Mrs Ramsden accompanied Elma to the gate of The Nook, and stood beside Miss Briskett looking on with dubious eyes, while the two girls took their places in the high dog-cart. A groom had driven the horse from the livery stable, and both good ladies expected him to take possession of the back seat, in the double capacity of chaperon and guide. It came, therefore, as a shock, when Cornelia dismissed the man with a smile, and a rain of silver dropped into an eager hand, but protestations, feeble and stern, were alike disregarded.
“How do you suppose we are going to talk, with him perched there, with his ears sticking out, listening to every word we say? We don’t want any men poking round, this journey!” laughed Cornelia, settling herself in her seat, and taking the reins in her gauntleted hands. Miss Briskett was dismayed to feel a thrill of pride mingling with her displeasure, for the girl looked so fresh, so trim, so sparklingly alive perched up on her high driving seat. Elma Ramsden, for all her superior beauty, looked tame and insignificant beside her. Although she would not condescend to look around, Miss Briskett divined that behind the curtains of the neighbouring houses the occupants were looking on with admiring curiosity, and noting every detail of the girl’s attire. If Cornelia were self-willed and defiant, in appearance at least she was a worthy representative of her race. The stern lines of the spinster’s mouth relaxed into an unwilling smile as she said urgently—
“But, my dear, the horse! I am responsible for your safety. Are you quite sure that you are capable of managing him?”
Cornelia’s ripple of amusement was sufficiently expressive. “One old mare in a hired trap, when I’ve driven a four-in-hand over some of the wickedest roads in America! If we are smashed, Aunt Soph, you can lay it to providence, and not to my driving. Don’t get to worrying if we are late. If we’re killed you’ll hear all about it soon enough. You can only die once, and a carriage spill is a good slick way of getting it over.”
“Cornelia, I insist—”
“Miss Cornelia, I beg—”
The cart dashed suddenly onward in response to a flip of the whip, leaving the two old ladies upon the roadway, the unfinished appeal frozen upon their lips. Elma turned round to wave an abashed adieu, the long habit of servitude struggling with a delicious new sense of liberty and adventure.
“Oh—oh, Cornelia, if you could only see them! They are standing stock-still, staring after us. They look petrified! ... It was naughty of you. You frightened your aunt on purpose.”
“That’s so!” assented Cornelia, frankly. “I meant to do it. It’s going to hurt me a lot more than it does her, as the mommar said when she spanked the nipper, but she’s got just as set as a fossil, paddling along in this little backwater, and imagining it’s the whole big ocean, and there’s no one on hand to rouse her but myself. It’s my mission. Wake up, England!” and she flourished her whip dramatically as the mare trotted through the south gateway of the park.
Outside the gate lay a smooth wide road stretching uphill, and in response to a movement of Elma’s outstretched hand, Cornelia turned the mare in this direction, flashing a radiant smile into the pink-and-white face.