The Nonesuch

Chapter 16

By the time Miss Trent was at liberty to seek her own bed after that memorable party she was so much exhausted that she fell almost instantly into a deep, yet troubled sleep. The drive back to Staples had ended with Tiffany in floods of tears, which lasted for long after she had been supported upstairs to her bedchamber. Miss Trent, thrusting aside her own troubles, applied herself first to the task of soothing Tiffany, then to that of undressing her, and lastly to the far more difficult duty of trying to point out to her, while she was in a malleable condition, that however brutal Courtenay might have been he had spoken no more than the truth. Bathing Tiffany’s temples with Hungary Water, she did her best to mingle sympathy with her unpalatable advice. She thought that Tiffany was attending to her; and found herself pitying the girl. She was vain, and selfish, and unbelievably tiresome, but only a child, after all, and one who had been flattered and spoilt almost from the day of her birth. She had met with a severe check for the first time in her headlong career; it had shocked and frightened her; and perhaps, thought Miss Trent, softly drawing the curtains round her bed, she might profit by so painful a lesson.

She did not come down to breakfast, but when Miss Trent went to visit her she did not find her lying in a darkened room with a damp towel laid over her brow and smelling-salts clasped feebly in her hand, as had happened on a previous and hideous occasion, but sitting, up in bed, thoughtfully eating strawberries. She eyed Miss Trent somewhat defensively, but upon being bidden a cheerful good morning responded with perfect amiability.

“No letters yet from Bridlington,” said Miss Trent, “but Netley has just brought up a package from the lodge. I couldn’t conceive what it might be until I saw the label attached to it, for a more unwieldy parcel you can’t imagine! My dear, those idiotish silk merchants haven’t sent patterns, but a whole roll of silk! They must have misunderstood Mrs Underhill—and I only hope it may match the brocade! I shall have to take it to Mrs Tawton in the gig. Will you go with me? Do!”

“No, it will take hours,and I can’t, because I’ve made a plan of my own.”

“Well, that’s not very kind! Abandoning me to the company of James, who can never be persuaded to say anything but Yes, miss! and No, miss! What is this plan of yours?”

“I’m going to ride into the village,” said Tiffany, a hint of defiance in her voice. She cast a sidelong glance at Miss Trent, and added: “Well, I mean to call at the Rectory! And you know that pink velvet rose I purchased in Harrogate? I am going to wrap it up in silver paper, and give it to Patience! Especially to wear with her gauze ball-dress! Do you think that would be a handsome present? It was very expensive, you know, and I haven’t worn it, because though I did mean to, last night, I found it didn’t become me after all. But Patience frequently wears pink, so I should think she would feel very much obliged to me, shouldn’t you? And that will just show people! And also I shall invite her to go for a walk with us tomorrow—just you and me, you know!”

“That would indeed be a noble gesture!” said Miss Trent admiringly.

“Yes, wouldn’t it?” said Tiffany naively. “It will be horridly dull, and you may depend upon it Patience will be a dead bore, going into raptures over some weed, and saying it’s a rare plant, or—But I mean to bear it, even if she moralizes about nature!”

Miss Trent was unable to enter with any marked degree of enthusiasm into these plans, but she acquiesced in them, feeling that they did at least represent a step in the right direction, even though they sprang from the purest self-interest. So she went away to prepare for her long and rather tedious drive to the home of the indigent Mrs Tawton, while Tiffany, tugging at the bell rope, allowed her imagination to depict various scenes in which her faithless admirers, hearing of her magnanimity, and stricken with remorse at having so wickedly misjudged her, vied with one another in extravagant efforts to win her forgiveness.

It was an agreeable picture, and since she really did feel that she was being magnanimous she rode to the Rectory untroubled by any apprehension that she might not meet with the welcome which she was quite sure she deserved.

