'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 purbHANDlinking 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

bHANDlinking 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.

'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

first he had made due allowance for her eccentricity as a woman of

genius, and would not take notice of the half-hour's desertion,

unpardonable as it might have been in other classes of wives. Then he

had inquired, searched, been alarmed: he had finally sent men-servants

in all directions about the park to look for her. He feared she had

fallen out of a window, down a well, or into the lake. The next stage of

search was to have been drags and grapnels: but Ethelberta entered the

house.

Lord Mountclere rushed forward to meet her, and such was her contrivance

that he noticed no change. The searchers were called in, Ethelberta

explaining that she had merely obeyed the wish of her brother in going

out to meet him. Picotee, who had returned from her walk with Sol, was

upstairs in one of the rooms which had been allotted to her. Ethelberta

managed to run in there on her way upstairs to her own chamber.

'Picotee, put your things on again,' she said. 'You are the only friend

I have in this house, and I want one badly. Go to Sol, and deliver this

message to him-that I want to see him at once. You must overtake him, if

you walk all the way to Anglebury. But the train does not leave till

four, so that there is plenty of time.'

'What is the matter?' said Picotee. 'I cannot walk all the way.'

'I don't think you will have to do that-I hope not.'

'He is going to stop at Corvsgate to have a bit of lunch: I might

overtake him there, if I must!'

'Yes. And tell him to come to the east passage door. It is that door

next to the entrance to the stable-yard. There is a little yew-tree

outside it. On second thoughts you, dear, must not come back. Wait at

Corvsgate in the little inn parlour till Sol comes to you again. You

will probably then have to go home to London alone; but do not mind it.

The worst part for you will be in going from the station to the

Crescent; but nobody will molest you in a four-wheel cab: you have done

it before. However, he will tell you if this is necessary when he gets

back. I can best fight my battles alone. You shall have a letter from me

the day after to-morrow, stating where I am. I shall not be here.'

'But what is it so dreadful?'

'Nothing to frighten you.' But she spoke with a breathlessness that

completely nullified the assurance. 'It is merely that I find I must

come to an explanation with Lord Mountclere before I can live here

permanently, and I cannot stipulate with him while I am here in his

power. Till I write, good-bye. Your things are not unpacked, so let them

remain here for the present-they can be sent for.'

Poor Picotee, more agitated than her sister, but never questioning her

orders, went downstairs and out of the house. She ran across the

shrubberies, into the park, and to the gate whereat Sol had emerged some

half-hour earlier. She trotted along upon the turnpike road like a lost

doe, crying as she went at the new trouble which had come upon Berta,

whatever that trouble might be. Behind her she heard wheels and the

stepping of a horse, but she was too concerned to turn her head. The

pace of the vehicle slackened, however, when it was abreast of Picotee,

and she looked up to see Christopher as the driver.

'Miss Chickerel!' he said, with surprise.

Picotee had quickly looked down again, and she murmured, 'Yes.'

Christopher asked what he could not help asking in the circumstances,

'Would you like to ride?'

'I should be glad,' said she, overcoming her flurry. 'I am anxious to

overtake my brother Sol.'

'I have arranged to pick him up at Corvsgate,' said Christopher.

He descended, and assisted her to mount beside him, and drove on again,

almost in silence. He was inclined to believe that some supernatural

legerdemain had to do with these periodic impacts of Picotee on his

path. She sat mute and melancholy till they were within half-a-mile of

Corvsgate.

'Thank you,' she said then, perceiving Sol upon the road, 'there is my

brother; I will get down now.'

'He was going to ride on to Anglebury with me,' said Julian.

Picotee did not reply, and Sol turned round. Seeing her he instantly

exclaimed, 'What's the matter, Picotee?'

She explained to him that he was to go back immediately, and meet her

sister at the door by the yew, as Ethelberta had charged her.

Christopher, knowing them so well, was too much an interested member of

the group to be left out of confidence, and she included him in her

audience.

'And what are you to do?' said Sol to her.

'I am to wait at Corvsgate till you come to me.'

'I can't understand it,' Sol muttered, with a gloomy face. 'There's

something wrong; and it was only to be expected; that's what I say, Mr.

Julian.'

'If necessary I can take care of Miss Chickerel till you come,' said

Christopher.

'Thank you,' said Sol. 'Then I will return to you as soon as I can, at

the "Castle" Inn, just ahead. 'Tis very awkward for you to be so

burdened by us, Mr. Julian; but we are in a trouble that I don't yet see

the bottom of.'

'I know,' said Christopher kindly. 'We will wait for you.'

He then drove on with Picotee to the inn, which was not far off, and Sol

returned again to Enckworth. Feeling somewhat like a thief in the night,

he zigzagged through the park, behind belts and knots of trees, until he

saw the yew, dark and clear, as if drawn in ink upon the fair face of

the mansion. The way up to it was in a little cutting between shrubs,

the door being a private entrance, sunk below the surface of the lawn,

and invisible from other parts of the same front. As soon as he reached

it, Ethelberta opened it at once, as if she had listened for his

footsteps.

