Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: Capítulo 21 Seguinte: Capítulo 23

CAPÍTULO 22.

SOPHIA BEVAN, to whom we must now return after too long an interval, left the party soon after dinner, to keep her engagement with Lady Bevan, and Edmund Noel was obliged to remain to entertain the guests during her absence, which lasted the whole evening, and for which Lady Bevan’s indisposition was the plea assigned. Noel was a good deal chagrined at being thus detained, as he had really good grounds for wishing to get to London without loss of more time than would enable him to visit Stonehenge by the way. He had undertaken to write a paper on ancient worships as indicated by their remains, for one of those advanced and liberal periodical Reviews to which the national mind of England is indebted for very much of its progress in late years. He had hardly completed his article, when the editor wrote to tell him that a book on a kindred subject had recently made its appearance, a book so remarkable for its research, originality, and suggestiveness, that his treatise would be almost valueless unless he included the consideration of it. He also recommended a visit to Salisbury Plain, in order to compare notes and verify certain points in connection with the remains there, a list of which points was enclosed in the letter.

The consideration that the cause of his detention was feminine caprice did not diminish his annoyance. As if divining what was passing in his mind, Sophia, before she had been an hour away, sent him this note, –

‘Don’t fret. You can’t go to-morrow, for Lordship has engaged the whole of the coach; and I want you. Good night.’

(p. 118)

‘How can I possibly help you in Lord Littmass’s affairs?’ was Noel’s somewhat abrupt salutation to Sophia next morning, while waiting for the party to assemble for breakfast.

‘Others are concerned besides Lord Littmass, and as you know, or at least have seen, three of those who are interested, I think no harm can be done by making you a partner in the information I obtained last night.’

‘From Lady Bevan?’

‘From Lady Bevan, who has at length relieved herself of a weight by sharing it with me, and who approves of my telling you, of course, in confidence. So, after breakfast, I want to drive you to Porlock Cottage, when I will make a clean breast of it. – I declare you are beginning to look interested now. Well, I like to see men with the original sin in them. But it is of no use this time; your rare specimen of yesterday morning has flown the museum ere this.’

‘Do you mean to say that my morning stroll has had the effect of frightening Lord Littmass and a whole household out of the neighbourhood?’

‘Not exactly. It is rather the occasion than the cause. But I will tell you more by-and-by.’

‘I found mamma eager to consult me yesterday evening,’ said Sophia, on taking her seat in the pony carriage, ‘so that I had no need to question her. But even now, after hearing the story she told me, I cannot make out why she is so much affected by it. She may have failed in her duty, but one’s duties towards a semi-idiot relative are not very onerous, and the child has been well taken care of, though not exactly by her. The most curious part of it, to me, is that a man like James Maynard should be such a goose as–– but I forget. I haven’t told you the beginning of it all. Know, then, that once upon a time, a certain sister of Lady Bevan’s was deceived and run away with by a certain Captain Waring soon after which event both died, leaving an unhappy child whom they had named Margaret. This Margaret being in every way sickly and feeble, the family were only too glad to let Lord Littmass take steps for providing for her, somewhere away out of their sight. The father, who had gone to India before she was born, died there soon afterwards, leaving everything to the mother; and she died soon after her child’s birth, leaving it to Lord Littmass’s care, and also making him the child’s heir. The child was accordingly taken good care of, partly at home and

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partly abroad; and seems now to have grown a good deal out of her original weakness. Mr. Maynard, from often meeting her at Lord Littmass’s as a child, took an interest in her, and has ended by falling violently in love with her. Her eccentricity, which took an artistic turn during the early part of her sojourn abroad, changed its direction––’

‘I really don’t see, interrupted Noel, why Lord Littmass’s son should not decide for himself in such a matter. His father, having disowned him, can claim no authority over him, moral or legal. The girl is not Lord Littmass’s private property, I suppose, that he should dictate her future. Let Lord Littmass’s son and Lord Littmass’s ward make a match of it if they please. It is nobody’s business but their own.’

‘Easily settled; but if you had heard me out, you would have learnt that there are several obstacles to such a solution. Imprimis–– the ward does not care to marry the son, or anybody else. She is dévote. This is Lord Littmass’s account. And, secondly, Lord Littmass’s family pride, which, as you probably do not know, is inordinate, will never permit him to let his son, whom he must acknowledge before death, or after, marry under a false name, and then marry a girl who has no name.’

