Worth’s duplicity, Worth’s despicable strategy, Worth’s infamous triumph, possessed Miss Taverner’s mind for many days. In all the business of choosing muslins, gauzes, French cambrics, and crapes for the making up for gowns to wear at Brighton, plans for revenge on him were revolving in her head, and her thoughts wandered even when she was engaged in choosing between sandals made of white kid, and Roman boots of Denmark satin. Mrs. Scattergood was in despair, and when Miss Taverner cast an indifferent glance at two hats displayed by a milliner (the one an enchanting Lavinia chip tied down with sarcenet ribbons, and the other a celestial-blue bonnet with a jockey-front edged with honeycomb trimming) and said that she liked neither, her chaperon, seriously alarmed, spoke of sending for Dr. Baillie to prescribe a tonic.
Miss Taverner declined seeing a doctor, but continued to brood darkly over Worth’s enormities.
Somewhat to Peregrine’s disappointment, the Fairfords were not going to Brighton, but to Worthing instead, a resort much patronized by persons to whom the racket of Brighton was distasteful. Nothing but the discovery that Worthing was situated only thirteen miles from Brighton reconciled him to his sister’s choice of watering-place, and with the smallest encouragement he would have forgone all the gaiety of Brighton and secured lodgings at Worthing instead. But Judith was adamant, and he was forced to be content with the prospect of riding over to see his Harriet three or four times a week.
The time for their departure from London drew near; everything was in train; all that remained to be done was to pack their trunks, and to decide upon the route to be followed. There could be little question: all the advantages of the New Road, which was shorter and in better condition than any other, were felt. At the most four changes only could be thought necessary, and with her own horses posted on the road, Judith might expect to accomplish the journey in five hours or less. Twenty-eight stage-coaches a day ran between London and Brighton during the season, but Peregrine could not discover that any of them made the journey in less than six hours. He was of the opinion that a light travelling chaise-and-four might very well accomplish it in five, though he, driving his curricle, had every expectation of rivalling the Regent’s performance in 1784, when, as Prince of Wales, he had driven a phaeton drawn by three horses, harnessed tandem-fashion, from Carlton House to the Marine Pavilion infour hours and a half.
“Though I shan’t drive unicorn, of course,” he added. “I shall have four horses.”
“My dear, you ‘could not drive unicorn if you wanted to,” said Judith. “Those randoms are the most difficult of all to handle. I wish I might go with you. I hate travelling boxed up in a chaise.”
“Well, why don’t you?” said Peregrine.
She had spoken idly, but the notion having entered her head it took root, and she began seriously to consider whether it might not be possible. She very soon convinced herself that there could be no harm in it; it might be thought eccentric, but she who took snuff and drove a perch-phaeton for the purpose of being remarkable, could scarcely regard that as an evil. Within half an hour of having first mentioned the scheme she had decided to put it into execution.
In spite of having assured herself that no objection could be made to it, she was not surprised at encountering opposition from Mrs. Scattergood. That lady threw up her hands, and pronounced the plan to be impossible. She represented to Judith all the impropriety of rattling down to Brighton in an open carriage, and begged her to consider in what a hoydenish light she must appear if she adhered to the scheme. “It will not do!” she said. “It is one thing to drive an elegant phaeton in the Park, and in the country you may do as you please without occasioning remark; but to drive in a curricle down the most crowded turnpike-road in the country, to be quizzed by every vulgar Corinthian who sees you, is not to be thought of. It would look so particular! Upon no account in the world must you do it! That sort of thing can be allowable only in such women as Lady Lade, and I am sure no one could wonder at whatever she took it into her head to do.”
“Do not make yourself uneasy, ma’am,” said Judith, putting up her chin. “I have no apprehension of being thought to rival Lady Lade. You can entertain no scruple in seeing me drive away with my own brother.”
“Pray do not think of it, my love! Every feeling must be offended! But you only wish to tease me, I know. I am persuaded you have too much delicacy of principle to engage on such an adventure. I shudder to think what Worth would say if he were to hear of it!”
“Indeed!” said Judith, taking fire. “I shall not allow him to be a judge of my actions, ma’am. I believe my credit may survive a journey to Brighton in my brother’s curricle. You must know that my determination is fixed. I go with Perry.”
