Delphie wondered if Lord Bollington’s mother had been unkind to him—or had his wife, the former Prissy Privett, played him false? Or was he raving in delirium? His spiteful glance moved round to Gareth Penistone, who was standing with no very submissive expression on his dark features, at a slightly farther remove from the bedside.
“Well, Gareth,” croaked the old man. “Are you prepared to have the knot tied—hey? Are you ready for the noose?”
“Yes, sir; I have already expressed my willingness,” replied Gareth shortly.
“Wise man!” Lord Bollington gave his disagreeable chuckle. “Knows which side his bread is buttered on! To be sure, she’s a handsome wench enough—the outside of the platter, hah! Favors the family, too. I daresay the inside’s as black as the rest of her species. Well, fetch in the parson! Let’s get it done with!”
Mr. Fitzjohn walked rapidly and noiselessly from the room. Penistone made a hasty movement, of impatience or despair, as if minded to call his cousin back; then desisted, and, turning, stood by the mantel with a slightly bent head, staring down into the red coals.
Delphie stood calmly regarding the old man, and he looked back at her.
“Spirit, too,” he muttered. “Put that white thing over your head, girl—no, no, not right over!—ay, that will do”—as she draped the white scarf, framing her face. “Ay, ay, so she looked—it must be fifty years agone.”
“Who looked, Uncle Mark?” said Gareth, but not as if he had any particular interest in the answer.
“Why, Mary—your Great-uncle Lancelot’s first wife—this girl’s grandmother.” He added, as if to himself, “A Howard, she was.”
At this moment the old man’s mutterings were drowned by a strange noise—a kind of loud, staccato rattling, which was audible somewhere high up in the room, above the bed valance. The wind had got up, and was probably disturbing some loose board or piece of lath in the ancient structure of the house.
“Hush! Hush!” gasped Lord Bollington. Even in that dim light it could be seen that his face had blanched to a paler, more leaden hue; his fingers worked convulsively on the cover. “Do you hear them? They are impatient! They are waiting for me!”
“It is nothing, uncle!” said Penistone irritably. “Rats in the timbers perhaps! Or just the joists creaking.”
“Nay! It is the spirits telling me to make haste. My brother is angry. He that dieth in the water shall never lie quiet; and he that lacketh burial shall be for ever unappeased; his voice crieth in the wind! It is my brother and his son Tristram.”
For a moment Delphie wondered where nephew Tristram fitted into the family pattern; then she recollected that he was her own uncle, her mother’s brother, who had died at the Battle of St. Vincent; presumably that was why his aged relation felt that his restless spirit wandered in the wind.
“It is nothing, sir,” she murmured. “My cousin was right—it was the timbers creaking, I daresay. It has stopped again.”
“Quiet, girl! I tell you, the spirits are angry with me!”
And it was true that, in a moment or two, the rattling began again. Delphie looked upward, but could see nothing above the shadowed bed valance. Then the sound died away again.
Shortly afterward, Fitzjohn returned with a tall, balding man in clerical robes, who moved swiftly, with a rustle of his gown, to Lord Bollington’s bedside.
Jenny accompanied them, looking both amazed and subdued. “We needed a witness,” Fitzjohn explained to Philadelphia in a low tone. “I thought you might like your friend to assist you at the ceremony.” She was somewhat surprised at this consideration, but thanked him with a nod, and smiled at Jenny’s look of round-eyed amazement, laying a finger on her lips.
“Uncle Mark,” murmured Fitzjohn, “here is His Grace, the Bishop of Bengal, who has expressed his willingness to perform the marriage ceremony for my cousins.”
“Why the devil need you fetch a bishop into the business?” demanded the old man testily. “What’s wrong with Bragg from the rectory, pray?”
“Mr. Bragg is attending a diocesan conference, sir.”
“Got no right to slope off without my permission,” grumbled Lord Bollington.
Delphie had been wondering to herself what reason Mr. Fitzjohn would give for having some stranger perform the mock ceremony; she was impressed by his power of invention, for up till now she had put Fitzjohn down as a decidedly sober and prosaic person. The Bishop of Bengal—good heavens! And no doubt, once the ceremony was over, he would conveniently return to Bengal again.
