39. KNOLLSEA--MELCHESTER
The year was now moving on apace, but Ethelberta and Picotee chose toremain at Knollsea, in the brilliant variegated brick and stone villa towhich they had removed in order to be in keeping with their ascendingfortunes. Autumn had begun to make itself felt and seen in bolder andless subtle ways than at first. In the morning now, on comingdownstairs, in place of a yellowish-green leaf or two lying in a cornerof the lowest step, which had been the only previous symptoms around thehouse, she saw dozens of them playing at corkscrews in the wind, directlythe door was opened. Beyond, towards the sea, the slopes and scarps thathad been muffled with a thick robe of cliff herbage, were showing theirchill grey substance through the withered verdure, like the background ofvelvet whence the pile has been fretted away. Unexpected breezes broomedand rasped the smooth bay in evanescent patches of stippled shade, and,besides the small boats, the ponderous lighters used in shipping stonewere hauled up the beach in anticipation of the equinoctial attack.
A few days after Ethelberta's reception at Enckworth, an improvedstanhope, driven by Lord Mountclere himself, climbed up the hill until itwas opposite her door. A few notes from a piano softly played reachedhis ear as he descended from his place: on being shown in to hisbetrothed, 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 adefenceless young widow and an old widower in Lord Mountclere's positionto whom she was plighted--a great deal of formal considerateness makingitself visible on her part, and of extreme tenderness on his. While thusoccupied, he turned to the piano, and casually glanced at a piece ofmusic lying open upon it. Some words of writing at the top expressedthat it was the composer's original copy, presented by him, ChristopherJulian, to the author of the song. Seeing that he noticed the sheetsomewhat lengthily, Ethelberta remarked that it had been an offering madeto her a long time ago--a melody written to one of her own poems.
'In the writing of the composer,' observed Lord Mountclere, withinterest. 'An offering from the musician himself--very gratifying andtouching. Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see upon it, I believe? Iknew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne man, if I recollect.'
'Yes,' said Ethelberta placidly. But it was really with an effort. Thesong was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her fromSandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends;and the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had startededdies of emotion for some time checked.
'I am sorry you have been grieved,' said Lord Mountclere, with gloomyrestlessness.
'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 inlove 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 songis 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?' sheasked, 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 thoughtscould hardly be said to be present when he uttered the words. For thoughthe tabernacle was getting shaky by reason of years and merry living, sothat what was going on inside might often be guessed without by themovement of the hangings, as in a puppet-show with worn canvas, he couldbe quiet enough when scheming any plot of particular neatness, which hadless emotion than impishness in it. Such an innocent amusement he waspondering now.
Before leaving her, he asked if she would accompany him to a morninginstrumental concert at Melchester, which was to take place in the courseof that week for the benefit of some local institution.
'Melchester,' she repeated faintly, and observed him as searchingly as itwas possible to do without exposing herself to a raking fire in return.Could he know that Christopher was living there, and was this said inprolongation of his recent suspicion? But Lord Mountclere's face gave nosign.
'You forget one fatal objection,' said she; 'the secrecy in which it isimperative 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 youup, but will meet you at the station at Anglebury; and we can go ontogether by train without notice. Surely there can be no objection tothat? It would be mere prudishness to object, since we are to become oneso shortly.' He spoke a little impatiently. It was plain that heparticularly wanted her to go to Melchester.
'I merely meant that there was a chance of discovery in our going outtogether. And discovery means no marriage.' She was pale now, and sickat heart, for it seemed that the viscount must be aware that Christopherdwelt 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 hecannot control me, he might entreat me.'
'Why would he object?' said Lord Mountclere uneasily, and somewhathaughtily.
'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 youwill 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 Iwish, 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 beenstretched out as long as it reasonably could be with propriety, LordMountclere took his leave.
When he was again seated on the driving-phaeton which he had brought thatday, Lord Mountclere looked gleeful, and shrewd enough in his own opinionto outwit Mephistopheles. As soon as they were ascending a hill, and hecould find time to free his hand, he pulled off his glove, and drawingfrom his pocket a programme of the Melchester concert referred to,contemplated therein the name of one of the intended performers. Thename was that of Mr. C. Julian. Replacing it again, he looked ahead, andsome time after murmured with wily mirth, 'An excellent test--a luckythought!'
Nothing of importance occurred during the intervening days. At twoo'clock on the appointed afternoon Ethelberta stepped from the train atMelchester with the viscount, who had met her as proposed; she wasfollowed behind by Picotee.
The concert was to be held at the Town-hall half-an-hour later. Theyentered a fly in waiting, and secure from recognition, were drivenleisurely in that direction, Picotee silent and absorbed with her ownthoughts.
