‘May I say that I believe no governess or professor could have achieved so admirable a result?’

‘You are too flattering, my lord!’ was all she could find to say, and that in faltering accents.

‘No, I never flatter,’ he responded, taking the empty glass from her hand. ‘I perceive that we are about to be interrupted by Lady Luton. I have something of a very particular nature to say to you, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for it. May I beg of you to indulge me with the favour of a private interview with you, at whatever time may be most agreeable to you?’

Such a tumult of emotion swelled in the widow’s breast that she could scarcely find voice enough to utter the words: ‘Whenever you wish, my lord! I shall be happy to receive you!’

He rose, as Lady Luton surged down upon them. ‘Then, shall we say, at three o’clock tomorrow?’

She inclined her head; he bowed and moved away; and a moment later she had the felicity of seeing his tall, well-knit frame beside Fanny. Fanny was looking up at him, with her sweet smile, and putting out her hand, which he took in his and held for an instant, while he addressed some quizzing remark to her that made her laugh and blush. A queer little pang shot through the widow, seeing them on such comfortable terms. She reflected that her absorption in Fanny had made her stupidly jealous, and resolutely turned her attention to Lady Luton.

4

Having ascertained that her daughter had no engagement on the following afternoon, Mrs Wingham was surprised, when she returned from a shopping expedition in Bond Street, to find that only one cover had been laid for a luncheon of cold meat and fruit. She enquired of the butler, hired, like the house, for the season, whether Miss Fanny had gone out with her maid.

‘No, madam, with a military gentleman.’

These fell words caused the widow to feel so strong a presentiment of disaster that she turned pale, and repeated numbly: ‘A military gentleman!’

‘A Mr Kenton, madam. Miss Fanny appeared to be well acquainted with him. Extremely well acquainted with him, if I may say so, madam!’

Making a creditable effort to maintain her composure, Mrs Wingham said: ‘Oh, Mr Kenton is an old friend! I had no notion he was in town. He and Miss Fanny went out together, I think you said?’

‘Yes, madam, in a hackney carriage. I understand, to the City, Mr Kenton desiring the coachman to set them down at the Temple.’

This very respectable address did nothing to soothe Mrs Wingham’s agitated nerves. The whole locality, from Temple Bar to St Paul’s Cathedral, appeared to her to be sinister in the extreme. Amongst the thoughts which jostled one another in her head, the most prominent were Fleet Marriages, Doctors’ Commons and Special Licences. She was obliged to sit down, for her knees were trembling. Her butler then proffered a tray on which lay a note, twisted into a little cocked hat.


It was scribbled in pencil, and it was brief.


Dearest Mama,-Forgive me, but I have gone with Richard. You shall know it all, but I have no time now. Pray do not be vexed with me! I am so happy I am sure you cannot be.


Mrs Wingham became aware that she was being asked if she would partake of luncheon or wait for Miss Fanny, and heard her own voice replying with surprising calm: ‘I don’t think Miss Fanny will be home to luncheon.’

She then drew her chair to the table and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of chicken, and to sip a glass of wine. A period of quiet reflection, if it did not lighten her heart, at least assuaged the worst of her fears. She could not believe that either Fanny or Richard would for a moment contemplate the impropriety of a clandestine marriage. But that the sight of Richard had revived all Fanny’s tenderness for him she could not, in the face of Fanny’s note, doubt. What to do she could not think, and in a state of wretched indecision presently went up to her bedroom. After removing her hat, setting a becoming lace cap on her head and tying it under her chin, there seemed to be nothing to do but to await further news of the truants, so she went to sit in the drawing-room, and tried to occupy herself with her needle.

Fortunately, she had not long to wait. Shortly after two o’clock an impetuous step on the stair smote her listening ears, and Fanny herself came into the room, out of breath, her cheeks in a glow, and her eyes sparkling. ‘Mama? Oh, Mama, Mama, it is true, and you will give your consent now, won’t you?’

She came running across the room as she spoke and cast herself at her mother’s feet, flinging her arms round her, and seeming not to know whether to laugh or cry. Behind her Mr Kenton, very smart in his regimentals, shut the door and remained at a little distance, as though doubtful of his reception. He was a well-set-up young man, with a pleasant countenance and an air of considerable resolution. At the moment, however, he was looking a trifle anxious, and he seemed to find his neckcloth rather too tight.

