Mr Beaumaris’s subsequent proceedings, during the short space of time that elapsed before his elopement, were many and varied, but although they included precise instructions to his coachman and his postilion, and a drive out of London, there was one curious omission: he took no steps to procure a special licence, so that it was to be inferred that he contemplated a flight to the Border, and a ceremony performed across the anvil at Gretna Green: a departure from the canons of good taste which would have staggered any of his associates who had had the least suspicion of his clandestine intentions. But as no one who met him detected anything out of the ordinary in his demeanour no one except his prospective bride speculated at all on the course of action he meant to pursue.
Arabella, naturally enough, employed every moment that was unoccupied by social engagements in a great deal of speculation, but as she was wholly ignorant of the rules governing hasty marriages the need of a special licence did not occur to her. She certainly supposed that she would be driven to Gretna Green, and, having once accepted this hateful necessity, resolutely turned her thoughts away from it. Romantic though such an adventure might be, no young lady, reared, as she had been, in the strictest propriety, could embark on it without feeling herself to have sunk to irreclaimable depths of depravity. How she was ever to explain such conduct to the satisfaction of Papa was an unanswerable question. Only the thought of Bertram’s predicament in any way sustained her. She snatched ten minutes between seeing a balloon-ascent and dressing for a more than ordinarily splendid ball, in scribbling a letter to Bertram, assuring him that he need only wait patiently at the Cock for a few more days before he should infallibly be rescued from all his embarrassments.
Of Mr Beaumaris she saw nothing until she met him at Vauxhall Gardens. He was not present at the ball on the night previous to their assignation, a circumstance of which she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry.
Perhaps it was fortunate that Lady Bridlington’s plans for their amusement left her with so little time for reflection. The indulgence of a quiet hour or two in her own bedchamber was not granted her. Try as she would she was unable to stay awake after that splendid ball, and only awoke next morning when Maria drew back her window-blinds. The day was full to overflowing with engagements: she was dressing for Mr Beaumaris’s Vauxhall Gardens party, before, as it seemed to her, she well realised what she was about.
It so happened that through the press of invitations which had showered down upon the house in Park Street Arabella had never before visited the famous gardens. They took sculls across the river, to enter by the water-gate, and at any other time she must have been transported by the sight which met her eyes. The gardens, which were laid out in groves and colonnades, were lit (as Lord Bridlington instructively informed her) by no fewer than thirty-seven thousand lamps, some of them suspended in graceful festoons between the pillars of the colonnades. The orchestra, detected across the principal grove, was established in a giant kiosk, glittering all over with coloured lights; there was a spacious pavilion, lined with mirrors, which formed the principal supper-room for those who did not care to go to the expense of hiring one of the boxes which opened on to the various colonnades; a Rotunda, where excellent concerts were held throughout the season; several magnificent fountains; and innumerable walks where lovers could lose themselves at will.
Mr Beaumaris met his guests at the water-entrance, and conducted them to the Rotunda, where, since it was past eight o’clock, the concert was already in progress. Arabella could scarcely meet his eyes, but forced herself to look up once, very fleetingly, into his face. He smiled at her, but no private speech passed between them.
After the first act of the concert, at about ten o’clock, a bell rang, and those who had no ear for music poured into the Rotunda to witness the marvels of the Grand Cascade. Even though feelings of guilt were in danger of overcoming her, Arabella could not help uttering an exclamation of delight when a dark curtain arose to reveal a rural scene, done in miniature, but amazingly life-like, of a cascade, a watermill, a bridge, and a succession of coaches, wagons, and other vehicles passing with every appearance of verisimilitude across the stage. Even the sound of the wheels, and the rush of the waters was ingeniously counterfeited, so that she thought it no matter for wonder that people should visit Vauxhall three and four times only to see this marvel.
When the curtain descended again, Mr Beaumaris suggested that his guests might like to partake of supper instead of waiting to hear the second part of the concert. This being agreed to, they edged their way out of the row where they were sitting and strolled down one of the colonnades to the supper-box which had been hired for their accommodation. This was in an excellent position, not too close to the orchestra in the kiosk to make conversation a labour, and commanding a splendid view of the principal grove. No one, of course, could visit Vauxhall without eating the wafer-thin slices of ham for which the suppers were famous, or tasting the rack-punch; but in addition to these delicacies Mr Beaumaris had ordered a meal so excellently chosen as to tempt the most fugitive appetite. Even Arabella, whose appetite had deserted her several days before, could enjoy the chicken, cooked before her eyes in a chafing-dish; and was persuaded to toy with a trifle. Mr Beaumaris prepared a peach for her with his own hands, and since an imminent elopement was no excuse, she believed, for a present lapse of good manners, she ate this too, smiling shyly and gratefully at him. She found little to say beyond the merest commonplace throughout supper, but this silence passed unnoticed in the spate of Lord Bridlington’s discourse. He kindly explained to the ladies the mechanism which produced the wonders of the Grand Cascade; sketched the history of the Gardens; extensively examined their claim to be considered a development of the old Spring Gardens; and disposed of the tradition which linked the district with the name of Guy Fawkes. He was only interrupted when it became necessary to exchange greetings with some acquaintance who happened to walk past the box; and since his mother murmured encouraging remarks every now and then, and Mr Beaumaris, with great self-control, forbore to utter one of his blighting snubs, he enjoyed himself very much, and was sorry when his host suggested that Miss Tallant would like to see the Fireworks.
