For promptitude, the lady, the gentleman, and the coachman were in such unison as to make it a reasonable deduction that the flight had been concerted.

Never did any departure from the Roebuck leave so wide-mouthed a body of spectators.  Mrs. Pagnell’s shrieks of ‘Stop, oh! stop!’ to the backs of the coachman and Aminta were continued until they were far down the street.  She called to the innkeeper, called to the landlady and to invisible constables for help.  But her pangs were childish compared with Morsfield’s, who, with the rage of a conceited schemer tricked and the fury of a lover beholding the rape of his beautiful, bellowed impotently at Weyburn and the coachman out of hearing, ‘Stop! you!’ He was in the state of men who believe that there is a virtue in imprecations, and he shot loud oaths after them, shook his fist, cursed his friend Cumnock, whose name he vociferated as a summons to him, ­generally the baffled plotter misconducted himself to an extreme degree, that might have apprised Mrs. Pagnell of a more than legitimate disappointment on his part.

Pursuit was one of the immediate ideas which rush forward to look back woefully on impediments and fret to fever over the tardiness of operations.  A glance at the thing of wrinkles receiving orders to buckle at his horses and pursue convinced them of the hopelessness; and Morsfield was pricked to intensest hatred of the woman by hearing the dire exclamation, ‘One night, and her character’s gone!’

‘Be quiet, ma’am, if you please, or nothing can be done,’ he cried.

’I tell you, Mr. Morsfield ­don’t you see? ­he has thrown them together.  It is Lord Ormont’s wicked conspiracy to rid himself of her.  A secretary!  He’ll beat any one alive in plots.  She can’t show her face in London after this, if you don’t overtake her.  And she might have seen Lord Ormont’s plot to ruin her.  He tired of her, and was ashamed of her inferior birth to his own, after the first year, except on the Continent, where she had her rights.  Me he never forgave for helping make him the happy man he might have been in spite of his age.  For she is lovely!  But it’s worse for a lovely woman with a damaged reputation.  And that ’s his cunning.  How she could be so silly as to play into it!  She can’t have demeaned herself to look on that secretary!  I said from the first he seemed as if thrown into her way for a purpose.  But she has pride:  my niece Aminta has pride.  She might well have listened to flatterers ­she had every temptation ­if it hadn’t been for her pride.  It may save her yet.  However good-looking, she will remember her dignity ­unless he’s a villain.  Runnings away! drivings together! inns oh! the story over London!  I do believe she has a true friend in you, Mr. Morsfield; and I say, as I have said before, the sight of a devoted admirer would have brought any husband of more than sixty to his senses, if he hadn’t hoped a catastrophe and determined on it.  Catch them we can’t, unless she repents and relents; and prayers for that are our only resource.  Now, start, man, do!’

The postillion had his foot in position to spring.  Morsfield bawled Cumnock’s name, and bestrode his horse.  Captain Cumnock emerged from the inn-yard with a dubitative step, pressing a handkerchief to his nose, blinking, and scrutinizing the persistent fresh stains on it.

Stable-boys were at the rear.  These, ducking and springing, surcharged and copious exponents of the play they had seen, related, for the benefit of the town, how that the two gentlemen had exchanged words in the yard, which were about beastly pistols, which the slim gentleman would have none of; and then the big one trips up, like dancing, to the other one and flicks him a soft clap on the check ­quite friendly, you may say; and before he can square to it, the slim one he steps his hind leg half a foot back, and he drives a straight left like lightning off the shoulder slick on to t’ other one’s nob, and over he rolls, like a cart with the shafts up down a bank; and he’ a been washing his ‘chops’ and threatening bullets ever since.

The exact account of the captain’s framework in the process of the fall was graphically portrayed in our blunt and racy vernacular, which a society nourished upon Norman-English and English-Latin banishes from print, largely to its impoverishment, some think.

By the time the primary narrative of the encounter in the inn yard had given ground for fancy and ornament to present it in yet more luscious dress, Lord Ormont’s phaeton was a good mile on the road.  Morsfield and Captain Cumnock ­the latter inquisitive of the handkerchief pressed occasionally at his nose ­trotted on tired steeds along dusty wheel-tracks.  Mrs. Pagnell was the solitary of the chariot, having a horrid couple of loaded pistols to intimidate her for her protection, and the provoking back view of a regularly jogging mannikin under a big white hat with blue riband, who played the part of Time in dragging her along, with worse than no countenance for her anxieties.

News of the fugitives was obtained at the rampant Red Lion in Dudsworth, nine miles on along the London road, to the extent that the Earl of Ormont’s phaeton, containing a lady and a gentleman, had stopped there a minute to send back word to Steignton of their comfortable progress, and expectations of crossing the borders into Hampshire before sunset.  Morsfield and Cumnock shrugged at the bumpkin artifice.  They left their line of route to be communicated to the chariot, and chose, with practised acumen, that very course, which was the main road, and rewarded them at the end of half an hour with sight of the Steignton phaeton.

But it was returning.  A nearer view showed it empty of the couple.

