“The guard on the stage warned me what kind of a hostelry that is,” replied Miss Challoner. “If you doubt my story, let me tell you that my name is Challoner, and I have sufficient money at my disposal to pay for your bed-chamber.”
“Take your money elsewhere!” said the woman brusquely. “A nice thing it would be if we were to house young persons of your kind! Don’t stand there staring down your nose at me, my girl! Be off at once!”
A soft voice spoke from the stairway. “One moment, my good creature,” it said.
Miss Challoner looked up quickly. Down the stairs, very leisurely, was coming a tall gentleman dressed in a rich suit of black cloth with much silver lacing. He wore a powdered wig, and a patch at the corner of his rather thin mouth, and there was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat. He carried a long ebony cane in one hand, and a great square emerald glinted on one of his fingers. As he descended into the full light of the lamps Miss Challoner saw that he was old, although his eyes, directly surveying her from under their heavy lids, were remarkably keen. They were of a hard grey, and held a cynical gleam.
That he was a personage of considerable importance she at once guessed, for not only was the landlord bowing till his nose almost touched his knee, but the gentleman had in every languid movement the air of one born to command. He reached the foot of the stairs, and came slowly towards the group by the door. He did not seem to be aware of the landlord’s existence; he was looking at Miss Challoner, and it was to her and in English that he addressed himself. “You appear to be in some difficulty, madam. Pray let me know how I can serve you.”
She curtsied with pretty dignity. “Thank you, sir. All I require is a lodging for the night, but I believe I must not trouble you.”
“It does not seem to be an out-of-the-way demand,” said the gentleman, raising his brows. “You will no doubt inform me where the hitch lies.”
His air of calm authority brought a smile quivering to Miss Challoner’s lips. “I repeat, sir, you are very kind, but I beg you will not concern yourself with my stupid affairs.”
His cold glance rested oa her with a kind of bored indifference that she found disconcerting, and oddly familiar. “My good child,” he said, with a touch of disdain in his voice, “your scruples, though most affecting, are quite needless. I imagine I might well be your grandfather.”
She coloured a little, and replied, with a frank look: “I beg your pardon, sir. Indeed, my scruples are only lest I should be thought to importune a stranger.”
“You edify me extremely,” he said. “Will you now have the goodness to inform me why this woman finds herself unable to supply you with a bed-chamber?”
“I can scarcely blame her, sir,” said Miss Challoner honestly. “I have no maid, and no baggage, and I arrived by the stage coach. My situation is excessively awkward, and I was very foolish not to have realized sooner what an odd appearance I must present.”
“The loss of your baggage is, I fear, beyond my power to remedy, but a bed-chamber I can procure for you at once.”
“I should be very grateful to you, sir, if you would.”
The Englishman turned to the landlord, who was humbly awaiting his pleasure. “Your stupidity, my good Boisson, is lamentable,” he remarked. “You will escort this lady to a suitable chamber.”
“Yes, monseigneur, yes indeed. It shall be as monseigneur wishes. But—”
“I do not think,” said the Englishman sweetly, “that I evinced any desire to converse with you.”
“No, monseigneur,” said the landlord. “If—if mademoiselle would follow my wife upstairs? The large front room, Celestine!”
Madame said resentfully: “What, the large room?”
The landlord gave her a push towards the stairs. “Certainly the large one. Go quickly!”
The Englishman turned to Miss Challoner. “You bespoke supper, I believe. I shall be honoured by your presence at my own table. Boisson will show you the way to my private salle.”
Miss Challoner hesitated. “A bowl of soup in my chamber, sir—”
“You will find it more entertaining to sup with me,” he said. “Let me allay your qualms by informing you that I have the pleasure of your grandfather’s acquaintance.”
Miss Challoner grew rather pale. “My grandfather?” she said quickly.
“Certainly. You said, I think, that your name is Challoner. I have known Sir Giles any time these forty years. Permit me to tell you that you have a great look of him.”
