III
BEAUTIFUL JULIA--AND MY LORD
"It seemed somehow impossible, me going to be cook there all my days."So writes Sophy at a later date in regard to her life at MorpinghamHall. To many of us in our youth it has seemed impossible that we shouldpass all our days in the humdrum occupations and the mediocre positionsin which we have in fact spent them. Young ambitions are chronicled onlywhen they have been fulfilled--unless where a born autobiographer makesfame out of his failures. But Sophy had a double portion of originalrestlessness--this much the records of Morpingham years, scanty as theyare, render plain. Circumstances made much play with her, but she wasnever merely the sport of chance or of circumstances. She was alwayswaiting, even always expecting, ready to take her chance, with armout-stretched to seize Occasion by the forelock. She co-operated eagerlywith Fate and made herself a partner with Opportunity, and she was quickto blame the other members of the firm for any lack of activity orforwardness. "You can't catch the train unless you're at thestation--and take care your watch isn't slow," she writes somewhere inthe diary. The moral of the reflection is as obvious as its form; it isobvious, too, that a traveller so scrupulous to be in time would sufferproportionate annoyance if the train were late.
The immediate result of this disposition of hers was unhappy, and it isnot hard to sympathize with the feelings of the Brownlows. Theirbenevolence was ample, but it was not unconscious; their benefits, whichwere very great, appeared to them exhaustive, not only above what Sophymight expect, but also beyond what she could imagine. They had pickedher up from the road-side and set her on the way to that sort of kingdomwith the prospect of which Basil Williamson had tried to console her.The Squire was an estimable man, but one of small mind; he moved amongthe little--the contented lord of a pin-point of the earth. Mrs.Brownlow was a profoundly pious woman, to whom content was a high duty,to be won by the performance of other duties. If the Squire detected inthe girl signs of ingratitude to himself, his wife laid equal blame on arebellion against Heaven. Sophy knew--if not then, yet on lookingback--what they felt; her references to them are charged with a remorsewhose playful expression (obstinately touched with scorn as it is) doesnot hide its sincerity. She soon perceived, anyhow, that she was gettinga bad character; she, the cook _in posse_, was at open war with Mrs.Smilker, the cook _in esse_; though, to be sure, "Smilker" might havedone something to reconcile her to "Grouch!"
Mrs. Brownlow naturally ranged herself on the side of constitutedauthority, of the superior rank in the domestic hierarchy. Moreover, itis likely that Mrs. Smilker was right in nine cases out of ten, at allevents; Sophy recognized that probability in after-life; none the less,she allows herself more than once to speak of "that beast of a Smilker."Mere rectitude as such never appealed to her; that comes out in anotherrather instructive comment, which she makes on Mrs. Brownlow herself,"Me being what I was, and she what she was, though I was grateful toher, and always shall be, I couldn't love her; and what hit me hardestwas that she didn't wonder at it, and, in my opinion, wasn't very sorryeither--not in her heart, you know. Me not loving her made what she wasdoing for me all the finer, you see."
Perhaps these flashes of insight should not be turned on ourbenefactors, but the extract serves to show another side of Sophy--onewhich in fairness to her must not be ignored. Not only was restlessnessunsatisfied, and young ambitions starved; the emotions were not fedeither, or at least were presented with a diet too homely for Sophy'staste. For the greater part of this time she had no friends outside theHall to turn to. Julia Robins was pursuing her training in London, and,later, her profession in the country. Basil Williamson, who "amused"her, was at Cambridge, and afterwards at his hospital; a glimpse of himshe may have caught now and then, but they had no further talk. Veryprobably he sought no opportunity; Sophy had passed from the infants'school to the scullery; she had grown from a child into a big girl. Ifprudent Basil kept these transformations in view, none can blame him--hewas the son of the Rector of the parish. So, when bidden to the Hall, heate the potatoes Sophy had peeled, but recked no more of the hand thatpeeled them. In the main the child was, no doubt, a solitary creature.
So much is what scientific men and historians call "reconstruction"--ahazardous process--at least when you are dealing with human beings. Ithas been kept within the strict limits of legitimate inference, andaccordingly yields meagre results. The return of Julia Robins enables usto put many more of the stones--or bones, or whatever they may becalled--in their appropriate places.
It is the summer of 1865--and Julia is very gorgeous. Three years hadpassed over her head; her training had been completed a twelvemonthbefore, and she had been on her first tour. She had come home "torest"--and to look out for a new engagement. She wore a blue hat with awhite feather, a blue skirt, and a red "Garibaldi" shirt; her fair hairwas dressed in the latest fashion. The sensation she made in Morpinghamneeds no record. But her head was not turned; nobody was ever less of asnob than Julia Robins, no friendship ever more independent of the upsand downs of life, on one side or the other, than that which united herand Sophy Grouch. She opened communications with the Hall sculleryimmediately. And--"Sophy was as much of a darling as ever"--is herwarm-hearted verdict.