No arguments could move her; entreaties were useless. Mrs. Scattergood abandoned the struggle, and hurried away to send off a note to Worth.
Upon the following day Peregrine came to his sister and said, with a rueful grimace: “Maria must have split on you, Ju. I’ve been at White’s that morning, and met Worth there. The long and short of it is that you are to go in a chaise to Brighton.”
An interval of calm reflection had done much to soften Miss Taverner’s resolve; she could not but admit the justice of her chaperon’s words, and was more than a little inclined to submit gracefully to her wishes. But every tractable impulse, every regard for propriety, was shattered by Peregrine’s speech. She cried out: “What? Is this Lord Worth’s verdict? Do I understand that he takes it upon himself to arrange my mode of travel?”
“Well, yes,” said Peregrine. “That is to say, he has positively forbidden me to take you up in my curricle.”
“And you? What answer did you make?”
“I said I saw no harm in it. But you know Worth: I might as well have spared my breath.”
“You submitted? You let him dictate to you in that insufferable fashion?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Ju, I did not see that it was such a great matter after all. And, you know, I don’t wish to quarrel with him just now, because I am in hopes that he will consent to my marriage this summer.”
“Consent to your marriage! He has no notion of doing so! He told me as much months ago. He does not mean you to be married if he can prevent it.”
Peregrine stared at her. “Nonsense! What difference can it make to him?”
She did not answer, but sat tapping her foot for a moment, glowering at him. After a pause she said curtly: “You agreed to it, then? You told him you would not drive me to Brighton?”
“Yes, in effect I did, I suppose. I daresay he may be right; he says you are not to be making yourself the talk of the town.”
“I am obliged to him. I have no more to say.”
He grinned at her. “That’s not like you. What have you got in your head now?”
“If I told you, you would run to Worth with the news,” she said.
“Be damned to you. Ju, I would not! If you want to put Worth in his place I wish you luck.”
She looked at him, a glint in her eye. “I will lay you a level hundred, Perry, that I reach Brighton before you on May 12th, driving a curricle-and-four.”
His jaw dropped; then he burst out laughing, and said: “Done! You madcap, do you mean it?”
“Certainly I mean it.”
“Worth goes to Brighton himself on the 12th,” he warned her.
“It would give me infinite pleasure to meet him on the road.”
. “Lord, I would give a monkey to see his face! But do you think you should? Will it not be remarked on?”
“Oh,” she said, curling her lip. “The rich Miss Taverner is expected to astonish the world.”
“Ay, very true; so it is! Well, I am game. It’s time Worth tasted our mettle. We have been too easy with him, and he begins to interfere beyond what is reasonable.”
“No word of it to Maria!” she said. “Not a murmur!” he promised gaily. Mrs. Scattergood, in ignorance of what was in store, and believing herself to have checkmated her charge, set about the business of departure in a mood of considerable complacence. Had she guessed that Miss Taverner’s meek acquiescence in all her plans sprang from nothing but a desire to allay any suspicions she might nourish, her peace would have been quite cut up. But she had never come up against Miss Taverner’s will, and had no idea of its strength. In happy unconcern she went about her affairs, instructed the housekeeper what chairs and sofas must be put into holland-covers, arranged for the servants they were to take with them to leave Brook Street not later than seven o’clock in the morning, and gave orders for the chaise that was to convey herself and Miss Taverner to be brought round at noon. The momentous day dawned. At ten o’clock Miss Taverner, dressed in her habit, and with a handful of spare whip-points thrust through one of her buttonholes, walked into her bedroom where she was fluttering about in the midst of bandboxes and valises, and said coolly: “Well, ma’am, I shall see you presently, I trust. I wish you a pleasant journey.”
Mrs. Scattergood cast one aghast glance at her, and cried: “Good God! what does this mean? Why have you put on your habit? What are you going to do?”
“Why, Ma’am, I have engaged to race Perry to Brighton, driving the other curricle,” said Miss Taverner, preparing to depart.
“Judith!” shrieked Mrs. Scattergood, sitting down plump upon her best bonnet.
Miss Taverner put her head round the door again. “Don’t be uneasy, Maria; I can out-drive Perry. I beg you won’t forget to send word of it to Lord Worth, if he should still be in town.”
