"PREFACE\n\n\nThis somewhat frivolous narrative was produced as an interlude between\nstories of a more sober design, and it was given the sub-title of a\ncomedy to indicate--though not quite accurately--the aim of the\nperformance.  A high degree of probability was not attempted in the\narrangement of the incidents, and there was expected of the reader a\ncertain lightness of mood, which should inform him with a good-natured\nwillingness to accept the production in the spirit in which it was\noffered.  The characters themselves, however, were meant to be consistent\nand human.\n\nOn its first appearance the novel suffered, perhaps deservedly, for what\nwas involved in these intentions--for its quality of unexpectedness in\nparticular--that unforgivable sin in the critic's sight--the immediate\nprecursor of 'Ethelberta' having been a purely rural tale.  Moreover, in\nits choice of medium, and line of perspective, it undertook a delicate\ntask: to excite interest in a drama--if such a dignified word may be used\nin the connection--wherein servants were as important as, or more\nimportant than, their masters; wherein the drawing-room was sketched in\nmany cases from the point of view of the servants' hall.  Such a reversal\nof the social foreground has, perhaps, since grown more welcome, and\nreaders even of the finer crusted kind may now be disposed to pardon a\nwriter for presenting the sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Chickerel as\nbeings who come within the scope of a congenial regard.\n\nT. H.\n\n\nDecember 1895.\n\n\n1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY--A HEATH NEAR IT--INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN\n\n\nYoung Mrs. Petherwin stepped from the door of an old and well-appointed\ninn in a Wessex town to take a country walk.  By her look and carriage\nshe appeared to belong to that gentle order of society which has no\nworldly sorrow except when its jewellery gets stolen; but, as a fact not\ngenerally known, her claim to distinction was rather one of brains than\nof blood.  She was the daughter of a gentleman who lived in a large house\nnot his own, and began life as a baby christened Ethelberta after an\ninfant of title who does not come into the story at all, having merely\nfurnished Ethelberta's mother with a subject of contemplation.  She\nbecame teacher in a school, was praised by examiners, admired by\ngentlemen, not admired by gentlewomen, was touched up with\naccomplishments by masters who were coaxed into painstaking by her many\ngraces, and, entering a mansion as governess to the daughter thereof, was\nstealthily married by the son.  He, a minor like herself, died from a\nchill caught during the wedding tour, and a few weeks later was followed\ninto the grave by Sir Ralph Petherwin, his unforgiving father, who had\nbequeathed his wealth to his wife absolutely.\n\nThese calamities were a sufficient reason to Lady Petherwin for pardoning\nall concerned.  She took by the hand the forlorn Ethelberta--who seemed\nrather a detached bride than a widow--and finished her education by\nplacing her for two or three years in a boarding-school at Bonn.  Latterly\nshe had brought the girl to England to live under her roof as daughter\nand companion, the condition attached being that Ethelberta was never\nopenly to recognize her relations, for reasons which will hereafter\nappear.\n\nThe elegant young lady, as she had a full right to be called if she cared\nfor the definition, arrested all the local attention when she emerged\ninto the summer-evening light with that diadem-and-sceptre bearing--many\npeople for reasons of heredity discovering such graces only in those\nwhose vestibules are lined with ancestral mail, forgetting that a bear\nmay be taught to dance.  While this air of hers lasted, even the\ninanimate objects in the street appeared to know that she was there; but\nfrom a way she had of carelessly overthrowing her dignity by versatile\nmoods, one could not calculate upon its presence to a certainty when she\nwas round corners or in little lanes which demanded no repression of\nanimal spirits.\n\n'Well to be sure!' exclaimed a milkman, regarding her.  'We should freeze\nin our beds if 'twere not for the sun, and, dang me! if she isn't a\npretty piece.  A man could make a meal between them eyes and chin--eh,\nhostler?  Odd nation dang my old sides if he couldn't!'\n\nThe speaker, who had been carrying a pair of pails on a yoke, deposited\nthem upon the edge of the pavement in front of the inn, and straightened\nhis back to an excruciating perpendicular.  His remarks had been\naddressed to a rickety person, wearing a waistcoat of that preternatural\nlength from the top to the bottom button which prevails among men who\nhave to do with horses.  He was sweeping straws from the carriage-way\nbeneath the stone arch that formed a passage to the stables behind.\n\n'Never mind the cursing and swearing, or somebody who's never out of\nhearing may clap yer name down in his black book,' said the hostler, also\npausing, and lifting his eyes to the mullioned and transomed windows and\nmoulded parapet above him--not to study them as features of ancient\narchitecture, but just to give as healthful a stretch to the eyes as his\nacquaintance had done to his back.  'Michael, a old man like you ought to\nthink about other things, and not be looking two ways at your time of\nlife.  Pouncing upon young flesh like a carrion crow--'tis a vile thing\nin a old man.'\n\n''Tis; and yet 'tis not, for 'tis a naterel taste,' said the milkman,\nagain surveying Ethelberta, who had now paused upon a bridge in full\nview, to look down the river.  'Now, if a poor needy feller like myself\ncould only catch her alone when she's dressed up to the nines for some\ngrand party, and carry her off to some lonely place--sakes, what a pot of\njewels and goold things I warrant he'd find about her!  'Twould pay en\nfor his trouble.'\n\n'I don't dispute the picter; but 'tis sly and untimely to think such\nroguery.  Though I've had thoughts like it, 'tis true, about high\nwomen--Lord forgive me for't.'\n\n'And that figure of fashion standing there is a widow woman, so I hear?'\n\n'Lady--not a penny less than lady.  Ay, a thing of twenty-one or\nthereabouts.'\n\n'A widow lady and twenty-one.  'Tis a backward age for a body who's so\nforward in her state of life.'\n\n'Well, be that as 'twill, here's my showings for her age.  She was about\nthe figure of two or three-and-twenty when a' got off the carriage last\nnight, tired out wi' boaming about the country; and nineteen this morning\nwhen she came downstairs after a sleep round the clock and a clane-washed\nface: so I thought to myself, twenty-one, I thought.'\n\n'And what's the young woman's name, make so bold, hostler?'\n\n'Ay, and the house were all in a stoor with her and the old woman, and\ntheir boxes and camp-kettles, that they carry to wash in because hand-\nbasons bain't big enough, and I don't know what all; and t'other folk\nstopping here were no more than dirt thencefor'ard.'\n\n'I suppose they've come out of some noble city a long way herefrom?'\n\n'And there was her hair up in buckle as if she'd never seen a clay-cold\nman at all.  However, to cut a long story short, all I know besides about\n'em is that the name upon their luggage is Lady Petherwin, and she's the\nwidow of a city gentleman, who was a man of valour in the Lord Mayor's\nShow.'\n\n'Who's that chap in the gaiters and pack at his back, come out of the\ndoor but now?' said the milkman, nodding towards a figure of that\ndescription who had just emerged from the inn and trudged off in the\ndirection taken by the lady--now out of sight.\n\n'Chap in the gaiters?  Chok' it all--why, the father of that nobleman\nthat you call chap in the gaiters used to be hand in glove with half the\nQueen's court.'\n\n'What d'ye tell o'?'\n\n'That man's father was one of the mayor and corporation of Sandbourne,\nand was that familiar with men of money, that he'd slap 'em upon the\nshoulder as you or I or any other poor fool would the clerk of the\nparish.'\n\n'O, what's my lordlin's name, make so bold, then?'\n\n'Ay, the toppermost class nowadays have left off the use of wheels for\nthe good of their constitutions, so they traipse and walk for many years\nup foreign hills, where you can see nothing but snow and fog, till\nthere's no more left to walk up; and if they reach home alive, and ha'n't\ngot too old and weared out, they walk and see a little of their own\nparishes.  So they tower about with a pack and a stick and a clane white\npocket-handkerchief over their hats just as you see he's got on his.  He's\nbeen staying here a night, and is off now again.  \"Young man, young man,\"\nI think to myself, \"if your shoulders were bent like a bandy and your\nknees bowed out as mine be, till there is not an inch of straight bone or\ngristle in 'ee, th' wouldstn't go doing hard work for play 'a b'lieve.\"'\n\n'True, true, upon my song.  Such a pain as I have had in my lynes all\nthis day to be sure; words don't know what shipwreck I suffer in these\nlynes o' mine--that they do not!  And what was this young widow lady's\nmaiden name, then, hostler?  Folk have been peeping after her, that's\ntrue; but they don't seem to know much about her family.'\n\n'And while I've tended horses fifty year that other folk might straddle\n'em, here I be now not a penny the better!  Often-times, when I see so\nmany good things about, I feel inclined to help myself in common justice\nto my pocket.\n\n   \"Work hard and be poor,\n   Do nothing and get more.\"\n\nBut I draw in the horns of my mind and think to myself, \"Forbear, John\nHostler, forbear!\"--Her maiden name?  Faith, I don't know the woman's\nmaiden name, though she said to me, \"Good evening, John;\" but I had no\nmemory of ever seeing her afore--no, no more than the dead inside church-\nhatch--where I shall soon be likewise--I had not.  \"Ay, my nabs,\" I think\nto myself, \"more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.\"'\n\n'More know Tom Fool--what rambling old canticle is it you say, hostler?'\ninquired the milkman, lifting his ear.  'Let's have it again--a good\nsaying well spit out is a Christmas fire to my withered heart.  More know\nTom Fool--'\n\n'Than Tom Fool knows,' said the hostler.\n\n'Ah!  That's the very feeling I've feeled over and over again, hostler,\nbut not in such gifted language.  'Tis a thought I've had in me for\nyears, and never could lick into shape!--O-ho-ho-ho!  Splendid!  Say it\nagain, hostler, say it again!  To hear my own poor notion that had no\nname brought into form like that--I wouldn't ha' lost it for the world!\nMore know Tom Fool than--than--h-ho-ho-ho-ho!'\n\n'Don't let your sense o' vitness break out in such uproar, for heaven's\nsake, or folk will surely think you've been laughing at the lady and\ngentleman.  Well, here's at it again--Night t'ee, Michael.'  And the\nhostler went on with his sweeping.\n\n'Night t'ee, hostler, I must move too,' said the milkman, shouldering his\nyoke, and walking off; and there reached the inn in a gradual diminuendo,\nas he receded up the street, shaking his head convulsively, 'More\nknow--Tom Fool--than Tom Fool--ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!'\n\nThe 'Red Lion,' as the inn or hotel was called which of late years had\nbecome the fashion among tourists, because of the absence from its\nprecincts of all that was fashionable and new, stood near the middle of\nthe town, and formed a corner where in winter the winds whistled and\nassembled their forces previous to plunging helter-skelter along the\nstreets.  In summer it was a fresh and pleasant spot, convenient for such\nquiet characters as sojourned there to study the geology and beautiful\nnatural features of the country round.\n\nThe lady whose appearance had asserted a difference between herself and\nthe Anglebury people, without too clearly showing what that difference\nwas, passed out of the town in a few moments and, following the highway\nacross meadows fed by the Froom, she crossed the railway and soon got\ninto a lonely heath.  She had been watching the base of a cloud as it\nclosed down upon the line of a distant ridge, like an upper upon a lower\neyelid, shutting in the gaze of the evening sun.  She was about to return\nbefore dusk came on, when she heard a commotion in the air immediately\nbehind and above her head.  The saunterer looked up and saw a wild-duck\nflying along with the greatest violence, just in its rear being another\nlarge bird, which a countryman would have pronounced to be one of the\nbiggest duck-hawks that he had ever beheld.  The hawk neared its intended\nvictim, and the duck screamed and redoubled its efforts.\n\nEthelberta impulsively started off in a rapid run that would have made a\nlittle dog bark with delight and run after, her object being, if\npossible, to see the end of this desperate struggle for a life so small\nand unheard-of.  Her stateliness went away, and it could be forgiven for\nnot remaining; for her feet suddenly became as quick as fingers, and she\nraced along over the uneven ground with such force of tread that, being a\nwoman slightly heavier than gossamer, her patent heels punched little D's\nin the soil with unerring accuracy wherever it was bare, crippled the\nheather-twigs where it was not, and sucked the swampy places with a sound\nof quick kisses.\n\nHer rate of advance was not to be compared with that of the two birds,\nthough she went swiftly enough to keep them well in sight in such an open\nplace as that around her, having at one point in the journey been so near\nthat she could hear the whisk of the duck's feathers against the wind as\nit lifted and lowered its wings.  When the bird seemed to be but a few\nyards from its enemy she saw it strike downwards, and after a level\nflight of a quarter of a minute, vanish.  The hawk swooped after, and\nEthelberta now perceived a whitely shining oval of still water, looking\namid the swarthy level of the heath like a hole through to a nether sky.\n\nInto this large pond, which the duck had been making towards from the\nbeginning of its precipitate flight, it had dived out of sight.  The\nexcited and breathless runner was in a few moments close enough to see\nthe disappointed hawk hovering and floating in the air as if waiting for\nthe reappearance of its prey, upon which grim pastime it was so intent\nthat by creeping along softly she was enabled to get very near the edge\nof the pool and witness the conclusion of the episode.  Whenever the duck\nwas under the necessity of showing its head to breathe, the other bird\nwould dart towards it, invariably too late, however; for the diver was\nfar too experienced in the rough humour of the buzzard family at this\ngame to come up twice near the same spot, unaccountably emerging from\nopposite sides of the pool in succession, and bobbing again by the time\nits adversary reached each place, so that at length the hawk gave up the\ncontest and flew away, a satanic moodiness being almost perceptible in\nthe motion of its wings.\n\nThe young lady now looked around her for the first time, and began to\nperceive that she had run a long distance--very much further than she had\noriginally intended to come.  Her eyes had been so long fixed upon the\nhawk, as it soared against the bright and mottled field of sky, that on\nregarding the heather and plain again it was as if she had returned to a\nhalf-forgotten region after an absence, and the whole prospect was\ndarkened to one uniform shade of approaching night.  She began at once to\nretrace her steps, but having been indiscriminately wheeling round the\npond to get a good view of the performance, and having followed no path\nthither, she found the proper direction of her journey to be a matter of\nsome uncertainty.\n\n'Surely,' she said to herself, 'I faced the north at starting:' and yet\non walking now with her back where her face had been set, she did not\napproach any marks on the horizon which might seem to signify the town.\nThus dubiously, but with little real concern, she walked on till the\nevening light began to turn to dusk, and the shadows to darkness.\n\nPresently in front of her Ethelberta saw a white spot in the shade, and\nit proved to be in some way attached to the head of a man who was coming\ntowards her out of a slight depression in the ground.  It was as yet too\nearly in the evening to be afraid, but it was too late to be altogether\ncourageous; and with balanced sensations Ethelberta kept her eye sharply\nupon him as he rose by degrees into view.  The peculiar arrangement of\nhis hat and pugree soon struck her as being that she had casually noticed\non a peg in one of the rooms of the 'Red Lion,' and when he came close\nshe saw that his arms diminished to a peculiar smallness at their\njunction with his shoulders, like those of a doll, which was explained by\ntheir being girt round at that point with the straps of a knapsack that\nhe carried behind him.  Encouraged by the probability that he, like\nherself, was staying or had been staying at the 'Red Lion,' she said,\n'Can you tell me if this is the way back to Anglebury?'\n\n'It is one way; but the nearest is in this direction,' said the\ntourist--the same who had been criticized by the two old men.\n\nAt hearing him speak all the delicate activities in the young lady's\nperson stood still: she stopped like a clock.  When she could again fence\nwith the perception which had caused all this, she breathed.\n\n'Mr. Julian!' she exclaimed.  The words were uttered in a way which would\nhave told anybody in a moment that here lay something connected with the\nlight of other days.\n\n'Ah, Mrs. Petherwin!--Yes, I am Mr. Julian--though that can matter very\nlittle, I should think, after all these years, and what has passed.'\n\nNo remark was returned to this rugged reply, and he continued\nunconcernedly, 'Shall I put you in the path--it is just here?'\n\n'If you please.'\n\n'Come with me, then.'\n\nShe walked in silence at his heels, not a word passing between them all\nthe way: the only noises which came from the two were the brushing of her\ndress and his gaiters against the heather, or the smart rap of a stray\nflint against his boot.\n\nThey had now reached a little knoll, and he turned abruptly: 'That is\nAnglebury--just where you see those lights.  The path down there is the\none you must follow; it leads round the hill yonder and directly into the\ntown.'\n\n'Thank you,' she murmured, and found that he had never removed his eyes\nfrom her since speaking, keeping them fixed with mathematical exactness\nupon one point in her face.  She moved a little to go on her way; he\nmoved a little less--to go on his.\n\n'Good-night,' said Mr. Julian.\n\nThe moment, upon the very face of it, was critical; and yet it was one of\nthose which have to wait for a future before they acquire a definite\ncharacter as good or bad.\n\nThus much would have been obvious to any outsider; it may have been\ndoubly so to Ethelberta, for she gave back more than she had got,\nreplying, 'Good-bye--if you are going to say no more.'\n\nThen in struck Mr. Julian: 'What can I say?  You are nothing to me. . . .\nI could forgive a woman doing anything for spite, except marrying for\nspite.'\n\n'The connection of that with our present meeting does not appear, unless\nit refers to what you have done.  