Harry laughed. Sophie Chalk"s blue eyes happened to rest on Mr. James"s face: they took a puzzled expression, as if wondering where she had seen it. Mr. James rose and bowed to her. She must have recognized him then, for her features turned livid, in spite of the powder upon them.
"Who is it, Johnny?" she whispered, in her confusion, loosing Harry"s arm and coming behind.
"Well, you must ask that of Miss Deveen. He has come here to see her: something"s up, I fancy, about those emerald studs."
Had it been to save my fortune, I could not have helped saying it. I saw it all as in a mirror. _She_ it was who had taken them, and pledged them afterwards. A similar light flashed on Miss Deveen. She followed her with her severe face, her condemning eyes.
"Take care, Johnny!" cried Miss Deveen.
I was just in time to catch Sophie Chalk. She would have fallen on my shoulder. The room was in a commotion at once: a young lady had fainted.
What from? asked every one. Oh, from the heat, of course. And no other reason was breathed.
Mr. James"s mission was over. It had been successful. He made his bow to Lady Whitney, and withdrew.
Miss Deveen sent for Sophie Chalk the next day, and they had it out together, shut up alone. Sophie"s coolness was good for any amount of denial, but it failed here. And then she took the other course, and fell on her knees at Miss Deveen"s feet, and told a pitiable story of being alone in the world, without money to dress herself, and the open jewel-casket in Miss Deveen"s chamber (into which accident, not design, had really taken her) proving too much in the moment"s temptation. Miss Deveen believed it; she told her the affair should never transpire beyond the two or three who already knew it; that she would redeem the emeralds herself, and say nothing even to Lady Whitney; but, as a matter of course, Miss Chalk must close her acquaintance with Sir John"s family.
And, singular to say, Sophie received a letter from someone that same evening, inviting her to go out of town. At least, she said she did.
So, quitting the Whitneys suddenly was plausibly accounted for; and Helen Whitney did not know the truth for many a day.
What did Tod think? For that, I expect, is what you are all wanting to ask. That was another curious thing--that he and Bill Whitney should have come to an explanation before the ball was over. Bill went up to him, saying that had he supposed Tod could mean anything serious in his admiration of Sophie Chalk, he should never have gone in for admiring her himself, even in pastime; and certainly would not continue to do so or spoil sport again.
"Thank you for telling me," answered Tod, with indifference. "You are quite welcome to go in for Sophie Chalk in any way you please. _I_ have done with her."
"No," said Bill, "good girls must grow scarcer than they are before I should go in seriously for Sophie Chalk. She"s all very well to talk and laugh with, and she is uncommonly fascinating."
It was my turn to put in a word. "As I told you, Bill, months ago, Sophie Chalk would fascinate the eyes out of your head, give her the chance."
Bill laughed. "Well she has had the chance, Johnny: but she has not done it."
Altogether, Sophie, thanks to her own bad play, had fallen to a discount.
When Miss Deveen announced to the world that she had found her emerald studs (lost through an accident, she discovered, and recovered in the same way) people were full of wonder at the chances and mistakes of life. Lettice Lane was cleared triumphantly. Miss Deveen sent her home for a week to shake hands with her friends and enemies, and then took her back as her own maid.
And the only person I said a syllable to was Anna. I knew it would be safe: and I dare say you would have done the same in my place. But she stopped me at the middle of the first sentence.
"I have known it from the first, Johnny: I was nearly as sure of it as I could be; and it is that that has made me so miserable."
"Known it was Sophie Chalk?"
"As good as known it. I had no proof, only suspicion. And I could not see whether I ought to speak the suspicion even to mamma, or to keep it to myself. As things have turned out, I am very thankful to have been silent."
"How was it, then?"
"That night at Whitney Hall, after they had all come down from dressing, mamma sent me up to William"s room with a message. As I was leaving it--it is at the end of the long corridor, you know--I saw some one peep cautiously out of Miss Cattledon"s chamber, and then steal up the back stairs. It was Sophie Chalk. Later, when we were going to bed, and I was quite undressed, Helen, who was in bed, espied Sophie"s comb and brush on the table--for she had dressed in our room because of the large gla.s.s--and told me to run in with them: she only slept in the next room.
