Miss Grantham, well aware of these facts, was riding him hard as she thought proper, allowing the decision and forcefulness of her own character to throw Miss Laxton’s gentle: and more yielding nature into strong relief. Mablethorpe, she knew, could not fail to make comparison between them; and it would be an odd thing if a young man who was bullied, in a kind way, by one woman, did not find the admiration and dependence of another a refreshing change.
He did find it refreshing. Miss Laxton’s fragility, her helplessness, her implicit trust in him, had made an instant appeal to his chivalry. From the first moment of meeting her, when she had clung to his hand, he had felt protective towards her. She had said that she knew herself to be safe with him, and later she had said that she would be guided by his judgement, and had asked for his advice. No one had ever expressed a desire to benefit by Lord Mablethorpe’s advice before; and since his mother, his uncle Julius, and his cousin Max were all persons of decided opinions, he had never received any very noticeable encouragement to put forward his own views on subjects of major importance. His life had, naturally enough, been ordered for him, and although he was fast approaching his majority it would be some time before these relatives, who were all so much older and wiser than himself, would be brought to regard him in the light of a responsible adult. Even Deborah, in her most mellow moments, treated him rather as she might be expected to treat a younger brother. She laughed at him, and teased him, and could rarely be brought to take him very seriously.
But Miss Laxton was two years younger than he, and she did not see him as a delightful boy who had not yet found his feet. To her, running away from the advances of one who seemed to her an ogre, he was a tall young knight who had stepped out from the pages of a fairy story. His knowledge of the world seemed vast to one who had none at all. He was handsome, and strong, and gentle. He instructed her ignorance, and bade her entrust her safety to him. It was not surprising that Miss Laxton should have fallen head over ears in love with him.
She was in no doubt about her feelings; it was some time before he realized the state of his own heart, and longer still before he would admit to himself that he had, incredibly, fallen out of love with one woman headlong into love with another. It seemed appalling to him that he could have done such a thing, and he was inclined to think himself the most fickle and despicable of created beings. But he knew that his love for Phoebe was quite a different emotion from his half awed adoration of Deborah. He had been swept off his feet by Deborah. She was a goddess to be worshipped, beautiful, wise, and dazzling; always immeasurably superior to himself. He did not think of Phoebe like that at all. He knew quite well that she was not as beautiful as Deborah, not wise, and appealing rather than dazzling. When Deborah had smiled at him, he had felt quite dizzy, and had had wild, romantic notions of kissing the hem of her garment, or performing impossible feats in her honour. When Phoebe smiled, no such thoughts occurred to him, but he was conscious of a strong impulse to catch her up in his arms, and hold her safe there.
He had had just such an impulse when he had said good night to her before coming down to the supper-room that evening. She had looked forlorn and defenceless, and was frightened, because she knew that Filey was in the house. He felt concerned about her, so Miss Grantham’s lack of sympathy struck him forcibly, and he came as near losing his temper with her as he had ever been in his life.
When she left the room, he joined the group round his cousin. Crewe was trying to discover what was the nature of the injury to Ravenscar’s hands, and several other persons were discussing the relative points of the two pairs of horses, and the character of the course to be covered. This had been changed from the original stretch past Epsom to a straightforward run from the village of Islington to Hatfield, on the Great North Road. Listening to the talk, Lord Mablethorpe forgot his heart’s preoccupations for a time. “I wish I were going with you!” he said wistfully. “I mean to drive out to see the finish, but that’s not the same thing.”
Ravenscar set down his empty glass on the table. “Well, you may come with me if you like,” he answered. “Only you must carry the yard of tin if you do!”
An eager flush rose to Mablethorpe’s cheeks. “Max! Do you mean it? You’ll take me in place of a groom? Oh, by Jupiter, that’s beyond anything great!”
Crewe laughed at his enthusiasm, and began to tease him.
“Why, Max, you can’t take him in place of Welling! You will be held up at every toll-bar!”
“He will not!” said Mablethorpe indignantly. “I can handle the yard of tin as well as anyone!”
“You will be so excited you will forget to blow up for the gates until it is too late.”