It does not refer to me.'\n\n'I am not married: you are.'\n\nShe did not contradict him, as she might have done.  'Christopher,' she\nsaid at last, 'this is how it is: you knew too much of me to respect me,\nand too little to pity me.  A half knowledge of another's life mostly\ndoes injustice to the life half known.'\n\n'Then since circumstances forbid my knowing you more, I must do my best\nto know you less, and elevate my opinion of your nature by forgetting\nwhat it consists in,' he said in a voice from which all feeling was\npolished away.\n\n'If I did not know that bitterness had more to do with those words than\njudgment, I--should be--bitter too!  You never knew half about me; you\nonly knew me as a governess; you little think what my beginnings were.'\n\n'I have guessed.  I have many times told myself that your early life was\nsuperior to your position when I first met you.  I think I may say\nwithout presumption that I recognize a lady by birth when I see her, even\nunder reverses of an extreme kind.  And certainly there is this to be\nsaid, that the fact of having been bred in a wealthy home does slightly\nredeem an attempt to attain to such a one again.'\n\nEthelberta smiled a smile of many meanings.\n\n'However, we are wasting words,' he resumed cheerfully.  'It is better\nfor us to part as we met, and continue to be the strangers that we have\nbecome to each other.  I owe you an apology for having been betrayed into\nmore feeling than I had a right to show, and let us part friends.  Good\nnight, Mrs. Petherwin, and success to you.  We may meet again, some day,\nI hope.'\n\n'Good night,' she said, extending her hand.  He touched it, turned about,\nand in a short time nothing remained of him but quick regular brushings\nagainst the heather in the deep broad shadow of the moor.\n\nEthelberta slowly moved on in the direction that he had pointed out.  This\nmeeting had surprised her in several ways.  First, there was the\nconjuncture itself; but more than that was the fact that he had not\nparted from her with any of the tragic resentment that she had from time\nto time imagined for that scene if it ever occurred.  Yet there was\nreally nothing wonderful in this: it is part of the generous nature of a\nbachelor to be not indisposed to forgive a portionless sweetheart who, by\nmarrying elsewhere, has deprived him of the bliss of being obliged to\nmarry her himself.  Ethelberta would have been disappointed quite had\nthere not been a comforting development of exasperation in the middle\npart of his talk; but after all it formed a poor substitute for the\nloving hatred she had expected.\n\nWhen she reached the hotel the lamp over the door showed a face a little\nflushed, but the agitation which at first had possessed her was gone to a\nmere nothing.  In the hall she met a slender woman wearing a silk dress\nof that peculiar black which in sunlight proclaims itself to have once\nseen better days as a brown, and days even better than those as a\nlavender, green, or blue.\n\n'Menlove,' said the lady, 'did you notice if any gentleman observed and\nfollowed me when I left the hotel to go for a walk this evening?'\n\nThe lady's-maid, thus suddenly pulled up in a night forage after lovers,\nput a hand to her forehead to show that there was no mistake about her\nhaving begun to meditate on receiving orders to that effect, and said at\nlast, 'You once told me, ma'am, if you recollect, that when you were\ndressed, I was not to go staring out of the window after you as if you\nwere a doll I had just manufactured and sent round for sale.'\n\n'Yes, so I did.'\n\n'So I didn't see if anybody followed you this evening.'\n\n'Then did you hear any gentleman arrive here by the late train last\nnight?'\n\n'O no, ma'am--how could I?' said Mrs. Menlove--an exclamation which was\nmore apposite than her mistress suspected, considering that the speaker,\nafter retiring from duty, had slipped down her dark skirt to reveal a\nlight, puffed, and festooned one, put on a hat and feather, together with\nseveral pennyweights of metal in the form of rings, brooches, and\nearrings--all in a time whilst one could count a hundred--and enjoyed\nhalf-an-hour of prime courtship by an honourable young waiter of the\ntown, who had proved constant as the magnet to the pole for the space of\nthe day and a half that she had known him.\n\nGoing at once upstairs, Ethelberta ran down the passage, and after some\nhesitation softly opened the door of the sitting-room in the best suite\nof apartments that the inn could boast of.\n\nIn this room sat an elderly lady writing by the light of two candles with\ngreen shades.  Well knowing, as it seemed, who the intruder was, she\ncontinued her occupation, and her visitor advanced and stood beside the\ntable.  The old lady wore her spectacles low down her cheek, her glance\nbeing depressed to about the slope of her straight white nose in order to\nlook through them.  Her mouth was pursed up to almost a youthful shape as\nshe formed the letters with her pen, and a slight move of the lip\naccompanied every downstroke.  There were two large antique rings on her\nforefinger, against which the quill rubbed in moving backwards and\nforwards, thereby causing a secondary noise rivalling the primary one of\nthe nib upon the paper.\n\n'Mamma,' said the younger lady, 'here I am at last.'\n\nA writer's mind in the midst of a sentence being like a ship at sea,\nknowing no rest or comfort till safely piloted into the harbour of a full\nstop, Lady Petherwin just replied with 'What,' in an occupied tone, not\nrising to interrogation.  After signing her name to the letter, she\nraised her eyes.\n\n'Why, how late you are, Ethelberta, and how heated you look!' she said.\n'I have been quite alarmed about you.  What do you say has happened?'\n\nThe great, chief, and altogether eclipsing thing that had happened was\nthe accidental meeting with an old lover whom she had once quarrelled\nwith; and Ethelberta's honesty would have delivered the tidings at once,\nhad not, unfortunately, all the rest of her attributes been dead against\nthat act, for the old lady's sake even more than for her own.\n\n'I saw a great cruel bird chasing a harmless duck!' she exclaimed\ninnocently.  'And I ran after to see what the end of it would be--much\nfurther than I had any idea of going.  However, the duck came to a pond,\nand in running round it to see the end of the fight, I could not remember\nwhich way I had come.'\n\n'Mercy!' said her mother-in-law, lifting her large eyelids, heavy as\nwindow-shutters, and spreading out her fingers like the horns of a snail.\n'You might have sunk up to your knees and got lost in that swampy\nplace--such a time of night, too.  What a tomboy you are!  And how did\nyou find your way home after all!'\n\n'O, some man showed me the way, and then I had no difficulty, and after\nthat I came along leisurely.'\n\n'I thought you had been running all the way; you look so warm.'\n\n'It is a warm evening. . . .  Yes, and I have been thinking of old times\nas I walked along,' she said, 'and how people's positions in life alter.\nHave I not heard you say that while I was at Bonn, at school, some family\nthat we had known had their household broken up when the father died, and\nthat the children went away you didn't know where?'\n\n'Do you mean the Julians?'\n\n'Yes, that was the name.'\n\n'Why, of course you know it was the Julians.  Young Julian had a day or\ntwo's fancy for you one summer, had he not?--just after you came to us,\nat the same time, or just before it, that my poor boy and you were so\ndesperately attached to each other.'\n\n'O yes, I recollect,' said Ethelberta.  'And he had a sister, I think.  I\nwonder where they went to live after the family collapse.'\n\n'I do not know,' said Lady Petherwin, taking up another sheet of paper.\n'I have a dim notion that the son, who had been brought up to no\nprofession, became a teacher of music in some country town--music having\nalways been his hobby.  But the facts are not very distinct in my\nmemory.'  And she dipped her pen for another letter.\n\nEthelberta, with a rather fallen countenance, then left her mother-in-\nlaw, and went where all ladies are supposed to go when they want to\ntorment their minds in comfort--to her own room.  Here she thoughtfully\nsat down awhile, and some time later she rang for her maid.\n\n'Menlove,' she said, without looking towards a rustle and half a footstep\nthat had just come in at the door, but leaning back in her chair and\nspeaking towards the corner of the looking-glass, 'will you go down and\nfind out if any gentleman named Julian has been staying in this house?\nGet to know it, I mean, Menlove, not by directly inquiring; you have ways\nof getting to know things, have you not?  If the devoted George were here\nnow, he would help--'\n\n'George was nothing to me, ma'am.'\n\n'James, then.'\n\n'And I only had James for a week or ten days: when I found he was a\nmarried man, I encouraged his addresses very little indeed.'\n\n'If you had encouraged him heart and soul, you couldn't have fumed more\nat the loss of him.  But please to go and make that inquiry, will you,\nMenlove?'\n\nIn a few minutes Ethelberta's woman was back again.  'A gentleman of that\nname stayed here last night, and left this afternoon.'\n\n'Will you find out his address?'\n\nNow the lady's-maid had already been quick-witted enough to find out\nthat, and indeed all about him; but it chanced that a fashionable\nillustrated weekly paper had just been sent from the bookseller's, and\nbeing in want of a little time to look it over before it reached her\nmistress's hands, Mrs. Menlove retired, as if to go and ask the\nquestion--to stand meanwhile under the gas-lamp in the passage,\ninspecting the fascinating engravings.  But as time will not wait for\ntire-women, a natural length of absence soon elapsed, and she returned\nagain and said,\n\n'His address is, Upper Street, Sandbourne.'\n\n'Thank you, that will do,' replied her mistress.\n\nThe hour grew later, and that dreamy period came round when ladies'\nfancies, that have lain shut up close as their fans during the day, begin\nto assert themselves anew.  At this time a good guess at Ethelberta's\nthoughts might have been made from her manner of passing the minutes\naway.  Instead of reading, entering notes in her diary, or doing any\nordinary thing, she walked to and fro, curled her pretty nether lip\nwithin her pretty upper one a great many times, made a cradle of her\nlocked fingers, and paused with fixed eyes where the walls of the room\nset limits upon her walk to look at nothing but a picture within her\nmind.\n\n\n\n\n2. CHRISTOPHER'S HOUSE--SANDBOURNE TOWN--SANDBOURNE MOOR\n\n\nDuring the wet autumn of the same year, the postman passed one morning as\nusual into a plain street that ran through the less fashionable portion\nof Sandbourne, a modern coast town and watering-place not many miles from\nthe ancient Anglebury.  He knocked at the door of a flat-faced brick\nhouse, and it was opened by a slight, thoughtful young man, with his hat\non, just then coming out.  The postman put into his hands a book packet,\naddressed, 'Christopher Julian, Esq.'\n\nChristopher took the package upstairs, opened it with curiosity, and\ndiscovered within a green volume of poems, by an anonymous writer, the\ntitle-page bearing the inscription, 'Metres by E.'  The book was new,\nthough it was cut, and it appeared to have been looked into.  The young\nman, after turning it over and wondering where it came from, laid it on\nthe table and went his way, being in haste to fulfil his engagements for\nthe day.\n\nIn the evening, on returning home from his occupations, he sat himself\ndown cosily to read the newly-arrived volume.  The winds of this\nuncertain season were snarling in the chimneys, and drops of rain spat\nthemselves into the fire, revealing plainly that the young man's room was\nnot far enough from the top of the house to admit of a twist in the flue,\nand revealing darkly a little more, if that social rule-of-three inverse,\nthe higher in lodgings the lower in pocket, were applicable here.\nHowever, the aspect of the room, though homely, was cheerful, a somewhat\ncontradictory group of furniture suggesting that the collection consisted\nof waifs and strays from a former home, the grimy faces of the old\narticles exercising a curious and subduing effect on the bright faces of\nthe new.  An oval mirror of rococo workmanship, and a heavy cabinet-piano\nwith a cornice like that of an Egyptian temple, adjoined a harmonium of\nyesterday, and a harp that was almost as new.  Printed music of the last\ncentury, and manuscript music of the previous evening, lay there in such\nquantity as to endanger the tidiness of a retreat which was indeed only\nsaved from a chronic state of litter by a pair of hands that sometimes\nplayed, with the lightness of breezes, about the sewing-machine standing\nin a remote corner--if any corner could be called remote in a room so\nsmall.\n\nFire lights and shades from the shaking flames struck in a butterfly\nflutter on the underparts of the mantelshelf, and upon the reader's cheek\nas he sat.  Presently, and all at once, a much greater intentness\npervaded his face: he turned back again, and read anew the subject that\nhad arrested his eyes.  He was a man whose countenance varied with his\nmood, though it kept somewhat in the rear of that mood.  He looked sad\nwhen he felt almost serene, and only serene when he felt quite cheerful.\nIt is a habit people acquire who have had repressing experiences.\n\nA faint smile and flush now lightened his face, and jumping up he opened\nthe door and exclaimed, 'Faith! will you come here for a moment?'\n\nA prompt step was heard on the stairs, and the young person addressed as\nFaith entered the room.  She was small in figure, and bore less in the\nform of her features than in their shades when changing from expression\nto expression the evidence that she was his sister.\n\n'Faith--I want your opinion.  But, stop, read this first.'  He laid his\nfinger upon a page in the book, and placed it in her hand.\n\nThe girl drew from her pocket a little green-leather sheath, worn at the\nedges to whity-brown, and out of that a pair of spectacles, unconsciously\nlooking round the room for a moment as she did so, as if to ensure that\nno stranger saw her in the act of using them.  Here a weakness was\nuncovered at once; it was a small, pretty, and natural one; indeed, as\nweaknesses go in the great world, it might almost have been called a\ncommendable trait.  She then began to read, without sitting down.\n\nThese 'Metres by E.' composed a collection of soft and marvellously\nmusical rhymes, of a nature known as the vers de societe.  The lines\npresented a series of playful defences of the supposed strategy of\nwomankind in fascination, courtship, and marriage--the whole teeming with\nideas bright as mirrors and just as unsubstantial, yet forming a\nbrilliant argument to justify the ways of girls to men.  The pervading\ncharacteristic of the mass was the means of forcing into notice, by\nstrangeness of contrast, the single mournful poem that the book\ncontained.  It was placed at the very end, and under the title of\n'Cancelled Words,' formed a whimsical and rather affecting love-lament,\nsomewhat in the tone of many of Sir Thomas Wyatt's poems.  This was the\npiece which had arrested Christopher's attention, and had been pointed\nout by him to his sister Faith.\n\n'It is very touching,' she said, looking up.\n\n'What do you think I suspect about it--that the poem is addressed to me!\nDo you remember, when father was alive and we were at Solentsea that\nseason, about a governess who came there with a Sir Ralph Petherwin and\nhis wife, people with a sickly little daughter and a grown-up son?'\n\n'I never saw any of them.  I think I remember your knowing something\nabout a young man of that name.'\n\n'Yes, that was the family.  Well, the governess there was a very\nattractive woman, and somehow or other I got more interested in her than\nI ought to have done (this is necessary to the history), and we used to\nmeet in romantic places--and--and that kind of thing, you know.  The end\nof it was, she jilted me and married the son.'\n\n'You were anxious to get away from Solentsea.'\n\n'Was I?  Then that was chiefly the reason.  Well, I decided to think no\nmore of her, and I was helped to do it by the troubles that came upon us\nshortly afterwards; it is a blessed arrangement that one does not feel a\nsentimental grief at all when additional grief comes in the shape of\npractical misfortune.  However, on the first afternoon of the little\nholiday I took for my walking tour last summer, I came to Anglebury, and\nstayed about the neighbourhood for a day or two to see what it was like,\nthinking we might settle there if this place failed us.  The next evening\nI left, and walked across the heath to Flychett--that's a village about\nfive miles further on--so as to be that distance on my way for next\nmorning; and while I was crossing the heath there I met this very woman.\nWe talked a little, because we couldn't help it--you may imagine the kind\nof talk it was--and parted as coolly as we had met.  Now this strange\nbook comes to me; and I have a strong conviction that she is the writer\nof it, for that poem sketches a similar scene--or rather suggests it; and\nthe tone generally seems the kind of thing she would write--not that she\nwas a sad woman, either.'\n\n'She seems to be a warm-hearted, impulsive woman, to judge from these\ntender verses.'\n\n'People who print very warm words have sometimes very cold manners.  I\nwonder if it is really her writing, and if she has sent it to me!'\n\n'Would it not be a singular thing for a married woman to do?  Though of\ncourse'--(she removed her spectacles as if they hindered her from\nthinking, and hid them under the timepiece till she should go on\nreading)--'of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and\ncustom is no argument with them.  I am sure I would not have sent it to a\nman for the world!'\n\n'I do not see any absolute harm in her sending it.  Perhaps she thinks\nthat, since it is all over, we may as well die friends.'\n\n'If I were her husband I should have doubts about the dying.  And \"all\nover\" may not be so plain to other people as it is to you.'\n\n'Perhaps not.  And when a man checks all a woman's finer sentiments\ntowards him by marrying her, it is only natural that it should find a\nvent somewhere.  However, she probably does not know of my downfall since\nfather's death.  I hardly think she would have cared to do it had she\nknown that.  (I am assuming that it is Ethelberta--Mrs. Petherwin--who\nsends it: of course I am not sure.)  We must remember that when I knew\nher I was a gentleman at ease, who had not the least notion that I should\nhave to work for a living, and not only so, but should have first to\ninvent a profession to work at out of my old tastes.'\n\n'Kit, you have made two mistakes in your thoughts of that lady.  Even\nthough I don't know her, I can show you that.  Now I'll tell you! the\nfirst is in thinking that a married lady would send the book with that\npoem in it without at any rate a slight doubt as to its propriety: the\nsecond is in supposing that, had she wished to do it, she would have\ngiven the thing up because of our misfortunes.  