Pistols for Two

‘Lucy,’ said Miss Tresilian, with determined calm, ‘if your pride doesn’t revolt at the imputation of having snared a rich matrimonial prize, mine does! I am not asking you to put all thought of Arthur out of your head: I am merely saying that until he is in every respect his own master, and you have come of age, I will neither countenance his visits to this house, nor allow you to go where there is the least likelihood of your meeting him.’

The youngest Miss Tresilian said, with a brave attempt to speak lightly: ‘Dearest, do you mean to lock me up? I must meet him at all the ton parties, and at Almack’s too!’

‘I know it,’ said her aunt. ‘And you know I don’t mean to lock you up! I have a much better scheme in mind, and one which I think you must like. Indeed, I know you will, for you have always wished to visit foreign countries, only, of course, while that dreadful Bonaparte was at large it was impossible. Now, however –’

‘Oh, no, no!’ Lucy cried. ‘I don’t care a straw for anything Lord Iver may think! He has no power to forbid my marriage to Arthur, and if he is so spiteful as to cut off Arthur’s allowance we shall contrive to live tolerably comfortably on my inheritance. And no one will think ill of Arthur for doing so, because the instant he is five-and-twenty he may pay me back every groat, if he feels he ought! All we need is Papa’s consent – which is to say yours, my dear aunt!’

‘And you won’t get it!’ said Miss Tresilian, with unusual asperity. ‘Dear child, consider! How can you expect me to behave so improperly as to support a marriage which the person most nearly concerned with Arthur’s affairs has expressly forbidden?’ She saw that her words had struck home, and lost no time in representing to Lucy all the advantages of her scheme. She was listened to in silence, but had the satisfaction, when she had talked herself out of arguments, of being caught into a warm embrace, and tightly hugged.

‘You are the best and kindest of aunts!’ Lucy declared. ‘I do understand what you must feel – indeed, I do! Never would I ask you to do what you think wrong! I had not reflected how impossible it must be for you! Forgive me!’

Much heartened, Miss Tresilian recommended her not to be a goose, and wondered how speedily she could put her plans into execution, and what her exacting elder sister would say when she learned that she meant, instead of returning to her home in Camden Place, to embark on an extended forei

gn tour.

It could not have been said that Lucy entered into any of the arrangements which occupied Miss Tresilian’s every moment during the following week, or evinced the smallest enthusiasm for any of the promised treats in store, but she uttered no protests, and that, in Miss Tresilian’s opinion, was as much as could be hoped for in the natural oppression of her spirits. Calculating ways and means, Miss Tresilian paused to consider the likelihood of Mr Rosely’s following his inamorata. Probably Lord Iver would scotch any such scheme, but she determined nevertheless to add her prohibition to his.

***

In the event, she was denied the opportunity of private speech with Mr Rosely. Returning to Green Street just after eleven one morning, after a protracted appointment in the City, she was met by her personal maid, who did not scruple to read her a scold for having sallied forth alone on what this severe critic apparently believed to have been an expedition fraught with peril. ‘And breakfast waiting for you this hour past!’ said Miss Baggeridge, relieving her of her shawl and gloves. ‘Now, you sit down this instant, Miss Elinor! Traipsing all about the town, and knocking yourself up like you are! What your poor mama would have said I’m sure I don’t know!’

Accustomed from her childhood to her henchwoman’s strictures, Miss Tresilian only said, as she removed her becoming hat of chip-straw: ‘Where’s Miss Lucy? I suppose she breakfasted an hour ago.’

‘It’s what anyone might suppose of a young lady of quality,’ said Miss Baggeridge grimly. ‘Though why they should, with you setting her the example you do, miss –’

‘– you are sure you don’t know!’ supplied Miss Tresilian.

Miss Baggeridge fixed her with a kindling eye. ‘Well do I know it’s not my place to utter a word, miss, and far be it from me to unclose my lips on the subject, but when it comes to a young lady gallivanting about the town without so much as the page-boy to escort her, and carrying a bandbox on her arm like a common person, I couldn’t reconcile it with my conscience not to speak!’

‘If she was carrying a bandbox, she has only gone to take back that French cambric half-robe which must be altered,’ said Miss Tresilian prosaically.