“ Judith!” moaned the afflicted lady. But Miss Taverner had gone.
In the street Peregrine was tossing his driving-cloak up on to the box of his curricle. Hinkson was to accompany him, while the second curricle was in charge of Judith’s own groom, a very respectable, smart-looking man, with an intimate acquaintance with every turnpike-road in England.
“Well, Ju, is it understood?” asked Peregrine as his sister came out of the house. “We take the New Road, and change three times only, at Croydon, Horley, and Cuckfield. The race to begin the other side of Westminster Bridge, and to end at the Marine Parade. Are you ready?”
She nodded, and taking the reins in her right hand got up on to the box of her curricle, and deftly changed the reins over. Peregrine followed suit, the grooms got to their places, and both vehicles moved forward down the street.
Until Westminster Bridge was crossed the pace was necessarily slow, but once over the bridge, Judith, who had been leading, drew up to let Peregrine come abreast, and the race began.
Very much as she had expected he would Peregrine fanned his horses to a rattling speed immediately, and went ahead. Judith kept her team at a brisk trot, and said merely: “His horses will be blown by the time they reach the top of the first hill. No need to press mine yet.”
A mile and a half brought them to the Kennington turnpike. Peregrine was not in sight, and as the gate was shut it was to be presumed that he must have passed through some minutes previously. The groom had the yard of tin ready, and blew up for the pike in good time; as the curricle drove through he remarked with satisfaction: “The master must be springing ’em. Brixton Hill will take the heart out of his cattle, miss. You may overtake him anywhere you please between Streatham and Croydon.”
Another two and a half miles brought Brixton Church into sight. There was no sign of Peregrine, but instead an Accommodation coach, loaded high with baggage, presented a ludicrous appearance with a wheel off, and all its disgruntled passengers sitting or standing by the roadside. No one seemed to be hurt, and Judith, checking only for a minute, drove past, and into Brixton village. She had been nursing her horses carefully, and they brought her up the hill beyond at a good pace. She steadied them over the crown, swept past a stage-coach painted bright green and gold, with its destination printed in staring white capitals on the panels, and let her horses have their heads. Peregrine’s curricle came into sight a mile farther on, crossing Streatham Common. His horses were labouring and it was evident that he had pressed them too hard up Brixton Hill. Judith gained on him steadily; he sent the lash of his whip out to touch up one sluggish leader, and the wheeler behind shied badly. Judith seized her chance, demonstrated how to hit a leader without alarming the wheel-horse by throwing her thong out well to the right, and bringing it back with a sharp jerk, and shot by at a gallop just as the Royal Mail Coach came into sight round a bend. The curricle swung over to the side of the road, and the two vehicles met and passed without mishap.
Peregrine had now no hope of overtaking his sister on the first stage, and was content to hang on as close behind as he could for the four miles that lay between them and Croydon. A gallows-sign—straddling Croydon High Street showed the position of the Greyhound, one of the two chief posting houses in the town; the groom blew a long blast for the change, and by the time the curricle had turned into the courtyard the ostlers and post-boys were bestirring themselves to be in readiness for whatever vehicle should appear.
Miss Taverner kept her seat while the horses were taken out and the new team swiftly put-to, but Judson, her groom, jumped down and ran back under the archway to watch for Peregrine’s arrival. He came back in a few moments with the news that the master had passed, and was making for the King’s Head, in Market Street.
A little time had to be wasted in giving the necessary directions for the return of Miss Taverner’s own team, but in a very short space the curricle was away again, and bowling through the town towards the turnpike three-quarters of a mile on.
Just short of the pike the Sussex Iron Railway ran for a little way beside the road. A number of trucks loaded with coal were being hauled along iron rails by teams of horses, and the sight was so new to Miss Taverner that she slackened her speed to watch this queer form of transport.
