'I must go on with you,' he said, getting into the vehicle. 'He's gone.'
'Where - to Knollsea?' said Sol.
'Yes,' said Mountclere. 'Now, go ahead to Knollsea!' he shouted to the
man. 'To think I should be fooled like this! I had no idea that he
would be leaving so soon! We might perhaps have been here an hour
earlier by hard striving. But who was to dream that he would arrange to
leave it at such an unearthly time of the morning at this dark season of
the year? Drive - drive!' he called again out of the window, and the pace
was increased.
'I have come two or three miles out of my way on account of you,' said
Sol sullenly. 'And all this time lost. I don't see why you wanted to
come here at all. I knew it would be a waste of time.'
'Damn it all, man,' said Mountclere; 'it is no use for you to be angry
with me!'
'I think it is, for 'tis you have brought me into this muddle,' said Sol,
in no sweeter tone. 'Ha, ha! Upon my life I should be inclined to
laugh, if I were not so much inclined to do the other thing, at Berta's
trick of trying to make close family allies of such a cantankerous pair
as you and I! So much of one mind as we be, so alike in our ways of
living, so close connected in our callings and principles, so matched in
manners and customs! 'twould be a thousand pities to part us - hey, Mr.
Mountclere!'
Mountclere faintly laughed with the same hideous merriment at the same
idea, and then both remained in a withering silence, meant to express the
utter contempt of each for the other, both in family and in person. They
passed the Lodge, and again swept into the highroad.
'Drive on!' said Mountclere, putting his head again out of the window,
and shouting to the man. 'Drive like the devil!' he roared again a few
minutes afterwards, in fuming dissatisfaction with their rate of
progress.
'Baint I doing of it?' said the driver, turning angrily round. 'I ain't
going to ruin my governor's horses for strangers who won't pay double for
'em - not I. I am driving as fast as I can. If other folks get in the
way with their traps I suppose I must drive round 'em, sir?'
There was a slight crash.
'There!' continued the coachman. 'That's what comes of my turning
round!'
Sol looked out on the other side, and found that the forewheel of their
carriage had become locked in the wheel of a dogcart they had overtaken,
the road here being very narrow. Their coachman, who knew he was to
blame for this mishap, felt the advantage of taking time by the forelock
in a case of accusation, and began swearing at his victim as if he were
the sinner. Sol jumped out, and looking up at the occupants of the other
conveyance, saw against the sky the back elevation of his father and
Christopher Julian, sitting upon a little seat which they overhung, like
two big puddings upon a small dish.
'Father - what, you going?' said Sol. 'Is it about Berta that you've
come?'
'Yes, I got your letter,' said Chickerel, 'and I felt I should like to
come - that I ought to come, to save her from what she'll regret. Luckily,
this gentleman, a stranger to me, has given me a lift from Anglebury, or
I must have hired.' He pointed to Christopher.
'But he's Mr. Julian!' said Sol.
'You are Mrs. Petherwin's father? - I have travelled in your company
without knowing it!' exclaimed Christopher, feeling and looking both
astonished and puzzled. At first, it had appeared to him that, in direct
antagonism to his own purpose, her friends were favouring Ethelberta's
wedding; but it was evidently otherwise.
'Yes, that's father,' said Sol. 'Father, this is Mr. Julian. Mr.
Julian, this gentleman here is Lord Mountclere's brother - and, to cut the
story short, we all wish to stop the wedding.'
'Then let us get on, in Heaven's name!' said Mountclere. 'You are the
lady's father?'
'I am,' said Chickerel.
'Then you had better come into this carriage. We shall go faster than
the dogcart. Now, driver, are the wheels right again?'
Chickerel hastily entered with Mountclere, Sol joined them, and they sped
on. Christopher drove close in their rear, not quite certain whether he
did well in going further, now that there were plenty of people to attend
to the business, but anxious to see the end. The other three sat in
silence, with their eyes upon their knees, though the clouds were
dispersing, and the morning grew bright. In about twenty minutes the
square unembattled tower of Knollsea Church appeared below them in the
vale, its summit just touching the distant line of sea upon sky. The
element by which they had been victimized on the previous evening now
smiled falsely to the low morning sun.
