He spoke of the
Interlocutor.
Lydia’s telling him that she had read the poem addressed to Phoebe led him
to suppose that she had read the rest of it with equal attention, and the
minuteness of his references to its contents left her floundering, and hoping that
her eager nods would satisfy him. At last he mentioned his regret that ‘The
Open Field’ had been omitted. ‘I felt it had fine things — did you not? But it
needs, perhaps, a little more polishing.’ Lydia contented herself, and him,
with agreement, and was partially relieved when he broke off quoting from it,
and began to talk of Phoebe. Here the new amity between them was, inevitably,
threatened. He spoke of her at first with circumspection — then with awed,
regretful tenderness — at last with powerful emotion.
‘And to think of her led
astray — deluded and entrapped by some villainous fortune-hunter — it is like
an ill dream. I can scarcely believe such a thing can happen — can be
allowed
to happen.’
‘Please, Mr Beck, there
is no reproach you can lay upon me that I have not already heaped upon myself.’
‘No, no, I mean no
reproach,’ he said hastily. ‘This is no time for such things.’ But as he went
on to recall his acquaintance with Phoebe in London, and its unhappy renewal in
Bath, he could not help himself: some murmurs against Lydia could not be
checked, some little points must be scored. Lydia could not enjoy them, but
felt he had a right to them; and he did not persist. The lamps of the first
toll-gate, shining full into the carriage, must have shown the weary dejection
in her face, and Mr Beck suddenly changed the subject.
After Lydia had paid the
toll, the gate-keeper gave them a look of bored curiosity before returning to
his lodge.
‘Wondering who we are,’
she said, ‘and what can be our relation. If he knew, he would suspect something
improper.’
‘Aye, impropriety,’ Mr
Beck said, with his sharp-edged laugh. ‘Lord, even to say the word makes one’s
lips go thin. People think very stupid things, do they not? Is it because they
do not choose to think clever ones?’
‘I fear society
discourages them from doing that.’
He laughed again: then
said abruptly: ‘Or else they are hiding something from themselves.’ And they
fell into a curious, not unrestful silence, until the juddering of the wheels
on cobbles announced that they had come to the first post-house.
While the horses were
changed, Lydia made enquiries. The ostler she approached appeared not to speak
English, or indeed any language except spitting, in which he was dismayingly
proficient; but a chambermaid passing by with a laden basket overheard, and was
more helpful.
‘Fair young gentleman,
fair young lady in a chaise, not much luggage? Aye, you’re not the first to
ask. Single gentleman was here this morning wanting to know the same thing.
Aye, they passed through, going north. So did he.’ She grinned. ‘Any more
a-coming after you, are there?’
Her words gave Lydia a
sudden sense of futility. Was this not, indeed, like playing a ghastly game of
ring-a-roses? It was Mr Beck who roused her: he brought her out a glass of
brandy-and-water from the inn, assured her they were making good time, and
urged her back into the chaise as soon as the fresh horses were in the traces.
He was determined, righteous: and also, as she found to her shame that she was
not, tireless. To the fatigue and anxiety of the day was added, at last,
sickness from their rapid jolting pace. At the next post-house, there was only
the same story — the same ring-a-roses: and the coming of full dark sank her
spirits further. She had meant for them to carry on travelling through the
night; but when they rattled into the old quaint streets of Tewkesbury, and
drew up in the yard of the Hop Pole Inn, she had to confess to Mr Beck that she
could not go on.
‘After midnight,’ he
said, consulting his watch. ‘Well, we have made good time. You mean to stay
here for the night?’
‘I’m sorry. I have the
greatest dislike for feminine frailty, but if we were to go on I fear you would
not relish being in a close carriage with me. If I could only have a short rest
— lie down for a little — and have them wake me very early, then we could go
on. Oh, but you, Mr Beck — you have no luggage—’
‘Oh! that doesn’t
signify. I can lie down in my clothes.’ He handed her out. ‘You do look fagged.
Go and bespeak a room for yourself, and I’ll make the enquiries.’
