‘Sophy put a bullet through it,’ replied his lordship.
‘Did she indeed? What a redoubtable female she is, to be sure! I suppose she had her reasons?’
‘They were not what you might be pardoned for imagining!’ retorted Charlbury.
‘I never indulge commonplace thoughts,’ said Sir Vincent, carefully wiping the neck of the bottle, and beginning to pour out the wine. ‘Not, at all events, in relation to the Grand Sophy. Here, try this! God knows how long it has lain in the cellar! I collect I don’t drink to your elopement?’
‘Good God, no!’ said Charlbury, almost blenching at the thought. ‘I am devoted to Sophy – quite and unalterably devoted to her! – but heaven preserve me from marriage with her!’
‘If heaven did not, I fancy Rivenhall would,’ observed Sir Vincent. ‘This wine is perfectly tolerable. Don’t finish the bottle before I come back, and don’t waste it on the poet!’
He strolled off again, presumably to oversee the execution in the hen-roost, and Lord Charlbury, rendering up silent thanks for his wounded arm, poured himself out a second glass of sherry. After a short interval, Mr Fawnhope emerged from the library, bearing a worm-eaten volume in his hand. This hereverently displayed to his lordship, saying simply: ‘La Hermosura de Angélica!One never knows where one may light upon a treasure. I must show it to the Marquesa. Whose is this enchanting house?’
‘Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy’s,’ replied Charlbury, in some amusement.
‘Providence must have led me to it. I could not imagine what brought me here, but it doesn’t signify. When I saw Sophy standing in the open doorway, holding aloft the lamp, the scales fell from my eyes, and all doubts were resolved. I am engaged to dine somewhere or other, but I shan’t regard it.’
‘You don’t feel that you should perhaps ride back to town to keep your engagement?’ suggested his lordship.
‘No,’ replied Mr Fawnhope simply. ‘I prefer to be here. There is also aGalatea, but not an original copy.’ He then sat down at the table, and opened the book, poring over it until interrupted by Sophy, who came in with a bundle of candles tucked under one arm, and a shallow wooden box held carefully between her hands. Beside her, a mixture of curiosity and jealousy, pranced her little greyhound, from time to time springing up to reach the box.
Mr Fawnhope leaped to his feet, and held out his hands to take the box from her. ‘Give it to me! An urn you might bear, but not a sordid box!’
She relinquished it, saying practically: ‘Mrs Clavering will bring that presently, but it is not yet time for the tea-tray, you know. We have not dined! Careful! Poor little things, they have no mother!’
‘Sophy, what in theworld–? Exclaimed Charlbury, perceiving that the box contained a brood of yellow ducklings. ‘You do not mean to cook these for dinner, I do trust?’
‘Good gracious, no! Only Mr Clavering has been rearing them in the warmth of the kitchen, and Sancia complains that they will run under her feet. Set the box down in this corner, Augustus: Tina will not harm them!’
He obeyed her, and the ducklings, all vigorously cheeping, atonce struggled out of the box, one of them, more venturesome than the rest, setting forth on an exploratory expedition. Sophy caught it, and held it cupped in her hands, while Tina, quite disgusted, jumped on to a chair, and lay down with her head pointedly averted. Mr Fawnhope’s smile swept across his face, and he quoted: ‘“Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feather’d creatures broke away!”’
‘Yes, but I think that if we were to spread something over the top of the box they will not break away,’ said Sophy. ‘Charlbury’s driving-coat will answer famously! You do not object, Charlbury?’
‘Yes, Sophy, I do object!’ he said firmly, removing the garment from her hands.
‘Very well, then –’ She stopped, for Tina had lifted her head, her ears on the prick, and had uttered a sharp bark. The sound of horses and of carriage-wheels was heard. Sophy turned to Mr Fawnhope, saying quickly: ‘Augustus, pray will you step into the kitchen – you will find it at the end of the passage at the back there! – and desire Mrs Clavering to give you a cloth, or a blanket, or some such thing? You need not make haste to return, for I daresay Sancia would like you to pluck a chicken.’
‘Is the Marquesa in the kitchen?’ said Mr Fawnhope. ‘What is she doing there? I wish her to see this book I have found in the library!’
Sophy picked it up from the table, and gave it to him. ‘Yes, pray show it to her! She will like it excessively! Pay no heed if you should chance to hear the door-bell: I will open the door!’
She fairly thrust him towards the door at the back of the hall, and, having seen him safely through it shut it, and said in a conspiratorial voice: ‘Cecilia! Take care of the ducklings!’
She was still holding the one she had picked up, when she set the front-door wide. The rain had stopped, and the moonlight showed through a break in the clouds. Hardly had Sophy opened the door than her cousin almost fell upon her neck. ‘Sophy! Oh, my dearest Sophy – No, it was too shocking of you!You must have known I could not wish – Sophy, Sophy, howcouldyou do such a thing?’
‘Cecy, pray take care! This poor little duckling! Oh, good God! Miss Wraxton!’
‘Yes, Miss Stanton-Lacy,I!’ said Miss Wraxton, joining the group in the porch. ‘You did not, I fancy, expect to see me!’
‘No, and you will be very much in the way!’ replied Sophy frankly. ‘Go in, Cecy!’
She gave her cousin a gentle push across the threshold as she spoke. Cecilia stood transfixed, as Charlbury, rising from his chair by the fire, stepped forward, his left arm interestingly reposing in its sling. Cecilia was carrying a reticule and a feather-muff, but she let both fall to the ground in her consternation. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed faintly. ‘You are hurt! Oh, Charlbury!’
She moved towards him with both hands held out, and his lordship, acting with great presence of mind, hurriedly disengaged his arm from the sling, and received her in a comprehensive embrace. ‘No, no, dearest Cecilia! The merest scratch!’ he assured her.
Such heroism caused Cecilia to shed tears. ‘It is all my fault! My wretched folly! I can never cease to blame myself! Charlbury, only tell me you forgive me!’
‘Never, for wearing a hat which prevents my kissing you!’ he said, with a shaken laugh.
