The year was now moving on apace, but Ethelberta and Picotee chose to
remain at Knollsea, in the brilliant variegated brick and stone villa to
which they had removed in order to be in keeping with their ascending
fortunes. Autumn had begun to make itself felt and seen in bolder and
less subtle ways than at first. In the morning now, on coming
downstairs, in place of a yellowish-green leaf or two lying in a corner
of the lowest step, which had been the only previous symptoms around the
house, she saw dozens of them playing at corkscrews in the wind, directly
the door was opened. Beyond, towards the sea, the slopes and scarps that
had been muffled with a thick robe of cliff herbage, were showing their
chill grey substance through the withered verdure, like the background of
velvet whence the pile has been fretted away. Unexpected breezes broomed
and rasped the smooth bay in evanescent patches of stippled shade, and,
besides the small boats, the ponderous lighters used in shipping stone
were hauled up the beach in anticipation of the equinoctial attack.
A few days after Ethelberta's reception at Enckworth, an improved
stanhope, driven by Lord Mountclere himself, climbed up the hill until it
was opposite her door. A few notes from a piano softly played reached
his ear as he descended from his place: on being shown in to his
betrothed, he could perceive that she had just left the instrument.
Moreover, a tear was visible in her eye when she came near him.
They discoursed for several minutes in the manner natural between a
defenceless young widow and an old widower in Lord Mountclere's position
to whom she was plighted--a great deal of formal considerateness making
itself visible on her part, and of extreme tenderness on his. While thus
occupied, he turned to the piano, and casually glanced at a piece of
music lying open upon it. Some words of writing at the top expressed
that it was the composer's original copy, presented by him, Christopher
Julian, to the author of the song. Seeing that he noticed the sheet
somewhat lengthily, Ethelberta remarked that it had been an offering made
to her a long time ago--a melody written to one of her own poems.
'In the writing of the composer,' observed Lord Mountclere, with
interest. 'An offering from the musician himself--very gratifying and
touching. Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see upon it, I believe? I
knew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne man, if I recollect.'
'Yes,' said Ethelberta placidly. But it was really with an effort. The
song was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her from
Sandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends;
and the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had started
eddies of emotion for some time checked.
'I am sorry you have been grieved,' said Lord Mountclere, with gloomy
restlessness.
'Grieved?' said Ethelberta.
'Did I not see a tear there? or did my eyes deceive me?'
'You might have seen one.'
'Ah! a tear, and a song. I think--'
'You naturally think that a woman who cries over a man's gift must be in
love with the giver?' Ethelberta looked him serenely in the face.
Lord Mountclere's jealous suspicions were considerably shaken.
'Not at all,' he said hastily, as if ashamed. 'One who cries over a song
is much affected by its sentiment.'
'Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?' she inquired,
merging defence in attack. 'I am afraid they don't often do that.'
'You would make me uneasy.'
'On the contrary, I would reassure you. Are you not still doubting?' she
asked, with a pleasant smile.
'I cannot doubt you!'
'Swear, like a faithful knight.'
'I swear, my fairy, my flower!'
After this the old man appeared to be pondering; indeed, his thoughts
could hardly be said to be present when he uttered the words. For though
the tabernacle was getting shaky by reason of years and merry living, so
that what was going on inside might often be guessed without by the
movement of the hangings, as in a puppet-show with worn canvas, he could
be quiet enough when scheming any plot of particular neatness, which had
less emotion than impishness in it. Such an innocent amusement he was
pondering now.
Before leaving her, he asked if she would accompany him to a morning
instrumental concert at Melchester, which was to take place in the course
of that week for the benefit of some local institution.
'Melchester,' she repeated faintly, and observed him as searchingly as it
was possible to do without exposing herself to a raking fire in return.
Could he know that Christopher was living there, and was this said in
prolongation of his recent suspicion? But Lord Mountclere's face gave no
sign.
'You forget one fatal objection,' said she; 'the secrecy in which it is
imperative that the engagement between us should be kept.'
'I am not known in Melchester without my carriage; nor are you.'
'We may be known by somebody on the road.'
'Then let it be arranged in this way. I will not call here to take you
up, but will meet you at the station at Anglebury; and we can go on
together by train without notice. Surely there can be no objection to
that? It would be mere prudishness to object, since we are to become one
so shortly.' He spoke a little impatiently. It was plain that he
particularly wanted her to go to Melchester.