In face of this piece of information Miss Challoner abandoned her first impulse to disclaim all relationship with Sir Giles. She stood feeling remarkably foolish, and looking rather worried.
The gentleman smiled faintly. “Very wise,” he commented, with uncanny perspicacity. “I should never believe that you were not his granddaughter. May I suggest that you follow this worthy female upstairs? You will join me at your convenience.”
Miss Challoner had to laugh. “Very well, sir,” she said, and curtsied, and went off in the wake of the landlady.
She was allotted what she guessed to be one of the best chambers, and a serving-maid brought her water in a brass can. She emptied her reticule on to the dressing-table, and somewhat ruefully inspected the collection thus displayed. Luckily she had slipped a clean tucker into it, and when carefully arranged round her shoulders this concealed the tear in her gown. She combed out her hair, and dressed it again, washed her face and hands, and went downstairs to the hall.
The presence of a countryman had been providential, but that he should be acquainted with her grandfather, and knew her identity, was a calamity. Miss Challoner had no idea what she was going to say to him, but some explanation was clearly called for.
The landlord was awaiting her at the foot of the staircase, and he met her with a respect as marked as his late contempt. He led the way to one of the doors leading from the hall, and ushered her into a large parlour.
Covers were laid on the table in the centre of the room, and the apartment was lit by clusters of wax candles in solid chandeliers. Miss Challoner’s new friend was standing by the fireplace. He came forward to meet her, and taking her hand at once remarked on its coldness. She confessed that she was still feeling chilly, and told him that the stage had been full of draughts. She went to the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. “I find this very welcome, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. “You are indeed kind to invite me to sup with you.”
He surveyed her somewhat enigmatically. “You shall let me know later how I may serve you further,” he said. “Will you not be seated?”
She walked to the table, and sat down at his right hand. A liveried servant came in noiselessly, and set soup before them. He would have stayed behind his master’s chair, but a slight sign dismissed him.
Miss Challoner drank her soup, realizing suddenly that it was many hours since she had partaken of food. She was relieved to find that her host did not seem to require an immediate explanation of her peculiar circumstances, but talked gently instead on a number of impersonal subjects. He had a caustic way with him, which Miss Challoner found entertaining. There was often a twinkle in her eye, and since her knowledge was sufficiently wide (for, unlike her friend Juliana, she had not wasted her time at school), she was able not only to listen, but to contribute her own share to the conversation. By the time the sweetmeats were set on the table she and her host were getting on famously, and she had quite lost any shyness that she might at first have felt. He encouraged her to talk, sitting back in his chair, sipping his wine, and watching her. To begin with, she had found his scrutiny a little trying, for his face told her nothing of what he might be thinking, but she was not the woman to be easily unnerved, and she looked back at him, whenever occasion demanded, with her usual friendly calm.
She could not be rid of the conviction that she had met him before, and the effort to remember where brought a crease between her brows. Observing it, her host said: “Something troubles you, Miss Challoner?”
He set his glass down, and stretched out his hand for the decanter. “No, Miss Challoner, you have not.”
She was tempted to ask his name, but since he was so very much older than herself she did not care to appear in the least familiar. If he wished her to know it no doubt he would tell her.
She laid down her napkin, and rose. “I have been talking a great deal, I fear,” she said. “May I thank you, sir, for a pleasant evening, and for your exceeding kindness, and so bid you good-night?”
“Don’t go,” he said. “Your reputation is quite safe, and the night is still young. Without wishing to seem idly curious, I should like to hear why you are journeying unprotected, through France. Do you think I am entitled to an explanation?”
She remained standing beside her chair. “Yes, sir, I do think it,” she answered quietly. “For my situation must seem indeed strange. But unhappily I am not able to give you the true explanation, and since I do not wish to repay your kindness with lies it is better that I should offer none. May I wish you good-night, sir?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Sit down, my child.”