Yes, he was much changed
towards her. He might perhaps change again, pricked by the memory of her wrongs
— but that did not affect the new opinion she had come to about Mr Beck. Where
previously she had deplored his volatile temperament, she now saw the virtue in
it. To be changeable, after all, always entailed the possibility of changing
for the better. It was certainly to be preferred to that rigidity, that
narrowly unyielding quality that at the last she had discovered beneath Mr
Allardyce’s smooth manner. To be sure, it would not suit her — but then, what
was the bearing of that? She had gone wrong from the start in even positing
that question. For, after all, what
would
suit her?
I am unsuitable, she
thought, as she followed the chambermaid’s candle along a creaking passage:
which is not the right word, grammatically. Incapable of being suited. What
is
the word . . . ? Bone-weary as she was, she knew she would not be able to
sleep. She lay down resigned to staring sandy-eyed at the tarry beams and the
riotously floral bed-hangings, with words, wrong words and right words, playing
ring-a-roses around her head.
What seemed only moments
later, she was starting awake at the maid’s knock, and cringing from a shaft of
full morning sunlight.
She had forgotten to be
called early. Cursing the loss of time, she dressed hurriedly, did something
novel if efficient with her hair, and ran down the mazy stairs. Mr Beck was in
the dining-parlour, looking perfectly fresh, if blue about the chin.
‘Mr Beck, I didn’t mean
to sleep so long. Have you breakfasted? We ought to be—’
‘I waited breakfast for
you. And I fancy we may not be able to make a prompt start in any case. I went
out to see about the chaise, and there was a lot of head-shaking about the left
fore wheel.’
‘Oh, no . . .’
She rushed out to the
yard to see for herself. It was true: the carriage was propped on bricks, and a
wheelwright had been fetched to make the repair.
‘Oh, no, it won’t be soon,
ma’am. Nay, she’ll be a while yet before she’s right,’ he told her, with the
infuriating lovingness of the craftsman. ‘You must bide a bit, ma’am. Take a
bite, and watch the Worcester stage come in. That’s always a handsome sight.
Proper turn-out.’
She could think of
nothing less interesting; but there was no help for it. She returned to the
dining-parlour, and sat down in the wooden booth with Mr Beck, trying to stifle
her impatience. Well, perhaps she should eat: she could do no good fainting on
the road. But though she forced down a little ham, and a good deal of coffee,
and tried to take heart from Mr Beck’s robustness, she could not fend off the
tuggings of despair. This was all hopeless. Even Mr Durrant’s swift pursuit
could do no good: Hugh Hanley was no fool. He would have known they would be
followed, and made every possible speed. Ring-a-roses.
‘That must be the
Worcester coach,’ Mr Beck said, rising and going to the window. The blowing of
the horn, the rattling and rumbling and shouting, usually so pleasant a sound,
struck her as almost insolently cheerful. Disconsolate, she went to join him.
Yes, a proper turn-out, she thought bleakly.
Moments after the coach
had come crunching to a halt, another vehicle careered into the yard at a lick
— a post-chaise, the horses snorting and lathered. It had scarcely stopped
before the door was flung open, and Mr Durrant jumped out.
‘Miss Templeton — do you
see?’ cried Mr Beck. ‘We shall have news — there’s Mr Durrant . . .’
‘And alone,’ Lydia said
huskily, and ran out to the yard.
She found Mr Durrant
elbowing aside the ostlers and shouting up to the outside passengers of the
Worcester coach. ‘Miss Fowler! Is there a Miss Fowler there? Where is Miss
Fowler?’
An elderly lady put back
her veil and peered timidly down at him. ‘I am here, sir. Whatever is the
matter?’
Mr Durrant’s face fell.
‘Nothing — I beg your pardon, ma’am. A mistake.’ He jumped as Lydia touched his
sleeve. ‘Great God, what do you do here?’
‘I could not bear
waiting — and see, here’s Mr Beck, he accompanied me. I had to follow you and —
oh, Mr Durrant, what news? What has happened — who is Miss Fowler?’
‘The news is good as far
as it goes,’ he said, drawing a hand across his face. ‘Then perhaps not good.’
‘By your leave, sir,’
grunted an ostler, ‘people wanting to get down.’
‘Come.’ Lydia took his
arm: though he was brisk and upright as ever, she saw how exhausted he was,
pale eyes glittering, cheekbones rawly prominent. ‘Come and sit down. Mr Beck,
will you order more coffee?’