The Rector’s manservant, who admitted her into the house, seemed to be rather doubtful when she blithely asked to see Miss Chartley, but he ushered her into the drawing-room, and said that he would enquire whether Miss Chartley was at home. He then went away, and Tiffany, after peeping at her reflection in the looking-glass over the fireplace, and rearranging the disposition of the glossy ringlets that clustered under the brim of her hat, wandered over to the window.

The drawing-room looked on to the garden at the rear of the house. It was a very pretty garden, gay with flowers, with a shrubbery, a well-scythed lawn, and several fine trees. Round the trunk of one of these a rustic seat had been built, and in front of it, as though they had just risen from it, Patience and Lindeth were standing side by side, confronting the Rector, who was holding a hand of each.

For a moment Tiffany stood staring, scarcely understanding the significance of what she saw. But when Lindeth looked down at Patience, smiling at her, and she raised her eyes adoringly to his, the truth dawned on her with the blinding effect of a sudden fork of lightning.

She was so totally unprepared that the shock of realization turned her to stone. Incredulity, fury, and chagrin swept over her. Her conquest—her most triumphant conquest!—stolen from her by Patience Chartley? It wasn’t possible! Patience to receive an offer of marriage from Lindeth? The thought flashed into her mind that he had never so much as hinted at marriage with herself, and she felt suddenly sick with mortification.

The door opened behind her; she heard Mrs Chartley’s voice, and turned, pride stiffening her. She never doubted that Mrs Chartley hoped to enjoy her discomfiture, and because the thought uppermost in her mind was that no one should think that she cared a rush for Lindeth she achieved a certain dignity.

She said: “Oh, how do you do, ma’am? I came to bring Patience a trifle I purchased for her in Harrogate. But I must not stay.”

She put out her hand rather blindly, proffering the silver-wrapped parcel. Mrs Chartley took it from her, saying in some surprise: “Why, how kind of you, Tiffany! She will be very much obliged to you.”

“It’s nothing. Only a flower to wear with her gauze dress. I must go!”

Mrs Chartley glanced uncertainly towards the window.

“Won’t you wait while I see whether I can find her, my dear? I am persuaded she would wish to thank you herself.”

“It’s of no consequence. The servant said he fancied she was engaged.” Tiffany drew in her breath, and said with her most glittering smile: “That’s true, isn’t it? To Lindeth! Has he offered for her? I—I have been expecting him to do so this age!”

“Well—if you won’t spread it about, yes!” admitted Mrs Chartley. “But there must be nothing said, you know, until he has told his mother. So you must not breathe a word, if you please!”

“Oh, no! Though I daresay everyone has guessed! Pray—pray offer her my felicitations, ma’am! I should think they will deal extremely together!”

On this line she took leave of Mrs Chartley, declining her escort to the stableyard, but hurrying out of the house, the flowing skirt of her habit caught over her arm, and one hand clenched tightly on her whip. She was uplifted by the feeling that she had acquitted herself well, but this mood could not last. By the time she reached Staples, all the evils of her situation had been recollected. It no longer mattered that she had behaved so creditably at the Rectory, for even if Mrs Chartley believed that she was indifferent to the engagement no one else would. Her rivals, Lizzie only excepted, would rejoice in her downfall. She had boasted too freely of being able to bring Lindeth back to her feet by the mere lifting of a finger. She writhed inwardly as she remembered, knowing that it would be said she had been cut out by Patience Chartley. People would laugh at her behind her back, and say sweetly spiteful things to her face; and even her admirers could not be depended on to uphold her.

When she thought of this, and of what had been the cause of their defection, it had the unexpected effect of drying the tears which till then had been flowing fast. Her predicament was too desperate for tears. She could see nothing but humiliation ahead, and by hedge or by stile she must avoid it. In her view there was only one thing to be done, and that was to leave Staples immediately, and to return to London. But London meant Portland Place, and although she could not suppose that even her aunt Burford would send her back to Staples, where she had been unhappy and ill-used, there was no saying that she might not try again to confine her to the schoolroom, until she brought her out in the following spring.

