“Do you indeed? Which of my cousins took it upon himself to enlighten you?” he asked grimly. “Laurie?”
“No, no! He has never mentioned it to me, I promise you! Don’t ask me more!”
“I need not. Julian, of course! I might have known it! If ever there was a prattle-box—! But I can’t for the life of me understand why—”
She broke in rather desperately on this. “Oh, pray—! He asked me particularly not to tell you! It was very wrong of me to have said what I did. He thought I knew—he meant no harm! I don’t think he dreamed that I should not look upon it as—as lightly as he does himself—as you do! You told me that you believed I had too liberal a mind to disapprove. You meant it as a compliment, but you were mistaken: my mind is not so liberal. I am aware that in certain circles—the circles to which you belong—such things are scarcely regarded. It is otherwise in my circle. And my family—oh, you would not understand, but you must believe that I could not marry a man whose—whose way of life fills me with repugnance!”
He had listened to the first part of this speech in frowning bewilderment, but by the time she reached the end of it the frown had cleared, and a look of intense amusement had taken its place. “So that’s it!” he said, a quiver of laughter in his voice. He set his team in motion again. “I’ll wring Julian’s neck for this! Of all the leaky, chuckleheaded rattles—! Just what did he tell you?”
“Indeed, he said nothing more than you told me yourself!” she said earnestly. “Only that people would be bound to disapprove of the use to which you mean to put Broom Hall! He said nothing in your dispraise, I do assure you! In fact, he said that although one of your cousins thinks it not at all the thing to—to house children of that sort in a respectable neighbourhood—”
“George,” interpolated Sir Waldo. “Are you sure he didn’t refer to them as Waldo’s wretched brats?”
“I believe he did,” she replied stiffly.
“You shouldn’t tamper with the text. Go on!”
She eyed his profile with hostility. “There is nothing more to say. I wished merely to make it plain to you that Lord Lindeth spoke of you with as much admiration as affection.”
“I daresay. Heaven preserve me from affectionate and admiring relations! Laurie couldn’t have served me a worse turn! So you won’t help me to set up schools for my wretched brats, Miss Trent?”
“Schools?” she repeated, startled.
“In course of time. Oh, don’t look so alarmed! Only one at the moment! Those of my brats who are established in Surrey are already provided for.”
Dazed, she demanded: “How many children have you?”
“I’m not perfectly sure. I think they numbered fifty when I left London, but there’s no saying that there may not be one or two more by now.”
“Fifty?”
“That’s all. I expect shortly to double the number, however,” he said affably.
Her eyes kindled. “I collect that you think it a joking matter, Sir Waldo! I do not!”
“I don’t think it anything of the sort. It is, in fact, one of the few matters which I take seriously.”
“But you cannot possibly have fif—” She broke off abruptly, her eyes widening. “Schools—wretched brats—carrying eccentricity too far—and only the Rector knew—! Oh, what a fool I’ve been!” she cried, between laughter and tears. “And Lindeth said, when we took that child to the infirmary, that you were the man we wanted in such a situation! But how could I guess that you were interested in orphans?”
“Easier to think that I was a loose-screw, was it?” said Sir Waldo, who had once more halted his team. “Let me tell you, my girl, that I’m swallowing no more of your insults! And if I hear another word from you in disparagement of the Corinthian set it will be very much the worse for you!”
Since he palliated this severity by putting his arm round her she was undismayed. Overwhelming relief making her forgetful of the proprieties, she subsided thankfully into his embrace, clutching a fold of his driving-coat, and saying into his shoulder: “Oh, no, you never will! But I didn’t find it easy to believe! Only people said such things—and you talked of making a clean breast of it—and then Lindeth! Don’t scold me! If you knew how unhappy I’ve been—!”
“I do know. But what you don’t know is that if you don’t take your face out of my coat, and look at me, you will be still more unhappy!”
She gave a watery chuckle, and raised her head. The Nonesuch, his arm tightening round her, kissed her. The phaeton jerked forward, and back again, as Sir Waldo, who had transferred the reins to his whip-hand, brought his restive wheelers under control. Miss Trent, emerging somewhat breathlessly from his embrace, said, in shaken accents: “For goodness’ sake, take care! If I’m thrown into a ditch a second time I’ll never forgive you!”
