Delphie laughed, and made her escape, leaving the two ladies to shake their heads and discuss plans for launching her in polite society. She felt more than a little dismayed at the prospect. In the first place, until her mother’s annuity was a settled thing, it would be highly impolitic to reduce her own earnings by discontinuing the lessons she gave; the Carterets could not rely on the continued hospitality of Lady Bablock-Hythe; nor, even had she offered it, had Delphie any intention of accepting her good offices for more than a limited period. Lady Bablock-Hythe was too foolish for any dependence to be placed on her assistance.
Even more dismaying was the thought of the eligible connection they intended to arrange for her. I wonder if Gareth has done anything yet about getting our marriage annulled? thought Delphie as she walked in the direction of Berkeley Square. I wonder if there will be very much public notice attached to the process? Whether I shall have to appear in a court? Or make a declaration?
The whole idea was so disagreeable and lowering that she resolved to try and put it out of her mind for a few days; she imagined that Gareth, busy with the funeral arrangements at Chase, would hardly have had time to set about the annulment. However, Delphie resolved that if she did not hear from him about it within ten days or so, she would herself have recourse to a lawyer, perhaps the Mr. Mundwinch spoken of in such enthusiastic terms by Mr. Browty.
But then an even more dismaying thought struck her—if her marriage to Gareth were annulled, would that invalidate Lord Bollington’s will? I must consult a lawyer without delay, she resolved.
After the lesson had been given, Delphie walked around to Greek Street to acquaint Miss Baggott of her new direction, and inform the sisters of Mr. Palgrave’s second and more legal release from jail. She also wished to apologize to Jenny for Gareth’s tirade after the rescue, but that volatile young lady made nothing of it.
“Lor, Miss Delphie, it was an education to hear him! I only wish Sister could ha’ been there; I have been trying to recollect his language ever since, I declare! It was as good as a play, I said to Anne, I quite fancied myself in Drury Lane. And I’m as happy as can be to hear that the poor gentleman has been set free after all, for it seemed the saddest thing in the world that he must go back into the Clink after all our trouble.”
Delphie thanked her again, very warmly, for her part in the operation, however misjudged, and inquired after Mr. Swannup and the wedding plans.
“La, miss, he’s forever here now,” said Anne, “and indeed I shall be glad when the wedding’s over, for it fills my sister’s head so there’s room for nothing else—not that there ever was much!”
“Oh, Miss Delphie, I hope you’ll do us the honor to be present!” cried Jenny. “It’s to be at the church in Golden Square a fortnit on Saturday, and, indeed, if you can’t be there I shall think it hardly worth being married at all, so kind as you’ve been to us.”
Delphie readily promised her attendance (after all, Jenny had been at her wedding, she reflected); she asked where the young couple were to live, and was informed that the gentleman in the wool hosiery and hat business had been told that the rooms upstairs were not vacant after all, and the Swannups would inhabit them.
“So it’s all turned out just right and tight, Miss Delphie,” Jenny said happily, “and I only hope you’ll be as happy as us, dearie, with your gentleman, when you’ve come to know each other a little better! For sure, what’s a few words spoke in a passion? I like a man as can speak his mind far better than your mimbling mumchance glum grudge-bearers!”
Allowing this to be true, Delphie nevertheless gave Jenny to understand that there was no future in that connection, and that she proposed moving out of the house in Curzon Street as soon as possible. Jenny’s face fell grievously at this information, and she was trying strongly to dissuade Delphie from this course of action, when Mr. Swannup entered the shop, looking very breathless and alarmed.
For some minutes, such was the speed with which he had run along the street, that he could say nothing at all, but merely gasp and gape. His face was quite scarlet from running, and his ginger hair stood up in a damp topknot.
“Mercy on us, Sam, what can be the matter?” cried Jenny in amazement, while Anne went to procure him a glass of water.
When he had drunk it down, they were not materially better informed as to the cause of his excitement, for he could only exclaim,
“Treason! Villainy! Horrible knavery! O, what nasty havey-cavey dealings!”
“What’s the matter, Sam?” said Miss Anne, presently becoming impatient with this. “Do, for heaven’s sake, tell us a round tale!”
At last he had quieted down enough to do so.
“I’m that pleased to find you here, Miss Carteret, ma’am, for it was to discover your direction I came here, having first run all the way to Curzon Street, only to discover you was removed from there, and none to tell me where you had gone! Oh, whatever shall I do now, says I to myself, and then I recollected that Miss Baggott might have your direction.”
