There was yet another objection which she found oddly daunting. Never having formed any very clear picture of the actual ceremony, who was to perform it, and where it was to take place, it came as a shock to her when Stacy described in romantic detail a flight to the Border. Innocent as she was, she yet knew that nothing could be more improper. Even her closest friends would find it hard to excuse conduct so indelicate: she had as well tie her garter in public! “You cannot mean Gretna Green?” she had exclaimed incredulously. “No, no! I know people do so in novels, but not—real people, like us! It is not at all the thing, Stacy! Why, I daresay it would take us two or three days to reach the Border! You can’t have considered! We must be married in London, or—Bristol, or somewhere much nearer to Bath!”

So Stacy had had to explain to her that there were certain difficulties attached to the clandestine marriages of minors. He had done it very well, so that by the time they had parted at the door of the Abbey she was convinced that there was no other way open to them, and that it was as repugnant to him as it was to her. He would be no more than her courier until the knot was tied. “But I will not press you,” he had said. “If your courage fails you—if you cannot trust me enough—tell me! I’ll go away—try to forget you!” He had added with a melancholy smile: “You will forget me more easily!”

She had cried out against this. She was not so fickle, or so hen-hearted, and as for her trust in him, it was infinite!

She had promised to fly with him as soon after the rout-pa as could be contrived; and, in the heat of an impassioned moment, had done so with enthusiasm. It was only later that an unacknowledged doubt began to trouble her.

Then had come the expedition to Wells, and her conversation with Oliver. He had said that he wished he could help her, but the things he had said to her had not helped her at all: in fact they had increased her discomfort.

Abby, recognizing the signs of inward turmoil, tried in vain to win her confidence. She could not discover that there had been any falling-out between the lovers, and the fear that Stacy was trying to persuade Fanny to elope with him began to haunt her. She told Mr Miles Calverleigh, when he drove her to Stanton-Drew, to inspect the Druidical monument there, that she lived in dread of waking one morning to find Fanny gone.

“Oh, I shouldn’t think that at all likely!” he replied. “Speaking as one who is not without experience, it’s not as easy to elope at dead of night as you might think.”

She could not suppress her responsive dimple, but she said austerely: “You are perfectly shameless! Why isn’t it easy? I should have supposed it to be much easier than to do it during the day.”

“That’s because you haven’t applied your mind to it”

“Very true! It so happens that the need to do so has never come in my way.”

“Oh, I can see that! It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you imagine a rope-ladder to be employed in the business.”

“It would surprise me very much to learn that it was! You know, I have never been able to understand how anyone could escape by means of a rope-ladder, particularly a female. It’s all very well to talk of throwing it up to the window, but the chancel are one wouldn’t be able to catch it, or would fall out of the window, trying to do so. And what would you attach it to, if you did catch it?”

“I can’t think.”

“No, and even if it was attached I have a strong notion that it is not at all easy to come down a rope-ladder. Depend upon it, it requires a great deal of practice.”

“Hampered by your petticoats, too,” he said thoughtfully, “I see that you have applied your mind to the problem: tell me all about it”

She laughed. “No, I won’t allow you to divert me. This is not a funning matter. I know that you think it a great bore, but—

“Well, don’t you?

“How could I? I think it vexatious—indeed, I could slap Fanny for being such a wet-goose!—but one cannot be bored by what nearly concerns anyone to whom one is very much attached, and for whom one is responsible, can one?”

“As I have never found myself in such a position, I can’t say.”

She said, with quick sympathy: “I know that, and I pity you! You told me once—you said that you were not an object for compassion, but you are, Mr Calverleigh!”

“Yes, I’ve come to that conclusion myself,” he said unexpectedly. “I was used not to think so, but ever since I came to Bath I have been growing steadily more convinced that I was mistaken.”

Taken by surprise, feeling very much as if she had suffered an electric shock, Abby gave a gasp. After a brief, but perceptible, pause, she said with as much composure as she could summon to her aid: “You might not have felt the want of family ties whilst you were abroad, I daresay. But we were speaking of Fanny, and you were about to explain to me why I need not be afraid that she will run away in the night, when we fell into an absurd digression on the subject of rope-ladders. I should be very glad to believe you, but—but why?”