He was allowed to take Arabella on his arm on their way to the part of the grounds whence these could best be seen, while Mr Beaumaris followed beside Lady Bridlington, but just as he had secured two excellent places he found himself, quite how he did not know, supplanted, and was obliged to attend to his Mama, who did not like her situation, and insisted on his finding her a place where her view of the set-pieces would not be obscured by the head-dress of a lady who favoured immensely tall ostrich plumes.
Arabella momentarily forgot her troubles in enchantment, and clapped her hands when the rockets soared skywards, and burst into stars. Mr Beaumaris, inured to fireworks, derived even more entertainment through watching her round-eyed delight; but after the first of the set-pieces had burnt itself out, he consulted his watch, and said gently: ‘Shall we go, Miss Tallant?’
These words brought her to earth with a shock. An impulse to tell him that she had changed her mind had to be sternly repressed, and all the miseries poor Bertram must be enduring recalled. She clutched her taffeta cloak round her, and said nervously: ‘Oh, yes! Is it already time? Yes, let us go at once!’
There was not the least difficulty in detaching themselves unnoticed from a crowd of persons all intent upon the evolutions of a giant Catherine-wheel; Arabella laid a cold hand on Mr Beaumaris’s arm, and went with him down an alley, past the Fountain of Neptune, most tastefully illuminated, along one of the colonnades, and so to the land-entrance. Several carriages were awaiting their owners here, and amongst them Mr Beaumaris’s travelling chaise, with a pair of horses harnessed to it, and his head-coachman, and one postilion in attendance. Neither of these individuals betrayed the smallest surprise at seeing a lady on his master’s arm, and although Arabella was too much embarrassed to raise her eyes she was aware that they were conducting themselves as though this elopement were an everyday occurrence in their lives. They sprang to well-trained activity as soon as they saw their master; the cloths were swept from the back of Mr Beaumaris’s high-bred horses; the steps of the chaise were let down, the doors opened, and Mr Beaumaris handed his bride tenderly up into the luxurious vehicle. So little time had she been kept waiting in the road that she did not even look to see whether any baggage was strapped to the back of the chaise. Mr Beaumaris paused only to exchange a word with the coachman, and then sprang up, and took his place beside Arabella on the comfortably cushioned seat; the doors were shut on them; the postilion swung himself into the saddle, and the equipage moved forward.
Mr Beaumaris spread a soft rug over Arabella’s legs, and said: ‘I have a warmer cloak here: may I put it round your shoulders?’
‘Oh, no, thank you! I am quite warm!’ Arabella said nervously.
He took her hand, and kissed it. After a moment she drew it away, and sought desperately for something to say to relieve the tension of the moment.
‘How very well-sprung your chaise is, sir!’ she achieved.
‘I am glad you are pleased with it,’ he responded, in the same polite tone which she had used. ‘I remembered, of course, that we are alike in detesting hired vehicles.’
‘Are – are we?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I mean, of course –’
‘We exchanged opinions, the first time we met, on the only tolerable way of travel,’ Mr Beaumaris reminded her.
This recollection not unnaturally deprived her of speech. Mr Beaumaris, most obligingly, forbore to press her for an answer, but talked agreeably about the concert they had heard that night. Arabella, who had experienced a few moments’ panic on finding herself shut up with her bridegroom in a chaise, travelling to an unknown but 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 unforgivable; what now filled her with repugnance was the sudden realisation 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 very sorry, but it was all a mistake! Please take me back to London at once! Oh, please take me back!’
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 showed 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 them 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 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 her self 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 you to 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 am convinced that we should do better to steel ourselves to meet the felicitations of our friends, and announce our betrothal in the columns of the society journals in the accepted manner.’
