Between four and five in the
afternoon--when the women of
the Western regions are in their
carriages, and the men are at
their clubs--London presents
few places more conveniently
adapted for purposes of private
talk than the solitary garden
inclosure of a
square.
On the day when Richard Turlington
paid his visit to Muswell Hill,
two ladies (with a secret between
them) unlocked the gate of the
railed garden in Berkeley Square.
They shut the gate after entering
the inclosure, but carefully
forbore to lock it as well, and
carefully restricted their walk
to the westward side of the garden.
One of them was Natalie Graybrooke.
The other was Mrs. Sancroft's
eldest daughter. A certain temporary
interest attached, in the estimation
of society, to this young lady.
She had sold well in the marriage
market. In other words, she had
recently been raised to the position
of Lord Winwood's second wife;
his lordship conferring on the
bride not only the honors of
the peerage, but the additional
distinction of being stepmother
to his three single daughters,
all older than herself. In person,
Lady Winwood was little and fair.
In character, she was dashing
and resolute--a complete contrast
to Natalie, and (on that very
account) Natalie's bosom friend.
"My dear, one
ambitious marriage in the family
is quite enough!
I have made up my mind that _you_
shall marry the man you love.
Don't tell me your courage is
failing you--the excuse is contemptible;
I decline to receive it. Natalie!
the men have a phrase which exactly
describes your character. You
want back-bone!"
The bonnet of the lady who
expressed herself in these peremptory
terms barely reached the height
of Natalie's shoulder. Natalie
might have blown the little airy,
light-haired, unsubstantial creature
over the railings of the garden
if she had taken a good long
breath and stooped low enough.
But who ever met with a tall
woman who had a will of her own?
Natalie's languid brown eyes
looked softly down in submissive
attention from an elevation of
five feet seven. Lady Winwood's
brisk blue eyes looked brightly
up in despotic command from an
elevation of four feet eleven
(in her shoes).
"You are trifling
with Mr. Linzie, my dear. Mr.
Linzie is
a nice fellow. I like him. I
won't have that."
"Louisa!"
"Mr. Turlington
has nothing to recommend him.
He is not a
well-bred old gentleman of exalted
rank. He is only an odious brute
who happens to have made money.
You shall _not_ marry Mr. Turlington.
And you _shall_ marry Launcelot
Linzie."
"Will you let
me speak, Louisa?"
"I will let
you answer--nothing more. Didn't
you come crying
to me this morning? Didn't you
say, 'Louisa, they have pronounced
sentence on me! I am to be married
in the first week of the New
Year. Help me out of it, for
Heaven's sake!' You said all
that, and more. And what did
I do when I heard your story?"
"Oh, you were
so kind--"
"Kind doesn't
half express it. I have committed
crimes on
your account. I have deceived
my husband and my mother. For
your sake I got mamma to ask
Mr. Linzie to lunch (as _my_
friend!). For your sake I have
banished my unoffending husband,
not an hour since, to his club.
You wretched girl, who arranged
a private conference in the library?
Who sent Mr. Linzie off to consult
his friend in the Temple on the
law of clandestine marriage?
Who suggested your telegraphing
home, and stopping here for the
night? Who made an appointment
to meet your young man privately
in this detestable place in ten
minutes' time? I did! I did!
I did! All in your interests.
All to prevent you from doing
what I have done--marrying to
please your family instead of
to please yourself. (I don't
complain, mind, of Lord Winwood,
or of his daughters. _He_ is
charming; his daughters I shall
tame in course of time. You are
different. And Mr. Turlington,
as I observed before, is a brute.)
Very well. Now what do you owe
me on your side? You owe it to
me at least to know your own
mind. You don't know it. You
coolly inform me that you daren't
run the risk after all, and that
you can't face the consequences
on second thoughts. I'll tell
you what! You don't deserve that
nice fellow, who worships the
very ground you tread on. You
are a bread-and-butter miss.
I don't believe you are fond
of him!"
"Not fond of him!" Natalie
stopped, and clasped her hands
in despair of finding language
strong enough for the occasion.
At the same moment the sound
of a closing gate caught her
ear. She looked round. Launce
had kept his appointment before
his time. Launce was in the garden,
rapidly approaching them.
