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.