The dressing of Ethelberta for the dinner-party was an undertaking into
which Picotee threw her whole skill as tirewoman. Her energies were
brisker that day than they had been at any time since the Julians first
made preparations for departure from town; for a letter had come to her
from Faith, telling of their arrival at the old cathedral city, which was
found to suit their inclinations and habits infinitely better than
London; and that she would like Picotee to visit them there some day.
Picotee felt, and so probably felt the writer of the letter, that such a
visit would not be very practicable just now; but it was a pleasant idea,
and for fastening dreams upon was better than nothing.
Such musings were encouraged also by Ethelberta's remarks as the dressing
went on.
'We will have a change soon,' she said; 'we will go out of town for a few
days. It will do good in many ways. I am getting so alarmed about the
health of the children; their faces are becoming so white and thin and
pinched that an old acquaintance would hardly know them; and they were so
plump when they came. You are looking as pale as a ghost, and I daresay
I am too. A week or two at Knollsea will see us right.'
'O, how charming!' said Picotee gladly.
Knollsea was a village on the coast, not very far from Melchester, the
new home of Christopher; not very far, that is to say, in the eye of a
sweetheart; but seeing that there was, as the crow flies, a stretch of
thirty-five miles between the two places, and that more than one-third
the distance was without a railway, an elderly gentleman might have
considered their situations somewhat remote from each other.
'Why have you chosen Knollsea?' inquired Picotee.
'Because of aunt's letter from Rouen--have you seen it?'
'I did not read it through.'
'She wants us to get a copy of the register of her baptism; and she is
not absolutely certain which of the parishes in and about Knollsea they
were living in when she was born. Mother, being a year younger, cannot
tell of course. First I thought of writing to the clergyman of each
parish, but that would be troublesome, and might reveal the secret of my
birth; but if we go down there for a few days, and take some lodgings, we
shall be able to find out all about it at leisure. Gwendoline and Joey
can attend to mother and the people downstairs, especially as father will
look in every evening until he goes out of town, to see if they are
getting on properly. It will be such a weight off my soul to slip away
from acquaintances here.'
'Will it?'
'Yes. At the same time I ought not to speak so, for they have been very
kind. I wish we could go to Rouen afterwards; aunt repeats her
invitation as usual. However, there is time enough to think of that.'
Ethelberta was dressed at last, and, beholding the lonely look of poor
Picotee when about to leave the room, she could not help having a
sympathetic feeling that it was rather hard for her sister to be denied
so small an enjoyment as a menial peep at a feast when she herself was to
sit down to it as guest.
'If you still want to go and see the procession downstairs you may do
so,' she said reluctantly; 'provided that you take care of your tongue
when you come in contact with Menlove, and adhere to father's
instructions as to how long you may stay. It may be in the highest
degree unwise; but never mind, go.'
Then Ethelberta departed for the scene of action, just at the hour of the
sun's lowest decline, when it was fading away, yellow and mild as candle-
light, and when upper windows facing north-west reflected to persons in
the street dissolving views of tawny cloud with brazen edges, the
original picture of the same being hidden from sight by soiled walls and
slaty slopes.
Before entering the presence of host and hostess, Ethelberta contrived to
exchange a few words with her father.
'In excellent time,' he whispered, full of paternal pride at the superb
audacity of her situation here in relation to his. 'About half of them
are come.'
'Mr. Neigh?'
'Not yet; he's coming.'
'Lord Mountclere?'
'Yes. He came absurdly early; ten minutes before anybody else, so that
Mrs. D. could hardly get on her bracelets and things soon enough to
scramble downstairs and receive him; and he's as nervous as a boy. Keep
up your spirits, dear, and don't mind me.'
'I will, father. And let Picotee see me at dinner if you can. She is
very anxious to look at me. She will be here directly.'
And Ethelberta, having been announced, joined the chamberful of assembled
guests, among whom for the present we lose sight of her.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the evening outside the house was deepening in tone, and the
lamps began to blink up. Her sister having departed, Picotee hastily
arrayed herself in a little black jacket and chip hat, and tripped across
the park to the same point. Chickerel had directed a maid-servant known
as Jane to receive his humbler daughter and make her comfortable; and
that friendly person, who spoke as if she had known Picotee
five-and-twenty years, took her to the housekeeper's room, where the
visitor deposited her jacket and hat, and rested awhile.
