seaward again. The vessel's head was kept a little further to sea, but
beyond that everything went on as usual.
The precipice was still in view, and before it several huge columns of
rock appeared, detached from the mass behind. Two of these were
particularly noticeable in the grey air - one vertical, stout and square;
the other slender and tapering. They were individualized as husband and
wife by the coast men. The waves leapt up their sides like a pack of
hounds; this, however, though fearful in its boisterousness, was nothing
to the terrible games that sometimes went on round the knees of those
giants in stone. Yet it was sufficient to cause the course of the frail
steamboat to be altered yet a little more - from south-west-by-south to
south-by-west - to give the breakers a still wider berth.
'I wish we had gone by land, sir; 'twould have been surer play,' said Sol
to Mountclere, a cat-and-dog friendship having arisen between them.
'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Knollsea is an abominable place to get into
with an east wind blowing, they say.'
Another circumstance conspired to make their landing more difficult,
which Mountclere knew nothing of. With the wind easterly, the highest
sea prevailed in Knollsea Bay from the slackening of flood-tide to the
first hour of ebb. At that time the water outside stood without a
current, and ridges and hollows chased each other towards the beach
unchecked. When the tide was setting strong up or down Channel its flow
across the mouth of the bay thrust aside, to some extent, the landward
plunge of the waves.
We glance for a moment at the state of affairs on the land they were
nearing.
This was the time of year to know the truth about the inner nature and
character of Knollsea; for to see Knollsea smiling to the summer sun was
to see a courtier before a king; Knollsea was not to be known by such
simple means. The half-dozen detached villas used as lodging-houses in
the summer, standing aloof from the cots of the permanent race, rose in
the dusk of this gusty evening, empty, silent, damp, and dark as tombs.
The gravel walks leading to them were invaded by leaves and tufts of
grass. As the darkness thickened the wind increased, and each blast
raked the iron railings before the houses till they hummed as if in a
song of derision. Certainly it seemed absurd at this time of year that
human beings should expect comfort in a spot capable of such moods as
these.
However, one of the houses looked cheerful, and that was the dwelling to
which Ethelberta had gone. Its gay external colours might as well have
been black for anything that could be seen of them now, but an unblinded
window revealed inside it a room bright and warm. It was illuminated by
firelight only. Within, Ethelberta appeared against the curtains, close
to the glass. She was watching through a binocular a faint light which
had become visible in the direction of the bluff far away over the bay.
'Here is the Spruce at last, I think,' she said to her sister, who was by
the fire. 'I hope they will be able to land the things I have ordered.
They are on board I know.'
The wind continued to rise till at length something from the lungs of the
gale alighted like a feather upon the pane, and remained there sticking.
Seeing the substance, Ethelberta opened the window to secure it. The
fire roared and the pictures kicked the walls; she closed the sash, and
brought to the light a crisp fragment of foam.
'How suddenly the sea must have risen,' said Picotee.
The servant entered the room. 'Please, mis'ess says she is afraid you
won't have your things to-night, 'm. They say the steamer can't land,
and mis'ess wants to know if she can do anything?'
'It is of no consequence,' said Ethelberta. 'They will come some time,
unless they go to the bottom.'
The girl left the room. 'Shall we go down to the shore and see what the
night is like?' said Ethelberta. 'This is the last opportunity I shall
have.'
'Is it right for us to go, considering you are to be married to-morrow?'
said Picotee, who had small affection for nature in this mood.
Her sister laughed. 'Let us put on our cloaks - nobody will know us. I
am sorry to leave this grim and primitive place, even for Enckworth
Court.'
They wrapped themselves up, and descended the hill.
