Kind Ted hurried back, splashing an overfull tumbler of water as he
came, on the polished oak floor.
She sipped a little, but her hands shook so much that I had to hold the
glass for her.
"Cheero, old girl," said Ted, patting her cheek, but Essie did not
cheero.
"The lady ought to lie down," said the old woman who had opened the door
to us. "There's a sofy in the morning-room."
I supported Essie into an octagonal room leading out of the great hall,
and laid her on a spacious divan of dim red damask.
"Leave her alone with me for a bit," I said to Ted. "She is overwrought.
We made a very early start."
"I seem to have gone blind," she whispered when Ted had departed.
"Everything is black."
"You turned faint. You will be all right in a few minutes."
"Shall I? Would you mind telling me, Beatrice, is there--is there a
picture over the fireplace?"
"Yes."
"What kind of picture?"
"It is a life-size portrait of a young cavalier with curls, in blue
satin, holding his hat in his hand."
"I knew it," she groaned.
There was a long silence.
"I can't bear it," she said. "You may say that is silly, Beatrice, but
all the same I can't. My life will break in two. If Ted lives here--I
shall have nowhere to go."
"I don't think it silly, dear, but I don't understand. This is your old
home where you lived nearly three hundred years ago, and to which you
have so often come back in your dreams. Now you are coming back to it as
your home once more. It seems to me a beautiful and romantic thing to
have happened, and after the first surprise surely it must seem the same
to you. You have always been so happy here."
"I can see a little now," she said. "Where is the glass of water?"
She sat up and drank a little, and then dabbed some of the water on her
forehead.
"I'm all right now," she said, pushing back her wet hair.
"Don't move. Rest a little; you have had a shock."
She did not seem to hear me. She rose slowly to her feet, and stood in
front of the picture.
"Yes," she said to the cavalier. "It's you, only not quite you either.
You are not really as handsome as that you know, and you have a firmer
mouth and darker brows."
The cavalier smiled at her from the wall: a somewhat insipid
supercilious face I thought, but a wonderful portrait.
The old caretaker came back.
"The gentleman said you'd be the better for something to eat," she said,
"and that you would take it in the hall."
Through the open door I saw the chauffeur unstrapping the baskets from
Fortnum and Mason.
"Whose portrait is that?" said Essie.
"Henry Vavasour Kenstone," said the old woman in a parrot voice.
"Equerry to our martyred King, by Vandyck. You will observe the jewelled
sword and the gloves sewed with pearls. The sword and the gloves are
preserved in the banqueting 'all in a glass case."
Essie turned away from the picture, and sat down feebly by the window.
The clinking of plates, and Ted's cheerful voice reached us, and the
drawing of a cork.
"Our Mr. Rupert, the present owner, favours the picture," said the woman
proudly in her natural voice, "and when he come of age three years ago
last Christmas there was a grand fancy ball and 'e was dressed exackerly
to match the picture, with a curled wig and all. And 'e wore the actual
sword, and the very gloves, at least 'e 'eld 'em in 'is 'and. They was
too stiff to put on. 'E did look a picture. And 'is mother being Spanish
'ad a lace shawl on 'er 'ead, a duchess she was in 'er own right, and
she might a been a queen to look at her. I watched the dancing from the
gallery, me having been nurse in the family, and a beautiful sight it
was."
Essie's dark eyes were fixed intently on the garrulous old servant.
"Three years ago last Christmas," she said sharply. "Are you sure of
that?"
"And wouldn't I be sure that took 'im from the month ma'am, but 'e don't
look so like the picture when 'e ain't dressed to match, and without the
yaller wig," and she wandered out of the room, evidently more interested
in the luncheon preparations than in us.
Ted hurried in. When was he not in a hurry?
"Luncheon, luncheon," he said. "Don't wait for me, Essie. Rather too
long a drive for my little woman. Give her a glass of port, Beatrice. I
have to see Rodwell about the roof. Shan't be half a mo. He's got to
catch his train. Mr. Kenstone, the Duke, I mean, will be here in ten
minutes. If he turns up before I'm back give him a snack. They've sent
enough for ten."
We did not go in to luncheon.
Essie sank down on the divan. I sat down by her, and put my arms round
her. She leaned her head against my shoulder.
"You heard what that woman said," she whispered. "You see he did not
live hundreds of years ago as I thought. The dress deceived me. He's
alive now. He's twenty-four."
My heart ached for her, but I could find no word to comfort her in her
mysterious trouble.
As we looked out together through the narrow latticed windows the lines
came into my mind:
" casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."
It seemed to me that poor Essie was indeed a captive in some "faery land
forlorn," and that invisible perilous seas were foaming round her
casement windows.
She gave a slight shudder, and started up.
A man was walking slowly up and down the bowling green.
"It is he," she said. "I've seen him walk there a hundred times."
She watched the tall dignified figure pace up and down, and then turned
her eyes from him to me. They were wide, and the pupils dilated.
"Beatrice," she said solemnly, "I must not meet that man. He must not
see me, for his sake, and for mine. All his life long he must go on
thinking as he does now, that I am ... a dream."
"The old woman says he starts for Spain to-day."
Ted's roundabout figure was suddenly seen trundling out across the grass
towards the distant pacing figure.
"Who is that?" said Essie frowning.
"Who is that? Why, it's Ted of course."
"And who is Ted?"
"Who is Ted?" I echoed staring at her. "What on earth do you mean?"
She seemed to make a great mental effort.