"Now for the Law of Clandestine
Marriage!" said Lady Winwood. "Mr.
Linzie, we will take it sitting." She
led the way to one of the benches
in the garden, and placed Launce
between Natalie and herself. "Well,
Chief Conspirator, have you got
the License? No? Does it cost
too much? Can I lend you the
money?"
"It costs perjury, Lady Winwood,
in my case," said Launce. "Natalie
is not of age. I can only get
a License by taking my oath that
I marry her with her father's
consent." He turned piteously
to Natalie. "I couldn't very
well do that," he said, in the
tone of a man who feels bound
to make an apology, "could I?" Natalie
shuddered; Lady Winwood shrugged
her shoulders.
"In your place a woman wouldn't
have hesitated," her ladyship
remarked. "But men are so selfish.
Well! I suppose there is some
other way?"
"Yes, there is another way," said
Launce. "But there is a horrid
condition attached to it--"
"Something
worse than perjury, Mr. Linzie?
Murder?"
"I'll tell
you directly, Lady Winwood.
The marriage comes first.
The condition follows. There
is only one chance for us. We
must be married by banns."
"Banns!" cried Natalie. "Why,
banns are publicly proclaimed
in church!"
"They needn't be proclaimed
in _your_ church, you goose," said
Lady Winwood. "And, even if they
were, nobody would be the wiser.
You may trust implicitly, my
dear, in the elocution of an
English clergyman!"
"That's just what my friend
said," cried Launce. "'Take a
lodging near a large parish church,
in a remote part of London'--
(this is my friend's advice)--'go
to the clerk, tell him you want
to be married by banns, and say
you belong to that parish. As
for the lady, in your place I
should simplify it. I should
say she belonged to the parish
too. Give an address, and have
some one there to answer questions.
How is the clerk to know? He
isn't likely to be over-anxious
about it--his fee is eighteen-
pence. The clerk makes his profit
out of you, after you are married.
The same rule applies to the
parson. He will have your names
supplied to him on a strip of
paper, with dozens of other names;
and he will read them out all
together in one inarticulate
jumble in church. You will stand
at the altar when your time comes,
with Brown and Jones, Nokes and
Styles, Jack and Gill. All that
you will have to do is, to take
care that your young lady doesn't
fall to Jack, and you to Gill,
by mistake--and there you are,
married by banns.' My friend's
opinion, stated in his own words."
Natalie sighed,
and wrung her hands in her
lap. "We shall never
get through it," she said, despondingly.
Lady Winwood took a more cheerful
view.
"I see nothing
very formidable as yet, my
dear. But we have
still to hear the end of it.
You mentioned a condition just
now, Mr. Linzie.
"I am coming
to the condition, Lady Winwood.
You naturally suppose,
as I did, that I put Natalie
into a cab, and run away with
her from the church door?"
"Certainly.
And I throw an old shoe after
you for luck,
and go home again."
Launce shook his head ominously.
"Natalie must
go home again as well as you!"
Lady Winwood
started. "Is that
the condition you mentioned just
now?" she asked.
"That is the
condition. I may marry her
without anything serious
coming of it. But, if I run away
with her afterward, and if you
are there, aiding and abetting
me, we are guilty of Abduction,
and we may stand, side by side,
at the bar of the Old Bailey
to answer for it!"
Natalie sprang to her feet
in horror. Lady Winwood held
up one finger warningly, signing
to her to let Launce go on.
"Natalie is not yet sixteen
years old," Launce proceeded. "She
must go straight back to her
father's house from the church,
and I must wait to run away with
her till her next birthday. When
she's turned sixteen, she's ripe
for elopement--not an hour before.
There is the law of Abduction!
Despotism in a free country--that's
what I call it!"
Natalie sat down again, with
an air of relief.
"It's a very comforting law,
I think," she said. "It doesn't
force one to take the dreadful
step of running away from home
all at once. It gives one time
to consider, and plan, and make
up one's mind. I can tell you
this, Launce, if I am to be persuaded
into marrying you, the law of
Abduction is the only thing that
will induce me to do it. You
ought to thank the law, instead
of abusing it."
Launce listened--without conviction.