Mr. Fitzjohn now turned and made the introductions between the clergyman, herself, and Mr. Penistone.
“How do you do, Your Grace?” said Delphie with a slight curtsy. “I hope you are enjoying your visit to this country?”
“Thank you, my child. Unfortunately this chilly spell has given me a severe cold,” the apparent bishop replied, blowing his nose and sneezing several times. “I am afraid it is but a hoarse blessing that I shall be able to pronounce over you. And I think it as well if we perform the ceremony without delay. I have no wish to add to his lordship’s troubles by giving him my cold.”
“No indeed,” agreed Delphie. “That would be the outside of enough.”
Mr. Penistone threw her a sardonic glance, but said nothing.
“Have you the license, Mr. Fitzjohn?” inquired the bishop.
“Certainly, sir; here it is.”
The bishop scanned the paper that Fitzjohn handed him, apparently found it in order, and handed it back.
He then, without more ado, pulled a prayer book out of a pocket in his robe and proceeded to read the marriage service.
Delphie listened in a kind of wondering calm. When the priest reached that formidable adjuration: If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, she felt both sadness and guilt. How do we dare fool that poor old sinner on the bed with such a mockery as this? she thought. And when the final exhortation came: Let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace, she half expected some voice, perhaps from above the bed valance, to cry, I do! It is all a false deceit. I do!
But no such interruption occurred.
At the point where the ring was called for, she wondered fleetingly if this necessity had been remembered; but apparently it had; Mr. Penistone produced a gold ring from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the pretended bishop, who gave it an approving glance and passed it back. Next moment it was on Delphie’s finger.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” said His Grace, and added, “You may kiss your bride.”
Philadelphia coolly inclined her cheek; Mr. Penistone slightly touched it with his lips; their eyes met for a brief moment.
Lord Bollington’s chamber was now in profound silence; the rapping in the shadows had died away during the short ceremony.
“Are they tied up?” demanded the old man, opening his eyes, which had been shut while the service was going on. “Are they properly shackled?”
“They are, sir; tight as holy church can make them,” replied the bishop.
Jenny stepped forward, threw her arms round Delphie in a warm hug, and gave her a smacking kiss. Her eyes sparkled, but she still did not dare speak.
“Very good! Then get out of my room, the whole pack of you!” declared Lord Bollington when the witnesses had signed their names, Mr. Fitzjohn acting as the second. “I do not wish to see any of you again. But let Fidd come in with a decanter of brandy, and send that lawyer fellow the very minute he has finished his scratching and scribing. I’ll need witnesses for my will, too,” he added, recollecting. “The servants won’t do—they are all mentioned in the will. The doctor’s assistant can be one. And you, sir”—to the pretended bishop—”you can be the other.”
“Indeed, Lord Bollington, I think it best—considering my cold—that I do not remain in your presence, if you will be so good as to excuse me,” said the bishop.
Lord Bollington muttered some words, among which “devilish awkward disobligin
g shovel-faced fellow” could be distinguished, but said, “Oh, very well! Let the wench remain, then,” indicating Jenny with a look of loathing. “The rest of you—clear out! Yes—you as well,” to Fitzjohn, who seemed as if he wished to say something to his uncle. “I will see you later!”
The instant they were all outside Lord Bollington’s chamber, Mr. Fitzjohn took the bishop’s arm and led him away, calling back some brief explanation over his shoulder as he did so.
“Allow me to escort you back to the library, Miss Carteret,” said Mr. Penistone.
Delphie cast a quick nervous look backward, in case the old man might have caught the name Miss Carteret, but the door was already closed.