With a true woman the\nsecond reason would have had no effect had she once got over the first.\nI'm a woman, and that's why I know.'\n\nChristopher said nothing, and turned over the poems.\n\n\n\nHe lived by teaching music, and, in comparison with starving, thrived;\nthough the wealthy might possibly have said that in comparison with\nthriving he starved.  During this night he hummed airs in bed, thought he\nwould do for the ballad of the fair poetess what other musicians had done\nfor the ballads of other fair poetesses, and dreamed that she smiled on\nhim as her prototype Sappho smiled on Phaon.\n\nThe next morning before starting on his rounds a new circumstance induced\nhim to direct his steps to the bookseller's, and ask a question.  He had\nfound on examining the wrapper of the volume that it was posted in his\nown town.\n\n'No copy of the book has been sold by me,' the bookseller's voice replied\nfrom far up the Alpine height of the shop-ladder, where he stood dusting\nstale volumes, as was his habit of a morning before customers came.  'I\nhave never heard of it--probably never shall;' and he shook out the\nduster, so as to hit the delicate mean between stifling Christopher and\nnot stifling him.\n\n'Surely you don't live by your shop?' said Christopher, drawing back.\n\nThe bookseller's eyes rested on the speaker's; his face changed; he came\ndown and placed his hand on the lapel of Christopher's coat.  'Sir,' he\nsaid, 'country bookselling is a miserable, impoverishing, exasperating\nthing in these days.  Can you understand the rest?'\n\n'I can; I forgive a starving man anything,' said Christopher.\n\n'You go a long way very suddenly,' said the book seller.  'Half as much\npity would have seemed better.  However, wait a moment.'  He looked into\na list of new books, and added: 'The work you allude to was only\npublished last week; though, mind you, if it had been published last\ncentury I might not have sold a copy.'\n\nAlthough his time was precious, Christopher had now become so interested\nin the circumstance that the unseen sender was somebody breathing his own\natmosphere, possibly the very writer herself--the book being too new to\nbe known--that he again passed through the blue shadow of the spire which\nstretched across the street to-day, and went towards the post-office,\nanimated by a bright intention--to ask the postmaster if he knew the\nhandwriting in which the packet was addressed.\n\nNow the postmaster was an acquaintance of Christopher's, but, as regarded\nputting that question to him, there was a difficulty.  Everything turned\nupon whether the postmaster at the moment of asking would be in his under-\ngovernment manner, or in the manner with which mere nature had endowed\nhim.  In the latter case his reply would be all that could be wished; in\nthe former, a man who had sunk in society might as well put his tongue\ninto a mousetrap as make an inquiry so obviously outside the pale of\nlegality as was this.\n\nSo he postponed his business for the present, and refrained from entering\ntill he passed by after dinner, when pleasant malt liquor, of that\ncapacity for cheering which is expressed by four large letter X's\nmarching in a row, had refilled the globular trunk of the postmaster and\nneutralized some of the effects of officiality.  The time was well\nchosen, but the inquiry threatened to prove fruitless: the postmaster had\nnever, to his knowledge, seen the writing before.  Christopher was\nturning away when a clerk in the background looked up and stated that\nsome young lady had brought a packet with such an address upon it into\nthe office two days earlier to get it stamped.\n\n'Do you know her?' said Christopher.\n\n'I have seen her about the neighbourhood.  She goes by every morning; I\nthink she comes into the town from beyond the common, and returns again\nbetween four and five in the afternoon.'\n\n'What does she wear?'\n\n'A white wool jacket with zigzags of black braid.'\n\nChristopher left the post-office and went his way.  Among his other\npupils there were two who lived at some distance from Sandbourne--one of\nthem in the direction indicated as that habitually taken by the young\nperson; and in the afternoon, as he returned homeward, Christopher\nloitered and looked around.  At first he could see nobody; but when about\na mile from the outskirts of the town he discerned a light spot ahead of\nhim, which actually turned out to be the jacket alluded to.  In due time\nhe met the wearer face to face; she was not Ethelberta Petherwin--quite a\ndifferent sort of individual.  He had long made up his mind that this\nwould be the case, yet he was in some indescribable way disappointed.\n\nOf the two classes into which gentle young women naturally divide, those\nwho grow red at their weddings, and those who grow pale, the present one\nbelonged to the former class.  She was an April-natured, pink-cheeked\ngirl, with eyes that would have made any jeweller in England think of his\ntrade--one who evidently took her day in the daytime, frequently caught\nthe early worm, and had little to do with yawns or candlelight.  She came\nand passed him; he fancied that her countenance changed.  But one may\nfancy anything, and the pair receded each from each without turning their\nheads.  He could not speak to her, plain and simple as she seemed.\n\nIt is rarely that a man who can be entered and made to throb by the\nchannel of his ears is not open to a similar attack through the channel\nof his eyes--for many doors will admit to one mansion--allowance being\nmade for the readier capacity of chosen and practised organs.  Hence the\nbeauties, concords, and eloquences of the female form were never without\ntheir effect upon Christopher, a born musician, artist, poet, seer,\nmouthpiece--whichever a translator of Nature's oracles into simple speech\nmay be called.  The young girl who had gone by was fresh and pleasant;\nmoreover, she was a sort of mysterious link between himself and the past,\nwhich these things were vividly reviving in him.\n\nThe following week Christopher met her again.  She had not much dignity,\nhe had not much reserve, and the sudden resolution to have a holiday\nwhich sometimes impels a plump heart to rise up against a brain that\noverweights it was not to be resisted.  He just lifted his hat, and put\nthe only question he could think of as a beginning: 'Have I the pleasure\nof addressing the author of a book of very melodious poems that was sent\nme the other day?'\n\nThe girl's forefinger twirled rapidly the loop of braid that it had\npreviously been twirling slowly, and drawing in her breath, she said,\n'No, sir.'\n\n'The sender, then?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nShe somehow presented herself as so insignificant by the combined effect\nof the manner and the words that Christopher lowered his method of\naddress to her level at once.  'Ah,' he said, 'such an atmosphere as the\nwriter of \"Metres by E.\" seems to breathe would soon spoil cheeks that\nare fresh and round as lady-apples--eh, little girl?  But are you\ndisposed to tell me that writer's name?'\n\nBy applying a general idea to a particular case a person with the best of\nintentions may find himself immediately landed in a quandary.  In saying\nto the country girl before him what would have suited the mass of country\nlasses well enough, Christopher had offended her beyond the cure of\ncompliment.\n\n'I am not disposed to tell the writer's name,' she replied, with a\ndudgeon that was very great for one whose whole stock of it was a trifle.\nAnd she passed on and left him standing alone.\n\nThus further conversation was checked; but, through having rearranged the\nhours of his country lessons, Christopher met her the next Wednesday, and\nthe next Friday, and throughout the following week--no further words\npassing between them.  For a while she went by very demurely, apparently\nmindful of his offence.  But effrontery is not proved to be part of a\nman's nature till he has been guilty of a second act: the best of men may\ncommit a first through accident or ignorance--may even be betrayed into\nit by over-zeal for experiment.  Some such conclusion may or may not have\nbeen arrived at by the girl with the lady-apple cheeks; at any rate,\nafter the lapse of another week a new spectacle presented itself; her\nredness deepened whenever Christopher passed her by, and embarrassment\npervaded her from the lowest stitch to the tip of her feather.  She had\nlittle chance of escaping him by diverging from the road, for a figure\ncould be seen across the open ground to the distance of half a mile on\neither side.  One day as he drew near as usual, she met him as women meet\na cloud of dust--she turned and looked backwards till he had passed.\n\nThis would have been disconcerting but for one reason: Christopher was\nceasing to notice her.  He was a man who often, when walking abroad, and\nlooking as it were at the scene before his eyes, discerned successes and\nfailures, friends and relations, episodes of childhood, wedding feasts\nand funerals, the landscape suffering greatly by these visions, until it\nbecame no more than the patterned wall-tints about the paintings in a\ngallery; something necessary to the tone, yet not regarded.  Nothing but\na special concentration of himself on externals could interrupt this\nhabit, and now that her appearance along the way had changed from a\nchance to a custom he began to lapse again into the old trick.  He gazed\nonce or twice at her form without seeing it: he did not notice that she\ntrembled.\n\nHe sometimes read as he walked, and book in hand he frequently approached\nher now.  This went on till six weeks had passed from the time of their\nfirst encounter.  Latterly might have been once or twice heard, when he\nhad moved out of earshot, a sound like a small gasping sigh; but no\narrangements were disturbed, and Christopher continued to keep down his\neyes as persistently as a saint in a church window.\n\nThe last day of his engagement had arrived, and with it the last of his\nwalks that way.  On his final return he carried in his hand a bunch of\nflowers which had been presented to him at the country-house where his\nlessons were given.  He was taking them home to his sister Faith, who\nprized the lingering blossoms of the seeding season.  Soon appeared as\nusual his fellow-traveller; whereupon Christopher looked down upon his\nnosegay.  'Sweet simple girl,' he thought, 'I'll endeavour to make peace\nwith her by means of these flowers before we part for good.'\n\nWhen she came up he held them out to her and said, 'Will you allow me to\npresent you with these?'\n\nThe bright colours of the nosegay instantly attracted the girl's\nhand--perhaps before there had been time for thought to thoroughly\nconstrue the position; for it happened that when her arm was stretched\ninto the air she steadied it quickly, and stood with the pose of a\nstatue--rigid with uncertainty.  But it was too late to refuse:\nChristopher had put the nosegay within her fingers.  Whatever pleasant\nexpression of thanks may have appeared in her eyes fell only on the bunch\nof flowers, for during the whole transaction they reached to no higher\nlevel than that.  To say that he was coming no more seemed scarcely\nnecessary under the circumstances, and wishing her 'Good afternoon' very\nheartily, he passed on.\n\nHe had learnt by this time her occupation, which was that of\npupil-teacher at one of the schools in the town, whither she walked daily\nfrom a village near.  If he had not been poor and the little teacher\nhumble, Christopher might possibly have been tempted to inquire more\nbriskly about her, and who knows how such a pursuit might have ended?  But\nhard externals rule volatile sentiment, and under these untoward\ninfluences the girl and the book and the truth about its author were\nmatters upon which he could not afford to expend much time.  All\nChristopher did was to think now and then of the pretty innocent face and\nround deep eyes, not once wondering if the mind which enlivened them ever\nthought of him.\n\n\n\n\n3. SANDBOURNE MOOR (continued)\n\n\nIt was one of those hostile days of the year when chatterbox ladies\nremain miserably in their homes to save the carriage and harness, when\nclerks' wives hate living in lodgings, when vehicles and people appear in\nthe street with duplicates of themselves underfoot, when bricklayers,\nslaters, and other out-door journeymen sit in a shed and drink beer, when\nducks and drakes play with hilarious delight at their own family game, or\nspread out one wing after another in the slower enjoyment of letting the\ndelicious moisture penetrate to their innermost down.  The smoke from the\nflues of Sandbourne had barely strength enough to emerge into the\ndrizzling rain, and hung down the sides of each chimney-pot like the\nstreamer of a becalmed ship; and a troop of rats might have rattled down\nthe pipes from roof to basement with less noise than did the water that\nday.\n\nOn the broad moor beyond the town, where Christopher's meetings with the\nteacher had so regularly occurred, were a stream and some large pools;\nand beside one of these, near some hatches and a weir, stood a little\nsquare building, not much larger inside than the Lord Mayor's coach.  It\nwas known simply as 'The Weir House.'  On this wet afternoon, which was\nthe one following the day of Christopher's last lesson over the plain, a\nnearly invisible smoke came from the puny chimney of the hut.  Though the\ndoor was closed, sounds of chatting and mirth fizzed from the interior,\nand would have told anybody who had come near--which nobody did--that the\nusually empty shell was tenanted to-day.\n\nThe scene within was a large fire in a fireplace to which the whole floor\nof the house was no more than a hearthstone.  The occupants were two\ngentlemanly persons, in shooting costume, who had been traversing the\nmoor for miles in search of wild duck and teal, a waterman, and a small\nspaniel.  In the corner stood their guns, and two or three wild mallards,\nwhich represented the scanty product of their morning's labour, the\niridescent necks of the dead birds replying to every flicker of the fire.\nThe two sportsmen were smoking, and their man was mostly occupying\nhimself in poking and stirring the fire with a stick: all three appeared\nto be pretty well wetted.\n\nOne of the gentlemen, by way of varying the not very exhilarating study\nof four brick walls within microscopic distance of his eye, turned to a\nsmall square hole which admitted light and air to the hut, and looked out\nupon the dreary prospect before him.  The wide concave of cloud, of the\nmonotonous hue of dull pewter, formed an unbroken hood over the level\nfrom horizon to horizon; beneath it, reflecting its wan lustre, was the\nglazed high-road which stretched, hedgeless and ditchless, past a\ndirecting-post where another road joined it, and on to the less regular\nground beyond, lying like a riband unrolled across the scene, till it\nvanished over the furthermost undulation.  Beside the pools were\noccasional tall sheaves of flags and sedge, and about the plain a few\nbushes, these forming the only obstructions to a view otherwise unbroken.\n\nThe sportsman's attention was attracted by a figure in a state of gradual\nenlargement as it approached along the road.\n\n'I should think that if pleasure can't tempt a native out of doors to-\nday, business will never force him out,' he observed.  'There is, for the\nfirst time, somebody coming along the road.'\n\n'If business don't drag him out pleasure'll never tempt en, is more like\nour nater in these parts, sir,' said the man, who was looking into the\nfire.\n\nThe conversation showed no vitality, and down it dropped dead as before,\nthe man who was standing up continuing to gaze into the moisture.  What\nhad at first appeared as an epicene shape the decreasing space resolved\ninto a cloaked female under an umbrella: she now relaxed her pace, till,\nreaching the directing-post where the road branched into two, she paused\nand looked about her.  Instead of coming further she slowly retraced her\nsteps for about a hundred yards.\n\n'That's an appointment,' said the first speaker, as he removed the cigar\nfrom his lips; 'and by the lords, what a day and place for an appointment\nwith a woman!'\n\n'What's an appointment?' inquired his friend, a town young man, with a\nTussaud complexion and well-pencilled brows half way up his forehead, so\nthat his upper eyelids appeared to possess the uncommon quality of\ntallness.\n\n'Look out here, and you'll see.  By that directing-post, where the two\nroads meet.  As a man devoted to art, Ladywell, who has had the honour of\nbeing hung higher up on the Academy walls than any other living painter,\nyou should take out your sketch-book and dash off the scene.'\n\nWhere nothing particular is going on, one incident makes a drama; and,\ninterested in that proportion, the art-sportsman puts up his eyeglass (a\nform he adhered to before firing at game that had risen, by which\nmerciful arrangement the bird got safe off), placed his face beside his\ncompanion's, and also peered through the opening.  The young\npupil-teacher--for she was the object of their scrutiny--re-approached\nthe spot whereon she had been accustomed for the last many weeks of her\njourney home to meet Christopher, now for the first time missing, and\nagain she seemed reluctant to pass the hand-post, for that marked the\npoint where the chance of seeing him ended.  She glided backwards as\nbefore, this time keeping her face still to the front, as if trying to\npersuade the world at large, and her own shamefacedness, that she had not\nyet approached the place at all.\n\n'Query, how long will she wait for him (for it is a man to a certainty)?'\nresumed the elder of the smokers, at the end of several minutes of\nsilence, when, full of vacillation and doubt, she became lost to view\nbehind some bushes.  'Will she reappear?'  The smoking went on, and up\nshe came into open ground as before, and walked by.\n\n'I wonder who the girl is, to come to such a place in this weather?  There\nshe is again,' said the young man called Ladywell.\n\n'Some cottage lass, not yet old enough to make the most of the value set\non her by her follower, small as that appears to be.  Now we may get an\nidea of the hour named by the fellow for the appointment, for, depend\nupon it, the time when she first came--about five minutes ago--was the\ntime he should have been there.  It is now getting on towards five--half-\npast four was doubtless the time mentioned.'\n\n'She's not come o' purpose: 'tis her way home from school every day,'\nsaid the waterman.\n\n'An experiment on woman's endurance and patience under neglect.  Two to\none against her staying a quarter of an hour.'\n\n'The same odds against her not staying till five would be nearer\nprobability.  What's half-an-hour to a girl in love?'\n\n'On a moorland in wet weather it is thirty perceptible minutes to any\nfireside man, woman, or beast in Christendom--minutes that can be felt,\nlike the Egyptian plague of darkness.  Now, little girl, go home: he is\nnot worth it.'