“I won’t! Why, I have often been with Max! I know just what to do!”
“Well,” said Crewe, shaking his head, “if you really mean to set up that great, lanky creature in Welling’s place, Max, I shall have to lay off you, and that is all there is to it.”
This shaft went home. Lord Mablethorpe’s face fell ludicrously, and he turned anxious eyes towards his cousin. “Oh Max, had I better not go with you? Am I too heavy?”
As his lordship, though tall, was boyishly slim, this apprehensive question produced a shout of laughter, which made him blush more hotly than ever. However, as he was quite accustomed to being roasted by his cousin’s friends, he took it in very good part, merely prophesying darkly the hideous fate that would one day overtake Berkeley Crewe, and announcing his intention of going home immediately, to be sure of a good night’s sleep before the race.
Mr Ravenscar thought this a wise decision, and further suggested that his lordship should refrain from informing his parent that he was to take part in the race. Lord Mablethorpe said: “Oh, by God, no! I won’t say a word to her about it!” and went off, forgetting, for the first time since he had met her, to take his leave of Miss Grantham.
Mr Ravenscar went upstairs to play faro, but if Lady Bellingham was gratified to see him at the table she managed to conceal it, looking at him with the dilating eyes of a trapped rabbit whenever he glanced in her direction, and finding it exceedingly difficult to keep her attention on the game. She had never been so glad to see a table break up and when the last of her guests had left the house she found herself without strength to climb the stairs to her bedroom, but collapsed upon a yellow satin sofa, and moaned for hartshorn.
“Be easy, ma’am!” said Lucius Kennet, who had stayed to exchange a word with Deborah. “Now, me darlin’, perhaps you’ll be telling me what game it is you’re after playing!”
Miss Grantham swung her wide skirts defiantly. “I told you what happened. It was not my fault.”
“What maggot got into your brain to give Ravenscar a candle?”
“I didn’t know what he meant to do. How should I guess?”
“What the devil should he be wanting with a candle at all, if not to be up to some mischief? Sure, it’s not like you to be gulled, Deb!”
“Well, I should not like to be left in the dark myself,” she said. “Besides, he said there were rats.”
“He was quite right,” said Lady Bellingham faintly, opening her eyes. “The servants are for ever complaining about them but what can one do?”
“Whisht, Deb! Is it the likes of Ravenscar that would afraid of a rat or two?”
“Mortimer is afraid of them,” said Lady Bellingham. “He gives me no peace about it! I am sure Ravenscar may well have been afraid of them. Oh, I shall go distract He will tell everyone what you did to him, my love, and end of it will be that no one will dare come to the house again!”
“Who bound up Ravenscar’s hands?” demanded Kennet, eyes fixed on Miss Grantham’s face. “And if he burned cord, how came his ruffles to escape? Tell me that!”
“They didn’t escape,” said Deborah crossly. “I lent him Kit’s ruffles. Where is Kit?”
Kennet grinned. “Faith, I’m thinking he didn’t care for style of things here, me darlin’, for he took himself off to supper. Don’t be trying to
dodge the issue, now! It was yourself tied Ravenscar’s hands up, was it not?”
“Well, what else could I do?” she asked. “When I discovered that he was free, I was powerless to resist him. Besides, he more than half a mind to shut me up in the cellar in his place and that I could not have borne!”
“Deb, there was Silas in the hall, and meself playing I abovestairs! And what must you do but let Ravenscar out of the house without a soul to hinder him!”
“You are absurd, Lucius!” protested Miss Grantham. “Could I have a brawl in the middle of a card-party? There nothing to be done, and in any event I never meant to kid him by a hateful trick, which was what you did!”
“And what will you be doing now, me dear, if I may ask get the bills out of his hands?” asked Kennet politely.
“I don’t know, but you may be sure I shall think of so thing,” replied Deborah.
“It’s my belief,” said Kennet, “that it’s more than half in love with the man you are, Deb!”