They descended the road to the village at a little more mannerly pace
than that of the earlier journey, and saw the rays glance upon the hands
of the church clock, which marked five-and-twenty minutes to nine.
45. KNOLLSEA - THE ROAD THENCE - ENCKWORTH
All eyes were directed to the church-gate, as the travellers descended
the hill. No wedding carriages were there, no favours, no slatternly
group of women brimming with interest, no aged pauper on two sticks, who
comes because he has nothing else to do till dying time, no nameless
female passing by on the other side with a laugh of indifference, no
ringers taking off their coats as they vanish up a turret, no
hobbledehoys on tiptoe outside the chancel windows - in short, none
whatever of the customary accessories of a country wedding was anywhere
visible.
'Thank God!' said Chickerel.
'Wait till you know he deserves it,' said Mountclere.
'Nothing's done yet between them.'
'It is not likely that anything is done at this time of day. But I have
decided to go to the church first. You will probably go to your
relative's house at once?'
Sol looked to his father for a reply.
'No, I too shall go to the church first, just to assure myself,' said
Chickerel. 'I shall then go on to Mrs Petherwin's.'
The carriage was stopped at the corner of a steep incline leading down to
the edifice. Mountclere and Chickerel alighted and walked on towards the
gates, Sol remaining in his place. Christopher was some way off,
descending the hill on foot, having halted to leave his horse and trap at
a small inn at the entrance to the village.
When Chickerel and Mountclere reached the churchyard gate they found it
slightly open. The church-door beyond it was also open, but nobody was
near the spot.
'We have arrived not a minute too soon, however,' said Mountclere.
'Preparations have apparently begun. It was to be an early wedding, no
doubt.'
Entering the building, they looked around; it was quite empty. Chickerel
turned towards the chancel, his eye being attracted by a red kneeling-
cushion, placed at about the middle of the altar-railing, as if for early
use. Mountclere strode to the vestry, somewhat at a loss how to proceed
in his difficult task of unearthing his brother, obtaining a private
interview with him, and then, by the introduction of Sol and Chickerel,
causing a general convulsion.
'Ha! here's somebody,' he said, observing a man in the vestry. He
advanced with the intention of asking where Lord Mountclere was to be
found. Chickerel came forward in the same direction.
'Are you the parish clerk?' said Mountclere to the man, who was dressed
up in his best clothes.
'I hev the honour of that calling,' the man replied.
Two large books were lying before him on the vestry table, one of them
being open. As the clerk spoke he looked slantingly on the page, as a
person might do to discover if some writing were dry. Mountclere and
Chickerel gazed on the same page. The book was the marriage-register.
'Too late!' said Chickerel.
There plainly enough stood the signatures of Lord Mountclere and
Ethelberta. The viscount's was very black, and had not yet dried. Her
strokes were firm, and comparatively thick for a woman's, though paled by
juxtaposition with her husband's muddled characters. In the space for
witnesses' names appeared in trembling lines as fine as silk the
autograph of Picotee, the second name being that of a stranger, probably
the clerk.
'Yes, yes - we are too late, it seems,' said Mountclere coolly. 'Who
could have thought they'd marry at eight!'
Chickerel stood like a man baked hard and dry. Further than his first
two words he could say nothing.
'They must have set about it early, upon my soul,' Mountclere continued.
'When did the wedding take place?' he asked of the clerk sharply.
'It was over about five minutes before you came in,' replied that
luminary pleasantly, as he played at an invisible game of pitch-and-toss
with some half-sovereigns in his pocket. 'I received orders to have the
church ready at five minutes to eight this morning, though I knew nothing
about such a thing till bedtime last night. It was very private and
plain, not that I should mind another such a one, sir;' and he secretly
pitched and tossed again.
Meanwhile Sol had found himself too restless to sit waiting in the
carriage for more than a minute after the other two had left it. He
stepped out at the same instant that Christopher came past, and together
they too went on to the church.
'Father, ought we not to go on at once to Ethelberta's, instead of
waiting?' said Sol, on reaching the vestry, still in ignorance. ''Twas
no use in coming here.'
'No use at all,' said Chickerel, as if he had straw in his throat. 'Look
at this. I would almost sooner have had it that in leaving this church I
came from her grave - well, no, perhaps not that, but I fear it is a bad
thing.'