‘Is Miss Waring a Catholic?’

‘Oh, no; poor thing, she does not understand the difference between one religion and another. Her education has given her but a confused idea of such matters. Lord Littmass says that she would enter a convent or marry a Protestant without being aware of any divergence of opinion being implied by the two courses.’

‘Of course, if she lives, her guardian would wish her to enter a convent, that he might have the advantage of his survivorship.’

‘By no means of course. She has been in one, and left it because she did not like it. Besides, he could not object to his son having her fortune, unless he disapproved of the lady; – unless he be a worse man than even your instinct would make him out to be. No; there is some motive which I do not see that leads him to object. His pride, great as it is, is scarcely sufficient to account for it; for the world need not know anything about the marriage. His name is not involved.’

‘What made him leave Linnwood in such a hurry?’

‘Oh, I forgot I had not told you that. Your escapade of yesterday morning made him drive over to the cottage directly

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after we had started for Waters’ Meet. He there found Margaret Waring reading a letter, which had that moment come from Mr. Maynard. He asked her who her correspondent was, and learnt that his son had arrived two days before from Mexico, and finding Lord Littmass absent from London, had written to tell her that he should run down into Devonshire and see her at once, as he had good news to give her. Upon hearing this, Lord Littmass told the dame who acts as her duenna to pack up her clothes, hastened back here, and had a long talk with Lady Bevan, and then went and took Margaret in the Minehead coach to meet the train at Bridgewater, in order to get her safe out of Mr. Maynard’s way in his own house in London.’

‘Monster! Then what on earth are you taking me over to Porlock for?’

‘To satisfy my curiosity, and get some information for mamma.’

‘We shall find some one there, then?’

‘Yes, the old dame, who has tended her from childhood. I want to talk to her.’

The road now becoming steep and rough, it took all Sophia’s attention to manage her pomes. The remainder of the drive was passed almost in silence, as they jolted through a wood that became more and more dense. At length, the road taking a sharp turn, they carne suddenly upon a fence and a gate, and Noel was in the act of alighting to open the gate, when a man stepped forward and threw it open for them. Both Sophia and Noel were surprised to see stranger in that unfrequented spot, and looked scrutinisingly at him. Had it been in Germany, the man would have passed without remark as a travelling student. His dress, which was something between that of a clergyman and a tourist, was dusty, as if he had walked far. He carried a small knapsack on his back, and a stout stick in his hand. His face was sunburnt; his hair, which was long and dark, flowed freely over the back of his neck; and a broad brow, and small, intellectual features, showed him at once a scholar and a gentleman.

The two parties gazed for a moment as in surprise at each other, and the stranger was stepping aside to allow the carriage to enter the enclosure, when Sophia and Noel exclaimed, in the same breath,

‘James Maynard!’

(p. 121)

Hearing his name pronounced, the stranger raised his hat and looked up inquiringly.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Maynard,’ said Sophia, but we had just been speaking of you, and were so surprised at seeing you in this place at the moment.’

Looking from one to the other, and failing altogether to recognise either of the occupants of the carriage, he said, in a faltering tone,

‘My memory is a bad one for faces, and I fear I must plead complete ignorance as to whom I have the honour of being addressed by. Perhaps, however, you will have the kindness to tell me if this road leads to Porlock Cove. Or, rather, forgive my apparent indecision, I will not trouble you to delay on my account. I can easily go on and ascertain for myself.’

He evidently wished to avoid further observation, but Sophia had no notion of allowing him to escape thus, so she exclaimed, in a voice which was more than usually exuberant and animated, owing to the effort she was making to suppress the tremor of anxiety which this unexpected meeting and recognition had occasioned in her,

‘Mr. Maynard, I am Miss Bevan, whom not so very many years ago you took down to dinner at Lord Littmass’s; and this is Mr. Noel, who recollects you at Oxford. We are going to the cottage, where Lord Littmass’s ward, Miss Waring, was staying up to last night, in order to see her old nurse, Mrs. Partridge; and if you will jump into this seat behind us, I shall have great pleasure in taking you there.’

