‘You are the best and kindest of aunts!’ Lucy declared. ‘I do understand what you must feel—indeed, I do! Never would I ask you to do what you think wrong! I had not reflected how impossible it must be for you! Forgive me!’

Much heartened, Miss Tresilian recommended her not to be a goose, and wondered how speedily she could put her plans into execution, and what her exacting elder sister would say when she learned that she meant, instead of returning to her home in Camden Place, to embark on an extended foreign tour.

It could not have been said that Lucy entered into any of the arrangements which occupied Miss Tresilian’s every moment during the follow week, or evinced the smallest enthusiasm for any of the promised treats in store, but she uttered no protests, and that, in Miss Tresilian’s opinion, was as much as could be hoped for in the natural oppression of her spirits. Calculating ways and means, Miss Tresilian paused to consider the likelihood of Mr Rosely’s following his inamorata. Probably Lord Iver would scotch any such scheme, but she determined nevertheless to add her prohibition to his.

In the event, she was denied the opportunity of private speech with Mr Rosely. Returning to Green Street just after eleven one morning, after a protracted appointment in the City she was met by her personal maid, who did not scruple to read her a scold for having sallied forth alone on what this severe critic apparently believed to have been an expedition fraught with peril. ‘And breakfast waiting for you this hour past!’ said Miss Baggeridge, relieving her of her shawl and gloves. ‘Now, you sit down this instant, Miss Elinor! Traipsing all about the town, and knocking yourself up like you are! What your poor mama would have said I’m sure I don’t know!’

Accustomed from her childhood to her henchwoman’s strictures, Miss Tresilian only said, as she removed her becoming hat of chip-straw: ‘Where’s Miss Lucy? I suppose she breakfasted an hour ago.’

‘It’s what anyone might suppose of a young lady of quality,’ said Miss Baggeridge grimly. ‘Though why they should, with you setting her the example you do, miss—’

‘—you are sure you don’t know!’ supplied Miss Tresilian.

Miss Baggeridge fixed her with a kindling eye. ‘Well do I know it’s not my place to utter a word, miss, and far be it from me to unclose my lips on the subject, but when it comes to a young lady gallivanting about the town without so much as the page-boy to escort her, and carrying a bandbox on her arm like a common person, I couldn’t reconcile it with my conscience not to speak!’

‘If she was carrying a bandbox, she has only gone to take back that French cambric half-robe which must be altered,’ said Miss Tresilian prosaically.

Miss Baggeridge sniffed, but refrained from further comment. Having seen her mistress supplied with fresh coffee and bread and butter, she produced from her pocket a sealed missive, saying, in a grudging tone: ‘There’s a letter from Miss Clara. There was a shilling to pay on it, too. I suppose you’d better have it, but if I was you, miss, I wouldn’t worrit myself with it till you’ve eaten your breakfast.’

With these sage words of advice she withdrew; and Miss Tresilian, never one to shirk a disagreeable duty, broke the wafer of her sister’s letter, and spread open three crossed pages of complaint.

While she sipped her coffee she perused these. Nothing could have been more discouraging than the eldest Miss Tresilian’s account of her health, but as her detailed descriptions of the torment she endured from rheumatism, nervous tic, spasm, and insomnia were interspersed with the latest Bath on-dits. and some animadversions on the wretched cards she had held at the whist-table, Miss Elinor Tresilian’s withers remained unwrung. She gathered that Clara was contriving to amuse herself tolerably well; was relieved to read no very serious criticism of the indigent lady engaged to act as companion to the invalid, and got up to place the letter in her writing-bureau. She never did so. No sooner had she raised the lid of the bureau than she found herself staring down at a letter addressed to herself in Lucy’s handwriting. Clara’s missive dropped to the floor, and Miss Tresilian, with a premonition of disaster, snatched up her niece’s letter, and tore off the wafer that sealed it.


Dear, dearest aunt, she read. This will come as a Shock to you, and I can only implore you to forgive me, and to understand (as I am persuaded you will) the Exigency of my Situation, nothing less than which could have prevailed upon me to act in a manner as Repugnant to me as, alas, it will be to you. By the time your eyes alight on these lines I shall be many miles distant, and when I Cast myself at your feet to beg your Pardon it will be as the Bride of my Adored Arthur. Oh, my dear aunt, believe that I have not reached this Momentous Decision without an Agonizing Struggle, for to Approach the Altar without your Blessing, or your presence to support me at that Solemn Moment, so sinks my spirits that only my Conviction that your Refusal to sanction my Engagement sprang not from your Heart but from your sense of Propriety gives me courage to pursue a Line of Conduct which must Shock you and all theworld. My only Comfort (besides the Bliss of being united to the Best and Noblest of men) is that You cannot be held accountable, even by Lord Iver, for what I must call (though my hand shrinks from penning the Dreadful Syllables’) my Elopement. . . .


Stunned by this communication, Miss Tresilian could not for many minutes collect her scattered wits. With every will in the world to spring to instant action she felt as though she had been smitten with paralysis. From this distressing condition she was reclaimed by the sudden opening of the door, and the sound of a harsh, too-well remembered voice saying: ‘Thank you, I’ll announce myself!’

She raised her head, and stared blankly across the room at Lord Iver.

He was dressed for travel, and had not stayed to put off his long, many-caped driving-coat of white drab. It was plain, from his blazing eyes and close-gripped lips, that he was in a towering rage, but he did not immediately speak. After a searing moment, his gaze dropped to the letter in her hand, and he said: ‘Mine is an empty errand, I apprehend! Is that from your niece?’

