The Nonesuch

“Well, he don’t choose to. Hallo, here comes the Squire! A very good sort of a man: wife all pretension: one son and two daughters!” explained Julian, in a hurried undervoice, as he pulled up his horses. “Good-morning, sir! Not so hot today, is it? May I present my cousin to you? Mr Calver—Mr Mickleby!”

The Squire, acknowledging Laurence’s graceful bow with a brief nod, stared very hard at him, and ejaculated: “Ha! Calver! Ay, you’ve got a look of old Joseph.”

Laurence had never seen Joseph Calver, but he resented this remark: and told Julian, when the Squire had trotted off on his stout cob, that if his manners were a sample of what was to be expected in this uncouth district he would as lief be spared any more introductions. However, when the hire of the whisky had been arranged, he consented to accompany Julian to the Rectory. Leaving the phaeton at the Crown, they walked down the village street, reaching the Rectory just as Mrs Underhill was stepping into her barouche, which was drawn up at the gate.

Mrs Underhill had driven from Staples to enquire after Patience, and to tell Mrs Chartley how sorry she was that such a disagreeable adventure should have befallen her while she had been in Miss Trent’s charge; and she had arrived at the Rectory in as flustered a state of mind as was possible in one of her calm temperament, her headstrong niece having flatly refused to accompany her on this visit of reparation. She might know little about fashionable manners, but one thing (she said) she did know, and that was that Tiffany had behaved very badly to Miss Chartley, and owed her an apology. Upon which, Tiffany, after declaring in a torrent of angry words that it was Patience who owed her an apology, for exposing her to a scene of odious embarrassment, had slammed out of the room and locked herself into her bedchamber. So Mrs Underhill, much agitated, had been obliged to excuse her to Mrs Chartley. She said that she was laid down with a headache; but when Patience exclaimed that she was so sorry, because it must have been quite horrid for poor Tiffany to be jostled and stared at by a crowd of people, she had abandoned all pretence, and said bluntly: “It’s like you to say so, my dear, but by what I can discover she behaved in a very unbecoming way, and I’m so mortified as never was! And if she won’t beg your pardon—which she won’t, for bring her to own she’s ever at fault you can’t, tell her so till Doomsday,—I will, and so I do!”

Perceiving that she was very much upset, Mrs Chartley made a sign to Patience to leave them, and applied herself to the task of soothing the poor lady’s ruffled sensibilities. She succeeded so well that before long Mrs Underhill was pouring out to her the difficulties and discomforts attached to the guardianship of a spoiled beauty who didn’t seem to have a scrap of affection in her. Mrs Chartley listened sympathetically, agreeing that she would have grown up very differently if her uncle had not sent her to school, and encouraging Mrs Underhill’s wistfully expressed belief that her tantrums were merely childish, and that she would improve when she was a little older.

Mrs Underhill felt much better after unburdening herself. A glass of ratafia, and a comfortable gossip with her hostess still further restored her; and by the time the two Chartley ladies escorted her to her barouche she was her placid self again, and able to meet Lord Lindeth without suffering any recrudescence of mortification. He performed the introductions, and while Laurence exchanged civilities with the Chartleys he enquired politely after Tiffany, expressing his regret that the previous day’s accident should have proved too much for her nerves.

“Nerves!” said Mrs Underhill, rejecting this tactful effort. “She hasn’t got any, my lord! A nasty, spiteful temper is what she’s got, and wears us all to death with it! Not that she can’t be as sweet as a nut when she chooses, but if things don’t fall out just the way she wants them to she flies into the boughs directly.” She then lowered her voice, and said, with a significant glance cast at Laurence: “Did you say he was your cousin?”

“Yes, ma’am: my cousin Calver.”

“Well!” she uttered. “I’m sure we all thought there was never anyone as modish as Sir Waldo, so elegant and trim as he is, but he’s nothing to Mr Calver, is he? Why, he’s as fine as a star! I’ll be bound he’s one of the London smarts?”

“Yes, indeed!” said Julian, his eyes dancing. “A real Pink of the Ton!”

“I can see that,” she nodded, much impressed. “I hope you’ll bring him with you when you come to my turtle-dinner next Friday, if he won’t think it a bore.”

“He will be very much obliged to you, ma’am,” Julian answered promptly. He turned his head toward his cousin. “Laurie, Mrs Underhill has been so kind as to invite you to dine at her house next Friday!”