Picotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.
'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not begin
to speak.
'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.
'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He has
forgotten me--that's what it is!'
'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.
Ethelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escape
her, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same. 'I
suppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only a
headache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meeting
at Anglebury?'
'Yes, he remembered me.'
'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'
'I had seen him at Sandbourne. I don't think I told you.'
'At whose house did you meet him?'
'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in great
distress.
Ethelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming with
compassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom she
continually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of her
strong ones. But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: the
intended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar of
interests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans. 'Picotee, I would
rather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said. 'You need not leave
me any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'
Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not long been alone and in
darkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without a
candle.
'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'
'O yes,' said Ethelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house this
evening?'
'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is
going to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'
'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day she
will let drop something or other before father can stop her.'
'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front of
the couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and
shaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple,
and breathed out upon her cheek:
'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you
just now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't
be able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a
long time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he
was your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because I
thought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't
mean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to
do it, either; it would come to me! And I didn't know he belonged to you
when I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I
wouldn't!'
'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered
Ethelberta.
'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on the
road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round.
But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide in
Sandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted
to see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.
'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and
that caused--a confusion!'
'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee
soothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a
manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhaps
it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?'
'Then don't you want him, Berta?'
'O no; not at all!'
'What--and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting
up.
'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of
man I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry,
which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me
because we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than
that he takes an interest in me. It is not at all likely that I shall
see him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are
present.'
'That will be very nice.'
'Yes. And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave the
room when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continue
this to-morrow? I can tell you better then what to do.'
When Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over upon
her breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationship
with tears. This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun--not
lasting more than a minute and a half altogether--and she got up in an
unconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasm
of this event--the unhappy love of Picotee--by mentioning something of it
to another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a
woman full of sympathy.
Ethelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o'clock. The
room was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, being
busy about her own affairs upstairs. The French family had gone to the
theatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night.
Ethelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, and
in a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.
The round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as she
came, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time. 'Such a
place as this London is, to be sure!' she exclaimed, turning on the gas
till it whistled. 'I wish I was down in Wessex again. Lord-a-mercy,
Berta, I didn't see it was you! I thought it was Cornelia. As I was
saying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all the
week, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing 'em, and
never shall, because I don't understand that line, I thought I would go
out and see father, you know.'
'Is he very well?' said Ethelberta.
'Yes; and he is going to call round when he has time. Well, as I was a-
coming home-along I thought, "Please the Lord I'll have some chippols for
supper just for a plain trate," and I went round to the late
greengrocer's for 'em; and do you know they sweared me down that they
hadn't got such things as chippols in the shop, and had never heard of
'em in their lives. At last I said, "Why, how can you tell me such a
brazen story?--here they be, heaps of 'em!" It made me so vexed that I
came away there and then, and wouldn't have one--no, not at a gift.'
'They call them young onions here,' said Ethelberta quietly; 'you must
always remember that. But, Gwendoline, I wanted--'
Ethelberta felt sick at heart, and stopped. She had come down on the
wings of an impulse to unfold her trouble about Picotee to her
hard-headed and much older sister, less for advice than to get some heart-
ease by interchange of words; but alas, she could proceed no further. The
wretched homeliness of Gwendoline's mind seemed at this particular
juncture to be absolutely intolerable, and Ethelberta was suddenly
convinced that to involve Gwendoline in any such discussion would simply
be increasing her own burden, and adding worse confusion to her sister's
already confused existence.
'What were you going to say?' said the honest and unsuspecting
Gwendoline.
'I will put it off until to-morrow,' Ethelberta murmured gloomily; 'I
have a bad headache, and I am afraid I cannot stay with you after all.'
As she ascended the stairs, Ethelberta ached with an added pain not much
less than the primary one which had brought her down. It was that old
sense of disloyalty to her class and kin by feeling as she felt now which
caused the pain, and there was no escaping it. Gwendoline would have
gone to the ends of the earth for her: she could not confide a thought to
Gwendoline!
'If she only knew of that unworthy feeling of mine, how she would
grieve,' said Ethelberta miserably.
She next went up to the servants' bedrooms, and to where Cornelia slept.
On Ethelberta's entrance Cornelia looked up from a perfect wonder of a
bonnet, which she held in her hands. At sight of Ethelberta the look of
keen interest in her work changed to one of gaiety.