‘Are you sure of what you say?’ he asked, in a tone of unconcealed dismay.

‘As to my being Miss Bevan, and this gentleman Mr. ––?’ No, no; as to Margaret – I mean Miss Waring – having gone?’

‘Her guardian was staying with me in this neighbourhood until yesterday. And he left my house in the afternoon, in order to take her to London by this morning’s coach.’

Hearing this, Maynard staggered back against the gatepost as if struck by a sudden shot.

‘Too late, too late!’ he murmured. What have I done to this man, that he should torment me thus!’

‘Say rather, what have Lord Littmass and his ward done to you, that you should pursue them thus?’

Sophia’s ruse succeeded in rousing him from the stupor of

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despair in which his disappointment had plunged him, for he said, –

‘Tell me what you know, and why you, too, side against me.’

‘Believe me, I do not side against you. I only spoke in that way to rouse you from the useless grief to which you were about to give way. On the contrary, I would be your friend. I have known you, or your family, long, and have always been desirous of continuing the friendship.’

‘You! my family!’ exclaimed Maynard, in unfeigned astonishment.

‘I mean that Lady Bevan, my step-mother, Lord Littmass’s cousin, who lives together with me, will be happy to see you at Linnwood Manor, if you will gratify her by a visit. Do let me drive you home with us after we have been to the cottage.’

‘London. You said London, I think,’ was his reply. ‘Thank you, I have no need to go farther in this direction. I wish you a good-morning.’ And he turned to depart.

‘Stay! Mr. Maynard,’ cried Sophia, imperatively. The longest way in appearance, is sometimes the shortest in reality; and I know enough to be aware that you will not reach your goal the later by seeming to turn your back upon it just now. For the present I take charge of you, and insist upon your getting up and accompanying us.’

As if magnetised by the ambiguity of her words, and the energy of her utterance, he quietly acquiesced, and climbed into the seat behind Miss Bevan and Noel with the aspect of one in a dream.

Neither of the party spoke as they drove over the quarter of a mile that led to the cottage. Their approach was noiseless over the road thick covered with fallen leaves. On reaching the door at the rear of the house, they had to ring the bell more than once before the dame, who was the sole inmate within at the moment, could be made to understand that visitors had arrived. She made her appearance at last, out of breath with the work at which she had been engaged, that of packing up, and full of wonder at seeing the carriage and its occupants.

‘You don’t remember me, I dare say, Mrs. Partridge,’ began Sophia, but I am a friend of Lord Littmass’s, with whom he was staying up to yesterday; and I have brought two other friends to see the cottage, and any pretty things you can show us of Miss Margaret’s before they are all removed.’

(p. 123)

And they entered the cottage as she spoke, Noel hitching the ponies to a tree.

‘It must be Miss Sophy, but ––’ began the dame, when the young lady broke in,

‘But not the pretty Miss Sophy you used to call me years and years ago. She came to an end with the accident that spoilt her prettiness, and in place of her there came this ugly me. Did you never hear of it?’

‘Oh, dear, yes, miss. Now I do call it to mind; but what with following my young lady about to foreign parts, and what with one trouble and another, I had clean forgotten your misfortune. But you’ve got the bright eyes and the cheery voice still, miss, that always did one good to listen to. But, mayhap, you are not a miss still, miss?

‘Very much amiss, I assure you, my dear old dame, and likely to remain so.’

‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. James!’ cried the old woman, now for the first time observing Maynard, as he leant against the door, impatient of the trivial conversation that was going on.

Hereupon Sophia considerately took Noel into the other room. When they were alone, the dame said,

‘Oh, dear, sir, why did you write? I always feared his lordship would find it out; and he came in just as Miss Margaret was reading your letter yesterday, and took her off to London directly.’

‘Did he see my letter? Does he know that I wish to marry her?’

‘Indeed, I cannot say for certain, sir; but he must surely think that he has good reason to prevent your meeting; and what can it be but that?’

‘Do you think he is opposed to our marriage, then?’ ‘Indeed I do, sir, at present. But I can say nothing for certain.’

‘And Margaret, how did she seem to feel the sudden summons? Did she leave no message for me?’

