The Nonesuch

Miss Trent turned her head, and saw that a stranger had entered the Church, accompanied by the Rector, who said: “Well met, Miss Trent! How do you do, Charlotte? Charming indeed, is it not, Sir Waldo? And, I think, unusual. We are indebted to Miss Trent both for the notion and for the execution of it. But you are not yet acquainted! Sir Waldo Hawkridge—Miss Trent, Miss Charlotte Underhill!”

Charlotte bobbed a schoolgirl’s curtsy; Miss Trent, bowing slightly, critically watched the advance up the aisle towards her of this representative of a set she held in poor esteem. He carried himself with the natural grace of the athlete; he was certainly good-looking; and she was obliged to acknowledge that although it was evident that no provincial tailor was responsible for the cut of his coat he adopted none of the extravagances of fashion. He was dressed for riding, in buckskins and topboots, and he carried his hat and crop in one hand. The other, a shapely member, bare of rings, he held out to her, saying: “How do you do? May I compliment you? I have recently seen saloons and ballrooms decorated in this style, but not, I believe, a Church. It is altogether delightful!”

Their eyes met, both pairs gray, hers very cool and clear, his faintly smiling; she gave him her hand, and was aware of the strength latent in the clasp of his. She was a tall woman, but she had to look up to his face; and, as she did so, she became conscious of a tug of attraction. The thought flashed into her mind that she beheld the embodiment of her ideal. It was as instantly banished; she said, as he released her hand: “You are too good, sir. Mine was not the inspiration, however. In the parish where I was used to reside it has been the custom for some years.”

It would have been too much to have said that Miss Trent’s instinctive recognition of the ideal was reciprocated. The Nonesuch had been for too many years the target at which ambitious females had aimed their arrows to be any longer impressionable; and certain painful disillusionments suffered in his youth had hardened his heart against feminine wiles. He was not so much cynical as armoured; and at the age of five-and-thirty believed that he was past the age of falling in love. What he saw in Miss Trent he liked: the fine eyes which looked so directly into his, the graceful carriage, the indefinably well-bred air which distinguished her, and the absence of any affectation in her manners. He liked her voice, too, and the civil indifference with which she had received his compliment. It was refreshing to meet a marriageable female who did not instantly exert herself to win his admiration; it might be pleasant to pursue her acquaintance; but if he were never to see her again it would not cost him any pang of regret.

She turned her head away, to attend to the Rector, who was gently quizzing Charlotte. “I saw your phaeton in the yard, and was told by my good James that Miss Charlotte had driven in. Now, that I didn’t see, which is a severe disappointment!”

“Oh, Mr Chartley, you know—!” protested Charlotte, overcome by blushes and giggles. “It was Miss Trent!”

He laughed, and glanced at Sir Waldo. “Not even Miss Trent, who, I must tell you, is a very pretty whip, and a pattern-card of patience besides, has succeeded in curing this foolish child of a profound mistrust of even the sleepiest cart-horse! Eh, Charlotte?”

“Well, I don’t like horses!” she said boldly. She cast a defiant look at Sir Waldo, and added: “and I won’t pretend I do, because I hate shams! You can never tell what they mean to do next! And if you pat them, they—they twitch!”

This was rather too much for the Rector’s and Miss Trent’s gravity, hut Sir Waldo, though there was a laugh in his eye, replied gravely: “Very true! And when you stretch out your hand only to stroke their noses they toss up their heads, as though they supposed you meant to do them an injury!”

Encouraged, Charlotte said: “Yes! Though my brother says you should take hold of the bridle before you do so. But if they think you mean to hurt them, when they are for ever being cosseted and cared-for, they must be perfectly addle-brained!”

“I’m afraid they haven’t very much intelligence,” he admitted.

She opened her eyes at that. “But you like them, don’t you, sir?”

“Yes, but there is never any accounting for tastes, you know.” He smiled at Ancilla. “I collect that we share that particular taste, ma’am?”

“Mr Chartley has misled you, sir. I’m the merest whipster. Charlotte, we must not stand dawdling any longer!”

“But you will take a look in at the Rectory before you go, won’t you?” said the Rector. “Sir Waldo has been admiring our little Church, and I have promised to show him the twelfth-century piscina—our greatest pride, is it not?”