In the dining-parlour Mr
Durrant slumped down with a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment: then, as if
that was enough of rest, snapped up and drained a whole cup of coffee.
‘I found them. Their
trail was easy enough to follow, as no doubt you have found: and yes, Scotland
the destination. Last night — well, call it three in the morning — I came to
the Crown at Worcester. Roused the innkeeper from his bed: he did not
appreciate it, but I had to know if they had passed there — I knew from each
report at the post-house that I was gaining on them. Yes, young gent and lady —
but they had not passed through — they had put up there for the night.
Gentleman’s name —’ his grin, sharpened by fatigue, was positively wolfish ‘—
would you believe he was using the name Durrant? Travelling with his sister —
yes, here is the first good news: separate bedchambers. Miss Rae’s own sense, I
suspect, because . . . Well: I wanted to know where the gentleman’s room was,
and when I had found it, I asked for a chair, as I was going to sit there in
the passage and wait. The innkeeper made a fuss, but I — well, I made it clear
I would not be denied. Quite generous of me, really, not to drag him out of his
bed at once. I waited until first light, and then I did it. In a way I should
not have waited . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Hugh was no pretty sight — very
seedy — a couple of empty bottles by his bed told the tale. And a good tale, an
encouraging tale. Last night, he told me very sourly, they had sat down to dine
together, and Miss Rae had flattened him. Not literally, alas. But she told him
plainly that she had repented of the whole escapade — that it had been a moment
of madness — that she was sorry, deeply sorry, but she could not continue. It
seems he used all his persuasions — even, I gathered, some unpleasantly
threatening ones—’
‘Villain — unspeakable
villain,’ cried Mr Beck hotly.
‘Quite so, sir: but Miss
Rae was absolutely determined. She would go no further, and they must part on
the morrow. That, it seems, was when Hugh gave up on his hopes of a fortune,
and took himself off to his room, and applied himself to the bottles. You may
imagine my relief
‘Oh, thank heaven!’
Lydia said, seizing his hand. ‘And thank heaven that Phoebe came to her
senses!’
‘Here is the less
hopeful part,’ Mr Durrant went on, disengaging his hand gently from hers. ‘It
seems that after the second bottle, very late, Hugh made one last mutton-headed
attempt to change Miss Rae’s mind — went down to her room on the floor below,
hammered at it, said no doubt a lot of revoltingly maudlin things. At last a
servant came and told him the lady wasn’t in that room: she had packed up and
left — he didn’t know where. Hugh’s reaction was, apparently, very well — good
riddance — and so to drunken bed.’
‘Phoebe left alone?
Where can she have gone? Can she have returned along this road? Surely we would
have had word—’
‘This is exactly what
disturbs me. She did not take the chaise she and Hugh had been travelling in;
and it appears she had very little money with her — she had given most of it to
Hugh, for what he called expenses. Yes,’ he said at Mr Beck’s thunderous look,
‘this is where I began to be a little impatient with him, as he made it quite
clear that he did not care in the least what became of her. He concluded by
ringing the bell for ice, and assuaging his disappointment by cursing Miss Rae
as a light-minded — I won’t say what — and laying a comprehensive curse on me,
my future wife and all my progeny for destroying his prospects.’ Mr Durrant
looked faintly shame-faced. ‘I confess then that I proposed a better cure for
his distemper than ice — in short, I frog-marched him down to the inn-yard, and
threw him into the horse-trough.’ He coughed. ‘I fancy I will not be welcome at
that inn any more.’
‘Mr Durrant, I abhor and
detest brutality,’ exclaimed Mr Beck, ‘but in this case, sir, let me shake your
hand on it!’
‘Thank you — but in
truth there was as much bitterness as satisfaction in it, for I had found Miss
Rae only to lose her again. And now she was alone, with little money, and surely
in some distress of mind — for a time I was utterly at a loss. Then I recalled
that the public coach for Bath left the Crown before dawn. I spoke to the clerk
in the coach-office — there had been one very late booking, an outside place, a
Miss Fowler. Here was my hope — that Miss Rae had enough money for that — that
she might well give another name . . .’ He sighed and slumped back again.
‘Well, you have seen the result. I set off after the coach as fast as the
horses could go, poor creatures. And here I caught up with it. And Miss Fowler
is Miss Fowler, and Miss Rae . . . God knows.’