A quick-eyed, light-haired, slight-built woman came in when Jane had
gone. 'Are you Miss Chickerel?' she said to Picotee.
'Yes,' said Picotee, guessing that this was Menlove, and fearing her a
little.
'Jane tells me that you have come to visit your father, and would like to
look at the company going to dinner. Well, they are not much to see, you
know; but such as they are you are welcome to the sight of. Come along
with me.'
'I think I would rather wait for father, if you will excuse me, please.'
'Your father is busy now; it is no use for you to think of saying
anything to him.'
Picotee followed her guide up a back staircase to the height of several
flights, and then, crossing a landing, they descended to the upper part
of the front stairs.
'Now look over the balustrade, and you will see them all in a minute,'
said Mrs. Menlove. 'O, you need not be timid; you can look out as far as
you like. We are all independent here; no slavery for us: it is not as
it is in the country, where servants are considered to be of different
blood and bone from their employers, and to have no eyes for anything but
their work. Here they are coming.'
Picotee then had the pleasure of looking down upon a series of human
crowns--some black, some white, some strangely built upon, some smooth
and shining--descending the staircase in disordered column and great
discomfort, their owners trying to talk, but breaking off in the midst of
syllables to look to their footing. The young girl's eyes had not
drooped over the handrail more than a few moments when she softly
exclaimed, 'There she is, there she is! How lovely she looks, does she
not?'
'Who?' said Mrs. Menlove.
Picotee recollected herself, and hastily drew in her impulses. 'My dear
mistress,' she said blandly. 'That is she on Mr. Doncastle's arm. And
look, who is that funny old man the elderly lady is helping downstairs?'
'He is our honoured guest, Lord Mountclere. Mrs. Doncastle will have him
all through the dinner, and after that he will devote himself to Mrs.
Petherwin, your "dear mistress." He keeps looking towards her now, and
no doubt thinks it a nuisance that she is not with him. Well, it is
useless to stay here. Come a little further--we'll follow them.' Menlove
began to lead the way downstairs, but Picotee held back.
'Won't they see us?' she said.
'No. And if they do, it doesn't matter. Mrs. Doncastle would not object
in the least to the daughter of her respected head man being accidentally
seen in the hall.'
They descended to the bottom and stood in the hall. 'O, there's father!'
whispered Picotee, with childlike gladness, as Chickerel became visible
to her by the door. The butler nodded to his daughter, and became again
engrossed in his duties.
'I wish I could see her--my mistress--again,' said Picotee.
'You seem mightily concerned about your mistress,' said Menlove. 'Do you
want to see if you have dressed her properly?'
'Yes, partly; and I like her, too. She is very kind to me.'
'You will have a chance of seeing her soon. When the door is nicely open
you can look in for a moment. I must leave you now for a few minutes,
but I will come again.'
Menlove departed, and Picotee stood waiting. She wondered how Ethelberta
was getting on, and whether she enjoyed herself as much as it seemed her
duty to do in such a superbly hospitable place. Picotee then turned her
attention to the hall, every article of furniture therein appearing
worthy of scrutiny to her unaccustomed eyes. Here she walked and looked
about for a long time till an excellent opportunity offered itself of
seeing how affairs progressed in the dining-room.
Through the partly-opened door there became visible a sideboard which
first attracted her attention by its richness. It was, indeed, a
noticeable example of modern art-workmanship, in being exceptionally
large, with curious ebony mouldings at different stages; and, while the
heavy cupboard doors at the bottom were enriched with inlays of paler
wood, other panels were decorated with tiles, as if the massive
composition had been erected on the spot as part of the solid building.
However, it was on a space higher up that Picotee's eyes and thoughts
were fixed. In the great mirror above the middle ledge she could see
reflected the upper part of the dining-room, and this suggested to her
that she might see Ethelberta and the other guests reflected in the same
way by standing on a chair, which, quick as thought, she did.
