The Nonesuch

Neither prophecy hit the mark, but, in the event Mr Wingham came nearer to it than Sir Waldo. Broom Hall belonged to a country parish whose centre was the village of Oversett, situated in the West Riding, rather closer to Leeds than to Harrogate, and not above twenty miles from York; and although the majority of the Reverend John Chartley’s parishioners knew nothing about Sir Waldo, and several elderly gentlemen, such as Squire Mickleby, took very little interest in any member of the Corinthian set, amongst the ladies, and the younger gentlemen, a good deal of excitement was felt. No one was acquainted with Sir Waldo; but several ladies had at some time or another spent a few weeks in London, and had had him pointed out to them in the Park or at the Opera as one of the leaders of the ton; and every budding young whip who prided himself on his light hands and the prime nature of his turn-out was torn between longing to see just how Sir Waldo did the trick and dread lest such an out-and-out top-sawyer should regard with contempt the efforts of his admirers to emulate his skill.

The first person to learn the news was the Rector, and it was his daughter who carried it to Staples, the most considerable house in the neighbourhood, where it was variously received. Mrs Underhill, who knew no more of Sir Waldo than the Rector’s most illiterate parishioner, but understood, from the awe in Miss Chartley’s face, that the news was remarkable, said, in a placid voice: “Fancy!” Miss Charlotte, a bouncing fifteen-year-old, looked for guidance at Miss Trent, her adolescent adoration of her young preceptress having led her to regard that lady as an authority on any subject which came under discussion; and Mrs Underhill’s niece, Miss Theophania Wield, fixed her large, suddenly sparkling eyes on Miss Chartley’s face, and uttered breathlessly: “Is it true? Coming to Broom Hall? Oh, you’re shamming it, Patience—I know you are!”

Miss Trent, though the announcement had caused her to look up from her stitchery, her brows raised in momentary surprise, resumed her work, volunteering no remark; but Mr Courtenay Underhill, who had lounged in to pay his respects to his mama’s visitor, exclaimed in the liveliest astonishment: “Sir Waldo Hawkridge? Old Calver’s heir? Good God! Mama, did you hear? Sir Waldo Hawkridge!”

“Yes, dear. Well, I’m sure I hope he’ll find it to his liking, though it will be wonderful if he does, the way Mr Calver let all go to rack and ruin! I don’t seem able to recall him at the moment, but there! I never was one for remembering names—not but what you’d think I should keep that one in my head, for I never heard such a funny one!”

“They call him the Nonesuch!” said Courtenay reverently.

“Do they, love? That would be a nickname, I daresay. Depend upon it, it was given him for some silly reason, like the way your grandfather was used to call your poor Aunt Jane Muffin, all because—”

“Oh!” cried her niece, impatiently interrupting these amiable meanderings, “as though anyone was ever called that for a stupid joke! It means—it means perfection! Doesn’t it, Ancilla?”

Miss Trent, selecting a length of silk from her skein, replied, in her cool, well-bred voice: “A paragon, certainly.”

“Fudge! It means being the greatest Go among all the Goers!” stated Courtenay. “Particularly on the roads—though they say the Nonesuch is a clipping rider to hounds too. Gregory Ash—and he knows all the Melton men!—told me that in harness and out no man can do more with a horse than the Nonesuch. Well, if he is coming here, I won’t be seen driving that chestnut I had from old Skeeby, that’s certain! Mama, Mr Badgworth has a neatish bay he’d be willing to sell: beautiful stepper—carries a good head—just the right stamp!”

“Oh, pooh! As though anyone cares a rush for such stuff!” broke in Miss Wield scornfully. “Sir Waldo is first in consequence with the ton, and of the first style of elegance, besides being very handsome, and hugely wealthy!”

“Elegant! Handsome!” jeered Courtenay, mimicking her. “Much you know about it!”

“I do know!” she flashed. “When I was at my uncle’s house in Portland Place—”

“Yes, you were as thick as inkle-weavers with him, of course! What miff-maff you do talk! I don’t suppose you’ve ever so much as clapped eyes on him!”

“I have, I have! Frequently! Well, several times! And he is handsome and elegant! Ancilla, he is, isn’t he?”

Miss Chartley, who was a very gentle, prettily behaved girl, seized the opportunity to intervene in what promised to develop into a shrill quarrel, turning towards Miss Trent, and saying in her soft, shy voice: “I expect you know more about Sir Waldo than any of us, for you were used to live in London, were you not? Perhaps you may even have met him?”