Since Hazelfield was situated within a few miles of Alton, and he was bound for London, he did not take leave of his hosts until he had consumed a leisurely breakfast. The threatened storm had burst (according to Emma’s account) directly over the house in the small hours, but after a violent downpour the weather had cleared, and the Viscount set out on his journey with every expectation of covering the distance in bright sunlight, and of reaching his destination in excellent time to change his dress, and to stroll from his house in Arlington Street to White’s Club, where he meant to dine.
At Alton, he joined the post-road to Southampton, and was soon driving through Farnharn. It was when he was a few miles beyond this town that Fate took a hand in his affairs.
A female figure, wearing a round bonnet and a gray cloak, plodding ahead, with a slightly dilapidated portmanteau in her grasp, did not attract his attention, but just as his horses drew abreast of her she turned her head, looking up at him, and disclosed the child-like countenance of Miss Cherry Steane. Considerably startled, he uttered an exclamation, and reined in his horses.
“Why, what’s amiss, my lord?” demanded Stebbing, even more startled.
The Viscount, slewing round to obtain a second view of Miss Steane, found that the fleeting glance he had cast down at her as his curricle swept past had not deceived him: Miss Steane it most certainly was. He thrust the reins into Stebbing’s hands, saying briefly: “Hold ‘em! I know that lady!” He then jumped lightly down on to the road, and strode back to meet Miss Steane.
She greeted him with frank delight, and said, in a voice of passionate thanksgiving: “I thought it was you, sir! Oh, I am so glad! If you are going to London, would you—would you be so very kind as to take me up in your carriage?”
He took the portmanteau from her, and set it down. “What, to London? Why?”
“I’ve run away,” she explained, with a confiding smile.
“That, my child, is obvious!” he said. “But it won’t do, you know! How could I possibly aid and abet you to leave the protection of your aunt?”
Her face fell ludicrously; it seemed for a moment that she was going to burst into tears, but she overcame the impulse, swallowing resolutely, and saying in a prim, forlorn little voice: “C-couldn’t you, sir? I beg your pardon I I thought—I thought—But it’s of no consequence!”
“Will you tell me why you have run away?” he suggested gently.
“I couldn’t bear it! You don’t know!”she said, in a stifled tone.
“No, but I wish you will tell me. I think something must have happened since we talked together last night Did someone hear you, and tell your aunt?” She nodded, biting her lips. “And she perhaps gave you a scold?”
“Oh, yes! But that’s not it! I don’t care for mere scolds, but she said such things—and Lucasta too—and all in front of Corinna—and Corinna told the others—” Her voice failed on a sob, and she was quite unable to continue.
He waited until she had in some degree recovered her composure. He thought he had seldom seen a more pathetic picture. Not only was her countenance woebegone, but her shoes and the hem of the duffle cloak which she wore were sadly muddied; several strands of her unruly hair had escaped from the confinement of the round, schoolgirl’s bonnet, and strayed across her flushed features; and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. She looked to be hot, tired, and despairing. For the first of these three ills the duffle cloak was certainly responsible; for the second it was no wonder that she should be tired if she had trudged all the way from her home, carrying a cumbrous portmanteau; but the despair was not to be accounted for so easily: nothing she had said to him on the previous evening had prepared him to find her flying from the security of the only home she seemed to have.
She succeeded in mastering her agitation, and even managed to summon up a gallant, if unconvincing, smile. “I beg your pardon!” she uttered. “It was only because you look so kind, sir, and—and talked to me last night—But it was wrong of me to ask you to take me up in your carriage. Pray don’t regard it! My—my affairs are not your concern, and I shall do very well by myself!”
He ignored the hand she was resolutely holding out to him, but picked up her portmanteau, and said: “We cannot stand talking in the road! I don’t promise to take you to London, but at least I’ll take you to Farnborough! As I remember, there is a tolerable inn there, where I can produce some refreshment for you, and where we can continue this conversation at our ease. Come along!”
She hung back, searching his face with her wide, scared eyes. “You won’t compel me to return to Maplewood, will you?”