She took him along a passage in the basement, up a flight of steps, and

into a huge, solitary, chill apartment. It was the ball-room. Spacious

mirrors in gilt frames formed panels in the lower part of the walls, the

remainder being toned in sage-green. In a recess between each mirror was

a statue. The ceiling rose in a segmental curve, and bore sprawling upon

its face gilt figures of wanton goddesses, cupids, satyrs with

tambourines, drums, and trumpets, the whole ceiling seeming alive with

them. But the room was very gloomy now, there being little light

admitted from without, and the reflections from the mirrors gave a

depressing coldness to the scene. It was a place intended to look joyous

by night, and whatever it chose to look by day.

'We are safe here,' said she. 'But we must listen for footsteps. I have

only five minutes: Lord Mountclere is waiting for me. I mean to leave

this place, come what may.'

'Why?' said Sol, in astonishment.

'I cannot tell you-something has occurred. God has got me in his power

at last, and is going to scourge me for my bad doings-that's what it

seems like. Sol, listen to me, and do exactly what I say. Go to

Anglebury, hire a brougham, bring it on as far as Little Enckworth: you

will have to meet me with it at one of the park gates later in the

evening-probably the west, at half-past seven. Leave it at the village

with the man, come on here on foot, and stay under the trees till just

before six: it will then be quite dark, and you must stand under the

projecting balustrade a little further on than the door you came in by.

I will just step upon the balcony over it, and tell you more exactly

than I can now the precise time that I shall be able to slip out, and

where the carriage is to be waiting. But it may not be safe to speak on

account of his closeness to me-I will hand down a note. I find it is

impossible to leave the house by daylight-I am certain to be pursued-he

already suspects something. Now I must be going, or he will be here, for

he watches my movements because of some accidental words that escaped

me.'

'Berta, I shan't have anything to do with this,' said Sol. 'It is not

right!'

'I am only going to Rouen, to Aunt Charlotte!' she implored. 'I want to

get to Southampton, to be in time for the midnight steamer. When I am at

Rouen I can negotiate with Lord Mountclere the terms on which I will

return to him. It is the only chance I have of rooting out a scandal and

a disgrace which threatens the beginning of my life here! My letters to

him, and his to me, can be forwarded through you or through father, and

he will not know where I am. Any woman is justified in adopting such a

course to bring her husband to a sense of her dignity. If I don't go

away now, it will end in a permanent separation. If I leave at once, and

stipulate that he gets rid of her, we may be reconciled.'

'I can't help you: you must stick to your husband. I don't like them, or

any of their sort, barring about three or four, for the reason that they

despise me and all my sort. But, Ethelberta, for all that I'll play fair

with them. No half-and-half trimming business. You have joined 'em, and

'rayed yourself against us; and there you'd better bide. You have

married your man, and your duty is towards him. I know what he is and so

does father; but if I were to help you to run away now, I should scorn

myself more than I scorn him.'

'I don't care for that, or for any such politics! The Mountclere line is

noble, and how was I to know that this member was not noble, too? As the

representative of an illustrious family I was taken with him, but as a

man-I must shun him.'

'How can you shun him? You have married him!'

'Nevertheless, I won't stay! Neither law nor gospel demands it of me

after what I have learnt. And if law and gospel did demand it, I would

not stay. And if you will not help me to escape, I go alone.'

'You had better not try any such wild thing.'

The creaking of a door was heard. 'O Sol,' she said appealingly, 'don't

go into the question whether I am right or wrong-only remember that I am

very unhappy. Do help me-I have no other person in the world to ask! Be

under the balcony at six o'clock. Say you will-I must go-say you will!'

'I'll think,' said Sol, very much disturbed. 'There, don't cry; I'll try

to be under the balcony, at any rate. I cannot promise more, but I'll

try to be there.'

She opened in the panelling one of the old-fashioned concealed modes of

exit known as jib-doors, which it was once the custom to construct

without architraves in the walls of large apartments, so as not to

interfere with the general design of the room. Sol found himself in a

narrow passage, running down the whole length of the ball-room, and at

the same time he heard Lord Mountclere's voice within, talking to

Ethelberta. Sol's escape had been marvellous: as it was the viscount

might have seen her tears. He passed down some steps, along an area from

which he could see into a row of servants' offices, among them a kitchen

with a fireplace flaming like an altar of sacrifice. Nobody seemed to be

concerned about him; there were workmen upon the premises, and he nearly

matched them. At last he got again into the shrubberies and to the side

of the park by which he had entered.

On reaching Corvsgate he found Picotee in the parlour of the little inn,

as he had directed. Mr. Julian, she said, had walked up to the ruins,

and would be back again in a few minutes. Sol ordered the horse to be

put in, and by the time it was ready Christopher came down from the

hill. Room was made for Sol by opening the flap of the dogcart, and

Christopher drove on.

He was anxious to know the trouble, and Sol was not reluctant to share

the burden of it with one whom he believed to be a friend. He told,

scrap by scrap, the strange request of Ethelberta. Christopher, though

ignorant of Ethelberta's experience that morning, instantly assumed that

the discovery of some concealed spectre had led to this precipitancy.

'When does she wish you to meet her with the carriage?'

'Probably at half-past seven, at the west lodge; but that is to be

finally fixed by a note she will hand down to me from the balcony.'

