“Well, you could say that it was all a fudge, and what you really wish for is one of Juno’s pups,” she offered.
“No, that I most assuredly could not say!”
“Never mind!” she said consolingly. “I shall be quite in disgrace, I daresay, but it is not of the least consequence. I must find poor Amanda.”
“Very well. Unless she has recovered from the sulks, she is seated at the end of the terrace, plotting vengeance on me,” he replied, holding open the door for her.
But Amanda was no longer on the terrace. No sooner had Sir Gareth left her, than Mr. Theale, an interested and shameless eavesdropper, had risen from the rustic bench immediately below the parapet, where he had been enjoying his cigarillo, and mounted the broad stone steps to the terrace. What he had heard had resolved his doubts: he was now assured that Sir Gareth had had the effrontery to introduce his particular into the chaste precincts of Brancaster Park. Mr. Theale had not previously held him in much esteem, but he was obliged to own now that he had underrated the fellow: such audacity commanded his instant respect. He wondered what peculiar concatenation of circumstances had rendered it necessary for Ludlow to adopt such a desperate course, and reflected that it all went to show how unwise it was to judge a man by the face he showed to the world. One would have supposed Ludlow to be the last man alive to desire a reluctant mistress, yet here he was, plainly determined not to let this little bird of paradise escape him. Mr. Theale sympathized with him, but could not forbear chuckling to himself. He rather fancied that he had the poor fellow at a disadvantage, for however infuriated he might be at having his mistress filched from him he would be obliged to accept the situation with apparent complaisance. Damn it, thought Mr. Theale, he can’t so much as mention the matter to me, let alone call me out! I’m poor Hetty’s uncle! He may be brazen, but he won’t kick up such a dust as that!
Fortified by this conviction, he threw away the butt of his cigarillo, and made his way towards the end of the terrace.
Amanda watched his advance with the light of speculation in her eye. He might be a fat old man, doddering on the brink of the grave, but he was clearly disposed to admire her, and might, with a little ingenuity, be turned to useful account. She smiled upon him, therefore, and made no objection to his seating himself beside her, and taking her hand between both of his.
“My dear little girl,” said Mr. Theale, in a voice of fatherly benevolence, “I fear you are in some trouble! Now, I wonder if I might be able to help you? I wish, my dear, that you would confide in me!”
Amanda drew a long breath of sheer ecstasy. Mr. Theale mistook it for a sigh, and patted her hand, saying fondly: “There, there! Only tell me the whole!”
“I am an orphan,” said Amanda, adding tragically: “Cast upon the world without the means to support myself!”
“My poor child!” said Mr. Theale. “Have you no kindred to care what becomes of you?”
“No, alas!” said Amanda mournfully.
“Let us take a turn in the garden!” said Mr. Theale, much heartened by this disclosure.
Chapter 7
It could not have been said, when Amanda came to the end of her imaginative confidences, that Mr. Theale perfectly understood all the ramifications of her story. Certain features, such as the precise nature of the circumstances which had drawn Sir Gareth into her life, remained obscure, but this did not greatly trouble him. One thing was quite plain to him: Sir Gareth had hideously mangled a promising situation, which, reflected Mr. Theale, was a further example of the unwisdom of trusting to appearances. One wouldn’t have suspected that a fellow with such address, and such easy, pleasant manners, would have so grossly mishandled a shy filly whom anyone but a cod’s head must have guessed would respond only to a very light hand on the bridle. That Amanda had disliked him from the outset Mr. Theale did not for a moment believe, for the particular story Amanda had selected for his edification was the one she owed to the pen of Mr. Richardson. Sir Gareth had recognized the provenance, and had very unkindly said so; Mr. Theale, whose reading did not embrace the works of novelists admired by his parents, did not recognize it. Broadly speaking, he accepted the story, but the construction he put upon it was scarcely what the fair plagiarist would have desired. No doubt the little lovebird had encouraged the widowed parent of her young mistress to make up to her: probably, thought the cynical Mr. Theale, she had hoped to lure him into proposing marriage. That would account for the apparent inhumanity of the gentleman’s sister in turning her out of doors incontinent. Just how much time had elapsed, or what had happened, between this heartless eviction and Amanda’s arrival at Brancaster under Sir Gareth’s protection, Mr. Theale neither knew nor troubled to discover. She had said that she had met Sir Gareth for the first time on the previous day, but that, naturally, was a lie. Understandable, of course, but Mr. Theale was rather too downy a one to accept it. On his own admission, Sir Gareth had lingered on the road from London. He had pitched them a Canterbury-story about a visit to old friends in Hertfordshire: in Mr. Theale’s view, it had been a young friend who had detained him, and had succeeded in fixing his interest so securely that rather than lose her he had adopted the perilous course of bringing her to Brancaster. Mr. Theale considered it a bold stroke, but a trifle hare-brained: ten to one that had been when the chit had taken fright. When all was said and done, he thought, preening himself, an experienced man of fifty, even though he had become a little portly, could give Ludlow points, and beat him. A handsome face and a fine figure were very well in their way, but what was needed in this case was delicacy.
Mr. Theale, in the most delicate fashion imaginable, offered Amanda an asylum. He did it so beautifully that even if she had been attending closely to him she must have found it difficult to decide whether he was inviting her to become an inmate of his hunting-box in the guise of a maidservant, or in that of an adopted daughter. In the event, she paid very little heed to his glibly persuasive periods, being fully occupied in considering how, and at what stage of the journey to Melton Mowbray, to dispense with his further escort.
On one point, Mr. Theale failed to reassure her. So great was her dread of Sir Gareth that nothing served to convince her that he would not, as soon as her flight was discovered, pursue her relentlessly, probably springing his horses in a very reckless way, and quite certainly, unless she had several hours’ start of him, overtaking her, and snatching her back into his power.
“No, no, he won’t do that!” Mr. Theale said comfortably.
“Well, I think he will,” replied Amanda. “He is determined not to let me escape: he said so!”
“Ay, I heard him,” said Mr. Theale, chuckling to himself. “He was bamming you, my dear. The one thing he can’t do is to get you away from me. He’s been hoaxing you more than you knew. I’ll go bail he hasn’t told you what brought him here, has he?”
“No,” admitted Amanda. “But—”
“Well, he’s come to offer for my niece,” disclosed Mr. Theale.
“For Lady Hester?” gasped Amanda, roundeyed with surprise.
“That’s it. Sets him at a stand. A nice dust there would be if the truth of this business were to become known! Bad enough to have brought you here in the first place. The tale will be that I’ve taken you to those relations of yours at Oundle. Of course, he’ll know I haven’t done any such thing, because he knows there ain’t any relations at Oundle, but he won’t dare say so; and as for trying to get me to hand you over to him—well, if he’s got as much effrontery as that, he’s got more than any man that ever existed!”
“I think,” said Amanda firmly, “that we should fly from this place at dawn.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” replied Mr. Theale, even more firmly. “Not at dawn, my dear.”