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!”
At this, his companion intervened, announcing that a wheelwright was not what she needed. “Ten to one he wouldn’t come at all, and even if he did come, whoever heard of a wheelwright mending a wheel on the road? Particularly a wheel that has two broken spokes! It would be hours before we reached Bath, and you must know that it is of the first importance that I should be there not a moment later than five o’clock! I might have known how it would be when you meddled in what is quite my own affair, for of all the mutton-headed people I ever was acquainted with you are the most mutton-headed, Ninian!” she said indignantly.
“Let me remind you, Lucy,” retorted the gentleman, flushing up to the roots of his fair hair, “that the accident was no fault of mine! And, further, that if I had not meddled, as you choose to call it, in your affair you would have found yourself at this moment stranded miles from Bath! And if we are to talk of mutton-heads—!” He broke off, controlling himself with a visible effort, set his teeth, and said in the icy voice of one determined not to allow his anger to get the better of him: “I shall not do so, however!”
“No, don’t!” said Annis, considerably amused by this interchange. “You really have no time to indulge in recriminations at just this moment, have you? If it is a matter of importance to you to reach Bath before five o’clock, Miss—?”
She left a pause, her brows raised questioningly, but the youthful lady before her did not seem to be very willing to fill it. After hesitating for a few moments, she stammered: “If you please, ma’am, will you just call me Lucilla? I—I have a very particular reason for not wishing anyone to know my surname—in case they come in search of me!”
“They?” enquired Miss Wychwood, wondering what kind of an adventure she had stumbled on.
“My aunt, and his father,” said Lucilla, nodding towards her escort. “And very likely my uncle too, if he can be persuaded to bestir himself!” she added.
“Good God!” exclaimed Miss Wychwood, her eyes dancing. “Can it be that I am assisting in an elopement?”
The haste with which both the lady and the gentleman repudiated this suggestion was attended by so much vehemence, and with so much loathing, that Miss Wychwood was hard put to it not to burst out laughing. She managed to keep her countenance, and said, with only a tiny tremor in her voice: “I beg your pardon! Indeed, I can’t think how I came to say anything so shatter-brained, for something seemed to tell me at the outset that it was not an elopement!”
Lucilla said, with dignity: “I may be a sad romp, I may be a little gypsy, and my want of conduct may give people a disgust of me, but I am not lost to all sense of propriety, whatever my aunt says, and nothing could prevail on me to elope with anyone! Not even if I were madly in love, which I’m not! As for eloping with Ninian, that would be a nonsensical thing to do, because—”
“I wish you will keep your tongue, Lucy!” interrupted Ninian, looking very much vexed. “You rattle on like a regular bagpipe, and see what comes of it!” He turned towards Annis, saying stiffly: “I cannot wonder at it that you were misled into supposing that we are eloping. The case is far otherwise.”
“Yes, it is,” corroborated Lucilla. “Far, far otherwise! The truth is that I am escaping from Ninian!”
“I see!” said Annis sympathetically. “And he is helping you to do it!”
“Well, yes—in a way he is,” Lucilla admitted. “Not that I wished him to help me, but—but the circumstances made it very difficult for me to stop him. It—it is all rather complicated, I’m afraid.”
“It does seem to be,” agreed Annis. “And if you are going to explain it to me—not that I wish to be vulgarly inquisitive!—how would it be if you were to get into my carriage, and allow me to convey you to wherever it is in Bath that you wish to go?”
Lucilla cast a somewhat longing look at the carriage, but shook a resolute head. “No. It is very kind of you, but it would be too shabby of me to leave Ninian behind, and I won’t do it!”