She looked at him for a moment, and after some slight hesitation, obeyed, lightly clasping her hands in the lap of her grey gown.
The stranger regarded her over the brim of his wineglass. “May I ask why you find yourself unable to proffer the true explanation?”
She seemed to ponder her reply for a while. “There are several reasons, sir. The truth is so very nearly as strange as Mr. Walpole’s famous romance that perhaps I fear to be disbelieved.”
He tilted his glass, observing the reflection of the candlelight in the deep red wine. “But did you not say, Miss Challoner, that you would not lie to me?” he inquired softly.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are very acute, sir.”
“I have that reputation,” he agreed.
His words touched a chord of memory in her brain, but she was unable to catch the fleeting remembrance. She said: “You are quite right, sir: that is not my reason. The truth is there is someone else involved in my story.”
“I had supposed that there might be,” he replied. “Am I to understand that your lips are sealed out of consideration for this other person?”
“Not entirely, sir, but in part, yes.”
“Your sentiments are most elevating, Miss Challoner. But this punctiliousness is quite needless, believe me. Lord Vidal’s exploits have never been attended by any secrecy.”
She jumped, and her eyes flew to his face in a look of startled interrogation. He smiled. “I had the felicity of meeting your esteemed grandparent at Newmarket not many days since,” he said. “Upon hearing that I was bound for France he requested me to inquire for you on my way through Paris.”
“He knew?” she said blankly.
“Without doubt he knew.”
She covered her face with her hands. “My mother must have told him,” she said almost inaudibly. “It is worse, then, than I thought.”
He put his wineglass down, and pushed his chair a little way back from the table. “I beg you will not distress yourself, Miss Challoner. The role of confidant is certainly new to me, but I trust I know the rules.”
She got up and went over to the fire, trying to collect her thoughts, and to compose her natural agitation. The gentleman at the table took snuff, and waited for her to return. She did so in a minute or two, with a certain brisk determination that characterized her. She was rather pale, but completely mistress of herself. “If you know that I—left England with Lord Vidal, sir, I am more than ever grateful for your hospitality to-night, and an explanation is beyond doubt due to you,” she said. “I do not know how much you have learned of me, but since no one in England knows the whole truth, I fear you may have been quite misinformed on several points.”
“It is more than likely,” agreed her host. “May I suggest that you tell me the whole story? I have every intention of helping you out of your somewhat difficult situation, but I desire to know exactly why you left England with Lord Vidal, and why I find you to-day, apparently alone and friendless.”
She leaned towards him, her face eager. “Will you help me, sir? Will you help me to obtain a post as governess in some French family, so that I need not go back to England, but can maintain myself abroad?”
“Is that what you want?” he inquired incredulously.
“Yes, sir, indeed it is.”
“Dear me!” he remarked. “You seem to be a female of great resource. Pray begin your story.”
“In doing so, sir, I am forced to betray the—folly—of my sister. I dare say I need not ask you to—to forget that part of the tale.”
“My memory is most adaptable, Miss Challoner.”
“Thank you, sir. You must know then that I have a sister who is very young, foolish as girls are sometimes, and very, very lovely. Her path was crossed, not so long ago, by the Marquis of Vidal.”
“Naturally,” murmured her host. “Naturally, sir?”
“Oh, I think so,” he said, with a faintly satirical smile. “If she is—very, very lovely—I feel sure that the Marquis of Vidal would cross her path. But continue, I beg of you!” She inclined her head. “Very well, sir. This part of the story is very hard to tell, for I do not wish to give you to understand that the Marquis—forced his attentions upon an unwilling female. My sister encouraged him, and led him to suppose that she was—that she—”
“I comprehend perfectly, Miss Challoner.” She threw him a grateful look. “Yes, sir. Well, the end of it was that the Marquis induced my sister to consent to fly with him. I discovered their assignation, which was for eleven o’clock one evening. I should explain that the billet his lordship sent my sister, appointing the hour, fell into my hands, and not hers. There were reasons, sir, into which I shall not drag you, which prevented me from informing my mother of this dreadful elopement. I need not tell you, sir, that his lordship did not contemplate marriage. It seemed to me that I must contrive not only to stop the actual flight, but to put an end to an affair that would only mean Sophia’s ruin. When I look back I marvel at my own simplicity. I conceived the notion of taking Sophia’s place in the coach, and when he discovered the imposture it was my intention to make him believe that Sophia and I had planned it between us, for a jest. I thought that nothing would more surely disgust him.” She paused, and added drily: “I was quite right.”
