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‘Ah, how can you talk so?’ he said quickly. ‘Do not! I do not think I had ever, before that evening, wished to please anyone but myself. You came to me – enchanting and abominable child that you are! – and I wanted more than anything in life to please you. I am neither good nor noble – though I am not as black as I was painted to you. I assure you, I had never the least intention of wounding your brother mortally.’
‘Oh no! Had I known it was you I should never have thought that!’
He raised her hand to his lips. The slight fingers seemed to tremble, and then to clasp his. He looked up, but before he could speak Lord Saltwood walked into the room.
Lord Saltwood stopped dead on the threshold, his eyes starting from their sockets. He stared in a dazed way, opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed convulsively.
‘How do you do?’ said Rotherfield, with cool civility. ‘You must forgive me for having been unable to receive you when you called at my house the other day.’
‘I came – I wished – I wrote you a letter!’ stammered Saltwood, acutely uncomfortable.
‘Certainly you did, and I have come to acknowledge it. I am much obliged to you, and beg you will think no more of the incident.’
‘C-came to see me?’ gasped Saltwood.
‘Yes, for I understand you to be the head of your family, and I have a request to make of you. I trust that our late unfortunate contretemps may not have made the granting of it wholly repugnant to you.’
‘No, no! I mean – anything in my power, of course! I shall be very happy –! If you would care to step into the book-room, my lord –?’
‘Thank you.’ Rotherfield turned, and smiled down into Dorothea’s anxious eyes. ‘I must take my leave of you now, but I trust Lady Saltwood will permit me to call on her tomorrow.’
‘Yes, indeed, I am persuaded – that is, I do hope she will!’ said Dorothea naïvely.
There was a laugh in his eye, but he bowed formally and went out with Saltwood, leaving her beset by a great many agitating emotions, foremost amongst which was a dread that Lady Saltwood would, in the failing state of her health, feel herself to be unequal to the strain of receiving his lordship. When, presently, Saltwood went up to the drawing-room, looking as though he had sustained a severe shock, Dorothea was seized by a conviction that her escapade had been disclosed to him, and she fled to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, and indulged in a hearty bout of tears. From this abyss of woe she was jerked by the unmistakable sounds of Augusta in strong hysterics. Hastily drying her cheeks, she ran down the stairs to render whatever assistance might be needed, and to support her parent through this ordeal. To her amazement, she found Lady Saltwood, whom she had left languishing on the sofa, not only upon her feet, but looking remarkably well. To her still greater amazement, the invalid folded her in the fondest of embraces, and said: ‘Dearest, dearest child! I declare I don’t know if I am on my head or my heels! Rotherfield! A countess! You sly little puss, never to have told me that you had met him! And not even out yet! You must be presented at once: that I am determined upon! He is coming to visit me tomorrow. Thank heaven you are just Augusta’s size! You must wear the pomona silk dress Celestine has just made for her: I knew how it would be, the instant I brought you out! I was never so happy in my life!’
Quite bewildered, Dorothea said: ‘Presented? Wear Augusta’s new dress? Mama, why?’
‘My innocent treasure!’ exclaimed Lady Saltwood. ‘Tell me, my love, for you must know I am scarcely acquainted with him, do you – do you like Lord Rotherfield?’
‘Oh, Mama!’ said Dorothea impulsively. ‘He is exactly like Sir Charles Grandison, and Lord Orville, only far, far better!’
‘Dearest Dorothea!’ sighed her ladyship ecstatically. ‘Charlie, do not stand there staring! Go and throw a jug of water over Augusta this instant! This is not the moment for hysterics!’
Hazard
THE GIRL STOOD under the light of the guttering candles, still as a statue, her hands clasped in front of her, and no colour in her cheeks. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown with blue ribbons, and wore no ornament save the fillet threaded through her gold hair. She did not look at her half-brother, nor at any one of the five other men who were gathered round the table in the centre of the over-heated room. But she knew who was present; she had seen them all in the one swift glance she had cast at them under her lashes as she had entered the room. There was Lord Amberfield, sprawling over the table with his head pillowed on his arm; Mr Marmaduke Shapley, not so drunk as Amberfield, leaning on his chair and giggling; Sir Thomas Fort, a little blear-eyed, very purple in the face; Mr Lionel Winter, idiotically smiling; and Carlington Carlington with his black curls in disorder, and his exquisite cravat crumpled, his lean cheeks hectically flushed, and a reckless look in his bright eyes.
And there was Half-brother Ralph, in answer to whose peremptory summons she had got up out of her bed, and dressed herself, and come down to this stuffy room in the chill small hours. He was lounging back in his chair, still grasping the dice-box in one hand, while the other sought to refill his empty glass. Some of the wine slopped over on to the baize cloth that covered the table; Sir Ralph cursed it, and thrust the bottle on towards his left-hand neighbour. ‘Fill up, Lionel! Fill up!’ he said, hiccuping. ‘Now, my lord – now Carlington! You want to play on, hey? But I’m done-up, d’ye see? Only one thing left to stake, and that’s m’sister!’ A fit of insane laughter shook him; he made a gesture towards the girl, who stood motionless still, her gaze fixed on a point above Carlington’s handsome head. ‘I’ll set her for my last stake, gen’lemen. Who’ll cover?’
Mr Winter said: ‘Tha’s – tha’s Miss Helen,’ and nodded wisely.
‘Damme, Morland, this – this is not right!’ said Sir Thomas, getting on to his feet. ‘Miss Morland – very obedient servant, ma’am! Amberfield – my lord! ladies present!’
He lurched towards the sleeping Viscount, and shook him by one shoulder. Lord Amberfield moaned, and muttered: ‘Pockets to let: all my vowels in – in Carlington’s hands.’
‘Freddy, my boy, I’m saying it’s not right. Can’t stake a lady.’
Lord Amberfield said: ‘Can’t stake anything. Nothing to stake. Going to sleep.’
Mr Marmaduke Shapley clasped his head in his hands, as though to steady it, and said rather indistinctly: ‘It’s the wine. Confound you, Ralph, you’re drunk!’
Sir Ralph gave a boisterous laugh, and rattled the dice in the box. ‘Who’ll cover?’ he demanded. ‘What d’ye say, Lionel? Will you have my jade of a sister to wife?’
Mr Winter rose to his feet, and stood precariously balancing on his heels. ‘Sir,’ he said, looking owlishly at his host, ‘shall take leave to tell you – no one will cover prepost’rous stake!’
Sir Ralph’s wicked eyes went past him to where Carlington sat, gazing at the girl under frowning, night-black brows. By the Marquis’ left arm, stretched negligently before him on the table, scraps of paper were littered, vowels for the money he had won. There were rouleaus of guineas at his elbow, and more guine
as spilled under his hand. Through Sir Ralph’s blurred mind drifted a thought that he had never seen the young Marquis in so wild a humour before. He leaned forward, and said mockingly: ‘Will you cover, my lord, or do you refuse the bet?’
