There was a laugh in his eye, but he bowed formally and went out with Saltwood, leaving her beset by a great many agitating emotions, foremost amongst which was a dread that Lady Saltwood would, in the failing state of her health, feel herself to be unequal to the strain of receiving his lordship. When, presently, Saltwood went up to the drawing-room, looking as though he had sustained a severe shock, Dorothea was seized by a conviction that her escapade had been disclosed to him, and she fled to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, and indulged in a hearty bout of tears. From this abyss of woe she was jerked by the unmistakable sounds of Augusta in strong hysterics. Hastily drying her cheeks, she ran down the stairs to render whatever assistance might be needed, and to support her parent through this ordeal. To her amazement, she found Lady Saltwood, whom she had left languishing on the sofa, not only upon her feet, but looking remarkably well. To her still greater amazement, the invalid folded her in the fondest of embraces, and said: ‘Dearest, dearest child! I declare I don’t know if I am on my head or my heels! Rotherfield! A countess! You sly little puss, never to have told me that you had met him! And not even out yet! You must be presented at once: that I am determined upon! He is coming to visit me tomorrow. Thank heaven you are just Augusta’s size! You must wear the pomona silk dress Celestine has just made for her: I knew how it would be, the instant I brought you out! I was never so happy in my life!’

Quite bewildered, Dorothea said: ‘Presented? Wear Augusta’s new dress? Mama, why?’

‘My innocent treasure!’ exclaimed Lady Saltwood. ‘Tell me, my love, for you must know I am scarcely acquainted with him, do you—do you like Lord Rotherfield?’

‘Oh, Mama!’ said Dorothea impulsively. ‘He is exactly like Sir Charles Grandison, and Lord Orville, only far, far better!’

‘Dearest Dorothea!’ sighed her ladyship ecstatically. ‘Charlie, do not stand there staring! Go and throw a jug of water over Augusta this instant! This is not the moment for hysterics!’

Hazard

The girl stood under the light of the guttering candles, still as a statue, her hands elapsed in front of her, and no colour in her cheeks. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown with blue ribbons, and wore no ornament save the fillet threaded through her gold hair. She did not look at her half-brother, nor at any one of the five other men who were gathered round the table in the centre of the over-heated room. But she knew who was present; she had seen them all in the one swift glance she had cast at them under her lashes as she had entered the room. There was Lord Amberfield, sprawling over the table with his head pillowed on his arm; Mr Marmaduke Shapley, not so drunk as Amberfield, leaning on his chair and giggling; Sir Thomas Fort, a little blear-eyed, very purple in the face; Mr Lionel Winter, idiotically smiling; and Carlington Carlington with his black curls in disorder, and his exquisite cravat crumpled, his lean cheeks hectically flushed, and a reckless look in his bright eyes.

And there was Half-brother Ralph, in answer to whose peremptory summons she had got up out of her bed, and dressed herself, and come down to this stuffy room in the chill small hours. He was lounging back in his chair, still grasping the dice-box in one hand, while the other sought to refill his empty glass. Some of the wine slopped over on to the baize cloth that covered the table; Sir Ralph cursed it, and thrust the bottle on towards his left-hand neighbour. ‘Fill up, Lionel! Fill up!’ he said, hiccuping. ‘Now, my lord—now Carlington! You want to play on, hey? But I’m done-up, d’ye see? Only one thing left to stake, and that’s m’sister!’ A fit of insane laughter shook him; he made a gesture towards the girl, who stood motionless still, her gaze fixed on a point above Carlington’s handsome head. ‘I’ll set her for my last stake, gen’lemen. Who’ll cover?’

Mr Winter said: ‘Tha’s—tha’s Miss Helen,’ and nodded wisely.

‘Damme, Morland, this—this is not right!’ said Sir Thomas, getting on to his feet. ‘Miss Morland—very obedient servant, ma’am! Amberfield—my lord! ladies present!’

He lurched towards the sleeping Viscount, and shook him by one shoulder. Lord Amberfield moaned, and muttered: ‘Pockets to let: all my vowels in—in Carlington’s hands.’

‘Freddy, my boy, I’m saying it’s not right. Can’t stake a lady.’

Lord Amberfield said: ‘Can’t stake anything. Nothing to stake. Going to sleep.’

Mr Marmaduke Shapley clasped his head in his hands, as though to steady it, and said rather indistinctly: ‘It’s the wine. Confound you, Ralph, you’re drunk!’

Sir Ralph gave a boisterous laugh, and rattled the dice in the box. ‘Who’ll cover?’ he demanded. ‘What d’ye say, Lionel? Will you have my jade of a sister to wife?’

Mr Winter rose to his feet, and stood precariously balancing on his heels. ‘Sir,’ he said, looking owlishly at his host, ‘shall take leave to tell you—no one will cover prepost’rous stake!’

Sir Ralph’s wicked eyes went past him to where Carlington sat, gazing at the girl under frowning, night-black brows. By the Marquis’ left arm, stretched negligently before him on the table, scraps of paper were littered, vowels for the money he had won. There were rouleaus of guineas at his elbow, and more guineas spilled under his hand. Through Sir Ralph’s blurred mind drifted a thought that he had never seen the young Marquis in so wild a humour before. He leaned forward, and said mockingly: ‘Will you cover, my lord, or do you refuse the bet?’

Carlington’s eyes turned slowly towards him. They were not glazed but unnaturally bright. ‘I—refuse?’ he said.

‘There’s the true elbow-shaker!’ crowed Sir Ralph. ‘Cover, Carlington! What’s the jade worth?’

Mr Winter laid hold of his chair-back, and with difficulty enunciated four words: ‘My lord, you’re d-drunk!’

‘Drunk or sober, no man shall set me a stake I won’t cover,’ Carlington answered. His long fingers closed over the heap of vowels, crushing them into a ball. He thrust them forward, and his rouleaus with them.

‘Good God, Charles!’ cried Sir Thomas, catching at his wrist. ‘There’s a matter of twenty thousand pounds there! Have sense, man, have sense!’

Carlington shook him off. ‘A main, Morland, call a main!’ he said.

‘Seven!’ Sir Ralph responded, and cast the dice on to the table.

Carlington laughed, and dived a hand into his pocket for his snuff-box, and flicked it open.

‘Five to seven!’ announced Mr Shapley, peering at the dice.

The girl’s fixed gaze had wavered as the dice rattled in the box, and she had shot a swift glance downwards at the chance, as it lay on the table. Her brother gathered up the dice, shook them together and again threw them. They rolled across the table, and settled into five and ace.

‘Cinque-ace!’ called Mr Shapley, constituting himself groom-porter. ‘Any bets, gentlemen? any bets?’

No one answered; the Marquis took snuff.

The dice were shaken a third time, and cast. ‘Quatre-trey!’ called out Mr Shapley. ‘Carlington, you’ve—you’ve the d—devil’s own luck!’

The girl’s eyes remained fixed for a moment on the four and the three lying on the green cloth; then she raised them, and looked across the table at Carlington.

The Marquis leaped up, and achieved a bow. ‘Ma’am, I have won your hand in fair play!’ he said, and stretched out his own imperatively.

Sir Ralph was staring at the dice, his lower lip pouting, and some of the high colour fading from his cheeks. Without a glance at him Miss Morland walked round the table, and curtsied, and laid her hand in Carlington’s.

His fingers closed on it; he swung it gently to and fro, and said recklessly: ‘It’s time we were going. Will you come, my golden girl?’

Miss Morland spoke for the first time, in a composed, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Certainly I will come, sir,’ she said.

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.