"Yes," she said. "Yes. It is Ted. _My husband._ I forgot. You see I've
never seen him _here_ before."
"You will soon grow accustomed to seeing him here," I said cheerfully.
She shook her head.
The two men met, and moved together towards the house.
Essie looked round her in sudden panic.
"I can't stay here," she said. "It's a trap. Where can I go?"
Her eyes searched the room. There was no other door in it. She looked at
the narrow latticed windows. Her eyes came back to me with sheer terror
in them, such as I have seen in a snared wild animal.
"You _must_ stay here," I said, "if you don't want to meet him. They
will reach the open door into the garden long before you could cross
the hall. Stay quietly where you are, and I will tell Ted you are
unwell, and are resting."
The two men were already in the hall. I went out to them, closing the
door resolutely behind me.
Rupert Maria Wenceslao di Soto, Duke of Urrutia, was a tall grave young
man of few words, with close cropped hair and a lean clean shaven face.
Ted introduced him to me, and then pressed him to have some luncheon.
The long table down the banqueting hall shewed an array of which Fortnum
and Mason might justly have been proud.
The Duke was all courtesy and thanks, but had already lunched. His car
would be here in ten minutes to take him to London. If agreeable to Mr.
Hopkins he would say one word on business. He had called to modify his
agent's letter about the mantelpieces. He was willing to sell them all
as agreed at a valuation, except one.
"Which one?" asked Ted, instantly changing from the exuberant host into
the cautious business man.
"The one in the south parlour," said the Duke, waving his hand towards
the door of the room in which was Essie. "I desire to make it clear, as
my agent has not done so, that everything in that room I intend to take
with me, so that in my future home in the Pyrenees there may be one
chamber exactly the same as my late mother's room in my old home here."
The explanation quite bowled over Ted. The business man gave way to the
man of sentiment.
"Most creditable, I'm sure. Filial piety, most creditable. I don't
recall the mantlepiece in question, but of course as your Grace wishes
to keep it, I agree at once. Between gentlemen, no difficulties,
everything open to arrangement, amicable settlement."
The old woman, dissolved in tears, interrupted Ted's eloquence to tell
"Mr. Rupert" that his car was at the door.
The Duke led her gently out of the hall, his hand on her shoulder, and
then came back.
"I will detain you no longer from your luncheon," he said. "With your
permission I will spend a few moments in my mother's chamber. It has
many beautiful associations for me. I should like to see it once more
before I leave for Spain."
Ted hastened towards the door, but I barred the way.
"Dear Ted," I said, "Essie is very ill. No one must go in."
"No one go in!" said Ted flushing darkly. "I am astonished at you,
Beatrice. The Duke wishes to see his mother's room once more, on bidding
farewell to his ancestral home, and you take upon yourself to forbid
it."
"My sister-in-law is ill," I said, addressing the Duke, "it would
distress her if a stranger were to go in suddenly."
"I understand perfectly, Madam," he said coldly, and made as if to take
his leave.
"Stop," said Ted, purple in the face. "My wife _is_ unwell. She is
overtired, but she is the kindest, most tender-hearted woman in the
world. It would cut her to the heart if she found out afterwards she had
prevented your Grace's seeing this room for the last time. Wait one
moment, while I go in and explain it to her, and help her to walk a few
steps to the settle here."
And Ted, with a furious glance at me, pushed past me, and went into the
room.
"It would be a great kindness to my sister, who is very nervous," I said
to the Duke, "if you would wait a moment in the garden."
He instantly went towards the open door into the garden. Then I darted
after Ted. Between us we would hurry Essie into one of the many other
rooms that opened into the hall.
She was standing by the window frantically endeavouring to break the
lattice of the central casement, which was a little larger than the
others.
There was blood on her hand.
Ted was speaking, but she cut him short.
"Not in here," she said passionately. "I won't have it. He mustn't come
in here."
"He must come in if I say so," said Ted. The colour had left his face. I
had seen him angry before now, but never so angry as this.
"No," said Essie, "he must not."
She came and stood before her husband.
"Haven't I been a good wife to you these five years past," she said.
"Haven't I done my best to make you happy? Haven't I obeyed you in
everything, everything, everything--till now?"
He stared at her open-mouthed. She had never opposed him before.
She fell on her knees before him, and clasped his feet with her bleeding
hands.
"If you love me," she said, "send him away. I refuse to see him."
"You are hysterical," said Ted, "or else you're stark staring mad. I've
spoilt you and given way to you till you think you can make any kind of
fool of me. Get up at once, and cease this play acting, and come into
the hall."
"He's in the garden," I broke in. "You can pass through the hall,
Essie."
She rose to her feet, and her vehemence dropped from her. Her eyes were
rivetted on Ted. She paid no heed to what I said. She had no attention
to give to anything but her husband.
"I will not come out," she said, and she sat down again on the divan.
"Then by--he shall come in," said Ted, and before I could stop him he
strode to the door, calling loudly to the Duke to enter.
There was a moment's pause, in which we heard a step cross the hall.
Then the Duke came in, and Ted introduced him to Essie. She bowed
slightly, but he did not. He stared at her, transfixed, overwhelmed.
At that moment the discreet voice of Mr. Rodwell was heard in the
doorway.
"Can I have one last word, Mr. Hopkins? A matter of some importance."
"Yes, yes," said Ted darting to the door, thankful to escape. As he left
the room he said to me, "Take Essie at once into the hall. At once, do
you hear?"