The gentleman twisted the emerald ring on his finger. “Do I understand that you carried out this remarkable plan?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, sir. But it went sadly awry.”
“That was to have been expected,” he said gently. “I suppose so,” she sighed. “It was a silly plan. Lord Vidal did not discover the cheat until next morning, when we reached Newhaven. To find myself by the sea was a shock to me. I had not guessed that his lordship intended to leave England. I entered the inn on the quay in his company, and in the private room he had engaged I discovered myself to him.” She stopped.
“I can well imagine that Lord Vidal’s emotions baffle description,” said the gentleman.
She was looking straight in front of her. She nodded, and said slowly: “In what followed, sir, I do not wish to lay any blame on Lord Vidal. I played my part too well, not dreaming of the revenge he would take. I must have appeared to him—I did appear to him—a vulgar, loose female.” She turned her head towards him. “Are you acquainted with Lord Vidal, sir?”
“I am, Miss Challoner.”
“Then you will know, sir, that his lordship’s temper is extremely fiery and uncontrolled. I had provoked it, and it—it was disastrous. Lord Vidal forced me to go on board his yacht, and carried me to Dieppe.”
The gentleman felt for his quizzing-glass, and raised it. Through it he surveyed Miss Challoner. “May I ask what were his lordship’s tactics?” he inquired. “I feel an almost overwhe
lming interest in the methods of daylight abduction employed by the modern youth.”
“Well, it was not very romantic,” confessed Miss Challoner. “He threatened to pour the contents of his flask down my throat, thereby rendering me too drunk to resist.” She saw a frown in his eyes, and said: “I fear I shock you, sir, but remember that his lordship was enraged.”
“I am not shocked, Miss Challoner, but I infinitely deplore such a lack of finesse. Did his lordship carry out this ingenious plan?”
“No, for I submitted. To be made drunk seemed to me a horrid fate. I said I would go with him. It was very early, and there was no one on the quay, so that I could not call for help, even had I dared. And since his lordship threatened to strangle me if I made the least outcry, I am sure I should not have dared. I went on board the yacht, and as our passage was rough, I was most vilely unwell.”
A smile flickered across her hearer’s countenance. “My sympathies are with Lord Vidal. He no doubt found you most disconcerting.”
She gave a little laugh. “I think you don’t know him very well, sir, for it is one of the nice things about him that he was not disconcerted, but on the contrary, extremely prompt in dealing with the situation.”
He was looking at her rather curiously. “I thought that I knew him very well indeed,” he said. “Apparently I was wrong. Pray continue: you begin to interest me vastly.”
“He has a dreadful reputation,” she said earnestly, “but he is not wicked at heart. He is nothing but a wild, passionate, spoiled boy.”
“I am all admiration for your shrewdness, Miss Challoner,” said the gentleman politely.
“It is true, sir,” she insisted, suspecting him of irony. “When I was sick on that yacht—”
He raised one thin hand. “I accept your reading of his lordship’s true nature, Miss Challoner. Spare me a recital of your sufferings at sea, I beg of you.”
She smiled. “They were excessively painful, sir, I assure you. But we arrived at length at Dieppe, where his lordship had planned to spend the night. We dined. His lordship had, I think, been drinking aboard the yacht. He was in an ugly mood, and I was compelled, in the end, to protect my virtue in a somewhat drastic manner.”