probably remote destination, was overwhelmingly grateful to him for behaving precisely as though he were escorting her home from some place of entertainment. She had been much afraid that he would perhaps have tried to make love to her. She had not much experience in such matters, but it had occurred to her that a gentleman starting on an elopement might expect some demonstration of affection from his beloved. A week earlier, safe in the darkness of her bedchamber, her cheek on a damp pillow, Arabella had owned to herself that life could hold no greater happiness for her than for Mr. Beaumaris to take her in his arms; now, miserably conscious of her duplicity, she could imagine nothing more unnerving. But Mr. Beaumaris, surely the calmest of runaway-bridegrooms, showed no desire to succumb to his ardour. Finding that he was being answered in monosyllables, he presently gave up trying to engage Arabella in genteel conversation, and leaned back in his corner of the chaise, his head a little turned against the squabs behind it towards her, so that he could watch her face in the dim moonlight that penetrated into the vehicle. Arabella was scarcely aware that he had stopped talking to her. She was lost in her own thoughts, seated bolt upright, and clinging with one hand to the strap that hung from the wall of the chaise beside her. She could see the postilion bobbing up and down before her, and, when the cobbles were left behind, was vaguely conscious of having left the streets and to be driving through the countryside. In what direction they were travelling, or where she would find herself at the first halt, she had no idea, nor were these the questions that troubled her mind. The impropriety of her conduct she had from the start known to be unforgiveable; what now filled her with repugnance was the sudden realization that in marrying Mr. Beaumaris while he still laboured under a misapprehension she was treating him so shabbily that it was doubtful if he would ever pardon her, much less continue to regard her with even a shred of affection. At this melancholy reflection a small sob escaped her, which had the effect of making Mr. Beaumaris say: “What is it, my love?”
“Nothing! Nothing!” whispered Arabella, much agitated.
To her relief, he appeared to accept this, for he said no more. She decided, in a wave of remorse, that he was the greatest gentleman of her acquaintance, with the best manners, the most delicate forbearance, and quite the kindest disposition. It was at this point that the moment for which Mr. Beaumaris had been waiting arrived. All at once Arabella wondered how soon after the wedding-ceremony she could break the news to him that she required him not only to forgive her brother’s debt to him, but also to bestow a hundred pounds on him for the settlement of all his other liabilities; and what words she could find with which most unexceptionably to express this urgent necessity. There were no such words, as a very little cudgelling of her brain sufficed to convince her. She could not imagine how she could ever have been foolish enough to have supposed that the thing could be done, or that such a confession could be made without afterwards rendering it impossible for her to convince him that she did indeed love him.
These, and still more disagreeable thoughts, were jostling one another in Arabella’s frightened mind when the pace at which they were travelling seemed sensibly to slacken. The chaise swung round at so sharp an angle that only her clutch on the strap saved Arabella from being thrown on to Mr. Beaumaris’s shoulder. It proceeded for a very little way, and then drew up. Arabella turned towards the dupe beside her, and said breathlessly: “I cannot! I cannot! Mr. Beaumaris, I am
Mr. Beaumaris received this daunting request with a remarkable degree of composure, merely replying, as the door of the chaise was opened: “Shall we discuss this matter in a more private spot? Let me assist you to alight, my love!”
“Please take me back! I—I don’t want to elope, after all!” said Arabella, in an urgent whisper.
“Then we won’t elope,” returned Mr. Beaumaris reassuringly, “I must own that I think it quite unnecessary for us to do so. Come!”
Arabella hesitated, but since he seemed determined that she should descend from the chaise, and perhaps wanted to rest his horses, she allowed him to hand her down. They seemed to be standing before a large building, but it showed none of the welcoming lights to be expected of a posting-inn, nor had the chaise driven into a courtyard. At the top of a flight of broad, shallow stone steps a large door opened, and a beam of light from the interior of the building snowed Arabella neat flower-beds flanking the entrance. Before she had recovered from the surprise of finding herself at what was plainly a private, residence, Mr. Beaumaris had led her up the steps, and into a lofty hall, furnished in a massive style, and lit by candles in wall-chandeliers. An elderly butler bowed them in, and said: “Good-evening sir.” One powdered and liveried footman divested Mr. Beaumaris of his cloak, another relieved him of his hat and gloves.
