47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS--MELCHESTER
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 frequentlybe a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with. Reactionwith Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatenedto be useless. Sol's bitter chiding had been the first thing todiscompose her fortitude. It reduced her to a consciousness that she hadallowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not triumphedin her duty. She might have pleased her family better by pleasing hertastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the situationdisclosed later in the day.
After the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed inmind by being able to nurse a definite intention. As momentum causes thenarrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give theweakest some power to maintain a position stoically.
In the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o'clock, sheslipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note. To her relief, ahand received it instantly.
The hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with greateffort. The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during whichshe attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicionjust before the appointed moment.
Happily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any suchthing.
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, thathe might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that momentforgotten, though the postman was nearly due. She heard him retire alongthe corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised time of returnbeing a quarter of an hour thence.
Five minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the littledoor 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, mountingthen the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside the parkgates here as at all the lodges. Outside and below her she saw an oblongshape--it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close to thebottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go on footthan to this barrier. The whole precinct was thronged with trees; halftheir foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for thegardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it wasthat 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 becameconscious 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 pressfor an answer. It was, indeed, certain that Sol's assistance would havebeen 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 anincline, the horse's tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves.Then the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a lowbrushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, inits fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against thehard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills. It showedhow 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 wholeperson as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possibleto do. She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand thereason. The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.
'Where are we now?' she said. 'Shall we get to Anglebury by nine? Whatis the time, Sol?'
'I will see,' replied her companion. They were the first words he haduttered.
The voice was so different from her brother's that she was terrified; herlimbs 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 brassbuttons in the light of the wax match.
Ethelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and hideouswas it. Yet she did not. She neither shrieked nor fainted; but no poorJanuary fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank withperspiration, than she was then.
'A very pleasant joke, my dear--hee-hee! And no more than was to beexpected on this merry, happy day of our lives. Nobody enjoys a goodjest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest--hee-hee! Now we are in thedark again; and we will alight and walk. The path is too narrow for thecarriage, 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 carriagedoor and stepped out. She followed, taking the offered arm.
'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to thecoachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his.The coachman turned the horse's head and vanished down the woodland trackby which they had ascended.
The viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as awoodpecker's taps, and Ethelberta with him. She walked as by a miracle,but she would walk. She would have died rather than not have walkedthen.
She perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood. As theywent, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of theviscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch. Sheremembered 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 extricatehimself. It would not hurt him. It was her last chance. She waited amoment for the opportunity.
'We are one to one, and I am the stronger!' she at last exclaimedtriumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.
'On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and youconsiderably the weaker,' he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly,and blowing a whistle. At once the bushes seemed to be animated in fouror 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 whocannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrowmorning. I am living at the cottage at present. That's all I have tosay to you.' And, turning round to Ethelberta: 'Now, dearest, we willwalk a little further if you are able. I have provided that your friendsshall 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, withimperturbable good-humour:
'I will tell you a story, to pass the time away. I have learnt the artfrom you--your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration withit. 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 theball-room with him. That room is a treacherous place. It is panelledwith wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for theservants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork. LadyMountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out herconspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to letin himself. His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired. Ameeting was arranged to take pl
ace 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 waitingabove, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck,confirming the time, but changing the place. When Lady Mountclere handeddown her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone,and I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it. She dropped itinto her husband's hands--ho-ho-ho-ho!
'Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed byLady Mountclere's note. Probably Lady Mountclere's friend ordered abrougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written inimitation of Lady Mountclere's hand. Lady Mountclere came to the spotshe had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of herhusband--hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'
As if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughteralso--laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical. Shesank down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just asbefore.
Lord Mountclere became greatly frightened. The spot they had reached wasa green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose anornamental cottage. This was the building which Ethelberta had visitedearlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.
The viscount left her side and hurried forward. The door of the buildingwas 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 herindoors. Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.'
He returned to Ethelberta. She was better, and was sitting calmly on thebank. She rose without assistance.
'You may retire,' he said to the woman who had followed him, and sheturned 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 wasmasterly! Accept my acknowledgment. We will enter upon an armedneutrality.'
'No. Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever. Your beauty,dearest, covers everything! You are my mistress and queen! But here weare at the door. Tea is prepared for us here. I have a liking for lifein this cottage mode, and live here on occasion. Women, attend to LadyMountclere.'
The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed atrecognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage:she murmured entreaties for pardon. They assisted the viscountess to achair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had everstood 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. Hedid not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and this gave himpatience; having taken up the position, he was induced by fidelity toabide by the consequences. It would be only a journey of two hours toreach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver, put herinto the train, and bid her adieu for ever. She had cried for help, andhe had heard her cry.
At last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock strikingeight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whethershe could have mistaken the gate. She had distinctly told Sol the westlodge; her note had expressed the north lodge. Could she by any accidenthave written one thing while meaning another? He entered the carriage,and drove round to the west gate. All was as silent there as at theother, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then longpast; and he drove back again.
He left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the houseslowly. All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came fromthe trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night. By this time hefelt assured that the scheme had miscarried. While he stood here acarriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards thestable-yard without going to the door. The carriage had plainly beenempty.
Returning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by thevoices 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 thoughtthat 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 hopemay be as please God. Now I be for on-along homeward.'
As soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and, avoidingthe gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive at onceto Anglebury.
Julian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wishedto annihilate its existence. On reaching Anglebury he determined to geton at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarilyended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it. Hereached home before midnight.
Walking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himselfas a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, hefound Faith sitting up as usual. His news was simple: the marriage hadtaken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of eitherceremony or viscountess. The remainder he reserved for a more convenientseason.
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 wewere only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing. Howmuch 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. Wemay as well imagine much as little.'
Faith's countenance had fallen. 'O Kit,' she said, 'you alwaysdisappoint me.'
'I do. How do I disappoint you this time?'
'By not caring for three hundred a year--a hundred and fifty each--whenthat is all I have to offer you.'
'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time. 'Ah--of course! Lucy'swill. I had forgotten.'
'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and nowyou don't care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. Idon't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and fiftya 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 thinkingwhat a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'
'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing. The real thing is anothermatter altogether. Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names! Iam 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 twois 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, an
d let it increase.'
'It isn't enough to increase much. We may as well use it. But how? Takea bigger house--what's the use? Give up the organ?--then I shall berather worse off than I am at present. Positively, it is the mostprovoking 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.'