'I merely meant that there was a chance of discovery in our going out
together. And discovery means no marriage.' She was pale now, and sick
at heart, for it seemed that the viscount must be aware that Christopher
dwelt at that place, and was about to test her concerning him.
'Why does it mean no marriage?' said he.
'My father might, and almost certainly would, object to it. Although he
cannot control me, he might entreat me.'
'Why would he object?' said Lord Mountclere uneasily, and somewhat
haughtily.
'I don't know.'
'But you will be my wife--say again that you will.'
'I will.'
He breathed. 'He will not object--hee-hee!' he said. 'O no--I think you
will be mine now.'
'I have said so. But look to me all the same.'
'You malign yourself, dear one. But you will meet me at Anglebury, as I
wish, and go on to Melchester with me?'
'I shall be pleased to--if my sister may accompany me.'
'Ah--your sister. Yes, of course.'
They settled the time of the journey, and when the visit had been
stretched out as long as it reasonably could be with propriety, Lord
Mountclere took his leave.
When he was again seated on the driving-phaeton which he had brought that
day, Lord Mountclere looked gleeful, and shrewd enough in his own opinion
to outwit Mephistopheles. As soon as they were ascending a hill, and he
could find time to free his hand, he pulled off his glove, and drawing
from his pocket a programme of the Melchester concert referred to,
contemplated therein the name of one of the intended performers. The
name was that of Mr. C. Julian. Replacing it again, he looked ahead, and
some time after murmured with wily mirth, 'An excellent test--a lucky
thought!'
Nothing of importance occurred during the intervening days. At two
o'clock on the appointed afternoon Ethelberta stepped from the train at
Melchester with the viscount, who had met her as proposed; she was
followed behind by Picotee.
The concert was to be held at the Town-hall half-an-hour later. They
entered a fly in waiting, and secure from recognition, were driven
leisurely in that direction, Picotee silent and absorbed with her own
thoughts.
'There's the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere humorously, as they caught
a view of one of its towers through a street leading into the Close.
'Yes.'
'It boasts of a very fine organ.'
'Ah.'
'And the organist is a clever young man.'
'Oh.'
Lord Mountclere paused a moment or two. 'By the way, you may remember
that he is the Mr. Julian who set your song to music!'
'I recollect it quite well.' Her heart was horrified and she thought
Lord Mountclere must be developing into an inquisitor, which perhaps he
was. But none of this reached her face.
They turned in the direction of the Hall, were set down, and entered.
The large assembly-room set apart for the concert was upstairs, and it
was possible to enter it in two ways: by the large doorway in front of
the landing, or by turning down a side passage leading to council-rooms
and subsidiary apartments of small size, which were allotted to
performers in any exhibition; thus they could enter from one of these
directly upon the platform, without passing through the audience.
'Will you seat yourselves here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead of
entering by the direct door, had brought the young women round into this
green-room, as it may be called. 'You see we have come in privately
enough; when the musicians arrive we can pass through behind them, and
step down to our seats from the front.'
The players could soon be heard tuning in the next room. Then one came
through the passage-room where the three waited, and went in, then
another, then another. Last of all came Julian.
Ethelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never in the least
expecting her there, did not recognize her till he was quite inside. When
he had really perceived her to be the one who had troubled his soul so
many times and long, the blood in his face--never very much--passed off
and left it, like the shade of a cloud. Between them stood a table
covered with green baize, which, reflecting upwards a band of sunlight
shining across the chamber, flung upon his already white features the
virescent hues of death. The poor musician, whose person, much to his
own inconvenience, constituted a complete breviary of the gentle
emotions, looked as if he were going to fall down in a faint.
Ethelberta flung at Lord Mountclere a look which clipped him like
pincers: he never forgot it as long as he lived.
'This is your pretty jealous scheme--I see it!' she hissed to him, and
without being able to control herself went across to Julian.
But a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had been
sitting. Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere looked that way: and behold,
Picotee had nearly swooned.
Ethelberta's show of passion went as quickly as it had come, for she felt
that a splendid triumph had been put into her hands. 'Now do you see the
truth?' she whispered to Lord Mountclere without a drachm of feeling;
pointing to Christopher and then to Picotee--as like as two snowdrops
now.
'I do, I do,' murmured the viscount hastily.
They both went forward to help Christopher in restoring the fragile
Picotee: he had set himself to that task as suddenly as he possibly could
to cover his own near approach to the same condition. Not much help was
required, the little girl's indisposition being quite momentary, and she
sat up in the chair again.
'Are you better?' said Ethelberta to Christopher.
