Those who had been acquainted with her father knew that he had been dotingly fond of her, and supposed that that might have been why she had accepted none of the offers made her. No doubt, said the wiseacres, that was also why she had come to live in Bath now that he was dead: she meant to marry at last, and what chance of meeting an eligible gentleman could there be in the wilds of the country? Only one lady saw any impropriety in it, and as she was notoriously spiteful, and had two rather plain daughters of marriageable age on her hands, no one paid any heed to her. Besides, Miss Wychwood had an elderly cousin living with her, and what could be more proper than that?

So Sir Geoffrey was right too, and was able to plume himself on his wisdom. He very soon became reconciled to the situation, and found himself more in charity with his sister than he had ever been before. As for Miss Farlow, she had never been so happy in all her life, or enjoyed so much comfort, and she felt that she could never be sufficiently grateful to dear Annis, who not only paid her a very generous wage, but who showered every sort of luxury on her, from a fire in her bedroom to the right to order the carriage whenever she wished to go beyond walking-distance. Not that she ever did avail herself of this permission, for that, in her opinion, would be a sadly encroaching thing to do. Unfortunately, her overflowing gratitude caused her to irritate Miss Wychwood almost beyond bearing by fussing over her incessantly, running quite unnecessary errands for her (much to the jealous wrath of Miss Jurby, Annis’s devoted dresser), and entertaining her (she hoped) with an inexhaustible flow of what Annis called nothing-sayings.

She was doing that on the journey back to Bath from Twynham Park. The fact that she received only mechanical responses from Miss Wychwood did not offend her, or cause her to abate her cheerful chatter. Rather she increased it, for she could see that her dear Miss Wychwood was a trifle in the dumps, and considered it to be her duty to divert her mind. No doubt she was sad to be leaving Twynham: Miss Farlow could well understand that, for she was feeling rather sad herself: it had been such an agreeable week!

“So very kind as Lady Wychwood is!” she said brightly. “I declare it makes one sorry to be going away, not but what home is best, isn’t it? We must look forward now to Easter, when we shall have them all to stay in Camden Place. We shan’t know how to make enough of those sweet children, shall we, Annis?”

“I don’t think I shall find it difficult,” said Annis, with a faint smile. “And I fancy Jurby won’t either!” she added, twinkling across at her dresser, who was sitting on the forward seat, holding her mistress’s jewel-box on her angular knees. “Little Tom’s last encounter with Jurby was a very near-run thing, I promise you, Maria! Indeed, I am persuaded that had I not chanced to come into the room at that moment she’d have spanked him—as well he deserved! Wouldn’t you, Jurby?”

Her dresser replied austerely: “Tempted I may have been, Miss Annis, but the Lord gave me strength to resist the promptings of the Evil One.”

“Oh, no, was it the Lord who gave you that strength?” said Annis, quizzing her. “I had thought it was my intervention that saved him!”

“Poor little fellow!” said Miss Farlow charitably. “So high-spirited! Such quaint things as he says! I’m sure I never saw such a forward child. Your sweet little goddaughter, too, Annis!”

“I fear it’s useless to ask me to go into raptures over infants in arms,” said Annis apologetically. “I daresay I shall like both children well enough when they are older. In the meantime I must leave it to their mama, and to you, to dote on them.”

Miss Farlow realized that dear Annis had the headache, which was the only possible explanation for her want of enthusiasm over her nephew and niece. She said: “Now, why do you let me rattle on when I am persuaded you have the headache? That is not treating me as you should, or as I wish you to! There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as being obliged to attend to fireside chatter—not that this is the fireside, of course, though the hot brick I have under my feet keeps me as warm as toast—when one is not feeling in good point. And it wouldn’t surprise me, my love, if it is the weather which has made your head ache, for a cold wind frequently gives me a sort of tic, and the wind is very sharp today—not that we are conscious of it in the carriage, which I am sure is the most comfortable one imaginable, but there is bound to be a draught, and we mustn’t forget that you stood talking to Sir Geoffrey for several minutes before you got into it. That was what started the mischief, depend upon it! I expect it will go off when you are safely home again, and in the meantime I shan’t tease you by talking to you. Are you sure you are warm enough? Let me give you my shawl, to put round your head! Jurby will hold your hat, or I will. Now, where did I put my smelling-salts? They should be in my reticule, for I always put them there when I go on a journey, because one never knows when one may need them, does one? But they don’t seem to be—Oh, yes, here they are! They had slipped down to the bottom, and were under my handkerchief, though goodness knows how they can have got under it, for I distinctly recall putting them on top of everything else, so that they would be handy. I often think how extraordinary it is that things move by themselves, which no one can deny they do!”