‘Mr Beaumaris,’ interrupted Arabella, pale but resolute, ‘I cannot marry you!’ She added, on another of her small sobs: ‘I don’t know why you should ever have wanted to marry me, but –’
‘I have lost my entire fortune on ’Change, and must instantly repair it,’ he interrupted promptly.
Arabella rose jerkily, and confronted him. ‘I have not a penny in the world!’ she announced.
‘In that case,’ responded Mr Beaumaris, maintaining his calm, ‘you really have no choice in the matter: you must obviously marry me. Since we are being frank with one another, I will confess that my fortune is still intact.’
‘I deceived you! I am not an heiress!’ Arabella said, feeling that he could not have understood her words.
‘You never deceived me for a moment,’ said Mr Beaumaris, smiling at her in a way which made her tremble still more violently.
‘I lied to you!’ cried Arabella, determined to bring him to a sense of her iniquities.
‘Most understandable,’ agreed Mr Beaumaris. ‘But I am really quite uninterested in heiresses.’
‘Mr Beaumaris,’ said Arabella earnestly, ‘the whole of London believes me to be a wealthy woman!’
‘Yes, and since the whole of London must certainly continue in that belief, you have, as I have already pointed out to you, no choice but to marry me,’ he said. ‘My fortune, happily, is so large that your lack of fortune need never be suspected.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you tell me you knew the truth?’ she cried, wringing her hands.
He possessed himself of them, and held them lightly. ‘My dearest goose, why didn’t you trust me, when I assured you that you might?’ he countered. ‘I have cherished throughout the belief that you would confide in me, and you see I was quite right. So certain was I that you would not, when the time actually came, run off with me in this absurd fashion, that I visited my grandmother yesterday, and told her the whole story. She was very much diverted, and commanded me to bring you to stay for a few days with her. I hope you will not object to this: she frightens half the world, but you will have me to support you through the ordeal.’
Arabella pulled her hands resolutely away, and turned from him to hide her quivering lips, and suffused eyes. ‘It is worse than you know!’ she said, in a stifled tone. ‘When you know all the truth, you will not wish to marry me! I have been worse than untruthful: I have been shameless! I can never marry you, Mr Beaumaris!’
‘This is most disturbing,’ he said. ‘Not only have I sent the notice of our betrothal to the Gazette, and the Morning Post, but I have obtained your father’s consent to our marriage.’
At this, she spun round to face him again, a look of utter astonishment in her face. ‘My father’s consent?’ she repeated incredulously.
‘It is usual, you know,’ explained Mr Beaumaris apologetically.
‘But you do not know my father!’
‘On the contrary. I made his acquaintance last week, and spent two most agreeable nights at Heythram,’ he said.
‘But – Did Lady Bridlington tell you?’
‘No, not Lady Bridlington. Your brother let slip the name of his home once, and I have an excellent memory. I am sorry, by the way, that Bertram should have been having such an uncomfortable time during my absence from town. That was quite my fault: I should have sought him out, and settled his difficulties before I left for Yorkshire. I did write to him, but he had unfortunately departed from the Red Lion before the delivery of my letter. However, you won’t find that the experience has harmed him, so I must hope to be forgiven.’
Her cheeks were now very much flushed. ‘You know it all then! Oh, what must you think of me? I asked you to marry me because – because I wanted you to give me seven hundred pounds to save poor Bertram from a debtor’s prison!’
‘I know you did,’ said Mr Beaumaris cordially. ‘I don’t know how I contrived to keep my countenance. When did it occur to you, my ridiculous little love, that to demand a large sum of money from your bridegroom as soon as the ring was on your finger might be a trifle awkward?’
‘Just now – in your chaise!’ she confessed, covering her face with her hands. ‘I couldn’t do it! I have behaved very, very badly, but when I realised what I was about – oh, indeed, I knew I could never do it!’
‘We have both behaved very badly,’ he agreed. ‘I encouraged Fleetwood to spread the news that you were a great heiress: I even allowed him to suppose that I knew all about your family. I thought it would be amusing to see whether I could make you the rage of London – and I blush to confess it, my darling: it was amusing! Nor do I really regret it in the least, for if I had not set out on this most reprehensible course we might never have come much in one another’s way again, after our first meeting, and I might never have discovered that I had found the very girl I had been looking for for so long.’
‘No, no, how can you say so?’ she exclaimed, large tears standing on the ends of her lashes. ‘I came to London in the hope of – of contracting an eligible marriage, and I asked you to marry me because you are so very rich! You could not wish to marry such an odious creature!’
