‘I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,’ said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.
Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. ‘If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?’
Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. ‘A young person?’ she repeated.
‘Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.’
‘Oh!’ said Pen. ‘Oh, very well! Thank you!’
She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to – ‘Wyndham Esq.,’ and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.
‘Dear Sir,’ the letter began, primly enough, ‘The Unfortunate Being whom you befriended last night, is in Desperate Case, and begs that you will come to the little orchard next to the road at eight o’clock punctually, because it is vital that I should have Private Speech with you. Do not fail. Your obliged servant,
Lydia Daubenay.’
It was plain that Miss Daubenay had written this missive in considerable agitation. Greatly intrigued, Pen enquired the way to Major Daubenay’s house of a baker’s boy, and set off down the dusty road.
By the time she had reached the appointed rendezvous it was half-past eight, and Miss Daubenay was pacing up and down impatiently. A thick, high hedge shut the orchard off from sight of the house, and a low wall enclosed it from the road. Pen climbed on to this without much difficulty, and was greeted by an instant accusation: ‘Oh, you are so late! I have been waiting ages!’
‘Well, I am sorry, but I came as soon as I had read your letter,’ said Pen, jumping down into the orchard. ‘Why do you wish to see me?’
Miss Daubenay wrung her hands, and uttered in tense accents: ‘Everything has gone awry. I am quite distracted! I don’t know what to do!’
Pen betrayed no particular solicitude at this moving speech, but critically looked Miss Daubenay over.
She was a pretty child, about the same age as Pen herself, but shorter, and much plumper. She had a profusion of nut-brown ringlets, a pair of fawn-like brown eyes, and a soft rosebud of a mouth. She was dressed in a white muslin dress, high-waisted, and frilled about the ankles, and with a great many pale-blue bows of ribbon with long fluttering ends. She raised her melting eyes to Pen’s face, and breathed: ‘Can I trust you?’
Miss Creed was a literal-minded female, and instead of responding with promptness and true chivalry, she replied cautiously: ‘Well, probably you can, but I am not sure till I know what it is that you want.’
Miss Daubenay seemed a little daunted for a moment, and said in a soft moan: ‘I am in such a taking! I have been very, very silly!’
Pen found no difficulty in believing this. She said: ‘Well, don’t stand there wringing your hands! Let us sit down under that tree.’
Lydia looked doubtful. ‘Will it not be damp?’
‘No, of course not! Besides, what if it were?’
‘Oh, the grass might stain my dress!’
‘It seems to me,’ said Pen severely, ‘that if you are bothering about your dress you cannot be in such great trouble.’
‘Oh, but I am!’ said Lydia, sinking down on to the turf, and clasping her hands at her bosom. ‘I do not know what you willsay, or what you will think of me! I must have been mad! Only, you were kind to me last night, and I thought I could trust you!’
‘I dare say you can,’ said Pen. ‘But I wish you will tell me what is the matter, because I have not yet had any breakfast, and –’
‘If I had thought that you would be so unsympathetic I would never, never have sent for you!’ declared Lydia in tremulous accents.
‘Well, it is very difficult to be sympathetic when a person will do nothing but wring her hands, and say the sort of things there really is no answer to,’ said Pen reasonably. ‘Do start at the beginning!’
Miss Daubenay bowed her head. ‘I am the most unhappy creature alive!’ she announced. ‘I have the misfortune to be secretly betrothed to one whom my father will not tolerate.’
‘Yes, I thought you were. I suppose you went to meet him in the wood last night?’
‘Alas, it is true! But do not judge me hastily! He is the most unexceptionable – the most –’
‘If he is unexceptionable,’ interrupted Pen, ‘why won’t your father tolerate him?’
‘It is all wicked prejudice!’ sighed Lydia. ‘My father quarrelled with his father, and they don’t speak.’
‘Oh! What did they quarrel about?’
‘About a piece of land,’ said Lydia mournfully.
‘It sounds very silly.’