“Oh, it would be much too dangerous! The poor girl would be obliged to get up and scramble on her clothes in the dark, in case some other member of the household should be wakeful, and see the light under her door. After which, she must grope her way down two pairs of stairs, and if their creakings didn’t rouse you the approach of a chaise over the cobblestones at that hour of night would certainly do so. Then, too, she must draw back the bolts on the front-door, take off the chain, and lastly, most difficult task of all, shut the door behind her—all without a sound! Of course, she might choose to leave the house open to any chance marauder, but I feel sure that you will tell me she is not so lost to all sense of what is due to you as that!”

“Yes!” said Abby, perceiving the force of these objections. “And her room is at the back of the house, so how could she know that your horrid nephew was punctual to his appointment? Something might have happened to detain him, and only think how awkward it would be for her! She would be bound to consider that possibility. Anyone would! Furthermore, Grimston—our old nurse—sleeps in a little room next to hers, and although I may believe that nothing less than a trumpet-blast in her ear would wake her, you may depend upon it that Fanny would be in a quake! Oh, I think you are undoubtedly right! She won’t make the attempt at night, and I’ll take good care she has no opportunity during the day, even if I must accompany her everywhere, like the dragon I vowed I never would be.”

“That might become a trifle tedious. Are you so sure that she is planning to elope with my horrid nephew?”

“No,” she replied at once. “Sometimes I tell myself that I am suffering from a stupid irritation of nerves: that however much she might fancy herself in love she would never do anything so improper, so unprincipled! And then I think that he has taken such strong possession of her mind that she will do whatever he wishes. But she has been in low spirits lately, in a worry, I conjecture. It might be that she can’t bring herself to do what she knows is very wrong. I did entertain the hope that she had quarrelled with Stacy, but she hasn’t.” She sighed. “He was at the concert last night, and she looked at him as if he were her whole dependence and delight,”

“No, did she? I envy him. Not, of course, that I’ve the smallest desire that Fanny should bestow such a look upon me, but I wish that you would.”

She was aware suddenly that her heart, in general a very reliable organ, was behaving in a most alarming way, first trying to jump into her throat, and then beginning to thump so violently that she felt breathless, and uncomfortably hot. It was an effort to speak but she managed to do so, saying: “Mr Calverleigh—I am in no mood for flirting!”

“Now when have I ever tried to flirt with you?” he protested.

She felt herself impelled to steal a look at him, which she instantly realized was a very imprudent thing to have done, because he was smiling at her, and in a way which made her heart beat still more violently. “I love you, you know,” he said conversationally. “Will you marry me?’

The manner in which he made this abrupt proposal struck her as being so typical of him that a shaky laugh was dragged from her. “Of all the graceless ways of making me an offer—! No, no, you are not serious! you cannot be!”

“Of course I’m serious! A pretty hobble I should be in if I weren’t, and you accepted my offer! The thing is that it is such a devil of a time since I proposed marriage to a girl that I’ve forgotten how to set about it. If I ever knew, but I daresay I didn’t, for I was always a poor hand at making flowery speeches.” He smiled at her again, a little ruefully. “That I should love a bright particular star!”

“Oh—!” she breathed. “Oh, pray don’t say such things!”

“I won’t, if you dislike it,” he said obligingly.

“Dislike it! How could anyone dislike to have such a thing said to her? But it won’t do! You mustn’t say any more on this head! Pray do not!”

“No, that’s quite unreasonable,” he said. “I won’t pay you any compliments, but you can’t expect me not to say any more! I’ve asked you to marry me, Abigail!”

“You must know I can’t—how impossible it would be!”

“No, I don’t. Why should it be?”

‘The—the circumstances!” she uttered, in a stifled voice.

He looked to be a good deal puzzled. “What circumstances? Mine? Oh, I’m perfectly well able to support a wife! You must have been listening to my horrid nephew.”