Sophia: A Romance

  CHAPTER XIX

  LADY BETTY'S FATE

  Lady Betty had left the house on the hill a mile behind, her breathcame in heavy gasps, her heart seemed to be bursting through herbodice; still she panted bravely along the road that stretched beforeher, white under the moonbeams. Sophia had bidden her run, the momentthe man's back was turned. "Give the alarm, get help," she hadwhispered as she thrust the diamonds into the child's hand; and actingon that instinct of obedience, prompt and unquestioning, which theimminence of peril teaches, Betty had fled on the word. She hadslipped behind the man's back, passed between the houses, and escapedinto the open, unseen, as she fancied.

  For a time she had sped along the road, looking this way and that,expecting at each turn to discover a house, a light, the help shesought. At length, coming on none of these, she began to suspect thetruth, and that Sophia had saved her at her own cost; and she pausedand turned, and even in her distraction made as if she would go back.But in the end, with a sob of grief, she hurried on, seeing in thistheir only chance.

  At length her strength began to fail. Presently she could go nofarther, and with a cry of anguish came to a stand in a dark part ofthe road. She was alone, in an unknown country, with the night beforeher, with the sounds of the night round her; and commonly she wasafraid of the night. But now all the child's thought was for Sophia;her heart was breaking for her friend. And by-and-by she pressed onagain, her breath fluttering between sobs and exhaustion. She turned acorner--and oh, sweet, she saw a light before her!

  She struggled towards it. The spark grew larger and larger; finally itbecame the open doorway of an alehouse, from which the company weredeparting. The goodman and two or three topers were on their feethaving a last crack, the goodwife from her bed above was demandinglustily why they lingered, when the girl, breathless and dishevelled,her hair hanging about her face, appeared on the threshold. For amoment she could not speak; her face was white, her eyes staredwildly. The men fell back from her, as a flock of sheep crowd awayfrom the dog.

  "What beest 'ee?" the landlord bleated faintly. "Lord save us and helpus! Be 'ee mortal?"

  "Help!" she muttered, as she leaned almost swooning, against thedoorpost. "Help! Come quickly! They'll--they'll murder her--if youdon't!" And she stretched out her hands to them.

  But the men only shuddered. "Lord save us!" one of them stammered."It's mostly for murder they come."

  She saw that no one moved, and she could have screamed withimpatience. "Don't you hear me?" she cried hoarsely. "Come, or they'llkill her! They'll kill her! I've left her with them. Come, if you aremen!"

  They began to see that the girl was flesh and blood; but their mindswere rustic, and none of the quickest, and they might have continuedto gape at her for some time longer, if the goodwife, who had heardevery word, had not looked through the trap in the ceiling. She sawthe girl. "Lord sake!" she cried, struck with amazement. "What is it?"

  "Help!" Betty answered, clasping her hands, and turning her eyes inthat direction. "For pity's sake send them with me! There's murderbeing done on the road! Tell them to come with me."

  "What is it? Footpads?" the woman asked sharply.

  "Yes, oh yes! They have stopped Lady Coke's carriage"

  The woman waited to hear no more. "Quick, you fools!" she cried. "Getsticks, and go! Lady Coke's carriage, eh? You'll be her woman, Iexpect. They'll come, they'll come. But where is't? Speak up, anddon't be afraid!"

  "At a house on a hill," Lady Betty answered rapidly. "She's there,hiding from them. And oh, be quick! be quick, if you please!"

  But at that word the goodman, who had snatched up a thatching stake,paused on the threshold. "A house on a hill?" he said. "Do you meanBeamond's farm?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "It's on a hill about a mile ormore--oh, more from here--on the way I came! You must know it!"

  "This side of a ford?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "They've the smallpox there?"

  "Yes, I think so!"

  The man flung down the stake. "No," he said. "It's no! I don't gothere. Devil take me if I do. And she don't come here. If you are ofmy mind," he continued, looking darkly at his fellows, "you'll leavethis alone!"