Pacing up and down the floor of her bedroom, Tiffany cudgelled her brains, and not in vain. She remembered all at once the existence of her other guardian, bachelor Uncle James, who lived, with an old housekeeper to look after him, somewhere in the City. That, of course, was undesirable, but might, perhaps, be mended. James Burford, on the few occasions when they had met, had behaved much as all the other elderly gentlemen of her acquaintance did: chuckling at her exploits, pinching her ear, and calling her a naughty little puss. If he should not be instantly delighted to receive his lovely niece he could very easily be brought round her thumb. Either she would remain under his roof until the spring, or he must be persuaded to represent to Aunt Burford the propriety of bringing her out during the Little Season. Far less than Aunt Burford would he be likely to insist on her returning to Staples. Indeed, the more Tiffany thought of the wrongs she had suffered the more convinced did she become that no one could possibly blame her for running away. Aunt Underhill had deserted her, not even inviting her to go to Bridlington too; Courtenay had been unkind and boorish to her from the outset; and Miss Trent, whose sole business it should have been to attend her, had neglected her for Charlotte; and had shown herself to be so wholly wanting in conduct as to have allowed her to be exposed to the Mob in Leeds, going off in her carriage with an odious girl to whom she owed no duty at all, and leaving her precious charge alone in a public inn, to be conveyed back to Staples, un-chaperoned, by a single gentleman.

The difficulty was to decide how the flight could be achieved. Forgetting for a moment that she had cast Miss Trent for the role of villainess in this dramatic piece, Tiffany wondered whether it would be possible to cajole that lady into escorting her to London immediately. Very little consideration sufficed to make her abandon this solution to her problem. Miss Trent was too insensitive to appreciate the necessity of an instant departure; and nothing was more certain than that she would refuse to do anything without first consulting Aunt Underhill. It was even possible that she would advise her charge to live down her humiliation: as though one would not rather die than make the attempt!

No: Miss Trent could only be a hindrance—in fact, it would be wise to be gone from the house before she returned to it. But how was she to get to Leeds? She could ride there: they were too well-accustomed in the stables to her solitary rides to raise any demur; but she thought it would be impossible to carry even the smallest piece of baggage, in which case she would be obliged to drive all the way to London in her habit. Useless to desire the under-coachman to drive her there in the barouche: he would refuse to do it unless she had Miss Trent with her, or her maid. Equally would Courtenay’s groom refuse to let her drive herself in his phaeton.

A less determined girl might have been daunted at this point; but it had been truly observed of Miss Wield that there were no lengths to which she would not go to achieve her ends. Rather than have abandoned her project she would have walked to Leeds. Indeed, she was trying to make up her mind whether to pursue this dreary course, carrying a bandbox; or to ride, carrying nothing, when a welcome sound came to her ears. She ran to the window, and saw Mr Calver driving up to the house in his hired whisky.

Tiffany flung up the window, and leaned out to hail him. “Oh, Mr Calver, how do you do? Have you come to take me out? I shall be with you directly!”

He looked up, sweeping off his high-crowned beaver. “Very happy to do so! No need to bustle about, however: I must pay my respects to Miss Trent, you know.”

“Oh, she has gone to Nethersett, and won’t be home for hours!” Tiffany answered. “Only wait for ten minutes!”

This was not at all what he had hoped to hear; nor had he much desire to sit beside Tiffany while she tooled the whisky round the immediate countryside. There seemed to be no object to be gained by dangling after her any longer; and teaching her to drive was an occupation which had begun to pall on him. However, he could think of no better way of passing the time, so he resigned himself.

He was rather startled, when she came running out of the house some twenty minutes later, to see that she was arrayed in a modish pelisse, with a hat embellished by several curled ostrich plumes on her head, and a large bandbox slung by its ribbons over her arm.

“Here—!” he expostulated. “I mean to say—what the dooce—?”