Morsfield bade the coachman pull up, and he was readily obeyed.  Answers came briskly.

Although provincial acting is not of the high class which conceals the art, this man’s look beside him and behind him at vacant seats had incontestable evidence in support of his declaration, that the lady and gentleman had gone on by themselves:  the phaeton was a box of flown birds.

‘Where did you say they got out, you dog?’ said Cumnock.

The coachman stood up to spy a point below.  ’Down there at the bottom of the road, to the right, where there’s a stile across the meadows, making a short cut by way of a bridge over the river to Busley and North Tothill, on the high-road to Hocklebourne.  The lady and gentleman thought they ‘d walk for a bit of exercise the remains of the journey.’

‘Can’t prove the rascal’s a liar,’ Cumnock said to Morsfield, who rallied him savagely on his lucky escape from another knock-down blow, and tossed silver on the seat, and said ­

’We ‘ll see if there is a stile.’

‘You’ll see the stile, sir,’ rejoined the man, and winked at their backs.

Both cavaliers, being famished besides baffled, were in sour tempers, expecting to see just the dead wooden stile, and see it as a grin at them.  Cumnock called on Jove to witness that they had been donkeys enough to forget to ask the driver how far round on the road it was to the other end of the cross-cut.

Morsfield, entirely objecting to asinine harness with him, mocked at his invocation and intonation of the name of Jove.

Cumnock was thereupon stung to a keen recollection of the allusion to his knock-down blow, and he retorted that there were some men whose wit was the parrot’s.

Morsfield complimented him over the exhibition of a vastly superior and more serviceable wit, in losing sight of his antagonist after one trial of him.

Cumnock protested that the loss of time was caused by his friend’s dalliance with the Venus in the chariot.

Morsfield’s gall seethed at a flying picture of Mrs. Pagnell, coupled with the retarding reddened handkerchief business, and he recommended Cumnock to pay court to the old woman, as the only chance he would have of acquaintanceship with the mother of Love.

Upon that Cumnock confessed in humility to his not being wealthy.  Morsfield looked a willingness to do the deed he might have to pay for in tenderer places than the pocket, and named the head as a seat of poverty with him.

Cumnock then yawned a town fop’s advice to a hustling street passenger to apologize for his rudeness before it was too late.  Whereat Morsfield, certain that his parasitic thrasyleon apeing coxcomb would avoid extremities, mimicked him execrably.

Now this was a second breach of the implied convention existing among the exquisitely fine-bred silken-slender on the summits of our mundane sphere, which demands of them all, that they respect one another’s affectations.  It is commonly done, and so the costly people of a single pattern contrive to push forth, flatteringly to themselves, luxuriant shoots of individuality in their orchidean glass-house.  A violation of the rule is a really deadly personal attack.  Captain Cumnock was particularly sensitive regarding it, inasmuch as he knew himself not the natural performer he strove to be, and a mimicry affected him as a haunting check.

He burst out:  ’Damned if I don’t understand why you’re hated by men and women both!’

Morsfield took a shock.  ‘Infernal hornet!’ he muttered; for his conquests had their secret history.

’May and his wife have a balance to pay will trip you yet, you ’ll find.’

‘Reserve your wrath, sir, for the man who stretched you on your back.’

The batteries of the two continued exchangeing redhot shots, with the effect, that they had to call to mind they were looking at the stile.  A path across a buttercup meadow was beyond it.  They were damped to some coolness by the sight.

‘Upon my word, the trick seems neat!’ said Cumnock staring at the pastoral curtain.

‘Whose trick?’ he was asked sternly.

’Here or there ’s not much matter; they ’re off, unless they ’re under a hedge laughing.’

An ache of jealousy and spite was driven through the lover, who groaned, and presently said ­

’I ride on.  That old woman can follow.  I don’t want to hear her gibberish.  We’ve lost the game ­there ’s no reckoning the luck.  If there’s a chance, it’s this way.  It smells a trick.  He and she ­by all the devils!  It has been done in my family ­might have been done again.  Tell the men on the plain they can drive home.  There’s a hundred-pound weight on your tongue for silence.’

Cumnock cried:  ’But we needn’t be parting, Dolf!  Stick together.  Bad luck’s not repeated every day.  Keep heart for the good.’

’My heart’s shattered, Cumnock.  I say it’s impossible she can love a husband twice her age, who treats her ­you ’ve seen.  Contempt of that lady!

By heaven! once in my power, I swear she would have been sacred to me.  But she would have been compelled to face the public and take my hand.  I swear she would have been congratulated on the end of her sufferings.  Worship! ­that’s what I feel.  No woman ever alive had eyes in her head like that lady’s.  I repeat her name ten times every night before I go to sleep.  If I had her hand, no, not one kiss would I press on it without her sanction.  I could be in love with her cruelty, if only I had her near me.  I ’ve lost her ­by the Lord, I ‘ve lost her!’

‘Pro tem.,’ said the captain.  ’A plate of red beef and a glass of port wine alters the view.  Too much in the breast, too little in the belly, capsizes lovers.  Old story.  Horses that ought to be having a mash between their ribs make riders despond.  Say, shall we back to the town behind us, or on?  Back’s the safest, if the chase is up.’