'Which balcony?'

'The nearest to the yew-tree.'

'At what time will she hand the note?'

'As the Court clock strikes six, she says. And if I am not there to take

her instructions of course she will give up the idea, which is just what

I want her to do.'

Christopher begged Sol to go. Whether Ethelberta was right or wrong, he

did not stop to inquire. She was in trouble; she was too clear-headed to

be in trouble without good reason; and she wanted assistance out of it.

But such was Sol's nature that the more he reflected the more determined

was he in not giving way to her entreaty. By the time that they reached

Anglebury he repented having given way so far as to withhold a direct

refusal.

'It can do no good,' he said mournfully. 'It is better to nip her notion

in its beginning. She says she wants to fly to Rouen, and from there

arrange terms with him. But it can't be done-she should have thought of

terms before.'

Christopher made no further reply. Leaving word at the 'Red Lion' that a

man was to be sent to take the horse of him, he drove directly onwards

to the station.

'Then you don't mean to help her?' said Julian, when Sol took the

tickets-one for himself and one for Picotee.

'I serve her best by leaving her alone!' said Sol.

'I don't think so.'

'She has married him.'

'She is in distress.'

'She has married him.'

Sol and Picotee took their seats, Picotee upbraiding her brother. 'I can

go by myself!' she said, in tears. 'Do go back for Berta, Sol. She said

I was to go home alone, and I can do it!'

'You must not. It is not right for you to be hiring cabs and driving

across London at midnight. Berta should have known better than propose

it.'

'She was flurried. Go, Sol!'

But her entreaty was fruitless.

'Have you got your ticket, Mr. Julian?' said Sol. 'I suppose we shall go

together till we get near Melchester?'

'I have not got my ticket yet-I'll be back in two minutes.'

The minutes went by, and Christopher did not reappear. The train moved

off: Christopher was seen running up the platform, as if in a vain hope

to catch it.

'He has missed the train,' said Sol. Picotee looked disappointed, and

said nothing. They were soon out of sight.

'God forgive me for such a hollow pretence!' said Christopher to

himself. 'But he would have been uneasy had he known I wished to stay

behind. I cannot leave her in trouble like this!'

He went back to the 'Red Lion' with the manner and movement of a man who

after a lifetime of desultoriness had at last found something to do. It

was now getting late in the afternoon. Christopher ordered a one-horse

brougham at the inn, and entering it was driven out of the town towards

Enckworth as the evening shades were beginning to fall. They passed into

the hamlet of Little Enckworth at half-past five, and drew up at a beer-

house at the end. Jumping out here, Julian told the man to wait till he

should return.

Thus far he had exactly obeyed her orders to Sol. He hoped to be able to

obey them throughout, and supply her with the aid her brother refused.

He also hoped that the change in the personality of her confederate

would make no difference to her intention. That he was putting himself

in a wrong position he allowed, but time and attention were requisite

for such analysis: meanwhile Ethelberta was in trouble. On the one hand

was she waiting hopefully for Sol; on the other was Sol many miles on

his way to town; between them was himself.

He ran with all his might towards Enckworth Park, mounted the lofty

stone steps by the lodge, saw the dark bronze figures on the piers

through the twilight, and then proceeded to thread the trees. Among

these he struck a light for a moment: it was ten minutes to six. In

another five minutes he was panting beneath the walls of her house.

Enckworth Court was not unknown to Christopher, for he had frequently

explored that spot in his Sandbourne days. He perceived now why she had

selected that particular balcony for handing down directions; it was the

only one round the house that was low enough to be reached from the

outside, the basement here being a little way sunk in the ground.

He went close under, turned his face outwards, and waited. About a foot

over his head was the stone floor of the balcony, forming a ceiling to

his position. At his back, two or three feet behind, was a blank wall-

the wall of the house. In front of him was the misty park, crowned by a

sky sparkling with winter stars. This was abruptly cut off upward by the

dark edge of the balcony which overhung him.

It was as if some person within the room above had been awaiting his

approach. He had scarcely found time to observe his situation when a

human hand and portion of a bare arm were thrust between the balusters,

descended a little way from the edge of the balcony, and remained

hanging across the starlit sky. Something was between the fingers.

Christopher lifted his hand, took the scrap, which was paper, and the

arm was withdrawn. As it withdrew, a jewel on one of the fingers

sparkled in the rays of a large planet that rode in the opposite sky.

Light steps retreated from the balcony, and a window closed. Christopher

had almost held his breath lest Ethelberta should discover him at the

critical moment to be other than Sol, and mar her deliverance by her

alarm. The still silence was anything but silence to him; he felt as if

he were listening to the clanging chorus of an oratorio. And then he

could fancy he heard words between Ethelberta and the viscount within

the room; they were evidently at very close quarters, and dexterity must

have been required of her. He went on tiptoe across the gravel to the

grass, and once on that he strode in the direction whence he had come.

By the thick trunk of one of a group of aged trees he stopped to get a

light, just as the Court clock struck six in loud long tones. The

transaction had been carried out, through her impatience possibly, four

or five minutes before the time appointed.

The note contained, in a shaken hand, in which, however, the well-known

characters were distinguishable, these words in pencil:

'At half-past seven o'clock. Just outside the north lodge; don't fail.'