Sol then saw the names in the register, Christopher saw them, and the man
closed the book. Christopher could not well command himself, and he
retired.
'I knew it. I always said that pride would lead Berta to marry an
unworthy man, and so it has!' said Sol bitterly. 'What shall we do now?
I'll see her.'
'Do no such thing, young man,' said Mountclere. 'The best course is to
leave matters alone. They are married. If you are wise, you will try to
think the match a good one, and be content to let her keep her position
without inconveniencing her by your intrusions or complaints. It is
possible that the satisfaction of her ambition will help her to endure
any few surprises to her propriety that may occur. She is a clever young
woman, and has played her cards adroitly. I only hope she may never
repent of the game! A-hem. Good morning.' Saying this, Mountclere
slightly bowed to his relations, and marched out of the church with
dignity; but it was told afterwards by the coachman, who had no love for
Mountclere, that when he stepped into the fly, and was as he believed
unobserved, he was quite overcome with fatuous rage, his lips frothing
like a mug of hot ale.
'What an impertinent gentleman 'tis,' said Chickerel. 'As if we had
tried for her to marry his brother!'
'He knows better than that,' said Sol. 'But he'll never believe that
Berta didn't lay a trap for the old fellow. He thinks at this moment
that Lord Mountclere has never been told of us and our belongings.'
'I wonder if she has deceived him in anything,' murmured Chickerel. 'I
can hardly suppose it. But she is altogether beyond me. However, if she
has misled him on any point she will suffer for it.'
'You need not fear that, father. It isn't her way of working. Why
couldn't she have known that when a title is to be had for the asking,
the owner must be a shocking one indeed?'
'The title is well enough. Any poor scrubs in our place must be fools
not to think the match a very rare and astonishing honour, as far as the
position goes. But that my brave girl will be miserable is a part of the
honour I can't stomach so well. If he had been any other lord in the
kingdom, we might have been merry indeed. I believe he will ruin her
happiness - yes, I do - not by any personal snubbing or rough conduct, but
by other things, causing her to be despised; and that is a thing she
can't endure.'
'She's not to be despised without a deal of trouble - we must remember
that. And if he insults her by introducing new favourites, as they say
he did his first wife, I'll call upon him and ask his meaning, and take
her away.'
'Nonsense - we shall never know what he does, or how she feels; she will
never let out a word. However unhappy she may be, she will always deny
it - that's the unfortunate part of such marriages.'
'An old chap like that ought to leave young women alone, damn him!'
The clerk came nearer. 'I am afraid I cannot allow bad words to be spoke
in this sacred pile,' he said. 'As far as my personal self goes, I
should have no objection to your cussing as much as you like, but as a
official of the church my conscience won't allow it to be done.'
'Your conscience has allowed something to be done that cussing and
swearing are godly worship to.'
'The prettiest maid is left out of harness, however,' said the clerk.
'The little witness was the chicken to my taste - Lord forgive me for
saying it, and a man with a wife and family!'
Sol and his father turned to withdraw, and soon forgot the remark, but it
was frequently recalled by Christopher.
'Do you think of trying to see Ethelberta before you leave?' said Sol.
'Certainly not,' said Chickerel. 'Mr. Mountclere's advice was good in
that. The more we keep out of the way the more good we are doing her. I
shall go back to Anglebury by the carrier, and get on at once to London.
You will go with me, I suppose?'
'The carrier does not leave yet for an hour or two.'
'I shall walk on, and let him overtake me. If possible, I will get one
glimpse of Enckworth Court, Berta's new home; there may be time, if I
start at once.'
'I will walk with you,' said Sol.
'There is room for one with me,' said Christopher. 'I shall drive back
early in the afternoon.'
'Thank you,' said Sol. 'I will endeavour to meet you at Corvsgate.'
Thus it was arranged. Chickerel could have wished to search for Picotee,
and learn from her the details of this mysterious matter. But it was
particularly painful to him to make himself busy after the event; and to
appear suddenly and uselessly where he was plainly not wanted to appear
would be an awkwardness which the pleasure of seeing either daughter
could scarcely counterbalance. Hence he had resolved to return at once
to town, and there await the news, together with the detailed directions
as to his own future movements, carefully considered and laid down, which
were sure to be given by the far-seeing Ethelberta.
