The Nonesuch

Chapter 14

By the time Tiffany returned to Staples Miss Trent had regained sufficient command over herself to be able to meet her with at least the semblance of composure. There was a stricken look in her eyes, but Tiffany, very full of her own concerns, did not notice it. She was in sparkling good-humour, for on their way home she and Courtenay had met Lady Colebatch and Lizzie, tooling along the road to the village in a dowdy landaulette. “And Lady Colebatch asked us if we cared to dine at Colby Place this evening—just Courtenay and me! It is not a party—only the Mickleby girls and Arthur, and Jack Banningham! So I may, Ancilla, mayn’t I? Oh, she said she would be glad to see you, if you liked to go with us! But I daresay you won’t, for all we mean to do is to play games, and there won’t be any strangers there, so there can’t be any objection to my going without you! Now, can there?”

“No, none, if Courtenay goes with you.”

“Dear Ancilla!” Tiffany said, embracing her. “Shall you accompany us? You need not, you know!”

“Then I won’t,” said Miss Trent, faintly smiling.

Courtenay, who had entered the room in Tiffany’s wake, cried out at this. Miss Trent pleaded a headache, which made Tiffany say instantly: “I thought you were not looking quite the thing! Poor Ancilla! You will be glad of a quiet evening, I daresay: you should go to bed, and I’ll bring some lemon peel to put on your temples!”

Miss Trent declined this; so Tiffany, all eager solicitude, offered to find the pastilles her aunt burned whenever she too had the headache; or to mix a glass of hartshorn, and water for her to drink.

“Thank you, Tiffany, no!” said Miss Trent firmly. “And I don’t want a cataplasm to my feet either! You know I never quack myself!”

Tiffany was rather daunted by this; but after searching her memory for a moment, her brow puckered, she pronounced triumphantly: “Camphorated spirits of lavender!” and ran out of the room, calling to old Nurse.

Miss Trent raised her brows enquiringly at Courtenay. “Why is she so anxious to render me bedfast? If you know of any reason, pray don’t keep it from me!”

He grinned. “Well, I don’t—except that Lady Colebatch said that she was going to invite Lindeth as well, and I rather fancy Tiffany means to lift her finger. So, of course, she don’t want a chaperon!”

“Means to do what?”demanded Miss Trent.

His grin broadened. “Lift her finger! That’s what she told me she’d do when she wanted to bring Lindeth back to heel; but for my part I think she’s mistaken her man! She thinks he must be in flat despair because she’s been flirting with that court card of a cousin of his, and turning a cold shoulder on him, but I think he don’t care a rush! In fact,—but mum for that!”

“Mum indeed for that!” said Miss Trent, roused to speak with unusual earnestness. “I do beg ofyou,—”

“Oh, no need for that!” declared Courtenay virtuously. “I told Mama I wouldn’t stir the coals, and no more I will. Unless, of course, she comes the ugly,” he added, after a thoughtful pause.

Miss Trent could only hope that her charge would refrain. Her humour at the moment seemed sunny, but there was no depending upon its continuance; and although she and her cousin rarely quarrelled when they rode together, each favouring much the same neck-or-nothing style, and Courtenay admitting that with all her faults Tiffany was pluck to the backbone, at all other times they took a delight in vexing one another.

However, they presently set off together in perfect amity, in Courtenay’s phaeton, each agreeing that since the party was no dress affair this conveyance was preferable to the rather outdated carriage drawn by a pair of horses kept largely for farmwork which was the only other closed vehicle available during Mrs Underhill’s absence from home. Miss Trent, whose opinion of young Mr Underhill’s ability to drive a team was not high, noted with relief that he had only a pair harnessed to his phaeton, reflected that the moon was at the full, thus rendering it unlikely that he would drive into a ditch, and retired to grapple with her own melancholy problem.

Not the least perplexing feature of this, as she soon discovered, was her inability to think of the rake whose love-children were to be foisted cynically on to an unsuspecting society and of the delightful man whose smile haunted her dreams as one and the same person. It was in vain that she reminded herself that charm of manner must necessarily form the major part of a rake’s stock-in-trade; equally in vain that she lashed herself for having been so stupidly taken in. From this arose the horrifying realization that however tarnished in her eyes might be Sir Waldo’s image her love had not withered, as it ought to have done, but persisted strongly enough to make her feel more miserable than ever in her life before.