The new team was not an ideal one to drive, one of the wheelers being a bad holder. His continual attempts to break into a canter, coupled with the sluggish disposition of his fellow, made the task of driving the whole team up to their bits a difficult one. Miss Taverner had some trouble with them, and further experienced the misfortune of coming up behind a stage-coach which obstinately held the crown of the road for a good half-mile. Its progress was erratic; it lurched and swayed along at an unusual speed for such a top-heavy vehicle, and the roof-passengers, who were all of them holding tightly to their seats, looked as though they were not enjoying their journey at all. When Miss Taverner at last succeeded in passing it, the reason for its odd progress was explained, for she saw that it was being driven by a rakish young Corinthian, who had bribed the coachman to give up his place for a stage, and was tooling the coach along at a great rate, with all the reins clubbed in his hand. It seemed probable that at the first corner the Corinthian would overset the equippage—a not uncommon ending to this particular pastime. Miss Taverner felt sorry for the other passengers, and especially for a thin unhappy-looking man immediately behind the box-seat, who sat in imminent danger of having his hat whisked off by the Corinthian’s unruly whiplash.
Once past the stage no further check was experienced, but Miss Taverner knew that she had lost valuable time, and could only hope that Peregrine would be similarly unfortunate. But a few hundred yards short of Foxley Hatch he came into sight, and caught his sister up at the toil-gate, where she was being detained by an attempt on the gate-keeper’s part to fob her off with a ticket which would carry her only as far as the next pike. Judson immediately took control of the matter, and while he pithily informed the gate-keeper that he was no Johnny Raw to be cheated of the correct ticket (which opened all the gates and pikes as far as Gatton), Peregrine and Judith had time lo exchange a few words.
“What sort of team, Perry?” Judith asked. “You have got a roarer, I see.”
“Lord, yes!” replied Peregrine cheerfully. “And a couple of regular bone-setters as well. Did you see the spill down the road? Some fellow’s put the stage in the ditch. What’s the trouble here? Is the gate-keeper trying to gammon you? Hi, Judson, tell him if he thinks we’re flats he mistakes the matter!”
By this time, however, the dispute had been settled, and Miss Taverner’s curricle was free to pass. She drove through the gateway, and once past Godstone Corner set her horses at a brisk trot up the long, straight road ascending the pass to Smitham Bottom. Bearing in mind the maxim that an unsound team was best driven fast, she took them down into Merstham, four miles on, at an easy gallop, only slackening the speed when the village was reached. A toll-gate lay just beyond Merstham, but the ticket issued at Foxley Hatch opened it, and with scarcely a check Miss Taverner swept through, and opened out her leaders on the mile stretch that led to Gatton toll-gate, which was placed by the nineteenth milestone, where the old road branched off to Reigate. Here a new ticket had to be bought, and with Peregrine hard on her heels, only waiting his opportunity to challenge her, Judith began to resign herself to the prospect of losing her lead on the second stage.
She maintained it, however, for the two miles, aided by circumstance, for twice when Peregrine would have passed her, a vehicle coming in the opposite direction made it impossible, and she was able to draw away again. Red Hill gave an advantage, for Peregrine, who was in the habit of letting his leaders do too much work on the flat, was forced to let his team drop into a walk there.
Past Red Hill the road ran in a series of switchbacks over Earlswood Common, and such magnificent bursts of country presented themselves to her gaze, that Miss Taverner almost lost sight of the fact that she was endeavouring to reach Horley before her brother in admiring the grandeur of the scene.
They were nearing the end of the long stage, and her team, which had never gone well together, were labouring. She was a little surprised that Peregrine should not challenge again, but concluded that the ups and down of the road were not to his taste.
“The master’s nursing his horses, miss,” remarked Judson. “Hinkson will have told him where to take his chance. He’ll challenge short of the Salfords pike, I’ll be bound.”
“How far to Horley?” Miss Taverner asked. “No more than a couple of miles now, miss, downhill all the way.”
She smiled. “He may yet miss his chance.” Over the lonely common a long, gradual fall of ground led down to the Weald, past Petridge Wood and Salfords. The team picked up their pace, and for a quarter of a mile Peregrine could not slip by. But just when Miss Taverner was entertaining reasonable hopes of maintaining her lead, her offside leader went lame, and Peregrine dashed by in an eddy of dust.
There was nothing for it but to follow at a sober pace, and by the time the curricle stopped at the Chequers in Horley, Peregrine had accomplished his change, and was away again. His old team were being led off when Miss Taverner drew up; she caught a glimpse of his tail-board vanishing down the street; and realized, from the sight of a waiter going back into the inn with an empty tankard on a tray, that hehad allowed himself time for refreshment.