“Indeed, I am sorry you have had all this running about on my behalf, Mr. Swannup,” said Delphie, “but, pray, what has put you into such a state of agitation?”
“Well, miss, here’s how it all was: My friend Mr. Bardwell as looks after Mr. Penistone (now become Lord B.)—Mr. Bardwell had put me in the way of a little job of work at Lord Bollington’s residence in Hanover Square, where they wanted hatchments setting up over the doors, in mourning for the old gent as died, and also some of the locks on the doors wanted mending, for indeed his old lordship had let the whole house fall into a sorry state...”
Here he paused to take breath.
“I am not surprised to hear it,” said Delphie, remembering the shabby and moth-eaten state of the furnishings at Chase. “But go on, Mr. Swannup—what happened?”
“Well, miss—being as how my Jenny had given me two of her notable apple turnovers to take along with me by way of a nuncheon while I was working (and real tasty they was, too, my love,” he added, “that smitch of clove you puts with the apples is a fair masterpiece!); as I was saying, miss, being wishful to eat my nuncheon somewhere unespied by persons who might chance to walk in and out of the room where I was working, I bethought me to take refuge in a kind of a little gallery, where I sat myself down on the floor (for there was no chair) behind a big desk, and in between that and some railings. A rug was throwed over the railings, so I was as safe and snug, miss, as if I had been in a rabbit burrow.”
“Where was this, Mr. Swannup?” Delphie asked, somewhat perplexed by his description.
“It was in the library, miss, of Lord Bollington’s house in Hanover Square, where I was a-mending of a lock. Well, as I chanced to sit there quietly, miss, a-munching of my Jenny’s turnover and a-thinking of her beautiful black eyes, what should chance to walk into the room below me but two persons. And before I could make my presence known to ‘em, miss—though not anxious to do so, if you will believe me, for Jenny’s pastry is that flaky and I was all over turnover crumbs—what should I hear but a voice pronouncing your name, miss!”
“Oh?” said Delphie rather blankly.
“Yes, miss! You may well say oh! ‘What the devil are you doing here, Miss Carteret?’ says the voice. I knows it, for it was the voice of that Mr. Fitzjohn, who acts as bailiff and steward and so forth to Lord Bollington; it was he who had instructed me about the work I was to do. ‘What the deuce are you doing here?’ he says. Well, miss, when I hears the name Carteret, I lifts just a tiddy twitch o’ the rug, and claps my eye to the chink, and looks down into the room below; there stands Mr. Fitz, with a young lady I never laid eyes on before in my whole life! A monstrous fashionable young lady in a sarcenet pelisse (like the one we was a-looking at for you, Jenny) and a feather in her hat—”
“What color—?” began Jenny, but Miss Anne exclaimed,
“What is that to the purpose? Hold your tongue, do, Jenny, and let Sam tell his tale!”
“Well,” said Sam, “I was jus
t a-thinking, This is not my Miss Carteret, and may be no connection at all, when the young lady breaks out in a great tweak and taking. ‘Oh, Mordred,” says she, ‘it is too provoking for words! That ninnyhammer of a Lady Bablock-Hythe,’ says she, ‘has encountered Mrs. Carteret, who has told her some tiresome tale—’ ‘Met Mrs. Carteret?’ says he, sounding very put out, ‘Pray, how in the world did they chance to meet?’ ‘In the street,’ says she, ‘it is the most vexatious thing! And the long and the short of it is, Mordred, that Durnett and I have been given our marching orders and told to leave Brook Street, since the odious Lady Bablock-Hythe chooses to believe their tale rather than mine! So I have come here, Mordred!’ says she, ‘for where else can I go? What is happening now about that wretched girl, Mordred?’ says she. ‘Does Gareth believe in her tale or not?’ ‘How should I know?’ says he, sounding mightily displeased. ‘Gareth does not take me into his confidence. But they have had a quarrel, I know that, for he came here in a blazing rage at her, and has now posted down to Chase, declaring that he wishes the whole of womenkind were at the devil.’ ‘Aha, so he will have their marriage annulled, will he?’ says she, sounding as joyful as if she had just been left fifty thousand in the Funds. ‘What is that to you?’ says Mr. Fitz, as surly as a baited bear. ‘You know you are promised to me, and have been these five years past!’ ‘Now, Mordred!’ cries she. ‘Do but be practical. Let us understand one another.’ ‘Yes, by all means let us,’ says he. ‘Our understanding only holds good,’ says she, ‘on condition you win your suit, and become Lord Bollington. But in the meantime,’ says she, ‘I must look out for myself, and my best means of doing that is to marry Gareth. Then—if you win your suit—it will be the easiest thing in the world to put Gareth out of the way—a dish of oysters, or a carriage accident, or an accidental drowning, or some such thing—’ ‘And if I should not win my case?’ says he, surlier still. ‘Then you will be Lady Bollington and I shall be nothing at all—then what shall you do?’ ‘Why,’ she says, airy as a feather, ‘even then, some accident may occur, and I will be the widowed Lady Bollington, with all the revenues, and can marry you, and at least we will be the better for that!’ ‘And what about Mrs. Carteret and Miss Philadelphia, now Lady Bablock-Hythe believes their tale?’ says he. ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we can soon find some means to rid ourselves of them—I do not regard them at all! Indeed it is only by sheer unlucky mischance that they are not already disposed of. We might discredit them easily enough, could I possess myself of their papers. (If I had not employed that stupid boy I should have them by now,’ she said.) ‘Or we might have it put about that she poisoned Lord Bollington. ‘That cock won’t fight,’ says he, ‘for the Crowner’s Quest this morning has brought in a verdict of Accidental Death. I do not trust you, Elaine,’ says he. ‘I do not believe you intend to marry me at all! I believe you have always loved Gareth Penistone—ever since you met him in Bath—I believe if you could secure him you would sacrifice me without a single scruple!’ ‘It is no such thing!’ cries she. ‘I love you, Elaine,’ says he, ‘and what is more I know the truth about you, and if that comes to Gareth’s ears, you are properly dished, and may toss your hopes of him into the gutter. So you had best pay more heed to my wishes.’ And then they begin to quarrel, going at one another like cat and dog, and all the time I was in a fair quake, lest someone should come in and discover me, and they therefore learn I had heard all they said.”
“Great heaven!” cried Delphie, aghast. “What hideous revelations of duplicity! What outrageous monsters are these! How can such things be?”
In point of fact she was not quite so surprised as her words suggested, for she had never reposed full confidence in Mr. Fitzjohn, while Miss Carteret had from the outset made it plain that she was her open enemy. But Mr. Swannup had told his tale with such emphasis, such flashing eyes, and such a wealth of dramatic gesture, that she felt he was entitled to a fair meed of astonishment in return.
“Ah, but wait, miss—there’s more yet!” he said triumphantly. “And even blacker deceit! Just you listen while I tell you. After they had quarreled for a number of minutes, she says, ‘Well, if you do not want me here, I shall go down to Chase; it will be proper for me to attend the funeral in any case,” she says. ‘And while I am there, ten to one I can fix my interest with Gareth, if he has quarreled with Miss Philadelphia.’ Oh, the nasty way she said those words, miss—it fair made my blood boil! ‘And once I have fixed my interest with Gareth,’ says she, ‘you can sing him any song you like—he will not listen!’ ‘You may go to the devil, with my leave,’ says he. ‘You are a hard-hearted selfish Vixen and I wish I had never known you and that you had never been born!’ ‘You are just as selfish!’ cries she. ‘If you had not written to me in Bath saying that the old Cull was not seriously indisposed, I should have come to Chase when he summoned me, and been married to Gareth by now. That affair was your doing, and I believe you wrote the letter to prevent my marrying Gareth.’ ‘I warn you,’ says he, ‘if you persist in going to Chase, I shall do what I can to queer your pitch—and there is much I can do!’ ‘Take heed to yourself, Cousin Mordred!’ says she. ‘For I can be an ill foe too—I could tell Cousin Gareth tales of your embezzling from the old cove that would land you properly in the basket!’