For on one point her resolution was fixed: there could be no question of marriage with him, even if marriage was what he had in mind, which, in the light of Lindeth’s revelations, now seemed doubtful. But when she thought it over she could not believe that he meant to offer her a less honourable alliance. A libertine he might be, but he was no fool, and he must be well aware that she was no female of easy virtue. She wondered why he should wish to marry her; and came to the dreary conclusion that he had probably decided that the time had come for him to marry, and hoped that by choosing a penniless nobody to be his wife he would be at liberty to continue to pursue his present way of life, while she, thankful to be so richly established, turned a blind eye to his crim. cons.,and herself behaved with all the propriety which he would no doubt demand of the lady who bore his name.

By the time Tiffany and Courtenay returned from Colby Place her headache was no longer feigned. Only a sense of duty kept her from retiring to bed hours earlier; and she could only feel relief when Tiffany, instead of prattling about the party, yawned, shrugged up her shoulders, said that it had been abominably insipid, and that she was fagged to death. An expressive grimace from Courtenay informed Miss Trent that he had a tale to disclose; but as she felt herself to be quite incapable of dealing with Tiffany’s problems at that moment she did not stay to hear what the tale was, but went upstairs with her wayward charge.

Tiffany put in no appearance in the breakfast-parlour next morning. Her maid told Miss Trent that she was suffering from a headache: a statement interpreted by Nurse as “in one of her dratted miffs.” So Courtenay, cheerfully discussing an enormous breakfast, was able to regale Miss Trent with the history of the previous night’s entertainment.

“Lindeth wasn’t there,” he said, cracking his second egg. “Told Lady Colebatch he was already engaged. Deepest regrets: all that sort of flummery! But,ma’am, Patience wasn’t there either! She had a previous engagement too, and if you can tell me what it could have been but Lindeth’s being invited to the Rectory, it’s more than anyone else can! Because Arthur Mickleby and his sisters were at Colby Place, and Sophy and Jack Banningham, and the Ashes, so where did Lindeth go if it wasn’t to the Rectory? Plain as a pikestaff! But what must Mary Mickleby do but—no, it wasn’t Mary! it was Jane Mickleby, and just the sort of thing she would do!—well, she said, with that silly titter of hers, that she was sure no one could give the least guess as to why Patience and Lindeth were both engaged on the same evening. And, if you ask me,ma’am,” concluded Courtenay, in a very fair-minded spirit, “she didn’t say it only to pay off a score with Tiffany, but because she’s as cross as crabs herself that Lindeth never showed the least preference for her! But, however it may have been, you should have seen Tiffany’s face!”

“I am thankful I did not!” responded Miss Trent.

He chuckled. “Ay, so you may be! Lord, what a ninny-hammer she is! It’s my belief she’d never had the least suspicion that Lindeth had a tendre for Patience—and, I must say, I felt quite sorry for her!”

“That was kind of you,” said Miss Trent politely.

“Well, I think it was,” owned Courtenay. “For I don’t like her, and never did! But she’s my cousin, after all, and I’m dashed if I wouldn’t as lief have her for a cousin as an antidote like Jane Mickleby!” He paused, his fork spearing a vast quantity of ham, halfway to his mouth and said, in portentous accents: “But that wasn’t the whole!”

Miss Trent waited with a sinking heart while he masticated this Gargantuan mouthful. “Well?”

“Arthur!” he pronounced, a trifle thickly. He washed down the ham with a gulp of coffee, and handed her his cup to be replenished. “Mighty cool to her!”

“Very likely. She didn’t speak of his sisters as she ought.”

“I know that, but I’ve got a notion there was more to it than that. Seemed to me—Well, you know what cakes he, and Jack, and Greg have been making of themselves over that chit, ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Seemed to me they weren’t. Don’t know why, but I daresay Jack will tell me, even if Greg don’t. Not that they were uncivil, or—or—Dashed if I know what it was! Just struck me that they weren’t any of ’em so particular in their attentions. Good thing! For,” said Courtenay, about to dig his teeth into a muffin, “they were getting to be dead bores!”