She continued in this way for several minutes, and when Annis declined the shawl and the smelling-salts, wished that they had thought to bring a pillow to put behind Annis’s head, or that it were possible to make her a tisane. In desperation, Annis shut her eyes, and after drawing Miss Jurby’s attention to this, and telling her that they must be as quiet as mice, because Miss Annis was just dropping off to sleep, she at last subsided.

Annis had no headache, nor was she depressed at leaving Twynham Park. She was bored. Possibly the bleak weather, though it hadn’t made her head ache, had affected her spirits, making her feel, most unusually, that the future was as gray and as unpromising as the sky. Lady Wychwood had tried to keep her at Twynham for a few more days, prophesying that it was going to snow, but Annis could not be persuaded to extend her visit, even if it was going to snow, which she thought extremely unlikely. Appealed to, Sir Geoffrey said: “Snow? Pooh! Nonsense, my love! Far too much wind for that, and nothing like cold enough! Naturally we should be happy to keep Annis with us, but if she has engagements in Bath we should neither of us wish to deter her from keeping them. What’s more, if it did snow she will be perfectly safe with Twitcham on the box.”

So Annis had been allowed to set forth without further hindrance from her anxious sister-in-law, privately thinking that if it really did snow she would be better off in her own house in Bath than immured at Twynham Park. No snow fell, but no gleam of sunlight broke through the clouds to enliven the gloom of a sodden landscape; and a north-easterly wind did nothing to alleviate the discomforts of a March day. Her spirits were understandably depressed, and she was only roused from a melancholy vision of her probable future when, some eight miles short of Bath, Miss Farlow cried: “Oh, goodness me, has there been an accident? Ought we to stop? Do look, dear Annis!”

Jerked out of her unprofitable meditations, Miss Wychwood opened her eyes. No sooner did they alight on the cause of Miss Farlow’s sudden exclamation that she tugged the check-string, and, as Twitcham pulled up his horses, said: “Oh, poor things! Of course we must stop, Maria, and try what we can do to rescue them from such a horrid plight!”

While her footman jumped down to open the carriage-door, and to let down the steps, she had time to assimilate the details of the mishap which had befallen two fellow-travellers. A gig, with one wheel missing, was lying at a drunken angle at the side of the road, and beside it were standing two people: a female, huddled in a cloak, and a fair young man, who was feeling the knees of the sturdy cob which he had drawn out from between the shafts of the gig, and who said, just as James, the footman, pulled open the door of Miss Wychwood’s carriage: “Well, thank God, at least this bonesetter is none the worse!”

His companion, whom Miss Wychwood perceived to be a very young, and a very pretty girl, replied, with some asperity: “I don’t see much to be thankful for in that!”

“I daresay you don’t!” retorted the young gentleman. “You won’t be called upon to pay for—” He broke off, as he became aware that the slap-up equipage which had just swept round a bend in the road had come to a halt, and that its occupant, a dazzlingly lovely lady, was preparing to descend from it. He gave a gasp, pulled off his modish beaver, and stammered: “Oh! I didn’t see—I mean, I didn’t think—that is to say—”

Miss Wychwood laughed, and relieved him from his embarrassment, saying, as she alighted from her carriage: “Did you suppose anyone could be so odiously selfish as not to stop? Not I, I promise you! The same thing happened to me once, and I know just how helpless it makes one feel when one loses a wheel! Now, what can I do to rescue you from this horrid predicament?”

The girl, eyeing her warily, said nothing; but the gentleman bowed, and said: “Thank you! It is excessively good of you, ma’am! I shall be very much obliged to you if you will direct them, at the next posting-house, to send a chaise here, to carry us to Bath. I am not familiar with this part of the country, so I don’t know—And then there is the horse! I can’t leave him here, can I? Perhaps—Only I don’t like to ask you to find a wheelwright, ma’am, though I think a wheelwright is what is chiefly needed!”