“You must teach me sometime how to handle my cattle,” he said. “I imagine your lessons—Miss Educationist!—will bear a close resemblance to Laurie’s efforts to instruct Tiffany.”
“Good God! Tiffany!” she exclaimed. “I had quite forgotten her! Waldo, this is no time for dalliance—and it isn’t the place, either! What William would say if he knew—! You are an atrocious person! Since the day I met you I have become steadily more depraved. No, no, don’t! We must make haste to Leeds: you know we must! There’s no saying what Tiffany may do, if she becomes impatient.”
“To be honest with you,” said Sir Waldo, “I have very little interest in what she may do.”
“No, but I cannot cast her off so lightly. She was left to my guardianship, and if anything were to happen to her how dreadfully to blame I should be!”
“Yes, the sooner you’re rid of her the better. Is this fast enough for you, or do you wish me to spring ’em?”
“Oh, no! Not that I would venture to dictate to you, dear sir! Tell me about your orphanage! Lindeth said that you squandered a fortune on your wretched brats, and, indeed, I should think you must, if you mean to support a hundred of them. Is it for infants?”
“No, I don’t encroach on the Foundling Hospitals. Nor do I squander a fortune on my brats. Broom Hall, for instance, will be largely self-supporting; subsisting on rents, you know.”
She smiled. “Don’t think me impertinent!—But I am not wholly devoid of intelligence! What will it cost you to bring that estate into order?”
“No more than I can well afford!” he retorted. “Are you fearful of finding yourself in ebb-water if you marry me? You won’t! Lindeth misled you: only half my fortune is devoted to my favourite charity! My aunt Lindeth will inform you that the whole is indecent—if she doesn’t describe it in rather stronger terms, which, in moments of stress, she is prone to do.”
“My mind now being relieved of care, I wish you will tell me what prompted you to found an orphanage?”
He said reflectively: “I don’t know. Tradition, and upbringing, I suppose. My father, and my grandfather before him, were both considerable philanthropists; and my mother was used to be very friendly with Lady Spender—the one that died a couple of years ago, and was mad after educating the poor. So you may say that I grew up amongst charities! This was one that seemed to me more worth the doing than any other: collecting as many of the homeless waifs you may find in any city as I would, and rearing them to become respectable citizens. My cousin, George Wingham, swears they will all turn into hedge-birds, and, of course, we’ve had our failures, but not many. The important thing is to enter them to the right trades—and to take care they’re not bound to bad masters.” He stopped, and said, laughing: “What induced you to mount me on my pet hobby-horse? We have matters of more immediate importance to discuss than my wretched brats, my little educationist!—my mother, by the way, will welcome you with open arms, and will very likely egg you on to bully me into starting an asylum for female orphans: she’s got about a dozen of ’em already, down at Manifold. How soon may you leave Staples? I warn you, I don’t mean to wait on Mrs Underhill’s convenience, so if you’ve any notion of remaining the
re until Tiffany goes back to London—”
“I haven’t!” she interrupted. “Nor, I assure you, would Mrs Underhill ask it of me!”
“I’m happy to hear it. The devil of it is that I must leave with Julian, on Monday: I told the boy I would support his cause with my aunt, and I think I must. I should have wished to have postponed my departure until I could have escorted you to Derbyshire, but as things have fallen out I shall be obliged to leave you here until Julian’s affairs are settled, and one or two other matters as well. I’ll return as soon as I can, but—”
“I had as lief you did not,” she said. “And liefer by far that we should tell no one at Oversett, except Mrs Underhill (whom I hope to heaven I can pledge to secrecy!), of our intentions. Think me foolish if you will, but I don’t feel I could bear it! It will be so very much disliked, you know, and—well, I need not tell you what things will be said by certain ladies of our acquaintance! Then there is Tiffany. Waldo, she mustn’t know until she has recovered a little from Lindeth’s engagement! It would be too cruel—when you encouraged the poor child by flirting with her! Besides, I shudder to think of what life at Staples would be if she knew that you had preferred me to her! We should all of us be driven distracted. I must give Mrs Underhill time to fill my post—don’t ask me to leave her in the lurch, for I couldn’t do it: I have had nothing but kindness from her, remember! But as soon as she has done so I’ll go home to Derbyshire, and we may meet there. Oh, how much I long to make you known to Mama and William! But as for escorts—! My dear, how can you be so absurd as to suppose that at my age I should need one? The journey will be nothing—no more than fifty miles! I have only to go by the stage to Mansfield, and from there—”
“You will not go by the stage anywhere at all,” said Sir Waldo. “I’ll send my chaise to fetch you, with my own boys, of course.”
