The Clandestine Betrothal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Do, Susan?” replied Maria, in a rallying tone. “Why, straighten your bonnet, compose yourself, and walk on to face your audience like the splendid little actress you might have been!”

  DINNER AT STRAWBERRY HILL

  The footman moved to fill Horace Walpole’s glass with his favourite drink, ice water.

  “You’ll take some more wine, Hugh?” pressed his host, hospitably. “Do you think perhaps the ladies might be persuaded—?”

  Across the table, Beau Eversley’s eyes met Susan’s. She smiled ruefully.

  “No wine for me, I thank you, sir,” she replied, demurely. “It — it does not suit me.”

  “I am delighted to hear that, my dear Miss Susan, for it is one more thing which we have in common. I doubt—” he concluded, turning to the two other ladies who made up the party seated at the table, “if my old friends Agnes and Mary will be tempted, either.”

  Both the Misses Berry, who lived in a cottage on Horry Walpole’s estate and were often asked to the house to dine, politely declined.

  “In that case,” went on Horry, smiling, “I will order coffee. And after we have all enjoyed a comfortable chat over it, perhaps you, dear boy—” turning to Hugh — “will be so good as to do the honours for me, and show Miss Susan the gardens.” His lively dark eyes rested on Susan, with a twinkle in them. “You know, my dear, it has been so great a pleasure to invite you here, and show you all my little treasures. I was quite determined I should do it, one day, ever since that time when you first paid me a visit and were obliged to leave — ah — so hurriedly.”

  Susan choked a little, and tried hard not to look at Beau Eversley. “You are very good, sir,” she managed to say.

  Her host bowed.

  “It is an easy matter to be good to one so charming,” he replied, gallantly. “Do you not agree, Hugh?”

  This time, Susan could not avoid the Beau’s steady gaze. She coloured a little under it, veiling her eyes with her long dark lashes.

  “I do indeed, sir. In fact, I have frequently made that very remark myself to Miss Susan.”

  “I feel sure you must have done so, my dear fellow.” Horry was clearly enjoying himself. “In spite of the shaggy hair and informal mode of dress favoured by the man of today, at heart he is, I believe, very much as he always was. In short, while young ladies are beautiful and charming, young men will still delight in telling them so.”

  Fortunately, the coffee arrived at this point; and, to Susan’s relief, the conversation took a less personal turn. When the meal at last drew to a close, however, Susan and Beau Eversley were firmly but courteously sent on their way to the gardens alone.

  At first, they found little to say to each other. Beau Eversley made some attempt to “do the honours”, as Horry Walpole had put it; but his comments on the various natural beauties they encountered in their stroll drew forth scant response from the lady.

  The first remark she volunteered was when they were walking under the lilacs. She paused, looking ruefully up at the trees.

  “All the bloom’s gone,” she said wistfully. “And they were so lovely that day — I shall always remember them.”

  His green-flecked eyes looked into hers, and she noticed that the customary twinkle had vanished.

  “The day that you leapt into my life?” he asked, softly. “You will always remember the lilacs — and I shall always remember- — you.”

  “It’s no use to make pretty speeches,” said Susan, attempting a light tone. “I am not deceived, sir!”

  “Why should you think I wish to deceive you?”

  Her eyes dropped before his intense gaze, but she tried to keep up a pretence of levity.

  “Because it is a game you play — and remarkably well, too!”

  “This is no game, Susan. I was never more in earnest, I assure you.”

  He made a movement towards her, but she stepped back as if in alarm.

  “No — please — pray say no more—”

  A look of mortification crossed his face. “Very well, if that is what you wish.”

  He paused a moment, waiting for her to speak, but she said nothing.

  “I saw George before I came here,” he continued, watching her slightly averted face. “He told me that he had made you an offer of marriage — and that you had refused him.”

  She smiled, and shook her head. “Silly boy! At present he fancies that he cares for me, but it is just because I am the first girl he has ever really noticed. Why, it is obvious that he really thinks more of his horses than he does of me! I wish you could have seen the fuss he made when one of them injured itself on our way to Pyncott Place. He could scarcely bring himself to speak to me civilly, and I could see that he thought it was all my fault. No, I am sure it is all fancy — if he can recall my very name six months hence, I confess I shall be amazed!”