‘No, perhaps I couldn’t,’ he replied. ‘But although you may have forgotten that when I first addressed myself to you, you declined my offer, I have not. If wealth was all your object, I can’t conceive what should have induced you to do so! It seemed to me that you were not entirely indifferent to me. All things considered, I decided that my proper course was to present myself to your parents without further loss of time. And I am very glad I did so, for not only did I spend a very pleasant time at the Vicarage, but I also enjoyed a long talk with your mother – By the way, do you know how much you resemble her? More, I think than any of your brothers and sisters, though they are all remarkably handsome. But, as I say, I enjoyed a long talk with her, and was encouraged to hope, from what she told me, that I had not been mistaken in thinking you were not indifferent to me.’
‘I never wrote a word to Mama, or even to Sophy, about – about – not being indifferent to you!’ Arabella said involuntarily.
‘Well, I do not know how that may be,’ said Mr Beaumaris, ‘but Mama and Sophy were not at all surprised to receive a visit from me. Perhaps you may have mentioned me rather frequently in your letters, or perhaps Lady Bridlington gave Mama a hint that I was the most determined of your suitors.’
The mention of her godmother made Arabella start, and exclaim: ‘Lady Bridlington! Good God, I left a letter for her on the table in the hall, telling her of the dreadful thing I had done, and begging her to forgive me!’
‘Don’t disturb yourself, my love: Lady Bridlington knows very well where you are. Indeed, I found her most helpful, particularly when it came to packing what you would need for a brief sojourn at my grandmother’s house. She promised that her own maid should attend to the matter while we were listening to that tedious concert. I daresay she has long since told that son of hers that he may look for the notice of our engagement in tomorrow’s Gazette, together with the intelligence that we have both of us gone out of town to stay with the Dowager Duchess of Wigan. By the time we reappear in London, we must hope that our various acquaintances will have grown so accustomed to the news that we shall not be quite overwhelmed by their astonishment, their chagrin, or their felicitations. But I am strongly of the opinion that you should permit me to escort you home to Heythram as soon as possible: you will naturally wish your father to marry us, and I am extremely impatient to carry off my wife without any loss of time. My darling, what in the world have I said to make you cry?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing!’ sobbed Arabella. ‘Only that I don’t deserve to be so happy, and I n-never was indifferent to you, though I t-tried very hard to be, when I thought you were only trifling with m-me!’
Mr Beaumaris then took her firmly into his arms, and kissed her; after which she derived much comfort from clutching the lapel of his elegant coat, and weeping into his shoulder. None of the very gratifying things which Mr Beaumaris murmured into the curls that were tickling his chin had any other effect on her than to make her sob more bitterly than ever, so he presently told her that even his love for her could not prevail upon him to allow her to ruin his favourite coat. This changed her tears to laughter, and after he had dried her face, and kissed her again, she became tolerably composed, and was able to sit down on the sofa beside him, and to accept from him the glass of tepid milk which he told her she must drink if she did not wish to incur Mrs Watchet’s displeasure. She smiled mistily, and sipped the milk, saying after a moment: ‘And Papa gave his consent! Oh, what will he say when he knows the whole? What did you tell him?’
‘I told him the truth,’ replied Mr Beaumaris.
Arabella nearly dropped the glass. ‘All the truth?’ she faltered, dismay in her face.
‘All of it – oh, not the truth about Bertram! His name did not enter into our conversation, and I strictly charged him, when I sent him off to Yorkshire, not to divulge one word of his adventures. Much as I like and esteem your father, I cannot feel that any good purpose would be served by distressing him with that story. I told him the truth about you and me.’
‘Was he – dreadfully displeased with me?’ asked Arabella, in a small, apprehensive voice.
‘He was, I fear, a little grieved,’ owned Mr Beaumaris. ‘But when he understood that you would never have announced yourself to have been an heiress had you not overheard me talking like a coxcomb to Charles Fleetwood, he was soon brought to perceive that I was even more to blame for the deception than you.’
‘Was he?’ said Arabella doubtfully.
‘Drink your milk, my love! Certainly he was. Between us, your Mama and I were able to show him that without my prompting Charles would never have spread the rumour abroad, and that once the rumour had been so spread it was impossible for you to deny it, since naturally no one ever asked you if it were true. I daresay he may give you a little scold, but I am quite sure you are already forgiven.’
‘Did he forgive you too?’ asked Arabella, awed.
‘I had all the merit of making the confession,’ Mr Beaumaris pointed out virtuously. ‘He forgave me freely. I cannot imagine why you should look so much surprised: I found him in every way delightful, and have seldom enjoyed an evening more than the one I spent conversing with him in his study, after your Mama and Sophy had gone to bed. Indeed, we sat talking until the candles guttered in their sockets.’
