Part 37 (1/2)

”Now, Herbert, don't be a fool!” cries Beatrice, jumping up and making a grimace at herself in the dusty gla.s.s over his mantelpiece. ”Do I look like a girl whom men would make love to? Am I not too positively hideous?

Oh, you needn't shake your head and look indignant. Of course I am ugly, everybody but you thinks so. Of course it's not me, myself, but because papa is rich, and they think I shall have money. Oh, what a curse this money is!”

”I think the want of it a far greater one,” says Herbert, ruefully.

”At any rate,” continues Beatrice, ”I am determined to put an end to this state of things; we must take the law into our own hands.”

”Am I to wait for you in a carriage and pair at the corner of Eaton Square in the middle of the night?” inquires Herbert, grimly.

”No; don't be foolish; people don't do things now-a-days in the way our grandmothers did. I shall go to morning service one day at some out of-the-way church, where you will meet me with a licence in your pocket; it will be the simplest thing in the world.”

”And afterwards?”

”Afterwards I shall go home to lunch.”

”And what am I to do?”

”Oh! you will come back here, I suppose.”

”I don't think that will be very amusing,” objects the bridegroom elect, dubiously.

”No; but then we shall be really married, and when we know that no one can part us, we shan't mind waiting; and then, some day, after about six months or so, I shall confess to papa, and there will be a terrible scene, ending in tears on my part, and in forgiveness on the part of my parents. Once the deed is done, you see, they will be forced to make the best of it; and, of course, they will not allow us to starve. I think it is a very ingenious plan. What do you think of it, Herbert? You don't look very much delighted at the idea.”

”I don't think that I should play a very n.o.ble part in such a scheme as that. Dearly as I love you, Beatrice, I do not think I could consent to steal you away in such a pitiful and cowardly manner.”

”Pooh! you would have nothing to do with it; it is all my doing, of course. Hus.h.!.+ is not that somebody coming up the stairs?”

They were silent for half a minute, listening to the sound of advancing steps upon the wooden staircase.

”It is nothing--only somebody to see the man above me. By Jove, though, it _is_ for me!” as somebody suddenly stopped outside and knocked at the door. ”Wait one minute, sir! Good heavens, Beatrice, what am I to do with you?”

Herbert looked frightened out of his life. Beatrice, on the contrary, could hardly smother her laughter.

”I must hide!” she said, in a choked whisper. ”Oh, Herbert, it is like a scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!”

Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door of which stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber!

There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned the key upon herself, and Herbert called out ”Come in!” to the intruder.

Neither of them had noticed that Beatrice's little white lace sunshade lay upon the table with her gloves and veil beside it.

If Mr. Pryme had been alarmed at the bare fact of an unknown and possibly unimportant visitor, it may be left to the imagination to describe the state of his feelings when the door, upon being opened, disclosed the Member for North Meadows.h.i.+re standing without!

CHAPTER XXIII.

A WHITE SUNSHADE.

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between, and bid us part?

”Well, Mr. Pryme, how d'ye do?” said Mr. Miller, in his rough, hearty voice, holding out his hand. ”I dare say you are surprised to see me here. I haven't met you since you were staying down with us at Christmas time. Well, and how goes the world with you, young man?”

Herbert, who at first had thought nothing less than that Mr. Miller had tracked his daughter to his rooms, and that he was about to have the righteous wrath of an infuriated and exasperated parent to deal with, by this time began to perceive that, to whatever extraordinary cause his visit was owing, Beatrice, at all events, had nothing to do with it. He recovered himself sufficiently to murmur, in answer to his visitor's greeting, that the world went pretty well with him, and to request his guest to be seated.