This was the time she had suggested to Sol as that which would probably

best suit her escape, if she could escape at all. She had changed the

place from the west to the north lodge-nothing else. The latter was

certainly more secluded, though a trifle more remote from the course of

the proposed journey; there was just time enough and none to spare for

fetching the brougham from Little Enckworth to the lodge, the village

being two miles off. The few minutes gained by her readiness at the

balcony were useful now. He started at once for the village, diverging

somewhat to observe the spot appointed for the meeting. It was

excellently chosen; the gate appeared to be little used, the lane

outside it was covered with trees, and all around was silent as the

grave. After this hasty survey by the wan starlight, he hastened on to

Little Enckworth.

An hour and a quarter later a little brougham without lamps was creeping

along by the park wall towards this spot. The leaves were so thick upon

the unfrequented road that the wheels could not be heard, and the

horse's pacing made scarcely more noise than a rabbit would have done in

limping along. The vehicle progressed slowly, for they were in good

time. About ten yards from the park entrance it stopped, and Christopher

stepped out.

'We may have to wait here ten minutes,' he said to the driver. 'And then

shall we be able to reach Anglebury in time for the up mail-train to

Southampton?'

'Half-past seven, half-past eight, half-past nine-two hours. O yes, sir,

easily. A young lady in the case perhaps, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I hope she'll be done honestly by, even if she is of humble

station. 'Tis best, and cheapest too, in the long run.' The coachman was

apparently imagining the dove about to flit away to be one of the pretty

maid-servants that abounded in Enckworth Court; such escapades as these

were not unfrequent among them, a fair face having been deemed a

sufficient recommendation to service in that house, without too close an

inquiry into character, since the death of the first viscountess.

'Now then, silence; and listen for a footstep at the gate.'

Such calmness as there was in the musician's voice had been produced by

considerable effort. For his heart had begun to beat fast and loud as he

strained his attentive ear to catch the footfall of a woman who could

only be his illegally.

The obscurity was as great as a starry sky would permit it to be.

Beneath the trees where the carriage stood the darkness was total.

47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS-MELCHESTER

To be wise after the event is often to act foolishly with regard to it;

and to preserve the illusion which has led to the event would frequently

be a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with. Reaction

with Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatened

to be useless. Sol's bitter chiding had been the first thing to

discompose her fortitude. It reduced her to a consciousness that she had

allowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not

triumphed in her duty. She might have pleased her family better by

pleasing her tastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the

situation disclosed later in the day.

After the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed in

mind by being able to nurse a definite intention. As momentum causes the

narrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give

the weakest some power to maintain a position stoically.

In the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o'clock, she

slipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note. To her relief, a

hand received it instantly.

The hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with great

effort. The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during which

she attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicion

just before the appointed moment.

Happily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any such

thing.

A little while before the half-hour, when she moved to rise from dinner,

he also arose, tenderly begging her to excuse him for a few minutes,

that he might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that

moment forgotten, though the postman was nearly due. She heard him

retire along the corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised

time of return being a quarter of an hour thence.

Five minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the

little door by the bush of yew, well and thickly wrapped up from head to

heels. She skimmed across the park and under the boughs like a shade,

mounting then the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside

the park gates here as at all the lodges. Outside and below her she saw

an oblong shape-it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close

to the bottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go

on foot than to this barrier. The whole precinct was thronged with

trees; half their foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for

the gardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it

was that her dress rustled as she descended the steps.

The carriage door was held open by the driver, and she entered

instantly. He shut her in, and mounted to his seat. As they drove away

she became conscious of another person inside.

'O! Sol-it is done!' she whispered, believing the man to be her brother.

Her companion made no reply.

Ethelberta, familiar with Sol's moods of troubled silence, did not press

for an answer. It was, indeed, certain that Sol's assistance would have

been given under a sullen protest; even if unwilling to disappoint her,

he might well have been taciturn and angry at her course.

They sat in silence, and in total darkness. The road ascended an

incline, the horse's tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves.

Then the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a low

brushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, in

its fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against the

hard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills. It showed

how deserted was the spot after nightfall.

'Sol?' said Ethelberta again. 'Why not talk to me?'

She now noticed that her fellow-traveller kept his head and his whole

person as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possible

to do. She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand the

reason. The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.

'Where are we now?' she said. 'Shall we get to Anglebury by nine? What

is the time, Sol?'

'I will see,' replied her companion. They were the first words he had

uttered.

The voice was so different from her brother's that she was terrified;

her limbs quivered. In another instant the speaker had struck a wax

vesta, and holding it erect in his fingers he looked her in the face.

'Hee-hee-hee!' The laugher was her husband the viscount.

He laughed again, and his eyes gleamed like a couple of tarnished brass

buttons in the light of the wax match.

Ethelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and

hideous was it. Yet she did not. She neither shrieked nor fainted; but

no poor January fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank with

perspiration, than she was then.

'A very pleasant joke, my dear-hee-hee! And no more than was to be

expected on this merry, happy day of our lives. Nobody enjoys a good

jest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest-hee-hee! Now we are in the

dark again; and we will alight and walk. The path is too narrow for the

carriage, but it will not be far for you. Take your husband's arm.'