“I?” gasped Miss Grantham. “In love with Ravenscar? Have you taken leave of your senses, Lucius? I detest him! He is most abominable, the most hateful, the most odious—oh! can you talk such nonsense? I am in no humour for it, and bid you a very good night!”
She flounced out of the room as she spoke, almost collided with her brother in the doorway. Mr Grantham seemed out of breath, and exclaimed: “Deb! I could swear I saw him, just as I was crossing Piccadilly! You let him go after all!”
“I daresay you did see him,” she answered angrily. “But I did not let him go, and I never would have let him go, and he holds a very poor opinion of you, let me tell you!”
“And what, me dear Kit, may you be knowing about the business at all?” inquired Mr Kennet, as Deborah slammed the door behind her.
“I know it all! And I will thank you, Lucius, not to encourage Deb in her wildness again! If this night’s work has not ruined all my hopes it will be no fault of yours!”
“For the love of heaven, boy, what concern is it of yours?”
“Oh, nothing!” said Kit bitterly. “Merely, that I love Ravenscar’s sister!”
Mr Kennet opened his eyes at this. “You do, do you? And what has that to say to anything?”
“How can you be such a fool? What hope have I of obtaining Ravenscar’s consent to our marriage when my sister can think of nothing better to do than to shut him up in the cellar?”
Lady Bellingham felt impelled to defend her niece, and said: “She did it for the best, Kit. She did not know that you were going to be married to Miss Ravenscar!”
Kennet glanced sideways at Kit. “Married, eh?”
“And why not?” Kit demanded. “Is it so extraordinary?”
A smile lurked about the corners of Kennet’s mouth.
“Faith, I’m thinking it would be!” he said.
“Yes! And I hold you as much to blame as Deb! More, indeed!”
“Maybe you’re right at that,” agreed Kennet, still apparently amused by some secret thought.
Lady Bellingham raised her head from the yellow cushion. “I am sure it has all been most unfortunate,” she said. “And I can’t but feel that since Deb had got Ravenscar in the cellar—not that I approve of such a thing, for I don’t, and I never shall—but since he was there, it does seem to me a pity to have let him go without getting those dreadful bills from him! Now he will start dunning me, or persecuting us in some odious way, and you know what will happen next! Deb will try to teach him another lesson, and all will end in disaster! Sometimes I think that I might be happier in a debtors’ prison!”
With these gloomy words, she withdrew to her own room, to spend a restless night dreaming of coachmakers’ bills; green peas, rats, candle-ends, and cellars teeming with bound men.
Lord Mablethorpe had had the intention, if Miss Grantham were willing, to drive her and Phoebe into the country next morning. A hurried note to Phoebe was brought round by hand at ten o’clock, explaining the sudden change in his plans, and promising to call in St James’s Square that evening to report on the result of the curricle-race. Miss Laxton gave a startled exclamation when she read this letter, and thrust it into Deborah’s hand, saying in a faint voice: “Oh, he may be killed!”
“Killed? Nonsense!” said Miss Grantham, running her eye down the paper. “I declare, I am quite tired of hearing about this race! I am sure Adrian has talked of little else for the past week. Thank heaven it will be over by tomorrow, and we need hear no more about it! As though it signified!”
“Gentlemen think so much of those things,” sighed Miss Laxton. “Oh, I hope Mr Ravenscar will beat Sir James! Adrian says there is not another whip to compare with him, but if Sir James’s horses are as good as people say—” Miss Grantham clapped her hands over her ears. “You, too!” she said reproachfully. “Not another word! For my part, I wish they might both contrive to break their necks!”
“Oh, Deb, not when Adrian will be in his cousin’s curricle!” shuddered Phoebe.
“Well, if Ravenscar is such a fine whip there can be little likelihood of any accident occurring,” said Miss Grantham.
Phoebe looked at her with wonder. “You are so brave!” she said humbly. “I wish I were, but, alas, I am not!”
“Good heavens, child, what have I to be afraid of?” asked Miss Grantham, at a loss.
“But, Deb! Adrian!”
“Oh!” said Miss Grantham, rather blankly. “To be sure, yes my dear!”
“I do not know how we are to be at ease until we know that the race is safely over,” sighed Phoebe.