'Quite well--quite,' he said, smiling faintly. 'I am glad to see you. I
must, I think, go into the next room now.' He bowed and walked out
awkwardly.
'Are you better, too?' she said to Picotee.
'Quite well,' said Picotee.
'You are quite sure you know between whom the love lies now--eh?'
Ethelberta asked in a sarcastic whisper of Lord Mountclere.
'I am--beyond a doubt,' murmured the anxious nobleman; he feared that
look of hers, which was not less dominant than irresistible.
Some additional moments given to thought on the circumstances rendered
Ethelberta still more indignant and intractable. She went out at the
door by which they had entered, along the passage, and down the stairs. A
shuffling footstep followed, but she did not turn her head. When they
reached the bottom of the stairs the carriage had gone, their exit not
being expected till two hours later. Ethelberta, nothing daunted, swept
along the pavement and down the street in a turbulent prance, Lord
Mountclere trotting behind with a jowl reduced to a mere nothing by his
concern at the discourtesy into which he had been lured by jealous
whisperings.
'My dearest--forgive me; I confess I doubted you--but I was beside
myself,' came to her ears from over her shoulder. But Ethelberta walked
on as before.
Lord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger. 'An old man--who is
not very old--naturally torments himself with fears of losing--no, no--it
was an innocent jest of mine--you will forgive a joke--hee-hee?' he said
again, on getting no reply.
'You had no right to mistrust me!'
'I do not--you did not blench. You should have told me before that it
was your sister and not yourself who was entangled with him.'
'You brought me to Melchester on purpose to confront him!'
'Yes, I did.'
'Are you not ashamed?'
'I am satisfied. It is better to know the truth by any means than to die
of suspense; better for us both--surely you see that?'
They had by this time got to the end of a long street, and into a
deserted side road by which the station could be indirectly reached.
Picotee appeared in the distance as a mere distracted speck of girlhood,
following them because not knowing what else to do in her sickness of
body and mind. Once out of sight here, Ethelberta began to cry.
'Ethelberta,' said Lord Mountclere, in an agony of trouble, 'don't be
vexed! It was an inconsiderate trick--I own it. Do what you will, but
do not desert me now! I could not bear it--you would kill me if you were
to leave me. Anything, but be mine.'
Ethelberta continued her way, and drying her eyes entered the station,
where, on searching the time-tables, she found there would be no train
for Anglebury for the next two hours. Then more slowly she turned
towards the town again, meeting Picotee and keeping in her company.
Lord Mountclere gave up the chase, but as he wished to get into the town
again, he followed in the same direction. When Ethelberta had proceeded
as far as the Red Lion Hotel, she turned towards it with her companion,
and being shown to a room, the two sisters shut themselves in. Lord
Mountclere paused and entered the White Hart, the rival hotel to the Red
Lion, which stood in an adjoining street.
Having secluded himself in an apartment here, walked from window to
window awhile, and made himself generally uncomfortable, he sat down to
the writing materials on the table, and concocted a note:--
'WHITE HART HOTEL.
'MY DEAR MRS. PETHERWIN,--You do not mean to be so cruel as to break
your plighted word to me? Remember, there is no love without much
jealousy, and lovers are ever full of sighs and misgiving. I have
owned to as much contrition as can reasonably be expected. I could
not endure the suspicion that you loved another.--Yours always,
'MOUNTCLERE.'
This he sent, watching from the window its progress along the street. He
awaited anxiously for an answer, and waited long. It was nearly twenty
minutes before he could hear a messenger approaching the door. Yes--she
had actually sent a reply; he prized it as if it had been the first
encouragement he had ever in his life received from woman:--
'MY LORD' (wrote Ethelberta),--'I am not prepared at present to enter
into the question of marriage at all. The incident which has occurred
affords me every excuse for withdrawing my promise, since it was given
under misapprehensions on a point that materially affects my
happiness.
'E. PETHERWIN.'
'Ho-ho-ho--Miss Hoity-toity!' said Lord Mountclere, trotting up and down.
But, remembering it was her June against his November, this did not last
long, and he frantically replied:--
'MY DARLING,--I cannot release you--I must do anything to keep my
treasure. Will you not see me for a few minutes, and let bygones go
to the winds?'
Was ever a thrush so safe in a cherry net before!
The messenger came back with the information that Mrs. Petherwin had
taken a walk to the Close, her companion alone remaining at the hotel.
There being nothing else left for the viscount to do, he put on his hat,
and went out on foot in the same direction. He had not walked far when
he saw Ethelberta moving slowly along the High Street before him.
