“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” the man said, touching his hat, “but it is as much as my place is worth.”
The maid, a woman of mature years, said nothing, but held her ground, the image of stolid disapproval. She knew Miss Sibson. But Bristol was strange to her; and the dark windy square, with its flickering lights, its glimpses of gleaming water and skeleton masts, and its unseen but creaking windlasses, seemed to her, fresh from Lady Worcester’s, a most unfitting place for her young lady.
Miss Sibson cut the knot after her own fashion. “Well, I can’t take you in,” she said bluffly. “This gentleman,” pointing to Mr. Flixton, “will find quarters for you at the White Lion or the Bush. And your mistress will see you to-morrow. Thomas, bring in your young lady’s trunk. Good-night, sir,” she added, addressing the Honourable Bob. “Miss Vermuyden will be quite safe with me.”
“Oh, but I say, Miss Sibson!” he remonstrated. “You can’t mean to take the moon out of the sky like this, and leave us in the dark? Miss Vermuyden——”
“Good-night,” Mary said, not a whit placated by the compliment. And she slipped past Miss Sibson into the passage.
“Oh, but it’s not safe, you know!” he cried. “You’re not a hundred yards from the Mansion House here. And if those beggars make trouble to-morrow—positively there’s no knowing what will happen!”
“We can take care of ourselves, sir,” Miss Sibson replied curtly. “Good-night, sir!” And she shut the door in his face.
The Honourable Bob glared at it for a time, but it remained closed and dark. There was nothing to be done save to go. “D——n the woman!” he cried. And he turned about.
It was something of a shock to him to find the two servants still at his elbow, patiently regarding him. “Where are we to go, sir?” the maid asked, as stolid as before.
“Go?” cried he, staring. “Go? Eh? What? What do you mean?”