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Carlington’s eyes danced. ‘I’m drunk, you know,’ he offered.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He shook with laughter. ‘By God, I like your spirit! Come, then!’
Sir Thomas started forward, lurched heavily against the table, and caught at it to steady himself. ‘Damme, you’re mad! Ralph, this won’t do – bet’s off – joke’s a joke – gone far enough!’
‘Play or pay!’ the Marquis retorted, a smile not quite pleasant curling his lips.
Sir Ralph raised his eyes, and looked sullenly towards his sister. She returned his gaze thoughtfully, dispassionately, and transferred her attention to Carlington. ‘I think,’ she said tranquilly, ‘I had better go and fetch a cloak if we are leaving now, sir.’
The Marquis escorted her to the door, and opened it, and set a shout ringing for his carriage. Miss Morland passed out of the hot room into the hall, and went across it to the stairs.
When she came down again some minutes later, cloaked, and with a chip hat on her head, and a bandbox in her hand, her brother had joined the Marquis in the hall, and was standing leaning against the lintel of the front door, scowling. The Marquis had put on a high-waisted driving-coat of drab cloth with row upon row of capes, and buttons of mother-of-pearl as large as crown-pieces. He had a curly-brimmed beaver, and a pair of York tan gloves in one hand, and his ebony cane in the other, and he flourished another bow at Miss Morland as she trod unhurriedly across the hall towards him.
‘If you go, by God, you shan’t return!’ Sir Ralph said.
Miss Morland laid her hand on Carlington’s proffered arm. ‘I shall never return,’ she said.
‘I mean it!’ Sir Ralph threatened.
‘And I,’ she replied. ‘I have been in your ward three years. Do you think I would not sooner die than return to this house?’
He flushed, and addressed the Marquis. ‘You’re crazy to take her!’
‘Crazy or drunk, what odds?’ said Carlington, and opened the front door.
Sir Ralph caught at his coat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
Carlington’s wild laugh broke from him. ‘Gretna!’ he answered, and flung his arm about Miss Morland’s waist, and swept her out of the house into the misty dawn.
His post-chaise and four was waiting, drawn up by the steps of the house, with the postilions shivering in their saddles, and one of Sir Ralph’s servants holding the chaise door open.
The sharp morning air had an inevitable effect on the Marquis. He reeled, and had to catch at the footman’s shoulder to steady himself. He was able, however, to flourish another bow in Miss Morland’s direction, and to hand her up into the chaise.
Sir Ralph’s house being situated at Hadley Green, and the Marquis having driven out from London to attend his card-party, the postilions had faced the chaise southwards. Upon receiving their master’s order to drive to Gretna Green they were at first a great deal too astonished to do more than blink at him, but as, assisted by the footman, he began to climb up into the chaise, the boy astride one of the leaders ventured to point out that Gretna Green was some three hundred miles off, and his lordship totally unprepared for a long journey. The Marquis, however, merely reiterated: ‘Gretna!’ and entered the chaise, and sank down on to the seat beside Miss Morland.
The postilions were quite aware that their master was extremely drunk, but they knew him well enough to be sure that however much he might, in the morning, regret having ordered them to drive north he would blame them less for obeying him than for disregarding his instructions, and carrying him safely home. No sooner were the steps folded up than they wheeled the chaise, and set off in the direction of the Great North Road.
The Marquis let his hat slide on to the floor, and rested his handsome head back against the blue velvet squabs. Turning it a little he smiled sweetly upon his companion, and said, still with a surprising clarity of diction: ‘I’ve a notion I shall regret this, but I’m badly foxed, my dear – badly foxed.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Morland. ‘I know. It doesn’t signify. I am quite accustomed to it.’
That was the sum of their discourse. The Marquis closed his eyes, and went to sleep. Miss Morland sat quite still beside him, only occasionally clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.
Potter’s Bar, Bell Bar, Hatfield were all passed. Miss Morland paid for the tickets at the turnpikes with some loose coins found in the sleeping Viscount’s pockets. A little more than two miles out of Hatfield the chaise passed through the hamlet of Stanborough, and began the long rise of Digswell Hill. At the Brickwall pike the postilion mounted on one of the wheelers informed Miss Morland that if his lordship desired to press on horses must be changed at Welwyn. An attempt to rouse the Marquis was unavailing; he only groaned, and seemed to sink deeper into slumber. Miss Morland, who had had time to reflect upon the rashness of this flight, to which sheer anger had prompted her, hesitated for a moment, and then desired the postilions to drive to a respectable posting-house in Welwyn, where they might put up for what was left of the night.
In a little while the chaise had drawn up at the White Hart; the landlord had been awakened, and a couple of drowsy ostlers, still in their nightcaps, had lifted the Marquis out of the coach, and carried him up to a bedchamber on the first floor.
No one seemed to feel very much surprise at this strange arrival in the small hours of the morning. The Marquis, who was well-known to the landlord, was obviously drunk, and this circumstance provided a perfectly reasonable explanation for both his and Miss Morland’s presence. ‘Though I must say,’ remarked the landlord, as he once more rejoined his sleepy wife, ‘I didn’t know he was one of them hard topers – not Carlington. Wild, of course, very wild.’
The Marquis did not wake until past nine o’clock. His first sensations were those of supreme discomfort. His head ached, and his mouth was parched. He lay for some time with closed eyes, but presently, as fuller consciousness returned to him, he became aware of being almost completely clad. He opened his eyes, stared filmily upon his strange surroundings, and with a groan sat up in bed, clasping his temples between his hands. He found that with the exception of his neckcloth and his shining Hessians he was indeed fully clad, the kind hands that had relieved him of boots and cravat having failed in their endeavour to extricate him from the perfectly fitting coat of Mr Weston’s cutting.
After another dazed look round the room, the Marquis reached for the bell-pull, and tugged at it vigorously.
The summons was answered by the landlord in person. Carlington, still clasping his aching head, looked at him with acute misgiving and pronounced: ‘I’ve seen your rascally face before. Where am I?’
The landlord smiled ingratiatingly, and replied: ‘To be sure, my lord, your lordship is in the very best room at the White Hart.’