\n\nTwenty minutes passed, and the girl returned miserably to the hand-post,\nstill to wander back to her retreat behind the sedge, and lead any chance\ncomer from the opposite quarter to believe that she had not yet reached\nthis ultimate point beyond which a meeting with Christopher was\nimpossible.\n\n'Now you'll find that she means to wait the complete half-hour, and then\noff she goes with a broken heart.'\n\nAll three now looked through the hole to test the truth of the\nprognostication.  The hour of five completed itself on their watches; the\ngirl again came forward.  And then the three in ambuscade could see her\npull out her handkerchief and place it to her eyes.\n\n'She's grieving now because he has not come.  Poor little woman, what a\nbrute he must be; for a broken heart in a woman means a broken vow in a\nman, as I infer from a thousand instances in experience, romance, and\nhistory.  Don't open the door till she is gone, Ladywell; it will only\ndisturb her.'\n\nAs they had guessed, the pupil-teacher, hearing the distant town-clock\nstrike the hour, gave way to her fancy no longer, and launched into the\ndiverging path.  This lingering for Christopher's arrival had, as is\nknown, been founded on nothing more of the nature of an assignation than\nlay in his regular walk along the plain at that time every Monday,\nWednesday, and Friday of the six previous weeks.  It must be said that he\nwas very far indeed from divining that his injudicious peace-offering of\nthe flowers had stirred into life such a wearing, anxious, hopeful,\ndespairing solicitude as this, which had been latent for some time during\nhis constant meetings with the little stranger.\n\nShe vanished in the mist towards the left, and the loiterers in the hut\nbegan to move and open the door, remarking, 'Now then for Wyndway House,\na change of clothes, and a dinner.'\n\n\n\n\n4. SANDBOURNE PIER--ROAD TO WYNDWAY--BALL-ROOM IN WYNDWAY HOUSE\n\n\nThe last light of a winter day had gone down behind the houses of\nSandbourne, and night was shut close over all.  Christopher, about eight\no'clock, was standing at the end of the pier with his back towards the\nopen sea, whence the waves were pushing to the shore in frills and coils\nthat were just rendered visible in all their bleak instability by the row\nof lights along the sides of the jetty, the rapid motion landward of the\nwavetips producing upon his eye an apparent progress of the pier out to\nsea.  This pier-head was a spot which Christopher enjoyed visiting on\nsuch moaning and sighing nights as the present, when the sportive and\nvariegated throng that haunted the pier on autumn days was no longer\nthere, and he seemed alone with weather and the invincible sea.\n\nSomebody came towards him along the deserted footway, and rays from the\nnearest lamp streaked the face of his sister Faith.\n\n'O Christopher, I knew you were here,' she said eagerly.  'You are\nwanted; there's a servant come from Wyndway House for you.  He is sent to\nask if you can come immediately to play at a little dance they have\nresolved upon this evening--quite suddenly it seems.  If you can come,\nyou must bring with you any assistant you can lay your hands upon at a\nmoment's notice, he says.'\n\n'Wyndway House; why should the people send for me above all other\nmusicians in the town?'\n\nFaith did not know.  'If you really decide to go,' she said, as they\nwalked homeward, 'you might take me as your assistant.  I should answer\nthe purpose, should I not, Kit? since it is only a dance or two they seem\nto want.'\n\n'And your harp I suppose you mean.  Yes; you might be competent to take a\npart.  It cannot be a regular ball; they would have had the quadrille\nband for anything of that sort.  Faith--we'll go.  However, let us see\nthe man first, and inquire particulars.'\n\nReaching home, Christopher found at his door a horse and wagonette in\ncharge of a man-servant in livery, who repeated what Faith had told her\nbrother.  Wyndway House was a well-known country-seat three or four miles\nout of the town, and the coachman mentioned that if they were going it\nwould be well that they should get ready to start as soon as they\nconveniently could, since he had been told to return by ten if possible.\nChristopher quickly prepared himself, and put a new string or two into\nFaith's harp, by which time she also was dressed; and, wrapping up\nherself and her instrument safe from the night air, away they drove at\nhalf-past nine.\n\n'Is it a large party?' said Christopher, as they whizzed along.\n\n'No, sir; it is what we call a dance--that is, 'tis like a ball, you\nknow, on a small scale--a ball on a spurt, that you never thought of till\nyou had it.  In short, it grew out of a talk at dinner, I believe; and\nsome of the young people present wanted a jig, and didn't care to play\nthemselves, you know, young ladies being an idle class of society at the\nbest of times.  We've a house full of sleeping company, you\nunderstand--been there a week some of 'em--most of 'em being mistress's\nrelations.'\n\n'They probably found it a little dull.'\n\n'Well, yes--it is rather dull for 'em--Christmas-time and all.  As soon\nas it was proposed they were wild for sending post-haste for somebody or\nother to play to them.'\n\n'Did they name me particularly?' said Christopher.\n\n'Yes; \"Mr. Christopher Julian,\" she says.  \"The gent who's turned music-\nman?\" I said.  \"Yes, that's him,\" says she.'\n\n'There were music-men living nearer to your end of the town than I.'\n\n'Yes, but I know it was you particular: though I don't think mistress\nthought anything about you at first.  Mr. Joyce--that's the butler--said\nthat your name was mentioned to our old party, when he was in the room,\nby a young lady staying with us, and mistress says then, \"The Julians\nhave had a downfall, and the son has taken to music.\"  Then when dancing\nwas talked of, they said, \"O, let's have him by all means.\"'\n\n'Was the young lady who first inquired for my family the same one who\nsaid, \"Let's have him by all means?\"'\n\n'O no; but it was on account of her asking that the rest said they would\nlike you to play--at least that's as I had it from Joyce.'\n\n'Do you know that lady's name?'\n\n'Mrs. Petherwin.'\n\n'Ah!'\n\n'Cold, sir?'\n\n'O no.'\n\nChristopher did not like to question the man any further, though what he\nhad heard added new life to his previous curiosity; and they drove along\nthe way in silence, Faith's figure, wrapped up to the top of her head,\ncutting into the sky behind them like a sugar-loaf.  Such gates as\ncrossed the roads had been left open by the forethought of the coachman,\nand, passing the lodge, they proceeded about half-a-mile along a private\ndrive, then ascended a rise, and came in view of the front of the\nmansion, punctured with windows that were now mostly lighted up.\n\n'What is that?' said Faith, catching a glimpse of something that the\ncarriage-lamp showed on the face of one wall as they passed, a marble bas-\nrelief of some battle-piece, built into the stonework.\n\n'That's the scene of the death of one of the squire's forefathers--Colonel\nSir Martin Jones, who was killed at the moment of victory in the battle\nof Salamanca--but I haven't been here long enough to know the rights of\nit.  When I am in one of my meditations, as I wait here with the carriage\nsometimes, I think how many more get killed at the moment of victory than\nat the moment of defeat.  This is the entrance for you, sir.'  And he\nturned the corner and pulled up before a side door.\n\nThey alighted and went in, Christopher shouldering Faith's harp, and she\nmarching modestly behind, with curly-eared music-books under her arm.\nThey were shown into the house-steward's room, and ushered thence along a\nbadly-lit passage and past a door within which a hum and laughter were\naudible.  The door next to this was then opened for them, and they\nentered.\n\n* * * * *\n\nScarcely had Faith, or Christopher either, ever beheld a more shining\nscene than was presented by the saloon in which they now found\nthemselves.  Coming direct from the gloomy park, and led to the room by\nthat back passage from the servants' quarter, the light from the\nchandelier and branches against the walls, striking on gilding at all\npoints, quite dazzled their sight for a minute or two; it caused Faith to\nmove forward with her eyes on the floor, and filled Christopher with an\nimpulse to turn back again into some dusky corner where every thread of\nhis not over-new dress suit--rather moth-eaten through lack of feasts for\nairing it--could be counted less easily.\n\nHe was soon seated before a grand piano, and Faith sat down under the\nshadow of her harp, both being arranged on a dais within an alcove at one\nend of the room.  A screen of ivy and holly had been constructed across\nthe front of this recess for the games of the children on Christmas Eve,\nand it still remained there, a small creep-hole being left for entrance\nand exit.\n\nThen the merry guests tumbled through doors at the further end, and\ndancing began.  The mingling of black-coated men and bright ladies gave a\ncharming appearance to the groups as seen by Faith and her brother, the\nwhole spectacle deriving an unexpected novelty from the accident of\nreaching their eyes through interstices in the tracery of green leaves,\nwhich added to the picture a softness that it would not otherwise have\npossessed.  On the other hand, the musicians, having a much weaker light,\ncould hardly be discerned by the performers in the dance.\n\nThe music was now rattling on, and the ladies in their foam-like dresses\nwere busily threading and spinning about the floor, when Faith, casually\nlooking up into her brother's face, was surprised to see that a change\nhad come over it.  At the end of the quadrille he leant across to her\nbefore she had time to speak, and said quietly, 'She's here!'\n\n'Who?' said Faith, for she had not heard the words of the coachman.\n\n'Ethelberta.'\n\n'Which is she?' asked Faith, peeping through with the keenest interest.\n\n'The one who has the skirts of her dress looped up with convolvulus\nflowers--the one with her hair fastened in a sort of Venus knot behind;\nshe has just been dancing with that perfumed piece of a man they call Mr.\nLadywell--it is he with the high eyebrows arched like a girl's.'  He\nadded, with a wrinkled smile, 'I cannot for my life see anybody answering\nto the character of husband to her, for every man takes notice of her.'\n\nThey were interrupted by another dance being called for, and then, his\nfingers tapping about upon the keys as mechanically as fowls pecking at\nbarleycorns, Christopher gave himself up with a curious and far from\nunalloyed pleasure to the occupation of watching Ethelberta, now again\ncrossing the field of his vision like a returned comet whose\ncharacteristics were becoming purely historical.  She was a plump-armed\ncreature, with a white round neck as firm as a fort--altogether a\nvigorous shape, as refreshing to the eye as the green leaves through\nwhich he beheld her.  She danced freely, and with a zest that was\napparently irrespective of partners.  He had been waiting long to hear\nher speak, and when at length her voice did reach his ears, it was the\nrevelation of a strange matter to find how great a thing that small event\nhad become to him.  He knew the old utterance--rapid but not frequent, an\nobstructive thought causing sometimes a sudden halt in the midst of a\nstream of words.  But the features by which a cool observer would have\nsingled her out from others in his memory when asking himself what she\nwas like, was a peculiar gaze into imaginary far-away distance when\nmaking a quiet remark to a partner--not with contracted eyes like a\nseafaring man, but with an open full look--a remark in which little words\nin a low tone were made to express a great deal, as several single\ngentlemen afterwards found.\n\nThe production of dance-music when the criticizing stage among the\ndancers has passed, and they have grown full of excitement and animal\nspirits, does not require much concentration of thought in the producers\nthereof; and desultory conversation accordingly went on between Faith and\nher brother from time to time.\n\n'Kit,' she said on one occasion, 'are you looking at the way in which the\nflowers are fastened to the leaves?--taking a mean advantage of being at\nthe back of the tapestry?  You cannot think how you stare at them.'\n\n'I was looking through them--certainly not at them.  I have a feeling of\nbeing moved about like a puppet in the hands of a person who legally can\nbe nothing to me.'\n\n'That charming woman with the shining bunch of hair and convolvuluses?'\n\n'Yes: it is through her that we are brought here, and through her writing\nthat poem, \"Cancelled Words,\" that the book was sent me, and through the\naccidental renewal of acquaintance between us on Anglebury Heath, that\nshe wrote the poem.  I was, however, at the moment you spoke, thinking\nmore particularly of the little teacher whom Ethelberta must have\ncommissioned to send the book to me; and why that girl was chosen to do\nit.'\n\n'There may be a hundred reasons.  Kit, I have never yet seen her look\nonce this way.'\n\nChristopher had certainly not yet received look or gesture from her; but\nhis time came.  It was while he was for a moment outside the recess, and\nhe caught her in the act.  She became slightly confused, turned aside,\nand entered into conversation with a neighbour.\n\nIt was only a look, and yet what a look it was!  One may say of a look\nthat it is capable of division into as many species, genera, orders, and\nclasses, as the animal world itself.  Christopher saw Ethelberta\nPetherwin's performance in this kind--the well-known spark of light upon\nthe well-known depths of mystery--and felt something going out of him\nwhich had gone out of him once before.\n\nThus continually beholding her and her companions in the giddy whirl, the\nnight wore on with the musicians, last dances and more last dances being\nadded, till the intentions of the old on the matter were thrice exceeded\nin the interests of the young.  Watching the couples whirl and turn,\nadvance and recede as gently as spirits, knot themselves like house-flies\nand part again, and lullabied by the faint regular beat of their\nfootsteps to the tune, the players sank into the peculiar mesmeric quiet\nwhich comes over impressionable people who play for a great length of\ntime in the midst of such scenes; and at last the only noises that\nChristopher took cognizance of were those of the exceptional kind,\nbreaking above the general sea of sound--a casual smart rustle of silk, a\nlaugh, a stumble, the monosyllabic talk of those who happened to linger\nfor a moment close to the leafy screen--all coming to his ears like\nvoices from those old times when he had mingled in similar scenes, not as\nservant but as guest.\n\n\n\n\n5. AT THE WINDOW--THE ROAD HOME\n\n\nThe dancing was over at last, and the radiant company had left the room.\nA long and weary night it had been for the two players, though a\nstimulated interest had hindered physical exhaustion in one of them for a\nwhile.  With tingling fingers and aching arms they came out of the alcove\ninto the long and deserted apartment, now pervaded by a dry haze.  The\nlights had burnt low, and Faith and her brother were waiting by request\ntill the wagonette was ready to take them home, a breakfast being in\ncourse of preparation for them meanwhile.\n\nChristopher had crossed the room to relieve his cramped limbs, and now,\npeeping through a crevice in the window curtains, he said suddenly,\n'Who's for a transformation scene?  Faith, look here!'\n\nHe touched the blind, up it flew, and a gorgeous scene presented itself\nto her eyes.  A huge inflamed sun was breasting the horizon of a wide\nsheet of sea which, to her surprise and delight, the mansion overlooked.\nThe brilliant disc fired all the waves that lay between it and the shore\nat the bottom of the grounds, where the water tossed the ruddy light from\none undulation to another in glares as large and clear as mirrors,\nincessantly altering them, destroying them, and creating them again;\nwhile further off they multiplied, thickened, and ran into one another\nlike struggling armies, till they met the fiery source of them all.\n\n'O, how wonderful it is!' said Faith, putting her hand on Christopher's\narm.  'Who knew that whilst we were all shut in here with our puny\nillumination such an exhibition as this was going on outside!  How sorry\nand mean the grand and stately room looks now!'\n\nChristopher turned his back upon the window, and there were the hitherto\nbeaming candle-flames shining no more radiantly than tarnished javelin-\nheads, while the snow-white lengths of wax showed themselves clammy and\ncadaverous as the fingers of a corpse.  The leaves and flowers which had\nappeared so very green and blooming by the artificial light were now seen\nto be faded and dusty.  Only the gilding of the room in some degree\nbrought itself into keeping with the splendours outside, stray darts of\nlight seizing upon it and lengthening themselves out along fillet, quirk,\narris, and moulding, till wasted away.\n\n'It seems,' said Faith, 'as if all the people who were lately so merry\nhere had died: we ourselves look no more than ghosts.'  She turned up her\nweary face to her brother's, which the incoming rays smote aslant, making\nlittle furrows of every wrinkle thereon, and shady ravines of every\nlittle furrow.\n\n'You are very tired, Faith,' he said.  'Such a heavy night's work has\nbeen almost too much for you.'\n\n'O, I don't mind that,' said Faith.  'But I could not have played so long\nby myself.'\n\n'We filled up one another's gaps; and there were plenty of them towards\nthe morning; but, luckily, people don't notice those things when the\nsmall hours draw on.'\n\n'What troubles me most,' said Faith, 'is not that I have worked, but that\nyou should be so situated as to need such miserable assistance as mine.\nWe are poor, are we not, Kit?'\n\n'Yes, we know a little about poverty,' he replied.\n\nWhile thus lingering\n\n   'In shadowy thoroughfares of thought,'\n\nFaith interrupted with, 'I believe there is one of the dancers now!--why,\nI should have thought they had all gone to bed, and wouldn't get up again\nfor days.'  She indicated to him a figure on the lawn towards the left,\nlooking upon the same flashing scene as that they themselves beheld.\n\n'It is your own particular one,' continued Faith.  'Yes, I see the blue\nflowers under the edge of her cloak.'\n\n'And I see her squirrel-coloured hair,' said Christopher.\n\nBoth stood looking at this apparition, who once, and only once, thought\nfit to turn her head towards the front of the house they were gazing\nfrom.  Faith was one in whom the meditative somewhat overpowered the\nactive faculties; she went on, with no abundance of love, to theorize\nupon this gratuitously charming woman, who, striking freakishly into her\nbrother's path, seemed likely to do him no good in her sisterly\nestimation.  Ethelberta's bright and shapely form stood before her critic\nnow, smartened by the motes of sunlight from head to heel: what Faith\nwould have given to see her so clearly within!\n\n'Without doubt she is already a lady of many romantic experiences,' she\nsaid dubiously.