The Chequers, which was the half-way house, was busy, and swarmed with ostlers. A London-bound coach, heralding its arrival with three long blasts of the horn, drove up as Miss Taverner’s horses were being taken out; a bell clanged somewhere in the stables; the first turn-out was shouted for; and almost before the coach had pulled up the new team, with post-boys already mounted, was being led out.
In addition to the stage, several private vehicles, including a post-chaise carrying a smart-looking lady and gentleman, who stared curiously at Miss Taverner, were drawn up in the big yard. There was a young man with a gig, who seemed to have driven in from somewhere in the neighbourhood. Having quizzed Miss Taverner for several minutes, he started to come towards her curricle, but encountered such a frosty look from her that he changed his mind, and began to curse one of the ostlers instead. Judith had sent to procure a glass of lemonade, but finding herself the object of so much interest, she was sorry to have done so, and would have preferred to drive on with a parched throat than to have been obliged to stay in the yard to be impertinently scrutinized. She began to be uncomfortable, to wish that she had not embarked on such an adventure, and for the first time to realize the impropriety of being upon the box of a gentleman’s curricle, unattended except for her groom, and upon the busiest turnpike-road in the whole south country. A very small tiger, who seemed to belong to an elegant tilbury drawn by match-greys, and with its owner’s scarlet-lined driving-coat hanging negligently over one of the panels, looked her over with an expression of strong derision, openly nudged one of the ostlers, said something behind his hand, and sniggered. But just at that moment a lean, saturnine gentleman with a club-foot came out of the inn, and the grin was promptly wiped from the tiger’s face, and he sprang to attention. The gentleman limped up to the tilbury, pulling on his gloves. He saw Miss Taverner, and looked her up and down till she blushed; then he shrugged his shoulders, got into his carriage, and drove off.
“That’s the Earl of Barrymore, miss,” volunteered Judson. “Him they call Cripplegate.”
The fresh team had been put-to by this time, and the lemonade drunk. Miss Taverner gave her horses the office to start, and swung out of the yard.
The tilbury was already out of sight, for which she was profoundly thankful, and if Judson was to be believed, there would be little fear of catching up with it.
Miss Taverner now had a fast team of brown horses in hand, and all the difference of strengthy, quick-actioned beasts from the badly-matched four she had been obliged to drive over the second stage was soon felt. The milestones seemed to flash by, and from the circumstances of the road being in excellent repair, and Judson knowing every inch of it, she was able to make up her lost time, and to reach Crawley not very far behind her brother, who had got himself into difficulties with a farm wagon just at the narrow part of the road by the George inn.
Past Crawley the road rose steadily to Pease Pottage. There was not much traffic to be encountered, and except for one of the leaders shying at a hen which scuttled squawking across the road, the next two miles were covered without any other incident than the overtaking and passing of a very down-the-road-looking man in a phaeton and three, who took one glance at Miss Taverner as she went by, and whipped up his horses in the vain attempt to catch up with her. A golden beauty driving a curricle-and-four down the Brighton road was, after all, no everyday occurrence.
But the phaeton was soon left behind, and Miss Taverner reached Pease Pottage, confident that she must have gained considerably on her brother. Beside the Black Swan inn a toll-gate, on the right, gave entrance to the road to Horsham, and on the left the superb beeches and hazel undergrowth of Tilgate Forest must at any other time have tempted Miss Taverner to draw rein. But her ambition was centered on overtaking Peregrine; she passed the woods with no more than a glance, and an exclamation of delight, and had the satisfaction, half a mile on, of seeing her brother’s curricle a few hundred yards ahead of her.
She had been easing her leaders, but she let them do their full share now. Peregrine glanced once over his shoulder, and whipped up his team. The two curricles raced down a straight stretch of road, the second slowly gaining on the first. A sharp bend came into sight; Peregrine took it at a gallop, lost control, and ran his near-side wheels into the bank. Judith saw Hinkson jump down and run to the horses’ heads, caught a glimpse of the sort of turmoil that not infrequently enlivened Peregrine’s journeys, and drove past him with a triumphant twirl of her whip over her head.
It would take Peregrine some minutes to set matters to rights, she knew, and once past him she steadied to a more respectable pace, and came presently into Hand Cross at a strict trot.