On drawing near the battling line of breakers which marked the meeting of
sea and land they could perceive within the nearly invisible horizon an
equilateral triangle of lights. It was formed of three stars, a red on
the one side, a green on the other, and a white on the summit. This,
composed of mast-head and side lamps, was all that was visible of the
Spruce, which now faced end-on about half-a-mile distant, and was still
nearing the pier. The girls went further, and stood on the foreshore,
listening to the din. Seaward appeared nothing distinct save a black
horizontal band embodying itself out of the grey water, strengthening its
blackness, and enlarging till it looked like a nearing wall. It was the
concave face of a coming wave. On its summit a white edging arose with
the aspect of a lace frill; it broadened, and fell over the front with a
terrible concussion. Then all before them was a sheet of whiteness,
which spread with amazing rapidity, till they found themselves standing
in the midst of it, as in a field of snow. Both felt an insidious chill
encircling their ankles, and they rapidly ran up the beach.
'You girls, come away there, or you'll be washed off: what need have ye
for going so near?'
Ethelberta recognized the stentorian voice as that of Captain Flower,
who, with a party of boatmen, was discovered to be standing near, under
the shelter of a wall. He did not know them in the gloom, and they took
care that he should not. They retreated further up the beach, when the
hissing fleece of froth slid again down the shingle, dragging the pebbles
under it with a rattle as of a beast gnawing bones.
The spot whereon the men stood was called 'Down-under-wall;' it was a
nook commanding a full view of the bay, and hither the nautical portion
of the village unconsciously gravitated on windy afternoons and nights,
to discuss past disasters in the reticent spirit induced by a sense that
they might at any moment be repeated. The stranger who should walk the
shore on roaring and sobbing November eves when there was not light
sufficient to guide his footsteps, and muse on the absoluteness of the
solitude, would be surprised by a smart 'Good-night' being returned from
this corner in company with the echo of his tread. In summer the six or
eight perennial figures stood on the breezy side of the wall - in winter
and in rain to leeward; but no weather was known to dislodge them.
'I had no sooner come ashore than the wind began to fly round,' said the
previous speaker; 'and it must have been about the time they were off Old-
Harry Point. "She'll put back for certain," I said; and I had no more
thought o' seeing her than John's set-net that was carried round the
point o' Monday.'
'Poor feller: his wife being in such a state makes him anxious to land if
'a can: that's what 'tis, plain enough.'
'Why that?' said Flower.
'The doctor's aboard, 'a believe: "I'll have the most understanding man
in Sandbourne, cost me little or much," he said.'
''Tis all over and she's better,' said the other. 'I called half-an-hour
afore dark.'
Flower, being an experienced man, knew how the judgment of a ship's
master was liable to be warped by family anxieties, many instances of the
same having occurred in the history of navigation. He felt uneasy, for
he knew the deceit and guile of this bay far better than did the master
of the Spruce, who, till within a few recent months, had been a stranger
to the place. Indeed, it was the bay which had made Flower what he was,
instead of a man in thriving retirement. The two great ventures of his
life had been blown ashore and broken up within that very semicircle. The
sturdy sailor now stood with his eyes fixed on the triangle of lights
which showed that the steamer had not relinquished her intention of
bringing up inside the pier if possible; his right hand was in his
pocket, where it played with a large key which lay there. It was the key
of the lifeboat shed, and Flower was coxswain. His musing was on the
possibility of a use for it this night.
It appeared that the captain of the Spruce was aiming to pass in under
the lee of the pier; but a strong current of four or five knots was
running between the piles, drifting the steamer away at every attempt as
soon as she slowed. To come in on the other side was dangerous, the hull
of the vessel being likely to crash against and overthrow the fragile
erection, with damage to herself also. Flower, who had disappeared for a
few minutes, now came back.
'It is just possible I can make 'em hear with the trumpet, now they be to
leeward,' he said, and proceeded with two or three others to grope his
way out upon the pier, which consisted simply of a row of rotten piles
covered with rotten planking, no balustrade of any kind existing to keep
the unwary from tumbling off. At the water level the piles were eaten
away by the action of the sea to about the size of a man's wrist, and at
every fresh influx the whole structure trembled like a spider's web. In
this lay the danger of making fast, for a strong pull from a headfast
rope might drag the erection completely over. Flower arrived at the end,
where a lantern hung.
