The Clandestine Betrothal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Horry Walpole!” gasped Sir Josiah, his eyes nearly starting from his head. “Good God, what are you doing here? Has everyone gone mad this afternoon?”

  “Who shall say?” asked Horace Walpole, gently. “But I fancy I interrupt. Perhaps you were about to tell this young lady—” he indicated Susan with a graceful wave of his hand — “something of importance. Or, my dear fellow, can you have already done so? For I happen to know that she came here with the intention of discovering the truth about her parentage.”

  “Damn you, Horry, you stuck your long nose into my affairs once before, and you’ll not do so again—”

  “Long?” Horace Walpole fingered the offending organ, a pained expression on his face. “Surely you wouldn’t say it was a long nose, Josiah? You know,” he added gently, “I really think you should guard your tongue a little more in front of the ladies.”

  “I’ll damned well do what I choose in my own house! If they don’t like it, they can clear out — I’ve told them so!”

  Walpole clicked his tongue deprecatingly. “Dear me, I fear you always were lacking in finesse, Josiah. But have you yet told Miss Susan what she wishes to know?”

  “No! Nor will I—”

  “Then, my dear fellow, I must. She can no longer remain in ignorance. She is now of marriageable age — in fact, she has a suitor—”

  Susan started violently. Horry Walpole turned towards her, a kindly smile on his lips.

  “Robert Radley was indeed your father, dear child. He fell in love with someone of whom his father disapproved — she was very young, and as lovely as you are—”

  “Lovely!” stormed Sir Josiah, turning the colour of a turkey-cock. “She was a—”

  “Silence!” The normally gentle tones hardened. “You have wronged this child sufficiently in keeping from her until now the facts of her parentage—”

  “Wronged her? How have I wronged her? She has had her just portion, ain’t she? Not a farthing has been kept from her of what would have been my poor boy’s fortune, had I not been obliged to cast him off because he was fool enough to succumb to the lures of that scheming hussy, that Jezebel—”

  “You have wronged her, too. You did so from the first, refusing to believe that there could be any good in the poor little creature, because she was not of your world. And, more lately, you have denied her the small comfort she sought from you in asking for news of her child.”

  “B’God, you go too far, Walpole!” Sir Josiah almost choked with anger. “Even our old friendship don’t give you the right — What use was such a mother to any brat? I gave the creature her choice — either she could leave the child with me, and I would provide for it, or she could take it away, and fend for it herself. She didn’t take long to make her decision, I can tell you! Couldn’t get rid of the brat soon enough, if you ask me.”

  Susan winced. Barbara Radley moved to her side, and caught her arm in a comforting clasp.

  “It was cruel — cruel!” said Mrs. Radley, with a catch in her voice. “You speak of a choice, but there was no real choice. A young widow, without relatives to assist her, and her way still to make in the world — after all, she was not then eighteen! She knew that most likely she and her baby must starve. Against this, you offered her complete security for the baby and its rightful inheritance, if she would agree to surrender all claim to it, and never try to see it again.”

  Sir Josiah turned a look of withering scorn on her, and she subsided.

  “Ye’re a fool, woman — always were! And now get outside, the pack of ye!” He turned to Horace Walpole, and his tone was less belligerent. “If ye’ve a mind to be civil, Horry, ye can stay and crack a bottle with me, for old time’s sake. But I want to hear no more of all this, mark ye! The chit knows now who her father was, and there’s an end to the business.”

  Horry Walpole bowed. “I shall be delighted to accept your invitation, my dear Josiah. But forgive me if I disagree with you when you say that the business we have been discussing is at an end. There is just one other little matter which needs making clear to Miss Susan.” He paused, and began to move towards the door. “While she now knows who her father was, she has as yet no notion who is her mother.”

  Before Sir Josiah could open his mouth to protest, Walpole had reached the door, opened it, and beckoned gracefully to someone who was waiting outside.