“Thank you,” she said absently, “you are very good,” and was silent for the rest of the short walk downstairs. Something about the artificiality of the brief, odd constrained ceremony had moved her very strangely: the bitter old man, churlish in his loneliness and guilt, beset by superstitious terrors; the hot, close, dim room; the total lack of any sympathy or affection for the dying man in his last illness; the two cousins, impassively practicing their deceit by means of this elaborate pretense; these things had affected her deeply, and gave her a feeling of inexpressible sadness. But she could hardly expect that the same impression had been made on Mr. Penistone. When they reached the library, therefore, rather than remain with him, alone in another uncomfortable silence, she said,
“Pray, sir, do not feel that you need be at the trouble of keeping me company. No doubt, now that you have achieved the end for which you came to Chase, you have many things that you will wish to be doing—”
Without immediately answering her, he turned and tugged at the bellpull. Then he said, with some difficulty, it seemed,
“Miss Carteret—I cannot express to you how much I disliked the—the necessity of—of going through the performance which has just been concluded. Believe me, if I could have seen any means of avoiding it, I would have done so. But one kind of unreasonable behavior leads to another. My uncle brought it on himself.”
“Pray do not concern yourself, sir,” she answered coolly. “In order to achieve possession of a fortune, I believe it is occasionally necessary to do things which one may dislike.”
His eyes flashed. “You do not understand how matters are in the very least! It was not only my own interests which were at stake—you do not realize how I am circumstanced—I was not the only party who would have been struck out of my uncle’s will—other, innocent persons would also have suffered—”
“Do not be at the trouble of explaining, sir. I perfectly comprehend the case. There was also the—ah—the other Miss Carteret to be taken into consideration! Little did she realize, when electing to remain in Bath for that tempting Assembly, that she ran the risk of being disinherited—all for the sake of a waltz or two and a few quadrilles.”
“She had nothing to do with the matter!” snapped Mr. Penistone. “If it were only for her sake—but I cannot explain to you!”
“No, and I beg that you will be at no further pains to do so. It is not of the smallest consequence, after all!”
A young nervous footman came into the room, and said,
“Axing your pardon, Mr. Gareth, but Mr. Fidd’s upstairs with his lordship.”
“That’s all right, Cowley—bring us a couple of bottles of champagne, will you?”
Evidently trying for a lighter note, Penistone said, as Cowley left the room,
“The servants know a marriage has been performed, and they will be expecting some health-drinking!”
“But I do not quite understand,” Delphie said, wrinkling her forehead, “how it is to be accounted for in the household that you have apparently been married to the wrong lady.”
“Oh, there is no trouble about that. Elaine has never been here; nobody but my cousin and myself can be aware of the substitution. When I have seen her, it has always been in Bath. I was about, Miss Carteret, to express my gratitude to you for what must—what must without doubt have been a bizarre, if not a most distressing, most repugnant affair. I beg that you will now do your best to put it completely out of your mind and memory.”
“I am quite sure you do!” she answered rather tartly. “Has it occurred to you, Mr. Penistone, that in your anxiety to pull the wool over your uncle’s eyes, you have now placed yourself in a somewhat perilous position in regard to me?”
“How do you mean, ma’am?” he said stiffly.
“Why, suppose I were of extortionate turn of mind? Suppose I were not to be content with a mere pittance of an annuity to my mother, but were to demand, on her behalf, a fairer share of the family fortune? Suppose I threatened to make this business public? Or even to inform your uncle—should he not immediately die?”
His face, which had begun to appear more relaxed, and even show some traces of friendliness, now stiffened into its former mask of cold dislike.
“I might have known it!” he muttered to himself, and to her. “How can I tell what you will be at, madam? When one is in straits, one employs such tools as come to hand. But may I point out that the story will hardly redound to your own credit, if you choose to let it out. Do your worst, however; we shall fight you with what weapons we may.”
“Oh, do not put yourself about, sir,” she replied lightly and coldly. “I was only funning, I assure you! Like you, being in straits, I did what I could to secure my poor parent a small competence. I shall be entirely satisfied and shall not, I daresay, ever have the least wish to recollect the disagreeable means that we were forced to adopt in order to achieve the desired end. I only wondered at the risks you were prepared to run without, apparently, considering them. Set your mind at rest, however, Mr. Penistone! You are by far more likely to do me harm. Suppose it should get about to the parents of my pupils that I had compromised myself by suffering myself to be employed in such a masquerade—how many people do you imagine would then continue to employ me as a music teacher?”