The Hall was not accessible to Julia, nor Woodbine Lodge to Mrs.Brownlow's little cook-girl. But the Squire's coachman had been at thestation when Julia's train came in: her arrival would be known in theHall kitchen, if not up-stairs. On the morrow she went into the avenueof old elms about twelve o'clock, conjecturing that her friend mighthave a few free moments about that hour--an oasis between the labors ofthe morning and the claims of luncheon. Standing there under the treesin all her finery--not very expensive finery, no doubt, yet fresh andindisputably gay--she called her old mocking challenge--"Sophy Grouch!Sophy Grouch!"
Sophy was watching. Her head rose from the other side of the ditch. Shewas down in a moment, up again, and in her friend's arms. "It's like apuff of fresh air," she whispered, as she kissed her, and then, drawingaway, looked her over. Sophy was tall beyond her years, and her head wasnearly on a level with Julia's. She was in her short print gown, withher kitchen apron on; her sleeves rolled up, her face red from the fire,her hands too, no doubt, red from washing vegetables and dishes. "Shelooked like Cinderella in the first act of a pantomime," is MissRobins's professional comment--colored, perhaps, also by subsequentevents.
"You're beautiful!" cried Sophy. "Oh, that shirt--I love red!" And so onfor some time, no doubt. "Tell me about it; tell me everything aboutit," she urged. "It's the next best thing, you know."
Miss Robins recounted her adventures: they would not seem very dazzlingat this distance. Sophy heard them with ardent eyes; they availed tocolor the mark on her cheek to a rosy tint. "That's being alive," shesaid, with a deep-drawn sigh.
Julia patted her hand consolingly. "But I'm twenty!" she reminded herfriend. "Think how young you are!"
"Young or old's much the same in the kitchen," Sophy grumbled.
Linking arms, they walked up the avenue. The Rector was approaching fromthe church. Sophy tried to draw her arm away. Julia held it tight. TheRector came up, lifted his hat--and, maybe, his brows. But he stoppedand said a few pleasant words to Julia. He had never pretended toapprove of this stage career, but Julia had now passed beyond hisjurisdiction. He was courteous to her as to any lady. Official positionbetrayed itself only as he was taking leave--and only in regard to SophyGrouch.
"Ah, you keep up old friendships," he said--with a rather forcedapproval. "Please don't unsettle the little one's mind, though. She hasto work--haven't you, Sophy? Good-bye, Miss Robins."
Sophy's mark was ruddy indeed as the Rector went on his blameless way,and Julia was squeezing her friend's arm very hard. But Sophy saidnothing, except to murmur--just once--"The little one!" Julia smiled atthe tone.
They turned and walked back towards the road. Now silence reigned; Juliawas understanding, pitying, wondering whether a little reasonableremonstrance would be accepted by her fiery and very
unreasonable littlefriend; scullery-maids must not arraign social institutions nor quarrelwith the way of the world. But she decided to say nothing--the markstill glowed. It was to glow more before that day was out.
They came near to the gates. Julia felt a sudden pressure on her arm.
"Look!" whispered Sophy, her eyes lighting up again in interest.
A young man rode up the approach to the Hall lodge. His mare was abeauty; he sat her well. He was perfectly dressed for the exercise. Hisfeatures were clear-cut and handsome. There was as fine an air ofbreeding about him as about the splendid Newfoundland dog which ranbehind him.
Julia looked as she was bidden. "He's handsome," she said. "Why--" shelaughed low--"I believe I know who it is--I think I've seen himsomewhere."
"Have you?" Sophy's question was breathless.
"Yes, I know! When we were at York! He was one of the officers there; hewas in a box. Sophy, it's the Earl of Dunstanbury!"
Sophy did not speak. She looked. The young man--he could be hardly morethan twenty--came on. Sophy suddenly hid behind her friend ("To save mypride, not her own," generous Julia explains--Sophy herself advances nosuch excuse), but she could see. She saw the rider's eye rest on Julia;did it rest in recognition? It almost seemed so; yet there was doubt.Julia blushed, but she forbore from smiling or from seeking to rouse hismemory. Yet she was proud if he remembered her face from across thefootlights. The young man, too--being but a young man--blushed a littleas he gave the pretty girl by the gate such a glance as discreetly toldher that he was of the same mind as herself about her looks. Thesesilent interchanges of opinion on such matters are pleasant diversionsas one plods the highway.
He was gone. Julia sighed in satisfied vanity. Sophy awoke to sternrealities.