‘It is silly. Only they are perfectly serious about it, and they do not care a fig for our sufferings! We have been forced to this hateful expedient of meeting in secret. I should tell you that my betrothed is the soul of honour! Subterfuge is repugnant to him, but what can we do? We love each other!’
‘Why don’t you run away?’ suggested Pen practically.
Startled eyes leapt to hers. ‘Run where?’
‘To Gretna Green, of course.’
‘Oh, I could not! Only think of the scandal!’
‘I do think you should try not to be so poor-spirited. However, I dare say you can’t help it.’
‘You are the rudest boy I ever met!’ exclaimed Lydia, ‘I declare I wish I had not sent for you!’
‘So do I, because this seems to me a silly story, and not in the least my concern,’ said Pen frankly. ‘Oh, pray don’t start to cry! There, I am sorry! I didn’t mean to be unkind! But why did you send for me?’
‘Because, though you are rude and horrid, you did not seem to me like other young men, and I thought you would understand, and not take advantage of me.’
Pen gave a sudden mischievous chuckle. ‘I shan’t do that, at all events! Oh dear, I am getting so hungry! Do tell me why you sent for me!’
Miss Daubenay dabbed her eyes with a wisp of a handkerchief. ‘I was so distracted last night I scarce knew what I was doing! And when I reached home, the most dreadful thing happened! Papa saw me! Oh, sir, he accused me of having gone out to meet P – to meet my betrothed, and said I should be packed off again to Bath this very day, to stay with my Great-Aunt Augusta. The horridest, most disagreeable old woman! Nothing but backgammon, and spying, and everything of the most hateful! Sir, I felt myself to be in desperate case! Indeed, I said it before I had time to recollect the consequences!’
‘Said what?’ asked Pen, patient but bored.
Miss Daubenay bowed her head again. ‘That it was not – not that man I had gone to meet, but another, whom I had met in Bath, when I was sent to Great-Aunt Augusta to – to cure me of what Papa called my infatuation! I said I had been in the habit of meeting this other man c-clandestinely, because I thought that would make Papa afraid to send me back to Bath, and might perhaps even reconcile him to the Real Man.’
‘Oh!’ said Pen doubtfully. ‘And did it?’
‘No! He said he did not believe me.’
‘Well, I must say I’m not surprised at that.’
‘Yes, but in the end he did, and now I wish I had never said it. He said if there was Another Man, who was it?’
‘You ought to have thought of that. He was bound to ask that question, and you must have looked very silly when you could not answer.’
‘But I did answer!’ whispered Miss Daubenay, apparently overcome.
‘But how could you, if there wasn’t another man?’
‘I said it was you!’ said Miss Daubenay despairingly.
> Ten
The effect of this confession upon Pen was not quite what Miss Daubenay had expected. She gasped, choked, and went off into a peal of laughter. Affronted, Miss Daubenay said: ‘I don’t see what there is to laugh at!’
‘No, I dare say you don’t,’ said Pen, mopping her eyes. ‘But it is excessively amusing for all that. What made you say anything so silly?’
‘I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And as for its being silly, you may think me very ill-favoured, but I have already had several suitors!’
‘I think you are very pretty, but I am not going to be a suitor,’ said Pen firmly.
‘I don’t want you to be! For one thing, I find you quite odiously rude, and for another you are much too young, which is why I chose you, because I thought I should be quite safe in so doing.’
‘Well you are, but I never heard of anything so foolish in my life! Pray, what was the use of telling your father such fibs?’
‘I told you,’ said Lydia crossly. ‘I scarcely knew what I was saying, and I thought – But everything has gone awry!’
Pen looked at her with misgiving. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Papa is going to wait on your cousin this morning.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Pen.
Lydia nodded. ‘Yes, and he is not angry at all. He is pleased!’
‘Pleased? How can he be pleased at your holding clandestine meetings with a strange man?’
‘To be sure, he did say that that was very wrong of me. But he asked me your name. Of course I don’t know it, but your cousin told me his name was Wyndham, so I said yours was too.’