'Spruce ahoy!' he blared through the speaking trumpet two or three times.
There seemed to be a reply of some sort from the steamer.
'Tuesday's gale hev loosened the pier, Cap'n Ounce; the bollards be too
weak to make fast to: must land in boats if ye will land, but dangerous;
yer wife is out of danger, and 'tis a boy-y-y-y!'
Ethelberta and Picotee were at this time standing on the beach a hundred
and fifty yards off. Whether or not the master of the steamer received
the information volunteered by Flower, the two girls saw the triangle of
lamps get narrow at its base, reduce themselves to two in a vertical
line, then to one, then to darkness. The Spruce had turned her head from
Knollsea.
'They have gone back, and I shall not have my wedding things after all!'
said Ethelberta. 'Well, I must do without them.'
'You see, 'twas best to play sure,' said Flower to his comrades, in a
tone of complacency. 'They might have been able to do it, but 'twas
risky. The shop-folk be out of stock, I hear, and the visiting lady up
the hill is terribly in want of clothes, so 'tis said. But what's that?
Ounce ought to have put back afore.'
Then the lantern which hung at the end of the jetty was taken down, and
the darkness enfolded all around from view. The bay became nothing but a
voice, the foam an occasional touch upon the face, the Spruce an
imagination, the pier a memory. Everything lessened upon the senses but
one; that was the wind. It mauled their persons like a hand, and caused
every scrap of their raiment to tug westward. To stand with the face to
sea brought semi-suffocation, from the intense pressure of air.
The boatmen retired to their position under the wall, to lounge again in
silence. Conversation was not considered necessary: their sense of each
other's presence formed a kind of conversation. Meanwhile Picotee and
Ethelberta went up the hill.
'If your wedding were going to be a public one, what a misfortune this
delay of the packages would be,' said Picotee.
'Yes,' replied the elder.
'I think the bracelet the prettiest of all the presents he brought to-
day - do you?'
'It is the most valuable.'
'Lord Mountclere is very kind, is he not? I like him a great deal better
than I did - do you, Berta?'
'Yes, very much better,' said Ethelberta, warming a little. 'If he were
not so suspicious at odd moments I should like him exceedingly. But I
must cure him of that by a regular course of treatment, and then he'll be
very nice.'
'For an old man. He likes you better than any young man would take the
trouble to do. I wish somebody else were old too.'
'He will be some day.'
'Yes, but - '
'Never mind: time will straighten many crooked things.'
'Do you think Lord Mountclere has reached home by this time?'
'I should think so: though I believe he had to call at the parsonage
before leaving Knollsea.'
'Had he? What for?'
'Why, of course somebody must - '
'O yes. Do you think anybody in Knollsea knows it is going to be except
us and the parson?'
'I suppose the clerk knows.'
'I wonder if a lord has ever been married so privately before.'
'Frequently: when he marries far beneath him, as in this case. But even
if I could have had it, I should not have liked a showy wedding. I have
had no experience as a bride except in the private form of the ceremony.'
'Berta, I am sometimes uneasy about you even now and I want to ask you
one thing, if I may. Are you doing this for my sake? Would you have
married Mr. Julian if it had not been for me?'
'It is difficult to say exactly. It is possible that if I had had no
relations at all, I might have married him. And I might not.'
'I don't intend to marry.'
'In that case you will live with me at Enckworth. However, we will leave
such details till the ground-work is confirmed. When we get indoors will
you see if the boxes have been properly corded, and are quite ready to be
sent for? Then come in and sit by the fire, and I'll sing some songs to
you.'
'Sad ones, you mean.'
'No, they shall not be sad.'
'Perhaps they may be the last you will ever sing to me.'
'They may be. Such a thing has occurred.'
'But we will not think so. We'll suppose you are to sing many to me
yet.'
'Yes. There's good sense in that, Picotee. In a world where the blind
only are cheerful we should all do well to put out our eyes. There, I
did not mean to get into this state: forgive me, Picotee. It is because
I have had a thought - why I cannot tell - that as much as this man brings
to me in rank and gifts he may take out of me in tears.'
