“I did not know you were as selfish as that, Juliana,” said Miss Challoner. “I’ll bid you good night.”
Juliana nodded carelessly, and waited until the door was firmly shut behind her friend. Then she cast herself face downwards on her pillows and wept miserably.
Meanwhile Miss Challoner sought her own bed, and lay thinking of the strange proposal she had received. Her disgust at Juliana’s behaviour was untempered by surprise. By now she had reached the conclusion that the manners of the whole family of Alastair were incomprehensible to a less exalted person. My Lord Vidal was reckless, prodigal, and overbearing; his cousin Bertrand appeared to be a mere pleasure-seeker; Juliana, too, in whom Miss Challoner had suspected a warmer heart, was frivolous and calculating. From Juliana’s and Vidal’s conversation she had gleaned what she believed to be a fair estimate of the remaining members of the family. Lady Fanny was worldly and ambitious; Lord Rupert apparently wasted his time and substance on gambling and other amusements; his grace of Avon seemed to be a cold, unloving and sinister figure. The only one whom Miss Challoner felt any desire to know was the Duchess. She was inclined to think that Mr. Comyn was well rid of a bad bargain, and this conclusion brought her back once more to the consideration of her own difficulties. It seemed ridiculous in an age of civilization, but Miss Challoner had no doubt that in some way or other Vidal would contrive to carry her off to Dijon. She believed that he was prompted more by his love of mastery than by his first chivalrous impulse. What he had said he would do he must do, reckless of consequence. He could not, she realized, drag an unwilling bride to the altar, but if he succeeded in transporting her all the way to Dijon she felt that she would be then in so much worse a predicament that marriage with him would be the only thing left to her. Against this marriage she was still firmly set. God knew she would ask nothing better than to be his wife, but she had sense enough to know that nothing but unhappiness could result from it. If he had loved her, if she had been of his world, approved by his family — but it was useless to speculate on the impossible. She might steal away from this house very early in the morning, and lose herself in some back-street of Paris. She could not forbear a smile at her own simplicity. She would certainly lose herself, but it seemed probable that his lordship, who knew Paris, would have little trouble in finding her. She was without money and without friends; if she left the protection of Mme. de Charbonne’s house she could see only one end to her career. Marriage with Mr. Comyn would be preferable to that. At least his degree was not immeasurably superior to hers; he did not seem to be a gentleman of very passionate affections, and she felt that she could succeed in making him tolerably happy. After all, she thought, neither of us is of a romantic disposition, and at least I shall be rid of this dread of sudden exposure.
Mr. Comyn was eating his breakfast some hours later when a surprised serving-maid ushered Miss Challoner into the room. The visit of a young and personable lady, quite unattended, and at such an unseasonable hour, roused all the abigail’s curiosity. Having shut the door on Miss Challoner, she naturally put her ear to the keyhole. But as the conversation inside the room was conducted in English she soon withdrew it.
Mr. Comyn got up quickly from the table, and laid aside his napkin. “Miss Challoner!” he said, coming forward to greet her.
Mary, who was dressed in the grey gown and hooded cloak she had worn on the night of her abduction, gave her hand into his, and as he bent to kiss it, said in her quiet way: “Please inform me, sir, now that you have had time in which to reflect, do you not desire to return to Miss Marling?”
“Indeed, no!” said Mr. Comyn, releasing her hand. “Is it possible — do you in fact come in the guise of an envoy?”
She shook her head. “Alas, no, sir.”
He was careful not to allow the disappointment he felt to creep into his voice. “I imagined, ma’am, that you had come to give me your answer to my offer. I need hardly assure you that if you will accept of my hand in marriage I shall count myself extremely fortunate.”
She smiled, but rather wanly. “You are very kind, sir. I do not feel that I have any right to accept what I can only regard as a sacrifice, but my situation is desperate, and I do accept it.”