'There's the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere humorously, as they caughta 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 rememberthat he is the Mr. Julian who set your song to music!'
'I recollect it quite well.' Her heart was horrified and she thoughtLord Mountclere must be developing into an inquisitor, which perhaps hewas. But none of this reached her face.
They turned in the direction of the Hall, were set down, and ente
red.
The large assembly-room set apart for the concert was upstairs, and itwas possible to enter it in two ways: by the large doorway in front ofthe landing, or by turning down a side passage leading to council-roomsand subsidiary apartments of small size, which were allotted toperformers in any exhibition; thus they could enter from one of thesedirectly upon the platform, without passing through the audience.
'Will you seat yourselves here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead ofentering by the direct door, had brought the young women round into thisgreen-room, as it may be called. 'You see we have come in privatelyenough; when the musicians arrive we can pass through behind them, andstep down to our seats from the front.'
The players could soon be heard tuning in the next room. Then one camethrough the passage-room where the three waited, and went in, thenanother, then another. Last of all came Julian.
Ethelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never in the leastexpecting her there, did not recognize her till he was quite inside. Whenhe had really perceived her to be the one who had troubled his soul somany times and long, the blood in his face--never very much--passed offand left it, like the shade of a cloud. Between them stood a tablecovered with green baize, which, reflecting upwards a band of sunlightshining across the chamber, flung upon his already white features thevirescent hues of death. The poor musician, whose person, much to hisown inconvenience, constituted a complete breviary of the gentleemotions, looked as if he were going to fall down in a faint.
Ethelberta flung at Lord Mountclere a look which clipped him likepincers: he never forgot it as long as he lived.
'This is your pretty jealous scheme--I see it!' she hissed to him, andwithout being able to control herself went across to Julian.
But a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had beensitting. 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 feltthat a splendid triumph had been put into her hands. 'Now do you see thetruth?' she whispered to Lord Mountclere without a drachm of feeling;pointing to Christopher and then to Picotee--as like as two snowdropsnow.
'I do, I do,' murmured the viscount hastily.
They both went forward to help Christopher in restoring the fragilePicotee: he had set himself to that task as suddenly as he possibly couldto cover his own near approach to the same condition. Not much help wasrequired, the little girl's indisposition being quite momentary, and shesat 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. Imust, I think, go into the next room now.' He bowed and walked outawkwardly.
'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 thatlook of hers, which was not less dominant than irresistible.
Some additional moments given to thought on the circumstances renderedEthelberta still more indignant and intractable. She went out at thedoor by which they had entered, along the passage, and down the stairs. Ashuffling footstep followed, but she did not turn her head. When theyreached the bottom of the stairs the carriage had gone, their exit notbeing expected till two hours later. Ethelberta, nothing daunted, sweptalong the pavement and down the street in a turbulent prance, LordMountclere trotting behind with a jowl reduced to a mere nothing by hisconcern at the discourtesy into which he had been lured by jealouswhisperings.
'My dearest--forgive me; I confess I doubted you--but I was besidemyself,' came to her ears from over her shoulder. But Ethelberta walkedon as before.
Lord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger. 'An old man--who isnot very old--naturally torments himself with fears of losing--no, no--itwas an innocent jest of mine--you will forgive a joke--hee-hee?' he saidagain, 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 itwas 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 dieof suspense; better for us both--surely you see that?'
They had by this time got to the end of a long street, and into adeserted 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 ofbody and mind. Once out of sight here, Ethelberta began to cry.
'Ethelberta,' said Lord Mountclere, in an agony of trouble, 'don't bevexed! It was an inconsiderate trick--I own it. Do what you will, butdo not desert me now! I could not bear it--you would kill me if you wereto 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 trainfor Anglebury for the next two hours. Then more slowly she turnedtowards the town again, meeting Picotee and keeping in her company.
Lord Mountclere gave up the chase, but as he wished to get into the townagain, he followed in the same direction. When Ethelberta had proceededas 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. LordMountclere paused and entered the White Hart, the rival hotel to the RedLion, which stood in an adjoining street.
Having secluded himself in an apartment here, walked from window towindow awhile, and made himself generally uncomfortable, he sat down tothe 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. Heawaited anxiously for an answer, and waited long. It was nearly twentyminutes before he could hear a messenger approaching the door. Yes--shehad actually sent a reply; he prized it as if it had been the firstencouragement 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 lastlong, 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 hadtaken 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 whenhe saw Ethelberta moving slowly along the High Street before him.
Ethelberta was at this hour wandering without any fixed intention beyondthat of consuming time. She was very wretched, and very indifferent: theformer when thinking of her past, the latter when thinking of the days tocome. While she walked thus unconscious of the streets, and their groupsof other wayfarers, she saw Christopher emerge from a door not many pacesin advanc
e, and close it behind him: he stood for a moment on the stepbefore descending into the road.