Sol and his father walked on together, Chickerel to meet the carrier just
beyond Enckworth, Sol to wait for Christopher at Corvsgate. His wish to
see, in company with his father, the outline of the seat to which
Ethelberta had been advanced that day, was the triumph of youthful
curiosity and interest over dogged objection. His father's wish was
based on calmer reasons.
Christopher, lone and out of place, remained in the church yet a little
longer. He desultorily walked round. Reaching the organ chamber, he
looked at the instrument, and was surprised to find behind it a young
man. Julian first thought him to be the organist; on second inspection,
however, he proved to be a person Christopher had met before, under far
different circumstances; it was our young friend Ladywell, looking as
sick and sorry as a lily with a slug in its stalk.
The occasion, the place, and their own condition, made them kin.
Christopher had despised Ladywell, Ladywell had disliked Christopher; but
a third item neutralized the other two - it was their common lot.
Christopher just nodded, for they had only met on Ethelberta's stairs.
Ladywell nodded more, and spoke. 'The church appears to be interesting,'
he said.
'Yes. Such a tower is rare in England,' said Christopher.
They then dwelt on other features of the building, thence enlarging to
the village, and then to the rocks and marine scenery, both avoiding the
malady they suffered from - the marriage of Ethelberta.
'The village streets are very picturesque, and the cliff scenery is good
of its kind,' rejoined Ladywell. 'The rocks represent the feminine side
of grandeur. Here they are white, with delicate tops. On the west coast
they are higher, black, and with angular summits. Those represent
grandeur in its masculine aspect. It is merely my own idea, and not very
bright, perhaps.'
'It is very ingenious,' said Christopher, 'and perfectly true.'
Ladywell was pleased. 'I am here at present making sketches for my next
subject - a winter sea. Otherwise I should not have - happened to be in
the church.'
'You are acquainted with Mrs. Petherwin - I think you are Mr. Ladywell,
who painted her portrait last season?'
'Yes,' said Ladywell, colouring.
'You may have heard her speak of Mr. Julian?'
'O yes,' said Ladywell, offering his hand. Then by degrees their tongues
wound closer round the subject of their sadness, each tacitly owning to
what he would not tell.
'I saw it,' said Ladywell heavily.
'Did she look troubled?'
'Not in the least - bright and fresh as a May morning. She has played me
many a bitter trick, and poor Neigh too, a friend of mine. But I cannot
help forgiving her. . . . I saw a carriage at the door, and strolled in.
The ceremony was just proceeding, so I sat down here. Well, I have done
with Knollsea. The place has no further interest for me now. I may own
to you as a friend, that if she had not been living here I should have
studied at some other coast - of course that's in confidence.'
'I understand, quite.'
'I only arrived in the neighbourhood two days ago, and did not set eyes
upon her till this morning, she has kept so entirely indoors.'
Then the young men parted, and half-an-hour later the ingenuous Ladywell
came from the visitors' inn by the shore, a man walking behind him with a
quantity of artists' materials and appliances. He went on board the
steamer, which this morning had performed the passage in safety.
Ethelberta single having been the loadstone in the cliffs that had
attracted Ladywell hither, Ethelberta married was the negative pole of
the same, sending him away. And thus did a woman put an end to the only
opportunity of distinction, on Art-exhibition walls, that ever offered
itself to the tortuous ways, quaint alleys, and marbled bluffs of
Knollsea, as accessories in the picture of a winter sea.
Christopher's interest in the village was of the same evaporating nature.
He looked upon the sea, and the great swell, and the waves sending up a
sound like the huzzas of multitudes; but all the wild scene was irksome
now. The ocean-bound steamers far away on the horizon inspired him with
no curiosity as to their destination; the house Ethelberta had occupied
was positively hateful; and he turned away to wait impatiently for the
hour at which he had promised to drive on to meet Sol at Corvsgate.