Miss Baggeridge sniffed, but refrained from further comment. Having seen her mistress supplied with fresh coffee and bread and butter, she produced from her pocket a sealed missive, saying, in a grudging tone: ‘There’s a letter from Miss Clara. There was a shilling to pay on it, too. I suppose you’d better have it, but if I was you, miss, I wouldn’t worrit myself with it till you’ve eaten your breakfast.’

With these sage words of advice she withdrew; and Miss Tresilian, never one to shirk a disagreeable duty, broke the wafer of her sister’s letter, and spread open three crossed pages of complaint.

While she sipped her coffee she perused these. Nothing could have been more discouraging than the eldest Miss Tresilian’s account of her health, but as her detailed descriptions of the torment she endured from rheumatism, nervous tic, spasm, and insomnia were interspersed with the latest Bath on-dits, and some animadversions on the wretched cards she had held at the whist-table, Miss Elinor Tresilian’s withers remained unwrung. She gathered that Clara was contriving to amuse herself tolerably well; was relieved to read no very serious criticism of the indigent lady engaged to act as companion to the invalid; and got up to place the letter in her writing-bureau. She never did so. No sooner had she raised the lid of the bureau than she found herself staring down at a letter addressed to herself in Lucy’s handwriting. Clara’s missive dropped to the floor, and Miss Tresilian, with a premonition of disaster, snatched up her niece’s letter, and tore off the wafer that sealed it.

Dear, dearest aunt, she read. This will come as a Shock to you, and I can only implore you to forgive me, and to understand (as I am persuaded you will) the Exigency of my Situation, nothing less than which could have prevailed upon me to act in a manner as Repugnant to me as, alas, it will be to you. By the time your eyes alight on these lines I shall be many miles distant, and when I Cast myself at your feet to beg your Pardon it will be as the Bride of my Adored Arthur. Oh, my dear aunt, believe that I have not reached this Momentous Decision without an Agonizing Struggle, for to Approach the Altar without your Blessing, or your presence to support me at that Solemn Moment, so sinks my spirits that only my Conviction that your Refusal to sanction my Engagement sprang not from your Heart but from your sense of Propriety gives me courage to pursue a Line of Conduct which must Shock you and all the world. My only Comfort (besides the Bliss of being united to the Best and Noblest of men) is that You cannot be held accountable, even by Lord Iver, for what I must call (though my hand shrinks from penning the Dreadful Syllables) my Elopement…

Stunned by this communication, Miss Tresilian could not for many minutes collect her scattered wits. With every will in the world to spring to instant action she felt as though she had been smitten with paralysis. From this distressing condition she was reclaimed by the sudden opening of the door, and the sound of a harsh, too-well remembered voice saying: ‘Thank you, I’ll announce myself!’

She raised her head, and stared blankly across the room at Lord Iver.

He was dressed for travel, and had not stayed to put off his long, many-caped driving-coat of white drab. It was plain, from his blazing eyes and close-gripped lips, that he was in a towering rage, but he did not immediately speak. After a searing moment, his gaze dropped to the letter in her hand, and he said: ‘Mine is an empty errand, I apprehend! Is that from your niece?’

Hardly knowing what she did, she held it out to him. He rapidly scanned it, and said contemptuously: ‘Very affecting! – if you have a taste for the romantic! I have not!’ His eyes searched her face; he gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t look so tragic! You don’t imagine, do you, that I shan’t stop this crazy project?’

She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. ‘Can you do so? Do you know where – Has Arthur written to you?’

‘Yes – like the silly widgeon he is!’ he replied. ‘As for knowing where, there was no need to tell me that! Or you either, I imagine!’

‘But I haven’t the least notion!’ she said distractedly. ‘Where could they have gone? She’s under age! Even if Arthur has a special licence, no one would marry them! She knows that, and surely he must?’

‘Of course they know it, and also the one place where they may be married, with no questions asked!’ He read bewilderment in her face, and strode up to her, and gave her a rough little shake. ‘They’ve set off for the Border, my innocent! This is to be a Gretna Green affair: a charming scheme, isn’t it?’

‘Gretna Green?’ she repeated. The colour rushed up into her face; she thrust him away, exclaiming: ‘How dare you say such a thing? Never would Lucy behave with such impropriety!’

‘Then have the goodness to tell me where else she has gone – with a wedding as her acknowledged goal!’