While he had been speaking a defiant pride had sprung up in her,

instigating her to conceal every weakness. He had opened the carriage

door and stepped out. She followed, taking the offered arm.

'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to the

coachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his.

The coachman turned the horse's head and vanished down the woodland

track by which they had ascended.

The viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as a

woodpecker's taps, and Ethelberta with him. She walked as by a miracle,

but she would walk. She would have died rather than not have walked

then.

She perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood. As they

went, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of the

viscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch.

She remembered having seen it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch of

mud. She might push him in, and run, and so escape before he could

extricate himself. It would not hurt him. It was her last chance. She

waited a moment for the opportunity.

'We are one to one, and I am the stronger!' she at last exclaimed

triumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.

'On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and you

considerably the weaker,' he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly,

and blowing a whistle. At once the bushes seemed to be animated in four

or five places.

'John?' he said, in the direction of one of them.

'Yes, my lord,' replied a voice from the bush, and a keeper came

forward.

'William?'

Another man advanced from another bush.

'Quite right. Remain where you are for the present. Is Tomkins there?'

'Yes, my lord,' said a man from another part of the thicket.

'You go and keep watch by the further lodge: there are poachers about.

Where is Strongway?'

'Just below, my lord.'

'Tell him and his brother to go to the west gate, and walk up and down.

Let them search round it, among the trees inside. Anybody there who

cannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrow

morning. I am living at the cottage at present. That's all I have to say

to you.' And, turning round to Ethelberta: 'Now, dearest, we will walk a

little further if you are able. I have provided that your friends shall

be taken care of.' He tried to pull her hand towards him, gently, like a

cat opening a door.

They walked a little onward, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with

imperturbable good-humour:

'I will tell you a story, to pass the time away. I have learnt the art

from you-your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration with

it. Listen, dearest. I saw a young man come to the house to-day.

Afterwards I saw him cross a passage in your company. You entered the

ball-room with him. That room is a treacherous place. It is panelled

with wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for the

servants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork. Lady

Mountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out her

conspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to let

in himself. His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired. A

meeting was arranged to take place at the west gate at half-past seven,

unless a note handed from the balcony mentioned another time and place.

He heard it all-hee-hee!

'When Lady Mountclere's confederate came for the note, I was in waiting

above, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck,

confirming the time, but changing the place. When Lady Mountclere handed

down her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone,

and I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it. She dropped it

into her husband's hands-ho-ho-ho-ho!

'Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed by

Lady Mountclere's note. Probably Lady Mountclere's friend ordered a

brougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written in

imitation of Lady Mountclere's hand. Lady Mountclere came to the spot

she had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of her

husband-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'

As if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughter also-

laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical. She sank

down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just as

before.

Lord Mountclere became greatly frightened. The spot they had reached was

a green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose an

ornamental cottage. This was the building which Ethelberta had visited

earlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.

The viscount left her side and hurried forward. The door of the building

was opened by a woman.

'Have you prepared for us, as I directed?'

'Yes, my lord; tea and coffee are both ready.'

'Never mind that now. Lady Mountclere is ill; come and assist her

indoors. Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.'

He returned to Ethelberta. She was better, and was sitting calmly on the

bank. She rose without assistance.

'You may retire,' he said to the woman who had followed him, and she

turned round. When Ethelberta saw the building, she drew back quickly.

'Where is the other Lady Mountclere?' she inquired.

'Gone!'

'She shall never return-never?'

'Never. It was not intended that she should.'

'That sounds well. Lord Mountclere, we may as well compromise matters.'

'I think so too. It becomes a lady to make a virtue of a necessity.'

'It was stratagem against stratagem. Mine was ingenious; yours was

masterly! Accept my acknowledgment. We will enter upon an armed

neutrality.'

'No. Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever. Your beauty,

dearest, covers everything! You are my mistress and queen! But here we

are at the door. Tea is prepared for us here. I have a liking for life

in this cottage mode, and live here on occasion. Women, attend to Lady

Mountclere.'

The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed at

recognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage:

she murmured entreaties for pardon. They assisted the viscountess to a

chair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had ever

stood there to interrupt its flight.

Full of misgivings, Christopher continued to wait at the north gate.

Half-past seven had long since been past, and no Ethelberta had

appeared. He did not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and

this gave him patience; having taken up the position, he was induced by

fidelity to abide by the consequences. It would be only a journey of two

hours to reach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver,

put her into the train, and bid her adieu for ever. She had cried for

help, and he had heard her cry.

At last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock striking

eight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whether

she could have mistaken the gate. She had distinctly told Sol the west

lodge; her note had expressed the north lodge. Could she by any accident

have written one thing while meaning another? He entered the carriage,

and drove round to the west gate. All was as silent there as at the

other, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then

long past; and he drove back again.

He left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the

house slowly. All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came

from the trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night. By this time

he felt assured that the scheme had miscarried. While he stood here a

carriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards the

stable-yard without going to the door. The carriage had plainly been

empty.

Returning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by

the voices of two men from the road hard by.

'Have ye zeed anybody?'

'Not a soul.'