“Very true,” agreed Miss Grantham, preparing to put the matter out of her mind.
She succeeded in this very well, being a good deal taken up with her own problems; but it was evident, from her restless ness, and the anxious pucker between her brows, that Miss Laxton could think of nothing else. When dusk fell and shi thought they might reasonably expect to see Lord Mablethorpe, she stationed herself in the saloon in the front of the house, and kept a watch on the darkening square through the lace curtains that shrouded the windows. Dinner was announced before that familiar figure was seen, and she was obliged to go downstairs, and to make a pretence of eating. Miss Grantham, perceiving her unrest, reminded her that the contestants would certainly dine early at Hatfield, and could not be looked for in London again for some time yet. Miss Laxton agreed to it, but felt disinclined to eat her dinner.
Mr Grantham was present, but it was seen that he was not in spirits. He appeared to be brooding over some secret trouble, and although it did not impair his appetite, it rendered him incapable of bearing more than a monosyllabic part in any conversation. He had contrived, through the connivance of Miss Ravenscar’s handmaiden (who was beginning to cherish dreams of retiring from service in the near future on the accumulated bribes she had received from her mistress’s numerous admirers), to arrange an assignation with the volatile Arabella. He had reached the rendezvous a full half hour too soon, Miss Ravenscar had joined him half-an-hour late, and with apparently no recollection of the promises of eternal fidelity exchanged a bare week before, at Tunbridge Wells. She was perfectly ready to flirt with him, hoped to meet him at the Pantheon Ball, but said that she thought, after all, that it would be stuffy to be married. Mr Grantham suspected her strongly of having transferred her affections to another, and taxed her with this treachery. Miss Ravenscar laughed mischievously, and refused to answer. Mr Grantham then put forward a very daring plan he had formed, of taking her to the masquerade at Ranleagh on the following evening. To escape from chaperonage, under pretence of going to bed with the headache, and to spend a stolen evening at a masked ball with a forbidden suitor, was just such an adventure as might have been certain of making an instant appeal to Miss Ravenscar, but, greatly to Kit’s chagrin, she cast down her eyes demurely, and said she must not think of such a thing. From the quiver at the corners of her mouth, Kit suspected that she had already thought of it, and was indeed going to the masquerade, though not in his compan
y. It was no wonder that he should have returned to his aunt’s house in low spirits.
There was no card-party that evening. Kit went out soon after dinner, and the three ladies prepared to spend a quiet hour or two with the blinds drawn, and a snug fire burning in the Yellow Saloon. Lady Bellingham, however, soon retired to bed, complaining that the stress of the past week had quite worn her down; arid while Miss Laxton pretended to be bus with some sewing, but in reality set very few stitches, Miss Grantham flicked over the pages of a romance, and tried to hit upon an infallible plan for gaining possession of her aunt’s bills which would not entail surrendering to the enemy, but which would, on the contrary, place him in a position of the greatest discomfiture.
At ten o’clock the knock which Miss Laxton had been waiting to hear at last fell upon the front-door, and she let her needlework drop to the floor. “That must be he!”
Miss Grantham looked up. “I won’t receive him!” she said.
Phoebe stared at her in alarm. “Deb! Why, what has he done?” she faltered, turning quite pale.
“What has he done? Oh, you are talking of Mablethorpe.”
“But, dearest Deb, whom else should I be talking about asked Miss Laxton, puzzled.
Miss Grantham blushed. “I was thinking of something different,” she excused herself.
Light footsteps were heard running up the stairs; the next instant Lord Mablethorpe stood on the threshold, flushed, an a little dishevelled, and still dressed in a drab driving-coat, and topboots, both generously splashed with mud. “We won!” I announced, his eyes sparkling.
Phoebe clapped her hands. “Oh, I knew you would. I am so glad! And you are safe!”
He laughed. “Safe? Of course I am! There never was such race! It was beyond anything great! I do not know when enjoyed anything so much! Oh, Deb, do you mind me in my dirt? I thought you would not: I knew you would want hear all about it! May I come in?”
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