“No, I won’t do that. What right have I to compel you to do anything? Though it is undoubtedly what I ought to do!”
She seemed to be satisfied with this reply, for she said no more, but went obediently beside him to where his curricle stood. The expression on Stebbing’s face when he realized that his master was going to hand into the curricle a Young Person whose unattended state and dowdy raiment clearly denoted that she was not a female of consequence spoke volumes; but he relinquished the reins to the Viscount, without a word, and climbed up into the groom’s seat between the springs.
Miss Steane, sinking back against the squabs, uttered a sigh of relief. “Oh, how comfortable this is!” she said thankfully.
“Have you trudged all the way from Maplewood?”
“No, no! I was so fortunate as to have been given a lift to Froyle, in a tax-cart, so I have only been obliged to walk for six or seven miles, and I shouldn’t regard that in the least if I weren’t burdened with this portmanteau. And I must own I wish my pelisse wasn’t quite worn out, so that I might have worn it instead of this dreadful cloak.”
“It is certainly not the thing for such a warm day,” he agreed.
“No, but I thought I should wear it, in case it comes on to rain, or I felt chilly when the sun goes down.”
“When the sun goes down—! You absurd child, you are surely not meaning to continue walking till night-fall?”
“No—at least—Well, I thought I should have been able to travel on the stage-coach, but—but when it reached Alton it was cram-full, and of course I hadn’t booked a seat, so I wasn’t on the way-bill, and the guard wouldn’t take me up. And even if there had been room I found that I hadn’t quite enough money to pay for the fare. But I daresay I shall be able to get a lift on a carrier’s wagon: they will often take people up, you know, and for no more than a shilling or two. And if I don’t I shall go on for as long as I can, and then find a lodging for the night in some respectable farmhouse.”
The Viscount’s reflections on the sort of reception she was likely to meet at a respectable farmhouse he kept to himself, merely asking her where she proposed to lodge when she did reach London.
“I am going to my grandfather,” she replied, a hint of defiance in her voice.
“Indeed! May I ask if he knows it?”
“Well—well, not yet!” she confessed.
He drew an audible breath, and said rather grimly: “Yes, well, we will postpone further discussion until we get to Farnborough, when I must hope to be able to convince you that this scheme of yours won’t do, my child!”
“You won’t convince me!” she said, betraying signs of agitation. “Oh, pray don’t try, sir! It is the only thing I can do! You don’t understand!”
“Then you shall explain it to me,” he said cheerfully.
She said no more, but groped in the folds of her cloak for the pocket which held her handkerchief. He was afraid that she was going to cry, and suffered a moment’s dismay. He was not chicken-hearted, but he found himself quite unable to face with equanimity the prospect of driving a lady in floods of tears along a busy post-road. However, she bravely suppressed all but one small sob, and did no more than blow her nose. He was moved to say, for her encouragement: “Good girl!” glancing down at her as he spoke, and smiling.
Of necessity it was a very brief glance, but as he turned his head back again to wat
ch the road he caught a glimpse of the wavering, would-be valiant smile which answered his, and it wrung his heart.
In a few minutes Farnborough was reached, and he had drawn up in front of the Ship. Not many persons patronized this small post-house, so the landlord, who came out to welcome a recognizable member of the Quality, was saddened, but not surprised, when the Viscount, handing Miss Steane into his care, told him that they had stopped only to bait. “Anyone in the coffee-room?” he asked.
“No, sir, no one—not at the moment! But if your honour would wish to partake of refreshment in the private parlour—”
“No, the coffee-room will do very well. Some lemonade for the lady, and cold meat—cakes—fruit—whatever you have! And a tankard of beer for myself, if you please!” He looked down at Miss Steane, and said: “Go in, my dear: I’ll be with you in a moment.”
He watched her enter the inn, and turned to issue a few instructions to Stebbing, standing at the wheelers’ heads. Stebbing received these with a wooden: “Very good, my lord,” but the Viscount had taken barely two steps towards the door into the inn before his feelings overcame him, and he said, explosively: “My lord!”
