To be wise after the event is often to act foolishly with regard to it;
and to preserve the illusion which has led to the event would frequently
be a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with. Reaction
with Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatened
to be useless. Sol's bitter chiding had been the first thing to
discompose her fortitude. It reduced her to a consciousness that she had
allowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not triumphed
in her duty. She might have pleased her family better by pleasing her
tastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the situation
disclosed later in the day.
After the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed in
mind by being able to nurse a definite intention. As momentum causes the
narrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give the
weakest some power to maintain a position stoically.
In the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o'clock, she
slipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note. To her relief, a
hand received it instantly.
The hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with great
effort. The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during which
she attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicion
just before the appointed moment.
Happily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any such
thing.
A little while before the half-hour, when she moved to rise from dinner,
he also arose, tenderly begging her to excuse him for a few minutes, that
he might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that moment
forgotten, though the postman was nearly due. She heard him retire along
the corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised time of return
being a quarter of an hour thence.
Five minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the little
door by the bush of yew, well and thickly wrapped up from head to heels.
She skimmed across the park and under the boughs like a shade, mounting
then the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside the park
gates here as at all the lodges. Outside and below her she saw an oblong
shape--it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close to the
bottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go on foot
than to this barrier. The whole precinct was thronged with trees; half
their foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for the
gardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it was
that her dress rustled as she descended the steps.
The carriage door was held open by the driver, and she entered instantly.
He shut her in, and mounted to his seat. As they drove away she became
conscious of another person inside.
'O! Sol--it is done!' she whispered, believing the man to be her brother.
Her companion made no reply.
Ethelberta, familiar with Sol's moods of troubled silence, did not press
for an answer. It was, indeed, certain that Sol's assistance would have
been given under a sullen protest; even if unwilling to disappoint her,
he might well have been taciturn and angry at her course.
They sat in silence, and in total darkness. The road ascended an
incline, the horse's tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves.
Then the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a low
brushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, in
its fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against the
hard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills. It showed
how deserted was the spot after nightfall.
'Sol?' said Ethelberta again. 'Why not talk to me?'
She now noticed that her fellow-traveller kept his head and his whole
person as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possible
to do. She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand the
reason. The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.
'Where are we now?' she said. 'Shall we get to Anglebury by nine? What
is the time, Sol?'
'I will see,' replied her companion. They were the first words he had
uttered.
The voice was so different from her brother's that she was terrified; her
limbs quivered. In another instant the speaker had struck a wax vesta,
and holding it erect in his fingers he looked her in the face.
'Hee-hee-hee!' The laugher was her husband the viscount.
He laughed again, and his eyes gleamed like a couple of tarnished brass
buttons in the light of the wax match.
Ethelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and hideous
was it. Yet she did not. She neither shrieked nor fainted; but no poor
January fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank with
perspiration, than she was then.
'A very pleasant joke, my dear--hee-hee! And no more than was to be
expected on this merry, happy day of our lives. Nobody enjoys a good
jest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest--hee-hee! Now we are in the
dark again; and we will alight and walk. The path is too narrow for the
carriage, but it will not be far for you. Take your husband's arm.'
While he had been speaking a defiant pride had sprung up in her,
instigating her to conceal every weakness. He had opened the carriage
door and stepped out. She followed, taking the offered arm.
'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to the
coachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his.
The coachman turned the horse's head and vanished down the woodland track
by which they had ascended.
The viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as a
woodpecker's taps, and Ethelberta with him. She walked as by a miracle,
but she would walk. She would have died rather than not have walked
then.
She perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood. As they
went, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of the
viscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch. She
remembered having seen it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch of mud.
She might push him in, and run, and so escape before he could extricate
himself. It would not hurt him. It was her last chance. She waited a
moment for the opportunity.
'We are one to one, and I am the stronger!' she at last exclaimed
triumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.
'On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and you
considerably the weaker,' he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly,
and blowing a whistle. At once the bushes seemed to be animated in four
or five places.
'John?' he said, in the direction of one of them.
'Yes, my lord,' replied a voice from the bush, and a keeper came forward.
'William?'
Another man advanced from another bush.
'Quite right. Remain where you are for the present. Is Tomkins there?'
'Yes, my lord,' said a man from another part of the thicket.
'You go and keep watch by the further lodge: there are poachers about.
Where is Strongway?'
'Just below, my lord.'
'Tell him and his brother to go to the west gate, and walk up and down.
Let them search round it, among the trees inside. Anybody there who
cannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrow
morning. I am living at the cottage at present. That's all I have to
say to you.' And, turning round to Ethelberta: 'Now, dearest, we will
walk a little further if you are able. I have provided that your friends
shall be taken care of.' He tried to pull her hand towards him, gently,
like a cat opening a door.
They walked a little onward, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with
imperturbable good-humour:
'I will tell you a story, to pass the time away. I have learnt the art
from you--your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration with
it. Listen, dearest. I saw a young man come to the house to-day.
Afterwards I saw him cross a passage in your company. You entered the
ball-room with him. That room is a treacherous place. It is panelled
with wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for the
servants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork. Lady
Mountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out her
conspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to let
in himself. His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired. A
meeting was arranged to take place at the west gate at half-past seven,
unless a note handed from the balcony mentioned another time and place.
He heard it all--hee-hee!
'When Lady Mountclere's confederate came for the note, I was in waiting
above, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck,
confirming the time, but changing the place. When Lady Mountclere handed
down her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone,
and I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it. She dropped it
into her husband's hands--ho-ho-ho-ho!
'Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed by
Lady Mountclere's note. Probably Lady Mountclere's friend ordered a
brougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written in
imitation of Lady Mountclere's hand. Lady Mountclere came to the spot
she had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of her
husband--hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'
As if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughter
also--laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical. She
sank down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just as
before.
Lord Mountclere became greatly frightened. The spot they had reached was
a green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose an
ornamental cottage. This was the building which Ethelberta had visited
earlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.
The viscount left her side and hurried forward. The door of the building
was opened by a woman.
'Have you prepared for us, as I directed?'
'Yes, my lord; tea and coffee are both ready.'
'Never mind that now. Lady Mountclere is ill; come and assist her
indoors. Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.'
He returned to Ethelberta. She was better, and was sitting calmly on the
bank. She rose without assistance.
'You may retire,' he said to the woman who had followed him, and she
turned round. When Ethelberta saw the building, she drew back quickly.
'Where is the other Lady Mountclere?' she inquired.
'Gone!'
'She shall never return--never?'
'Never. It was not intended that she should.'
'That sounds well. Lord Mountclere, we may as well compromise matters.'
'I think so too. It becomes a lady to make a virtue of a necessity.'
'It was stratagem against stratagem. Mine was ingenious; yours was
masterly! Accept my acknowledgment. We will enter upon an armed
neutrality.'
'No. Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever. Your beauty,
dearest, covers everything! You are my mistress and queen! But here we
are at the door. Tea is prepared for us here. I have a liking for life
in this cottage mode, and live here on occasion. Women, attend to Lady
Mountclere.'
The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed at
recognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage:
she murmured entreaties for pardon. They assisted the viscountess to a
chair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had ever
stood there to interrupt its flight.
* * * * *
Full of misgivings, Christopher continued to wait at the north gate. Half-
past seven had long since been past, and no Ethelberta had appeared. He
did not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and this gave him
patience; having taken up the position, he was induced by fidelity to
abide by the consequences. It would be only a journey of two hours to
reach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver, put her
into the train, and bid her adieu for ever. She had cried for help, and
he had heard her cry.
At last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock striking
eight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whether
she could have mistaken the gate. She had distinctly told Sol the west
lodge; her note had expressed the north lodge. Could she by any accident
have written one thing while meaning another? He entered the carriage,
and drove round to the west gate. All was as silent there as at the
other, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then long
past; and he drove back again.
He left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the house
slowly. All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came from
the trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night. By this time he
felt assured that the scheme had miscarried. While he stood here a
carriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards the
stable-yard without going to the door. The carriage had plainly been
empty.
Returning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by the
voices of two men from the road hard by.
'Have ye zeed anybody?'
'Not a soul.'
'Shall we go across again?'
'What's the good? let's home to supper.'
'My lord must have heard somebody, or 'a wouldn't have said it.'
'Perhaps he's nervous now he's living in the cottage again. I thought
that fancy was over. Well, I'm glad 'tis a young wife he's brought us.
She'll have her routs and her rackets as well as the high-born ones,
you'll see, as soon as she gets used to the place.'
'She must be a queer Christian to pick up with him.'
'Well, if she've charity 'tis enough for we poor men; her faith and hope
may be as please God. Now I be for on-along homeward.'
As soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and, avoiding
the gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive at once
to Anglebury.
Julian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wished
to annihilate its existence. On reaching Anglebury he determined to get
on at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarily
ended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it. He
reached home before midnight.
Walking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himself
as a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, he
found Faith sitting up as usual. His news was simple: the marriage had
taken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of either
ceremony or viscountess. The remainder he reserved for a more convenient
season.
Edith looked anxiously at him as he ate supper, smiling now and then.
'Well, I am tired of this life,' said Christopher.
'So am I,' said Faith. 'Ah, if we were only rich!'
'Ah, yes.'
'Or if we were not rich,' she said, turning her eyes to the fire. 'If we
were only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing. How
much would you be content with, Kit?'
'As much as I could get.'
'Would you be content with a thousand a year for both of us?'
'I daresay I should,' he murmured, breaking his bread.
'Or five hundred for both?'
'Or five hundred.'
'Or even three hundred?'
'Bother three hundred. Less than double the sum would not satisfy me. We
may as well imagine much as little.'
Faith's countenance had fallen. 'O Kit,' she said, 'you always
disappoint me.'
'I do. How do I disappoint you this time?'
'By not caring for three hundred a year--a hundred and fifty each--when
that is all I have to offer you.'
'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time. 'Ah--of course! Lucy's
will. I had forgotten.'
'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and now
you don't care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. I
don't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and fifty
a year each--more than I expected, though not so much as you deserved.
Here's the letter. I have been dwelling upon it all day, and thinking
what a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'
'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing. The real thing is another
matter altogether. Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names! I
am sure I would have gone to the funeral had I known.'
'I wish it were a thousand.'
'O no--it doesn't matter at all. But, certainly, three hundred for two
is a tantalizing sum: not enough to enable us to change our condition,
and enough to make us dissatisfied with going on as we are.'
'We must forget we have it, and let it increase.'
'It isn't enough to increase much. We may as well use it. But how? Take
a bigger house--what's the use? Give up the organ?--then I shall be
rather worse off than I am at present. Positively, it is the most
provoking amount anybody could have invented had they tried ever so long.
Poor Lucy, to do that, and not even to come near us when father died. . .
. Ah, I know what we'll do. We'll go abroad--we'll live in Italy.'