Hand Cross was not remarkable for its size or beauty, but its chief inn, the Red Lion, a gabled building with tall chimney-stacks and a line of white posts linked by chains, enjoyed a good deal of custom. A number of post-horses were stabled there, and it was whispered in knowledgeable circles that the casks of excellent brandy in its cellars were used to be delivered under cover of night, and had rendered no duty at any port.
As Miss Taverner drove up the street towards the inn, she saw only one vehicle drawn up under the shade of the two big trees that stood outside. It was a curricle with a tiger sitting up behind. Something in the tilt of his hat was familiar; in another minute a clearer view of the whole was obtained, and Miss Taverner recognized not only the tiger, but also the team of blood-chestnuts that were harnessed to the curricle.
She came up alongside, heard Henry cry in his shrill voice: “Lordy, guv’nor, if it ain’t that there Miss Taverner!” and saw her guardian standing in the doorway of the inn with a glass in his hand. She met his startled, incredulous gaze for a moment as she went by, bowed slightly, and proceeded on her way at an increased speed.
Judson twisted round in his seat to look behind. Miss Taverner, despising herself, was yet unable to refrain from asking what his lordship was doing.
“I think, miss, he means to come after you,” replied Judson ominously, “If I may say so, miss, his lordship doesn’t look best pleased.”
Miss Taverner gave a short laugh, and set her horses at a dangerous gallop down the hill. “I don’t mean to let him come up with me. He has to pay his reckoning before he can start. If I can reach Cuckfield and be away with a fresh team before he catches me—”
“But Miss Judith, you can’t race those chestnuts!” cried the groom, aghast.
“We will see. We don’t know when they were put-to after all.”
“For God’s sake, miss, don’t take them down the hill at the gallop! You’ll have us overturned!”
She said coolly: “I am driving this curricle, Judson. Confine your attention to the view, if you please. I do not know when I have seen finer bursts of country than on this road.”
The vale which was opening out before them as they raced down the hill was indeed beautiful, with its copses, and winding roads, and glimpses of warm-tiled roofs amongst the trees, but Judson, clinging to his seat, hoped fervently that his mistress would not permit it to distract her attention. He cast an alarmed look at her profile, and was relieved to see that her gaze was fixed on the road.
At the foot of the hill the road cut through Staplefield Common, and ran on to Cuckfield through three miles of undulating country. The team was responding gallantly, but when they were pulled up at the toll-gate at Whiteman’s Green their flanks were heaving and foam-flecked. Every moment wasted at the gate seemed an age to Miss Taverner, glancing continually over her shoulder. The ticket was handed up just as she caught the sound of hooves thundering behind her. The gate was pushed slowly open; she started her team with a jerk, urged them into a canter, and was away again by the time Judson reported the Earl to have reached the gate.
The way was now hollow, running between banks covered with a thick tangle of hazels. There were bends in it that ever and again hid the pursuing curricle from view, but the sound of the chestnuts’ hooves seemed to Miss Taverner to be coming inexorably closer. She held grimly to the crown of the road, determined with a queer mixture of obstinacy and unreasoning panic to prevent Worth from passing her.
She feather-edged a corner, almost scraping the wheels of a post-chaise coming in the opposite direction, heard Judson gasp beside her, and gave a reckless little laugh. “How near is he?” she demanded.
“Close behind you, miss. For the Lord’s sake steady them at the next bend! It’s sharper than you know.”
One of the leaders stumbled, but she held him up, and pressed on. The bend came into sight; she checked slightly, and hugged the left side of the road, secure in the conviction that the Earl would not dare to shoot his horses past on the corner. A sharp, compelling blast on a horn sounded immediately behind her; a chestnut head crept up alongside, and in another instant the Earl had flashed by, his team at a full gallop.
She gazed after him in a kind of horrified wonder, believing for a moment that the chestnuts were bolting. But then’ headlong pace was checked gradually; they dropped into a canter; continued so for a little way; and then clattered into Cuckfield at a smart trot.
Her own team was blown; she could only follow in the Earl’s wake through the narrow street to the centre of the town.