Tiffany handed the bandbox to him, and climbed into the whisky. “You can’t think how glad I am that you came!” she said. “I was quite in despair! For I must go to Leeds, and Ancilla set off in the gig quite early, and I don’t know where Courtenay may be!”

“Go to Leeds?” he repeated. “But—”

“Yes, it is the most vexatious thing!” she said glibly. “The dressmaker had sent home my new ball-dress, which I particularly wish to wear at the Systons’ party, and the stupid creature has made it too tight for me. And how to get to Leeds, with the coachman away, and no one to accompany me, I’d not the least notion, until you came driving up the avenue! You’ll take me, won’t you? That will make everything right!”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “I’m not sure I ought. Seems to me Miss Trent might not think it quite the thing.”

She laughed. “How can you be so absurd? When I have been driving with you for ever!”

“Yes, but—”

“If you don’t escort me, I shall go alone,” she warned him. “I shall ride there, and that won’t be the thing at all. So if you choose to be disobliging—”

“No, no! I suppose I’d better drive you there, if you’re so set on it. You can’t go alone, at all events,” he said, giving his horse the office. “Mind, though! it won’t do if you mean to remain for hours with this dressmaker! I should think it will take us close on a couple of hours to get to Leeds and back again. Did you tell anyone where you was off to?”

“Oh, yes!” she assured him mendaciously. “Ancilla won’t be in a worry, so you need not be either. And I shan’t be with Mrs Walmer above half-an-hour, I promise you!”

He was satisfied with this; and although he had little faith in her ability to emerge from a dressmaker’s establishment in so short a space of time, he reflected that he must be certain of finding Miss Trent at home if it was three or more hours before he brought Tiffany back to Staples.

Tiffany beguiled the drive with lighthearted chatter. Having surmounted the first obstacle to her flight, she was in high good-humour, her eyes glowing with excitement, laughter never far from her lips. Already, in her imagination, she was the petted darling of her Uncle James, and had prevailed upon him to remove from the City to a more fashionable quarter of the town. The humiliation of the previous evening’s party, and the shock of discovering that Lindeth had become engaged to Patience, were rapidly fading from her mind, and would be wholly forgotten as soon as she had put Yorkshire behind her. Fresh, and far more dazzling conquests lay ahead. She had never cared a button for Lindeth, after all; and as for the rest of her court, they were a set of bumpkins whom she would probably never set eyes on again.

Arrived in Leeds, Laurence, who was unfamiliar with the town, requested her to direct him to a decent posting-house, where the whisky could be left, and the horse baited. “Then I’ll escort you to the dressmaker. It won’t do for you to be jauntering about this place alone,” he said, surveying the crowded street with disfavour.

This put Tiffany in mind of something which, in her large dreams of the future, she had overlooked. Never having travelled except in the company of some older person, who made all the arrangements, she was ignorant of where, and under what conditions, post-chaises were to be hired; or, failing this, the only mode of travel to which she was accustomed, how one obtained a seat on the stage, or the Mail; and at what hour these humbler conveyances left Leeds for London. She stole a glance at Laurence’s profile, and decided that it would be necessary to enlist his help. It might require some coaxing to obtain it; but she could not doubt that he was one of her more fervent admirers. Courtenay had jeered at her for being taken in by a fortune-hunter, and if Courtenay was right in thinking that the exquisite Mr Calver was hanging out for a rich wife she thought that it would not be difficult to persuade him to render her a signal service. She directed him to the King’s Head, adding that she would like some lemonade, and that there were several private parlours to be hired at this hostelry.

Laurence was perfectly ready to regale her with lemonade, but he thought it quite unnecessary, and even undesirable, to hire a private parlour. However, since she seemed to take it for granted that he would do so, he kept his objections to himself. But when, in the inn’s yard, he picked up her bandbox, it occurred to him that it was extraordinarily heavy. When Tiffany had first handed it up to him, he had been too much astonished by her festal raiment to pay any heed to the weight of the bandbox, but he now directed a look at her which was sharp with suspicion, and said: “Very heavy, this dress of yours, ain’t it?”