“Well?” said the Viscount, over his shoulder.
“It ain’t my place to speak,” said Stebbing, with careful restraint, “but being as I’ve known your lordship ever since you was a little lad, which I taught to ride your first pony—ah, and pulled you out of scrapes! and being that—”
“You needn’t go on!” interrupted Desford, quizzing him. “I know just what you are trying to say! I must take care I don’t fall into yet another scrape, mustn’t I?”
“Yes, my lord, and I hope you will—though it don’t look to me, the way things is shaping, that you will!”
But Desford only laughed, and went into the inn. The mistress of the establishment had taken Miss Steane upstairs, and when she presently joined his lordship in the coffee-room she had washed her face, tidied her unruly hair, and was carrying her cloak over her arm. She looked much more presentable, but the round dress of faded pink cambric which she wore was rather crumpled, besides being muddied round the hem, and in no way became her. She was looking very grave, but when she saw the chicken, and the tongue, and the raspberries on the table her eyes brightened perceptibly, and she said gratefully: “Oh, thank you, sir! I am very much obliged to you! I ran away before breakfast, and you can’t think how hungry I am!”
She then sat down at the table, and proceeded to make a hearty meal. Desford, who was not at all hungry, sat watching her, his tankard in his hand, thinking that for all her nineteen years she was very little removed from childhood. While she ate he forbore to question her, but when she came to the end of her nuncheon, and said that she now felt much better, he said: “Do you feel sufficiently restored to tell me all about it? I wish you will!”
Her brightened eyes clouded, but after a slight hesitation she said: “If I tell you why I’ve run away, will you take me to London, sir?”
He laughed. “I am making no rash promises—except to carry you straight back to Maplewood if you don’t tell me!”
She said with quaint dignity, but as though she had a lump in her throat: “I cannot believe that you would do anything so—so unhandsome!”
“No, I am sure you cannot,” he said sympathetically. “But you must consider my position, you know! Recollect that all I know at this present is that although you told me last night that you were not very happy I am persuaded you had no intention then of running away. Yet today I come upon you, in a good deal of distress, having apparently reached a sudden decision to leave your aunt. Did you perhaps have a quarrel with her, fly up into the boughs, and run away without giving yourself time to consider whether she had really been unkind enough to warrant your taking such an extreme course? Or whether she too had lost her temper, and had said much more than she meant?”
She looked forlornly at him, and gave her head a shake. “We didn’t quarrel. I didn’t even quarrel with Corinna. Or with Lucasta. And it wasn’t such a sudden decision. I’ve wished desperately—oh, almost from the moment my aunt took me to Maplewood!—to escape. Only whenever I ventured to ask my aunt if she would help me to find a situation where I could earn my own bread she always scolded me for being ungrateful, and—and said I should soon wish myself back at Maplewood, because I was fit for nothing but a—a menial position.” She paused, and, after a moment or two, said rather hopelessly: “I can’t explain it to you. I daresay you wouldn’t understand if I could, because you have never been so poor that you were obliged to hang on anyone’s sleeve, and try to be grateful for a worn-out ribbon, or a scrap of torn lace which one of your cousins gave you, instead of throwing it away.”
“No,” he replied. “But you are mistaken when you say that I don’t understand. I have seen all too many of such cases as you describe, and have sincerely pitied the victims of this so-called charity, who are expected to give unremitting service to show their gratitude for—” He broke off, for she had winced, and turned away her face. “What have I said to upset you?” he asked. “Believe me, I had no intention of doing so!”
“Oh, no!” she said, in a stifled voice. “I beg your pardon! It was stupid of me to care for it, but that word brought it all back to me, like—like a stab! Lucasta said I was well-named, and my aunt s-said: ‘ Very true, my love!’ and that in future I should be called Charity, to keep me in mind of the fact that that is what I am—a charity girl!”
“What a griffin!” he exclaimed disdainfully. “But she won’t call you Charity, you know! Depend upon it, she wouldn’t wish people to think her spiteful!”
