'Oh--a nickname.'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
The woman whispered why in a story of about two minutes' length.
Ethelberta turned pale.
'Is she going to return?' she inquired, in a thin hard voice.
'Yes; next week. You know her, m'm?'
'No. I am a stranger.'
'So much the better. I may tell you, then, that an old tale is flying
about the neighbourhood--that Lord Mountclere was privately married to
another woman, at Knollsea, this morning early. Can it be true?'
'I believe it to be true.'
'And that she is of no family?'
'Of no family.'
'Indeed. Then the Lord only knows what will become of the poor thing.
There will be murder between 'em.'
'Between whom?'
'Her and the lady who lives here. She won't budge an inch--not she!'
Ethelberta moved aside. A shade seemed to overspread the world, the sky,
the trees, and the objects in the foreground. She kept her face away
from the woman, and, whispering a reply to her Good-morning, passed
through the hollies into the leaf-strewn path. As soon as she came to a
large trunk she placed her hands against it and rested her face upon
them. She drew herself lower down, lower, lower, till she crouched upon
the leaves. 'Ay--'tis what father and Sol meant! O Heaven!' she
whispered.
She soon arose, and went on her way to the house. Her fair features were
firmly set, and she scarcely heeded the path in the concentration which
had followed her paroxysm. When she reached the park proper she became
aware of an excitement that was in progress there.
Ethelberta's absence had become unaccountable to Lord Mountclere, who
could hardly permit her retirement from his sight for a minute. But at
first he had made due allowance for her eccentricity as a woman of
genius, and would not take notice of the half-hour's desertion,
unpardonable as it might have been in other classes of wives. Then he
had inquired, searched, been alarmed: he had finally sent men-servants in
all directions about the park to look for her. He feared she had fallen
out of a window, down a well, or into the lake. The next stage of search
was to have been drags and grapnels: but Ethelberta entered the house.
Lord Mountclere rushed forward to meet her, and such was her contrivance
that he noticed no change. The searchers were called in, Ethelberta
explaining that she had merely obeyed the wish of her brother in going
out to meet him. Picotee, who had returned from her walk with Sol, was
upstairs in one of the rooms which had been allotted to her. Ethelberta
managed to run in there on her way upstairs to her own chamber.
'Picotee, put your things on again,' she said. 'You are the only friend
I have in this house, and I want one badly. Go to Sol, and deliver this
message to him--that I want to see him at once. You must overtake him,
if you walk all the way to Anglebury. But the train does not leave till
four, so that there is plenty of time.'
'What is the matter?' said Picotee. 'I cannot walk all the way.'
'I don't think you will have to do that--I hope not.'
'He is going to stop at Corvsgate to have a bit of lunch: I might
overtake him there, if I must!'
'Yes. And tell him to come to the east passage door. It is that door
next to the entrance to the stable-yard. There is a little yew-tree
outside it. On second thoughts you, dear, must not come back. Wait at
Corvsgate in the little inn parlour till Sol comes to you again. You
will probably then have to go home to London alone; but do not mind it.
The worst part for you will be in going from the station to the Crescent;
but nobody will molest you in a four-wheel cab: you have done it before.
However, he will tell you if this is necessary when he gets back. I can
best fight my battles alone. You shall have a letter from me the day
after to-morrow, stating where I am. I shall not be here.'
'But what is it so dreadful?'
'Nothing to frighten you.' But she spoke with a breathlessness that
completely nullified the assurance. 'It is merely that I find I must
come to an explanation with Lord Mountclere before I can live here
permanently, and I cannot stipulate with him while I am here in his
power. Till I write, good-bye. Your things are not unpacked, so let
them remain here for the present--they can be sent for.'
Poor Picotee, more agitated than her sister, but never questioning her
orders, went downstairs and out of the house. She ran across the
shrubberies, into the park, and to the gate whereat Sol had emerged some
half-hour earlier. She trotted along upon the turnpike road like a lost
doe, crying as she went at the new trouble which had come upon Berta,
whatever that trouble might be. Behind her she heard wheels and the
stepping of a horse, but she was too concerned to turn her head. The
pace of the vehicle slackened, however, when it was abreast of Picotee,
and she looked up to see Christopher as the driver.
'Miss Chickerel!' he said, with surprise.