  She entered the room with professional ease, but her carefully composed face was very pale. Her eyes moved slowly from one to another of the assembly, and came to rest at last on Susan’s face.

  She gave a deep sigh, and nodded.

  “Sure, an’ I might have known!” pronounced Maria McCann, with a twisted smile.

  *

  The ensuing scene was painful, but mercifully short. Maria McCann and Susan were ordered from the house forthwith, and the Radleys were told that they might go as soon as their packing was completed. All Horace Walpole’s charm and tact could not make Sir Josiah relent.

  “Not that I would wish to stay,” remarked Mrs. Radley, with a shudder, as she and Barbara accompanied Susan and Maria downstairs. “The mere thought of a visit here is enough to induce a fit of the vapours in the ordinary way, let alone under the present circumstances! But when I first came, I thought it only civil to remain for a day or two — after all, Sir Josiah is my husband’s father, when all’s said and done. However, if he wants us gone, I am sure neither of us is likely to grieve over that!”

  “Was he always so — domineering and intolerant?” asked Susan.

  “As far back as I can remember,” replied Mrs. Radley. “I can recall clearly coming to this house as a bride, and I was quite terrified of him, I assure you, my dear! But I think he did become worse after—”

  Her voice tailed away, and she looked at Maria.

  “It might have been so different,” said Maria, in her lilting voice. “If only he could have brought himself to accept me, we could all have gone on very comfortably together, could we not, ma’am? But, there!” She shrugged. “I was an actress, and he was so certain that I was only after Rob’s fortune.”

  “I might have tried to help you,” said Mrs. Radley, in a conscience-stricken tone. “I see that now, though it all appeared in a different light at the time. I was young, and terrified of my father-in-law. Besides—” she hesitated — “you must forgive me for saying this, but I could not be perfectly sure—”

  “That I was not after Rob’s money, as your father-in-law believed?” said Maria, swiftly, with a little twisted smile that went straight to Susan’s heart. “No, of course — how should you be? After all, I was an actress.”

  “I have since come to realize,” said Mrs. Radley, with an effort, “that they may not be so very different from the generality of women.” She broke off, as she fancied she heard sounds from upstairs. “But I dare not stay,” she finished, hurriedly. “I collect you came here with Mr. Walpole, and as he is to stay the night, perhaps you would care to accept a seat in my coach back to Town? I will call at the Black Horse to take you up on my way through the village. We shall be leaving within the hour. Shall I ask one of the servants to escort you back to the inn?”

  Susan and Maria unanimously declined this offer, but said that they might very well be glad of seats in the Radleys’ coach.

  “And ourselves with the undeniable right to ride in it,” said Maria, with her irrepressible humour, as they started off down the drive towards the gates.

  “I was never so glad of anything in my life,” said Susan, impetuously, “as when I heard Mr. Walpole say that you and my father—”

  She broke off, realizing with dismay that she had been on the verge of an indiscretion. But Maria McCann only chuckled.

  “That we were married in due form, with fitting rites and ceremonies? Of course you were relieved, my dear. But you had nothing to fear, either way, for your father was a gentleman, which is all that counts in Polite Society.”

  “It is all so strange,” said Susan, after a moment. “Tell me, wh
at kind of man was my father?”

  “A young girl’s dream,” replied Maria, her blue eyes deepening. “Just as Beau Eversley is, though physically they are not alike.”

  Susan coloured.

  Maria looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then went on, “He had that wonderful golden hair of the Radleys, and deep brown eyes, like glossy chestnuts. Whenever he came into a room, everyone noticed him at once.” She sighed. “I have never met another like him.”

  “Never?” Susan found it impossible to repress the question.

  “No.” Maria stole a second glance at her daughter, and smiled wistfully. “Sure, an’ I know what you’re thinking, child. But although I’ll confess I did admire the Beau, and always enjoyed his company, there was never anything between us that need vex your pretty head for a moment. Our friendship was of the most platonic — I swear it,” she finished, in a serious tone.