‘Yes, sir, she knew how sorry you would be to come all this way and miss her, and she left this note for you.’

Seizing and opening it, James read –

‘I truly rejoice in your good news, and trust that prosperity is beginning for you. My guardian found me reading your letter. He asked how long you had been wishing to marry me,

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and said that he was sincerely grieved at its being impossible. He was so kind, and said he should do his best to console you for the disappointment. He was sorry to hurry me away so suddenly, but was obliged to return to London at once, and thought it better to take me with him, and let nurse follow in a few days. I shall expect to see you there soon.

‘MARGARET.’

Maynard sank into a seat, and read this note over two or three times. Presently, as if unconscious of any one being present, he murmured,

‘Can she love me? Surely such love as mine must create love in any woman who is worthy to be loved. It must be that she is scarcely woman yet. Ah, well, when it comes, it will not be the weaker for delay.’

Looking up to question the dame about her, he found that she had joined Sophia and Noel in the other room, and was occupied in conversation. So he waited and pondered.

‘Who painted this?’ asked Noel, pointing to a copy of Titian’s ‘Fruit and Flower Girl,’ which stood on a side table.

‘My young lady, to be sure, sir, when she was in Rome.’

‘See,’ said he to Sophia, ‘though the mechanical part of the painting is that of a beginner, what a refined and spiritual air she has given the figure. I have often looked at the original, and regretted that Titian had been induced to put so much coarseness into his picture, and here is the very thing I had imagined as best fitted for it.’

‘Titian,’ replied Sophia, ‘preferred to take his model from robust health, rather than pale sentimentality. Besides, he meant that for a portrait of his daughter. But, tell me, dame, what has Miss Waring been doing these last few years?’

‘She went to Italy between three and four years ago with his lordship’s sister, who died there. Mr. James came one winter to Rome, and took her to see everything, and we stayed on the summer after that, and then she became very ill, and begged to go into a convent, meaning an Italian one; and his lordship sent her to one in France, and I returned to London.’

‘But what did she want to go into a convent for? Is she Catholic?’

‘I am sure, miss, I cannot tell what name to call her by. She is just that good, that it seems to be letting her down to put her among any of the religions. There never was born

(p. 125)

angel more spirit than Miss Margaret, or more simple, true, and pure. And so pious: where anybody else prayed she would pray. I have seen her kneel, with a couple of brigand-looking fellows beside her, by the cross in the middle of the Coliseum, just as natural and easy as in the great cathedral. And I have seen her do the same on the top of a hill, where we had gone for a walk, just because, she said, the air was so soft, and the scenery so beautiful, it made her happy to be alive. And when I have been in her studio, as she called her little painting-room in Rome, I am sure I have seen her standing and praying before she began to paint: not aloud, she never did that, but lost, as it were, in a dream. One day I ventured to say, “If anybody but me saw you, miss, they would think you were worshipping the figures in your own picture.” “Well, nurse,” she said, after thinking a bit, “I dare say a good many people have been called idolaters with less reason. I fancy I recognise God in everything beautiful, and it must be a harmless idolatry to worship Him. I only know, that the more I try to do so, the more beauty I find comes into my pictures.” And, bless you, miss, though my young lady only copied other people’s pictures, the old masters, as they are called, everybody did say that she made them more beautiful than the old masters had done.’

‘What made her think of going into a convent?’

‘I never rightly understood. She never was but a child in heart, and I sometimes fear she will never be quite fit for this world. She said, once, she wanted to cultivate her soul; but I thought it was rather her body that needed the cultivation. I think she took a friendship for some nuns in Rome, and wanted a little society, and thought she would be happier among people who devoted their lives to praying and singing and charity. Besides, she was really ill, and fancied she was going to die, so low did the fever bring her. How she ever lived through the time at the convent, unless it was the change of climate, is more than I can understand. But I believe the hardships did not begin till she had got better.’

‘What convent was it?’