She could not, even had she wished it, easily check her progress withoutrendering the chance of his perceiving her still more certain. But shedid not wish any such thing, and it made little difference, for he hadalready seen her in taking his survey round, and came down from the doorto her side. It was impossible for anything formal to pass between themnow.
'You are not at the concert, Mr. Julian?' she said. 'I am glad to have abetter 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 sadreserve. 'I will tell her I have met you; she is away from home just atpresent.' And finding that Ethelberta did not rejoin immediately heobserved, 'The chief organist, old Dr. Breeve, has taken my place at theconcert, as it was arranged he should do after the opening part. I amnow going to the Cathedral for the afternoon service. You are goingthere 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 inwhich scarcely any appropriate thing could be spoken. Ethelberta was theless reluctant to walk in his company because of the provocation toskittishness that Lord Mountclere had given, a provocation which shestill resented. But she was far from wishing to increase his jealousy;and yet this was what she was doing, Lord Mountclere being a perturbedwitness from behind of all that was passing now.
They turned the corner of the short street of connection which led underan archway to the Cathedral Close, the old peer dogging them still.Christopher seemed to warm up a little, and repeated the invitation. 'Youwill come with your sister to see us before you leave?' he said. 'Wehave tea at six.'
'We shall have left Melchester before that time. I am now only waitingfor 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--Iam 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 gettingabout the world alone, and from Melchester to Knollsea is no seriousjourney, late or early. . . . Yet I think I ought, in honesty, to tellyou 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. Itdid not occur to my mind for the moment that he was any other than astranger 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 ofsome difficulties that have arisen since we have been in the town, whichmay alter it entirely. On that account I will be less frank with youthan 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 beena possibility of my marriage with him.'
'The elderly gentleman?'
'Yes. And I came here in his company, intending to return with him. Butyou shall know all soon. Picotee shall write to Faith.'
'I always think the Cathedral looks better from this point than from thepoint usually chosen by artists,' he said, with nervous quickness,directing her glance upwards to the silent structure, now misty andunrelieved by either high light or deep shade. 'We get the grouping ofthe chapels and choir-aisles more clearly shown--and the whole culminatesto a more perfect pyramid from this spot--do you think so?'
'Yes. I do.'
A little further, and Christopher stopped to enter, when Ethelberta badehim farewell. 'I thought at one time that our futures might have beendifferent from what they are apparently becoming,' he said then,regarding her as a stall-reader regards the brilliant book he cannotafford to buy. 'But one gets weary of repining about that. I wishPicotee and yourself could see us oftener; I am as confirmed a bachelornow as Faith is an old maid. I wonder if--should the event youcontemplate occur--you and he will ever visit us, or we shall ever visityou!'
Christopher was evidently imagining the elderly gentleman to be someretired farmer, or professional man already so intermixed with themetamorphic classes of society as not to be surprised or inconveniencedby her beginnings; one who wished to secure Ethelberta as an ornament tohis parlour fire in a quiet spirit, and in no intoxicated mood regardlessof issues. She could scarcely reply to his supposition; and the partingwas what might have been predicted from a conversation so carefullycontrolled.
Ethelberta, as she had intended, now went on further, and entering thenave began to inspect the sallow monuments which lined the grizzled pile.She did not perceive amid the shadows an old gentleman who had crept intothe mouldy place as stealthily as a worm into a skull, and was keepinghimself carefully beyond her observation. She continued to regardfeature after feature till the choristers had filed in from the southside, and peals broke forth from the organ on the black oaken mass at thejunction of nave and choir, shaking every cobweb in the dusky vaults, andEthelberta's heart no less. She knew the fingers that were pressing outthose rolling sounds, and knowing them, became absorbed in tracing theirprogress. 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 ofthe old gentleman alluded to, who spoke with a great deal of agitation.
'I have been trying to meet with you,' said Lord Mountclere. 'Come, letus be friends again!--Ethelberta, I MUST not lose you! You cannot meanthat the engagement shall be broken off?' He was far too desirous topossess her at any price now to run a second risk of exasperating her,and forbore to make any allusion to the recent pantomime between herselfand Christopher that he had beheld, though it might reasonably havefilled him with dread and petulance.
