The lady cast a mournful look at him. ‘Then tis as I feared.’ She covered her face with her hands and turned away, a picture of desolation. But she quickly regained something of her composure, shewing her face once more, and seeming to shake off despair with an impatient toss of the head and to confront the future bravely. Mr Bailey found himself close at her side, ready, not to say eager, to support her in his embrace should she shew signs of fainting or faltering or giving any other suitable feminine expression to her emotions. His attitude struck a nice balance between ardour and respect, compassion and self-approval. It was as if he said: ‘Here is my shoulder. I do not ask you to lean upon it, but here it is, and very ready to be made use of. My faithful heart beats only for you. My not unmanly bosom asks nothing better than that your head, if it so please you, should rest gracefully and confidingly upon it. My arms, which are all discretion and politeness, can be trusted to support your enchanting person—should the occasion arise—without affront to your invincible modesty.’ The lady seemed aware of this devotion, and sweetly, sadly, grateful for it. She answered his eloquent silence with something between a sigh and a smile. But again she moved out of reach and was marvellously at once near and inaccessible.
‘I find, sir, you are a gentleman,’ she said, sketching a curtsey. ‘Indeed I had guessed as much long since; and the discretion of your behaviour and the refinement of your conversation do but confirm that earlier conjecture. What whim it is that persuades you to play your present part of innkeeper I do not know and have no title to inquire . . .’
‘The whim, madam,’ he cried, almost saucily, ‘of providing myself and my family with the means of life. A prejudice in favour of food and drink and a roof over my head. Tis true that I have seen happier fortunes, but none happier than to avow myself your devoted slave.’
He was a man translated and triumphant, and his choice of words was significant of that triumph. ‘Servant,’ from such as he, whose gentility was in question even while it was being affirmed, might have passed as obsequious; whereas ‘slave’ was ardent, gallant, a confident claim, a proud boast. This was indeed the most arrogant speech he had ever uttered in his life, and her fluttering reception of it made of him such a tremendous fellow, and of her a thing so small and fragile, so exquisite and lovely and forlorn, that he was hard put to it not to break the bounds of discretion and take her at once into his arms. But that were to risk all, and to risk it too soon. He had still sense enough to remember that. It was incredible that so high a goddess could stoop to him and suffer his embrace even for a moment. Moreover, he was already sufficiently exalted, and perhaps half knew it. In not attempting her he felt humble, and found humility delicious; chivalrous, and enjoyed his chivalry; politic, and knew his policy a safe one. And there remained, after all, his natural curiosity to be satisfied. His guest, the lady’s escort, had run off without paying the reckoning. A trifle, no doubt, compared with the measure of this golden hour: but a curious trifle none the less.
‘You are too kind, sir,’ said she. ‘I am happy to know I may trust your discretion. For trust you I must, and with a secret.’
At the word secret, the light in Mr Bailey’s eye burned more brightly still.
‘I am no better than other men,’ said he: and at least half sincerely, though the other half of him could not but suspect that by his very statement he proved the contrary. ‘I am no better than other men, madam. But I would sooner die than betray a secret confided to me by such lips as yours.’
There was urgency in her manner. She came nearer to him and said, with lowered voice: ‘This is no time for fine speeches. I am afraid for my brother. Ask me no details, my friend, but give me leave to rely on your discretion and goodwill. A grave danger threatens my brother, and his danger is necessarily mine. We have enemies. We are reduced in fortune. Persecution has dogged us these last five years—ever since the ill-starred adventure of ’45. Believe me, my kind friend, we are no less loyal than honest. But malice pursues us. My brother at this moment is engaged on a most delicate mission. He does not tell me all, and it is best that you know nothing. I am distressed by this sudden flight of his. I wonder indeed that he should have left my side with no word of warning or explanation. I have not deserved it of him.’
The quality of her voice was subtly changing: a note of anger, almost a note of hatred, could be heard in it. A sudden and devastating doubt assailed Mr Bailey.
‘Your side, madam? Left your side without forewarning you?’
The lady flushed. ‘Indeed yes. A very uncivil performance. But for hearing his door slam and the sound of his footsteps descending the stair, I should have known nothing of his movements.’