“I know — oh, I know,” she said, brokenly. “I wish with all my heart I had never said it — Miss Fanchington did warn me always to think before I spoke or acted — oh, if only I had heeded her advice!”
“As to that, advice is good or bad as the event proves. But it is no use repining. When may I expect the pleasure of a visit from your relative?”
“I should think at any minute now — that is unless she has changed her mind! But I do not think that likely, from the way she spoke.”
“Then we had better decide what I am to say to her when she arrives, had we not?”
Susan stared. “What can you say, but the truth?”
“That I am not — and never was — engaged to you, secretly or otherwise?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He fixed her with a steady regard, as though he would read her inmost thoughts. “That is what you wish me to say?”
A faint colour tinged her cheeks as she nodded again.
“Very well,” he said, relaxing slightly. “I have now cleared you in my own mind of a most unworthy suspicion. As you have been so open with me, perhaps I ought to confess it to you, so that you, too, can have an opportunity of hating and despising me, as you so aptly put it.”
“You need not tell me, for I know what it is,” interrupted Susan, the colour in her cheeks deepening. “And that is why I had to see you — I feared you might think that — that—”
“That by saying we were engaged you were deliberately trying to force me into making you an offer of marriage?” he put in, smoothly.
“Yes.” She looked away from him. “That is why I felt I must come and explain things to you before my aunt arrived — so that you wouldn’t think more badly of me than I deserve — though Heaven knows that is bad enough!” she concluded, choking back her sob.
He gave her another reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Come,” he said, soothingly. “It is only a schoolgirl scrape, after all. I assure you I do not regard it in a more serious light than that.”
Irrationally, Susan remained uncomforted by this observation. It would have been dreadful, of course, if he had shown strong annoyance at what she had done; but to her over-sensitive feelings there was something more humiliating in his refusal to take the matter seriously. To him she was just a child, a tiresome schoolgirl who involved herself in scrapes from which at present it was his pleasure to disentangle her.
“You — you do not take me seriously at all,” she said, piqued.
He cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Should I do so?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders, trying to control a quivering lip. “It — it is scarce flattering to be treated always as a child!”
“How old are you, Susan?”
“I am seventeen — turned,” she answered, with a touch of defiance.
“And I am seven and twenty,” he countered, smiling, “I am old enough to be—”
“No, you are not!” Her tone was indignant “You know very well you are not old enough to be my father!”
“I bow to your superior knowledge, of course. But that isn’t what I was going to say. I was about to remind you that I could well be your elder brother. You are of the same age as Georgiana, recollect. You must forgive me if I tend to treat you somewhat in the same style.”
“But — but I don’t want you for a brother!” cried Susan, impetuously.
“No?” He slightly elevated his right eyebrow again, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. This was a mannerism of his lighter moments which Susan found progressively endearing. “Then what do you want me as? Your betrothed, perhaps?”
Possibly he had forgotten for a moment the secret which his sister had confided to him. Perhaps it was devilment, perhaps some other reason which he himself did not quite understand. Whatever prompted the mocking question, it had the effect of plunging Susan into deep embarrassment.
“I — I wish you will not tease me — please!” she implored, between blushes. “I know it was wicked of me to say what I did — and — and most improper — but I did not mean it to be so — at the time, I just said the first thing that came into my head! I did not think!”
“Why myself more than another, though?” he persisted.
“Because — oh, because you were the only one who danced with me, I suppose! And — and you are Beau Eversley, after all — it means something to be engaged to you!”
He bowed ironically. “I don’t think I have ever met anyone with so happy a knack of depressing all one’s most cherished pretensions,” he said, reflectively. “I could not but be aware that I had established some small reputation in the world — of what value, I leave you to be the judge. But I had dared to hope that the lady who would one day do me the honour to be my wife might be activated by other motives than those of a mere seeking after — shall we say notoriety? I feel that the word ‘fame’ would scarcely be appropriate, in this case.”
“Oh, you do not understand at all!” cried Susan, distressed. “I know you are in part funning me, but underneath you’re part in earnest; and I cannot bear you to think that — that—”
She stopped, unable to put her tangled emotions readily into words.
He waited a moment, watching her face, which betrayed more than she realized of what was passing in her mind.
“What can’t you bear me to think?” he prompted, gently.
“That I’m the kind of girl who likes to have something — anything — to boast about! Just as my cousin accused me of hating the thought of her being betrothed while I myself am not! It isn’t like that at all!” She broke off, shaking her head in a puzzled, frustrated gesture, and then continued, “And yet, in a way, it is...Oh, how can I make you understand when I don’t even understand myself?”
“You might try,” he suggested, very quietly, “by simply telling me your thoughts just as they come into your mind, and leaving me to make what sense I can of them.”
She nodded, and gave him a shy, grateful look.
“You are much kinder than I ever realized, and so — so understanding!” She hesitated for a moment, then went on, in a low tone, “Cynthia thought I was jealous of her because she was betrothed. I wasn’t a bit, of that, not really — but it was just one more thing that she had, and I had not. You see,” — she burst out, in a sudden access of self-realization — “I think I always have been a little bit jealous of Cynthia!”
