“Lord, yes, a dozen times, and I thank heaven this is the last!”
“You will be sorry in the morning, my dear.”
“It don’t signify in the least. My mamma would never permit me to marry him, and though it is very good sport to plan an elopement it would be amazingly horrid to be really married to someone quite outside one’s own world.”
“I did not know you were as selfish as that, Juliana,” said Miss Challoner. “I’ll bid you good night.”
Juliana nodded carelessly, and waited until the door was firmly shut behind her friend. Then she cast herself face downwards on her pillows and wept miserably.
Meanwhile Miss Challoner sought her own bed, and lay thinking of the strange proposal she had received.
Her disgust at Juliana’s behaviour was untempered by surprise. By now she had reached the conclusion that the manners of the whole family of Alastair were incomprehensible to a less exalted person. My Lord Vidal was reckless, prodigal, and overbearing; his cousin Bertrand appeared to be a mere pleasure-seeker; Juliana, too, in whom Miss Challoner had suspected a warmer heart, was frivolous and calculating. From Juliana’s and Vidal’s conversation she had gleaned what she believed to be a fair estimate of the remaining members of the family. Lady Fanny was worldly and ambitious; Lord Rupert apparently wasted his time and substance on gambling and other amusements; his grace of Avon seemed to be a cold, unloving and sinister figure. The only one whom Miss Challoner felt any desire to know was the Duchess. She was inclined to think that Mr. Comyn was well rid of a bad bargain, and this conclusion brought her back once more to the consideration of her own difficulties. It seemed ridiculous in an age of civilization, but Miss Challoner had no doubt that in some way or other Vidal would contrive to carry her off to Dijon. She believed that he was prompted more by his love of mastery than by his first chivalrous impulse. What he had said he would do he must do, reckless of consequence. He could not, she realized, drag an unwilling bride to the altar, but if he succeeded in transporting her all the way to Dijon she felt that she would be then in so much worse a predicament that marriage with him would be the only thing left to her. Against this marriage she was still firmly set. God knew she would ask nothing better than to be his wife, but she had sense enough to know that nothing but unhappiness could result from it. If he had loved her, if she had been of his world, approved by his family—but it was useless to speculate on the impossible. She might steal away from this house very early in the morning, and lose herself in some back-street of Paris. She could not forbear a smile at her own simplicity. She would certainly lose herself, but it seemed probable that his lordship, who knew Paris, would have little trouble in finding her. She was without money and without friends; if she left the protection of Mme. de Charbonne’s house she could see only one end to her career. Marriage with Mr. Comyn would be preferable to that. At least his degree was not immeasurably superior to hers; he did not seem to be a gentleman of very passionate affections, and she felt that she could succeed in making him tolerably happy. After all, she thought, neither of us is of a romantic disposition, and at least I shall be rid of this dread of sudden exposure.
Mr. Comyn was eating his breakfast some hours later when a surprised serving-maid ushered Miss Challoner into the room. The visit of a young and personable lady, quite unattended, and at such an unseasonable hour, roused all the abigail’s curiosity. Having shut the door on Miss Challoner, she naturally put her ear to the keyhole. But as the conversation inside the room was conducted in English she soon withdrew it.
Mr. Comyn got up quickly from the table, and laid aside his napkin. “Miss Challoner!” he said, coming forward to greet her.
Mary, who was dressed in the grey gown and hooded cloak she had worn on the night of her abduction, gave her hand into his, and as he bent to kiss it, said in her quiet way: “Please inform me, sir, now that you have had time in which to reflect, do you not desire to return to Miss Marling?”
“Indeed, no!” said Mr. Comyn, releasing her hand. “Is it possible—do you in fact come in the guise of an envoy?”
She shook her head. “Alas, no, sir.”
He was careful not to allow the disappointment he felt to creep into his voice. “I imagined, ma’am, that you had come to give me your answer to my offer. I need hardly assure you that if you will accept of my hand in marriage I shall count myself extremely fortunate.”