‘A French Carmelite convent,’ replied the old woman, ‘to whom, long pent up as she had been, it was a pleasure to talk about her young mistress, with any who took a friendly interest in her. It was where Lord Littmass was concerned that her speech was so restrained. I was saying, that how she came out alive at all, especially being so weak when she went in, is a

(p. 126)

miracle to me. Her religion is all purity and loveliness: I often think she is the real religion herself: while theirs is little but dirt, and ugliness, and misery. There is as much difference between the two as if she worshipped God and they worshipped the devil. She told me about it when she came out, – for his lordship sent me to receive her, and bring her home, – and she begged me never to mention the place again to her. After a few weeks in London, his lordship sent her here for the benefit of the sea, and she has taken a great delight in bathing every morning and evening on the sands down there. The place is so shut in and private that I had no fear of her being overlooked. Not that such a thought ever occurred to herself; she is such a boy in her enjoyment of the water. It was as if she was trying to wash away the memory of that nasty convent.’

‘Did she tell you anything about the details of the life she led there?’ asked Noel.

‘Was this her room in the convent?’ said Sophia, taking up a small drawing.

‘Yes, miss; one day, soon after we came here, she brought me that, and said, “Nurse, dear, I have been naughty. I allowed myself to be impatient with my studies, and I did this for penance.” A condemned cell, rather than a room for a human being to live in, I call it. The floor was bare summer and winter; a little bit of a bed, without a morsel of pillow, a brown rug to lie on, and another to put over her, and no sheet between. No soap allowed, or towel, no sponge, or basin; not even a tooth-brush, the whole five months she was there. A tiny water-jug held all that was allowed to be used for washing, and that was frozen thick in winter. There, miss, you see the crucifix and hour-glass, and the little broom she had to sweep out her cell with; and the straw chair, on which she was forbidden ever to sit: that was for the lady superior when she visited the cell, and to lay her clothes on at night. Not that they were worth taking such tare of; for, besides the shoes, which the nuns themselves make out of straw, and the stockings, which are more bits of rag sewn together, their only articles of dress are a coarse shift, a woollen petticoat, and a gown, and not another blessed thing in the world. And these clothes such as they are, are all worn in common, and are kept in one press, and given out at regular periods, not too close together one may be sure. And there’s not a bit of a looking-glass in the whole convent, so that the poor darling could not have the comfort of seeing

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her own sweet face; not that she ever thinks of herself; and I dare say would not have known herself if she had seen it, for when she came out her beautiful teeth were half ruined, and her complexion and hair were in such a state, from the poor living and the want of soap, that she would certainly have died in a little while. Mr. James can tell you how she looked when he saw her in London afterwards; and she had been a deal worse than ever he saw her. It was only through a French bishop, who knew his lordship, happening to call and see her, that she ever came out alive. He took her out, and then let his lordship know.’

‘Well, she won’t want to be a nun again,’ observed Sophia.

‘No, miss. She has sense enough to see that religion isn’t suicide, and that befouling and destroying the body is not the way to cleanse and save the soul. She found out, too, that profession is not practice; for the nuns did not turn out to be such models of perfection as she had fancied. And, only to think, if she had staid in a little longer, she would have lost her beautiful hair altogether, for they would have shaved her head, like the others.’

‘Of course, she could not keep up her painting or studies there,’ said Noel.

‘Dear, no, sir. This is how they live: They all get up at half-past five, and go to bed at eleven. Part of this time is spent in making and mending their clothes, while a nun reads aloud from the Lives of the Saints. Then they scrub the chapel floor on their knees. But the greater part of each long, long day is spent in what they call devout contemplation, in rooms in which there is never a fire lighted. Indeed, in the bitterest weather there is a fire for only two hours a day in one of the rooms. And then, again, the poor things are taught to give up all their natural affections; for when news comes of the death of a relation of any of them, the lady superior announces, “the mother (or whatever relative it may be) of one of the sisters is dead. Let us pray for her soul.” And no nun is ever told, or knows, if it is her own mother who is dead, or some one else’s. This cruel pang of uncertainty is one of the poor creatures’ greatest trials, though it was not one that could befall Miss Margaret, as she had no relations to care for her, since her mother died in her infancy, and her guardian was almost a stranger to her. There was only Mr. James, who had been almost as a brother to her, and me.’

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‘Can you believe all these horrors possible in this age?’ asked Edmund of Sophia.