“At that Mr. Fitzjohn goes stamping out of the room. Then, to my great alarm, Miss calls out, ‘Nurse! Nurse! Durnett, where are you?’ Whereupon I think I am wholly in the suds, for I find there is a little old woman all the time a-listening, right there in the gallery! But after all, she has not seen me, where I am crouched behind the desk, and Miss calls out, ‘Come down here, nurse, for I wish to talk to you.’ So the old woman goes down and says to t’other Miss Carteret, ‘You did not really intend to marry that Fitzjohn, did you, dearie?’ And Miss says, ‘No, I mean to marry Gareth, and always have. Mordred would be just as clutch-fisted as old Lord B. I pretended to fall in with his plans, so that he would help me; but it is Gareth I love, and I will have him somehow!’ ‘He don’t love you,’ says the old woman. ‘He loves no one,’ says Miss, ‘but I will have him for all that, and when I have got him fast, I will teach him a thing or two!’ ‘You know that it is dangerous for you to go to Chase?’ says the old girl. ‘Why?’ says she. But that question the old woman would not answer, only said again that it was dangerous. ‘Well, it is a risk I will have to run,’ says she. ‘I do not care what danger there may be, so I can fix my interest with Gareth. He must marry me! I shall threaten him with the lawyers—if he won’t wed me I shall tell how he deceived the old man.’ ‘That might be cutting off your nose to spite your face!’ ‘Hush your croaking!’ says Miss. ‘Do you go and hire a carriage and we will be off.”
“So then they quitted the chamber—and I made all haste to finish my last bite of turnover and come to find you, miss! Now, isn’t that a shocking tale of wickedness and double-dealing for you!”
“It is indeed!” said Delphie. “And I am amazed that you can recall it all so clearly, Mr. Swannup! Your account was as good as a play—I could quite picture myself at the scene.”
Mr. Swannup blushed with simple pride, and Jenny looked admiringly at her lover.
“Oh,” he said, “that is because of my fondness for litter-avture, miss. I have always been used to read a great quantity of poetry and plays, and also to get as much of what I read by heart as I can contrive to. In consequence I am what (on the boards) they call a quick study. Indeed,” he said, sighing, “I have often wished that I could be on the boards, but Pa had me apprenticed to a locksmith.”
“And look how useful that proved!” cried Jenny. “Though for sure it is a thousand pities you shouldn’t have been an actor—my blood quite froze when you was a-rendering the words of those wicked murderers and all their horrid designs. But isn’t it the most fiendish nasty thing you ever heard in the whole of your life, Miss Delphie? It makes my blood boil to think that Trollop is on her way to Chase, to tell all manner of wicked lies to your cousin! And, doubtless, that Mr. Fitz (
who I never liked more than half, for I can’t abear a freckle-faced chap) going after her! Don’t you think we had best hire a chaise and pursue them, for Mr. Swannup could bowl them out by telling what he heard? We should be happy to do so, Miss Delphie!”
Delphie was rather inclined to agree, but said that she must reflect on the matter. In the meantime she urged the strictest discretion.
“Ay, never fear, miss! Mum’s the word!” said Sam Swannup. “But should you wish me go get up in court, miss, and swear to all I heard, I shall be glad to oblige, Miss Delphie! I have always wished to give evidence in a Court of Law!”
Delphie walked home toward Brook Street, meditating much on what she had heard. She took her way through Hanover Square, and as she did so, she observed a curricle dash past her, drawn by two horses who were being lashed up to a dangerous pace by their driver. As he passed, she recognized him. It was Mr. Fitzjohn, driving at a breakneck speed, and with the face of a demon.
15
When Delphie re-entered the house in Brook Street she found, to her considerable surprise, that her mother and Lady Bablock-Hythe were gone out. A note from Mrs. Carteret explained this.
Dearest Child.t
Mr. Browty is come to take us driving in the Park. We had intended to pass the day Indoors, but his kind offer and the usually Fine Warm Weather has tempted us forth. Mr. B has also suggested that we might care to share his Box at Covent Garden tonight, he invited us to dine at his house first—so it is possible Lady B & I shall not be returned until quite late. Mr. B was excessively sad to miss you, but, Lord, says he, now Miss has so many Great freinds, no doubt she is occupied with some lively amusement every hour of the day & has little time left for such an old stick as I. Oh, my dear Delphie, he is the most estimable man! Such true delicacy of mind! Air and address all that it should be. He has brought me a Parasol to shade me from the heat of the sun! By the by, my dearest child, my sweet Maria had in a few freinds this morning to play at loo for 10s. points, and, only think! I was lucky enough to win 100 guineas, so here are 50 of them for you. I am very happy to be able to return to you a very small part of all you have expended on me in the last Years: pray use it for Pin Money; I shall hope to win more, as I find we shall need a considerable deal of cash at Lady B-H’s house—she lives in such a fine way, do she says with truth that all our garments are sadly dowdy. It is so fortunate that I have ever enjoyed the greatest good luck at cards.