The Nonesuch

She was very willing to do this, announcing gaily that they would form the advance guard, and cantered off with Lindeth. When the rest of the party reached the village, she came dancing out of the little stone inn, crying: “Oh, it is the prettiest place imaginable! Do make haste and come into the taproom! Only fancy, I had never been in a taproom before, but there’s no parlour, so I was obliged to! It is so diverting! You’ll be enchanted, Lizzie!”

Miss Colebatch, whose headache had developed into a severe migraine, was only dimly aware of being addressed, and she did not attempt to respond. Courtenay’s hand, which had been grasping her elbow, was removed, and she almost toppled into the arms of the Nonesuch, who was waiting to receive her. He carried her into the inn, where an elderly landlady, over-awed by this unprecedented invasion, dropped a nervous curtsy, and begged him to lay Miss down on the settle. She had placed a folded blanket over its uncompromising wooden seat, and fetched down a flock pillow: two circumstances to which Tiffany proudly drew his attention, saying that it was she who had directed Mrs Rowsely to do so.

“And while Lizzie rests we are going to sit on the benches outside, just as if we were rustics!” she said, laughing. “Lindeth has ordered home-brewed for you, but I am going to drink a glass of milk, because Mrs Rowsley has no lemons. It seems very odd to me, and I detest milk, but I don’t mean to complain! Do come out! Ancilla will look after poor Lizzie.”

She flitted away again, but he lingered for a few moments, while Miss Trent desired the landlady to bring a bowl of water, and some vinegar. The door of the inn opened directly into the taproom, but there was no other ventilation, the tiny latticed windows resisting Sir Waldo’s efforts to force them open. The room was low-pitched and stuffy, and a strong aroma of spirituous liquors pervaded the air.

Sir Waldo said abruptly: “This won’t do. I collect there’s no other room than the kitchen on this floor, but there must be a bedchamber abovestairs. Shall I arrange to have her moved to it?”

“If I could be sure that no one will come in, I believe it would be better to remain here.” she replied, in a low tone. “It would be far hotter, immediately under the roof, you know.”

“Very well: I’ll attend to it,” he said.

Half-an-hour later she emerged from the inn. Three empty tankards and a milk-stained glass stood on one of the benches against the wall of the house: of Tiffany and Sir Waldo there was no sign, but she saw Lindeth and Courtenay walking down the street. They hastened their steps when they caught sight of her, and came up, anxiously asking how Elizabeth did.

“Asleep,” she answered. “Where is Tiffany?”

“Oh, she has gone off to look at the Church with Sir Waldo!” said Courtenay. “Lindeth and I have been enquiring all over for some sort of a carriage, but there’s nothing to be had, so we’ve decided—that is, if you agree!—that I’d best ride to Bardsey, and see what I can come by there. Do you think Lizzie will be well enough to be driven home when she wakes, ma’am?”

“I hope so. I expect she will pluck up when she has had some tea.” She smiled at Julian. “Poor girl, she is so much distressed at having spoilt your party! She made me promise to beg your pardon, and even suggested that we should continue without her!”

“What, abandon her in a common alehouse? I should rather think not!” exclaimed Courtenay.

“There’s no question of that, of course,” Julian said. “I am only sorry she should be feeling so poorly. I wish we might bring a doctor to her!”

Miss Trent assured him that matters were not very serious, and recommended Courtenay to saddle up. He went off to the small stableyard to do this, just as Tiffany and the Nonesuch came strolling down the street. Tiffany had caught the sweeping skirt of her velvet habit over her arm, and from the sparkling countenance she had upturned to Sir Waldo’s Miss Trent judged that he had been entertaining her very agreeably.

“Oh, is Lizzie better now?” she demanded, running up to Miss Trent. “Is she ready to go on?”

“Well, she’s asleep at the moment, but I am afraid she won’t be stout enough to ride any farther.”

“Then what’s to be done?” asked Tiffany blankly. “How can you say she won’t be stout enough? I’m persuaded she would wish to do so!”

“Even if she did wish it, it would be very imprudent,” Ancilla said. “Indeed, Tiffany, I couldn’t permit it! You wouldn’t wish her to run the risk of making herself really ill!”

“No, of course I shouldn’t!” Tiffany said impatiently. “But what a fuss for nothing more than a headache! I should have thought she would have tried to be better!”

“My dear, she is quite determined to be better, not because she wishes to ride any more, but because she is so much distressed at the thought of spoiling the expedition. I have assured her that we are all agreed that it is a great deal too sultry—”