She smiled, but rather wanly. “You are very kind, sir. I do not feel that I have any right to accept what I can only regard as a sacrifice, but my situation is desperate, and I do accept it.”
He bowed. “I shall endeavour to make you comfortable, ma’am. We must now decide what were best to do. Will you not be seated?”
“You are breakfasting, sir, are you not?”
“Pray do not regard it, ma’am; I have had all I need.”
Miss Challoner’s eyes twinkled. “I, sir, on the other hand, am fasting.”
He slightly pressed her hand. “Believe me, I perfectly understand that food at this moment is repugnant to you. Let us be seated by the fire.”
Miss Challoner said meekly: “Food is by no means repugnant to me, Mr. Comyn. Pray allow me to share your breakfast. I am very hungry.”
He looked rather surprised, but at once handed her to a chair by the table. “Why, certainly, ma’am! I will send to procure you a clean cup and plate.” He went to the door and nearly fell over the serving-maid, who had not yet abandoned hope of catching a phrase spoken in her own tongue. His command of the French language being what it was, he was unable to deliver a rebuke, but he managed to ask for a cup and plate.
When these were brought Miss Challoner poured herself out some coffee, and spread butter on a roll. She proceeded to make a hearty meal. Mr. Comyn was assiduous in plying her with food, but he could not help feeling in a dim way that her attitude in face of a dramatic situation was a trifle mundane. Miss Challoner, biting a crust with her little white teeth, had also her private thoughts, and remembered other meals partaken in the company of a gentleman. This gave her a heartache, and since she had no notion of indulging in such a weakness, she said briskly: “Where are we to be married, sir? How soon can we leave Paris?”
Mr. Comyn poured her out another cup of coffee. “I have considered the matter, ma’am, and I have two plans to submit to you. It must, of course, be as you wish. We can, if you like, return to England, where I apprehend there will be no difficulty in arranging our immediate nuptials. I should point out to you, however, that in England our marriage must necessarily give occasion for comment The alternative is to travel to Dijon, and there to find the English divine, whose direction was given to me by Lord Vidal. Should you choose this course, ma’am, I suggest that following upon the ceremony we should journey into Italy for a space. Against this scheme must be set my natural scruples, which urge me not to make use of the information provided by his lordship.”
“I don’t think that need trouble you,” said Miss Challoner matter-of-factly. “Which of these plans do you prefer?”
“It is entirely for you to decide, ma’am.”
“But really, sir—”
“Whatever you choose will be agreeable to me,” said Mr.
Comyn.
Miss Challoner, feeling that the argument might be interminable if embarked on, gave her vote for Dijon. She had no desire to return to England until comment had died down. Mr. Comyn then found several points in favour of her choice, and promised that they should set forward before noon. Miss Challoner informed him that she would need to buy herself some few necessities, as she had nothing but the clothes she stood in. Mr. Comyn was quite shocked, and asked her very delicately whether she had sufficient money for her needs. She assured him that she had, and while he went to order a post-chaise, she sallied forth to the nearest shops. Pride had forbidden her to bring any of the clothes of the Marquis’s providing. She had, perforce, worn them at the Hotel de Charbonne, but they were all carefully packed away now; gowns of tiffany with blonde scallops, gowns of taffetas, of dimity, of brocaded satin, cloaks richly trimmed with black lace, negligees so soft and fine they slid through the fingers; lawn shifts, point-lace tuckers, Turkey handkerchiefs—all the fineries of a lady of fashion, or—she thought, with a wry smile—of a light-of-love. She would not keep so much as one comb or haresfoot.
Shortly before noon they set forth on their journey. Both were rather silent, and until the chaise drew out of Paris they sat looking absently out of the windows, each one thinking sadly of the might-have-been.
Mr. Comyn roused himself at last from his abstraction to say: “I think it only right to tell you, ma’am, that I left a billet to be delivered to my Lord Vidal.” Miss Challoner sat bolt upright. “What, sir?”
“I could not but consider that I owed it to him to inform him of your safety and my intentions.”
