Sophia had much ado not to burst into tears. Apparently the woman perceived this, and felt a touch of pity for her, for, in an altered tone, "Is it possible," she asked, "you're the young lady he's to marry to-morrow?"
The words were balm to the girl's heart. Here was sure footing at last; here was something to go upon. "Yes," she said, more boldly. "I am."
"Oh!" Mrs. Wollenhope ejaculated. "Oh!" After which she stared at the girl, as if she found a difficulty in fitting her in with notions previously formed. At last, "Well, miss," she said, "I think if you could call tomorrow?" with a dry cough. "If you are to be married to-morrow--it seems to me it might be better."
Sophia shivered. "I cannot wait," she said desperately. "I must see him. Something has happened which he does not know, and I must see him, I must indeed. Can I wait here? I have no where to go."
"Well, you can wait here till nine o'clock," Mrs. Wollenhope answered less dryly. "We shut up at nine." Then, after glancing behind her, she laid her hand on Sophia's sleeve. "My dear," she said, lowering her voice, "begging pardon for the liberty, for I see you are a lady, which I did not expect--if you'll take my advice you'll go back. You will indeed. I am sure your father and mother----"
"I have neither!" Sophia said.
"Oh, dear, dear! Still, I can see you've friends, and if you'll take my advice----"
She was cut short. "There you are again, Eliza!" cried a loud voice, apparently from an inner room. "Always your advice! Always your advice! Have done meddling, will you, and show the lady upstairs."
Mrs. Wollenhope shrugged her shoulders as if the interruption were no uncommon occurrence. "Very well," she said curtly; and turning, led the way along the passage. Sophia followed, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry that the good woman's warning had been cut short. As she passed the open door of a room at the foot of the stairs she had a glimpse of a cheery sea-coal fire, and a bald-headed man in his shirt sleeves, who was sitting on a settle beside it, a glass of punch in his hand. He rose and muttered, "Your servant, ma'am!" as she passed; and she went on and saw him no more. But the vision of the snug back-parlour, with its fire and lights, and a red curtain hanging before the window, remained with her, a picture of comfort and quiet, as far as possible removed from the suspense and agitation in which she had passed the last two hours.
And in which she still found herself, for as she mounted the stairs her knees quaked under her. She was ashamed, she was frightened. At the head of the flight, when the woman opened the door of the room and by a gesture bade her enter, she paused and felt she could sink into the ground. For the veriest trifle she would have gone down again. But behind her--behind her, lay nothing that had power to draw her; to return was to meet abuse and ridicule and shame, and that not in Arlington Street only, for the story would be over the town: Lane the mercer, whose shop was a hotbed of gossip, the little dandy who had thrust himself into her company, and tracked her hither, the coachman who had witnessed the arrest, even her own friend Lady Betty--all would publish the tale. Girls whom she knew, and from whose plain-spoken gossip she had turned a prudish ear, would sneer in her face. Men like Lord Lincoln would treat her with the easy familiarity she had seen them extend to Lady Vane, or Miss Edwards. Women she respected, Lady Pomfret, the duchess, would freeze her with a look. Girls, good girls like Lady Sophia, or little Miss Hamilton--no longer would these be her company.