'Berta!'
'But there's no reason in it - not any; for not in a single matter does
what has been supply us with any certain ground for knowing what will be
in the world. I have seen marriages where happiness might have been said
to be ensured, and they have been all sadness afterwards; and I have seen
those in which the prospect was black as night, and they have led on to a
time of sweetness and comfort. And I have seen marriages neither joyful
nor sorry, that have become either as accident forced them to become, the
persons having no voice in it at all. Well, then, why should I be afraid
to make a plunge when chance is as trustworthy as calculation?'
'If you don't like him well enough, don't have him, Berta. There's time
enough to put it off even now.'
'O no. I would not upset a well-considered course on the haste of an
impulse. Our will should withstand our misgivings. Now let us see if
all has been packed, and then we'll sing.'
That evening, while the wind was wheeling round and round the dwelling,
and the calm eye of the lighthouse afar was the single speck perceptible
of the outside world from the door of Ethelberta's temporary home, the
music of songs mingled with the stroke of the wind across the iron
railings, and was swept on in the general tide of the gale, and the noise
of the rolling sea, till not the echo of a tone remained.
An hour before this singing, an old gentleman might have been seen to
alight from a little one-horse brougham, and enter the door of Knollsea
parsonage. He was bent upon obtaining an entrance to the vicar's study
without giving his name.
But it happened that the vicar's wife was sitting in the front room,
making a pillow-case for the children's bed out of an old surplice which
had been excommunicated the previous Easter; she heard the newcomer's
voice through the partition, started, and went quickly to her husband,
who was where he ought to have been, in his study. At her entry he
looked up with an abstracted gaze, having been lost in meditation over a
little schooner which he was attempting to rig for their youngest boy. At
a word from his wife on the suspected name of the visitor, he resumed his
earlier occupation of inserting a few strong sentences, full of the
observation of maturer life, between the lines of a sermon written during
his first years of ordination, in order to make it available for the
coming Sunday. His wife then vanished with the little ship in her hand,
and the visitor appeared. A talk went on in low tones.
After a ten minutes' stay he departed as secretly as he had come. His
errand was the cause of much whispered discussion between the vicar and
his wife during the evening, but nothing was said concerning it to the
outside world.
44. SANDBOURNE - A LONELY HEATH - THE 'RED LION' - THE HIGHWAY
It was half-past eleven before the Spruce, with Mountclere and Sol
Chickerel on board, had steamed back again to Sandbourne. The direction
and increase of the wind had made it necessary to keep the vessel still
further to sea on their return than in going, that they might clear
without risk the windy, sousing, thwacking, basting, scourging Jack Ketch
of a corner called Old-Harry Point, which lay about halfway along their
track, and stood, with its detached posts and stumps of white rock, like
a skeleton's lower jaw, grinning at British navigation. Here strong
currents and cross currents were beginning to interweave their scrolls
and meshes, the water rising behind them in tumultuous heaps, and
slamming against the fronts and angles of cliff, whence it flew into the
air like clouds of flour. Who could now believe that this roaring abode
of chaos smiled in the sun as gently as an infant during the summer days
not long gone by, every pinnacle, crag, and cave returning a doubled
image across the glassy sea?
They were now again at Sandbourne, a point in their journey reached more
than four hours ago. It became necessary to consider anew how to
accomplish the difficult remainder. The wind was not blowing much beyond
what seamen call half a gale, but there had been enough unpleasantness
afloat to make landsmen glad to get ashore, and this dissipated in a
slight measure their vexation at having failed in their purpose. Still,
Mountclere loudly cursed their confidence in that treacherously short
route, and Sol abused the unknown Sandbourne man who had brought the news
of the steamer's arrival to them at the junction. The only course left
open to them now, short of giving up the undertaking, was to go by the
road along the shore, which, curving round the various little creeks and
inland seas between their present position and Knollsea, was of no less
length than thirty miles. There was no train back to the junction till
the next morning, and Sol's proposition that they should drive thither in
hope of meeting the mail-train, was overruled by Mountclere.
