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CHAPTER IV. EULALIE THROWS OFF THE REINS

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By the next afternoon Eulalie had neatly arranged her coming behaviour in these unforeseen but delightful circumstances.

Beverly, distracted as she knew him to be, had spoken to her again of Mr. Champneys; she imagined that he wished to provide something to divert her attention, that she might not notice Sophia's altered demeanour or her frequent absences.

Miss Eulalie behaved discreetly. She managed to ascertain that the stranger still occupied the garret; a peep through the crack of the door showed her that, and discovered that he had exchanged his clothes for one of Beverly's suits.

When Eulalie saw him, he was playing cards with a dummy, and the glimpse she had of his lean face was not calculated to move her to pity.

She felt a deep disgust towards Sophia for having such relations, a contempt for Beverly. She determined that she would seize this opportunity to regain her old footing in the household and to place Sophia in a position of obligation towards her.

She surmised that they were waiting till the constables should have ceased to search the neighbourhood to convey the man abroad; she admired the skill of all concerned in thus bringing him to the house and hiding him with no suspicions aroused save her own, and, with a throb of triumph in outwitting their cleverness, she resolved on the course that was to bring Montacute House to her feet.

Briefly, Miss Eulalie intended to inform, in no measured terms, both Sophia and her husband that she knew what they were concealing; she intended to enjoy their confusion, their distress, to bring them to beg her pity and her alliance, and then graciously to grant them both.

She put on her hat and went through the garden, considering the scheme.

Sophia would be furious, but she would have to be humble; Beverly would storm, but he would come to asking her mercy, and neither of them would dare to mention her "insolence" or "impudence."

She approached the cornfields that lay beyond the estate, and seated herself on the stile that divided them from the park.

A large elder tree shaded her from the sun; the top step of the stile was smooth and wide, a pleasant seat. Eulalie rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her palm while she rehearsed to herself the precise words that she would use to vanquish Sophia. The pale blue ribbons of her grey lutestring dress fluttered in the warm breeze, and the gold buckles in her shoes cast off rays of light in the sunshine.

The sky, the trees, and the air appeared of one hue with the dusky yellow wheat, so completely did the glimmer of heat envelop everything. The corn had been cut and stood in stacks about the fields, save close to Eulalie, where it lay in sheaves along the stubble.

In the fields beyond the red-gold grain still stood and the reapers were at work, but here was no one. All was silent save for a song of a lark and the buzzing of the bees in the bramble flowers along the edge.

Suddenly Miss Eulalie was startled by a sound as of some one suppressing laughter.

She leant from the shade of the elder and glanced up the field.

Quite close to her, seated easily on the edge of the ditch, was a man engaged in twisting bands for the sheaves.

The vagabond of yesterday.

He looked at her boldly, with no contrition in his grey eyes, and Eulalie, in a rush of rage, confusion and embarrassment, cried out:

"Was you laughing, fellow?"

"What made you think so?" he answered a trifle haughtily. He had discarded the ragged coat and waistcoat, and wore a faded blue shirt above his leather breeches. Eulalie noticed this improvement in his appearance.

"I heard some one laugh," she said coldly. "You disturb me; will you depart?"

"No," he answered calmly, biting off the end of a straw.

Eulalie drew herself up furiously.

"These are my brother's fields," she said. "You will please to do as I bid you."

She held back the elder blossoms as she spoke; the blue rosettes on her hat trembled with her indignation as she flung up her head.

He glanced round the sunny expanse of stubble. "I choose to remain in the shade," he remarked. "I am paid to bind the sheaves, not to kill myself with sunstroke."

"Uncivil brute!" cried Eulalie hotly.

"There is no pleasing you," he remarked coolly. "I should have thought that you would have been rejoiced to see me earning an honest livelihood." He gave her a mocking glance, and Eulalie flushed crimson.

"You offend my sight," she said, dropping the elder bough between them; yet somehow so dropping it that whereas she had not seen him before, the wretch was visible now. "I should rejoice to see you in the stocks, the place for vagrants!"

He picked up some more straw and commenced plaiting it.

"Have you never heard of the ducking stool for scolds?" he remarked calmly.

Eulalie was speechless; with dilated eyes she stared at him through the elder leaves. He laughed a little in a pleasant manner. "If I deserve one, you deserve the other," he said. "You are a perfect shrew."

"Insolent!" cried Eulalie bitterly.