‘But it isn’t!’
‘Well, how was I to know that?’ demanded Lydia, aggrieved. ‘I had to say something!’
‘You are the most unprincipled girl in the world! Besides, why should he be pleased just because you said my name was Wyndham?’
‘Apparently,’ said Lydia gloomily, ‘the Wyndhams are all fabulously wealthy.’
‘You must tell him without any loss of time I am not a Wyndham, and that I haven’t any money at all!’
‘How can I tell him anything of the kind? I think you are being most unreasonable! Do but consider! If I said now that I had been mistaken in your name he would suppose you to have been trifling with me!’
‘But you cannot expect me to pretend to be in love with you!’ Pen said, aghast.
Lydia sniffed. ‘Nothing could be more repulsive to me than such a notion. I am already sorry that I mentioned you to Papa. Only I did, and now I don’t know what to do. He would be so angry if he knew that I had made it all up!’
‘Well, I am very sorry, but it seems to me quite your own fault, and I wash my hands of it,’ said Pen.
She glanced at Miss Daubenay’s flower-like countenance, and made a discovery. Miss Daubenay’s soft chin had acquired a look of obstinacy; the fawn-like eyes stared back at her with a mixture of appeal and determination. ‘You can’t wash your hands of it. I told you that Papa was going to seek an interview with your cousin to-day.’
‘You must stop him.’
‘I can’t. You don’t know Papa!’
‘No, and I don’t want to know him,’ Pen pointed out.
‘If I told him it had all been lies, I do not know what he might not do. I won’t do it! I don’t care what you may say: I won’t !’
‘Well, I shall deny every word of your story.’
‘Then,’ said Lydia, not without triumph, ‘Papa will do something dreadful to you, because he will think it is you who are telling lies!’
‘It seems to me that unless he is a great fool he must know you well enough by now to guess that it is you who have told lies!’ said Pen, with asperity.
‘It’s no use being disagreeable and rude,’ said Lydia. ‘Papa thinks you followed me to Queen Charlton.’
‘You mean you told him so,’ said Pen bitterly.
‘Yes, I did. At least, he asked me, and I said yes before I had had time to think.’
‘Really, you are the most brainless creature! Do you never think?’ said Pen, quite exasperated. ‘Just look what a coil you’ve created! Either your Papa is coming to ask me what my intentions are, or – which I think a great deal more likely – to complain to Richard about my conduct! Oh dear, whatever will Richard say to this fresh disturbance?’
It was plain that all this meant nothing to Miss Daubenay. For form’s sake, she repeated that she was very sorry, but added: ‘I hoped you would be able to help me. But you are a boy! You don’t understand what it means to be persecuted as I am!’
This remark could not but strike a chord of sympathy. ‘As a matter of fact, I do know,’ said Pen. ‘Only, if helping you means offering for your hand, I won’t do it. The more I think of it, the more ridiculous it seems to me that you should have dragged me into it. How could such an absurd tale possibly be of use?’
Lydia sighed. ‘One does not think of those things in the heat of the moment. Besides, I didn’t really mean to drag you in. It – it just happened.’
‘I don’t see how it could have happened if you didn’t mean it.’
‘One thing led to another,’ Lydia explained vaguely. ‘Almost before I knew it, the whole story had – had grown up. Of course I don’t wish you to offer for my hand, but I do think you might pretend you want to, so that Papa shan’t suspect me of telling lies.’
‘No!’ said Pen.
‘I think you are very unkind,’ whimpered Lydia. ‘I shall be sent back to Bath, and Great-Aunt Augusta will spy on me, and I shall never see Piers again!’
‘Who?’ Pen’s head was jerked round. ‘Who will you never see again?’
‘Oh, please do not ask me! I did not mean to mention his name!’
‘Are you –’ Pen stopped, rather white of face, and started again: ‘Are you betrothed to Piers Luttrell?’
‘You know him!’ Miss Daubenay clasped ecstatic hands.