'We will have nothing more to do with chance,' he said. 'We may miss the
train, and then we shall have gone out of the way for nothing. More than
that, the down mail does not stop till it gets several miles beyond the
nearest station for Knollsea; so it is hopeless.'
'If there had only been a telegraph to the confounded place!'
'Telegraph - we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old booby
and a damned scheming young widow. I very much question if we shall do
anything in the matter, even if we get there. But I suppose we had
better go on now?'
'You can do as you like. I shall go on, if I have to walk every step
o't.'
'That's not necessary. I think the best posting-house at this end of the
town is Tempett's - we must knock them up at once. Which will you
do - attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first, and get
on to Anglebury? We may rest an hour or two there, unless you feel
really in want of a meal.'
'No. I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the hands
of a cursed old Vandal.'
'Very well,' said Mountclere. 'We'll go on at once.'
An additional half-hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the
lateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a
conveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the whole
town, gentle and simple, early to their beds. And when at length the
travellers were on their way the aspect of the weather grew yet more
forbidding. The rain came down unmercifully, the booming wind caught it,
bore it across the plain, whizzed it against the carriage like a sower
sowing his seed. It was precisely such weather, and almost at the same
season, as when Picotee traversed the same moor, stricken with her great
disappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.
Further on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath, dotted
occasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told the tale of
their species without help from outline or colour; they spoke in those
melancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a solemn sadness
surpassing even that of the sea. From each carriage-lamp the long rays
stretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat cheered the way, until
the insidious damp that pervaded all things above, around, and
underneath, overpowered one of them, and rendered every attempt to
rekindle it ineffectual. Even had the two men's dislike to each other's
society been less, the general din of the night would have prevented much
talking; as it was, they sat in a rigid reticence that was almost a third
personality. The roads were laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel,
which, though not clogging, was soft and friable. It speedily became
saturated, and the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.
At length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal
heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of
light winking to them in the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale
haze. They were looking on the little town of Havenpool. Soon after
this cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their
present direction, led down on the left to that place. Here the man
stopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile
or two further.
'Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere. 'Does our
way lie through the town?'
'No, sir - unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to do. The
direct road is straight on. Havenpool lies about three miles down there
on the left. But the water is over the road, and we had better go round.
We shall come to no place for two or three miles, and then only to
Flychett.'
'What's Flychett like?'
'A trumpery small bit of a village.'
'Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol. 'I am against running
the risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'
'So am I,' returned Mountclere.
'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, 'and he keeps a beer-
house, and owns two horses. We could hire them, and have a bit of sommat
in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury. Perhaps the rain
may hold up by that time. Anything's better than going out of our way.'
'Yes. And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere. 'Up
and on again, my man.'
On they went towards Flychett. Still the everlasting heath, the black
hills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round summits like
warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather
and furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers
proceeded as before. But the horses were now far from fresh, and the
time spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that
taken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive. When they entered
Flychett it was about three.
'Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.
'Just on the knap,' Sol answered. ''Tis a little small place, and we
must do as well as we can.'
They pulled up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of which
could be seen a square board representing the sign. After an infinite
labour of rapping and shouting, a casement opened overhead, and a woman's
voice inquired what was the matter. Sol explained, when she told them
that the horses were away from home.
'Now we must wait till these are rested,' growled Mountclere. 'A pretty
muddle!'
'It cannot be helped,' answered Sol; and he asked the woman to open the
door. She replied that her husband was away with the horses and van, and
that they could not come in.
Sol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only began
to abuse him.
'Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law for't,'
rejoined Sol, with more spirit. 'You don't dare to keep nobility waiting
like this.'
'Nobility!'
'My mate hev the title of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have none
of your slack,' said Sol.