Morsfield declared himself incapable of turning and meeting that chariot.  He sighed heavily.  Cumnock offered to cheer him with a song of Captain Chanter’s famous collection, if he liked; but Morsfield gesticulated abhorrence, and set out at a trot.  Song in defeat was a hiss of derision to him.

He had failed.  Having failed, he for the first time perceived the wildness of a plot that had previously appeared to him as one of the Yorkshire Morsfields’ moves to win an object.  Traditionally they stopped at nothing.  There would have been a sunburst of notoriety in the capture and carrying off of the beautiful Countess of Ormont.

She had eluded him during the downward journey to Steignton.  He came on her track at the village at the junction of the roads above Ashead, and thence, confiding in the half-connivance or utter stupidity of the fair one’s duenna, despatched a mounted man-servant to his coachman and footmen, stationed ten miles behind, with orders that they should drive forthwith to the great plain, and be ready at a point there for two succeeding days.  That was the plot, promptly devised upon receipt of Mrs. Pagnell’s communication; for the wealthy man of pleasure was a strategist fit to be a soldier, in dexterity not far from rivalling the man by whom he had been outdone.

An ascetic on the road to success, he dedicated himself to a term of hard drinking under a reverse; and the question addressed to the chief towns in the sketch counties his head contained was, which one near would be likely to supply the port wine for floating him through garlanding dreams of possession most tastily to blest oblivion.

He was a lover, nevertheless, honest in his fashion, and meant not worse than to pull his lady through a mire, and wash her with Morsfield soap, and crown her, and worship.  She was in his blood, about him, above him; he had plunged into her image, as into deeps that broke away in phosphorescent waves on all sides, reflecting every remembered, every imagined, aspect of the adored beautiful woman piercing him to extinction with that last look of her at the moment of flight.

Had he been just a trifle more sincere in the respect he professed for his lady’s duenna, he would have turned on the road to Dornton and a better fortune.  Mrs. Pagnell had now become the ridiculous Paggy of Mrs. Lawrence Finchley and her circle for the hypocritical gentleman; and he remarked to Captain Cumnock, when their mutual trot was established:  ’Paggy enough for me for a month ­good Lord!  I can’t stand another dose of her by herself.’

‘It’s a bird that won’t roast or boil or stew,’ said the captain.

They were observed trotting along below by Lord Ormont’s groom of the stables on promotion, as he surveyed the country from the chalk-hill rise and brought the phaeton to a stand, Jonathan Boon, a sharp lad, whose comprehension was a little muddled by ‘the rights of it’ in this adventure.  He knew, however, that he did well to follow the directions of one who was in his lordship’s pay, and stretched out the fee with the air of a shake of the hand, and had a look of the winning side, moreover.  A born countryman could see that.

Boon watched the pair of horsemen trotting to confusion, and clicked in his cheek.  The provincial of the period when coaches were beginning to be threatened by talk of new-fangled rails was proud to boast of his outwitting Londoners on material points; and Boon had numerous tales of how it had been done, to have the laugh of fellows thinking themselves such razors.  They compensated him for the slavish abasement of his whole neighbourhood under the hectoring of the grand new manufacture of wit in London: ­the inimitable Metropolitan pun, which came down to the country by four-in-hand, and stopped all other conversation wherever it was reported, and would have the roar ­there was no resisting it.  Indeed, to be able to see the thing smartly was an entry into community with the elect of the district; and when the roaring ceased and the thing was examined, astonishment at the cleverness of it, and the wonderful shallowness of the seeming deep hole, and the unexhausted bang it had to go off like a patent cracker, fetched it out for telling over again; and up went the roar, and up it went at home and in stable-yards, and at the net puffing of churchwardens on a summer’s bench, or in a cricket-booth after a feast, or round the old inn’s taproom fine.  The pun, the wonderful bo-peep of double meanings darting out to surprise and smack one another from behind words of the same sound, sometimes the same spelling, overwhelmed the provincial mind with awe of London’s occult and prolific genius.

Yet down yonder you may behold a pair of London gentlemen trotting along on as fine a fool’s errand as ever was undertaken by nincompoops bearing a scaled letter, marked urgent, to a castle, and the request in it that the steward would immediately upon perusal down with their you-know-what and hoist them and birch them a jolly two dozen without parley.

Boon smacked his leg, and then drove ahead merrily.

For this had happened to his knowledge:  the gentleman accompanying the lady had refused to make anything of a halt at the Red Lion, and had said he was sure there would be a small public-house at the outskirts of the town, for there always was one; and he proved right, and the lady and he had descended at the sign of the Jolly Cricketers, and Boon had driven on for half an hour by order.

This, too, had happened, external to Boon’s knowledge:  the lady and the gentleman had witnessed, through the small diamond window-panes of the Jolly Cricketers’ parlour, the passing-by of the two horsemen in pursuit of them; and the gentleman had stopped the chariot coming on some fifteen minutes later, but he did not do it at the instigation of the lady.