‘Yes, and more too. Their theory of life compels it, for they hold that nature is so utterly corrupt, that the more they mortify and go against it, the more they are likely to be in the right. When I was at school in a convent near Paris, the younger girls were warned not to uncover more of themselves in washing than they could help, because the angels standing by would see them! – a caution which certainly did not conduce to their modesty, any more than it did to their cleanliness; for a more false and conscious set of creatures never were seen than those same little French minxes.’

‘I was wrong to speak of age in connection with the Church,’ returned Noel. Incapable of advance, the centuries don’t tell upon it. But it certainly is curious, that a religion based upon Judaism, whose founder, Moses, was the apostle of cleanliness, should elevate dirt into a virtue, and hold physical filth indicative of spiritual purity.’

‘This,’ added the dame, ‘is one of the dolls she brought away with her, dressed exactly like a num They make hundreds of them in the convent, and send them out for sale: for the Carmelites are very poor; and, in fact, though they call it a nunnery, it seems to me for all the world like a poorhouse.’

Perceiving that Maynard was listening to this conversation, Sophia made no attempt to shorten it. He had wandered from one room to the other, and back again, as if uneasy at the peculiar position in which he found himself, looking now at the ornaments which helped to give it an air of elegance, and then out of the window over the sea, until at last he found Margaret’s sketch-book. Upon this he fastened, and applied himself eagerly to it for some time. It contained some recent drawings, done during her residence in the cottage. Looking carefully at these, James thought he detected signs of growth in the beloved artist’s mind. The saints and angels of old had given place to healthier, because more natural, subjects. She had made several attempts to represent faithfully the sea in its various moods, and that bit of the morning and evening sky which was visible between the cliffs which hemmed in her dwelling. In some of the sketches a solitary form could be seen, either reposing at length on the water, or lying on the sands, as a waif thrown up by the sea, and waiting patiently to

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be reclaimed. The earlier ones were destitute of living interest. Maynard looked them all through slowly, and then turned them over rapidly, passing from one to another, as if they were words in a sentence, of which he sought the meaning. At length he seemed to have caught it; for, closing the book, he murmured words which might be taken as his interpretation of the text he had been studying: –

‘Yes; Nature, Loneliness, Feeling. The missing sense is coming.’

Observing that he then cast a glance towards the dame, as if wishing to speak with her, Sophia said to Edmund, –

‘Come with me down to the sea, and we will explore the whole of this little world, of which we have just missed the heroine.’ And they passed down over the beach to the sands where the clear blue water was breaking in gentle ripples. Looking up to the cliff on the left as she faced the sea, Sophia said, –

‘It would have been as great a surprise to you to-day to see me here, had you just now popped round that edge, as it was to you yesterday to see Margaret Waring.’

‘Yesterday! was it but yesterday? It seems an age. I had quite forgotten it. The distress of that poor fellow put everything else out of my mind.’

‘I wonder how it will end,’ returned Sophia. Lord Littmass is not accustomed to be thwarted, and Mr. Maynard seems scarcely the man to study consequences. I suspect there is something of his father about him. I dread to think what may happen if they should clash about her.’

‘I really don’t see that Lord Littmass has any right to coerce either of them,’ said Noel.

‘I believe that she must have his consent to marry before she is of age, and Mr. Maynard loses his fellowship if he marries at all.’

‘But surely he has something of his own, or some occupation that yields him an income. At least he can take orders.’

‘I believe he prefers anything to doing that. Indeed, he is now engaged by a mining company in Mexico, and has just come from there. Perhaps he came down here expressly to ask her to go out with him.’

‘What company? Do you know its name, or any of the people in it?’

(p. 130)

‘I remember the name, because I annoyed Lord Littmass by making a joke upon it. I cautioned him against the Dolóres Mine lest he should come to grief in it.’

‘The Dolóres! My city uncle’s new pet project. And they have employed James Maynard? How curious.’

In the mean time Maynard plied the dame with questions about Margaret, how she was looking, whether she had quite recovered, and about the German task; and, above all, about her feelings with respect to himself. On all points, except the last, the old woman’s replies were satisfactory to him, and he had to be content with the assurance that no one had an opportunity of effacing any impression he might have made upon her.