Ethelberta was at this hour wandering without any fixed intention beyond
that of consuming time. She was very wretched, and very indifferent: the
former when thinking of her past, the latter when thinking of the days to
come. While she walked thus unconscious of the streets, and their groups
of other wayfarers, she saw Christopher emerge from a door not many paces
in advance, and close it behind him: he stood for a moment on the step
before descending into the road.
She could not, even had she wished it, easily check her progress without
rendering the chance of his perceiving her still more certain. But she
did not wish any such thing, and it made little difference, for he had
already seen her in taking his survey round, and came down from the door
to her side. It was impossible for anything formal to pass between them
now.
'You are not at the concert, Mr. Julian?' she said. 'I am glad to have a
better opportunity of speaking to you, and of asking for your sister.
Unfortunately there is not time for us to call upon her to-day.'
'Thank you, but it makes no difference,' said Julian, with somewhat sad
reserve. 'I will tell her I have met you; she is away from home just at
present.' And finding that Ethelberta did not rejoin immediately he
observed, 'The chief organist, old Dr. Breeve, has taken my place at the
concert, as it was arranged he should do after the opening part. I am
now going to the Cathedral for the afternoon service. You are going
there too?'
'I thought of looking at the interior for a moment.'
So they went on side by side, saying little; for it was a situation in
which scarcely any appropriate thing could be spoken. Ethelberta was the
less reluctant to walk in his company because of the provocation to
skittishness that Lord Mountclere had given, a provocation which she
still resented. But she was far from wishing to increase his jealousy;
and yet this was what she was doing, Lord Mountclere being a perturbed
witness from behind of all that was passing now.
They turned the corner of the short street of connection which led under
an archway to the Cathedral Close, the old peer dogging them still.
Christopher seemed to warm up a little, and repeated the invitation. 'You
will come with your sister to see us before you leave?' he said. 'We
have tea at six.'
'We shall have left Melchester before that time. I am now only waiting
for the train.'
'You two have not come all the way from Knollsea alone?'
'Part of the way,' said Ethelberta evasively.
'And going back alone?'
'No. Only for the last five miles. At least that was the arrangement--I
am not quite sure if it holds good.'
'You don't wish me to see you safely in the train?'
'It is not necessary: thank you very much. We are well used to getting
about the world alone, and from Melchester to Knollsea is no serious
journey, late or early. . . . Yet I think I ought, in honesty, to tell
you that we are not entirely by ourselves in Melchester to-day.'
'I remember I saw your friend--relative--in the room at the Town-hall. It
did not occur to my mind for the moment that he was any other than a
stranger standing there.'
'He is not a relative,' she said, with perplexity. 'I hardly know,
Christopher, how to explain to you my position here to-day, because of
some difficulties that have arisen since we have been in the town, which
may alter it entirely. On that account I will be less frank with you
than I should like to be, considering how long we have known each other.
It would be wrong, however, if I were not to tell you that there has been
a possibility of my marriage with him.'
'The elderly gentleman?'
'Yes. And I came here in his company, intending to return with him. But
you shall know all soon. Picotee shall write to Faith.'
'I always think the Cathedral looks better from this point than from the
point usually chosen by artists,' he said, with nervous quickness,
directing her glance upwards to the silent structure, now misty and
unrelieved by either high light or deep shade. 'We get the grouping of
the chapels and choir-aisles more clearly shown--and the whole culminates
to a more perfect pyramid from this spot--do you think so?'
'Yes. I do.'
A little further, and Christopher stopped to enter, when Ethelberta bade
him farewell. 'I thought at one time that our futures might have been
different from what they are apparently becoming,' he said then,
regarding her as a stall-reader regards the brilliant book he cannot
afford to buy. 'But one gets weary of repining about that. I wish
Picotee and yourself could see us oftener; I am as confirmed a bachelor
now as Faith is an old maid. I wonder if--should the event you
contemplate occur--you and he will ever visit us, or we shall ever visit
you!'
Christopher was evidently imagining the elderly gentleman to be some
retired farmer, or professional man already so intermixed with the
metamorphic classes of society as not to be surprised or inconvenienced
by her beginnings; one who wished to secure Ethelberta as an ornament to
his parlour fire in a quiet spirit, and in no intoxicated mood regardless
of issues. She could scarcely reply to his supposition; and the parting
was what might have been predicted from a conversation so carefully
controlled.