He reached the King’s Head considerably in advance of her and by the time she had pulled up before it he was standing on the ground awaiting her, and a couple of ostlers, shrilly instructed by Henry, were leading off his horses.
“Blow up for the change, Judson!” said Miss Taverner sharply.
The groom, however, was looking at Worth, and did not obey her. The Earl laid his hand on the curricle, and said curtly: “You will be pleased to alight, Miss Taverner.”
She glanced down into his face, and experienced a sensation of shock. She had seen the Earl supercilious, she had seen him scornful, but never had she encountered in him a look so blazingly angry. The breath caught in her throat, but she said with tolerable composure: “By no means, Lord Worth. You were averse, I believe, from my driving to Brighton in Peregrine’s curricle. You must know that I have submitted to your decree, and have engaged to race him there in my own curricle instead.”
“Miss Taverner, must I request you again to get down?”
“I shall not get down, sir. Time is precious. I wait only for the change.”
His eyes met hers; he said with a menace she could not mistake in his voice: “Your race is run. I have a good deal to say to you. If you choose it shall be said here in the open street, but I think you will prefer to hear it alone!”
A flush of mortification at being thus addressed before the groom and the waiting ostlers, spread over her cheeks. She could not doubt that the Earl would be as good as his word, and with one furious look shot at him from under her brows, she gave the reins to Judson, and allowed the Earl to assist her to alight. His fingers grasped her wrist ungently, and released it the instant her feet were upon the ground. He said: “Go into the inn!” and turned to give instructions to the ostlers.
There was nothing for it but to obey him. Holding her head proudly erect, Miss Taverner went into the King’s Head, followed by the landlord, who had been standing just outside, and who ushered her at once into one of his private parlours and desired to know what refreshments he might bring her.
She declined every offer of tea, coffee, or lemonade, and stripping off her gloves stood by the table in the centre of the room, jerking them between her hands. In the space of a few minutes the door opened to admit the Earl. He came in with a firm stride, and said without preamble: “You will finish your journey by post-chaise, Miss Taverner. I have hired one for you, and it should be ready in a very few minutes.”
Her eyes flashed; she exclaimed, “How dare you? How dare you? I shall finish as I began! This interference in the way I choose to travel passes all bounds!”
“Miss Taverner,” said the Earl, “I shall not remind you that you are my ward, for it is a fact you must be well aware of, but I shall give you a warning that may not come amiss. While I hold the reins you will run as I choose, and by God! ma’am, if you try to take the bit between your teeth it will be very much the worse for you!”
This way of putting the matter was scarcely calculated to mollify Miss Taverner, nor did the consciousness of being in the wrong act on her temper as it should. She was white with anger, her lips tightly compressed. She heard the Earl in quick-breathing silence, and when he had done, said in a low, trembling voice: “I admit no right in you to order my movements. My fortune is in your hands, and I have been content to have it so, but at the outset I told you that your authority extended no further than to the management of my affairs. Upon every occasion you have intervened where you had neither cause nor right. I have hitherto submitted, because I do not choose to be for ever at loggerheads with one to whom, to my misfortune, I am in some sort tied. But this goes beyond what my patience can suffer. You are not to be the judge of the propriety of my actions! If it pleases me to drive a curricle to Brighton it is no business of yours!”
“Do you think I will permit my ward to make herself the talk of the town? Do you think it suits my pride to have my ward drive down to Brighton wind-blown, dishevelled, a butt for every kind of coarse wit, an object of disgust to any person of taste and refinement? Take a look at yourself my good girl!”
He seized her by the shoulders as he spoke, and twisted her round to face the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. She saw to her annoyance that her hair, escaping from under the close hat she wore, was whipped into a tangle, and her habit powdered with dust. It made her more angry than ever. She wrenched herself free, and cried: “Yes, an object of disgust for you and any other dandy, I daresay! Do you think I care for your good opinion? It is a matter of the supremest indifference to me! From the moment when I first set eyes on you I have disliked you—yes, and mistrusted you too! I do not know what your motive has been in trying to overcome my dislike, but you have not succeeded!”
“Evidently not,” he said, a grim smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I can readily believe that, but I shall be obliged to you if you will tell me what I have done to earn your mistrust.”