Sol and Chickerel plodded along the road, in order to skirt Enckworth
before the carrier came up. Reaching the top of a hill on their way,
they paused to look down on a peaceful scene. It was a park and wood,
glowing in all the matchless colours of late autumn, parapets and
pediments peering out from a central position afar. At the bottom of the
descent before them was a lodge, to which they now descended. The gate
stood invitingly open. Exclusiveness was no part of the owner's
instincts: one could see that at a glance. No appearance of a
well-rolled garden-path attached to the park-drive; as is the case with
many, betokening by the perfection of their surfaces their proprietor's
deficiency in hospitality. The approach was like a turnpike road full of
great ruts, clumsy mendings; bordered by trampled edges and incursions
upon the grass at pleasure. Butchers and bakers drove as freely herein
as peers and peeresses. Christening parties, wedding companies, and
funeral trains passed along by the doors of the mansion without check or
question. A wild untidiness in this particular has its recommendations;
for guarded grounds ever convey a suspicion that their owner is young to
landed possessions, as religious earnestnesss implies newness of
conversion, and conjugal tenderness recent marriage.
Half-an-hour being wanting as yet to Chickerel's time with the carrier,
Sol and himself, like the rest of the world when at leisure, walked into
the extensive stretch of grass and grove. It formed a park so large that
not one of its owners had ever wished it larger, not one of its owner's
rivals had ever failed to wish it smaller, and not one of its owner's
satellites had ever seen it without praise. They somewhat avoided the
roadway passing under the huge, misshapen, ragged trees, and through fern
brakes, ruddy and crisp in their decay. On reaching a suitable eminence,
the father and son stood still to look upon the many-chimneyed building,
or rather conglomeration of buildings, to which these groves and glades
formed a setting.
'We will just give a glance,' said Chickerel, 'and then go away. It
don't seem well to me that Ethelberta should have this; it is too much.
The sudden change will do her no good. I never believe in anything that
comes in the shape of wonderful luck. As it comes, so it goes. Had she
been brought home today to one of those tenant-farms instead of these
woods and walls, I could have called it good fortune. What she should
have done was glorify herself by glorifying her own line of life, not by
forsaking that line for another. Better have been admired as a governess
than shunned as a peeress, which is what she will be. But it is just the
same everywhere in these days. Young men will rather wear a black coat
and starve than wear fustian and do well.'
'One man to want such a monstrous house as that! Well, 'tis a fine
place. See, there's the carpenters' shops, the timber-yard, and
everything, as if it were a little town. Perhaps Berta may hire me for a
job now and then.'
'I always knew she would cut herself off from us. She marked for it from
childhood, and she has finished the business thoroughly.'
'Well, it is no matter, father, for why should we want to trouble her?
She may write, and I shall answer; but if she calls to see me, I shall
not return the visit; and if she meets me with her husband or any of her
new society about her, I shall behave as a stranger.'
'It will be best,' said Chickerel. 'Well, now I must move.'
However, by the sorcery of accident, before they had very far retraced
their steps an open carriage became visible round a bend in the drive.
Chickerel, with a servant's instinct, was for beating a retreat.
'No,' said Sol. 'Let us stand our ground. We have already been seen,
and we do no harm.'
So they stood still on the edge of the drive, and the carriage drew near.
It was a landau, and the sun shone in upon Lord Mountclere, with Lady
Mountclere sitting beside him, like Abishag beside King David.
Very blithe looked the viscount, for he rode upon a cherub to-day. She
appeared fresh, rosy, and strong, but dubious; though if mien was
anything, she was a viscountess twice over. Her dress was of a
dove-coloured material, with a bonnet to match, a little tufted white
feather resting on the top, like a truce-flag between the blood of noble
and vassal. Upon the cool grey of her shoulders hung a few locks of
hair, toned warm as fire by the sunshiny addition to its natural hue.
Chickerel instinctively took off his hat; Sol did the same.
For only a moment did Ethelberta seem uncertain how to act. But a
solution to her difficulty was given by the face of her brother. There
she saw plainly at one glance more than a dozen speeches would have
told - for Sol's features thoroughly expressed his intention that to him
she was to be a stranger. Her eyes flew to Chickerel, and he slightly
shook his head. She understood them now. With a tear in her eye for her
father, and a sigh in her bosom for Sol, she bowed in answer to their
salute; her husband moved his hat and nodded, and the carriage rolled on.
Lord Mountclere might possibly be making use of the fine morning in
showing her the park and premises. Chickerel, with a moist eye, now went
on with his son towards the highroad. When they reached the lodge, the
lodge-keeper was walking in the sun, smoking his pipe. 'Good morning,'
he said to Chickerel.