  The men were evidently of that mind; they threw down their weapons,some with a curse, some with a shiver. Betty saw, and frantic, couldnot believe her eyes. "Cowards!" she cried. "You cowards!"

  The woman alone looked at her uncertainly. "I've children, you see,"she said. "I've to think of them. But there's Crabbe could go. He'sneither chick nor child."

  But the lout she named backed into a corner, sullen and resolute; asif he feared they would force him to go. "Not I," he said. "I don't gonear it, neither. There's three there dead and stiff, and three'senough."

  "You cowards!" Betty repeated, sobbing with passion.

  The woman, too, looked at them with no great favour. "Will none of yougo?" she said. "Mind you, if you go I'll be bound you'll be paid! Orperhaps the young sir there will go!"

  She turned as she spoke, and Betty, looking in the same direction, sawa young man seated on the side of a box bed in the darkest part of thekitchen. Apparently her entrance had roused him from sleep, for hishair was rough, and he was in his shirt and breeches. His boots,clay-stained to the knees, stood beside the bed; his coat and cravat,which were drying in the chimney corner, showed that he had been outin bad weather. The clothes he retained bore traces of wear and usage;but, though plain, they seemed to denote a higher station than that ofthe rustics in his company. As his eyes met Lady Betty's, "I'll come,"he said gruffly. And he reached for his boots and began to put themon; but with a yawn.

  Still she was thankful. "Oh, will you!" she cried. "You're a man. Andthe only one here!"

  "He won't be one long!" the nearest boor cried spitefully.

  But the lad, dropping for a moment his listless manner, took a step inthe speaker's direction; and the clown recoiled. The young fellowlaughed, and, snatching up a stout stick that rested against histruckle bed, said he was ready. "You know the way?" he said; and then,as he read exhaustion written on her face, "Quick, mother," he criedin an altered tone, "have you naught you can give her? She will dropbefore she has gone a mile!"

  The woman hurried up the ladder and fetched a little spirit in a mug.She handed it to the girl at arm's length, telling her to drink it, itwould do her good. Then, cutting a slice from a loaf of coarse breadthat lay on the table, she pushed it over to her. "Take that in yourhand," she said, "and God keep you."

  Betty did as she was bidden, though she was nearly sick with suspense.Then she thanked the woman, turned, and, deaf to the boors' gibes,passed into the road with her new protector. She showed him the wayshe had come, and the two set off walking at the top of her pace.

  She swallowed a morsel of bread, then ran a little, the tears risingin her eyes as she thought of Sophia. A moment of this feverish haste,and the lad bade her walk. "If we've a mile to go," he said wisely,"you cannot run all the way. Slow and steady kills the hare, my dear.How many are there of these gentry?"

  "Three," she answered; and as she pictured Sophia and those three alump rose in her throat.

  "Any servants? I mean had your mistress any men with her?"

  Betty told him, but incoherently. The postboys, the grooms, Watkyns,Pettitt, all were mixed up in her narrative. He tried to follow it,then gave up the attempt. "Anyway, they have all fled," he said. "Itcomes to that."

  She admitted with a sob that it was so; that Sophia was alone.

  The moonlight lay on the road; as she tripped by his side, he turnedand scanned her. He took her for my lady's woman, as the mistress atthe alehouse had taken her. He had caught the name of Coke, but heknew no Lady Coke; he had not heard of Sir Hervey's marriage, and, tobe truthful, his mind was more concerned for the maid than themistress. Through the disorder of Betty's hair and dress, her youthand something of her beauty peeped out; it struck him how brave shehad been to come for help, t
hrough the night, alone; how much morebrave she was to be willing to return, seeing that he was but one tothree, and there was smallpox to face. As he considered this he felt awarmth at his heart which he had not felt for days. And he sighed.

  Presently her steps began to lag; she stood. "Where are we?" shecried, fear in her voice. "We should be there!"

  "We've come about a mile," he said, peering forward through themoonlight. "Is it on a hill, did you say?"

  "Yes, and I see no hill."

  "No," he answered, "but perhaps the fall this way is gentle."