'I do not mean anything beyond this,' said she, 'that I entirely withdrawfrom it on the faintest sign that you have not abandoned such miserablejealous 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.' Theviscount spoke hastily, for the notes of the organ which were plunginginto their ears ever and anon from the hands of his young rival seemedinconveniently 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 itearly 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 roundthe piers, for it was November, when night very soon succeeds noon inspots where noon is sobered to the pallor of eve. But the service wasnot yet over, and before quite leaving the building Ethelberta cast oneother glance towards the organ and thought of him behind it. At thismoment her attention was arrested by the form of her sister Picotee, whocame in at the north door, closed the lobby-wicket softly, and wentlightly forward to the choir. When within a few yards of it she pausedby a pillar, and lingered there looking up at the organ as Ethelberta haddone. 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 toaccompany the words of a response. Picotee started at the burst of musicas if taken in a dishonest action, and moved on in a manner intended toefface the lover's loiter of the preceding moments from her ownconsciousness no less than from other people's eyes.
'D
o you see that?' said Ethelberta. 'That little figure is my dearestsister. Could you but ensure a marriage between her and him she listensto, I would do anything you wish!'
'That is indeed a gracious promise,' said Lord Mountclere. 'And wouldyou 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. Ifancy I have given you a task beyond your powers.'
'Well, darling, we are at one at last,' said Lord Mountclere, rubbing hishand against his side. 'And if my task is heavy and I cannot guaranteethe result, I can make it very probable. Marry me on Friday--the dayafter to-morrow--and I will do all that money and influence can effect tobring about their union.'
'You solemnly promise? You will never cease to give me all the aid inyour 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 Ican 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 ofhippocras, and, after holding her hand for some moments, raised it gentlyto 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 deadperhaps.'
'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 retreatingnow. In the meantime the young ladykin whom the solemn vowing concernedhad lingered round the choir screen, as if fearing to enter, yet loth togo away. The service terminated, the heavy books were closed, doors wereopened, and the feet of the few persons who had attended evensong beganpattering down the paved alleys. Not wishing Picotee to know that theobject of her secret excursion had been discovered, Ethelberta nowstepped out of the west doorway with the viscount before Picotee hademerged from the other; and they walked along the path together until sheovertook them.
'I fear it becomes necessary for me to stay in Melchester to-night,' saidLord Mountclere. 'I have a few matters to attend to here, as the resultof 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 finalpreparations.'
Ethelberta would not have him go so far and back again, merely to attendupon her; hence they parted at the railway, with due and correcttenderness; and when the train had gone, Lord Mountclere returned intothe town on the special business he had mentioned, for which thereremained only the present evening and the following morning, if he wereto call upon her in the afternoon of the next day--the day before thewedding--now so recklessly hastened on his part, and so coolly assentedto 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 andplantations where, the leaf-shedding season being now at its height, redand golden patches of fallen foliage lay on either side of the rails; andas the travellers passed, all these death-stricken bodies boiled up inthe whirlwind created by the velocity, and were sent flying right andleft of them in myriads, a clean-fanned track being left behind.
Picotee was called from the observation of these phenomena by a remarkfrom her sister: 'Picotee, the marriage is to be very early indeed. Itis to be the day after to-morrow--if it can. Nevertheless I don'tbelieve 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--howcan they be collected in the time, Berta? And so much more of that willbe required for a lord of the land than for a common man. O, I can'tthink 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 asit 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 weresome under-age heiress to an Indian fortune, and he a young man ofnothing a year.'
'Has Lord Mountclere said it must be so private? I suppose it is onaccount of his family.'
'No. I say so; and it is on account of my family. Father might objectto the wedding, I imagine, from what he once said, or he might be muchdisturbed about it; so I think it better that he and the rest should knownothing 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 concludenecessary arrangements.'
'O, the life as a lady at Enckworth Court! The flowers, the woods, therooms, the pictures, the plate, and the jewels! Horses and carriagesrattling and prancing, seneschals and pages, footmen hopping up andhopping down. It will be glory then!'
'We might hire our father as one of my retainers, to increase it,' saidEthelberta drily.
Picotee's countenance fell. 'How shall we manage all about that? 'Tisterrible, really!'
'The marriage granted, those things will right themselves by time andweight of circumstances. You take a wrong view in thinking of glories ofthat sort. My only hope is that my life will be quite private andsimple, as will best become my inferiority and Lord Mountclere'sstaidness. Such a splendid library as there is at Enckworth,Picotee--quartos, folios, history, verse, Elzevirs, Caxtons--all that hasbeen done in literature from Moses down to Scott--with such companions Ican do without all other sorts of happiness.'
'And you will not go to town from Easter to Lammastide, as other nobleladies do?' asked the younger girl, rather disappointed at this aspect ofa viscountess's life.
'I don't know.'
'But you will give dinners, and travel, and go to see his friends, andhave them to see you?'
'I don't know.'
'Will you not be, then, as any other peeress; and shall not I be as anyother peeress's sister?'
'That, too, I do not know. All is mystery. Nor do I even know that themarriage will take place. I feel that it may not; and perhaps so muchthe better, since the man is a stranger to me. I know nothing whateverof his nature, and he knows nothing of mine.'