'Shall we go across again?'

'What's the good? let's home to supper.'

'My lord must have heard somebody, or 'a wouldn't have said it.'

'Perhaps he's nervous now he's living in the cottage again. I thought

that fancy was over. Well, I'm glad 'tis a young wife he's brought us.

She'll have her routs and her rackets as well as the high-born ones,

you'll see, as soon as she gets used to the place.'

'She must be a queer Christian to pick up with him.'

'Well, if she've charity 'tis enough for we poor men; her faith and hope

may be as please God. Now I be for on-along homeward.'

As soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and,

avoiding the gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive

at once to Anglebury.

Julian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wished

to annihilate its existence. On reaching Anglebury he determined to get

on at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarily

ended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it.

He reached home before midnight.

Walking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himself

as a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, he

found Faith sitting up as usual. His news was simple: the marriage had

taken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of either

ceremony or viscountess. The remainder he reserved for a more convenient

season.

Edith looked anxiously at him as he ate supper, smiling now and then.

'Well, I am tired of this life,' said Christopher.

'So am I,' said Faith. 'Ah, if we were only rich!'

'Ah, yes.'

'Or if we were not rich,' she said, turning her eyes to the fire. 'If we

were only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing. How

much would you be content with, Kit?'

'As much as I could get.'

'Would you be content with a thousand a year for both of us?'

'I daresay I should,' he murmured, breaking his bread.

'Or five hundred for both?'

'Or five hundred.'

'Or even three hundred?'

'Bother three hundred. Less than double the sum would not satisfy me. We

may as well imagine much as little.'

Faith's countenance had fallen. 'O Kit,' she said, 'you always

disappoint me.'

'I do. How do I disappoint you this time?'

'By not caring for three hundred a year-a hundred and fifty each-when

that is all I have to offer you.'

'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time. 'Ah-of course! Lucy's

will. I had forgotten.'

'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and

now you don't care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. I

don't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and

fifty a year each-more than I expected, though not so much as you

deserved. Here's the letter. I have been dwelling upon it all day, and

thinking what a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'

'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing. The real thing is another

matter altogether. Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names! I

am sure I would have gone to the funeral had I known.'

'I wish it were a thousand.'

'O no-it doesn't matter at all. But, certainly, three hundred for two is

a tantalizing sum: not enough to enable us to change our condition, and

enough to make us dissatisfied with going on as we are.'

'We must forget we have it, and let it increase.'

'It isn't enough to increase much. We may as well use it. But how? Take

a bigger house-what's the use? Give up the organ?-then I shall be rather

worse off than I am at present. Positively, it is the most provoking

amount anybody could have invented had they tried ever so long. Poor

Lucy, to do that, and not even to come near us when father died. . . .

Ah, I know what we'll do. We'll go abroad-we'll live in Italy.'

SEQUEL. ANGLEBURY-ENCKWORTH-SANDBOURNE

Two years and a half after the marriage of Ethelberta and the evening

adventures which followed it, a man young in years, though considerably

older in mood and expression, walked up to the 'Red Lion' Inn at

Anglebury. The anachronism sat not unbecomingly upon him, and the voice

was precisely that of the Christopher Julian of heretofore. His way of

entering the inn and calling for a conveyance was more off-hand than

formerly; he was much less afraid of the sound of his own voice now than

when he had gone through the same performance on a certain chill evening

the last time that he visited the spot. He wanted to be taken to

Knollsea to meet the steamer there, and was not coming back by the same

vehicle.

It was a very different day from that of his previous journey along the

same road; different in season; different in weather; and the humour of

the observer differed yet more widely from its condition then than did

the landscape from its former hues. In due time they reached a

commanding situation upon the road, from which were visible knots and

plantations of trees on the Enckworth manor. Christopher broke the

silence.

'Lord Mountclere is still alive and well, I am told?'

'O ay. He'll live to be a hundred. Never such a change as has come over

the man of late years.'

'Indeed!'

'O, 'tis my lady. She's a one to put up with! Still, 'tis said here and

there that marrying her was the best day's work that he ever did in his

life, although she's got to be my lord and my lady both.'

'Is she happy with him?'

'She is very sharp with the pore man-about happy I don't know. He was a

good-natured old man, for all his sins, and would sooner any day lay out

money in new presents than pay it in old debts. But 'tis altered now.

'Tisn't the same place. Ah, in the old times I have seen the floor of

the servants' hall over the vamp of your boot in solid beer that we had

poured aside from the horns because we couldn't see straight enough to

pour it in. See? No, we couldn't see a hole in a ladder! And now, even

at Christmas or Whitsuntide, when a man, if ever he desires to be

overcome with a drop, would naturally wish it to be, you can walk out of

Enckworth as straight as you walked in. All her doings.'

'Then she holds the reins?'

'She do! There was a little tussle at first; but how could a old man

hold his own against such a spry young body as that! She threatened to

run away from him, and kicked up Bob's-a-dying, and I don't know what

all; and being the woman, of course she was sure to beat in the long

run. Pore old nobleman, she marches him off to church every Sunday as

regular as a clock, makes him read family prayers that haven't been read

in Enckworth for the last thirty years to my certain knowledge, and

keeps him down to three glasses of wine a day, strict, so that you never

see him any the more generous for liquor or a bit elevated at all, as it

used to be. There, 'tis true, it has done him good in one sense, for

they say he'd have been dead in five years if he had gone on as he was

going.'