'Any rejoicings at the Court to-day?' the butler inquired.
'Quite the reverse. Not a soul there. 'Tisn't knowed anywhere at all. I
had no idea of such a thing till he brought my lady here. Not going off,
neither. They've come home like the commonest couple in the land, and
not even the bells allowed to ring.'
They walked along the public road, and the carrier came in view.
'Father,' said Sol, 'I don't think I'll go further with you. She's gone
into the house; and suppose she should run back without him to try to
find us? It would be cruel to disappoint her. I'll bide about here for
a quarter of an hour, in case she should. Mr. Julian won't have passed
Corvsgate till I get there.'
'Well, one or two of her old ways may be left in her still, and it is not
a bad thought. Then you will walk the rest of the distance if you don't
meet Mr. Julian? I must be in London by the evening.'
'Any time to-night will do for me. I shall not begin work until
to-morrow, so that the four o'clock train will answer my purpose.'
Thus they parted, and Sol strolled leisurely back. The road was quite
deserted, and he lingered by the park fence.
'Sol!' said a bird-like voice; 'how did you come here?'
He looked up, and saw a figure peering down upon him from the top of the
park wall, the ground on the inside being higher than the road. The
speaker was to the expected Ethelberta what the moon is to the sun, a
star to the moon. It was Picotee.
'Hullo, Picotee!' said Sol.
'There's a little gate a quarter of a mile further on,' said Picotee. 'We
can meet there without your passing through the big lodge. I'll be there
as soon as you.'
Sol ascended the hill, passed through the second gate, and turned back
again, when he met Picotee coming forward under the trees. They walked
together in this secluded spot.
'Berta says she wants to see you and father,' said Picotee breathlessly.
'You must come in and make yourselves comfortable. She had no idea you
were here so secretly, and she didn't know what to do.'
'Father's gone,' said Sol.
'How vexed she will be! She thinks there is something the matter - that
you are angry with her for not telling you earlier. But you will come
in, Sol?'
'No, I can't come in,' said her brother.
'Why not? It is such a big house, you can't think. You need not come
near the front apartments, if you think we shall be ashamed of you in
your working clothes. How came you not to dress up a bit, Sol? Still,
Berta won't mind it much. She says Lord Mountclere must take her as she
is, or he is kindly welcome to leave her.'
'Ah, well! I might have had a word or two to say about that, but the
time has gone by for it, worse luck. Perhaps it is best that I have said
nothing, and she has had her way. No, I shan't come in, Picotee. Father
is gone, and I am going too.'
'O Sol!'
'We are rather put out at her acting like this - father and I and all of
us. She might have let us know about it beforehand, even if she is a
lady and we what we always was. It wouldn't have let her down so
terrible much to write a line. She might have learnt something that
would have led her to take a different step.'
'But you will see poor Berta? She has done no harm. She was going to
write long letters to all of you to-day, explaining her wedding, and how
she is going to help us all on in the world.'
Sol paused irresolutely. 'No, I won't come in,' he said. 'It would
disgrace her, for one thing, dressed as I be; more than that, I don't
want to come in. But I should like to see her, if she would like to see
me; and I'll go up there to that little fir plantation, and walk up and
down behind it for exactly half-an-hour. She can come out to me there.'
Sol had pointed as he spoke to a knot of young trees that hooded a knoll
a little way off.
'I'll go and tell her,' said Picotee.
'I suppose they will be off somewhere, and she is busy getting ready?'
'O no. They are not going to travel till next year. Ethelberta does not
want to go anywhere; and Lord Mountclere cannot endure this changeable
weather in any place but his own house.'
'Poor fellow!'
'Then you will wait for her by the firs? I'll tell her at once.'
Picotee left him, and Sol went across the glade.
46. ENCKWORTH (continued) - THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY
He had not paced behind the firs more than ten minutes when Ethelberta
appeared from the opposite side. At great inconvenience to herself, she
had complied with his request.
Ethelberta was trembling. She took her brother's hand, and said, 'Is
father, then, gone?'
'Yes,' said Sol. 'I should have been gone likewise, but I thought you
wanted to see me.'