At length he started up, saying, –

‘Good-bye, dame. I shall do my best, for, as you see, my life is in it. If I cannot see herself, I will see Lord Littmass, and then there will be an end to this hide-and-seek. If you see her first, give her my love, and tell her so.’

‘Oh, pray, sir,’ cried the dame, ‘don’t be so rash as to come across his lordship. If you had the law on your side, it might be all very well. But you can do nothing against Miss Margaret’s guardian.’

‘Very good: then I will have the law on my side. And Miss Margaret’s husband will defy Miss Margaret’s guardian. Good-bye.’

‘Won’t you speak to Miss Sophy first, sir?’

‘What for? No, no; I have no time to lose in talking.’

‘Edmund,’ said Sophia to Noel, as they returned towards the house, ‘it is very evident to me that this poor fellow will do little good for himself, without the kindly intervention of some one who knows Lord Littmass well. Now, my plan is to take him back with us to Linnwood, and all consult together with Lady Bevan, who has more influence with his lordship than all the rest of the world; and that, if she approves, you accompany him to London to-morrow. I would go myself, and bully Lord Littmass into behaving pretty, rather than see those two lives made unhappy by his pride and obstinacy.’

‘It is rather a complicated relationship to meddle with,’ said Noel. ‘Unknown father and disowned son, and ward who is nobody.’

‘Never mind; I will threaten to expose him if nothing else will do. He little dreams who has got hold of his secret.’

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‘Mr. Maynard!’ cried Sophia, approaching the window, ‘I have come to take you back with us to Linnwod.’

‘Lord bless you, miss, he has been gone there ten minutes,’ said the dame, coming out towards them.

‘Gone! Where?’

‘Back to London, miss. I asked him to speak to you first.’

‘How rude of him. Never mind; I don’t dislike him for it. What does he mean to do when he gets there?’

‘I don’t exactly know, but he means to see his lordship, I believe.’

‘Is it possible that he has no suspicion that –– he –– is ––?’ said Sophia, looking keenly at the dame, and speaking very slowly.

‘That what, miss?’ asked the old woman, simply.

‘Of his relationship to ––? Why, you must have been living in Lord Littmass’s family when he was born?’

‘Well, miss?’

‘And you pretend ignorance that ––. I mean, can you give me no clue to Lord Littmass’s objection to his –– to Mr. Maynard’s marrying Miss Waring?’

‘I think, miss, that if her ladyship would try, she might do something in the matter. No one else.’

‘Exactly what I was saying just now to Mr. Noel. You must come over and see her. Come now.’

‘Thank you, miss. I should be very glad to see her ladyship again. It is a number of years since we met, but I am afraid she has not forgiven me for befriending her poor sister. Leastways, so his lordship has told me.’

‘You mean, in befriending her child?’

‘I did that, miss; but I befriended poor Mrs. Waring too, when all her family were against her.’

‘Pray, how did you befriend her?’ asked Sophia, drily.

‘Well, miss, you see that she and the captain were bent on coming together, in spite of everybody’s opposition; and so, as I thought it was a shame to let her lose her good name by going off alone with him, and making a Scotch marriage of it, I went with them to church and saw them married respectably.’

‘You did! Why, I have always understood that they never were married at all, and Lady Bevan believes so of her own sister at this moment. Put on your bonnet and cloak, and come and tell her so yourself.’

(p. 132)

‘No, miss, I must not go there till my master gives me leave. He told me how harshly her ladyship thought of me, but I did not know she thought that about her own sister.’

‘Then Miss Margaret is really Miss Waring, and mamma’s own proper niece! I shall claim her as my cousin on the first opportunity, and insist on Lord –– You won’t own to knowing another secret, too?’

‘I had no notion, miss, that the marriage of my young lady’s parents was doubted by anybody.’

‘Of course Lord Littmass knew of the marriage?’

‘Not at first, miss, I think, but very soon after.’

‘And he never told Lady Bevan, that her sister and his cousin did not disgrace the family after all! Oh, Lordship! Lordship! I begin to suspect there are some very large screws loose in your composition. Margaret neither an idiot nor a ––. Come, Edmund; good-bye, dame. I shall have another ally now for James Maynard. He shall be my cousin, too, yet.’

Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: Capítulo 21 Seguinte: Capítulo 23