“To be sure!” she said instantly. “Outriders, and a courier too, I hope! Now, do, do be sensible, my dear sir!”
They were still arguing the matter when they reached the King’s Head. Leaving the Nonesuch in the stableyard, Miss Trent walked into the inn. She had on several occasions refreshed there with Mrs Underhill, and the first person she encountered was an elderly waiter who was well-known to her. Greeting him with a smile, and speaking with studied coolness, she said: “Good-day to you, John! Are Miss Wield and Mr Calver still here, or have they given me up in despair? I should have been here long since, but was most tiresomely delayed. I hope they may not have left?”
Even as she said it she became aware of tension, and of curious glances cast in her direction, and her heart sank. The waiter coughed in obvious embarrassment, and replied: “No, ma’am. Oh, no, they haven’t left! The gentleman is in one of the parlours—the same one as you was in yourself, ma’am, when you partook of a nuncheon here the other day.”
“And Miss Wield?”
“Well, no, ma’am! Miss is in the best bedchamber—being as she is a trifle out of sorts, and the mistress not knowing what else to do but to persuade her to lay down on the bed, with the blinds drawn, till she was more composed, as you might say. Very vapourish, she was—but the mistress will tell you, ma’am!”
Sir Waldo, entering the house at that moment, encountered an anguished look from Miss Trent, and said: “What’s amiss?”
“I couldn’t take it upon myself to say, sir,” responded the waiter, casting down his eyes. “But the gentleman, sir, is in the parlour, the mistress having put some sticking-plaster over the cut, and one of the under-waiters carrying a bottle of cognac up to him—the best cognac, sir!—the gentleman, as I understand, having sustained an accident—in a manner of speaking!”
“We will go up to him!” said Miss Trent hastily.
“Sinister!” observed Sir Waldo, following her up the narrow stairs. “Where, by the way, is the heroine of this piece?”
“Laid down upon the bed in the best bedchamber,” replied Miss Trent, “with the landlady in attendance!”
“Worse and worse! Do you suppose that she stabbed poor Laurie with a carving-knife?”
“Heaven knows! It is quite appalling—and no laughing matter, let me tell you! Mrs Underhill is very well known here, and it is perfectly obvious to me that that atrocious girl has created a dreadful scandal! The one thing I was hopeful of avoiding! Whatever you do, Waldo, don’t let her suspect that you regard me even with tolerance!”
“Have no fear! I will treat you with civil indifference!” he promised. “I wonder what she did do to Laurie?”
He was soon to learn the answer to this. Mr Calver was discovered in the parlour, reclining on a sofa of antiquated and uncomfortable design, a strip of sticking-plaster adorning his brow, his beautifully curled locks sadly dishevelled, a glass in his hand, and a bottle of the King’s Head’s best cognac standing on the floor beside him. As she stepped over the threshold, Miss Trent trod on splinters of glass, and on the table in the centre of the room was an elegant timepiece, in a slightly battered condition. Miss Wield had not stabbed Mr Calver: she had thrown the clock at his head.
“Snatched it off the mantelpiece and dashed well hurled it at me!” said Laurence.
The Nonesuch shook his head. “You must have tried to dodge it,” he said. “Really, Laurie, how could you be such a cawker? If you had but stood still it would have missed you by several feet!”
“I should rather think I did try to dodge it!” said Laurence, glaring at him. “So would you have done!”
“Never!” declared the Nonesuch. “When females throw missiles at my head I know better than to budge! Er—would it be indelicate to ask why she felt herself impelled to throw the clock at you?”
“Yes, I might have known you would think it vastly amusing!” said Laurence bitterly.
“Well, yes, I think you might!” said Sir Waldo, his eyes dancing.