'Don't be a fool, young chopstick,' exclaimed Mountclere. 'Get the door
opened.'
'I will - in my own way,' said Sol testily. 'You mustn't mind my trading
upon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity. This is a woman nothing
will bring to reason but an appeal to the higher powers. If every man of
title was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I'd never call them lumber
again as long as I live.'
'How singular!'
'There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep it
seven years.'
'If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h - - for
lacking every atom of the virtue.'
'Hear, hear! But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man so
much older than I, or I could say more. Suppose we draw a line here for
the present, sir, and get indoors?'
'Do what you will, in Heaven's name.'
A few more words to the woman resulted in her agreeing to admit them if
they would attend to themselves afterwards. This Sol promised, and the
key of the door was let down to them from the bedroom window by a string.
When they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well, busied himself in
lighting a fire, the driver going off with a lantern to the stable, where
he found standing-room for the two horses. Mountclere walked up and down
the kitchen, mumbling words of disgust at the situation, the few of this
kind that he let out being just enough to show what a fearfully large
number he kept in.
'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman occasionally
exclaimed down the stairs. 'But folks show no mercy upon their flesh and
blood - not one bit or mite.'
'Now never be stomachy, my good soul,' cried Sol from the fireplace,
where he stood blowing the fire with his breath. 'Only tell me where the
victuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking. We'll pay like
princes - especially my mate.'
'There's but little in house,' said the sleepy woman from her bedroom.
'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions.'
'Conger eel?' said Sol to Mountclere.
'No, thank you.'
'Pig's fry?'
'No, thank you.'
'Well, then, tell me where the bacon is,' shouted Sol to the woman.
'You must find it,' came again down the stairs. ''Tis somewhere up in
chimley, but in which part I can't mind. Really I don't know whether I
be upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a spin, wi' being
rafted up in such a larry!'
'Bide where you be, there's a dear,' said Sol. 'We'll do it all. Just
tell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you can go to
sleep again.'
The woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information, and
silence soon reigned upstairs.
When one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the newly-
lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: 'Now look
here, sir, I think while I am making the tea, you ought to go on
griddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at all?'
'I do the paying. . . . Well, give me the bacon.'
'And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the poor feller's
hungry, I make no doubt.'
Mountclere, fork in hand, then began with his rasher, tossing it about
the gridiron in masterly style, Sol attending to the tea. He was
attracted from this occupation by a brilliant flame up the chimney,
Mountclere exclaiming, 'Now the cursed thing is on fire!'
'Blow it out - hard - that's it! Well now, sir, do you come and begin upon
mine, as you must be hungry. I'll finish the griddling. Ought we to
mind the man sitting down in our company, as there's no other room for
him? I hear him coming in.'
'O no - not at all. Put him over at that table.'
'And I'll join him. You can sit here by yourself, sir.'
The meal was despatched, and the coachman again retired, promising to
have the horses ready in about an hour and a half. Sol and Mountclere
made themselves comfortable upon either side of the fireplace, since
there was no remedy for the delay: after sitting in silence awhile, they
nodded and slept.
How long they would have remained thus, in consequence of their fatigues,
there is no telling, had not the mistress of the cottage descended the
stairs about two hours later, after peeping down upon them at intervals
of five minutes during their sleep, lest they should leave without her
knowledge. It was six o'clock, and Sol went out for the man, whom he
found snoring in the hay-loft. There was now real necessity for haste,
and in ten minutes they were again on their way.
* * * * *
Day dawned upon the 'Red Lion' inn at Anglebury with a timid and watery
eye. From the shadowy archway came a shining lantern, which was seen to
be dangling from the hand of a little bow-legged old man - the hostler,
John. Having reached the front, he looked around to measure the
daylight, opened the lantern, and extinguished it by a pinch of his
fingers. He paused for a moment to have the customary word or two with
his neighbour the milkman, who usually appeared at this point at this
time.
'It sounds like the whistle of the morning train,' the milkman said as he
drew near, a scream from the further end of the town reaching their ears.
