d. Now Barbara
Quinton had told Mistress Nell that I was forward for my station. What
man could, what man would, lay bare his heart to a lady who held him to
be forward for his station?

These meditations took me to my chamber, whither I might have gone an
hour before, and lasted me fully two hours after I had stretched myself
upon the bed. Then I slept heavily; when I woke it was high morning. I
lay there a little while, thinking with no pleasure of the journey
before me. Then having risen and dressed hastily, I made my way to the
room where Nell and I had talked the night before. I did not know in
what mood I should find her, but I desired to see her alone and beg her
to come to some truce with Mistress Quinton, lest our day's travelling
should be over thorns. She was not in the room when I came there.
Looking out of window I perceived the coach at the door; the host was
giving an eye to the horses, and I hailed him. He ran in and a moment
later entered the room.

"At what hour are we to set out?" I asked.

"When you will," said he.

"Have you no orders then from Mistress Gwyn?"

"She left none with me, sir."

"Left none?" I cried, amazed.

A smile came on his lips and his eyes twinkled.

"Now I thought it!" said he with a chuckle. "You didn't know her
purpose? She has hired a post-chaise and set out two hours ago, telling
me that you and the other lady would travel as well without her, and
that, for her part, she was weary of both of you. But she left a message
for you. See, it lies there on the table."

A little packet was on the table; I took it up. The innkeeper's eyes
were fixed on me in obvious curiosity and amusement. I was not minded to
afford him more entertainment than I need, and bade him begone before I
opened the packet. He withdrew reluctantly. Then I unfastened Nell's
parcel. It contained ten guineas wrapped in white paper, and on the
inside of the paper was written in a most laborious awkward scrawl (I
fear the execution of it gave poor Nell much pains), "In pay for your
dagger. E.G." It was all of her hand I had ever seen; the brief message
seemed to speak a sadness in her. Perhaps I deluded myself; her skill
with the pen would not serve her far. She had gone, that was the sum of
it, and I was grieved that she had gone in this fashion.

With the piece of paper still in my hands, the guineas also still
standing in a little pile on the table, I turned to find Barbara Quinton
in the doorway