To Picotee's dazed young vision her beautiful sister appeared as the
chief figure of a glorious pleasure-parliament of both sexes, surrounded
by whole regiments of candles grouped here and there about the room. She
and her companions were seated before a large flowerbed, or small hanging
garden, fixed at about the level of the elbow, the attention of all being
concentrated rather upon the uninteresting margin of the bed, and upon
each other, than on the beautiful natural objects growing in the middle,
as it seemed to Picotee. In the ripple of conversation Ethelberta's
clear voice could occasionally be heard, and her young sister could see
that her eyes were bright, and her face beaming, as if divers social
wants and looming penuriousness had never been within her experience. Mr.
Doncastle was quite absorbed in what she was saying. So was the queer
old man whom Menlove had called Lord Mountclere.
'The dashing widow looks very well, does she not?' said a person at
Picotee's elbow.
It was her conductor Menlove, now returned again, whom Picotee had quite
forgotten.
'She will do some damage here to-night you will find,' continued Menlove.
'How long have you been with her?'
'O, a long time--I mean rather a short time,' stammered Picotee.
'I know her well enough. I was her maid once, or rather her mother-in-
law's, but that was long before you knew her. I did not by any means
find her so lovable as you seem to think her when I had to do with her at
close quarters. An awful flirt--awful. Don't you find her so?'
'I don't know.'
'If you don't yet you will know. But come down from your perch--the
dining-room door will not be open again for some time--and I will show
you about the rooms upstairs. This is a larger house than Mrs.
Petherwin's, as you see. Just come and look at the drawing-rooms.'
Wishing much to get rid of Menlove, yet fearing to offend her, Picotee
followed upstairs. Dinner was almost over by this time, and when they
entered the front drawing-room a young man-servant and maid were there
rekindling the lights.
'Now let's have a game of cat-and-mice,' said the maid-servant cheerily.
'There's plenty of time before they come up.'
'Agreed,' said Menlove promptly. 'You will play, will you not, Miss
Chickerel?'
'No, indeed,' said Picotee, aghast.
'Never mind, then; you look on.'
Away then ran the housemaid and Menlove, and the young footman started at
their heels. Round the room, over the furniture, under the furniture,
through the furniture, out of one window, along the balcony, in at
another window, again round the room--so they glided with the swiftness
of swallows and the noiselessness of ghosts.
Then the housemaid drew a jew's-harp from her pocket, and struck up a
lively waltz sotto voce. The footman seized Menlove, who appeared
nothing loth, and began spinning gently round the room with her, to the
time of the fascinating measure
'Which fashion hails, from countesses to queens,
And maids and valets dance behind the scenes.'
Picotee, who had been accustomed to unceiled country cottages all her
life, wherein the scamper of a mouse is heard distinctly from floor to
floor, exclaimed in a terrified whisper, at viewing all this, 'They'll
hear you underneath, they'll hear you, and we shall all be ruined!'
'Not at all,' came from the cautious dancers. 'These are some of the
best built houses in London--double floors, filled in with material that
will deaden any row you like to make, and we make none. But come and
have a turn yourself, Miss Chickerel.'
The young man relinquished Menlove, and on the spur of the moment seized
Picotee. Picotee flounced away from him in indignation, backing into a
corner with ruffled feathers, like a pullet trying to appear a hen.
'How dare you touch me!' she said, with rounded eyes. 'I'll tell
somebody downstairs of you, who'll soon see about it!'
'What a baby; she'll tell her father.'
'No I shan't; somebody you are all afraid of, that's who I'll tell.'
'Nonsense,' said Menlove; 'he meant no harm.'
Playtime was now getting short, and further antics being dangerous on
that account, the performers retired again downstairs, Picotee of
necessity following. Her nerves were screwed up to the highest pitch of
uneasiness by the grotesque habits of these men and maids, who were quite
unlike the country servants she had known, and resembled nothing so much
as pixies, elves, or gnomes, peeping up upon human beings from their
shady haunts underground, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill--sometimes
doing heavy work, sometimes none; teasing and worrying with impish
laughter half suppressed, and vanishing directly mortal eyes were bent on
them. Separate and distinct from overt existence under the sun, this
life could hardly be without its distinctive pleasures, all of them being
more or less pervaded by thrills and titillations from games of hazard,
and the perpetual risk of sensational surprises.