He nodded. “I dare say Mrs. Fyfield would naturally show a certain partiality for her own child.”
“In a way — but yet it’s not really that,” replied Susan, slowly. “Aunt Hattie’s always been just, when Cynthia and I quarrelled, and she’s been kind to me in her detached way. Of course, I was only home in the holidays, you know, and I went to Miss Fanchington’s Seminary when I was seven years old. But I’m jealous of Cynthia because — oh, because it’s her home, and her Mama, while I—” — a world of sorrow was suddenly mirrored in the dark eyes she turned towards him — “I haven’t got anything that is truly mine. Sometimes, I have wanted so much — to have someone of my very own, to — to love me, and hold me in regard high above all others — I can’t even remember my own parents, you see—”
She turned her head away from him abruptly.
“So I think that is the real reason,” she finished, in a muffled voice, “why I suddenly wanted to pretend that at last I did possess someone of my very own — and someone I could boast of possessing, too — someone whom others would envy me for having!”
The Fashionable World might have been hard put to it at that moment to recognize its leader, Beau Eversley. The fine hazel eyes which normally would hold either a twinkle or a mocking light, were now deepened by compassion. Like many another, he possessed qualities which were rarely called into being in the gay, easy, frivolous life that he led. But when he spoke, he did not betray what he was feeling.
“I collect your parents died when you were very young?”
The calm, matter-of-fact ton
e soothed her as no expression of sympathy could have done at that particular moment.
“I was not quite two years old. My father was Uncle Ralph’s younger brother — Uncle Ralph was Aunt Hattie’s husband, you know.” He nodded. “My father was a naval officer, and contracted a fever in some foreign port. He died on the homeward voyage, and the shock killed my mother, who was — in a delicate condition, for she was shortly expecting a second child.”
“I see. And so your father’s brother took you in.”
Susan shook her head. “No. It was Aunt Hattie, for Uncle Ralph died soon after Cynthia was born. I never knew him.”
He raised his brows. “Strange, surely, that your aunt by marriage should offer you a home? Were there no relatives on your mother’s side to come forward?”
“I never heard of any. I sometimes used to ask my aunt about that, but she had nothing to tell me. I can only suppose that, if there were any, they did not wish to take me. And I don’t wonder,” she finished, despondently, “for they must have guessed how I would turn out! I suppose now even Aunt Hattie may be trying to find someone to take me off her hands — though who would do so is more than I can imagine!”
“May I make a suggestion?” His voice was cool and amused. “What would you say to — myself?”
A TELLING POINT
For a moment she stared at him as though he had lost his wits.
“You are making game of me!” she exclaimed, at last, in a voice trembling with indignation.
“Not the least little bit in the world,” he answered, soothingly. “It occurs to me that a very good way out of this situation for you — if you would not object to it, that is — would be for us to tell your aunt that we are indeed betrothed.”
“But — but,” stammered Susan, hardly knowing what she was saying, “but — it isn’t true!”
“Then we must make it true,” he said, smiling at her bewilderment. “Come, what do you say? Should you object to having me for your affianced husband?”
She could not speak; but for a brief moment her eyes held all that was in her heart. He drew in his breath sharply, and looked away.
“You do not need to give the matter such earnest consideration,” he continued, still in the same light tone. “The engagement would be only of a short duration. You would be at liberty to end it whenever you pleased.”
“I — I don’t quite understand—” Painfully she groped for words, her mind spinning.
“Let me explain. You feel that your aunt may perhaps adopt stern measures with you over this little affair; and whether she does or not, there will be your cousin ready to crow over you when she learns the truth.” He saw Susan wince slightly, and felt encouraged to continue. “But if we were to say that you were telling the truth all the time, and that there really was — is — an engagement between us, then their guns would be successfully spiked.”
“But — you do not — cannot — wish to become engaged to me!”
“You are more than common modest,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “You must know that you are a very attractive young lady.”
She was very still for a moment. “Do you — do you really think so?” she breathed.
“Undoubtedly.” He bent over her and lifted one of the ringlets that lay on her neck. “Glossy black hair, an elfin face, and a pair of fine, dark eyes — what more could anyone desire?”
She sprang to her feet, turning her face away from him.
“But you do not — care for me — in that way,” she said, hurriedly. “So why are you willing to do this for me?”
He hesitated for a moment. The truth was altogether too complex for him completely to understand, let alone explain.
“Let us say that I feel impelled to assist a lady in distress — especially when the assistance involves so small a sacrifice on my part.”
‘“It is not a small thing to become engaged!”
He rose to his feet. “Not in the normal way, of course,” he agreed; smoothly. “But this would be only a temporary arrangement, to be ended at your whim. We could still keep it secret from the world at large — only your aunt and cousin need know of it We could tell them that we did not intend to make any formal announcement until your eighteenth birthday.”
“Oh!” She swung round to face him, her eyes dancing. “Oh, that would be famous!”