Arabella stood turned to stone as all the implications of her surroundings burst upon her. Mr. Beaumaris’s soothing assurance to her that they would not elope now became invested with the most sinister significance, and it was a pathetically white and frightened face which she turned towards him. He smiled at her, but before either of diem had time to speak, the butler had informed Mr. Beaumaris that he would find the Yellow Saloon in readiness; and a most respectable-looking housekeeper, with neat white hair under a starched cap, had appeared upon the scene, and was dropping a curtsy to Arabella.
“Good-evening, miss! Good-evening, Mr. Robert! Please to take Miss into the saloon, while I see that the maids unpack her trunk! You will find a nice fire, for I am sure Miss must be chilled, after the drive, so late as it is. Let me take your cloak, miss! I shall bring you up a glass of hot milk directly: I am sure you will be glad of it.”
The promise of a glass of hot milk, which hardly seemed to be in keeping with the hideous vision of seduction and rape which had leapt to her mind, a little reassured Arabella. One of the footmen had thrown open a door at the back of the hall; Mr. Beaumaris possessed himself of a trembling, icy little hand, and said: “I want to make you known to Mrs. Watchet, my love, who is a very old friend of mine. Indeed, one of my earliest allies!”
“Now, Master Robert! I’m sure I am very happy to see you here, miss—and mind, now, don’t let Master Robert keep you out of your bed till all hours!”
The fear that Master Robert had quite different intentions receded still farther. Arabella summoned up a smile, said something in a shy little voice, and allowed herself to be led into a saloon, fitted up in the first style of elegance, and offering her all the comfort of a small fire, burning in a brightly polished grate.
The door was softly closed behind them; Mr. Beaumaris drew a chair invitingly forward, and said: “Come and sit down, Miss Tallant! You know, I cannot but be glad that you have decided after all not to elope with me. To tell you the truth, there is one circumstance at least that makes me reluctant to proceed with youto Scotland—a journey that would occupy six or seven days, I daresay, before we found ourselves back in London.”
“Oh!” said Arabella, sitting down primly on the edge of the chair, and regarding him out of scared, doubtful eyes.
“Yes,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “Ulysses!”
Her eyes widened. “Ulysses?” she repeated blankly.
“The animal you were so obliging as to bestow upon me,” he explained. “Most unfortunately, he has developed so marked a predilection for my society that he frets himself to skin and bone if I am absent from him for more than a night. I did not quite like to bring him with me upon our elopement, for I can discover no precedent for taking a dog with one upon such an occasion, and one scarcely cares to violate the conventions at such a moment.”
The door opened just then to admit Mrs. Watchet, who came in, carrying a glass of steaming milk on a silver tray. This, with a plate of macaroons, she set down on a small table at Arabella’s elbow, telling her that when she had drunk it, and said goodnight to Master Robert, she should be escorted upstairs to her bed-chamber. With a slightly severe injunction to Mr. Beaumaris not to keep Miss talking to him too long, she then curtsied herself out of the room.
“Sir!” said Arabella desperately, as soon as they were alone again: “What is this house to which you have brought me?”
“I have brought you to my grandmother’s house, at Wimbledon,” he replied. “She is a very old lady, and keeps early hours, so you must forgive her for not being downstairs to receive you. You will meet her tomorrow morning. My aunt, who lives with her, would undoubtedly have sat up to receive you had she not gone a few days ago to stay with one of her sisters for a short time.”
“Your grandmother’s house?” exclaimed Arabella, almost starting from her chair. “Good God, why have you brought me to such a place, Mr. Beaumaris?”
“Well, you know,” he explained, “I could not but feel that it was possible you might think better of that notion of eloping. Of course, if, after a night’s repose, you still believe we should go to Gretna Green, I assure you I shall escort you there, whatever Ulysses’ claims upon me may be. For myself, the more I consider the matter, the more I
