23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)
Picotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.
'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not beginto speak.
'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.
'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He hasforgotten me--that's what it is!'
'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.
Ethelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escapeher, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same. 'Isuppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only aheadache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meetingat Anglebury?'
'Yes, he remembered me.'
'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'
'I had seen him at Sandbourne. I don't think I told you.'
'At whose house did you meet him?'
'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in greatdistress.
Ethelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming withcompassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom shecontinually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of herstrong ones. But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: theintended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar ofinterests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans. 'Picotee, I wouldrather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said. 'You need not leaveme any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'
Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not long been alone and indarkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without acandle.
'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'
'O yes,' said Ethelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house thisevening?'
'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she isgoing to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'
'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day shewill let drop something or other before father can stop her.'
'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front ofthe couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder andshaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple,and breathed out upon her cheek:
'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told youjust now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan'tbe able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of along time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said hewas your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because Ithought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn'tmean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want todo it, either; it would come to me! And I didn't know he belonged to youwhen I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no Iwouldn't!'
'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whisperedEthelberta.
'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on theroad, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round.But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide inSandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wantedto see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.
'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, andthat caused--a confusion!'
'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picoteesoothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such amanner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhapsit may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?'
'Then don't you want him, Berta?'
'O no; not at all!'
'What--and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, startingup.
'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort ofman I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry,which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see mebecause we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more thanthat he takes an interest in me. It is not at all likely that I shallsee him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you arepresent.'
'That will be very nice.'
'Yes. And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave theroom when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continuethis to-morrow? I can tell you better then what to do.'
When Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over uponher breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationshipwith tears. This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun--notlasting more than a minute and a half altogether--and she got up in anunconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasmof this event--the unhappy love of Picotee--by mentioning something of itto another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was awoman full of sympathy.
Ethelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o'clock. Theroom was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, beingbusy about her own affairs upstairs. The French family had gone to thetheatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night.Ethelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, andin a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.
The round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as shecame, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time. 'Such aplace as this London is, to be sure!' she exclaimed, turning on the gastill it whistled. 'I wish I was down in Wessex again. Lord-a-mercy,Berta, I didn't see it was you! I thought it was Cornelia. As I wassaying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all theweek, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing 'em, andnever shall, because I don't understand that line, I thought I would goout and see father, you know.'
'Is he very well?' said Ethelberta.
'Yes; and he is going to call round when he has time. Well, as I was a-coming home-along I thought, "Please the Lord I'll have some chippols forsupper just for a plain trate," and I went round to the lategreengrocer's for 'em; and do you know they sweared me down that theyhadn't got such things as chippols in the shop, and had never heard of'em in their lives. At last I said, "Why, how can you tell me such abrazen story?--here they be, heaps of 'em!" It made me so vexed that Icame away there and then, and wouldn't have one--no, not at a gift.'
'They call them young onions here,' said Ethelberta quietly; 'you mustalways remember that. But, Gwendoline, I wanted--'
Ethelberta felt sick at heart, and stopped. She had come down on thewings of an impulse to unfold her trouble about Picotee to herhard-headed and much older sister, less for advice than to get some heart-ease by interchange of words; but alas, she could proceed no further. Thewretched homeliness of Gwendoline's mind seemed at this particularjuncture to be absolutely intolerable, and Ethelberta was suddenlyconvinced that to involve Gwendoline in any such discussion would simplybe increasing her own burden, and adding worse confusion to her sister'salready confused existence.
'What were you going to say?' said the honest and unsuspectingGwendoline.
'I will put it off until to-morrow,' Ethelberta murmured gloomily; 'Ihave a bad headache, and I am afraid I cannot stay with you after all.'
As she ascended the stairs, Ethelberta ached with an added pain not muchless than the primary one which had brought her down. It was that oldsense of disloyalty to her class and kin by feeling as she felt now whichcaused the pain, and there was no escaping it. Gwendoline would havegone to the ends of the earth for her: she could not confide a thought toGwendoline!
'If she only knew of that unworthy feeling of mine, how she wouldgrieve,' said Ethelberta miserably.
She next went up to the servants' bedrooms, and to where Cornelia slept.On Ethelberta's entrance Cornelia looked up from a perfect wonder of abonnet, which she held in her hands. At sight of Ethelberta the look ofkee
n interest in her work changed to one of gaiety.