Had it not been for the difficulty of gracefully dismounting the stile, she would long ago have departed; her face was white with vexation, she tapped her foot impatiently. Suddenly he put the straw down, and picking up his hat, rose.

He came slowly towards her, his hand on his hip, and Eulalie's gaze fell horrified to his hat. Round the brim was a twist of pink silk—the frill that she had left hanging on the wall of the rose garden.

Eulalie sprang to her feet as he approached, drew away with the utmost haughtiness, then, treading on her skirt in her agitation, lost her balance and fell forward through the elder blossom, slipped from the stile into the ditch of flowers, crushing the hemlock and poppies.

The man stood gravely surveying her, making no effort to assist. She of herself scrambled into a sitting posture and looked up, the tears of mortification plain in her eyes.

Her toy hat was knocked on one side, her hair disarranged.

"The sight of you brings humiliation," she said with a quivering lip, then, with a brave attempt at haughtiness, "Why was you standing there, fellow, instead of trying to save me? I might have broken my neck."

She rose, shaking out her tumbled dress.

"I remembered my repulse yesterday," he answered.

"Wretch!" said Eulalie. Her tears overflowed, the sobs rose in her throat, she sank on the lowest step of the stile.

"Pride goes before a fall," he said with a smile.

"Wretch!" she sobbed again. She resolutely commenced climbing up the stile.

He suddenly stepped forward with a change of manner and held out his hand.

"May I not assist you now?"

In answer, she turned on the top of the stile and let the bough she was holding back fly out into his face. As it stung him across the cheeks she heard him exclaim, but never looking back she vaulted from the stile and ran swiftly across the Park.

It was a retreat, but a victorious one. She shook the burrs and the leaves off her dress and her eyes gleamed angrily.

For the second time she had been humiliated before this stranger; for the second time her tears had risen; they rose again.

She had to confess that it was owing largely to her own mistake; she could not but see that the man was neither a criminal nor a common vagabond; his address had not been come by under hedgerows, but she comforted herself with the reflection that a person reduced from a superior position to rags and penury must have forfeited that position through some action either disgraceful or foolish.

Breathless, she reached the house and flew to her room. She had intended this evening to be the scene of Sophia's discomfiture, and she distracted her mind from unpleasant thoughts by a minute mental rehearsal of the incident.

Sophia and Beverly would be in the drawing-room before dinner, they would be consulting together on this very subject. She would enter, come at once to the point, and dictate her own terms of silence and assistance. Sophia would be vastly enraged!

Eulalie effaced with powder the traces of her angry tears, and carefully dressed the bright brown hair into a pyramid of curls, of which two hung down her back to her waist and one fell over her shoulder. Into this she pinned a bow of deep rose satin ribbon, and spent some moments surveying the effect in her mirror by the aid of an ivory hand-glass.

The result was more than satisfactory. Eulalie laid the mirror down gravely and surveyed herself full length in the long cheval glass.

The light was beginning to fade. Eulalie gave herself a last look and went out on to the landing.

With a half smile on her lips and a firm step she descended to the drawing-room.

No one was there.

The candles were not lit, and the summer dusk obscured the objects in the room to a pleasant dimness; the folding doors that led into the back room and the garden were a little way open, and a delicate breeze cuffed the silk hangings.

Eulalie found this chamber also empty. She crossed it, came out on the terrace, and there found Sophia walking up and down before the stone vases of geraniums, and twitching her handkerchief in her fingers.

She looked round, seemed startled, and spoke crossly.

"What are you doing here, Miss?" she demanded.

Eulalie swept a curtsey.

"La! I didn't know—I protest—that I was forbidden on the terrace."

"Don't be impudent," said Sophia sharply. Eulalie answered with an indifferent air.

"And don't you be indiscreet, ma'am."

"Indiscreet?" echoed Sophia, on a rising note. "What is the matter with you?"

"Oh, Sophia," said Eulalie, mockingly, "it is you who have been strange this last day or so, not I. What is the matter with you?"

"With me?"

Mrs. Montacute appeared nonplussed.

"Don't stare so," smiled Eulalie pertly. "I vow you quite discompose me. I was wondering about the forger, and who it is you have in the garret—"

Sophia shrieked.

"In the garret! What are you speaking of? And the constables this moment in the house!"

Eulalie was startled herself.

"The constables!"

The door behind them was pushed wide, and Beverly appeared on the terrace.

