether she travelled the route on foot or in a chair. The famous Dr.Keith, baulked of one couple and one guinea--for that was his fee, andit included the clerk and a stamped certificate--welcomed the pairwith effusion. Accustomed to unite at one hour a peer of the realm toa reigning toast, at another an apprentice to his master's daughter,he betrayed no surprise even when he recognised Sir Hervey Coke; butat once he led the way to the chapel, set the kneelers, called thewitnesses, and did his part. He wondered a little, it is true, when henoticed Sophia's pallor and strange dress; but the reasons people hadfor marrying were nothing to him; the fee was everything, and in tenminutes the tie was tied.
Then only, as they stood waiting in the parlour while the certificatewas being written, fear seized her, and a great horror, and she knewwhat she had done. She turned to Sir Hervey and held out her shakinghands to him, her face white and piteous. "You will be good to me?"she cried. "You will be good to me? You will keep your word?"
"While I live," he said quietly. "Why not, child?"
But, calmly as he spoke, his face, as they went out together, wore thelook it wore at White's when he played deep; when, round the shadedcandles, oaks, noted in Domesday, crashed down, and long-descendedhalls shook, and the honour of great names hung on the turn of a die.For, deep as he had played, much as he had risked, even to his home,even to his line, he had made to-day the maddest bet of all. And heknew it.