‘And what if we are?’ she cried with a passion that took him aback.  ’What if we are?  What better am I if we are rescued?  Oh, I would have done anything for him!  I would have died for him!’ she continued wildly.  ’And he has done this for me.  I would have given him all, all freely, for no return if he would have it so; and this is his requital!  This is the way he has gone to get it.  Oh, vile! vile!’

Mr. Thomasson started.  Metaphorically, he was no longer in the dark.  She fancied that Sir George, Sir George whom she loved, was the contriver of this villainy.  She thought that Sir George—­Sir George, her cousin—­was the abductor; that she was being carried off, not for her own sake, but as an obstacle to be removed from his path.  The conception took the tutor’s breath away; he was even staggered for the moment, it agreed as well with one part of the facts.  And when an instant later his own certain information came to his aid and showed him its unreality, and he would have blurted out the truth—­he hesitated.  The words were on the tip of his tongue, the sentence was arranged, but he hesitated.

Why?  Simply because he was Mr. Thomasson, and it was not in his nature to do the thing that lay before him until he had considered whether it might not profit him to do something else.  In this case the bare statement that Mr. Dunborough, and not Sir George, was the author of the outrage, would go for little with her.  If he proceeded to his reasons he might convince her; but he would also fix himself with a fore-knowledge of the danger—­a fore-knowledge which he had not imparted to her, and which must sensibly detract from the merit of the service he had already and undoubtedly performed.

This was a risk; and there was a farther consideration.  Why give Mr. Dunborough new ground for complaint by discovering him?  True, at Bristol she would learn the truth.  But if she did not reach Bristol?  If they were overtaken midway?  In that case the tutor saw possibilities, if he kept his mouth shut—­possibilities of profit at Mr. Dunborough’s hands.

In intervals between fits of alarm—­when the carriage seemed to be about to halt—­he turned these things over.  He could hear the girl weeping in her corner, quietly, but in a heart-broken manner; and continually, while he thought and she wept, and an impenetrable curtain of darkness hid the one from the other, the chaise held on its course up-hill and down-hill, now bumping and rattling behind flying horses, and now rumbling and straining up Yatesbury Downs.

At last he broke the silence.  ‘What makes you think,’ he said, ’that it is Sir George has done this?’

She did not answer or stop weeping for a while.  Then, ’He was to meet me at sunset, at the Corner,’ she said.  ’Who else knew that I should be there?  Tell me that.’

‘But if he is at the bottom of this, where is he?’ he hazarded.  ’If he would play the villain with you—­’