Hardly knowing what she did, she held it out to him. He rapidly scanned it, and said contemptuously: ‘Very affecting!—if you have a taste for the romantic! I have not!’ His eyes searched her face; he gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t look so tragic! You don’t imagine, do you, that I shan’t stop this crazy project?’

She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. ‘Can you do so? Do you know where—Has Arthur written to you?’

‘Yes—like the silly widgeon he is!’ he replied. ‘As for knowing where, there was no need to tell me that! Or you either, I imagine!’

‘But I haven’t the least notion!’ she said distractedly. ‘Where could they have gone? She’s underage! Even if Arthur has a special licence, no one would marry them! She knows that, and surely he must?’

‘Of course they know it, and also the one place where they may be married, with no questions asked!’ He read bewilderment in her face, and strode up to her, and gave her a rough little shake. ‘They’ve set off for the Border, my innocent! This is to be a Gretna Green affair: a charming scheme, isn’t it?’

‘Gretna Green?’’ she repeated. The colour rushed up into her face; she thrust him away, exclaiming: ‘How dare you say such a thing? Never would Lucy behave with such impropriety!’

‘Then have the goodness to tell me where else she has gone—with a wedding as her acknowledged goal!’

‘I don’t know!’ she cried, unconsciously wringing her hands. ‘Unless—Oh, could they have hoaxed some cleric into believing Lucy to be of age?’

‘They can hardly have needed a post-chaise-and-four for that fetch! Oh yes, I’ve ascertained that much already—and also that the chaise has been hired for an unspecified time, and the post-boys for the first two stages. To Welwyn, in fact, and Welwyn, I would remind you, is on the Great North Road!’

‘Oh no!’ she protested. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Well, that’s of no consequence!’ he said unkindly. ‘I have discharged my duty, at all events, and must now be off. I shall overtake them long before they reach the Border, and will engage myself to restore your niece to you with as little scandal as may be possible, so don’t fall into despair!’

‘Wait!’ she uttered. ‘If this is true—What was it she wrote?—repugnant to her as it must be to me—agonizing struggle—shock the world—Good God, she must be out of her senses! Iver, she left the house before ten o’clock! Can you overtake them?’

‘Do you care to hazard a bet on the chance that I shan’t have done so before nightfall? I shouldn’t, if I were you!’

‘Then grant me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready to go with you!’ she said, hurrying to the door.

‘Don’t be so absurd! I’m not taking you with me on this chase, or anyone! Not even my groom!’

‘I should hope you were not taking your groom! But me you are taking, make up your mind to that, Iver! Who is to protect Lucy’s reputation if I don’t! You cannot!—in fact, you would be very much more likely to blast it!’

‘Thank you! Let me tell you that I am not travelling in a post-chaise, but in my own curricle!’

‘So I should suppose! And let me tell you, my lord, that this won’t be the first time I’ve travelled in a curricle—or driven one, if it comes to that!’

‘It will not come to that!’ declared his lordship, flinging these words after her retreating form.


The first few miles of the journey were accomplished in silence, since Miss Tresilian was absorbed in her agitating reflections, and Lord Iver’s attention was fully engaged by the task of guiding a spirited team through the noise and bustle of the crowded streets. His curricle was lightly built and well sprung; and since, like every other sporting blood of his day, he had not two but four horses harnessed to it, and was himself a Nonesuch of the first stare, it bowled over the ground, when the streets were left behind, at a speed that allayed one at least of Miss Tresilian’s fears. The June day was bright and warm, the road in excellent condition, and these circumstances helped materially to restore her spirits. When my lord swept through Barnet without a check she asked him where he meant to change horses. He replied curtly that his team was good for two stages. Miss Tresilian relapsed into silence, but, after some twenty minutes, said suddenly: ‘Try as I will, I can’t believe we haven’t come on a wild goose chase!’

‘Then perhaps you will tell me why you forced yourself upon me?’

‘On the chance that you might be right—but the more I consider it the less do I think you can be!’

But at Welwyn, where my lord arranged for the stabling of his own horses, and had a fresh team put-to, her optimism was quenched. One of the waiters at the White Hart had had ample opportunity to observe the handsome young gentleman who had jumped down from a chaise to procure a glass of lemonade for his lady; and he described him in terms which left no room for doubt. Miss Tresilian’s rising spirits went into eclipse, and were not improved by his lordship’s saying, as he drove out of the yard: ‘Satisfied?’

Spurred by this unhandsome taunt, she responded: ‘A very odd notion you must have of me if you suppose I could be satisfied by such intelligence! I was never more shocked in my life!’

‘I should hope you had not been! If anything had been needed to prove me right in thinking you wholly unfit for the post of guardian your niece has supplied it!’

‘Well, if it comes to that, you’ve made a sad botch of your ward, haven’t you?’ she retorted.

‘I have not the smallest doubt that Arthur was cajoled into this escapade by your niece’s wiles!’

‘To own the truth,’ said Miss Tresilian frankly, ‘nor have I! Lucy has ten times his spirit! There is a want of resolution in him which I can’t but deplore, even though I perfectly understand the cause of it. Poor boy! It must have been hard indeed to have developed strength of character, bullied and browbeaten as he has been almost from infancy!’

‘Bullied and browbeaten?’ echoed his lordship.

‘I dare say you never knew you were crushing his spirit,’ she offered, in a palliative tone.