"What is this?" he demanded furiously; "the men have overheard you—they were just leaving the house—"

"Oh, la!" said Eulalie, overwhelmed.

If Sophia had behaved with some restraint even then the situation might have been saved, but she lost her head and her temper.

"You treacherous hussy!" she cried. "You wretch! What do you imagine the end of this will be? He will be transported or hanged."

Beverly endeavoured to silence her, but the thing was done.

Eulalie drew a deep breath. Her brother turned into the room to face the Maidstone constables, who were not now, on any threat or persuasion, to be prevented from searching the house.

Sophia flung herself against the vase of geraniums and went into strong hysterics.

Even at that moment Eulalie felt scorn for the vulgar abandonment of her behaviour.

"For pity's sake be silent," she said. "How was I to know the constables were in the house? I am sorry," she added, "vastly sorry."

Sophia looked up.

"Sorry!" she seized on the word viciously. "Sorry! you bare-faced baggage!"

With that she dashed past Eulalie and into the house.

Eulalie stood quite still for a moment and stared across the dusk.

She was for once rather frightened; she hoped that they would not get the man, but she very much feared that they would: and even if she was overlooked for the moment afterwards she would have to face both Sophia and Beverly.

"How unfortunate," she murmured.

She crept down the terrace steps and across the garden.

There was a scene taking place in the house, she knew—a positive scene!

Having no desire to be involved, she quickened her step; it was almost dark, but she did not think of that at all.

She hastened on till she reached the high road, passed out of her brother's gates and seated herself on the mounting block just without, soberly enough.

She felt more dashed than she had done for a great while; she drew her grey silk skirts over her feet and clasped her hands round her knees, more than half inclined to cry.

But really she could not see that it was her fault—if people would have low relations—besides, if Sophia had conducted herself with more control—and, after all, there was a great deal of impropriety in owning a relation like that—so ugly, too—and was it not prodigious impertinent of him to come seeking shelter in Beverly's house?

"It all comes," Eulalie decided, "of having a brother who marries a woman like Sophia." She justified herself to her own e: faction; but she did not quite care to go home.

Seven and then eight struck from the village church; it began to grow a little chilly on the mounting block—but Eulalie did not move.

The moon gave a faint glimmer through the twilight; a faery mingling of day and night; opposite, behind a belt of firs, the last colours of the sunset flushed dusky rose and liquid purple.

Some one came along the high road singing—and singing in French.

Eulalie was surprised and rather interested; she peered down the long white line of road as the singer came nearer.

Interest changed, however, to disgust when he showed himself to be none other than the vagabond of Lord Montjoy's park.

It was not so dusk that she could not be sure of him, and not so dusk that he did not instantly see her and pause.

"You again!" he said.

Eulalie was silent.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, in no way abashed.

It seemed to her that he was amused; in some annoyance she answered:

"I was regarding the splendours of the sunset."

"I should have thought," he returned, "that you could have seen it as well from Montacute Park."

She was offended that he should stop and speak to her.

"It is no concern at all of yours," she said loftily.

"No," he agreed; "but do not you think, ma'am, that you owe me an apology?"

He came a little nearer the mounting block. "An apology?" she repeated haughtily.

"The forger has been arrested," he answered, easily swinging a hazel switch to and fro.

"Oh!"

"You seem distressed," he remarked. "Yes the gentleman has been driven to Maidstone in a neat chaise, with handcuffs on his wrists."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Eulalie in vexation.

"So I think you owe me an apology," persisted the stranger. "You see I am not the man for whom the hundred guineas was offered."

"I suppose not," she admitted. "But how was I to know? It was quite an excusable error. However," she added grandly, "I do not mind saying I regret the mistake."

He bowed gravely.

"Thank you."

"Did—did you see the forger?" she asked reluctantly.

"In the village—being driven away." Eulalie sighed; she was thinking of Sophia. "Why don't you go home?" asked the stranger shrewdly.

"It isn't at all late," she answered hastily.

He was not satisfied.

"It seems to me," he said, "that you are in disgrace."

"Indeed, sir," she said loftily, "I am not a child."

The dusk had encroached so that they could scarcely see each other; Eulalie rose from the mounting block.

"As it happens, I am going home this minute," she said with a great air of indifference.

"Not very willingly though, I swear," he answered, and laughed annoyingly.

Eulalie turned on him.