'I am so glad--I was just coming down,' Cornelia said in a whisper;
whenever they spoke as relations in this house it was in whispers. 'Now,
how do you think this bonnet will do? May I come down, and see how I
look in your big glass?' She clapped the bonnet upon her head. 'Won't
it do beautiful for Sunday afternoon?'
'It looks very attractive, as far as I can see by this light,' said
Ethelberta. 'But is it not rather too brilliant in colour--blue and red
together, like that? Remember, as I often tell you, people in town never
wear such bright contrasts as they do in the country.'
'O Berta!' said Cornelia, in a deprecating tone; 'don't object. If
there's one thing I do glory in it is a nice flare-up about my head o'
Sundays--of course if the family's not in mourning, I mean.' But, seeing
that Ethelberta did not smile, she turned the subject, and added
docilely: 'Did you come up for me to do anything? I will put off
finishing my bonnet if I am wanted.'
'I was going to talk to you about family matters, and Picotee,' said
Ethelberta. 'But, as you are busy, and I have a headache, I will put it
off till to-morrow.'
Cornelia seemed decidedly relieved, for family matters were far from
attractive at the best of times; and Ethelberta went down to the next
floor, and entered her mother's room.
After a short conversation Mrs. Chickerel said, 'You say you want to ask
me something?'
'Yes: but nothing of importance, mother. I was thinking about Picotee,
and what would be the best thing to do--'
'Ah, well you may, Berta. I am so uneasy about this life you have led us
into, and full of fear that your plans may break down; if they do,
whatever will become of us? I know you are doing your best; but I cannot
help thinking that the coming to London and living with you was wild and
rash, and not well weighed afore we set about it. You should have
counted the cost first, and not advised it. If you break down, and we
are all discovered living so queer and unnatural, right in the heart of
the aristocracy, we should be the laughing-stock of the country: it would
kill me, and ruin us all--utterly ruin us!'
'O mother, I know all that so well!' exclaimed Ethelberta, tears of
anguish filling her eyes. 'Don't depress me more than I depress myself
by such fears, or you will bring about the very thing we strive to avoid!
My only chance is in keeping in good spirits, and why don't you try to
help me a little by taking a brighter view of things?'
'I know I ought to, my dear girl, but I cannot. I do so wish that I
never let you tempt me and the children away from the Lodge. I cannot
think why I allowed myself to be so persuaded--cannot think! You are not
to blame--it is I. I am much older than you, and ought to have known
better than listen to such a scheme. This undertaking seems too big--the
bills frighten me. I have never been used to such wild adventure, and I
can't sleep at night for fear that your tale-telling will go wrong, and
we shall all be exposed and shamed. A story-teller seems such an
impossible castle-in-the-air sort of a trade for getting a living by--I
cannot think how ever you came to dream of such an unheard-of thing.'
'But it is not a castle in the air, and it does get a living!' said
Ethelberta, her lip quivering.
'Well, yes, while it is just a new thing; but I am afraid it cannot
last--that's what I fear. People will find you out as one of a family of
servants, and their pride will be stung at having gone to hear your
romancing; then they will go no more, and what will happen to us and the
poor little ones?'
'We must all scatter again!'
'If we could get as we were once, I wouldn't mind that. But we shall
have lost our character as simple country folk who know nothing, which
are the only class of poor people that squires will give any help to; and
I much doubt if the girls would get places after such a discovery--it
would be so awkward and unheard-of.'
'Well, all I can say is,' replied Ethelberta, 'that I will do my best.
All that I have is theirs and yours as much as mine, and these
arrangements are simply on their account. I don't like my relations
being my servants; but if they did not work for me, they would have to
work for others, and my service is much lighter and pleasanter than any
other lady's would be for them, so the advantages are worth the risk. If
I stood alone, I would go and hide my head in any hole, and care no more
about the world and its ways. I wish I was well out of it, and at the
bottom of a quiet grave--anybody might have the world for me then! But
don't let me disturb you longer; it is getting late.'
Ethelberta then wished her mother good-night, and went away. To attempt
confidences on such an ethereal matter as love was now absurd; her hermit
spirit was doomed to dwell apart as usual; and she applied herself to
deep thinking without aid and alone. Not only was there Picotee's misery
to disperse; it became imperative to consider how best to overpass a more
general catastrophe.