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‘I have never met your father in my life,’ said Sir Roland.
Light broke in on Mr Morley. He cried out:
‘Oh, good heavens! Are you Sir Roland Sale?’
‘No,’ said the other. ‘I am only one Philip Devereux, who got up early to meet his sister on the last stage of her return from Scotland, and stumbled upon an adventure.’
Miss Paradise gave a choked cry.
‘Oh, how could you?’ she said, in a suffocating voice.
Mr Morley, quite pale with excitement, waved her aside.
‘Not – not the Devereux?’ he faltered. ‘Not – oh, not Viscount Devereux of Frensham?’
‘Well, yes, I am afraid so,’ replied his lordship apologetically.
‘Bab!’ ejaculated Mr Morley. ‘Do you hear that? I have actually crossed swords with one of the finest swordsmen in Europe! Only think of it!’
Miss Paradise showed no desire to think of it. She turned her head away.
The Viscount said: ‘Do you think you could go and see what has been done with your chaise and my curricle, Mr Morley?’
‘Oh, yes, certainly!’ said Mr Morley. ‘I’ll go now, shall I?’
‘If you please,’ said his lordship, his eyes on Miss Paradise’s profile. He waited until the door was shut behind Mr Morley, and then said gently: ‘Forgive me, Miss Paradise!’
‘You let me say – you let me believe you were the man Papa says is going to marry me, and I –’
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She stopped, for he had taken her hands and was looking down at her in a way that made her heart beat suddenly fast.
‘I haven’t the least idea what Papa will say, but I can assure you that I am the man who is going to marry you,’ said his lordship, with complete composure.
Incident on the Bath Road
HE HAD ASKED at the George, in his weary voice, if the landlord could tell him why he was going to Bath. He had apparently expected an answer, standing there in the yard with a cup of Nantes brandy in one hand, and a snuff-box lightly clasped in the other. His lazy brows were raised enquiringly, his air was one of puzzled boredom. He watched the ostlers leading out a fresh team for his chaise, and the post-boys shedding their smocks, as though he wondered how it could have come about that this was his chaise, this change of horses ordered by him, for the odd, inexplicable purpose of conveying him to Bath.
The landlord supposed that his lordship was going to Bath for the season.
‘To Bath, for the season,’ repeated the Earl. ‘Thank you; that must be it. I wonder if I should do better to drive back to town?’
The landlord, deeming such erratic whims to be the outcome of a mind depressed, spoke bracingly of change of air and scenery. His lordship drained the last of his brandy and gave back the cup with a gold coin in the bottom.
‘Alas, my good fellow, there will be no change, but an eternal sameness,’ he said, moving away towards his chaise.
The landlord watched him climb into it, saw him flick a couple of coins to the expectant ostlers, and waited until the chaise door was shut, and the equipage, so airily hung upon its lofty wheels, moved forward over the cobbles, passed under the arch into the street, and was away.
So noble, so rich, and so bored! You would have thought that if you were the Earl of Reveley, with wealth, and a handsome countenance, and the power of commanding whatever distraction you fancied, boredom must be a thing unknown. It was a pity, the landlord reflected, that his lordship did not take a wife and settle down. If his lordship’s gentlemen were to be believed, there were plenty of young ladies very ready to pick up a glove tossed by that slender, elegant hand. ‘But that,’ said Mr Jarley, his lordship’s gentleman, ‘is, I believe, the trouble. My lord is fastidious, and so much eagerness – besides the way some of the Mammas set their caps at him – is enough to sicken any man.’
Perhaps his lordship had been sickened; he never said it, certainly did not shun female society, but even when in the act of uttering civilities to some hopeful lady a cynical gleam was apt to lurk behind the boredom in his eyes. He was thirty-three, and for ten perilous years he had gone his single way, always courted, never caught, until the rumour that he was paying attentions to such a one would provoke no more than a shrug of the shoulder, a laugh, and a shake of the head. ‘Reveley! Oh, he is a confirmed bachelor!’
The confirmed bachelor, leaning back against the blue velvet squabs of his chaise, his eyes half-closed, was on his way to Bath, and could not imagine why.
To drink the waters? Assuredly not. To stroll through the Pump Room, then; to pay morning calls; to attend balls; to hazard a fortune at the gaming-tables? He supposed so, and smiled a little wryly at his own folly, and wished that he could find something new to do, or recapture his youthful enthusiasms, his power of being pleased, his – ah, yes! His interest in life.
If I lived between the covers of a romance, he thought, no doubt I should cast aside the trappings of nobility, and fare forth in a suitable disguise in quest of adventure. Which would unquestionably be extremely uncomfortable, and – in this prosaic world – a barren quest.