'I am so glad--I was just coming down,' Cornelia said in a whisper;whenever they spoke as relations in this house it was in whispers. 'Now,how do you think this bonnet will do? May I come down, and see how Ilook in your big glass?' She clapped the bonnet upon her head. 'Won'tit do beautiful for Sunday afternoon?'
'It looks very attractive, as far as I can see by this light,' saidEthelberta. 'But is it not rather too brilliant in colour--blue and redtogether, like that? Remember, as I often tell you, people in town neverwear such bright contrasts as they do in the country.'
'O Berta!' said Cornelia, in a deprecating tone; 'don't object. Ifthere's one thing I do glory in it is a nice flare-up about my head o'Sundays--of course if the family's not in mourning, I mean.' But, seeingthat Ethelberta did not smile, she turned the subject, and addeddocilely: 'Did you come up for me to do anything? I will put offfinishing my bonnet if I am wanted.'
'I was going to talk to you about family matters, and Picotee,' saidEthelberta. 'But, as you are busy, and I have a headache, I will put itoff till to-morrow.'
Cornelia seemed decidedly relieved, for family matters were far fromattractive at the best of times; and Ethelberta went down to the nextfloor, and entered her mother's room.
After a short conversation Mrs. Chickerel said, 'You say you want to askme something?'
'Yes: but nothing of importance, mother. I was thinking about Picotee,and what would be the best thing to do--'
'Ah, well you may, Berta. I am so uneasy about this life you have led usinto, and full of fear that your plans may break down; if they do,whatever will become of us? I know you are doing your best; but I cannothelp thinking that the coming to London and living with you was wild andrash, and not well weighed afore we set about it. You should havecounted the cost first, and not advised it. If you break down, and weare all discovered living so queer and unnatural, right in the heart ofthe aristocracy, we should be the laughing-stock of the country: it wouldkill me, and ruin us all--utterly ruin us!'
'O mother, I know all that so well!' exclaimed Ethelberta, tears ofanguish filling her eyes. 'Don't depress me more than I depress myselfby such fears, or you will bring about the very thing we strive to avoid!My only chance is in keeping in good spirits, and why don't you try tohelp me a little by taking a brighter view of things?'
'I know I ought to, my dear girl, but I cannot. I do so wish that Inever let you tempt me and the children away from the Lodge. I cannotthink why I allowed myself to be so persuaded--cannot think! You are notto blame--it is I. I am much older than you, and ought to have knownbetter than listen to such a scheme. This undertaking seems too big--thebills frighten me. I have never been used to such wild adventure, and Ican't sleep at night for fear that your tale-telling will go wrong, andwe shall all be exposed and shamed. A story-teller seems such animpossible castle-in-the-air sort of a trade for getting a living by--Icannot think how ever you came to dream of such an unheard-of thing.'
'But it is not a castle in the air, and it does get a living!' saidEthelberta, her lip quivering.
'Well, yes, while it is just a new thing; but I am afraid it cannotlast--that's what I fear. People will find you out as one of a family ofservants, and their pride will be stung at having gone to hear yourromancing; then they will go no more, and what will happen to us and thepoor little ones?'
'We must all scatter again!'
'If we could get as we were once, I wouldn't mind that. But we shallhave lost our character as simple country folk who know nothing, whichare the only class of poor people that squires will give any help to; andI much doubt if the girls would get places after such a discovery--itwould be so awkward and unheard-of.'
'Well, all I can say is,' replied Ethelberta, 'that I will do my best.All that I have is theirs and yours as much as mine, and thesearrangements are simply on their account. I don't like my relationsbeing my servants; but if they did not work for me, they would have towork for others, and my service is much lighter and pleasanter than anyother lady's would be for them, so the advantages are worth the risk. IfI stood alone, I would go and hide my head in any hole, and care no moreabout the world and its ways. I wish I was well out of it, and at thebottom of a quiet grave--anybody might have the world for me then! Butdon't let me disturb you longer; it is getting late.'
Ethelberta then wished her mother good-night, and went away. To attemptconfidences on such an ethereal matter as love was now absurd; her hermitspirit was doomed to dwell apart as usual; and she applied herself todeep thinking without aid and alone. Not only was there Picotee's miseryto disperse; it became imperative to consider how best to overpass a moregeneral catastrophe.