  “I’m sure Mr. Eversley’s affairs are no concern of mine,” replied Susan, stiffly.

  “Hoity toity!” said Maria, mockingly. “You’ve changed then, my child, for I remember the first time we met it was plain to see that you were head over ears in love with the gentleman.”

  Susan elevated her nose, and tossed her black curls disdainfully.

  “There!” exclaimed Maria, in wonder. “When you do that, even I can see that you resemble me!”

  Susan looked at her doubtfully for a moment, then gave a little laugh. Maria joined in readily.

  “Tell me about your marriage to my father,” said Susan, sobering again. “I managed to learn something from what was said at Pyncott Place, but I would like to know all about it.”

  So, as they walked together back to the village inn, Maria told her new-found daughter the full story of this young couple who had fallen in love and married in spite of parental disapproval, and afterwards found themselves in dire financial straits.

  “Your father was too proud to accept help from his relatives and friends,” related Maria, “and I had none to turn to, except those of the play company who had come with me from Ireland; and they were too hard pressed themselves to help. Besides, we were obliged to flee from London, for fear of what your grandfather might do. He was vicious in his wrath. We had a little money between us, at first, and we lived — oh, so happily!” She sighed, and then added, “Until it was all gone.”

  “Then what did you do?” asked Susan, softly. Her imagination was at work, putting herself in her mother’s place, conjuring up afresh the emotions of that younger Maria, who had braved everything to be with her true love.

  Maria’s face saddened. “Rob tried to find work, but it was almost impossible. He had been trained for nothing but the life of a gentleman. Sometimes he would tramp for miles in the hope of finding employment, only to be turned away as unsuitable at the end of it. He would have tried anything — tutor, groom, farm labourer — his spirit was boundless; but people were suspicious of his gentlemanly looks and tones, and when they asked for references, what could he say? And his pride wouldn’t permit that I should seek employment of any kind — though I did manage to earn the odd shilling without his knowledge, now and then.”

  “He — was killed in an accident, I think?” said Susan, gently.

  Maria nodded, and turned her face away. “He was knocked down by a carriage when he was returning from one of his long tramps in search of work. They brought him home to the cottage where we lodged, but he never recovered consciousness.” Her voice dropped so that Susan could scarcely hear it. “He died the next day.”

  Susan caught her mother’s hand, and pressed it in silent sympathy. Maria was silent for a time.

  “After I recovered from the shock,” she went on, presently, in a stronger tone, “I approached Sir Josiah, to see if he would help me support the child I was soon to bear. I could not have done it for myself, but I had you to think of. His answer you already know, for it was mentioned just now at Pyncott Place. As my sister-in-law said, I had no real choice. How could I choose poverty and privation for my child, when it could have wealth and security if only I would give it up to Sir Josiah completely?”

  She looked at Susan for support, and the girl nodded silently.

  “I kept my part of the bargain,” went on Maria, “hard though it was. They took you away when you were only three weeks old, and I returned to my own country. I never tried to see you — until now, when I am about to marry again. He is a good man in my own profession, and I know we shall go on comfortably together. But first, I had to assure myself that my child was well and happy; and so I came to beg Sir Josiah to tell me where I might find you — only to see you, not to disclose myself to you as your mother. But he refused.”

  “He is a brute!” exclaimed Susan, fiercely.

  “Perhaps.” Maria shrugged helplessly. “No doubt he felt he was acting for the best.”

  They fell silent for a while, then Susan said, diffidently, “So you are returning to Ireland. You — you don’t wish — that I should accompany you?”

  Maria stopped in her tracks, and threw her arms impetuously about her daughter.

  “Bless you!” she said, with a break in her voice. “But no, my love, it would not answer at all, at all! We have been too long apart, I think, for that. You are now at an age when a girl wants to discard her mother, not draw closer to her; and our ways of life have been so very different! Besides, there are those—” She released Susan, and gave her a knowing smile — “who have quite different plans for your future, I collect.”