\n\n'And on the way to many more,' said Christopher.  The tone was just of\nthe kind which may be imagined of a sombre man who had been up all night\npiping that others might dance.\n\nFaith parted her lips as if in consternation at possibilities.\nEthelberta, having already become an influence in Christopher's system,\nmight soon become more--an indestructible fascination--to drag him about,\nturn his soul inside out, harrow him, twist him, and otherwise torment\nhim, according to the stereotyped form of such processes.\n\nThey were interrupted by the opening of a door.  A servant entered and\ncame up to them.\n\n'This is for you, I believe, sir,' he said.  'Two guineas;' and he placed\nthe money in Christopher's hand.  'Some breakfast will be ready for you\nin a moment if you like to have it.  Would you wish it brought in here;\nor will you come to the steward's room?'\n\n'Yes, we will come.'  And the man then began to extinguish the lights one\nby one.  Christopher dropped the two pounds and two shillings singly into\nhis pocket, and looking listlessly at the footman said, 'Can you tell me\nthe address of that lady on the lawn?  Ah, she has disappeared!'\n\n'She wore a dress with blue flowers,' said Faith.\n\n'And remarkable bright in her manner?  O, that's the young widow,\nMrs--what's that name--I forget for the moment.'\n\n'Widow?' said Christopher, the eyes of his understanding getting\nwonderfully clear, and Faith uttering a private ejaculation of thanks\nthat after all no commandments were likely to be broken in this matter.\n'The lady I mean is quite a girlish sort of woman.'\n\n'Yes, yes, so she is--that's the one.  Coachman says she must have been\nborn a widow, for there is not time for her ever to have been made one.\nHowever, she's not quite such a chicken as all that.  Mrs. Petherwin,\nthat's the party's name.'\n\n'Does she live here?'\n\n'No, she is staying in the house visiting for a few days with her mother-\nin-law.  They are a London family, I don't know her address.'\n\n'Is she a poetess?'\n\n'That I cannot say.  She is very clever at verses; but she don't lean\nover gates to see the sun, and goes to church as regular as you or I, so\nI should hardly be inclined to say that she's the complete thing.  When\nshe's up in one of her vagaries she'll sit with the ladies and make up\npretty things out of her head as fast as sticks a-breaking.  They will\nrun off her tongue like cotton from a reel, and if she can ever be got in\nthe mind of telling a story she will bring it out that serious and awful\nthat it makes your flesh creep upon your bones; if she's only got to say\nthat she walked out of one door into another, she'll tell it so that\nthere seems something wonderful in it.  'Tis a bother to start her, so\nour people say behind her back, but, once set going, the house is all\nalive with her.  However, it will soon be dull enough; she and Lady\nPetherwin are off to-morrow for Rookington, where I believe they are\ngoing to stay over New Year's Day.'\n\n'Where do you say they are going?' inquired Christopher, as they followed\nthe footman.\n\n'Rookington Park--about three miles out of Sandbourne, in the opposite\ndirection to this.'\n\n'A widow,' Christopher murmured.\n\nFaith overheard him.  'That makes no difference to us, does it?' she said\nwistfully.\n\nForty minutes later they were driving along an open road over a ridge\nwhich commanded a view of a small inlet below them, the sands of this\nnook being sheltered by crumbling cliffs.  Here at once they saw, in the\nfull light of the sun, two women standing side by side, their faces\ndirected over the sea.\n\n'There she is again!' said Faith.  'She has walked along the shore from\nthe lawn where we saw her before.'\n\n'Yes,' said the coachman, 'she's a curious woman seemingly.  She'll talk\nto any poor body she meets.  You see she had been out for a morning walk\ninstead of going to bed, and that is some queer mortal or other she has\npicked up with on her way.'\n\n'I wonder she does not prefer some rest,' Faith observed.\n\nThe road then dropped into a hollow, and the women by the sea were no\nlonger within view from the carriage, which rapidly neared Sandbourne\nwith the two musicians.\n\n\n\n\n6. THE SHORE BY WYNDWAY\n\n\nThe east gleamed upon Ethelberta's squirrel-coloured hair as she said to\nher companion, 'I have come, Picotee; but not, as you imagine, from a\nnight's sleep.  We have actually been dancing till daylight at Wyndway.'\n\n'Then you should not have troubled to come!  I could have borne the\ndisappointment under such circumstances,' said the pupil-teacher, who,\nwearing a dress not so familiar to Christopher's eyes as had been the\nlittle white jacket, had not been recognized by him from the hill.  'You\nlook so tired, Berta.  I could not stay up all night for the world!'\n\n'One gets used to these things,' said Ethelberta quietly.  'I should have\nbeen in bed certainly, had I not particularly wished to use this\nopportunity of meeting you before you go home to-morrow.  I could not\nhave come to Sandbourne to-day, because we are leaving to return again to\nRookington.  This is all that I wish you to take to mother--only a few\nlittle things which may be useful to her; but you will see what it\ncontains when you open it.'  She handed to Picotee a small parcel.  'This\nis for yourself,' she went on, giving a small packet besides.  'It will\npay your fare home and back, and leave you something to spare.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Picotee docilely.\n\n'Now, Picotee,' continued the elder, 'let us talk for a few minutes\nbefore I go back: we may not meet again for some time.'  She put her arm\nround the waist of Picotee, who did the same by Ethelberta; and thus\ninterlaced they walked backwards and forwards upon the firm flat sand\nwith the motion of one body animated by one will.\n\n'Well, what did you think of my poems?'\n\n'I liked them; but naturally, I did not understand all the experience you\ndescribe.  It is so different from mine.  Yet that made them more\ninteresting to me.  I thought I should so much like to mix in the same\nscenes; but that of course is impossible.'\n\n'I am afraid it is.  And you posted the book as I said?'\n\n'Yes.'  She added hurriedly, as if to change the subject, 'I have told\nnobody that we are sisters, or that you are known in any way to me or to\nmother or to any of us.  I thought that would be best, from what you\nsaid.'\n\n'Yes, perhaps it is best for the present.'\n\n'The box of clothes came safely, and I find very little alteration will\nbe necessary to make the dress do beautifully for me on Sundays.  It is\nquite new-fashioned to me, though I suppose it was old-fashioned to you.\nO, and Berta, will the title of Lady Petherwin descend to you when your\nmother-in-law dies?'\n\n'No, of course not.  She is only a knight's widow, and that's nothing.'\n\n'The lady of a knight looks as good on paper as the lady of a lord.'\n\n'Yes.  And in other places too sometimes.  However, about your journey\nhome.  Be very careful; and don't make any inquiries at the stations of\nanybody but officials.  If any man wants to be friendly with you, try to\nfind out if it is from a genuine wish to assist you, or from admiration\nof your fresh face.'\n\n'How shall I know which?' said Picotee.\n\nEthelberta laughed.  'If Heaven does not tell you at the moment I\ncannot,' she said.  'But humanity looks with a different eye from love,\nand upon the whole it is most to be prized by all of us.  I believe it\nends oftener in marriage than do a lover's flying smiles.  So that for\nthis and other reasons love from a stranger is mostly worthless as a\nspeculation; and it is certainly dangerous as a game.  Well, Picotee, has\nany one paid you real attentions yet?'\n\n'No--that is--'\n\n'There is something going on.'\n\n'Only a wee bit.'\n\n'I thought so.  There was a dishonesty about your dear eyes which has\nnever been there before, and love-making and dishonesty are inseparable\nas coupled hounds.  Up comes man, and away goes innocence.  Are you going\nto tell me anything about him?'\n\n'I would rather not, Ethelberta; because it is hardly anything.'\n\n'Well, be careful.  And mind this, never tell him what you feel.'\n\n'But then he will never know it.'\n\n'Nor must he.  He must think it only.  The difference between his\nthinking and knowing is often the difference between your winning and\nlosing.  But general advice is not of much use, and I cannot give more\nunless you tell more.  What is his name?'\n\nPicotee did not reply.\n\n'Never mind: keep your secret.  However, listen to this: not a kiss--not\nso much as the shadow, hint, or merest seedling of a kiss!'\n\n'There is no fear of it,' murmured Picotee; 'though not because of me!'\n\n'You see, my dear Picotee, a lover is not a relative; and he isn't quite\na stranger; but he may end in being either, and the way to reduce him to\nwhichever of the two you wish him to be is to treat him like the other.\nMen who come courting are just like bad cooks: if you are kind to them,\ninstead of ascribing it to an exceptional courtesy on your part, they\ninstantly set it down to their own marvellous worth.'\n\n'But I ought to favour him just a little, poor thing?  Just the smallest\nglimmer of a gleam!'\n\n'Only a very little indeed--so that it comes as a relief to his misery,\nnot as adding to his happiness.'\n\n'It is being too clever, all this; and we ought to be harmless as doves.'\n\n'Ah, Picotee! to continue harmless as a dove you must be wise as a\nserpent, you'll find--ay, ten serpents, for that matter.'\n\n'But if I cannot get at him, how can I manage him in these ways you speak\nof?'\n\n'Get at him?  I suppose he gets at you in some way, does he not?--tries\nto see you, or to be near you?'\n\n'No--that's just the point--he doesn't do any such thing, and there's the\nworry of it!'\n\n'Well, what a silly girl!  Then he is not your lover at all?'\n\n'Perhaps he's not.  But I am his, at any rate--twice over.'\n\n'That's no use.  Supply the love for both sides?  Why, it's worse than\nfurnishing money for both.  You don't suppose a man will give his heart\nin exchange for a woman's when he has already got hers for nothing?\nThat's not the way old Adam does business at all.'\n\nPicotee sighed.  'Have you got a young man, too, Berta?'\n\n'A young man?'\n\n'A lover I mean--that's what we call 'em down here.'\n\n'It is difficult to explain,' said Ethelberta evasively.  'I knew one\nmany years ago, and I have seen him again, and--that is all.'\n\n'According to my idea you have one, but according to your own you have\nnot; he does not love you, but you love him--is that how it is?'\n\n'I have not quite considered how it is.'\n\n'Do you love him?'\n\n'I have never seen a man I hate less.'\n\n'A great deal lies covered up there, I expect!'\n\n'He was in that carriage which drove over the hill at the moment we met\nhere.'\n\n'Ah-ah--some great lord or another who has his day by candlelight, and so\non.  I guess the style.  Somebody who no more knows how much bread is a\nloaf than I do the price of diamonds and pearls.'\n\n'I am afraid he's only a commoner as yet, and not a very great one\neither.  But surely you guess, Picotee?  But I'll set you an example of\nfrankness by telling his name.  My friend, Mr. Julian, to whom you posted\nthe book.  Such changes as he has seen!--from affluence to poverty.  He\nand his sister have been playing dances all night at Wyndway--What is the\nmatter?'\n\n'Only a pain!'\n\n'My dear Picotee--'\n\n'I think I'll sit down for a moment, Berta.'\n\n'What--have you over-walked yourself, dear?'\n\n'Yes--and I got up very early, you see.'\n\n'I hope you are not going to be ill, child.  You look as if you ought not\nto be here.'\n\n'O, it is quite trifling.  Does not getting up in a hurry cause a sense\nof faintness sometimes?'\n\n'Yes, in people who are not strong.'\n\n'If we don't talk about being faint it will go off.  Faintness is such a\nqueer thing that to think of it is to have it.  Let us talk as we were\ntalking before--about your young man and other indifferent matters, so as\nto divert my thoughts from fainting, dear Berta.  I have always thought\nthe book was to be forwarded to that gentleman because he was a\nconnection of yours by marriage, and he had asked for it.  And so you\nhave met this--this Mr. Julian, and gone for walks with him in evenings,\nI suppose, just as young men and women do who are courting?'\n\n'No, indeed--what an absurd child you are!' said Ethelberta.  'I knew him\nonce, and he is interesting; a few little things like that make it all\nup.'\n\n'The love is all on one side, as with me.'\n\n'O no, no: there is nothing like that.  I am not attached to any one,\nstrictly speaking--though, more strictly speaking, I am not unattached.'\n\n''Tis a delightful middle mind to be in.  I know it, for I was like it\nonce; but I had scarcely been so long enough to know where I was before I\nwas gone past.'\n\n'You should have commanded yourself, or drawn back entirely; for let me\ntell you that at the beginning of caring for a man--just when you are\nsuspended between thinking and feeling--there is a hair's-breadth of time\nat which the question of getting into love or not getting in is a matter\nof will--quite a thing of choice.  At the same time, drawing back is a\ntame dance, and the best of all is to stay balanced awhile.'\n\n'You do that well, I'll warrant.'\n\n'Well, no; for what between continually wanting to love, to escape the\nblank lives of those who do not, and wanting not to love, to keep out of\nthe miseries of those who do, I get foolishly warm and foolishly cold by\nturns.'\n\n'Yes--and I am like you as far as the \"foolishly\" goes.  I wish we poor\ngirls could contrive to bring a little wisdom into our love by way of a\nchange!'\n\n'That's the very thing that leading minds in town have begun to do, but\nthere are difficulties.  It is easy to love wisely, but the rich man may\nnot marry you; and it is not very hard to reject wisely, but the poor man\ndoesn't care.  Altogether it is a precious problem.  But shall we clamber\nout upon those shining blocks of rock, and find some of the little yellow\nshells that are in the crevices?  I have ten minutes longer, and then I\nmust go.'\n\n\n\n\n7. THE DINING-ROOM OF A TOWN HOUSE--THE BUTLER'S PANTRY\n\n\nA few weeks later there was a friendly dinner-party at the house of a\ngentleman called Doncastle, who lived in a moderately fashionable square\nof west London.  All the friends and relatives present were nice people,\nwho exhibited becoming signs of pleasure and gaiety at being there; but\nas regards the vigour with which these emotions were expressed, it may be\nstated that a slight laugh from far down the throat and a slight\nnarrowing of the eye were equivalent as indices of the degree of mirth\nfelt to a Ha-ha-ha! and a shaking of the shoulders among the minor\ntraders of the kingdom; and to a Ho-ho-ho! contorted features, purple\nface, and stamping foot among the gentlemen in corduroy and fustian who\nadorn the remoter provinces.\n\nThe conversation was chiefly about a volume of musical, tender, and\nhumorous rhapsodies lately issued to the world in the guise of verse,\nwhich had been reviewed and talked about everywhere.  This topic,\nbeginning as a private dialogue between a young painter named Ladywell\nand the lady on his right hand, had enlarged its ground by degrees, as a\nsubject will extend on those rare occasions when it happens to be one\nabout which each person has thought something beforehand, instead of, as\nin the natural order of things, one to which the oblivious listener\nreplies mechanically, with earnest features, but with thoughts far away.\nAnd so the whole table made the matter a thing to inquire or reply upon\nat once, and isolated rills of other chat died out like a river in the\nsands.\n\n'Witty things, and occasionally Anacreontic: and they have the\noriginality which such a style must naturally possess when carried out by\na feminine hand,' said Ladywell.\n\n'If it is a feminine hand,' said a man near.\n\nLadywell looked as if he sometimes knew secrets, though he did not wish\nto boast.\n\n'Written, I presume you mean, in the Anacreontic measure of three feet\nand a half--spondees and iambics?' said a gentleman in spectacles,\nglancing round, and giving emphasis to his inquiry by causing bland\nglares of a circular shape to proceed from his glasses towards the person\ninterrogated.\n\nThe company appeared willing to give consideration to the words of a man\nwho knew such things as that, and hung forward to listen.  But Ladywell\nstopped the whole current of affairs in that direction by saying--\n\n'O no; I was speaking rather of the matter and tone.  In fact, the Seven\nDays' Review said they were Anacreontic, you know; and so they are--any\none may feel they are.'\n\nThe general look then implied a false encouragement, and the man in\nspectacles looked down again, being a nervous person, who never had time\nto show his merits because he was so much occupied in hiding his faults.\n\n'Do you know the authoress, Mr. Neigh?' continued Ladywell.\n\n'Can't say that I do,' he replied.\n\nNeigh was a man who never disturbed the flesh upon his face except when\nhe was obliged to do so, and paused ten seconds where other people only\npaused one; as he moved his chin in speaking, motes of light from under\nthe candle-shade caught, lost, and caught again the outlying threads of\nhis burnished beard.\n\n'She will be famous some day; and you ought at any rate to read her\nbook.'\n\n'Yes, I ought, I know.  In fact, some years ago I should have done it\nimmediately, because I had a reason for pushing on that way just then.'\n\n'Ah, what was that?'\n\n'Well, I thought of going in for Westminster Abbey myself at that time;\nbut a fellow has so much to do, and--'\n\n'What a pity that you didn't follow it up.  A man of your powers, Mr.\nNeigh--'\n\n'Afterwards I found I was too steady for it, and had too much of the\nrespectable householder in me.  Besides, so many other men are on the\nsame tack; and then I didn't care about it, somehow.'\n\n'I don't understand high art, and am utterly in the dark on what are the\ntrue laws of criticism,' a plain married lady, who wore archaeological\njewellery, was saying at this time.  'But I know that I have derived an\nunusual amount of amusement from those verses, and I am heartily thankful\nto \"E.\" for them.'\n\n'I am afraid,' said a gentleman who was suffering from a bad shirt-front,\n'that an estimate which depends upon feeling in that way is not to be\ntrusted as permanent opinion.'\n\nThe subject now flitted to the other end.\n\n'Somebody has it that when the heart flies out before the understanding,\nit saves the judgment a world of pains,' came from a voice in that\nquarter.\n\n'I, for my part, like something merry,' said an elderly woman, whose face\nwas bisected by the edge of a shadow, which toned her forehead and\neyelids to a livid neutral tint, and left her cheeks and mouth like metal\nat a white heat in the uninterrupted light.  'I think the liveliness of\nthose ballads as great a recommendation as any.  After all, enough misery\nis known to us by our experiences and those of our friends, and what we\nsee in the newspapers, for all purposes of chastening, without having\ngratuitous grief inflicted upon us.'