Miss Trent could not share his satisfaction. Since she knew no more than he did what had happened to cause Tiffany’s local admirers to grow suddenly cold, she could only hope either that he had been mistaken, or that these ill-used gentlemen were trying a change of tactics in their attempts to attach her.

“Was Mr Calver present?” she asked.

“No, but he wasn’t invited,” replied Courtenay. “Sir Ralph can’t abide him: he told me. Said he wouldn’t have any man-milliners running tame at Colby Place!”

It was in a mood of considerable foreboding that Miss Trent presently went upstairs to visit Tiffany. Never before had that turbulent beauty sustained a rebuff, and what the repercussions might be Miss Trent could only, shudderingly, guess.

She found Tiffany seated, partially clothed, at her dressing-table, while her maid, who was looking aggrieved, brushed out her lustrous black locks. Tiffany made no mention of the previous night’s party, but complained of a sleepless night, of a headache, and of unutterable boredom. “I want to go back to London!” she said. “I hate Yorkshire! I declare I had liefer by far be with the Burfords than at Staples, which is dowdy, and slow, and horrid!”

Miss Trent did not think it worth while to remind her that the Burfords were hardly likely to be in Portland Place in the middle of July, or that they had evinced no desire to have their niece restored to them. Instead, she reminded Tiffany that she had the Ashes’ party to look forward to, and, not so very far ahead, the York Races. Tiffany disclaimed any interest in either event; so, after trying several more gambits with as little success, Miss Trent left her, hoping that one at least of her admirers would present himself at Staples that day, to restore the discontented beauty to good humour.

At the foot of the staircase she encountered Totton, who informed her that Sir Waldo had called, to enquire if any tidings had yet been received from Mrs Underhill.

“He asked for Miss Tiffany, ma’am, but I told him Miss had the headache,” disclosed Totton. “So he said if you was at home he would like to see you instead. I was just coming to find you, ma’am. Sir Waldo is in the Green Saloon.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the butler to deny her, but she mastered the impulse. The interview must be faced, since she could not run away from Staples, deserting her post, as she longed to be able to do. She had made up her mind that she must be prepared to meet the Nonesuch, and to conduct herself, when she did so, with calm and dignity.

She entered the Green Saloon to find him standing by the table in the middle of the room, and glancing through the latest issue of the Liverpool Mercury.He looked up as the door opened, and at once laid the paper down, saying with the smile that made her heart tremble: “At last!”

“I beg your pardon! Have you been waiting for long?” she returned, determined to maintain an attitude of friendly civility, and desperately hoping that he would understand from this that it would be useless to make her any sort of declaration.

“More than a sennight! Yes, I know you feel that the delicacy of your position makes it ineligible for you to receive visitors, but I have been very discreet, I promise you! I told the butler that I came to enquire after the travellers—and even went so far as to ask first if Miss Wield was at home.”

“We have had no news yet.”

“You could scarcely have done so, could you? It was the only excuse I could think of.” He paused, the laughter arrested in his eyes as they searched her face. “What is it?” he asked, in quite another tone.

She answered with forced lightness: “Why, nothing!”

“No, don’t fob me off! Tell me!” he insisted. “Something has happened to distress you: has that spoilt child been plaguing you?”

She had known that it would be a dreadful interview, but not that he would rend her in two by so instantly perceiving the trouble in her face, or by speaking to her in that voice of concern. She managed to summon up a laugh, and to say: “Good gracious, no! Indeed, sir,—”

“Then what?”

How could you ask a man if it was true that he had several love-begotten children? It was wholly impossible: not even the boldest female could do it! Besides, it would be useless: she knew the answer, and her knowledge had not come to her from a doubtful, or a spiteful source: Lindeth had said it, not dreaming of mischief, treating it as only a slightly regrettable commonplace. The thought stiffened her resolution; she said, in a stronger voice: “Nothing more serious than a headache. I fancy there’s thunder in the air: it always gives me the headache. Tiffany isn’t feeling quite the thing either. Indeed, I should be with her, not talking to morning-visitors! I hope you may not think it uncivil in me to run away, Sir Waldo, but—”

“I don’t think you uncivil: merely untruthful! Why do you call me a morning-visitor, when you know very well I’ve been awaiting the opportunity to see you privately—and certainly not with the object of uttering social inanities?” He smiled at her. “Are you fearful of offending against the proprieties? You’re not so missish! And even the most strictly guarded girl, you know, is permitted to receive an offer of marriage unchaperoned!”

