After this, it may not have been pure accident that cast her in Sir George's way when he strolled out of the house next morning. A coach had come in, and was changing horses before the porch. The passengers were moving to and fro before the house, grooms and horse-boys were shouting and hissing, the guard was throwing out parcels. Soane passed through the bustle, and, strolling to the end of the High Street, saw the girl seated on a low parapet of the bridge that, near the end of the inn gardens, carries the Salisbury road over the Kennet. She wore a plain riding-coat, such as ladies then affected when they travelled and would avoid their hoops and patches. A little hood covered her hair, which, undressed and unpowdered, hung in a club behind; and she held up a plain fan between her complexion and the sun.
Her seat, though quiet and remote from the bustle--for the Salisbury road is the less frequented of the two roads--was in view of the gates leading to the Inn; and her extreme beauty, which was that of expression as well as feature, made her a mark for a dozen furtive eyes, of which she affected to be unconscious. But as soon as Sir George's gaze fell on her, her look met his frankly and she smiled; and then again her eyes dropped and studied the road before her, and she blushed in a way Soane found enchanting. He had been going into the town, but he turned and went to her and sat down on the bridge beside her, almost with the air of an old acquaintance. He opened the conversation by saying that it was a prodigious fine day; she agreed. That the Downs were uncommonly healthy; she said the same. And then there was silence.
'Well?' he said after a while; and he looked at her.
'Well?' she answered in the same tone. And she looked at him over the edge of her fan, her eyes laughing.
'How did you sleep, child?' he asked; while he thought, 'Lord! How handsome she is!'
'Perfectly, sir,' she answered, 'thanks to your excellency's kindness.'
Her voice as well as her eyes laughed. He stared at her, wondering at the change in her. 'You are lively this morning,' he said.
'I cannot say the same of you, Sir George,' she answered. 'When you came out, and before you saw me, your face was as long as a coach-horse's.'
Sir George winced. He knew where his thoughts had been. 'That was before I saw you, child,' he said. 'In your company--'
'You are scarcely more lively,' she answered saucily. 'Do you flatter yourself that you are?'
Sir George was astonished. He was aware that the girl lacked neither wit nor quickness; but hitherto he had found her passionate at one time, difficult and _farouche_ at another, at no time playful or coquettish. Here, and this morning, she did not seem to be the same woman. She spoke with ease, laughed with the heart as well as the lips, met his eyes with freedom and without embarrassment, countered his sallies with sportiveness--in a word, carried herself towards him as though she were an equal; precisely as Lady Betty and the Honourable Fanny carried themselves. He stared at her.
And she, seeing the look, laughed in pure happiness, knowing what was in his mind, and knowing her own mind very well. 'I puzzle you?' she said.
'You do,' he answered. 'What are you doing here? And why have you taken up with that lawyer? And why are you dressed, child--'
'Like this?' she said, rising, and sitting down again. 'You think it is above my station?'
He shrugged his shoulders, declining to put his views into words; instead, 'What does it all mean?' he said.
'What do you suppose?' she asked, averting her eyes for the first time.
'Well, of course--you may be here to meet Dunborough,' he answered bluntly. 'His mother seems to think that he is going to marry you.'
'And what do you think, sir?'
'I?' said Sir George, reverting to the easy, half-insolent tone she hated. And he tapped his Paris snuff-box and spoke with tantalising slowness. 'Well, if that be the case, I should advise you to see that Mr. Dunborough's surplice--covers a parson.'
She sat still and silent for a full half-minute after he had spoken. Then she rose without a word, and without looking at him; and, walking away to the farther end of the bridge, sat down there with her shoulder turned to him.
Soane felt himself rebuffed, and for a moment let his anger get the better of him. 'D--n the girl, I only spoke for her own good!' he muttered; then reflecting that if he followed her she might remove again and make him ridiculous, he rose to go into the house. But apparently that was not what she wished. He was scarcely on his legs before she turned her head, saw that he was going, and imperiously beckoned to him.
He went to her, wondering as much at her audacity as her pettishness. When he reached her, 'Sir George,' she said, retaining her seat and looking gravely at him, while he stood before her like a boy undergoing correction, 'you have twice insulted me--once in Oxford when, believing Mr. Dunborough's hurt lay at my door, I was doing what I could to repair it; and again to-day. If you wish to see more of me, you must refrain from doing so a third time. You know, a third time--you know what a third time does. And more--one moment, if you please. I must ask you to treat me differently. I make no claim to be a gentlewoman, but my condition is altered. A relation has left me a--a fortune, and when I met you here last night I was on my way to Bath to claim it.'
Sir George passed from the surprise into which the first part of this speech had thrown him, to surprise still greater. At last, 'I am vastly glad to hear it,' he said. 'For most of us it is easier to drop a fortune than to find one.'
'Is it?' she said, and laughed musically, Then, moving her skirt to show him that he might sit down, 'Well, I suppose it is. You have no experience of that, I hope, sir?'
He nodded.
'The gaming-table?' she said.
'Not this time,' he answered, wondering why he told her. 'I had a grandfather, who made a will. He had a fancy to wrap up a bombshell in the will. Now--the shell has burst.'
'I am sorry,' she said; and was silent a moment. At length, 'Does it make--any great difference to you?' she asked navely.
Sir George looked at her as if he were studying her appearance. Then, 'Yes, child, it does,' he said.
She hesitated, but seemed to make up her mind. 'I have never asked you where you live,' she said softly; 'have you no house in the country?'
He suppressed something between an oath and a groan. 'Yes,' he said, 'I have a house.'
'What do you call it?'
'Estcombe Hall. It is in Wiltshire, not far from here.'
She looked at her fan, and idly flapped it open, and again closed it in the air. 'Is it a fine place?' she said carelessly.
'I suppose so,' he answered, wincing.
'With trees, and gardens, and woods?'
'Yes.'
'And water?'
'Yes. There is a river.'
'You used to fish in it as a boy?'
'Yes.'
'Estcombe! it is a pretty name. And shall you lose it?'
But that was too much for Soane's equanimity.