'Of course I did, and him too. Why did you come so mysteriously, and, I
must say, unbecomingly? I am afraid I did wrong in not informing you of
my intention.'
'To yourself you may have. Father would have liked a word with you
before - you did it.'
'You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage
when we passed you. I want to see him on an important matter - his
leaving Mrs. Doncastle's service at once. I am going to write and beg
her to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.'
'He's very much upset about you.'
'My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,' she said sadly. 'But I
had reasons. Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not
want to see me?'
'We did want to see you up to a certain time.'
'You did not come to prevent my marriage?'
'We wished to see you before the marriage - I can't say more.'
'I thought you might not approve of what I had done,' said Ethelberta
mournfully. 'But a time may come when you will approve.'
'Never.'
'Don't be harsh, Sol. A coronet covers a multitude of sins.'
'A coronet: good Lord - and you my sister! Look at my hand.' Sol
extended his hand. 'Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it
were out of joint, and that hard place inside there. Did you ever see
anything so ugly as that hand - a misshaped monster, isn't he? That comes
from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year
after year. If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in
fustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, "That man's
a carpenter." Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be
brother to a viscountess without something being wrong? Of course
there's something wrong in it, or he wouldn't have married you - something
which won't be righted without terrible suffering.'
'No, no,' said she. 'You are mistaken. There is no such wonderful
quality in a title in these days. What I really am is second wife to a
quiet old country nobleman, who has given up society. What more
commonplace? My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was
before.'
'Berta, you have worked to false lines. A creeping up among the useless
lumber of our nation that'll be the first to burn if there comes a flare.
I never see such a deserter of your own lot as you be! But you were
always like it, Berta, and I am ashamed of ye. More than that, a good
woman never marries twice.'
'You are too hard, Sol,' said the poor viscountess, almost crying. 'I've
done it all for you! Even if I have made a mistake, and given my
ambition an ignoble turn, don't tell me so now, or you may do more harm
in a minute than you will cure in a lifetime. It is absurd to let
republican passions so blind you to fact. A family which can be
honourably traced through history for five hundred years, does affect the
heart of a person not entirely hardened against romance. Whether you
like the peerage or no, they appeal to our historical sense and love of
old associations.'
'I don't care for history. Prophecy is the only thing can do poor men
any good. When you were a girl, you wouldn't drop a curtsey to 'em,
historical or otherwise, and there you were right. But, instead of
sticking to such principles, you must needs push up, so as to get girls
such as you were once to curtsey to you, not even thinking marriage with
a bad man too great a price to pay for't.'
'A bad man? What do you mean by that? Lord Mountclere is rather old,
but he's worthy. What did you mean, Sol?'
'Nothing - a mere sommat to say.'
At that moment Picotee emerged from behind a tree, and told her sister
that Lord Mountclere was looking for her.
'Well, Sol, I cannot explain all to you now,' she said. 'I will send for
you in London.' She wished him goodbye, and they separated, Picotee
accompanying Sol a little on his way.
Ethelberta was greatly perturbed by this meeting. After retracing her
steps a short distance, she still felt so distressed and unpresentable
that she resolved not to allow Lord Mountclere to see her till the clouds
had somewhat passed off; it was but a bare act of justice to him to hide
from his sight such a bridal mood as this. It was better to keep him
waiting than to make him positively unhappy. She turned aside, and went
up the valley, where the park merged in miles of wood and copse.
She opened an iron gate and entered the wood, casually interested in the
vast variety of colours that the half-fallen leaves of the season wore:
more, much more, occupied with personal thought. The path she pursued
became gradually involved in bushes as well as trees, giving to the spot
the character rather of a coppice than a wood. Perceiving that she had
gone far enough, Ethelberta turned back by a path which at this point
intersected that by which she had approached, and promised a more direct
return towards the Court. She had not gone many steps among the hazels,
which here formed a perfect thicket, when she observed a belt of holly-
bushes in their midst; towards the outskirts of these an opening on her
left hand directly led, thence winding round into a clear space of
greensward, which they completely enclosed. On this isolated and mewed-
up bit of lawn stood a timber-built cottage, having ornamental
barge-boards, balconettes, and porch. It was an erection interesting
enough as an experiment, and grand as a toy, but as a building
contemptible.