\n\n'But you would not have wished that \"Romeo and Juliet\" should have ended\nhappily, or that Othello should have discovered the perfidy of his\nAncient in time to prevent all fatal consequences?'\n\n'I am not afraid to go so far as that,' said the old lady.  'Shakespeare\nis not everybody, and I am sure that thousands of people who have seen\nthose plays would have driven home more cheerfully afterwards if by some\ncontrivance the characters could all have been joined together\nrespectively.  I uphold our anonymous author on the general ground of her\nlevity.'\n\n'Well, it is an old and worn argument--that about the inexpedience of\ntragedy--and much may be said on both sides.  It is not to be denied that\nthe anonymous Sappho's verses--for it seems that she is really a\nwoman--are clever.'\n\n'Clever!' said Ladywell--the young man who had been one of the shooting-\nparty at Sandbourne--'they are marvellously brilliant.'\n\n'She is rather warm in her assumed character.'\n\n'That's a sign of her actual coldness; she lets off her feeling in\ntheoretic grooves, and there is sure to be none left for practical ones.\nWhatever seems to be the most prominent vice, or the most prominent\nvirtue in anybody's writing is the one thing you are safest from in\npersonal dealings with the writer.'\n\n'O, I don't mean to call her warmth of feeling a vice or virtue exactly--'\n\n'I agree with you,' said Neigh to the last speaker but one, in tones as\nemphatic as they possibly could be without losing their proper character\nof indifference to the whole matter.  'Warm sentiment of any sort,\nwhenever we have it, disturbs us too much to leave us repose enough for\nwriting it down.'\n\n'I am sure, when I was at the ardent age,' said the mistress of the\nhouse, in a tone of pleasantly agreeing with every one, particularly\nthose who were diametrically opposed to each other, 'I could no more have\nprinted such emotions and made them public than I--could have helped\nprivately feeling them.'\n\n'I wonder if she has gone through half she says?  If so, what an\nexperience!'\n\n'O no--not at all likely,' said Mr. Neigh.  'It is as risky to calculate\npeople's ways of living from their writings as their incomes from their\nway of living.'\n\n'She is as true to nature as fashion is false,' said the painter, in his\nwarmth becoming scarcely complimentary, as sometimes happens with young\npersons.  'I don't think that she has written a word more than what every\nwoman would deny feeling in a society where no woman says what she means\nor does what she says.  And can any praise be greater than that?'\n\n'Ha-ha!  Capital!'\n\n'All her verses seem to me,' said a rather stupid person, 'to be simply--\n\n   \"Tral'-la-la-lal'-la-la-la',\n   Tral'-la-la-lal'-la-la-lu',\n   Tral'-la-la-lal'-la-la-lalla',\n   Tral'-la-la-lu'.\"\n\nWhen you take away the music there is nothing left.  Yet she is plainly a\nwoman of great culture.'\n\n'Have you seen what the London Light says about them--one of the finest\nthings I have ever read in the way of admiration?' continued Ladywell,\npaying no attention to the previous speaker.  He lingered for a reply,\nand then impulsively quoted several lines from the periodical he had\nnamed, without aid or hesitation.  'Good, is it not?' added Ladywell.\n\nThey assented, but in such an unqualified manner that half as much\nreadiness would have meant more.  But Ladywell, though not experienced\nenough to be quite free from enthusiasm, was too experienced to mind\nindifference for more than a minute or two.  When the ladies had\nwithdrawn, the young man went on--\n\n'Colonel Staff said a funny thing to me yesterday about these very poems.\nHe asked me if I knew her, and--'\n\n'Her?  Why, he knows that it is a lady all the time, and we were only\njust now doubting whether the sex of the writer could be really what it\nseems.  Shame, Ladywell!' said his friend Neigh.\n\n'Ah, Mr. Ladywell,' said another, 'now we have found you out.  You know\nher!'\n\n'Now--I say--ha-ha!' continued the painter, with a face expressing that\nhe had not at all tried to be found out as the man possessing\nincomparably superior knowledge of the poetess.  'I beg pardon really,\nbut don't press me on the matter.  Upon my word the secret is not my own.\nAs I was saying, the Colonel said, \"Do you know her?\"--but you don't care\nto hear?'\n\n'We shall be delighted!'\n\n'So the Colonel said, \"Do you know her?\" adding, in a most comic way,\n\"Between U. and E., Ladywell, I believe there is a close\naffinity\"--meaning me, you know, by U.  Just like the Colonel--ha-ha-ha!'\n\nThe older men did not oblige Ladywell a second time with any attempt at\nappreciation; but a weird silence ensued, during which the smile upon\nLadywell's face became frozen to painful permanence.\n\n'Meaning by E., you know, the \"E\" of the poems--heh-heh!' he added.\n\n'It was a very humorous incident certainly,' said his friend Neigh, at\nwhich there was a laugh--not from anything connected with what he said,\nbut simply because it was the right thing to laugh when Neigh meant you\nto do so.\n\n'Now don't, Neigh--you are too hard upon me.  But, seriously, two or\nthree fellows were there when I said it, and they all began laughing--but,\nthen, the Colonel said it in such a queer way, you know.  But you were\nasking me about her?  Well, the fact is, between ourselves, I do know\nthat she is a lady; and I don't mind telling a word--'\n\n'But we would not for the world be the means of making you betray her\nconfidence--would we, Jones?'\n\n'No, indeed; we would not.'\n\n'No, no; it is not that at all--this is really too bad!--you must listen\njust for a moment--'\n\n'Ladywell, don't betray anybody on our account.'\n\n'Whoever the illustrious young lady may be she has seen a great deal of\nthe world,' said Mr. Doncastle blandly, 'and puts her experience of the\ncomedy of its emotions, and of its method of showing them, in a very\nvivid light.'\n\n'I heard a man say that the novelty with which the ideas are presented is\nmore noticeable than the originality of the ideas themselves,' observed\nNeigh.  'The woman has made a great talk about herself; and I am quite\nweary of people asking of her condition, place of abode, has she a\nfather, has she a mother, or dearer one yet than all other.'\n\n'I would have burlesque quotation put down by Act of Parliament, and all\nwho dabble in it placed with him who can cite Scripture for his\npurposes,' said Ladywell, in retaliation.\n\nAfter a pause Neigh remarked half-privately to their host, who was his\nuncle: 'Your butler Chickerel is a very intelligent man, as I have\nheard.'\n\n'Yes, he does very well,' said Mr. Doncastle.\n\n'But is he not a--very extraordinary man?'\n\n'Not to my knowledge,' said Doncastle, looking up surprised.  'Why do you\nthink that, Alfred?'\n\n'Well, perhaps it was not a matter to mention.  He reads a great deal, I\ndare say?'\n\n'I don't think so.'\n\n'I noticed how wonderfully his face kindled when we began talking about\nthe poems during dinner.  Perhaps he is a poet himself in disguise.  Did\nyou observe it?'\n\n'No.  To the best of my belief he is a very trustworthy and honourable\nman.  He has been with us--let me see, how long?--five months, I think,\nand he was fifteen years in his last place.  It certainly is a new side\nto his character if he publicly showed any interest in the conversation,\nwhatever he might have felt.'\n\n'Since the matter has been mentioned,' said Mr. Jones, 'I may say that I\ntoo noticed the singularity of it.'\n\n'If you had not said otherwise,' replied Doncastle somewhat warmly, 'I\nshould have asserted him to be the last man-servant in London to infringe\nsuch an elementary rule.  If he did so this evening, it is certainly for\nthe first time, and I sincerely hope that no annoyance was caused--'\n\n'O no, no--not at all--it might have been a mistake of mine,' said Jones.\n'I should quite have forgotten the circumstance if Mr. Neigh's words had\nnot brought it to my mind.  It was really nothing to notice, and I beg\nthat you will not say a word to him about it on my account.'\n\n'He has a taste that way, my dear uncle, nothing more, depend upon it,'\nsaid Neigh.  'If I had such a man belonging to me I should only be too\nproud.  Certainly do not mention it.'\n\n'Of course Chickerel is Chickerel,' Mr. Doncastle rejoined.  'We all know\nwhat that means.  And really, on reflecting, I do remember that he is of\na literary turn of mind--not further by an inch than is commendable, you\nknow.  I am quite aware as I glance down the papers and prints any\nmorning that Chickerel's eyes have been over the ground before mine, and\nthat he generally forestalls the rest of us by a chapter or so in the\nlast new book sent home; but in these vicious days that particular\nweakness is really virtue, just because it is not quite a vice.'\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. Jones, the reflective man in spectacles, 'positive\nvirtues are getting moved off the stage: negative ones are moved on to\nthe place of positives; we thank bare justice as we used only to thank\ngenerosity; call a man honest who steals only by law, and consider him a\nbenefactor if he does not steal at all.'\n\n'Hear, hear!' said Neigh.  'We will decide that Chickerel is even a\nbetter trained fellow than if he had shown no interest at all in his\nface.'\n\n'The action being like those trifling irregularities in art at its\nvigorous periods, which seemed designed to hide the unpleasant monotony\nof absolute symmetry,' said Ladywell.\n\n'On the other hand, an affected want of training of that sort would be\neven a better disguise for an artful man than a perfectly impassible\ndemeanour.  He is two removes from discovery in a hidden scheme, whilst a\nneutral face is only one.'\n\n'You quite alarm me by these subtle theories,' said Mr. Doncastle,\nlaughing; and the subject then became compounded with other matters, till\nthe speakers rose to rejoin the charming flock upstairs.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIn the basement story at this hour Mr. Chickerel the butler, who had\nformed the subject of discussion on the floor above, was busily engaged\nin looking after his two subordinates as they bustled about in the\noperations of clearing away.  He was a man of whom, if the shape of\ncertain bones and muscles of the face is ever to be taken as a guide to\nthe character, one might safely have predicated conscientiousness in the\nperformance of duties, a thorough knowledge of all that appertained to\nthem, a general desire to live on without troubling his mind about\nanything which did not concern him.  Any person interested in the matter\nwould have assumed without hesitation that the estimate his employer had\ngiven of Chickerel was a true one--more, that not only would the butler\nunder all ordinary circumstances resolutely prevent his face from showing\ncuriosity in an unbecoming way, but that, with the soul of a true\ngentleman, he would, if necessary, equivocate as readily as the noblest\nof his betters to remove any stain upon his honour in such trifles.  Hence\nit is apparent that if Chickerel's countenance really appeared, as Neigh\nhad asserted, full of curiosity with regard to the gossip that was going\non, the feelings which led to the exhibition must have been of a very\nunusual and irrepressible kind.\n\nHis hair was of that peculiar bluish-white which is to be observed when\nthe oncoming years, instead of singling out special locks of a man's head\nfor operating against, advance uniformly over the whole field, and\nenfeeble the colour at all points before absolutely extinguishing it\nanywhere; his nose was of the knotty shape in the gristle and earthward\ntendency in the flesh which is commonly said to carry sound judgment\nabove it, his eyes were thoughtful, and his face was thin--a contour\nwhich, if it at once abstracted from his features that cheerful assurance\nof single-minded honesty which adorns the exteriors of so many of his\nbrethren, might have raised a presumption in the minds of some beholders\nthat perhaps in this case the quality might not be altogether wanting\nwithin.\n\nThe coffee having been served to the people upstairs, one of the footmen\nrushed into his bedroom on the lower floor, and in a few minutes emerged\nagain in the dress of a respectable clerk who had been born for better\nthings, with the trifling exceptions that he wore a low-crowned hat, and\ninstead of knocking his heels on the pavement walked with a gait as\ndelicate as a lady's.  Going out of the area-door with a cigar in his\nmouth, he mounted the steps hastily to keep an appointment round the\ncorner--the keeping of which as a private gentleman necessitated the\nchange of the greater part of his clothes twice within a quarter of an\nhour--the limit of his time of absence.  The other footman was upstairs,\nand the butler, finding that he had a few minutes to himself, sat down at\nthe table and wrote:--\n\n   'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA,--I did not intend to write to you for some few\n   days to come, but the way in which you have been talked about here\n   this evening makes me anxious to send a line or two at once, though I\n   have very little time to spare, as usual.  We have just had a dinner-\n   party--indeed the carriages have not yet been brought round--and the\n   talk at dinner was about your verses, of course.  The thing was\n   brought up by a young fellow named Ladywell--do you know him?  He is a\n   painter by profession, but he has a pretty good private income beyond\n   what he gets by practising his line of business among the nobility,\n   and that I expect is not little, for he is well known, and encouraged\n   because he is young, and good-looking, and so forth.  His family own a\n   good bit of land somewhere out Aldbrickham way.  However, I am before\n   my story.  From what they all said it is pretty clear that you are\n   thought a great deal of in fashionable society as a poetess--but\n   perhaps you know this as well as I--moving in it as you do yourself,\n   my dear.\n\n   'The ladies afterwards got very curious about your age, so curious, in\n   fact, and so full of certainty that you were thirty-five and a\n   blighted existence, if an hour, that I felt inclined to rap out there\n   and then, and hang what came of it: \"My daughter, ladies, was to my\n   own and her mother's certain knowledge only twenty-one last birthday,\n   and has as bright a heart as anybody in London.\"  One of them actually\n   said that you must be fifty to have got such an experience.  Her guess\n   was a very shrewd one in the bottom of it, however, for it was\n   grounded upon the way you use those strange experiences of mine in the\n   society that I tell you of, and dress them up as if they were yours;\n   and, as you see, she hit off my own age to a year.  I thought it was\n   very sharp of her to be so right, although so wrong.\n\n   'I do not want to influence your plans in any way about things which\n   your school learning fits you to understand much better than I, who\n   never had such opportunities, but I think that if I were in your\n   place, Berta, I would not let my name be known just yet, for people\n   always want what's kept from them, and don't value what's given.  I am\n   not sure, but I think that after the women had gone upstairs the\n   others turned their thoughts upon you again; what they said about you\n   I don't know, for if there's one thing I hate 'tis hanging about the\n   doors when the men begin to get moved by their wine, which they did to\n   a large extent to-night, and spoke very loud.  They always do here,\n   for old Don is a hearty giver in his way.  However, as you see these\n   people from their own level now, it is not much that I can tell you in\n   seeing them only from the under side, though I see strange things\n   sometimes, and of course--\n\n      \"What great ones do the less will prattle of,\"\n\n   as it says in that book of select pieces that you gave me.\n\n   'Well, my dear girl, I hope you will prosper.  One thing above all\n   others you'll have to mind, and it is that folk must continually\n   strain to advance in order to remain where they are: and you\n   particularly.  But as for trying too hard, I wouldn't do it.  Much\n   lies in minding this, that your best plan for lightness of heart is to\n   raise yourself a little higher than your old mates, but not so high as\n   to be quite out of their reach.  All human beings enjoy themselves\n   from the outside, and so getting on a little has this good in it, you\n   still keep in your old class where your feelings are, and are\n   thoughtfully treated by this class: while by getting on too much you\n   are sneered at by your new acquaintance, who don't know the skill of\n   your rise, and you are parted from and forgot by the old ones who do.\n   Whatever happens, don't be too quick to feel.  You will surely get\n   some hard blows when you are found out, for if the great can find no\n   excuse for hitting with a mind, they'll do it and say 'twas in fun.\n   But you are young and healthy, and youth and health are power.  I wish\n   I could have a decent footman here with me, but I suppose it is no use\n   trying.  It is such men as these that provoke the contempt we get.\n   Well, thank God a few years will see the end of me, for I am growing\n   ashamed of my company--so different as they are to the servants of old\n   times.--Your affectionate father,             R. CHICKEREL.\n\n   'P.S.--Do not press Lady Petherwin any further to remove the rules on\n   which you live with her.  She is quite right: she cannot keep us, and\n   to recognize us would do you no good, nor us either.  We are content\n   to see you secretly, since it is best for you.'\n\n\n\n\n8. CHRISTOPHER'S LODGINGS--THE GROUNDS ABOUT ROOKINGTON\n\n\nMeanwhile, in the distant town of Sandbourne, Christopher Julian had\nrecovered from the weariness produced by his labours at the Wyndway\nevening-party where Ethelberta had been a star.  Instead of engaging his\nenergies to clear encumbrances from the tangled way of his life, he now\nset about reading the popular 'Metres by E.' with more interest and\nassiduity than ever; for though Julian was a thinker by instinct, he was\na worker by effort only; and the higher of these kinds being dependent\nupon the lower for its exhibition, there was often a lamentable lack of\nevidence of his power in either.  It is a provoking correlation, and has\nconduced to the obscurity of many a genius.\n\n'Kit,' said his sister, on reviving at the end of the bad headache which\nhad followed the dance, 'those poems seem to have increased in value with\nyou.  The lady, lofty as she appears to be, would be flattered if she\nonly could know how much you study them.  Have you decided to thank her\nfor them?  Now let us talk it over--I like having a chat about such a\npretty new subject.'\n\n'I would thank her in a moment if I were absolutely certain that she had\nanything to do with sending them, or even writing them.  I am not quite\nsure of that yet.'\n\n'How strange that a woman could bring herself to write those verses!'\n\n'Not at all strange--they are natural outpourings.'