'So that she's a good wife to him, after all.'

'Well, if she had been a little worse 'twould have been a little better

for him in one sense, for he would have had his own way more. But he was

a curious feller at one time, as we all know and I suppose 'tis as much

as he can expect; but 'tis a strange reverse for him. It is said that

when he's asked out to dine, or to anything in the way of a jaunt, his

eye flies across to hers afore he answers: and if her eye says yes, he

says yes: and if her eye says no, he says no. 'Tis a sad condition for

one who ruled womankind as he, that a woman should lead him in a string

whether he will or no.'

'Sad indeed!'

'She's steward, and agent, and everything. She has got a room called "my

lady's office," and great ledgers and cash-books you never see the like.

In old times there were bailiffs to look after the workfolk, foremen to

look after the tradesmen, a building-steward to look after the foremen,

a land-steward to look after the building-steward, and a dashing grand

agent to look after the land-steward: fine times they had then, I assure

ye. My lady said they were eating out the property like a honeycomb, and

then there was a terrible row. Half of 'em were sent flying; and now

there's only the agent, and the viscountess, and a sort of surveyor man,

and of the three she does most work so 'tis said. She marks the trees to

be felled, settles what horses are to be sold and bought, and is out in

all winds and weathers. There, if somebody hadn't looked into things

'twould soon have been all up with his lordship, he was so very

extravagant. In one sense 'twas lucky for him that she was born in

humble life, because owing to it she knows the ins and outs of

contriving, which he never did.'

'Then a man on the verge of bankruptcy will do better to marry a poor

and sensible wife than a rich and stupid one. Well, here we are at the

tenth milestone. I will walk the remainder of the distance to Knollsea,

as there is ample time for meeting the last steamboat.'

When the man was gone Christopher proceeded slowly on foot down the

hill, and reached that part of the highway at which he had stopped in

the cold November breeze waiting for a woman who never came. He was

older now, and he had ceased to wish that he had not been disappointed.

There was the lodge, and around it were the trees, brilliant in the

shining greens of June. Every twig sustained its bird, and every blossom

its bee. The roadside was not muffled in a garment of dead leaves as it

had been then, and the lodge-gate was not open as it always used to be.

He paused to look through the bars. The drive was well kept and

gravelled; the grass edgings, formerly marked by hoofs and ruts, and

otherwise trodden away, were now green and luxuriant, bent sticks being

placed at intervals as a protection.

While he looked through the gate a woman stepped from the lodge to open

it. In her haste she nearly swung the gate into his face, and would have

completely done so had he not jumped back.

'I beg pardon, sir,' she said, on perceiving him. 'I was going to open

it for my lady, and I didn't see you.'

Christopher moved round the corner. The perpetual snubbing that he had

received from Ethelberta ever since he had known her seemed about to be

continued through the medium of her dependents.

A trotting, accompanied by the sound of light wheels, had become

perceptible; and then a vehicle came through the gate, and turned up the

road which he had come down. He saw the back of a basket carriage, drawn

by a pair of piebald ponies. A lad in livery sat behind with folded

arms; the driver was a lady. He saw her bonnet, her shoulders, her hair-

but no more. She lessened in his gaze, and was soon out of sight.

He stood a long time thinking; but he did not wish her his.

In this wholesome frame of mind he proceeded on his way, thankful that

he had escaped meeting her, though so narrowly. But perhaps at this

remote season the embarrassment of a rencounter would not have been

intense. At Knollsea he entered the steamer for Sandbourne.

Mr. Chickerel and his family now lived at Firtop Villa, in that place, a

house which, like many others, had been built since Julian's last visit

to the town. He was directed to the outskirts, and into a fir plantation

where drives and intersecting roads had been laid out, and where new

villas had sprung up like mushrooms. He entered by a swing gate, on

which 'Firtop' was painted, and a maid-servant showed him into a neatly-

furnished room, containing Mr. Chickerel, Mrs. Chickerel, and Picotee,

the matron being reclined on a couch, which improved health had

permitted her to substitute for a bed.

He had been expected, and all were glad to see again the sojourner in

foreign lands, even down to the ladylike tabby, who was all purr and

warmth towards him except when she was all claws and nippers. But had

the prime sentiment of the meeting shown itself it would have been the

unqualified surprise of Christopher at seeing how much Picotee's face

had grown to resemble her sister's: it was less a resemblance in

contours than in expression and tone.

They had an early tea, and then Mr. Chickerel, sitting in a patriarchal

chair, conversed pleasantly with his guest, being well acquainted with

him through other members of the family. They talked of Julian's

residence at different Italian towns with his sister; of Faith, who was

at the present moment staying with some old friends in Melchester: and,

as was inevitable, the discourse hovered over and settled upon

Ethelberta, the prime ruler of the courses of them all, with little

exception, through recent years.