“A music teacher?” he said. “Is that what you are?”
He sounded so astonished that she raised her brows.
“Why, what had you taken me to be, Mr. Penistone?”
“I?—I do not know; I had not given the matter much thought,” he was beginning rather confusedly, when Cowley came back into the room with champagne, glasses, and an ice bucket. At the same moment Jenny came running in, followed more slowly by Mr. Fitzjohn. Jenny bounded up to Philadelphia and gave her another warm embrace.
“Mrs. Penistone!” she said, laughing, “Well, did you ever? Isn’t this famous! I was never so ready to burst in all my life as when Mr. Fitz here asked if I’d be so good as to step upstairs to witness a wedding! Lord, Lord, if I’d ever a guessed that was how the day would end! You could have knocked me down with a feather! A wedding? says I. Pray whose wedding did you have in mind? Little thinking—”
As Cowley handed her a glass, Philadelphia gave her an anxious glance, and murmured in her ear, “Hush, now, Jenny! I will explain all to you later!”
“Well, no matter!” said Jenny, raising her glass. “A long life to you both, and a gallon of happiness to every dram of trouble!”
“I second that wish,” said Mr. Fitzjohn quietly, raising his glass. “My felicitations, Gareth! Madam, your health!”
“Thank you!” said Philadelphia coolly. “Sir!” She raised her glass to Mr. Penistone, who met her look with one so impassive that she could only infer that it concealed a very great many inner preoccupations. Fleetingly, she wondered what occupied his thoughts.
“Supper is ready whenever you want it,” announced Fitzjohn, who had been conferring with Cowley. “I am sure, ladies, that you must be both hungry and tired and will doubtless wish to retire fairly soon. Miss—er, Miss—?”
“Baggott,” supplied Jenny obligingly.
“Miss Baggott has had a wetting—you have both had a journey—suppose we adjourn to the dining room?”
He gave his arm to Jenny. She threw a mischievous, triumphant glance at D
elphie, who, taking the arm of Mr. Penistone, allowed herself to be led across the entrance hall to a large and lofty room, rather chill, despite a handsome fire which had evidently not long been lit. Here Delphie was interested to observe a number of family portraits hanging on the walls. She would have liked to inspect them at close quarters; unfortunately in this room, as elsewhere in Chase Place, the lighting left very much to be desired, and most of the pictures were veiled in obscurity.
Jenny was obviously somewhat disappointed by the repast, which was by no means elaborate: a capon, a pigeon pie, various dishes of fish, a ragout of mutton, a blackberry syllabub, and some jellied quinces.
“We pride ourselves on our salt-marsh mutton hereabouts,” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn, helping Delphie to the ragout. “But I was forgetting—your mother was born here, was she not? Doubtless you have heard all about it?”
His glance at Delphie was full of irony, but she merely replied, “Yes, sir.”
She was beginning to feel inexpressibly weary, and longed for solitude and privacy. Helpful though Jenny had been, the thought of sharing a chamber with her was not a welcome one. Vaguely she was aware of a stilted conversation conducted between Jenny and Mr. Penistone about London entertainments. Mr. Penistone, it seemed, spent a considerable proportion of his time in London, despite the manor at Horsmonden. No wonder he has need of money, Philadelphia thought. Perhaps he is a gambler—like Mamma.
She and Mr. Fitzjohn had little to say to one another.
“What became of the bishop?” she bethought herself to ask him at one point when the servants were out of the room.
“His Grace had been on the point of setting out for Canterbury, and has now done so; he wished to leave as soon as might be,” Fitzjohn replied with a wary glance at his cousin.
“Oh? Despite his cold? Was that not rather rash?” Delphie said, raising her brows.
“What a piece of luck that he was at hand!” broke in Jenny. “I call being wed by a bishop really bang-up stylish! It was the most romantical wedding I ever did see, and I was ready to cry my eyes out, I can tell you. You looked a picture, Miss Delphie, with your veil and all. What a lucky thing you brought your white!”