\n\nFaith looked critically at the remoter caverns of the fire.\n\n'Why strange?' continued Christopher.  'There is no harm in them.'\n\n'O no--no harm.  But I cannot explain to you--unless you see it partly of\nyour own accord--that to write them she must be rather a fast lady--not a\nbad fast lady; a nice fast lady, I mean, of course.  There, I have said\nit now, and I daresay you are vexed with me, for your interest in her has\ndeepened to what it originally was, I think.  I don't mean any absolute\nharm by \"fast,\" Kit.'\n\n'Bold, forward, you mean, I suppose?'\n\nFaith tried to hit upon a better definition which should meet all views;\nand, on failing to do so, looked concerned at her brother's somewhat\ngrieved appearance, and said, helplessly, 'Yes, I suppose I do.'\n\n'My idea of her is quite the reverse.  A poetess must intrinsically be\nsensitive, or she could never feel: but then, frankness is a rhetorical\nnecessity even with the most modest, if their inspirations are to do any\ngood in the world.  You will, for certain, not be interested in something\nI was going to tell you, which I thought would have pleased you\nimmensely; but it is not worth mentioning now.'\n\n'If you will not tell me, never mind.  But don't be crabbed, Kit!  You\nknow how interested I am in all your affairs.'\n\n'It is only that I have composed an air to one of the prettiest of her\nsongs, \"When tapers tall\"--but I am not sure about the power of it.  This\nis how it begins--I threw it off in a few minutes, after you had gone to\nbed.'\n\nHe went to the piano and lightly touched over an air, the manuscript copy\nof which he placed in front of him, and listened to hear her opinion,\nhaving proved its value frequently; for it was not that of a woman\nmerely, but impersonally human.  Though she was unknown to fame, this was\na great gift in Faith, since to have an unsexed judgment is as precious\nas to be an unsexed being is deplorable.\n\n'It is very fair indeed,' said the sister, scarcely moving her lips in\nher great attention.  'Now again, and again, and again.  How could you do\nit in the time!'\n\nKit knew that she admired his performance: passive assent was her usual\npraise, and she seldom insisted vigorously upon any view of his\ncompositions unless for purposes of emendation.\n\n'I was thinking that, as I cannot very well write to her, I may as well\nsend her this,' said Christopher, with lightened spirits, voice to\ncorrespond, and eyes likewise; 'there can be no objection to it, for such\nthings are done continually.  Consider while I am gone, Faith.  I shall\nbe out this evening for an hour or two.'\n\nWhen Christopher left the house shortly after, instead of going into the\ntown on some errand, as was customary whenever he went from home after\ndark, he ascended a back street, passed over the hills behind, and walked\nat a brisk pace inland along the road to Rookington Park, where, as he\nhad learnt, Ethelberta and Lady Petherwin were staying for a time, the\nday or two which they spent at Wyndway having formed a short break in the\nmiddle of this visit.  The moon was shining to-night, and Christopher\nsped onwards over the pallid high-road as readily as he could have done\nat noonday.  In three-quarters of an hour he reached the park gates; and\nentering now upon a tract which he had never before explored, he went\nalong more cautiously and with some uncertainty as to the precise\ndirection that the road would take.  A frosted expanse of even grass, on\nwhich the shadow of his head appeared with an opal halo round it, soon\nallowed the house to be discovered beyond, the other portions of the park\nabounding with timber older and finer than that of any other spot in the\nneighbourhood.  Christopher withdrew into the shade, and wheeled round to\nthe front of the building that contained his old love.  Here he gazed and\nidled, as many a man has done before him--wondering which room the fair\npoetess occupied, waiting till lights began to appear in the upper\nwindows--which they did as uncertainly as glow-worms blinking up at\neventide--and warming with currents of revived feeling in perhaps the\nsweetest of all conditions.  New love is brightest, and long love is\ngreatest; but revived love is the tenderest thing known upon earth.\n\nOccupied thus, Christopher was greatly surprised to see, on casually\nglancing to one side, another man standing close to the shadowy trunk of\nanother tree, in a similar attitude to his own, gazing, with arms folded,\nas blankly at the windows of the house as Christopher himself had been\ngazing.  Not willing to be discovered, Christopher stuck closer to his\ntree.  While he waited thus, the stranger began murmuring words, in a\nslow soft voice.  Christopher listened till he heard the following:--\n\n   'Pale was the day and rayless, love,\n      That had an eve so dim.'\n\nTwo well-known lines from one of Ethelberta's poems.\n\nJealousy is a familiar kind of heat which disfigures, licks playfully,\nclouds, blackens, and boils a man as a fire does a pot; and on\nrecognizing these pilferings from what he had grown to regard as his own\ntreasury, Christopher's fingers began to nestle with great vigour in the\npalms of his hands.  Three or four minutes passed, when the unknown rival\ngave a last glance at the windows, and walked away.  Christopher did not\nlike the look of that walk at all--there was grace enough in it to\nsuggest that his antagonist had no mean chance of finding favour in a\nwoman's eyes.  A sigh, too, seemed to proceed from the stranger's breast;\nbut as their distance apart was too great for any such sound to be heard\nby any possibility, Christopher set down that to imagination, or to the\nbrushing of the wind over the trees.\n\nThe lighted windows went out one by one, and all the house was in\ndarkness.  Julian then walked off himself, with a vigour that was\nspasmodic only, and with much less brightness of mind than he had\nexperienced on his journey hither.  The stranger had gone another way,\nand Christopher saw no more of him.  When he reached Sandbourne, Faith\nwas still sitting up.\n\n'But I told you I was going to take a long walk,' he said.\n\n'No, Christopher: really you did not.  How tired and sad you do\nlook--though I always know beforehand when you are in that state: one of\nyour feet has a drag about it as you pass along the pavement outside the\nwindow.'\n\n'Yes, I forgot that I did not tell you.'\n\nHe could not begin to describe his pilgrimage: it was too silly a thing\neven for her to hear of.\n\n'It does not matter at all about my staying up,' said Faith assuringly;\n'that is, if exercise benefits you.  Walking up and down the lane, I\nsuppose?'\n\n'No; not walking up and down the lane.'\n\n'The turnpike-road to Rookington is pleasant.'\n\n'Faith, that is really where I have been.  How came you to know?'\n\n'I only guessed.  Verses and an accidental meeting produce a special\njourney.'\n\n'Ethelberta is a fine woman, physically and mentally, both.  I wonder\npeople do not talk about her twice as much as they do.'\n\n'Then surely you are getting attached to her again.  You think you\ndiscover in her more than anybody else does; and love begins with a sense\nof superior discernment.'\n\n'No, no.  That is only nonsense,' he said hurriedly.  'However, love her\nor love her not, I can keep a corner of my heart for you, Faith.  There\nis another brute after her too, it seems.'\n\n'Of course there is: I expect there are many.  Her position in society is\nabove ours, so that it is an unwise course to go troubling yourself more\nabout her.'\n\n'No.  If a needy man must be so foolish as to fall in love, it is best to\ndo so where he cannot double his foolishness by marrying the woman.'\n\n'I don't like to hear you talk so slightingly of what poor father did.'\n\nChristopher fixed his attention on the supper.  That night, late as it\nwas, when Faith was in bed and sleeping, he sat before a sheet of music-\npaper, neatly copying his composition upon it.  The manuscript was\nintended as an offering to Ethelberta at the first convenient\nopportunity.\n\n* * * * *\n\n'Well, after all my trouble to find out about Ethelberta, here comes the\nclue unasked for,' said the musician to his sister a few days later.\n\nShe turned and saw that he was reading the Wessex Reflector.\n\n'What is it?' asked Faith.\n\n'The secret of the true authorship of the book is out at last, and it is\nEthelberta of course.  I am so glad to have it proved hers.'\n\n'But can we believe--?'\n\n'O yes.  Just hear what \"Our London Correspondent\" says.  It is one of\nthe nicest bits of gossip that he has furnished us with for a long time.'\n\n'Yes: now read it, do.'\n\n'\"The author of 'Metres by E.'\"' Christopher began, '\"a book of which so\nmuch has been said and conjectured, and one, in fact, that has been the\nchief talk for several weeks past of the literary circles to which I\nbelong, is a young lady who was a widow before she reached the age of\neighteen, and is now not far beyond her fourth lustrum.  I was\nadditionally informed by a friend whom I met yesterday on his way to the\nHouse of Lords, that her name is Mrs. Petherwin--Christian name\nEthelberta; and that she resides with her mother-in-law at their house in\nExonbury Crescent.  She is, moreover, the daughter of the late Bishop of\nSilchester (if report may be believed), whose active benevolence, as your\nreaders know, left his family in comparatively straitened circumstances\nat his death.  The marriage was a secret one, and much against the wish\nof her husband's friends, who are wealthy people on all sides.  The death\nof the bridegroom two or three weeks after the wedding led to a\nreconciliation; and the young poetess was taken to the home which she\nstill occupies, devoted to the composition of such brilliant effusions as\nthose the world has lately been favoured with from her pen.\"'\n\n'If you want to send her your music, you can do so now,' said Faith.\n\n'I might have sent it before, but I wanted to deliver it personally.\nHowever, it is all the same now, I suppose, whether I send it or not.  I\nalways knew that our destinies would lie apart, though she was once\ntemporarily under a cloud.  Her momentary inspiration to write that\n\"Cancelled Words\" was the worst possible omen for me.  It showed that,\nthinking me no longer useful as a practical chance, she would make me\nornamental as a poetical regret.  But I'll send the manuscript of the\nsong.'\n\n'In the way of business, as a composer only; and you must say to\nyourself, \"Ethelberta, as thou art but woman, I dare; but as widow I fear\nthee.\"'\n\nNotwithstanding Christopher's affected carelessness, that evening saw a\ngreat deal of nicety bestowed upon the operation of wrapping up and\nsending off the song.  He dropped it into the box and heard it fall, and\nwith the curious power which he possessed of setting his wisdom to watch\nany particular folly in himself that it could not hinder, speculated as\nhe walked on the result of this first tangible step of return to his old\nposition as Ethelberta's lover.\n\n\n\n\n9. A LADY'S DRAWING-ROOMS--ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM\n\n\nIt was a house on the north side of Hyde Park, between ten and eleven in\nthe evening, and several intelligent and courteous people had assembled\nthere to enjoy themselves as far as it was possible to do so in a neutral\nway--all carefully keeping every variety of feeling in a state of\nsolution, in spite of any attempt such feelings made from time to time to\ncrystallize on interesting subjects in hand.\n\n'Neigh, who is that charming woman with her head built up in a novel way\neven for hair architecture--the one with her back towards us?' said a man\nwhose coat fitted doubtfully to a friend whose coat fitted well.\n\n'Just going to ask for the same information,' said Mr. Neigh, determining\nthe very longest hair in his beard to an infinitesimal nicety by drawing\nits lower portion through his fingers.  'I have quite forgotten--cannot\nkeep people's names in my head at all; nor could my father either--nor\nany of my family--a very odd thing.  But my old friend Mrs. Napper knows\nfor certain.'  And he turned to one of a small group of middle-aged\npersons near, who, instead of skimming the surface of things in general,\nlike the rest of the company, were going into the very depths of them.\n\n'O--that is the celebrated Mrs. Petherwin, the woman who makes rhymes and\nprints 'em,' said Mrs. Napper, in a detached sentence, and then continued\ntalking again to those on the other side of her.\n\nThe two loungers went on with their observations of Ethelberta's\nheaddress, which, though not extraordinary or eccentric, did certainly\nconvey an idea of indefinable novelty.  Observers were sometimes half\ninclined to think that her cuts and modes were acquired by some secret\ncommunication with the mysterious clique which orders the livery of the\nfashionable world, for--and it affords a parallel to cases in which\nclever thinkers in other spheres arrive independently at one and the same\nconclusion--Ethelberta's fashion often turned out to be the coming one.\n\n'O, is that the woman at last?' said Neigh, diminishing his broad general\ngaze at the room to a close criticism of Ethelberta.\n\n'\"The rhymes,\" as Mrs. Napper calls them, are not to be despised,' said\nhis companion.  'They are not quite virginibus puerisque, and the\nwriter's opinions of life and society differ very materially from mine,\nbut I cannot help admiring her in the more reflective pieces; the songs I\ndon't care for.  The method in which she handles curious subjects, and at\nthe same time impresses us with a full conviction of her modesty, is very\nadroit, and somewhat blinds us to the fact that no such poems were\ndemanded of her at all.'\n\n'I have not read them,' said Neigh, secretly wrestling with his jaw, to\nprevent a yawn; 'but I suppose I must.  The truth is, that I never care\nmuch for reading what one ought to read; I wish I did, but I cannot help\nit.  And, no doubt, you admire the lady immensely for writing them: I\ndon't.  Everybody is so talented now-a-days that the only people I care\nto honour as deserving real distinction are those who remain in\nobscurity.  I am myself hoping for a corner in some biographical\ndictionary when the time comes for those works only to contain lists of\nthe exceptional individuals of whom nothing is known but that they lived\nand died.'\n\n'Ah--listen.  They are going to sing one of her songs,' said his friend,\nlooking towards a bustling movement in the neighbourhood of the piano.  'I\nbelieve that song, \"When tapers tall,\" has been set to music by three or\nfour composers already.'\n\n'Men of any note?' said Neigh, at last beaten by his yawn, which courtesy\nnevertheless confined within his person to such an extent that only a few\nunimportant symptoms, such as reduced eyes and a certain rectangular\nmanner of mouth in speaking, were visible.\n\n'Scarcely,' replied the other man.  'Established writers of music do not\nexpend their energies upon new verse until they find that such verse is\nlikely to endure; for should the poet be soon forgotten, their labour is\nin some degree lost.'\n\n'Artful dogs--who would have thought it?' said Neigh, just as an exercise\nin words; and they drew nearer to the piano, less to become listeners to\nthe singing than to be spectators of the scene in that quarter.  But\namong some others the interest in the songs seemed to be very great; and\nit was unanimously wished that the young lady who had practised the\ndifferent pieces of music privately would sing some of them now in the\norder of their composers' reputations.  The musical persons in the room\nunconsciously resolved themselves into a committee of taste.\n\nOne and another had been tried, when, at the end of the third, a lady\nspoke to Ethelberta.\n\n'Now, Mrs. Petherwin,' she said, gracefully throwing back her face, 'your\nopinion is by far the most valuable.  In which of the cases do you\nconsider the marriage of verse and tune to have been most successful?'\n\nEthelberta, finding these and other unexpected calls made upon herself,\ncame to the front without flinching.\n\n'The sweetest and the best that I like by far,' she said, 'is none of\nthese.  It is one which reached me by post only this morning from a place\nin Wessex, and is written by an unheard-of man who lives somewhere down\nthere--a man who will be, nevertheless, heard a great deal of some day, I\nhope--think.  I have only practised it this afternoon; but, if one's own\njudgment is worth anything, it is the best.'\n\n'Let us have your favourite, by all means,' said another friend of\nEthelberta's who was present--Mrs. Doncastle.\n\n'I am so sorry that I cannot oblige you, since you wish to hear it,'\nreplied the poetess regretfully; 'but the music is at home.  I had not\nreceived it when I lent the others to Miss Belmaine, and it is only in\nmanuscript like the rest.'\n\n'Could it not be sent for?' suggested an enthusiast who knew that\nEthelberta lived only in the next street, appealing by a look to her, and\nthen to the mistress of the house.\n\n'Certainly, let us send for it,' said that lady.  A footman was at once\nquietly despatched with precise directions as to where Christopher's\nsweet production might be found.\n\n'What--is there going to be something interesting?' asked a young married\nfriend of Mrs. Napper, who had returned to her original spot.\n\n'Yes--the best song she has written is to be sung in the best manner to\nthe best air that has been composed for it.  I should not wonder if she\nwere going to sing it herself.'\n\n'Did you know anything of Mrs. Petherwin until her name leaked out in\nconnection with these ballads?'\n\n'No; but I think I recollect seeing her once before.  She is one of those\npeople who are known, as one may say, by subscription: everybody knows a\nlittle, till she is astonishingly well known altogether; but nobody knows\nher entirely.  She was the orphan child of some clergyman, I believe.\nLady Petherwin, her mother-in-law, has been taking her about a great deal\nlatterly.'\n\n'She has apparently a very good prospect.'\n\n'Yes; and it is through her being of that curious undefined character\nwhich interprets itself to each admirer as whatever he would like to have\nit.  Old men like her because she is so girlish; youths because she is\nwomanly; wicked men because she is good in their eyes; good men because\nshe is wicked in theirs.'\n\n'She must be a very anomalous sort of woman, at that rate.'\n\n'Yes.  Like the British Constitution, she owes her success in practice to\nher inconsistencies in principle.'\n\n'These poems must have set her up.  She appears to be quite the correct\nspectacle.  Happy Mrs. Petherwin!'\n\nThe subject of their dialogue was engaged in a conversation with Mrs.\nBelmaine upon the management of households--a theme provoked by a\ndiscussion that was in progress in the pages of some periodical of the\ntime.  Mrs. Belmaine was very full of the argument, and went on from\npoint to point till she came to servants.\n\nThe face of Ethelberta showed caution at once.\n\n'I consider that Lady Plamby pets her servants by far too much,' said\nMrs. Belmaine.  'O, you do not know her?  