Arabella’s awed expression became even more marked. ‘Dear sir, what – what did you talk about?’ she enquired, quite unable to visualise Papa and the Nonpareil hob-nobbing together.
‘We discussed certain aspects of Wolf’s Prolegomena ad Homerum, a copy of which work I chanced to see upon his bookshelf,’ replied Mr Beaumaris calmly. ‘I myself picked up a copy when I was in Vienna last year, and was much interested in Wolf’s theory that more than one hand was employed in the writing of the Iliad and the Odyssey.’
‘Is – is that what the book is about?’ asked Arabella.
He smiled, but replied gravely: ‘Yes, that is what it is about – though your father, a far more profound scholar than I am, found the opening chapter, which treats of the proper methods to be used in the recension of ancient manuscripts, of even more interest. He took me a little out of my depth there, but I hope I may have profited by his very just observations.’
‘Did you enjoy that?’ demanded Arabella, much impressed.
‘Very much. In spite of my frippery ways, you know, I do occasionally enjoy rational conversation, just as I can spend a very agreeable evening playing at lottery-tickets with Mama, and Sophy, and the children.’
‘You did not do that!’ she cried. ‘Oh, you are quizzing me! You must have been shockingly bored!’
‘Nothing of the sort! The man who could be bored in the midst of such a lively family as yours must be an insufferable fellow, above being pleased by anything. By the by, if that uncle of yours does not come up to scratch, we must do something towards helping Harry to achieve his burning ambition to become a second Nelson. Not the eccentric uncle who died, and left you his entire fortune, but the one who still lives.’
‘Oh, pray don’t speak of that dreadful fortune ever again!’ begged Arabella, hanging down her head.
‘But I must speak of it!’ objected Mr Beaumaris. ‘Since I presume that we shall frequently be inviting the various members of your family to stay with us, and can hardly pass them all off as heirs and heiress, some explanation of your superior circumstances must be forthcoming! Your Mama – an admirable woman! – and I decided that the eccentric uncle would serve our turn very well. We were further agreed, quite tacitly, you know, that it will be unnecessary, and, indeed, quite undesirable, to mention the matter to Papa.’
‘Oh, no it would never do to tell him that!’ she said quickly. ‘He would not like it at all, and when he is grieved with any of us – Oh, if only he does not discover the scrape Bertram fell into, and if only Bertram didn’t fail to pass that examination at Oxford, which I am much afraid he may have, because it did not sound to me as though –’
‘It is not the slightest consequence,’ he interrupted. ‘Bertram – though Papa does not yet know it – is not going to Oxford: he is going to join a cavalry regiment, where he will feel very much more at home, and, I daresay, become a great credit to us all.’
At this, Arabella caught his hand in her free one, and kissed it, exclaiming, with a sob in her voice: ‘How good you are! How much, much too good you are, my dear Mr Beaumaris!’
‘Never,’ said Mr Beaumaris, snatching his hand away, and taking Arabella into his arms so urgently that the rest of the milk in the glass was spilt over her gown, ‘Never, Arabella, dare to do such a thing again! And don’t talk such fustian to me, or persist in calling me Mr Beaumaris!’
‘Oh, I must!’ protested Arabella, into his shoulder. ‘I can’t call you – I can’t call you – Robert!’
‘You have called me Robert very prettily, and you will find, if you persevere, that it will rise quite easily to your lips in a very short space of time.’
‘Well, if it will please you, I will try to say it,’ said Arabella. She sat up suddenly, as a thought occurred to her, and said in her impulsive way: ‘Oh, Mr Beaumaris – I mean, dear Robert! – there was an unfortunate female, called Leaky Peg, in that horrid house where I went to see poor Bertram, and she was so very kind to him! Do you think – ?’
‘No, Arabella,’ said Mr Beaumaris firmly. ‘I do not!’
She was disappointed, but docile. ‘No?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Mr Beaumaris, drawing her back into his arm.
‘I thought we might have taken her away from that dreadful place,’ suggested Arabella, smoothing his coat-lapel with a coaxing hand.
‘I am quite sure you did, my love, but while I am prepared to receive into my household climbing-boys and stray curs, I must draw the line at a lady rejoicing in the name of Leaky Peg.’
‘You don’t think she might learn to become a housemaid, or something of that sort? You know –’
‘I only know two things,’ interrupted Mr Beaumaris. ‘The first is that she is not going to make the attempt in any house of mine; and the second, and by far the more important, is that I adore you, Arabella!’
Arabella was so much pleased by this disclosure that she lost interest in Leaky Peg, and confined herself to the far more agreeable task of convincing Mr Beaumaris that his very obliging sentiments were entirely reciprocated.