“Well, there are some other things in the box,” she confessed.

“I should rather think there must be! Seems to me there’s something pretty smokey going on, and if there is—”

“I am going to explain it to you!” she said hastily. “But in private, if you please!”

He regarded her with misgiving; but before he could say more she had flitted away from him, into the inn; and it was not until they had been ushered into the same parlour which Lindeth had hired for his memorable nuncheon-party that he was able to demand the explanation.

Tiffany bestowed upon him her most devastating smile, and said simply: “Well, I told you a bouncer! It isn’t a ball-dress. It’s—oh, all manner of things! I am going to London!”

“Going to London?” repeated Laurence blankly.

She fixed her glorious eyes to his face in a melting look. “Will you escort me?”

Mr Calver’s carefully arranged locks were too lavishly pomaded to rise on end, but his eyes showed a tendency to start from their sockets. He replied, unequivocally: “Good God, no! Of course I won’t!”

“Then I must go alone,” said Tiffany mournfully.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” demanded Laurence.

She sighed. “You must know I haven’t. I am going to—to seek the protection of my Uncle James Burford.”

“What do you want that for?” asked Laurence, unimpressed.

“I am very unhappy,” stated Tiffany. “My aunt has not used me as she should. Or Ancilla!”

Mr Calver’s intelligence was not generally thought to be of a high order, but he had no difficulty in interpreting this tragic utterance. He said gloomily, and with a regrettable want of tact: “Lindeth’s offered for the parson’s daughter, has he? Oh, well! I guessed as much! No use going to London, though: he wouldn’t care a straw!”

“Nor do I care a straw!” declared Tiffany, her eyes flashing. “That’s not why I am determined—determined!—to go to my uncle!”

“Well, it don’t signify,” said Laurence. “You can’t go to London today, that’s certain!”

“I can, and I will!”

“Not with my help,” said Laurence bluntly.

No one had ever responded thus to Tiffany’s demands; and it cost her a severe struggle to keep her temper. “I should be very grateful to you!” she suggested.

“I daresay you would,” he replied. “Much good that would do me! Lord, what an after-clap there would be if I was to do anything so ramshackle as to drive off to London with a chit of your age—and nothing but a dashed bandbox between the pair of us!” he added, looking with profound disapproval at this object.

“I didn’t mean we should go in the whisky! How can you be so absurd? A post-chaise, of course!”

“Yes, and four horses as well, no doubt!”

She nodded, surprised that he should have thought it necessary to have asked.

Her innocent look, far from captivating Laurence, exasperated him. “Have you the least notion what it would cost?” he demanded.

“Oh, what can that signify?” she exclaimed impatiently. “My uncle will pay for it!”

“Very likely, but he ain’t here,” Laurence pointed out.

“He will pay all the charges when I reach London.”

“You won’t reach London. Who’s to pay the first postboys? Who’s to pay for the changes of teams? If it comes to that, who’s to pay for your lodging on the road? It’s close on two hundred miles to London, you know—at least, I collect you don’t know! What’s more, you can’t put up at a posting-house, travelling all by yourself! I shouldn’t wonder at it if they refused to take you in. Well, I mean to say, who ever heard of such a thing? Now, do but consider, Miss Wield! You can’t do such a jingle-brained thing: take my word for it!”

“Do you care what people may say?” Tiffany asked scornfully.

“Yes,” he answered.

“How paltry! I don’t!”

“I daresay you don’t. You’re too young to know what you’re talking about. If you’re so set on going to London, you ask Miss Trent to take you there!”

“Oh, how stupid you are!” she cried passionately. “She wouldn’t do it!”

“Well, that quite settles it!” said Laurence. “You drink your lemonade, like a good girl, and I’ll drive you back to Staples. No need to tell anyone where we’ve been: just say we went farther than we intended!”