A blue gauze of smoke floated over the chimney, as if somebody was living
there; round towards the side some empty hen-coops were piled away; while
under the hollies were divers frameworks of wire netting and sticks,
showing that birds were kept here at some seasons of the year.
Being lady of all she surveyed, Ethelberta crossed the leafy sward, and
knocked at the door. She was interested in knowing the purpose of the
peculiar little edifice.
The door was opened by a woman wearing a clean apron upon a not very
clean gown. Ethelberta asked who lived in so pretty a place.
'Miss Gruchette,' the servant replied. 'But she is not here now.'
'Does she live here alone?'
'Yes - excepting myself and a fellow-servant.'
'Oh.'
'She lives here to attend to the pheasants and poultry, because she is so
clever in managing them. They are brought here from the keeper's over
the hill. Her father was a fancier.'
'Miss Gruchette attends to the birds, and two servants attend to Miss
Gruchette?'
'Well, to tell the truth, m'm, the servants do almost all of it. Still,
that's what Miss Gruchette is here for. Would you like to see the house?
It is pretty.' The woman spoke with hesitation, as if in doubt between
the desire of earning a shilling and the fear that Ethelberta was not a
stranger. That Ethelberta was Lady Mountclere she plainly did not dream.
'I fear I can scarcely stay long enough; yet I will just look in,' said
Ethelberta. And as soon as they had crossed the threshold she was glad
of having done so.
The cottage internally may be described as a sort of boudoir extracted
from the bulk of a mansion and deposited in a wood. The front room was
filled with nicknacks, curious work-tables, filigree baskets, twisted
brackets supporting statuettes, in which the grotesque in every case
ruled the design; love-birds, in gilt cages; French bronzes, wonderful
boxes, needlework of strange patterns, and other attractive objects. The
apartment was one of those which seem to laugh in a visitor's face and on
closer examination express frivolity more distinctly than by words.
'Miss Gruchette is here to keep the fowls?' said Ethelberta, in a puzzled
tone, after a survey.
'Yes. But they don't keep her.'
Ethelberta did not attempt to understand, and ceased to occupy her mind
with the matter. They came from the cottage to the door, where she gave
the woman a trifling sum, and turned to leave. But footsteps were at
that moment to be heard beating among the leaves on the other side of the
hollies, and Ethelberta waited till the walkers should have passed. The
voices of two men reached herself and the woman as they stood. They were
close to the house, yet screened from it by the holly-bushes, when one
could be heard to say distinctly, as if with his face turned to the
cottage -
'Lady Mountclere gone for good?'
'I suppose so. Ha-ha! So come, so go.'
The speakers passed on, their backs becoming visible through the opening.
They appeared to be woodmen.
'What Lady Mountclere do they mean?' said Ethelberta.
The woman blushed. 'They meant Miss Gruchette.'
'Oh - a nickname.'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
The woman whispered why in a story of about two minutes' length.
Ethelberta turned pale.
'Is she going to return?' she inquired, in a thin hard voice.
'Yes; next week. You know her, m'm?'
'No. I am a stranger.'
'So much the better. I may tell you, then, that an old tale is flying
about the neighbourhood - that Lord Mountclere was privately married to
another woman, at Knollsea, this morning early. Can it be true?'
'I believe it to be true.'
'And that she is of no family?'
'Of no family.'
'Indeed. Then the Lord only knows what will become of the poor thing.
There will be murder between 'em.'
'Between whom?'
'Her and the lady who lives here. She won't budge an inch - not she!'
Ethelberta moved aside. A shade seemed to overspread the world, the sky,
the trees, and the objects in the foreground. She kept her face away
from the woman, and, whispering a reply to her Good-morning, passed
through the hollies into the leaf-strewn path. As soon as she came to a
large trunk she placed her hands against it and rested her face upon
them. She drew herself lower down, lower, lower, till she crouched upon
the leaves. 'Ay - 'tis what father and Sol meant! O Heaven!' she
whispered.
She soon arose, and went on her way to the house. Her fair features were
firmly set, and she scarcely heeded the path in the concentration which
had followed her paroxysm. When she reached the park proper she became
aware of an excitement that was in progress there.
Ethelberta's absence had become unaccountable to Lord Mountclere, who
could hardly permit her retirement from his sight for a minute. But at