‘Fanny, my dear, pray—!’ remonstrated Mrs Wingham. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about! How do you do, Richard? I am very pleased to see you. Are you on furlough?’

‘Mama, we have such news for you! Richard’s godmother has died!’ interrupted Fanny ecstatically. ‘And she has left Richard a great deal of money, so that he can support a wife after all! He came to tell me at once, and I went with him to the lawyer, and it is true!

Mrs Wingham turned her bewildered eyes towards Mr Kenton. He said bluntly: ‘No, it is not a great deal of money, ma’am, but it will enable me to buy my exchange, for you must know that I have been offered the chance of a company in the—th, only I never thought I should be able—. However, I can now afford the purchase money, and once I am in the—th, I hope I shan’t be obliged to wait upon the chance of Boney’s escaping a second time, and starting another kick-up, for my promotion. And I thought, if you would give your consent to our marriage, I would settle what will be left of the legacy on Fanny. It won’t be a fortune, but—but it will be something]’

‘Mama, you will consent?’ Fanny said imploringly. ‘You said I must see something of the world before I made up my mind, but I have now seen a great deal of the world, and I haven’t met anyone I like better than Richard, and I know I never shall. And although it is very amusing to lead a fashionable life, and, indeed, I have enjoyed all the parties, I would much prefer to follow the drum with Richard! You will consent?’

Mrs Wingham stared down into the radiant face upturned to hers. A dozen objections died on her lips. She said, with a wavering smile:

‘Yes, Fanny. If you are quite, quite sure, I suppose I must consent!’

Her daughter’s lips were pressed to her cheek, Mr Kenton’s to her hand. Seated amongst the ruins of her ambition, with that weight of depression upon her heart, she said: ‘And Lord Harleston is coming to visit me at three o’clock!’

‘Lord Harleston!’ exclaimed Fanny. ‘Oh, will you tell him, Mama, that I am going to marry Richard? I should have wished to have told him myself, but the thing is that Richard has leave of absence only for one day, and he must rejoin the regiment immediately. Mama, if I take Maria with me, may I go with him to the coach office? Pray, Mama!’

‘Yes—oh yes!’ said Mrs Wingham. ‘I will tell Lord Harleston.’

5

Thus it was that when one of the biggest but most unobtainable prizes of the Matrimonial Mart was ushered into Mrs Wingham’s drawing-room, he found the widow alone and sunk in melancholy. The depression, of which she had been conscious for so many weeks, threatened now to overcome her, and was in no way alleviated by her inability to decide which of the various evils confronting her was at the root of her strong desire to indulge in a hearty bout of tears. The years of economy has been wasted; yet she could not regret the weeks spent in London. Her maternal ambition was utterly dashed; but when she saw the happiness in Fanny’s face she could not be sorry. She must soon lose the daughter on whom her every thought had been centred for years; but if by the lifting of a finger she could have kept Fanny, she would have held her hands tightly folded in her lap, as they were when the Marquis walked into the room.

He paused upon the threshold. The one glance she permitted herself to cast at his face showed her that there was an arrested expression in his eyes, a look of swift concern. The pain she was about to inflict on him most poignantly affected her; for a startling moment she found herself blaming Fanny for having wounded one of whom she was all unworthy. She was unable to sustain his steady regard; her eyes fell to the contemplation of the little gold tassels on his Hessian boots. They moved, swinging jauntily as he came towards her. ‘Mrs Wingham! Something has occurred to distress you. May I know what it is? If there is anything I may do—’

He was bending solicitously over her, one shapely hand lifting one of hers, and holding it in a sustaining clasp. She said disjointedly: ‘Yes—no! It is nothing, my lord! I beg you will not—! Indeed, it is nothing!’

She drew her hand away as she spoke. He said: ‘Shall I leave you? I have come, I believe, at an unfortunate time. Tell me what you wish! I would not for the world add to your distress!’

‘Oh no! Do not go! This interview ought not to be—must not be—postponed!’

He looked intently at her, as much anxiety in his eyes as there was in hers. ‘I came—I believe you must know for what purpose.’