“They wouldn’t. Because it is my name!” she disclosed tragically. “I know I told you it was Cherry, but it wasn’t a fubbery, sir, to say that, because I have always been called Cherry.”
“I see. Do you know, I like Charity better than Cherry? I think it is a very pretty name.”
“You wouldn’t think so if it was your name, and true!”
“I suppose I shouldn’t,” he admitted. “But what did you do to bring down all this ill-will upon your head?”
“Corinna was on the listen last night, when we talked together on the stairs,” she said. “She is the most odious, humbugging little cat imaginable, and if you think I shouldn’t say such a thing of her I am sorry, but it is true! I was used to think her the most amiable of my cousins, and—and my friend! And even though I did know that she was a shocking fibster, and not in the least above carrying tales against Oenone to my aunt, I never dreamed she would do the same by me! Well—well, there was some excuse for her trying for revenge against Oenone, because Oenone is a very disagreeable girl, and for ever picking out grievances, and trying to set my aunt against her sisters. But—” Her eyes filled with tears, which she made haste to brush away—“she—she had no cause to do me a mischief! But—but she twisted everything I said to you, sir, m-making it seem quite different from what I did say! She even said that you wouldn’t have come upstairs if I hadn’t th-thrown out lures to you! Which I didn’t! I didn’t!”
“On the contrary! You begged me not to come upstairs!” he said, smiling.
“Yes, and so I told them, but neither my aunt nor Lucasta would believe me. They—they accused me of being a—a designing little squirrel, and my aunt read me a scold about g-girls like me ending up in the Magdalen: and when I asked her what the Magdalen is, she said that if I continued to make sheep’s eyes at every man that crossed my path I should very soon discover what it is. But I don’t, I don’t!”she said vehemently. “It wasn’t my fault that you came up to talk to me last night, and it wasn’t my fault that Sir John Thorley took me up in his chaise and so very kindly drove me back to Maplewood, the day he overtook me walking back from the village in the rain; and it wasn’t my fault that Mr Rainham came over to talk to me when I brought Dianeme and Tom down to the drawing-room one evening! I did not put myself forward! I sat down, just as my aunt bade me, in a chair against the wall, and made not the leas
t push to keep him beside me! I promise you I didn’t, sir!” Her tears brimmed over, but she brushed them away, and said: “It was nothing but kindness on their parts, and to say that I lured either of them away from Lucasta is wickedly unjust!”
Since he had himself succumbed to the unconscious appeal of her big eyes, and had been moved to compassion by her forlorn aspect, he could readily understand the feelings that had prompted two gentlemen, whom he guessed to be admirers of Lucasta, to pay her a little attention. He thought, with a sardonic curl of his lips, that Lady Bugle was no wiser than a wet-goose; and wondered how many of Lucasta’s court would have paid any attention to her little cousin had Cherry been suitably attired, and treated by Lady Bugle with the affection that lady showed towards Lucasta. Not many, he guessed, for, although she had an innocent charm, she was no more than a candle to the sun of Lucasta’s beauty; and if she had been happy she would have roused no chivalrous emotions in any male breast. These reflections, however, he kept to himself, setting himself instead to the task of soothing her agitation, prior to doing what lay within his power to convince her that a return to her house of bondage would be preferable to her present scheme.
With the first of these objects in view, he encouraged her to unburden herself of her wrongs, thinking that to be allowed to pour out her troubles would sensibly allay whatever feelings of hurt and injustice had overset her. He suspected that these might have been exaggerated in her mind by what had obviously been a pulling of caps; but by the time she had been induced to describe what her life had been at Maplewood there was no hint of a smile in his eyes, and no scepticism in his mind.
For she did not answer his questions willingly, and she seemed always to be able to find excuses for the many unkindnesses she had received at Maplewood. Nor did she resent the demands that had been made on her: she felt it was only right that she should repay her aunt’s generosity by performing whatever services were required of her; but when she said simply: “I would do anything if only she would love me a little, and just once say thank you!” he thought he had never heard a sadder utterance.
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