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 highly-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 bad 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 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 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 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 mai
ds 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 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 realized 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.”
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