Ethelberta, as she had intended, now went on further, and entering the
nave began to inspect the sallow monuments which lined the grizzled pile.
She did not perceive amid the shadows an old gentleman who had crept into
the mouldy place as stealthily as a worm into a skull, and was keeping
himself carefully beyond her observation. She continued to regard
feature after feature till the choristers had filed in from the south
side, and peals broke forth from the organ on the black oaken mass at the
junction of nave and choir, shaking every cobweb in the dusky vaults, and
Ethelberta's heart no less. She knew the fingers that were pressing out
those rolling sounds, and knowing them, became absorbed in tracing their
progress. To go towards the organ-loft was an act of unconsciousness,
and she did not pause till she stood almost beneath it.
Ethelberta was awakened from vague imaginings by the close approach of
the old gentleman alluded to, who spoke with a great deal of agitation.
'I have been trying to meet with you,' said Lord Mountclere. 'Come, let
us be friends again!--Ethelberta, I MUST not lose you! You cannot mean
that the engagement shall be broken off?' He was far too desirous to
possess her at any price now to run a second risk of exasperating her,
and forbore to make any allusion to the recent pantomime between herself
and Christopher that he had beheld, though it might reasonably have
filled him with dread and petulance.
'I do not mean anything beyond this,' said she, 'that I entirely withdraw
from it on the faintest sign that you have not abandoned such miserable
jealous proceedings as those you adopted to-day.'
'I have quite abandoned them. Will you come a little further this way,
and walk in the aisle? You do still agree to be mine?'
'If it gives you any pleasure, I do.'
'Yes, yes. I implore that the marriage may be soon--very soon.' The
viscount spoke hastily, for the notes of the organ which were plunging
into their ears ever and anon from the hands of his young rival seemed
inconveniently and solemnly in the way of his suit.
'Well, Lord Mountclere?'
'Say in a few days?--it is the only thing that will satisfy me.'
'I am absolutely indifferent as to the day. If it pleases you to have it
early I am willing.'
'Dare I ask that it may be this week?' said the delighted old man.
'I could not say that.'
'But you can name the earliest day?'
'I cannot now. We had better be going from here, I think.'
The Cathedral was filling with shadows, and cold breathings came round
the piers, for it was November, when night very soon succeeds noon in
spots where noon is sobered to the pallor of eve. But the service was
not yet over, and before quite leaving the building Ethelberta cast one
other glance towards the organ and thought of him behind it. At this
moment her attention was arrested by the form of her sister Picotee, who
came in at the north door, closed the lobby-wicket softly, and went
lightly forward to the choir. When within a few yards of it she paused
by a pillar, and lingered there looking up at the organ as Ethelberta had
done. No sound was coming from the ponderous mass of tubes just then;
but in a short space a whole crowd of tones spread from the instrument to
accompany the words of a response. Picotee started at the burst of music
as if taken in a dishonest action, and moved on in a manner intended to
efface the lover's loiter of the preceding moments from her own
consciousness no less than from other people's eyes.
'Do you see that?' said Ethelberta. 'That little figure is my dearest
sister. Could you but ensure a marriage between her and him she listens
to, I would do anything you wish!'
'That is indeed a gracious promise,' said Lord Mountclere. 'And would
you agree to what I asked just now?'
'Yes.'
'When?' A gleeful spark accompanied this.
'As you requested.'
'This week? The day after to-morrow?'
'If you will. But remember what lies on your side of the contract. I
fancy I have given you a task beyond your powers.'
'Well, darling, we are at one at last,' said Lord Mountclere, rubbing his
hand against his side. 'And if my task is heavy and I cannot guarantee
the result, I can make it very probable. Marry me on Friday--the day
after to-morrow--and I will do all that money and influence can effect to
bring about their union.'
'You solemnly promise? You will never cease to give me all the aid in
your power until the thing is done?'
'I do solemnly promise--on the conditions named.'
'Very good. You will have ensured my fulfilment of my promise before I
can ensure yours; but I take your word.'
'You will marry me on Friday! Give me your hand upon it.'
She gave him her hand.
'Is it a covenant?' he asked.
'It is,' said she.
Lord Mountclere warmed from surface to centre as if he had drunk of
hippocras, and, after holding her hand for some moments, raised it gently
to his lips.
'Two days and you are mine,' he said.
'That I believe I never shall be.'
'Never shall be? Why, darling?'
'I don't know. Some catastrophe will prevent it. I shall be dead
perhaps.'