Having no very clear idea, but, woman-like, having merely used the most wounding phrases she could think of, she ignored this home-question, and said: “Do not imagine that I am not well aware of the reason for this unmannerly outburst in you! You are less concerned with the appearance I may present than with having had your own commands set aside! You must always be the master; you cannot bear to have your will gainsaid.”
“Very true; I cannot,” he replied. “I might say the same of you, Miss Taverner. A strong desire of having your own way has led you into a scrape which might, were I not here to enforce your obedience to my commands, have damaged your reputation more seriously than you know. These hoyden-tricks may do very well in the wilds of Yorkshire: I am happy to say that I know nothing of the manners obtaining there; but they will not serve here. You have been grossly at fault. Your own principles should tell you so; it should not be necessary for me to inform you of it. As for your obliging description of my character, I shall take leave to tell you that this guardianship, which was foisted on to my shoulders, and which has been from the outset a source of trouble and annoyance to me, comprises more than the mere management of your fortune. You had the goodness once, Miss Taverner, to inform me that you were glad you were not my daughter. So am I glad, but however little I may relish the post I stand to you in the place of a father, and if you do not obey me I shall be strongly tempted to use you as I have very little doubt your father would if he could see you at this moment.”
“I have only one thing to be thankful for!” cried Judith. “It is that in a very short time now it will be out of your power to threaten me or to interfere in my concerns! You may be certain of this at least, Lord Worth: once your guardianship of me ends I shall not willingly see you again!”
“Thank you! You have now given full rein to your temper, and can have no more to say,” he replied, and turned, and held open the door. “Your chaise should be ready by this time, ma’am.”
She moved towards the door, but before she could reach it, Peregrine had come hastily into the room, looking hot, and rather more dusty and dishevelled than she was herself.
“What the devil’s amiss?” demanded Peregrine. “I thought you had been half-way to Brighton by now! I have had the wretchedest luck, I can tell you!”
“Lord Worth,” said Judith controlling her voice with an effort, “has seen proper to declare our race at an end. It does not suit his dignity to have his ward drive herself into Brighton.”
“Much we care for that!” said Peregrine. “Damme, Worth, this is a wager! You can’t stop my sister now!”
“I will say what I have to say to you later,” replied Worth, unpleasantly. “Miss Taverner, I am waiting to hand you into your chaise!”
“You may continue your journey,” she said. “When my brother is with me I need no protection but his.”
“As we have seen,” he remarked sardonically. “Well, I warned you, Miss Taverner, that I should compel your obedience.”
He came forward, but Peregrine stepped quickly between them with his fists up, and said sharply: “And I will warn you, sir, to leave my sister alone!”
“I am afraid that noble gesture is wasted on me,” said Worth. “Console yourself with the reflection that if I did hit you, you would be more than sorry to have provoked me to it.”
Miss Taverner pushed by her brother. “Do not make a scene, Perry, I beg of you! I am ready to go with you, Lord Worth.”
He bowed; she went past him out of the room, and a couple of minutes later she was being handed up into the waiting chaise. The door was shut on her; she heard her guardian give an order to the post-boys, and sank back into a corner of the chaise as the horses moved forward.
She found that she was trembling, her thoughts in confusion, and a lump in her throat. All her pleasure in going to Brighton was at an end; she knew herself to be the wretchedest creature alive. There could be no defending her conduct; she had realized at Horley how indecorous it was, and had now the mortification of having earned Worth’s condemnation.
He thought of her with disgust; he had not scrupled to humiliate her, nor to address her in terms of the most galling contempt. It was small wonder that she should have lost her temper with him: he had been unpardonable. The better understanding which had seemed to be growing up between them was quite at an end. She did not care; unless he begged her pardon she could not bring herself to meet him again without feelings of the strongest revulsion, and she was pretty sure that he never would beg her pardon. Her credit with him was utterly destroyed; he was odious, insolent, overbearing, and she herself little better than vulgar Lady Lade.
These agitating reflections produced their natural result. Tears poured silently down Miss Taverner’s cheeks, and picturesque villages, turnpikes, and views passed unnoticed. When she was at last set down at the house on the Marine Parade, not even the sight of the sea had the power to elevate her spirits. She hurried into the house with her veil pulled down, and almost ran up the stairs to indulge her misery in the seclusion of her own bedchamber.