'It was a hard struggle for her,' said Chickerel, looking reflectively

out at the fir trees. 'I never thought the girl would have got through

it. When she first entered the house everybody was against her. She had

to fight a whole host of them single-handed. There was the viscount's

brother, other relations, lawyers, ladies, servants, not one of them was

her friend; and not one who wouldn't rather have seen her arrive there

in evil relationship with him than as she did come. But she stood her

ground. She was put upon her mettle; and one by one they got to feel

there was somebody among them whose little finger, if they insulted her,

was thicker than a Mountclere's loins. She must have had a will of iron;

it was a situation that would have broken the hearts of a dozen ordinary

women, for everybody soon knew that we were of no family, and that's

what made it so hard for her. But there she is as mistress now, and

everybody respecting her. I sometimes fancy she is occasionally too

severe with the servants and I know what service is. But she says it is

necessary, owing to her birth; and perhaps she is right.'

'I suppose she often comes to see you?'

'Four or five times a year,' said Picotee.

'She cannot come quite so often as she would,' said Mrs. Chickerel,

'because of her lofty position, which has its juties. Well, as I always

say, Berta doesn't take after me. I couldn't have married the man even

though he did bring a coronet with him.'

'I shouldn't have cared to let him ask ye,' said Chickerel. 'However,

that's neither here nor there-all ended better than I expected. He's

fond of her.'

'And it is wonderful what can be done with an old man when you are his

darling,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'If I were Berta I should go to London oftener,' said Picotee, to turn

the conversation. 'But she lives mostly in the library. And, O, what do

you think? She is writing an epic poem, and employs Emmeline as her

reader.'

'Dear me. And how are Sol and Dan? You mentioned them once in your

letters,' said Christopher.

'Berta has set them up as builders in London.'

'She bought a business for them,' said Chickerel. 'But Sol wouldn't

accept her help for a long time, and now he has only agreed to it on

condition of paying her back the money with interest, which he is doing.

They have just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand

pounds.'

Picotee broke in-'You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia married two

years ago, and went to Queensland? They married two brothers, who were

farmers, and left England the following week. Georgie and Myrtle are at

school.'

'And Joey?'

'We are thinking of making Joseph a parson,' said Mrs. Chickerel.

'Indeed! a parson.'

'Yes; 'tis a genteel living for the boy. And he's talents that way.

Since he has been under masters he knows all the strange sounds the old

Romans and Greeks used to make by way of talking, and the love stories

of the ancient women as if they were his own. I assure you, Mr. Julian,

if you could hear how beautiful the boy tells about little Cupid with

his bow and arrows, and the rows between that pagan apostle Jupiter and

his wife because of another woman, and the handsome young gods who

kissed Venus, you'd say he deserved to be made a bishop at once!'

The evening advanced, and they walked in the garden. Here, by some

means, Picotee and Christopher found themselves alone.

'Your letters to my sister have been charming,' said Christopher. 'And

so regular, too. It was as good as a birthday every time one arrived.'

Picotee blushed and said nothing.

Christopher had full assurance that her heart was where it always had

been. A suspicion of the fact had been the reason of his visit here to-

day.

'Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they

acquired great celebrity. Do you know whose?'

'Walpole's?' said Picotee timidly.

'Yes; but they never charmed me half as much as yours. You may rest

assured that one person in the world thinks Walpole your second.'

'You should not have read them; they were not written to you. But I

suppose you wished to hear of Ethelberta?'

'At first I did,' said Christopher. 'But, oddly enough, I got more

interested in the writer than in her news. I don't know if ever before

there has been an instance of loving by means of letters. If not, it is

because there have never been such sweet ones written. At last I looked

for them more anxiously than Faith.'

'You see, you knew me before.' Picotee would have withdrawn this remark

if she could, fearing that it seemed like a suggestion of her love long

ago.

'Then, on my return, I thought I would just call and see you, and go

away and think what would be best for me to do with a view to the

future. But since I have been here I have felt that I could not go away

to think without first asking you what you think on one point-whether

you could ever marry me?'

'I thought you would ask that when I first saw you.'

'Did you. Why?'

'You looked at me as if you would.'

'Well,' continued Christopher, 'the worst of it is I am as poor as Job.

Faith and I have three hundred a year between us, but only half is mine.

So that before I get your promise I must let your father know how poor I

am. Besides what I mention, I have only my earnings by music. But I am

to be installed as chief organist at Melchester soon, instead of deputy,

as I used to be; which is something.'

'I am to have five hundred pounds when I marry. That was Lord

Mountclere's arrangement with Ethelberta. He is extremely anxious that I

should marry well.'

'That's unfortunate. A marriage with me will hardly be considered well.'

'O yes, it will,' said Picotee quickly, and then looked frightened.

Christopher drew her towards him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek,

at which Picotee was not so wretched as she had been some years before

when he mistook her for another in that performance.

'Berta will never let us come to want,' she said, with vivacity, when

she had recovered. 'She always gives me what is necessary.'

'We will endeavour not to trouble her,' said Christopher, amused by

Picotee's utter dependence now as ever upon her sister, as upon an

eternal Providence. 'However, it is well to be kin to a coach though you

never ride in it. Now, shall we go indoors to your father? You think he

will not object?'

'I think he will be very glad,' replied Picotee. 'Berta will, I know.'