She sat down again, mechanically smoothing out the letter. It was of no use to show it to her mother; she knew from Sophia what absurd dreams Mrs. Challoner cherished, knew enough of that lady, too, to believe her capable of the crowning folly of winking at an elopement. Her uncle could do nothing, as far as she could see, and she had no wish to blazon Sophia’s loose behaviour abroad. When the idea first came to her she did not know; she thought it must have been hidden away in her brain for a long while, slowly maturing. Again her hand stole to her cheek. It was so daring it frightened her. I can’t! she thought. I can’t!
The idea persisted. What could he do after all? What had she to fear from him? He was hot-tempered, but she could not suppose that he would actually harm her, however violent his rage.
She would need to act a part, a loathsome part, but if she could do it it would end the Marquis’s passion for Sophia as nothing else could. She found that she was trembling. He will think me as light as Sophia! she reflected dismally, and at once scolded herself. It did not matter what he thought of her. And Sophia? What would she say? Into what transports of fury would she not fall? Well, that did not signify either. It would be better to bear Sophia’s hatred than to see her ruined.
She consulted the letter. Eleven o’clock was the hour appointed. She remembered that she was to spend the evening with her mother and sister at Henry Simpkins’ house, and began to lay her plans.
There was a table by the window with her writing-desk upon it. She drew up a chair to it, and began to write, slowly, with many pauses.
“Mamma—” she began, as abruptly as the Marquis—
“I have gone with Lord Vidal in Sophia’s place. His letter came to my hand instead of hers; you will see how desperate is the case, for it is plain he has no thought of marriage. I have a plan to show him she is not to be had so easily. Do not be afraid for my safety or my honour, even tho’ I may not reach home again till very late.”She read this through, hesitated, and then signed her name. She dusted the sheet, folded it up with the Marquis’s note to Sophia, and sealed it, directing it to her mother.
Neither Mrs. Challoner nor Sophia made much demur at leaving her behind that evening. Mrs. Challoner thought, to be sure, that it was a pity she must needs have a sick headache on this very evening when Uncle Henry had promised the young people a dance, but she made no attempt to persuade her into accompanying them.
Miss Challoner lay in bed with the hartshorn in her hand, and watched Sophia dress for the party.
“Oh, what do you think, Mary?” Sophia chattered. “My uncle has contrived to get Dennis O’Halloran to come. I do think he is too dreadfully handsome, do you not?”
“Handsomer than Vidal?” said Mary, wondering how Sophia could prefer the florid good looks of Mr. O’Halloran to Vidal’s dark stern beauty.
“Oh well, I never did admire black hair, you know,” Sophia replied. “And Vidal is so careless. Only fancy, sister, nothing will induce him to wear a wig, and even when he does powder his hair the black shows through.”
Mary raised herself on her elbow. “Sophy, you don’t love him, do you?” she said anxiously.
Sophia shrugged and laughed. “La, sister, how stupid you are with all that talk of love. It is not at all necessary to love a husband, let me tell you. I like him very well. I do not mean to love anyone very much, for I am sure it is more comfortable if one doesn’t. Do you like my hair dressed a la Venus?”
Mary relaxed again, satisfied. When Sophia and her mother had left the house she lay for a while, thinking. Betty came in with her supper on a tray. Her appetite seemed to have deserted her, and she sent the tray away again almost untouched. At ten o’clock Betty went up the steep stairs to her little chamber, and Mary got out of bed, and began to dress. Her fingers shook slightly as she struggled with laces and hooks, and she felt rather cold. A search through one of Sohpia’s drawers, redolent of cedar-chips, brought to light a loo-mask, once worn at a carnival. She put it on, and thought, peering at herself in the mirror, how oddly her eyes glittered through the slits.
She had some of the housekeeping money in her reticule; not very much but enough for her needs, she hoped. She hung the bag on her arm, put on a cloak, and pulled the hood carefully over her head.
On the way down the stairs she stopped at her mother’s room, and left the letter she had written on the dressing-table. Then she crept noiselessly down to the hall, and let herself out of the silent house.
The street was deserted, and a sharp wind whipped Mary’s cloak out behind her. She dragged it together, and holding it close with one hand, set off down the road. The night was cold, and overhead hurrying storm-clouds from time to time hid the moon.
Mary came round the bend in the street, and saw ahead of her the lights of a waiting chaise. She had an impulse to go back, but checked it, and walked resolutely on.
The light was very dim, but she was able as she drew closer to distinguish the outline of a travelling chaise drawn by four horses. She could see the postilions standing to the horses’ heads and another figure, taller than theirs, pacing up and down in the light thrown by the flambeaux burning before the corner house.
She came up to this figure soft-footed. He swung round and grasped at her hand, held out timidly towards him. “You’ve come!” he said, and kissed her fingers. They shook in his strong hold. He drew her towards the chaise, his arm round her shoulders. “You’re afraid? No need, my bird. I have you safe.” He saw that she was masked, and laughed softly. “Oh, my little romantic love, was that needful?” he mocked, and his hand went up to find the string of the mask.
She contrived to hold him off. “Not yet! Not here!” she whispered. He did not persist, but he still seemed amused. “No one will see you,” he remarked. “But keep it if you will.” He handed her up into the chaise. “Try to sleep, my pretty, you’ve a long way to travel, I fear.”
He sprang down from the step, and she realized with a shudder of relief that he was riding.
The chaise was very luxuriously upholstered, and there was a fur rug lying on the seat. Mary drew it over her, and leaned back in one corner. He had said she had a long way to travel. Could this mean the Scottish border after all? She suddenly thought that if Gretna was his goal, she had done her sister the greatest disservice imaginable.
She leaned forward, peering out of the window, but soon abandoned the attempt to mark their route. It was too dark, and she lacked the sense of direction that would have told her whether she was travelling northwards or not.
She had never ridden in a chaise so well sprung as this one. Even over the cobbled streets she was not conscious of any peculiar discomfort. She could catch no glimpse of her escort, and supposed that he must be riding behind. Presently a gleam of moonlight on water caught her eye, and she started forward to look out of the window once more. The chaise was crossing a bridge; she could see the Thames running beneath, and knew then that she must be travelling south. Gretna was not his goal. She felt a paradoxical relief.
Once clear of the town the horses seemed to leap forward in their collars. For a little while Mary felt alarmed at the wicked pace, expecting every moment some accident, but after a time she grew accustomed to it, and even dozed a little, lulled by the sway of the coach.
A sudden halt jerked her awake. She saw lights, and heard voices and the trampling of hooves. She supposed the tune of reckoning had come, and waited, outwardly calm, to be handed down from the coach. The moon was visible, but when she tried to discover where she was she could see only a signboard swinging in the wind, and knew that the equipage had merely stopped to change horses. The door of the chaise was pulled open, and she drew back into the corner. Vidal’s voice spoke softly: “Awake, little Patience?”