Curbing the impulse to throw the lemonade in his face, Tiffany said winningly: “I know you couldn’t be cruel enough to take me back to Staples. I had rather die than go back! Go with me to London! We could pretend we were married, couldn’t we? That would make everything right!”

“You know,” said Laurence severely, “you’ve got the most ramshackle notions of anyone I ever met! No, it would not make everything right!”

She looked provocatively at him, under her lashes. “What if I did marry you? Perhaps I will!”

“Yes, and perhaps you won’t!” he retorted. “Of all the outrageous—”‘

“I am very rich, you know! My cousin says that’s why you dangle after me!”

“Oh, does he? Well, you may tell your precious cousin, with my compliments, that I ain’t such a gudgeon as to run off with a girl who won’t come into her inheritance for four years!” said Laurence, much incensed. “Yes, and another thing! I wouldn’t do it if you was of age! For one thing, I don’t wish to marry you; and, for another, I ain’t a dashed hedge-bird, and I wouldn’t run a rig like that even if I were all to pieces!”

“Don’t wish to marry me?” Tiffany gasped, and suddenly burst into tears.

Horrified, Laurence said: “Not a marrying man! If I were—Oh, lord! For God’s sake, don’t cry! I didn’t mean—that is, any number of men wish to marry you! Shouldn’t wonder at it if you became a duchess! I assure you—most beautiful girl I ever set eyes on!”

“Nobody wants to marry me!” sobbed Tiffany.

“Mickleby! Ash! Young Banningham!” uttered Laurence.

“Those!”Tiffany said, with loathing. “Besides, they don’t! I wish I were dead!”

“You’re above their touch!” said Laurence desperately. “Above mine too! You’ll marry into the Peerage—see if you don’t! But not,”he added, “if you go beyond the line!”

“I don’t care! I want to go to London, and I will go to London! If you won’t escort me, will you lend me the money for the journey?”

“No—Good God, no! Besides, I haven’t got it! And even if I had I wouldn’t lend it to you!” Strong indignation rose in his breast. “What do you suppose my cousin Waldo would have to say to me if I was to do anything so cock-brained as to send you off to London in a post-chaise-and-four, with nothing but a dashed bandbox, and not so much as an abigail to take care of you?”

“Sir Waldo?” Tiffany said, her tears arrested. “Do you think he would be vexed?”

“Vexed! Tear me in pieces! What’s more,” said Laurence fairly, “I wouldn’t blame him! A nice mess I should be in! No, I thank you!”

“Very well!” said Tiffany tragically. “Leave me!”

“I do wish,” said Laurence, eyeing her with a patent want of admiration, “that you wouldn’t talk in that totty-headed fashion! Anyone would think you was regularly dicked in the nob! Leave you, indeed! A pretty figure I should cut!”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s no matter to me! If you choose to be disobliging—”

“It may not be any matter to you, but it is to me!” interrupted Laurence. “Seems to me nothing matters to you but yourself!”

“Well, it seems to me that nothing matters to you but yourself!” flashed Tiffany. “Go away! Go away, go away, go away!”

Her voice rose on every repetition of the command, and Laurence, in the liveliest dread of being precipitated into a scandalous scene, swallowed his spleen, and adopted a conciliatory tone. “Now, listen!” he begged. “You don’t want for sense, and you must see that I can’t go away, leaving you here alone! What the deuce would you do? Tell me that! And don’t say you’ll go to London, because for one thing you haven’t enough blunt to pay for the hire of a chaise, and for another I’d lay you long odds there ain’t a postmaster living that would be such a clunch as to oblige you! If you was to try to tip him a rise, he’d be bound to think you was running away from school, or some such thing, and a rare hobble he’d be in if he aided and abetted you! What he’d do would be to send for the constable, and then your tale would be told!” He perceived that her eyes had widened in dismay, and at once enlarged on this theme. “Before you knew where you were you’d be taken before a magistrate, and if you refused to tell him who you was he’d commit you. A pretty piece of business that would be!”