  She muttered a word of relief. "That is so," she said. "It's above thewater, on the farther side, that it is steep. Come on, please come on!I think I see a house."

  But the house she saw proved to be only a deserted barn, at thejunction of two roads; and they stood dismayed. "Did you pass this?"he asked.

  "I don't know," she cried. "Yes, I think so."

  "On your right or your left?"

  She wrung her hands. "I think it was on my right," she said.

  He took the right-hand turn without more ado, and they hurried alongthe road for some minutes. At length her steps began to flag. "I mustbe wrong," she faltered. "I must be wrong! Oh, why," she cried, "whydid I leave her?" And she stood.

  "Courage!" he answered. "I see a rising ground on the left. Andthere's a house on it. We ought to have taken the other turning. Nowwe are here we had better cross the open. Shall I lift you over theditch, child? Or shall I leave you and go on?"

  But she scrambled into the ditch and out again; on the other side thetwo set off running with one accord, across an open field, dim andshadowy, that stretched away to the foot of the ascent. Soon heoutpaced her, and she fell to walking. "Go on!" she panted bravely."On, on, I will follow!"

  He nodded, and clutching his stick by the middle, he lengthened hisstride. She saw him come to a blurred line at the foot of the hill,and heard him break through the fence. Then the darkness that layon the hither slope of the hill--for the moon was beginning todecline--swallowed him, and she walked on more slowly. Each moment sheexpected to hear a cry, an oath, the sudden clash of arms would breakthe silence of the night.

  But the silence held; and still silence. And now the fence brought herup also; and she stood waiting, trembling, listening, in aprolongation of suspense almost intolerable. At length, unable to bearit longer, she pushed her way into the hedge, and struggled, pantingthrough it; and was starting to clamber up the ascent on the otherside when a dark form loomed beside her.

  It was her companion. What had happened?

  "We are wrong," he muttered. "It's a clump of trees, not a house. Andthere are clouds coming up to cover the moon. Let us return to theroad while we can, my girl."

  But this was too much. At this, the last of many disappointments, thegirl's courage snapped, as a rush snaps. With a wild outburst ofweeping, she flung herself down on the sloping ground, and rubbed herface in the grass, and tore the soil with her fingers in an agony ofabandonment. "Oh, I left her! I left her!" she wailed, when sobsallowed words to pass. "I left her, and saved myself. And she's dead!Oh, why didn't I stay with her? Why didn't I stay with her?"

  The young man listened awhile, awkward, perturbed; when he spoke hisvoice was husky. "'Tis no use," he said peevishly. "No use, child!Don't--don't go on like this! See here, you'll have a fever, if youlie there. You will, I know," he repeated.

  "I wish I had!" she cried with passion, and beat her hands on theground. "Oh why did I leave her?"

  He cleared his throat. "It's folly this!" he urged. "It's--it's of nouse to any one. No good! And there, now it's dark. I told you so--andwe shall have fine work getting to the road again!"

  She did not answer, but little by little his meaning reached herbrain, and after a minute or two she sat up, her crying less violent."That's better," he said. "But you are too tired to go farther. Let mehelp you to climb the fence. There's a log the other side--I stumbledover it. You can sit on it until you are rested."

  She did not assent, but she suffered him to help her through the hedgeand seat her on the fallen tree. The tide of grief had ebbed; she wasregaining her self-control, though now and again a sob shook her. Buthe saw that an interval must pass before she could travel, and hestood, shy and silent, seeing her dimly by the light which the moonstill shed through a flying wrack of clouds. Round and below them laythe country, still, shadowy, mysterious; stretching away into unknowninfinities, framing them in a solitude perfect and complete. Theymight have been the only persons in the world.

  By-and-by, whether he was tired, or really had a desire to comfort herat closer quarters, he sat down on the tree; and by chance his handtouched her hand. She sprang a foot away, and uttered a cry. Helaughed softly.

  "You need not be afraid," he said. "I've seen enough of women to lastme my life. If you were the only woman in the world, and the mostbeautiful, you would be safe enough for me. You may be quite easy, mydear."