"I do not know by what right you address me," she declared stiffly. "You are quite a low fellow, after all."

"Appearances are against me, I confess." She tilted her chin still higher.

"If you was a gentleman once, as I suppose you was, it is more shameful that you have come to this pass."

"What pass?" he asked calmly.

She stamped her foot.

"Don't be vexatious—you take a pleasure in annoying me."

"Indeed," he said, rather earnestly, "I do not."

"Then go away," she answered, dangerously near losing her dignity in tears.

"Nay," he said, not moving. "Am I so detestable as all that? And that is the last of me—to-morrow I go to London."

"To London?"

"Yes."

"Oh!"

"Why not, ma'am?

"What will you do in London?" she demanded.

"I don't know."

"I wish I could go to London." She forgot her grievance against him. "Perhaps you have a wife there?" she added suddenly.

"No; I was married once—in France."

"Oh!" again, with a different intonation.

"Where is she now?"

"I hope in heaven—but she had a vile temper."

"Ah—she isn't alive then?"

"No."

"Was she pretty?"

"Very pretty."

"I'm sorry," said Eulalie.

He did not seem to be concerned.

"I think it was a merciful release; she died of spleen and a surfeit of lobster."

"Oh!" Eulalie was shocked. "What was she angered about?"

"Her husband, I think."

Eulalie gathered up her skirts.

"I shall be late for supper," she said.

"Good-night."

"Good-night," he laughed very pleasantly.

"I hope we may meet in London."

She was silent a moment, then she said:

"La, sir, I don't care if we do."

And with that swept through the gates of her brother's park.

Before she reached the house her spirits had sunk considerably.

Put what face she would on it, she was afraid to meet Beverly and Sophia.

But the moment had to be gone through.

They were both in the withdrawing-room; Beverly standing by the hearth and Sophia lying on the sofa with her eyes closed and a bottle of smelling salts in her hand.

Eulalie entered softly.

"Well, Miss," said Beverly grimly, "what have you to say for yourself?"

"About what?" she answered with a high-beating heart.

"About this scandal you've caused."

"La!" she cried with a daring that surprised herself. "Did I cause a scandal?"

By now Sophia was sitting up and joining in with her husband; the candle-light showed her bloodless and vindictive; a fright, Eulalie decided maliciously.

"You dare to talk like that," she exclaimed in a high voice. "You dare!"

Her tone gave Eulalie courage.

"How was I to know the constables was in the house?"

"Oh, you knew well enough," said Beverly angrily.

Sophia sprang off the sofa.

"Knew! of course she knew!"

"I swear I did not," protested Eulalie with heat.

"You did!" shrieked Sophia.

"Do you give me the lie, ma'am?" Eulalie set her lips.

"Beverly," exclaimed Sophia, "I wonder how you can endure such insolence!—the minx is glorying in what she has done—glorying!"

Eulalie's eyes flashed; she was no longer at all afraid.

"Don't speak to me as if I was your waiting-maid," she said haughtily, "for I'll not endure that, ma'am."

Beverly interfered.

"How dare you be so insolent, Eulalie? Do you know what you have done?"

"Put you both in a temper it seems," she retorted. "And it isn't becoming."

Sophia went off into hysterics; Beverly cursed. "Oh, fie!" said Eulalie.

Beverly flared up.

"Now, Miss—I've had enough of your pertness, quite enough—"

Sophia interrupted.

"Either she or I leave the house, Beverly!"

"Oh, Sophia!" said Eulalie with disdain.

"This won't save you, Miss," answered her brother furiously.

They all lost their temper at once and violently.

"Scandal!" cried Eulalie. "Scandal and disgrace—you ma'am—have shamed us with your low relations."

Beverly had to support Sophia, who was in convulsions of passion.

"You ain't going to faint," said Eulalie disdainfully. "Leave shrieking for your salts—I vow your clamour is giving me a headache."

"I'll turn you out on to the road if you are not quiet," stormed the distracted Beverly.

"You're only here on charity," gasped Sophia, clinging to her husband.

Eulalie glanced from one to the other; she held herself erect.

"I think I had better go," she said to her brother. "I'll not intrude on Sophia's establishment."

"If you don't," sobbed Sophia, "I shall!" Eulalie smiled.

"Do not distress yourself, madam—I have been weary of both of you a great while; goodnight."

She turned about coolly and stepped out of the open window on to the terrace with an air of victory.

Lovers' Knots

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