“Yes,” he agreed, complacently. “I rather thought so, myself. I take it that your birthday is not imminent?”
“Oh, no! Not for ages — almost a year!” she confessed.
“So that gives us plenty of time. In a month or two, you can break off the betrothal.”
Her face sobered again. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “I see. But what excuse can we make for breaking it off? Will it not cause a deal of unpleasant gossip?”
He shook his head. “Without a formal announcement, none need know of it And in any case no gossip can possibly attach to you, my dear, for you will be the one to put an end to the affair. My conduct will offend you in some way — most likely in the obvious way.” He broke off, and laughed lightly. “Oh, yes,” he finished, cynically. “I can see no difficulty at all about that part of the business.”
“But suppose—” began Susan, then stopped, colouring.
“Suppose what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
There was a short silence, then he said: “So we are agreed? In that case—”
He was interrupted by a tap on the door. In response to his invitation, a footman entered to announce that a lady had called to see Mr. Eversley.
“Admit her,” directed the Beau, and turned to Susan with a smile. “I fancy we know who it is.”
The man hesitated for a second, looked doubtfully at Susan, then withdrew to do his master’s bidding.
“Oh, dear!” whispered Susan, nervously. “Do — do you think we can really persuade her to believe us?” He took her hand, which was trembling slightly, and patted it reassuringly.
“Courage!” he said, raising his eyebrow in the way she liked. “The day is ours, you may depend!”
The door opened, and a lady entered the room.
They both stared. It was certainly not the lady they had expected. She was dark and slim, and was dressed in a smart riding habit of golden brown, with a saucy little hat perched on the side of her head.
She stood still for a moment, coolly taking in the scene before her, then sank into a curtsy that was a masterpiece of irony. If any woman in London knew how to convey so much in a gesture, it was Maria McCann.
“Well,” she said, in an amused tone. “Your servant appears to have blundered. It is plain that I am interrupting a charming tête-à-tête, and I will remove myself instantly. Nay, never blush, madam—” addressing herself to Susan, who had hastily withdrawn her hand from Beau Eversley’s, and was looking confused — “the fault is mine, for bursting in upon you in so unceremonious a fashion. My excuse must be that I had thought to find the gentleman alone.” Her expressive eyes fixed themselves on the Beau reproachfully. “We had an engagement for this morning which has doubtless slipped his memory.” She shrugged, and smiled. “No matter. It is not of the least consequence — no, not at all.”
Hugh Eversley recovered himself. “Wait here for me,” he said to Susan in a low tone. “I shall return presently and then I’ll escort you home.”
He stepped forward with a ceremonious bow. “Madam,” he addressed the actress, “if you will please step outside with me, I fancy I can give you an explanation. There has been a sudden, unavoidable change in my plans.”
Maria McCann laughed in a studied, melodic trill. “Sure, and I’ll be bound there has!” she cried, at her most Irish. “And who would be after blaming you, at all, at all? Not myself, and there’s the truth on’t!” She paused, and eyed Susan from top to toe. “But will you not present me to your fair charmer?” she finished. “Sure, and it’s cradle snatching you are, Mr. Eversley, for this sweet babe should still be nestling under the shelter of her Mama’s wing!”<
br />
Before the Beau could reply to this, Susan herself broke in, her voice warm with indignation.
“Since you ask it, my name is Susan Fyfield. And even if I had a Mama to shield me, I should not need her protection, I thank you, for I am very well able to take care of myself! I do not need to be presented to you, for I know quite well who you are — you are Mistress Maria McCann, from the playhouse.”
The actress inclined her head gracefully. “And so I am. Aren’t you the clever one, knowing that? So you have no Mama? Then let me warn you, Miss Fyfield,” she wagged an admonitory finger on which a large diamond flashed — “against fascinating gentlemen such as Mr. Eversley here.”
At this point, the fascinating gentleman in question took hold of Maria McCann’s nicely rounded arm and began to urge her gently but insistently towards the door.
“There is no occasion to warn me against anyone!” exclaimed Susan, with flashing eyes. “I am quite able to judge for myself who is — or is not — to be trusted!”
“That would provide a very good exit line, my dear,” replied Mistress McCann, as she moved out of the room at Beau Eversley’s side. “Undoubtedly, you have the flair — you, too, might have made an actress.”
At this point, the Beau strategically closed the door upon Susan, and guided his companion into an adjoining room.
“I suppose I ought to begin by begging your pardon for being late for our appointment,” he said, ruefully.
“Don’t be after doing anything that goes against the grain, now!” she answered, laughing. “It is, of course, unpardonable of you to keep me waiting, and it will be long enough before you’ll be having the opportunity for such a thing again—”
“You are as adept at taking me up wrongly as that child out there,” he said, with a wry smile, inclining his head in the direction of the room where they had left Susan. “But the plain truth is this — the girl is a friend of my young sister’s; and, finding herself in a bit of a scrape, she came to me for help.”
The Clandestine Betrothal Page 8