"It's a pleasant prospect," he
said, "to part at the church
door, and to treat my own wife
on the footing of a young lady
who is engaged to marry another
gentleman."
"Is it any pleasanter for _me_," retorted
Natalie, "to have Richard Turlington
courting me, when I am all the
time your wife? I shall never
be able to do it. I wish I was
dead!"
"Come! come!" interposed Lady
Winwood. "It's time to be serious.
Natalie's birthday, Mr. Linzie,
is next Christmas-day. She will
be sixteen--"
"At seven in the morning," said
Launce; "I got that out of Sir
Joseph. At one minute past seven,
Greenwich mean time, we may be
off together. I got _that_ out
of the lawyer."
"And it isn't
an eternity to wait from now
till Christmas-day.
You get that, by way of completing
the list of your acquisitions,
out of _me_. In the mean time,
can you, or can you not, manage
to meet the difficulties in the
way of the marriage?"
"I have settled everything," Launce
answered, confidently. "There
is not a single difficulty left."
He turned to Natalie, listening
to him in amazement, and explained
himself. It had struck him that
he might appeal--with his purse
in his hand, of course--to the
interest felt in his affairs
by the late stewardess of the
yacht. That excellent woman had
volunteered to do all that she
could to help him. Her husband
had obtained situations for his
wife and himself on board another
yacht--and they were both eager
to assist in any conspiracy in
which their late merciless master
was destined to play the part
of victim. When on shore, they
lived in a populous London parish,
far away from the fashionable
district of Berkeley Square,
and further yet from the respectable
suburb of Muswell Hill. A room
in the house could be nominally
engaged for Natalie, in the assumed
character of the stewardess's
niece--the stewardess undertaking
to answer any purely formal questions
which might be put by the church
authorities, and to be present
at the marriage ceremony. As
for Launce, he would actually,
as well as nominally, live in
the district close by; and the
steward, if needful, would answer
for _him_. Natalie might call
at her parochial residence occasionally,
under the wing of Lady Winwood;
gaining leave of absence from
Muswell Hill, on the plea of
paying one of her customary visits
at her aunt's house. The conspiracy,
in brief, was arranged in all
its details. Nothing was now
wanting but the consent of the
young lady; obtaining which,
Launce would go to the parish
church and give the necessary
notice of a marriage by banns
on the next day. There was the
plot. What did the ladies think
of it?
Lady Winwood thought it perfect.
Natalie was not so easily satisfied.
"My father has always been
so kind to me!" she said. "The
one thing I can't get over, Launce,
is distressing papa. If he had
been hard on me--as some fathers
are--I shouldn't mind." She suddenly
brightened, as if she saw her
position in a new light. "Why
should you hurry me?" she asked. "I
am going to dine at my aunt's
to-day, and you are coming in
the evening. Give me time! Wait
till to-night."
Launce instantly entered his
protest against wasting a moment
longer. Lady Winwood opened her
lips to support him. They were
both silenced at the same moment
by the appearance of one of Mrs.
Sancroft's servants, opening
the gate of the square.
Lady Winwood went forward to
meet the man. A suspicion crossed
her mind that he might be bringing
bad news.
"What do you want?" she
asked.
"I beg your
pardon, my lady--the housekeeper
said you were walking
here with Miss Graybrooke. A
telegram for Miss Graybrooke."
Lady Winwood
took the telegram from the
man's hand; dismissed
him, and went back with it to
Natalie. Natalie opened it nervously.
She read the message--and instantly
changed. Her cheeks flushed deep;
her eyes flashed with indignation. "Even
papa can be hard on me, it seems,
when Richard asks him!" she exclaimed.
She handed the telegram to Launce.
Her eyes suddenly filled with
tears. "_You_ love me," she said,
gently--and stopped. "Marry me!" she
added, with a sudden burst of
resolution. "I'll risk it!"
As she spoke those words, Lady
Winwood read the telegram. It
ran thus:
"Sir Joseph
Graybrooke, Muswell Hill. To
Miss Natalie Graybrooke;
Berkeley Square. Come back immediately.
You are engaged to dine here
with Richard Turlington."
Lady Winwood
folded up the telegram with
a malicious smile. "Well
done, Sir Joseph!" thought her
ladyship. "We might never have
persuaded Natalie--but for You!"
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