Long before this time Picotee had begun to be anxious to get home again,
but Menlove seemed particularly to desire her company, and pressed her to
sit awhile, telling her young friend, by way of entertainment, of various
extraordinary love adventures in which she had figured as heroine when
travelling on the Continent. These stories had one and all a remarkable
likeness in a certain point--Menlove was always unwilling to love the
adorer, and the adorer was always unwilling to live afterwards on account
of it.
'Ha-ha-ha!' in men's voices was heard from the distant dining-room as the
two women went on talking.
'And then,' continued Menlove, 'there was that duel I was the cause of
between the courier and the French valet. Dear me, what a trouble that
was; yet I could do nothing to prevent it. This courier was a very
handsome man--they are handsome sometimes.'
'Yes, they are. My aunt married one.'
'Did she? Where do they live?'
'They keep an hotel at Rouen,' murmured Picotee, in doubt whether this
should have been told or not.
'Well, he used to follow me to the English Church every Sunday regularly,
and I was so determined not to give my hand where my heart could never
be, that I slipped out at the other door while he stood expecting me by
the one I entered. Here I met M. Pierre, when, as ill luck would have
it, the other came round the corner, and seeing me talking to the valet,
he challenged him at once.'
'Ha-ha-ha!' was heard again afar.
'Did they fight?' said Picotee.
'Yes, I believe they did. We left Nice the next day; but I heard some
time after of a duel not many miles off, and although I could not get
hold of the names, I make no doubt it was between those two gentlemen. I
never knew which of them fell; poor fellow, whichever it was.'
'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!' came from the dining-room.
'Whatever are those boozy men laughing at, I wonder?' said Menlove. 'They
are always so noisy when the ladies have gone upstairs. Upon my soul,
I'll run up and find out.'
'No, no, don't,' entreated Picotee, putting her hand on her entertainer's
arm. 'It seems wrong; it is no concern of ours.'
'Wrong be hanged--anything on an impulse,' said Mrs. Menlove, skipping
across the room and out of the door, which stood open, as did others in
the house, the evening being sultry and oppressive.
Picotee waited in her seat until it occurred to her that she could escape
the lady's-maid by going off into her father's pantry in her absence. But
before this had been put into effect Menlove appeared again.
'Such fun as they are having up there,' she said. 'Somebody asked Mr.
Neigh to tell a story which he had told at some previous time, but he was
very reluctant to do so, and pretended he could not recollect it. Well,
then, the other man--I could not distinguish him by his voice--began
telling it, to prompt Mr. Neigh's memory; and, as far as I could
understand, it was about some lady who thought Mr. Neigh was in love with
her, and, to find whether he was worth accepting or not, she went with
her maid at night to see his estate, and wandered about and got lost, and
was frightened, and I don't know what besides. Then Mr. Neigh laughed
too, and said he liked such common sense in a woman. No names were
mentioned, but I fancy, from the awkwardness of Mr. Neigh at being
compelled to tell it, that the lady is one of those in the drawing-room.
I should like to know which it was.'
'I know--have heard something about it,' said Picotee, blushing with
anger. 'It was nothing at all like that. I wonder Mr. Neigh had the
audacity ever to talk of the matter, and to misrepresent it so greatly!'
'Tell all about it, do,' said Menlove.
'O no,' said Picotee. 'I promised not to say a word.'
'It is your mistress, I expect.'
'You may think what you like; but the lady is anything but a mistress of
mine.'
The flighty Menlove pressed her to tell the whole story, but finding this
useless the subject was changed. Presently her father came in, and,
taking no notice of Menlove, told his daughter that she had been called
for. Picotee very readily put on her things, and on going outside found
Joey awaiting her. Mr. Chickerel followed closely, with sharp glances
from the corner of his eye, and it was plain from Joey's nervous manner
of lingering in the shadows of the area doorway instead of entering the
house, that the butler had in some way set himself to prevent all
communion between the fair lady's-maid and his son for that evening at
least.
He watched Picotee and her brother off the premises, and the pair went on
their way towards Exonbury Crescent, very few words passing between them.
Picotee's thoughts had turned to the proposed visit to Knollsea, and Joey
was sulky under disappointment and the blank of thwarted purposes.