"Gracious!" she cried. "He must have come to lunch! They'll want asalad! You'll be here to-morrow--do!" And she was off, up the drive, andround to her own regions at the back of the house.
"I believe his Lordship did remember my face," thought Julia as shewandered back to Woodbine Cottage.
But Sophy washed lettuces in her scullery--which, save for its basepurposes, was a pleasant, airy apartment, looking out on a path that ranbetween yew hedges and led round from the lawn to the offices of thehouse. Diligently she washed, as Mrs. Smilker had taught her (whetherrightly or not is nothing to the purpose here), but how many miles awaywas her mind? So far away from lettuces that it seemed in no way strangeto look up and see Lord Dunstanbury and his dog on the path outside thewindow at which she had been performing her task. He began hastily:
"Oh, I say, I've been seeing my mare get her feed, and--er--do you thinkyou could be so good as to find a bone and some water for Lorenzo?"
"Lorenzo?" she said.
"My dog, you know." He pointed to the handsome beast, which wagged anexpectant tail.
"Why do you call him that?"
Dunstanbury smiled. "Because he's magnificent. I dare say you neverheard of Lorenzo the Magnificent?"
"No. Who was he?"
"A Duke--Duke of Florence--in Italy." He had begun to watch her face,and seemed not impatient for the bone.
"Florence? Italy?" The lettuce dropped from her hands; she wiped herhands slowly on her apron.
"Do you think you could get me one?"
"Yes, I'll get it."
She went to the back of the room and chose a bone.
"Will this do?" she asked, holding it out through the window.
"Too much meat."
"Oh!" She went and got another. "This one all right?"
"Capital! Do you mind if I stay and see him eat it?"
"No."
"Here, Lorenzo! And thank the lady!"
Lorenzo directed three sharp barks at Sophy and fell to. Sophy filledand brought out a bowl of water. Lord Dunstanbury had lighted a cigar.But he was watching Sophy. A new light broke on him suddenly.
"I say, were you the other girl behind the gate?"
"I didn't mean you to see me."
"I only caught a glimpse of you. I remember your friend, though."
"She remembered you, too."
"I don't know her name, though."
"Julia Robins."
"Ah, yes--is it? He's about polished off that bone, hasn't he? Isshe--er--a great friend of yours?"
His manner was perhaps a little at fault; the slightest note of chaffhad crept into it; and the slightest was enough to put Sophy's quillsup.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Why not? Every reason why she should be," he answered with his lips.His eyes answered more, but he refrained his tongue. He was scrupulouslya gentleman--more so perhaps than, had sexes and places been reversed,Sophy herself would have been. But his eyes told her. "Only," he wenton, "if so, why did you hide?"
That bit of chaff did not anger Sophy. But it went home to a differentpurpose--far deeper, far truer home than the young man had meant. Notthe mark only reddened--even the cheeks flushed. She said no word. Witha fling-out of her arms--a gesture strangely, prophetically foreign asit seemed to him in after-days--she exhibited herself--the print frock,the soiled apron, the bare arms, red hands, the ugly knot of her hair,the scrap of cap she wore. For a moment her lips quivered, while themark--the Red Star of future days and future fame--grew redder still.
The only sound was of Lorenzo's worrying the last tough scrap of bone.The lad, gentleman as he was, was good flesh and blood, too--and theblood was moving. He felt a little tightness in his throat; he was newto it. New, too, was Sophy Grouch to what his eyes said to her, but shetook it with head erect and a glance steadily levelled at his.
"Yes," he said. "But I shouldn't have looked at any of that--and Ishouldn't have looked at her either."
Brightly the mark glowed; subtly the eyes glowed. There was silenceagain.
Almost a start marked Dunstanbury's awakening. "Come, Lorenzo!" hecried; he raised his hat and turned away, followed by his dog, Lorenzothe Magnificent.
Sophy took up her lettuces and carried them into the kitchen.
"There you are, at last! And what's put you in a temper now?" asked Mrs.Smilker. She had learned the signs of the mark.
Sophy smiled. "It's not temper this time, Mrs. Smilker. I--I'm veryhappy to-day," she said. "Oh, I do hope the salad will be good!"
For he who was to eat of the salad--had he not forgotten print frock andsoiled apron, bare arms, red hands, ugly knot, and execrable cap? Hewould not have looked at them--no, nor at beautiful many-tinted JuliaRobins in her pride! He had forgotten all these to look at the stainedcheek and the eyes of subtle glow. She had glanced in the mirror of loveand sipped from the cup of power.
Such was her first meeting with Lord Dunstanbury. If it were everforgotten, it was not Dunstanbury who forgot.
The day had wrought much in her eyes; it had wrought more than shedreamed of. Her foot was near the ladder now, though she could not yetsee the lowest rung.