'Well, I hope, now the wind's in that quarter, we shall ha'e a little
more fine weather - hey, hostler?'
'What be ye a talking o'?'
'Can hear the whistle plain, I say.'
'O ay. I suppose you do. But faith, 'tis a poor fist I can make at
hearing anything. There, I could have told all the same that the wind
was in the east, even if I had not seed poor Thomas Tribble's smoke
blowing across the little orchard. Joints be a true weathercock enough
when past three-score. These easterly rains, when they do come, which is
not often, come wi' might enough to squail a man into his grave.'
'Well, we must look for it, hostler. . . . Why, what mighty ekkypage is
this, come to town at such a purblinking time of day?'
''Tis what time only can tell - though 'twill not be long first,' the
hostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage
containing Sol and Mountclere slackened pace, and drew rein before the
inn.
Fresh horses were immediately called for, and while they were being put
in the two travellers walked up and down.
'It is now a quarter to seven o'clock,' said Mountclere; 'and the
question arises, shall I go on to Knollsea, or branch off at Corvsgate
Castle for Enckworth? I think the best plan will be to drive first to
Enckworth, set me down, and then get him to take you on at once to
Knollsea. What do you say?'
'When shall I reach Knollsea by that arrangement?'
'By half-past eight o'clock. We shall be at Enckworth before eight,
which is excellent time.'
'Very well, sir, I agree to that,' said Sol, feeling that as soon as one
of the two birds had been caught, the other could not mate without their
knowledge.
The carriage and horses being again ready, away they drove at once, both
having by this time grown too restless to spend in Anglebury a minute
more than was necessary.
The hostler and his lad had taken the jaded Sandbourne horses to the
stable, rubbed them down, and fed them, when another noise was heard
outside the yard; the omnibus had returned from meeting the train.
Relinquishing the horses to the small stable-lad, the old hostler again
looked out from the arch.
A young man had stepped from the omnibus, and he came forward. 'I want a
conveyance of some sort to take me to Knollsea, at once. Can you get a
horse harnessed in five minutes?'
'I'll make shift to do what I can master, not promising about the
minutes. The truest man can say no more. Won't ye step into the bar,
sir, and give your order? I'll let ye know as soon as 'tis ready.'
Christopher turned into a room smelling strongly of the night before, and
stood by the newly-kindled fire to wait. He had just come in haste from
Melchester. The upshot of his excitement about the wedding, which, as
the possible hour of its solemnization drew near, had increased till it
bore him on like a wind, was this unpremeditated journey. Lying awake
the previous night, the hangings of his bed pulsing to every beat of his
heart, he decided that there was one last and great service which it
behoved him, as an honest man and friend, to say nothing of lover, to
render to Ethelberta at this juncture. It was to ask her by some means
whether or not she had engaged with open eyes to marry Lord Mountclere;
and if not, to give her a word or two of enlightenment. That done, she
might be left to take care of herself.
His plan was to obtain an interview with Picotee, and learn from her
accurately the state of things. Should he, by any possibility, be
mistaken in his belief as to the contracting parties, a knowledge of the
mistake would be cheaply purchased by the journey. Should he not, he
would send up to Ethelberta the strong note of expostulation which was
already written, and waiting in his pocket. To intrude upon her at such
a time was unseemly; and to despatch a letter by a messenger before
evidence of its necessity had been received was most undesirable. The
whole proceeding at best was clumsy; yet earnestness is mostly clumsy;
and how could he let the event pass without a protest? Before daylight
on that autumn morning he had risen, told Faith of his intention, and
started off.
As soon as the vehicle was ready, Christopher hastened to the door and
stepped up. The little stable-boy led the horse a few paces on the way
before relinquishing his hold; at the same moment a respectably dressed
man on foot, with a small black bag in his hand, came up from the
opposite direction, along the street leading from the railway. He was a
thin, elderly man, with grey hair; that a great anxiety pervaded him was
as plainly visible as were his features. Without entering the inn, he
came up at once to old John.