  Susan coloured a little. “Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “But, all the same, I don’t intend that you should vanish from my life completely! You can have no notion how comforting it is to discover that there is someone in the world who is really and truly my own! But what should I do about my name?” she finished, as another thought struck her. “Ought I to call myself Radley?”

  “No,” said Maria, decidedly. “I have no wish for you to become a subject for gossip. The Radleys themselves will know the truth, and that is all that matters. Besides,” she added, with a roguish glance, “you will soon enough be changing your name, in any event.”

  “I wish you will not say such foolish things! But I am not sorry to find that I am related to Barbara Radley, for I think her a very good kind of girl, don’t you?”

  Maria assented.

  “You know,” went on Susan, shyly, “there was a time when — when Beau Eversley—”

  “Admired Barbara?” finished Maria, looking searchingly at Susan’s face. “Yes, so I have heard. What if he did once fleetingly admire your cousin — and even your Mama? It’s all in the family.” She broke off, then quoted in her soft, lilting voice:

  “‘So all their praises are but prophecies

  Of this our time, all you prefiguring—’

  Doesn’t that explain it, my love? No one but Shakespeare can put things so well. Barbara and I have acted as your understudies, but now you take the stage.”

  “I wish you will not talk so — it cannot be anything but nonsense!”

  “Remarkably serious nonsense, when a man-is prepared to dash all over the countryside in order to discover the facts of a girl’s parentage! Only consider what he has done today — he was responsible for bringing Horry Walpole and myself here, you know.”

  “As to that,” replied Susan, slowly, “in a sense, I forced him into helping me. Oh, I think I had best tell you everything!” she concluded. “After all, you are my mother.”

  Maria listened to the account that followed with a gradually widening smile of appreciation on her generous mouth.

  “Capital!” she exclaimed, when Susan had finished. “My poor child, you are every bit as impetuous as your parents were before you! God grant a happier outcome for you — and I truly believe it will be so. For you will never persuade me that a man will go to so much trouble except for the girl he truly loves! I am no judge of the matter if he isn’t head over ears, and thinking of no one but yourself at this very moment!”


  “But that’s just it,” replied Susan, in a despondent tone. “Georgy is of your opinion, too; but she warned me not to depend on his attachment—” with a blush — “lasting any length of time, for she says he is the most shocking flirt, and always in love with someone or other! And indeed, ma’am, everyone knows that to be true — it is common gossip.”

  “Gossip!” exclaimed Maria, scornfully. “I have been about the world a good bit, my love, and I think I know how to rate gossip! But I see you are not convinced—” as Susan shook her head. “Well, then, let me tell you something, my little Sue, about gentlemen of Beau Eversley’s stamp. They will admire many females in their time, paying court to these ladies by bringing pretty gifts and taking some trouble — not too much! — in gratifying their foolish whims. But something is always expected in return —” there was a bitter note in her voice — “and should the return disappoint the so generous donor, then the court is transferred to another, possibly more appreciative, lady. But when a man truly loves, child—” her tone changed to one of tenderness — “he will offer all he has, though it be nothing in the eyes of the world; and he will expect from the lady nothing in return save what she freely chooses to give.”

  Susan was silent. Maria looked along the road; the inn was in sight, and two figures were standing in the small forecourt, watching their approach. After a moment, Susan looked up and caught sight of them, too.

  “Oh, Maria!” she exclaimed, in sudden alarm. “I had not realized when you said that Beau Eversley had brought you here — but, of course, he is waiting for us at the Black Horse! And George, too — I don’t know if yon found out, but he brought me to Middlesex in his curricle! But the thing is, that I always feel so — so uncomfortable nowadays whenever they are together, for George has taken it into his head that he admires me — though I think it is only calf-love, in spite of what my friend Georgiana says — and then—” her voice faltered — “and then there is Beau! Oh, Maria, what am I to do?”