She put out her hand, in a repelling gesture, averting her head, and saying imploringly: “No, don’t say it! pray don’t!”

“But, my dear—!”

“Sir Waldo, I am very much obliged to you—much honoured—but I can’t accept your—your very flattering offer!” ^!

“Why not?” he asked quietly.

Dismayed, she realized that she ought to have foreseen that he would say something quite unexpected. She had not, and was betrayed into incoherence. “I don’t—I could never—I have no intention of—no thought of marriage!”

He was silent for a moment, a crease between his brows, his eyes, fixed on her profile, a little puzzled. He said at last: “Don’t you think that you might perhaps bring yourself to give marriage a thought? It’s quite easy, you know! Only consider for how many more years than you I never gave it a thought. And then I met you, and loved you, and found that I was thinking of very little else! Forgive me!—I don’t mean to sound presumptuous—but I can’t believe that you are as indifferent to me as you’d have me think!”

She flushed. “I am aware that I—that I gave you reason to suppose that it would not be disagreeable to me to receive this offer. Even that I have encouraged you! I didn’t mean it so. Circumstances have thrown us a good deal together, and—and I found you amusing and conversable, and was led, I am afraid, into—into treating you with a familiarity which you mistook for something warmer than mere liking!”

“You are wrong,” he replied. “So far from encouraging me, or treating me with familiarity, you have been at pains to hold me at arm’s length. But there has been a look in your eyes—I can’t explain, but I couldn’t mistake it, unless I were blind, or a green youth, and I’m neither!”

“I don’t doubt that you have had a great deal of experience, sir, but in this instance I assure you you have been misled.”

“Yes, I have had experience,” he said, looking gravely at her. “Is that what’s in your mind?”

“No—that is,—Sir Waldo, I must be frank with you, and tell you that even if I wished to be married, I could never wish for marriage with a man whose tastes—whose mode of life—is so much opposed to everything which I have been taught to hold in esteem!”

“My dear girl,” he said, between hurt and amusement, “I’m really not quite as frippery a fellow as you seem to think! I own that in my grasstime I committed a great many follies and extravagances, but, believe me, I’ve long since outgrown them! I don’t think they were any worse than what nine out of ten youngsters commit, but unfortunately I achieved, through certain circumstances, a notoriety which most young men escape. I was born with a natural aptitude for the sporting pursuits you regard with so much distrust, and I inherited, at far too early an age, a fortune which not only enabled me to indulge my tastes in the most expensive manner imaginable, but which made me an object of such interest that everything I did was noted, and talked of. That’s heady stuff for greenhorns, you know! There was a time when I gave the gossips plenty to talk about. But do give me credit for having seen the error of my ways!”

“Yes—oh, yes! But—Sir Waldo, I beg you to say no more! My mind is made up, and discussion can only be painful to us both! I have been very much at fault—I can only ask your forgiveness! If I had known that you were not merely flirting with me—”

“But you did know it,” he interposed. “You’re not a fool, and you can’t have supposed that when I told you I wanted to be private with you, because I had a proposition to lay before you, I was flirting with you! You didn’t suppose it. Something has occurred since I met you in the village which has brought about this change in you—and I fancy I know what it must have been!”

Her eyes lifted quickly to his face, and sank again.

“Tell me!” he said imperatively. “Have you been accused of setting your cap at me? Yes, that’s an outrageous question, isn’t it? But I know very well that a certain weasel-faced lady of our acquaintance has said it, for she did so within my hearing, and I daresay she would not scruple to say it within yours. Has she done so? Could you be so absurd as to reject me for such a reason as that?”

“No! If I returned your regard, it would not weigh with me!”

“I see. There doesn’t seem to be anything more I can say, does there?”

She could only shake her head, not daring to trust her voice. She saw that he was holding out his hand, and she reluctantly laid her own in it. He lifted it, and kissed her fingers. “I wish you did return my regard,” he said. “More than I have ever wished anything in my life! Perhaps you may yet learn to do so: I should warn you that I don’t easily despair!”