‘Yes,’ said Pen, feeling as though the pit of her stomach had suddenly vanished. ‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Then you will help me!’
Miss Creed’s clear blue eyes met Miss Daubenay’s swimming brown ones. Miss Creed drew a long breath. ‘Is – is Piers indeed in love with you?’ she asked incredulously.
Miss Daubenay bridled. ‘You need not sound so surprised! We have been plighted for a whole year! Why do you look so oddly?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ apologized Pen. ‘But how he must have changed! It is very awkward!’
‘Why?’ asked Lydia, staring.
‘Well, it – it – you wouldn’t understand. Has he been meeting you in woods for a whole year?’
‘No, because Papa sent me to Bath, and Sir Jasper forbade him to see me any more, and even Lady Luttrell said we were too young. But we love each other!’
‘It seems extraordinary,’ said Pen, shaking her head. ‘You know, I find it very hard to believe!’
‘You are the horridest boy! It is perfectly true, and if you know Piers you may ask him for yourself ! I wish I had never clapped eyes on you!’
‘So do I,’ replied Pen frankly.
Miss Daubenay burst into tears. Pen surveyed her with interest, and asked presently in the voice of one probing mysteries: ‘Do you always cry as much as this? Do you – do you cry at Piers?’
‘I don’t cry at people!’ sobbed Miss Daubenay. ‘And if Piers knew how horrid you have been to me he would very likely knock you down!’
Pen gave a hiccup of laughter. This incensed Lydia so much that she stopped crying, and dramatically commanded Pen to leave the orchard immediately. However, when she discovered that Pen was only too ready to take her at her word, she ran after her, and clasped her by the arm. ‘No, no, you cannot go until we have decided what is to be done. You won’t – oh, you can’t b
e cruel enough to deny my story to Papa!’
Pen considered this. ‘Well, provided you won’t expect me to offer for you –’
‘No, no, I promise I won’t!’
Pen frowned. ‘Yes, but it’s of no use. There is only one thing for it: you will have to run away.’
‘But –’
‘Now, don’t begin to talk about the scandal, and spoiling your dress!’ begged Pen. ‘For one thing, it is odiously missish, and for another Piers will never be able to bear it.’
‘Piers,’ said Miss Daubenay, with swelling bosom, ‘thinks me Perfect!’
‘I haven’t seen Piers for a long time, but he can’t have grown up as stupid as that!’ Pen pointed out.
‘Yes, he – oh, I hate you, I hate you!’ cried Lydia, stamping her foot. ‘Besides, how can I run away?’
‘Oh, Piers will have to arrange it! If Richard doesn’t object, I daresay I may help him,’ Pen assured her. ‘You will have to escape at dead of night, of course, which puts me in mind of a very important thing: you will need a rope-ladder.’
‘I haven’t a rope-ladder,’ objected Lydia.
‘Well, Piers must make one for you. If he throws it up to your window, you could attach it securely, could you not, and climb down it?’
‘I would rather escape by the door,’ said Lydia, gazing helplessly up at her.
‘Oh, very well, but it seems rather tame! However, it is quite your own affair. Piers will be waiting for you with a post-chaise-and-four. You will leap up into it, and the horses will spring forward, and you will fly for the Border! I can see it all!’ declared Pen, her eyes sparkling.
Lydia seemed to catch a little of her enthusiasm. ‘To be sure, it does sound romantic,’ she admitted. ‘Only it is a great way to the Border, and everyone would be so cross with us!’
‘Once you were married that wouldn’t signify.’
‘No. No, it wouldn’t, would it? But I don’t think Piers has any money.’
‘Oh!’ Pen’s face fell. ‘That certainly makes it rather awkward. But I daresay we shall contrive something.’
Lydia said: ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I would prefer not to go to Gretna, because although it would be romantic I can’t help thinking it would be very uncomfortable. Besides, I couldn’t have any attendants, or a wedding-dress, or a lace veil, or anything.’
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