Miss Trent, perceiving that her beloved had allowed himself to fall into a mood of ill-timed frivolity, directed a quelling frown at him, and said to the injured dandy: “I am so sorry, Mr Calver! I wish you will lie down again: you are not looking at all the thing, and no wonder! Your cousin may think it a jesting matter, but I am excessively grateful to you! Indeed, I cannot conceive how you were able to hold that tiresome child in check for so long!”
Slightly mollified, Laurence said: “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you, ma’am. It’s my belief she’s queer in her attic. Well, would you credit it?—she wanted me to sell her pearl necklet, or put it up the spout, just to pay for the hire of a chaise to carry her to London! I had to gammon her I’d pawned my watch instead!”
“How very wise of you!” said Miss Trent sycophantically.
“Pray do sit down, sir! I wish you will tell me—if you feel able—what caused her to—to take a sudden pet?”
“To do what?” interpolated the Nonesuch. Miss Trent, turning her back on him in a marked manner, sat down in a chair by the sofa, and smiled at Laurence encouragingly.
“You may well ask, ma’am!” said Laurence. He glanced resentfully at his cousin. “If you are fancying I was trying to make love to her, Waldo, you’re no better than a Jack Adams! For one thing, I ain’t in the petticoat-line, and for another I wouldn’t make love to that devil’s daughter if I was!”
“Of course you would not!” said Miss Trent.
“Well, I didn’t. What’s more, it wasn’t my fault at all! Mind you, I had the deuce of a task to keep her here! Still, we were going on prosperously enough until she suddenly took it into her head she must drink some tea. Why she should want to maudle her inside with tea at this time of day the lord knows, but I’d no objection, as long as it stopped her from riding grub. Which I daresay it would have done if she hadn’t asked the jobbernoll who brought in the tray what time the London Mail was expected to arrive in the town. Couldn’t catch the fellow’s eye—wasn’t close enough to give him a nudge! The silly bleater told her there wouldn’t be another till tomorrow morning. That brought the trap down! Talk of ringing a peal—! She scolded like a
cat-purse! You’d have supposed I was a regular Bermondsey boy! And the waiter standing there with his mouth at half-cock, until I told him to take himself off—which I wish I hadn’t done!” Shuddering at the memory, he recruited his strength with a sip or two of cognac. “The names she called me! It beats me where she learned ’em, I can tell you that, ma’am!”
“What did she call you, Laurie?” enquired Sir Waldo, much interested.
“I wonder,” said Miss Trent, in a voice of determined coldness, “if you would be so obliging, sir, as to refrain from asking quite unimportant questions? Mr Calver, what can I say but that I am deeply mortified? As Miss Wield’s governess, I must hold myself to blame, but I trust—”
“Learned them from you, did she, ma’am?” said Sir Waldo irrepressibly.
“Very witty!” snapped Laurence. “You wouldn’t be so full of fun and gig if you’d been in my shoes!”
“Pray don’t heed your cousin!” begged Miss Trent. “Only tell me what happened!”
“Well, she twigged I’d been hoaxing her, of course, and it didn’t take her above a minute or two to guess why I’d kept her kicking her heels here. I give you my word, ma’am, if she’d had a dagger about her she’d have stuck it into me! Not that I cared for that, because I knew she hadn’t one. But the next thing was that she said she was going off to spout her pearls that instant, so that she could be gone from the place before you reached us! She’d have done it, too! What’s more, I wish I’d let her!”
“I don’t wonder at it. But you did not—which was very well done of you, sir!”
“I don’t know that,” he said gloomily. “She wouldn’t have raised such a breeze if I’d had the sense to have taken off my bars. The thing was she’d put me in such a tweak by that time that I was hanged if I’d cry craven! Told her that if she tried to shab off I’d squeak beef—what I mean is, tell the landlord who she was, and what she was scheming to do. So then she threw the clock at me. That brought the landlord in on us, and a couple of waiters, and the boots, and a dashed gaggle of chambermaids—and it’s my belief they’d had their ears to the door! And before I could utter a word the little hussy was carrying on as though she thought she was Mrs Siddons! Well, she’d threatened to tell everyone I’d been trying to give her a slip on the shoulder if I wouldn’t let her leave the room, and, by God, she did it!”
The Nonesuch Page 31