  “No doubt you are an authority in these matters,” the Beau said, dryly.

  “Well, yes, I am,” she answered, impetuously. “You see, George isn’t the first to suffer from — feelings of the kind. I, too—”

  “Yes?” He waited a moment, then saw that she had no intention of saying more. “You were perhaps about to say,” he suggested, diffidently, “that you, too, once entertained the same feeling towards George?”

  “No — yes — no, not that, exactly,” she stammered, losing her poise, and recovering it again with difficulty. “When I saw — that he admired me — I was a little drawn to him, if I am honest — even though I realized all along that his feelings for me would not last.”

  “And so you refused him, even though you—” he broke off, and repeated her words in an expressionless tone — “felt yourself drawn to him?”

  “You don’t understand. I felt a kindness for him, that is all. It was partly because I thought myself so — so much of an outcast at that time, without either name or family; and I was ready to be grateful to anyone who would show the least interest in me.”

  “Believe me,” he said, seriously, “I do understand. Yet there were others who had certainly not lost interest in you, I believe.”

  “You mean my aunt, and Georgiana—”

  “Certainly. I also mean myself.”

  She made a little nervous movement of her hands. “You — you were very kind to me, sir — much kinder than I deserved, I realize that.”

  “Why did you run away, Susan?” he asked, moving nearer to her. “Didn’t you know that I intended to make our fictitious betrothal a reality when I should see Mr, Watson on the following day?”

  She nodded unhappily. “Oh, yes. But how could I let you do such a thing for me? Beau Eversley to become betrothed to a — a nobody! It was unthinkable!”

  “Your unselfishness does you credit,” he said, gently. “In such a situation, you might have been pardoned for taking the easy way, and accepting the security of my name.”

  “I’m not unselfish,” she replied, in a low tone. “I was — tempted. But — I knew it would not do. You see, you did not—”

  She broke off, and turned her head away to hide the tears which sprang to her eyes.

  “Yes? What did I not do, Susan?”

  He took her hands gently in his. She made a feeble effort to release them, then was still.

  “You — did not love me.” He had to bend his head to catch the words. “And I—”

  “My dear—” he raised her hands to his lips. “We are not always privileged to know the truth about ourselves and our motives. I thought — and evidently you did, too — that I regarded you as a rather tiresome little friend of my sister’s who had got herself into a scape, and must be helped out of it.”

  She drew her hands away, clasping them firmly together before her to try and still their trembling.

  “It was much later,” he went on, fixing his eyes on her downcast head, “that I came to realize how all along I had been falling in love with you.”

  “No.” She raised her head at that, looking almost defiantly into his face. “It wasn’t lo
ve, but the kind of — of infatuation that you have felt for many others. Don’t think that while I was in Town I didn’t hear gossip. On every side, I heard what an incorrigible flirt Beau Eversley is! There were dozens of females whom you had first admired, and later lost all interest in — among them even my own relatives, though I didn’t know then that we were related — Barbara Radley, and — and—”

  “And Maria?” he finished, smoothly. “Tell me — I know you had a very little time together before she left for Ireland — but did she speak to you at all on this subject?”

  “Yes, she did.” Susan’s tone was quieter, now.

  “Then she must have told you of the essentially platonic nature of our friendship.”

  “It was not your fault that it was platonic, though!” said Susan, fiercely, shaking her dark curls in a sudden gust of anger.

  “You are jealous — my sweet life, you are jealous!” He took her in his arms, and she could feel her anger melting away. “Now I know what I had hardly dared to hope — that you, too, love me.”

  “Always,” whispered Susan, turning her face up to his. “Always. At first, it was only a schoolgirl’s dream — but later, when I had come to know you, it changed to something deeper. And after that, all I wanted in the world was for you to love me — and it seemed that you never could, for one reason or another!”

  “There have never been any reasons strong enough to stop me,” he murmured, his lips very close to hers. “Do you think, dearest, I might kiss you now? After all, we’ve been betrothed for a very long time.”

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