  She ceased to sob, but her voice was a little broken and husky whenshe spoke. "I'm very sorry," she said humbly. "I am afraid I havegiven you a vast deal of trouble, sir."

  "Not so much as a woman has given me before this," he answered.

  She looked at him furtively out of the tail of her eye, as a woman atthat would be likely to look. And if the truth be told she felt, amidall her grief, an inclination to laugh. But with feminine tact shesuppressed this. "And yet--and yet you came to help me?" she muttered.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "One has to do certain things," he said.

  "I am afraid somebody has--has behaved badly to you," she murmured;and she sighed.

  Somehow the sigh flattered him. "As women generally behave," hereplied with a sneer. "She lied to me, she cheated me, she robbed me,and she would have ruined me."

  "And men don't do those things," she answered meekly, "to women." Andshe sighed again.

  He started. It could not be that she was laughing at him. "Anyway, Ihave done with women," he said brusquely.

  "And you'll never marry, sir?"

  "Marry? Oh, I say nothing as to that," he answered contemptuously."Marry I may, but it won't be for love. And 'twill be a lady anyway;I'll see to that. I'll know her father and her mother, and hergrandfather and her grandmother," Tom continued. For poor Tom it was,much battered and weathered by a week spent on the verge of 'listing."I'll have her pedigree by heart, and she shall bring her old nursewith her to speak for her, if marry I must. But no more ladies indistress for me. No more ladies picked up off the road, I thank you.That's all."

  "You are frank, sir, at any rate," she said; and she laughed in a sortof wonder, taking it to herself.

  At the sound, Tom, who had meant nothing personal, felt ashamed ofhimself. "I beg your pardon, my dear," he answered. "But--but I wishedto put you at your ease. I wished to show you, you were safe with me;as your mistress would be."

  "Oh, thank you," Betty answered. "For the matter of that, sir, I'vehad a lover myself, and said no to him, as well as my betters. But itwasn't before he asked me," she continued ironically. And she tossedher head again.

  "I didn't mean--I mean I thought you were afraid of me," Tomstammered, wondering she took it so ill.

  "No more than my mistress would be," she retorted sharply. "And I'mjust as particular as she is--in one thing."

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "I don't take gentlemen off the road, either."

  He laughed, seeing himself hit; and as if that recalled her toherself, she sprang up with a sob of remorse. "Oh," she said, wringingher hands, "we sit here and play, while she suffers! We don't think ofher! Do something! do something if you are a man!"

  "But we don't know where we are, or where she is."

  "Then let us find her," she cried; "let us find her!"

  "We can do nothing in the dark," he urged. "It is dark as the pit now.If we can find our way to the road again, it will be as much as we cando."

  "Let us try! let us try!" she answered, growing frantic. "I shall gomad if I st
ay here."

  He gave way at that, and consented to try. But they had not gone fiftyyards before she tripped and fell, and he heard her gasp for breath.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked, stooping anxiously over her.

  "No," she said. But she rose with difficulty, and he knew by her voicethat she was shaken.

  "It's of no use to go on," he said. "I told you so. We must stay here.It is after midnight now. In an hour, or a little more, dawn willappear. If we find the road now we can do no good."

  She shivered. "Take me back," she said miserably. "I--I don't knowwhere we are."

  He took her hand, and with a little judgment found the tree again. "Ifyou could sleep awhile," he said, "the time would pass."

  "I cannot," she cried, "I cannot." And then, "Oh Sophy! Sophy!" shewailed, "why did I leave you? Why did I leave you?"

  He let her weep a minute or two, and then as much to distract her asfor any other reason, he asked her if she had been brought up with hermistress.

  She ceased to sob. "Why?" she asked, startled.

  "Because--you called her by her name," he said. "I noticed becauseI've a sister of that name."

  "Sophia?"

  "Yes. If I had listened to her--but there, what is the use oftalking?" And he broke off brusquely.