“Oh, no!” she said, shuddering. “He wouldn’t—he couldn’t!”

“Oh, yes, he would!” said Laurence. “So, if you don’t want everyone to know you tried to run away, and had to be bailed out of prison, you’d best come home with me now. No need to fear I’ll tell a soul what happened! I won’t.”

She did not answer for a minute or two, but sat staring at him. Miss Trent would instantly have recognized the expression on her face; Laurence was less familiar with it, and waited hopefully for her capitulation. “But if I were to go on the stagecoach, or the Mail,” she said thoughtfully, “no one would try to stop me. I know that,because several of the girls used to come to Miss Climping’s school on the stage. I’m very much obliged to you for warning me! Yes, and the Mail coaches travel all night, so I shan’t have to put up at a posting-house! How much will it cost me to buy a ticket, if you please?”

“I don’t know, and it don’t signify, because I’m not going to let you go to London, post, stage, or Mail!”

She got up, and began to draw on her gloves. “Oh, yes! You can’t prevent me. I know just what to do if you try to—and it won’t be of the least use to stand leaning against the door like that, because if you don’t open it for me at once I shall scream for help, and when people come I shall say that you are abducting me!”

“What, in an open carriage, and you hopping down in the yard as merry as a cricket? That won’t fadge, you little pea-goose!”

“Oh, I shall say that you deceived me, and I never knew what your intentions were until—until you made violent love to me, just now!” said Tiffany, smiling seraphically.

Laurence moved away from the door. It seemed more than likely that she would put this threat into execution; and although it would be open to him to explain the true circumstances to such persons as came running to her rescue, not only did he shrink from taking any part at all in so vulgar and embarrassing a scene, but he doubted very much whether his story would be believed. He would not have believed it himself, for a more improbable story would have been hard to imagine. On the other hand, Tiffany’s story, backed by her youth, her staggering beauty, and the private parlour, was all too probable. He said mildly: “No need to kick up a dust! I ain’t stopping you. But the thing is that it will cost you a deal of money to buy a seat on the Mail, and I can’t frank you—haven’t above a couple of guineas in my purse!”

“Then I shall go by the stage. Or even in a carrier’s cart!” replied Tiffany, her chin mulishly set.

“Wouldn’t take you,” said Laurence. “Of course, you could go by the stage, but they’re deucedly slow, you know. Bound to be overtaken. Nothing that cousin of yours would like better than to go careering after a stage-coach in that phaeton of his!”

“No! How should he guess where I was going? Unless you told him, and surely you wouldn’t be so wickedly treacherous?”

“Well, I should have to tell him! Dash it all—”

“Why?” she demanded. “You don’t care what becomes of me!”

“No, but I care what becomes of me,”said Laurence frankly.

Some dim apprehension that she had met her match dawned on Tiffany. She regarded Laurence with a mixture of indignation and unwilling sympathy, annoyed with him for considering no interest but his own, yet perfectly able to appreciate his point of view. After a reflective pause, she said slowly: “People would blame you? I see! But you’d help me if no one knew, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but they’re bound to know, so—”

“No, they won’t. I’ve thought of a capital scheme!” interrupted Tiffany. “You must say that I hoaxed you!”

“I shall. It’s just what you did do,” said Laurence.

“Yes, so it will be almost true. Only, you must say that I went off to the dressmaker, and you waited, and waited, but I didn’t return, and though you looked all over for me you couldn’t find me, and you hadn’t the least notion what had happened to me!”

“So I drove back to Broom Hall—just taking a look-in at Staples, to tell Miss Trent I’d lost you in Leeds!”

“Yes,” she agreed happily. “For by that time I shall be out of reach. I’ve quite made up my mind to go by the Mail, and I know precisely what to do about paying for the ticket: I’ll sell my pearls—or do you think it would be better to pawn them? I know all about that, because when I was at school, in Bath, Mostyn Garrowby, who was my first beau, though much too young, pawned his watch to take me to a fête in the Sydney Gardens one evening!”