It was very cold. I knocked and entered so sharply that the door-bolt, a thin, creaky old thing, gave way. Of course I begged her pardon; but she seemed to start up in terrible fear, as if I had been a ghost. She had not touched her hair, but sat in her shawl, sewing at her stays; and she let them drop on the carpet and threw a petticoat over them. I thought nothing, Johnny; nothing at all. But the next morning when commotion arose and the studs were missing, I could not help recalling all this; and I quite hated myself for thinking Sophie Chalk might have taken them when she stole out of Miss Cattledon"s room, and was sewing them later into her stays."
"You thought right, you see."
"Johnny, I am very sorry for her. I wish we could help her to some good situation. Depend upon it, this will be a lesson to her: she will never so far forget herself again."
"She is quite able to take care of herself, Anna. Don"t let it trouble you. I dare say she will marry Mr. Everty."
"Who is Mr. Everty?"
"Some one who is engaged in the wine business with Sophie Chalk"s brother-in-law, Mr. Smith."
XVI.
GOING TO THE MOP.
"I never went to St. John"s mop in my life," said Mrs. Todhetley.
"That"s no reason why you never should go," returned the Squire.
"And never thought of engaging a servant at one."
"There are as good servants to be picked up at a mop as out of it; and you have a great deal better choice," said he. "My mother has hired many a man and maid at the mop: first-rate servants too."
"Well, then, perhaps we had better go into Worcester to-morrow and see,"
concluded she, rather dubiously.
"And start early," said the Squire. "What is it you are afraid of?" he added, noting her doubtful tone. "That good servants don"t go to the mop to be hired?"
"Not that," she answered. "I know it is the only chance farmhouse servants have of being hired when they change their places. It was the noise and crowd I was thinking of."
"Oh, that"s nothing," returned the Pater. "It is not half as bad as the fair."
Mrs. Todhetley stood at the parlour window of d.y.k.e Manor, the autumn sun, setting in a glow, tingeing her face and showing up its thoughtful expression. The Squire was in his easy-chair, looking at one of the Worcester newspapers.
There had been a bother lately about the dairy-work. The old dairy-maid, after four years of the service, had left to be married; two others had been tried since, and neither suited. The last had marched herself off that day, after a desperate quarrel with Molly; the house was nearly at its wits" end in consequence, and perhaps the two cows were also. Mrs.
Todhetley, really not knowing what in the world to do, and fretting herself into the face-ache over it, was interrupted by the Pater and his newspaper. He had just read there the reminder that St. John"s annual Michaelmas Mop would take place on the morrow: and he told Mrs.
Todhetley that she could go there and hire a dairy-maid at will. Fifty if she wanted them. At that time the mop was as much an inst.i.tution as the fair or the wake. Some people called it the Statute Fair.
Molly, whose sweet temper you have had a glimpse or two of before, banged about among her spoons and saucepans when she heard what was in the wind. "Fine muck it "ud be," she said, "coming out o" that there Worcester mop." Having the dairy-work to do as well as her own just now, the house scarcely held her.
We breakfasted early the next morning and started betimes in the large open carriage, the Squire driving his pair of fine horses, Bob and Blister. Mrs. Todhetley sat with him, and I behind. Tod might have gone if he would: but the long drive out and home had no charms for him, and he said ironically he should like to see himself attending the mop. It was a lovely morning, bright and sunny, with a suspicion of crispness in the air: the trees were putting on their autumn colours, and shoals of blackberries were in the hedges.
Getting some refreshment again at Worcester, and leaving the Squire at the hotel, I and Mrs. Todhetley walked to the mop. It was held in the parish of St. John"s--a suburb of Worcester on the other side of the Severn, as all the country knows. Crossing the bridge and getting well up the New Road, we plunged into the thick of the fun.
The men were first, standing back in a line on the foot-path, fronting the pa.s.sers-by. Young rustics mostly in clean smock-frocks, waiting to be looked at and questioned and hired, a broad grin on their faces with the novelty of the situation. We pa.s.sed them: and came to the girls and women. You could tell they were nearly all rustic servants too, by their high colours and awkward looks and manners. As a rule, each held a thick cotton umbrella, tied round the middle after the fashion of Mrs. Gamp"s, and a pair of pattens whose bright rings showed they had not been in use that day. To judge by the look of the present weather, we were not likely to have rain for a month: but these simple people liked to guard against contingencies. Crowds of folk were pa.s.sing along like ourselves, some come to hire, some only to take up the s.p.a.ce and stare.