  Lady Betty was silent awhile, only betraying her impatience by sighingor beating the trunk with her heels. By-and-by, the hour before thedawn came, and it grew cold. He heard her teeth chatter, and afterfumbling with his coat, he took it off, and, in spite of herremonstrances, wrapped her in it.

  "Don't!" she said, feebly struggling with him. "Don't! You're agentleman, and I am only----"

  "You're a woman as much as your mistress," he answered roughly.

  "But--you hate women!" she cried.

  "You don't belong to me," he answered with disdain, "and you'll notdie on my hands! Do as you are bidden, child!"

  After that he walked up and down before the tree; until at last theday broke, and the grey light, spreading and growing stronger, showedthem a sea of mist, covering the whole world--save the little eminenceon which they sat--and flowing to their very feet. It showed them alsotwo haggard faces--his weary, hers beautiful in spite of its pallorand her long vigil. For in some mysterious way she had knotted up herhair and tied her kerchief. As she gave him back his coat, and theireyes met, he started and grew red.

  "Good heavens, child!" he cried, "you are too handsome to be wanderingthe country alone; and too young."

  She had nothing to say to that, but her cheeks flamed, and she beggedhim to come quickly--quickly; and together they went down into themist. At that hour the birds sing in chorus as they never sing in theday; and, by the time the two reached the road the sun was up and theworld round them was joyous with warmth and light and beauty. The dewbesprinkled every bush with jewels as bright as those which Bettycarried in her bosom--for she had thrown away the case--and from thepines on the hill came the perfume of a hundred Arabys. Tom wonderedwhy his heart beat so lightly, why he felt an exhilaration to which hehad been long a stranger. Heartbroken, a woman-hater, a cynic, itcould not be because a pair of beautiful eyes had looked kindly intohis? because a waiting-maid had for a moment smiled on him? That wasabsurd.

  For her, left to herself, she would have pursued the old plan, andgone wildly, frantically up and down, seeking at random the placewhere she had left Sophia. But he would not suffer it. He led her tothe nearest cottage, and learning from the staring inhabitants theexact position of Beamond's Farm, got his companion milk and bread,and saw her eat it. Then he announced his purpose.

  "I shall leave you here," he said. "In two hours at the most I shallbe back with news."

  "And you think I'll stay?" she cried.

  "I think you will, for I shall not take you," he answered coolly. "Doyou want the smallpox, silly child? Do you think your ladies will beas ready to hire you when you have lost your looks? Stay here, and intwo hours I shall be back."

  She cried that she would not stay; she would not stay! "I shall not!"she cried a third time. "Do you hear me? I shall go with you!"

  "You will not!" Tom said. "And for a good reason, my girl. You heardthat woman ask us whether we came from Beamond's, and you saw the wayshe looked at us. If it's known we've been there, there's not a housewithin ten miles will take us in, nor a coach will give us a lift. Youhave had one night out, you'll not bear another. Now, with me it isdifferent."

  "It is not," she cried. "I shall go."

  "You will not," he said; and their eyes met. And presently hersdropped. "You will not," he repeated masterfully; "because I am thestronger, and I will tie you to a gate before you shall go. And you,little fool, will be thankful to me to-morrow. It's for your owngood."

  She gave way at that, crying feebly, for the night had shaken her."Sit here in sight of the cottage," he continued, thrusting aside thebrambles and making a place for her beside a tree, "and if you cansleep a little, so much the better. In two hours at the farthest Iwill be back."

  She obeyed, watched him go, and saw his figure grow smaller andsmaller, until it vanished at a turn of the road. She watched thewoman of the cottage pass in and out with pail and pattens, andby-and-by she had to parry her questions. She saw the sun climb higherand higher in the sky, and heard the hum of the bees grow loud andlouder, and felt the heat of the day take hold; and yet he did notreturn. And while she watched for him most keenly, as she imagined,she fell asleep.

  When she awoke he was standing over her, and his face told her all.She sprang up. "You've not found her!" she cried, clasping her hands,and holding them out to him.

  "No," he said. "There's no one in the house. No one but the dead."