“You don’t mean to tell me you was allowed to go to fêtes?” said Laurence, incredulously.

“Oh, no! I had to wait until everyone had gone to bed, of course! Miss Climping never knew.”

This artless confidence struck dismay into Laurence’s soul. He perceived that Miss Wield was made of bolder stuff than he had guessed; and any hopes he might have cherished of convincing her that her projected journey to London would be fraught with too much impropriety to be undertaken vanished. Such a consideration could not be expected to weigh with a girl audacious enough to steal away from school at dead of night to attend a public fête in the company of a roly-poly youth without a feather to fly with.

“What do you advise?” enquired Tiffany, unclasping the single row of pearls she wore round her neck.

He had been pulling uncertainly at his underlip, but as she turned to the door, shrugging her shoulders, he said: “Here, give ’em to me! If you must go to London, I’ll pawn ’em for you!”

She paused, eyeing him suspiciously. “I think I’ll do it myself—thank you!”

“No, you dashed well won’t!” he said, incensed. “You don’t suppose I’m going to make off with your pearls, do you?”

“No, but—Well, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you went galloping back to Staples! Though I must own that if I could trust you—_:—Oh, I know! I’ll come with you to the pawnbroker! And then we must discover where to find the Mail, and when it leaves Leeds, and—”

“Very well! You come—but don’t blame me if we walk smash into someone who knows you!”

The change in her expression was almost ludicrous. She exclaimed: “Oh, no! No, no, surely not?”

“Nothing more likely,” he said. “Seems to me the tabbies spend the better part of their time jauntering into Leeds to do some shopping. Not that I care—except that I should be glad if we did meet the Squire’s wife, or Mrs Banningham, or—”

She flung up protesting hands. “Oh, how odious you are! You—you would positively like to betray me!”

“Well, if that’s not the outside of enough!” he said. “When I’ve warned you—!”

Still rampantly suspicious, she said: “If I let you go alone, and you met one of those horrid creatures, you’d tell them!”

“Give you my word I wouldn’t!” he replied promptly.

She was obliged to be satisfied, but it was with obvious reluctance that she dropped her string of pearls into his outstretched hand. He pocketed them, and picked up his hat. “I’ll be off, then. You stay here, and don’t get into a pucker, mind! I daresay it will take me some little time to arrange matters. I’ll tell ’em to send up a nuncheon to you.”

He then departed, returning nearly an hour later to find Miss Wield so sick with apprehension that she burst into tears at sight of him. However, when he handed her a ticket, and informed her that he had obtained a seat for her on the next Mail coach bound for London, her tears ceased, and her volatile spirits soared again. They were slightly damped by the news that it was not due to arrive in Leeds, coming from Thirsk, for another two hours, but agreeably diverted by the restoration to her of her pearls. “Thought it best to spout my watch instead,” explained Laurence briefly.

She accepted them gratefully, saying, as she clasped them round her neck again: “I am very much obliged to you! Only, if I must wait so long for the Mail, perhaps I should travel on the stage, after all.”

“Not a seat to be had!” responded Laurence, shaking his head. “Way-bills all made up! Besides, the Mail will overtake the stage—no question about that! You’ll be set down at the Bull and Mouth, in St Martin’s Lane, by the bye. Plenty of hacks to be had there: nothing for you to do but to give the jarvey your uncle’s direction.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I do wish—Where must I go to meet the Mail?”

“Golden Lion: no need to tease yourself over that! I’ll take you there.”

The anxious furrow vanished from her brow. “You don’t mean to leave me here alone? Then I am most truly obliged to you! I misjudged you, Mr Calver!”

He cast her a slightly harried glance. “No, no! That is, told you at the outset I’d have nothing to do with it!”

“Oh, yes, but now everything will be right!” she said blithely.

“Well. I hope to God it will be!” said Laurence, with another, and still more harried glance at the clock on the mantelshelf.