'You distress me. Ah,--you meant me--you meant that I should be dead,
because you think I am old! But that is a mistake--I am not very old!'
'I thought only of myself--nothing of you.'
'Yes, I know. Dearest, it is dismal and chilling here--let us go.'
Ethelberta mechanically moved with him, and felt there was no retreating
now. In the meantime the young ladykin whom the solemn vowing concerned
had lingered round the choir screen, as if fearing to enter, yet loth to
go away. The service terminated, the heavy books were closed, doors were
opened, and the feet of the few persons who had attended evensong began
pattering down the paved alleys. Not wishing Picotee to know that the
object of her secret excursion had been discovered, Ethelberta now
stepped out of the west doorway with the viscount before Picotee had
emerged from the other; and they walked along the path together until she
overtook them.
'I fear it becomes necessary for me to stay in Melchester to-night,' said
Lord Mountclere. 'I have a few matters to attend to here, as the result
of our arrangements. But I will first accompany you as far as Anglebury,
and see you safely into a carriage there that shall take you home. To-
morrow I will drive to Knollsea, when we will make the final
preparations.'
Ethelberta would not have him go so far and back again, merely to attend
upon her; hence they parted at the railway, with due and correct
tenderness; and when the train had gone, Lord Mountclere returned into
the town on the special business he had mentioned, for which there
remained only the present evening and the following morning, if he were
to call upon her in the afternoon of the next day--the day before the
wedding--now so recklessly hastened on his part, and so coolly assented
to on hers.
By the time that the two young people had started it was nearly dark.
Some portions of the railway stretched through little copses and
plantations where, the leaf-shedding season being now at its height, red
and golden patches of fallen foliage lay on either side of the rails; and
as the travellers passed, all these death-stricken bodies boiled up in
the whirlwind created by the velocity, and were sent flying right and
left of them in myriads, a clean-fanned track being left behind.
Picotee was called from the observation of these phenomena by a remark
from her sister: 'Picotee, the marriage is to be very early indeed. It
is to be the day after to-morrow--if it can. Nevertheless I don't
believe in the fact--I cannot.'
'Did you arrange it so? Nobody can make you marry so soon.'
'I agreed to the day,' murmured Ethelberta languidly.
'How can it be? The gay dresses and the preparations and the people--how
can they be collected in the time, Berta? And so much more of that will
be required for a lord of the land than for a common man. O, I can't
think it possible for a sister of mine to marry a lord!'
'And yet it has been possible any time this last month or two, strange as
it seems to you. . . . It is to be not only a plain and simple wedding,
without any lofty appliances, but a secret one--as secret as if I were
some under-age heiress to an Indian fortune, and he a young man of
nothing a year.'
'Has Lord Mountclere said it must be so private? I suppose it is on
account of his family.'
'No. I say so; and it is on account of my family. Father might object
to the wedding, I imagine, from what he once said, or he might be much
disturbed about it; so I think it better that he and the rest should know
nothing till all is over. You must dress again as my sister to-morrow,
dear. Lord Mountclere is going to pay us an early visit to conclude
necessary arrangements.'
'O, the life as a lady at Enckworth Court! The flowers, the woods, the
rooms, the pictures, the plate, and the jewels! Horses and carriages
rattling and prancing, seneschals and pages, footmen hopping up and
hopping down. It will be glory then!'
'We might hire our father as one of my retainers, to increase it,' said
Ethelberta drily.
Picotee's countenance fell. 'How shall we manage all about that? 'Tis
terrible, really!'
'The marriage granted, those things will right themselves by time and
weight of circumstances. You take a wrong view in thinking of glories of
that sort. My only hope is that my life will be quite private and
simple, as will best become my inferiority and Lord Mountclere's
staidness. Such a splendid library as there is at Enckworth,
Picotee--quartos, folios, history, verse, Elzevirs, Caxtons--all that has
been done in literature from Moses down to Scott--with such companions I
can do without all other sorts of happiness.'
'And you will not go to town from Easter to Lammastide, as other noble
ladies do?' asked the younger girl, rather disappointed at this aspect of
a viscountess's life.
'I don't know.'
'But you will give dinners, and travel, and go to see his friends, and
have them to see you?'
'I don't know.'
'Will you not be, then, as any other peeress; and shall not I be as any
other peeress's sister?'
'That, too, I do not know. All is mystery. Nor do I even know that the
marriage will take place. I feel that it may not; and perhaps so much
the better, since the man is a stranger to me. I know nothing whatever
of his nature, and he knows nothing of mine.'