'Have you anything going to Knollsea this morning that I can get a lift
in?' said the pedestrian - no other than Ethelberta's father.
'Nothing empty, that I know of.'
'Or carrier?'
'No.'
'A matter of fifteen shillings, then, I suppose?'
'Yes - no doubt. But yond there's a young man just now starting; he might
not take it ill if ye were to ask him for a seat, and go halves in the
hire of the trap. Shall I call out?'
'Ah, do.'
The hostler bawled to the stable-boy, who put the question to
Christopher. There was room for two in the dogcart, and Julian had no
objection to save the shillings of a fellow-traveller who was evidently
not rich. When Chickerel mounted to his seat, Christopher paused to look
at him as we pause in some enactment that seems to have been already
before us in a dream long ago. Ethelberta's face was there, as the
landscape is in the map, the romance in the history, the aim in the deed:
denuded, rayless, and sorry, but discernible.
For the moment, however, this did not occur to Julian. He took the whip,
the boy loosed his hold upon the horse, and they proceeded on their way.
'What slap-dash jinks may there be going on at Knollsea, then, my sonny?'
said the hostler to the lad, as the dogcart and the backs of the two men
diminished on the road. 'You be a Knollsea boy: have anything reached
your young ears about what's in the wind there, David Straw?'
'No, nothing: except that 'tis going to be Christmas day in five weeks:
and then a hide-bound bull is going to be killed if he don't die afore
the time, and gi'ed away by my lord in three-pound junks, as a reward to
good people who never curse and sing bad songs, except when they be
drunk; mother says perhaps she will have some, and 'tis excellent if well
stewed, mother says.'
'A very fair chronicle for a boy to give, but not what I asked for. When
you try to answer a old man's question, always bear in mind what it was
that old man asked. A hide-bound bull is good when well stewed, I make
no doubt - for they who like it; but that's not it. What I said was, do
you know why three fokes, a rich man, a middling man, and a poor man,
should want horses for Knollsea afore seven o'clock in the morning on a
blinking day in Fall, when everything is as wet as a dishclout, whereas
that's more than often happens in fine summer weather?'
'No - I don't know, John hostler.'
'Then go home and tell your mother that ye be no wide-awake boy, and that
old John, who went to school with her father afore she was born or
thought o', says so. . . . Chok' it all, why should I think there's
sommat going on at Knollsea? Honest travelling have been so rascally
abused since I was a boy in pinners, by tribes of nobodies tearing from
one end of the country to t'other, to see the sun go down in salt water,
or the moon play jack-lantern behind some rotten tower or other, that,
upon my song, when life and death's in the wind there's no telling the
difference!'
'I like their sixpences ever so much.'
'Young sonny, don't you answer up to me when you baint in the
story - stopping my words in that fashion. I won't have it, David. Now
up in the tallet with ye, there's a good boy, and down with another lock
or two of hay - as fast as you can do it for me.'
The boy vanished under the archway, and the hostler followed at his
heels. Meanwhile the carriage bearing Mr. Mountclere and Sol was
speeding on its way to Enckworth. When they reached the spot at which
the road forked into two, they left the Knollsea route, and keeping
thence under the hills for the distance of five or six miles, drove into
Lord Mountclere's park. In ten minutes the house was before them, framed
in by dripping trees.
Mountclere jumped out, and entered without ceremony. Sol, being anxious
to know if Lord Mountclere was there, ordered the coachman to wait a few
moments. It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the smoke which ascended
from the newly-lit fires of the Court painted soft blue tints upon the
brown and golden leaves of lofty boughs adjoining.
'O, Ethelberta!' said Sol, as he regarded the fair prospect.
The gravel of the drive had been washed clean and smooth by the night's
rain, but there were fresh wheelmarks other than their own upon the
track. Yet the mansion seemed scarcely awake, and stillness reigned
everywhere around.
Not more than three or four minutes had passed when the door was opened
for Mountclere, and he came hastily from the doorsteps.