Well, she is a woman with\ntheories; and she lends her maids and men books of the wrong kind for\ntheir station, and sends them to picture exhibitions which they don't in\nthe least understand--all for the improvement of their taste, and morals,\nand nobody knows what besides.  It only makes them dissatisfied.'\n\nThe face of Ethelberta showed venturesomeness.  'Yes, and dreadfully\nambitious!' she said.\n\n'Yes, indeed.  What a turn the times have taken!  People of that sort\npush on, and get into business, and get great warehouses, until at last,\nwithout ancestors, or family, or name, or estate--'\n\n'Or the merest scrap of heirloom or family jewel.'\n\n'Or heirlooms, or family jewels, they are thought as much of as if their\nforefathers had glided unobtrusively through the peerage--'\n\n'Ever since the first edition.'\n\n'Yes.'  Mrs. Belmaine, who really sprang from a good old family, had been\ngoing to say, 'for the last seven hundred years,' but fancying from\nEthelberta's addendum that she might not date back more than a trifling\ncentury or so, adopted the suggestion with her usual well-known courtesy,\nand blushed down to her locket at the thought of the mistake that she\nmight have made.  This sensitiveness was a trait in her character which\ngave great gratification to her husband, and, indeed, to all who knew\nher.\n\n'And have you any theory on the vexed question of servant-government?'\ncontinued Mrs. Belmaine, smiling.  'But no--the subject is of far too\npractical a nature for one of your bent, of course.'\n\n'O no--it is not at all too practical.  I have thought of the matter\noften,' said Ethelberta.  'I think the best plan would be for somebody to\nwrite a pamphlet, \"The Shortest Way with the Servants,\" just as there was\nonce written a terribly stinging one, \"The Shortest Way with the\nDissenters,\" which had a great effect.'\n\n'I have always understood that that was written by a dissenter as a\nsatire upon the Church?'\n\n'Ah--so it was: but the example will do to illustrate my meaning.'\n\n'Quite so--I understand--so it will,' said Mrs. Belmaine, with clouded\nfaculties.\n\nMeanwhile Christopher's music had arrived.  An accomplished gentleman who\nhad every musical talent except that of creation, scanned the notes\ncarefully from top to bottom, and sat down to accompany the singer.  There\nwas no lady present of sufficient confidence or skill to venture into a\nsong she had never seen before, and the only one who had seen it was\nEthelberta herself; she did not deny having practised it the greater part\nof the afternoon, and was very willing to sing it now if anybody would\nderive pleasure from the performance.  Then she began, and the sweetness\nof her singing was such that even the most unsympathetic honoured her by\nlooking as if they would be willing to listen to every note the song\ncontained if it were not quite so much trouble to do so.  Some were so\ninterested that, instead of continuing their conversation, they remained\nin silent consideration of how they would continue it when she had\nfinished; while the particularly civil people arranged their countenances\ninto every attentive form that the mind could devise.  One emotional\ngentleman looked at the corner of a chair as if, till that moment, such\nan object had never crossed his vision before; the movement of his finger\nto the imagined tune was, for a deaf old clergyman, a perfect mine of\ninterest; whilst a young man from the country was powerless to put an end\nto an enchanted gaze at nothing at all in the exact middle of the room\nbefore him.  Neigh, and the general phalanx of cool men and celebrated\nclub yawners, were so much affected that they raised their chronic look\nof great objection to things, to an expression of scarcely any objection\nat all.\n\n'What makes it so interesting,' said Mrs. Doncastle to Ethelberta, when\nthe song was over and she had retired from the focus of the company, 'is,\nthat it is played from the composer's own copy, which has never met the\npublic eye, or any other than his own before to-day.  And I see that he\nhas actually sketched in the lines by hand, instead of having ruled\npaper--just as the great old composers used to do.  You must have been as\npleased to get it fresh from the stocks like that as he probably was\npleased to get your thanks.'\n\nEthelberta became reflective.  She had not thanked Christopher; moreover,\nshe had decided, after some consideration, that she ought not to thank\nhim.  What new thoughts were suggested by that remark of Mrs.\nDoncastle's, and what new inclination resulted from the public\npresentation of his tune and her words as parts of one organic whole, are\nbest explained by describing her doings at a later hour, when, having\nleft her friends somewhat early, she had reached home and retired from\npublic view for that evening.\n\nEthelberta went to her room, sent away the maid who did double duty for\nherself and Lady Petherwin, walked in circles about the carpet till the\nfire had grown haggard and cavernous, sighed, took a sheet of paper and\nwrote:--\n\n   'DEAR MR. JULIAN,--I have said I would not write: I have said it\n   twice; but discretion, under some circumstances, is only another name\n   for unkindness.  Before thanking you for your sweet gift, let me tell\n   you in a few words of something which may materially change an aspect\n   of affairs under which I appear to you to deserve it.\n\n   'With regard to my history and origin you are altogether mistaken; and\n   how can I tell whether your bitterness at my previous silence on those\n   points may not cause you to withdraw your act of courtesy now?  But\n   the gratification of having at last been honest with you may\n   compensate even for the loss of your respect.\n\n   'The matter is a small one to tell, after all.  What will you say on\n   learning that I am not the trodden-down \"lady by birth\" that you have\n   supposed me?  That my father is not dead, as you probably imagine;\n   that he is working for his living as one among a peculiarly\n   stigmatized and ridiculed multitude?\n\n   'Had he been a brawny cottager, carpenter, mason, blacksmith, well-\n   digger, navvy, tree-feller--any effective and manly trade, in short, a\n   worker in which can stand up in the face of the noblest and daintiest,\n   and bare his gnarled arms and say, with a consciousness of superior\n   power, \"Look at a real man!\" I should have been able to show you\n   antecedents which, if not intensely romantic, are not altogether\n   antagonistic to romance.  But the present fashion of associating with\n   one particular class everything that is ludicrous and bombastic\n   overpowers me when I think of it in relation to myself and your known\n   sensitiveness.  When the well-born poetess of good report melts into.\n   . .'\n\nHaving got thus far, a faint-hearted look, which had begun to show itself\nseveral sentences earlier, became pronounced.  She threw the writing into\nthe dull fire, poked and stirred it till a red inflammation crept over\nthe sheet, and then started anew:--\n\n   'DEAR MR. JULIAN,--Not knowing your present rank as composer--whether\n   on the very brink of fame, or as yet a long way off--I cannot decide\n   what form of expression my earnest acknowledgments should take.  Let\n   me simply say in one short phrase, I thank you infinitely!\n\n   'I am no musician, and my opinion on music may not be worth much: yet\n   I know what I like (as everybody says, but I do not use the words as a\n   form to cover a hopeless blank on all connected with the subject), and\n   this sweet air I love.  You must have glided like a breeze about\n   me--seen into a heart not worthy of scrutiny, jotted down words that\n   cannot justify attention--before you could have apotheosized the song\n   in so exquisite a manner.  My gratitude took the form of wretchedness\n   when, on hearing the effect of the ballad in public this evening, I\n   thought that I had not power to withhold a reply which might do us\n   both more harm than good.  Then I said, \"Away with all emotion--I wish\n   the world was drained dry of it--I will take no notice,\" when a lady\n   whispered at my elbow to the effect that of course I had expressed my\n   gratification to you.  I ought first to have mentioned that your\n   creation has been played to-night to full drawing-rooms, and the\n   original tones cooled the artificial air like a fountain almost.\n\n   'I prophesy great things of you.  Perhaps, at the time when we are\n   each but a row of bones in our individual graves, your genius will be\n   remembered, while my mere cleverness will have been long forgotten.\n\n   'But--you must allow a woman of experience to say this--the undoubted\n   power that you possess will do you socially no good unless you mix\n   with it the ingredient of ambition--a quality in which I fear you are\n   very deficient.  It is in the hope of stimulating you to a better\n   opinion of yourself that I write this letter.\n\n   'Probably I shall never meet you again.  Not that I think\n   circumstances to be particularly powerful to prevent such a meeting,\n   rather it is that I shall energetically avoid it.  There can be no\n   such thing as strong friendship between a man and a woman not of one\n   family.\n\n   'More than that there must not be, and this is why we will not meet.\n   You see that I do not mince matters at all; but it is hypocrisy to\n   avoid touching upon a subject which all men and women in our position\n   inevitably think of, no matter what they say.  Some women might have\n   written distantly, and wept at the repression of their real feeling;\n   but it is better to be more frank, and keep a dry eye.--Yours,\n   ETHELBERTA.'\n\nHer feet felt cold and her heart weak as she directed the letter, and she\nwas overpowered with weariness.  But murmuring, 'If I let it stay till\nthe morning I shall not send it, and a man may be lost to fame because of\na woman's squeamishness--it shall go,' she partially dressed herself,\nwrapped a large cloak around her, descended the stairs, and went out to\nthe pillar-box at the corner, leaving the door not quite close.  No gust\nof wind had realized her misgivings that it might be blown shut on her\nreturn, and she re-entered as softly as she had emerged.\n\nIt will be seen that Ethelberta had said nothing about her family after\nall.\n\n\n\n\n10. LADY PETHERWIN'S HOUSE\n\n\nThe next day old Lady Petherwin, who had not accompanied Ethelberta the\nnight before, came into the morning-room, with a newspaper in her hand.\n\n'What does this mean, Ethelberta?' she inquired in tones from which every\nshade of human expressiveness was extracted by some awful and imminent\nmood that lay behind.  She was pointing to a paragraph under the heading\nof 'Literary Notes,' which contained in a few words the announcement of\nEthelberta's authorship that had more circumstantially appeared in the\nWessex Reflector.\n\n'It means what it says,' said Ethelberta quietly.\n\n'Then it is true?'\n\n'Yes.  I must apologize for having kept it such a secret from you.  It\nwas not done in the spirit that you may imagine: it was merely to avoid\ndisturbing your mind that I did it so privately.'\n\n'But surely you have not written every one of those ribald verses?'\n\nEthelberta looked inclined to exclaim most vehemently against this; but\nwhat she actually did say was, '\"Ribald\"--what do you mean by that?  I\ndon't think that you are aware what \"ribald\" means.'\n\n'I am not sure that I am.  As regards some words as well as some persons,\nthe less you are acquainted with them the more it is to your credit.'\n\n'I don't quite deserve this, Lady Petherwin.'\n\n'Really, one would imagine that women wrote their books during those\ndreams in which people have no moral sense, to see how improper some,\neven virtuous, ladies become when they get into print.'\n\n'I might have done a much more unnatural thing than write those poems.\nAnd perhaps I might have done a much better thing, and got less praise.\nBut that's the world's fault, not mine.'\n\n'You might have left them unwritten, and shown more fidelity.'\n\n'Fidelity! it is more a matter of humour than principle.  What has\nfidelity to do with it?'\n\n'Fidelity to my dear boy's memory.'\n\n'It would be difficult to show that because I have written so-called\ntender and gay verse, I feel tender and gay.  It is too often assumed\nthat a person's fancy is a person's real mind.  I believe that in the\nmajority of cases one is fond of imagining the direct opposite of one's\nprinciples in sheer effort after something fresh and free; at any rate,\nsome of the lightest of those rhymes were composed between the deepest\nfits of dismals I have ever known.  However, I did expect that you might\njudge in the way you have judged, and that was my chief reason for not\ntelling you what I had done.'\n\n'You don't deny that you tried to escape from recollections you ought to\nhave cherished?  There is only one thing that women of your sort are as\nready to do as to take a man's name, and that is, drop his memory.'\n\n'Dear Lady Petherwin--don't be so unreasonable as to blame a live person\nfor living!  No woman's head is so small as to be filled for life by a\nmemory of a few months.  Four years have passed since I last saw my boy-\nhusband.  We were mere children; see how I have altered since in mind,\nsubstance, and outline--I have even grown half an inch taller since his\ndeath.  Two years will exhaust the regrets of widows who have long been\nfaithful wives; and ought I not to show a little new life when my husband\ndied in the honeymoon?'\n\n'No.  Accepting the protection of your husband's mother was, in effect,\nan avowal that you rejected the idea of being a widow to prolong the idea\nof being a wife; and the sin against your conventional state thus assumed\nis almost as bad as would have been a sin against the married state\nitself.  If you had gone off when he died, saying, \"Thank heaven, I am\nfree!\" you would, at any rate, have shown some real honesty.'\n\n'I should have been more virtuous by being more unfeeling.  That often\nhappens.'\n\n'I have taken to you, and made a great deal of you--given you the\ninestimable advantages of foreign travel and good society to enlarge your\nmind.  In short, I have been like a Naomi to you in everything, and I\nmaintain that writing these poems saps the foundation of it all.'\n\n'I do own that you have been a very good Naomi to me thus far; but Ruth\nwas quite a fast widow in comparison with me, and yet Naomi never blamed\nher.  You are unfortunate in your illustration.  But it is dreadfully\nflippant of me to answer you like this, for you have been kind.  But why\nwill you provoke me!'\n\n'Yes, you are flippant, Ethelberta.  You are too much given to that sort\nof thing.'\n\n'Well, I don't know how the secret of my name has leaked out; and I am\nnot ribald, or anything you say,' said Ethelberta, with a sigh.\n\n'Then you own you do not feel so ardent as you seem in your book?'\n\n'I do own it.'\n\n'And that you are sorry your name has been published in connection with\nit?'\n\n'I am.'\n\n'And you think the verses may tend to misrepresent your character as a\ngay and rapturous one, when it is not?'\n\n'I do fear it.'\n\n'Then, of course, you will suppress the poems instantly.  That is the\nonly way in which you can regain the position you have hitherto held with\nme.'\n\nEthelberta said nothing; and the dull winter atmosphere had far from\nlight enough in it to show by her face what she might be thinking.\n\n'Well?' said Lady Petherwin.\n\n'I did not expect such a command as that,' said Ethelberta.  'I have been\nobedient for four years, and would continue so--but I cannot suppress the\npoems.  They are not mine now to suppress.'\n\n'You must get them into your hands.  Money will do it, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes, I suppose it would--a thousand pounds.'\n\n'Very well; the money shall be forthcoming,' said Lady Petherwin, after a\npause.  'You had better sit down and write about it at once.'\n\n'I cannot do it,' said Ethelberta; 'and I will not.  I don't wish them to\nbe suppressed.  I am not ashamed of them; there is nothing to be ashamed\nof in them; and I shall not take any steps in the matter.'\n\n'Then you are an ungrateful woman, and wanting in natural affection for\nthe dead!  Considering your birth--'\n\n'That's an intolerable--'\n\nLady Petherwin crashed out of the room in a wind of indignation, and went\nupstairs and heard no more.  Adjoining her chamber was a smaller one\ncalled her study, and, on reaching this, she unlocked a cabinet, took out\na small deed-box, removed from it a folded packet, unfolded it, crumpled\nit up, and turning round suddenly flung it into the fire.  Then she stood\nand beheld it eaten away word after word by the flames, 'Testament'--'all\nthat freehold'--'heirs and assigns' appearing occasionally for a moment\nonly to disappear for ever.  Nearly half the document had turned into a\nglossy black when the lady clasped her hands.\n\n'What have I done!' she exclaimed.  Springing to the tongs she seized\nwith them the portion of the writing yet unconsumed, and dragged it out\nof the fire.  Ethelberta appeared at the door.\n\n'Quick, Ethelberta!' said Lady Petherwin.  'Help me to put this out!'  And\nthe two women went trampling wildly upon the document and smothering it\nwith a corner of the hearth-rug.\n\n'What is it?' said Ethelberta.\n\n'My will!' said Lady Petherwin.  'I have kept it by me lately, for I have\nwished to look over it at leisure--'\n\n'Good heavens!' said Ethelberta.  'And I was just coming in to tell you\nthat I would always cling to you, and never desert you, ill-use me how\nyou might!'\n\n'Such an affectionate remark sounds curious at such a time,' said Lady\nPetherwin, sinking down in a chair at the end of the struggle.\n\n'But,' cried Ethelberta, 'you don't suppose--'\n\n'Selfishness, my dear, has given me such crooked looks that I can see it\nround a corner.'\n\n'If you mean that what is yours to give may not be mine to take, it would\nbe as well to name it in an impersonal way, if you must name it at all,'\nsaid the daughter-in-law, with wet eyelids.  'God knows I had no selfish\nthought in saying that.  I came upstairs to ask you to forgive me, and\nknew nothing about the will.  But every explanation distorts it all the\nmore!'\n\n'We two have got all awry, dear--it cannot be concealed--awry--awry.  Ah,\nwho shall set us right again?  However, now I must send for Mr.\nChancerly--no, I am going out on other business, and I will call upon\nhim.  There, don't spoil your eyes: you may have to sell them.'\n\nShe rang the bell and ordered the carriage; and half-an-hour later Lady\nPetherwin's coachman drove his mistress up to the door of her lawyer's\noffice in Lincoln's Inn Fields.\n\n\n\n\n11. SANDBOURNE AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD--SOME LONDON STREETS\n\n\nWhile this was going on in town, Christopher, at his lodgings in\nSandbourne, had been thrown into rare old visions and dreams by the\nappearance of Ethelberta's letter.  Flattered and encouraged to ambition\nas well as to love by her inspiriting sermon, he put off now the last\nremnant of cynical doubt upon the genuineness of his old mistress, and\nonce and for all set down as disloyal a belief he had latterly acquired\nthat 'Come, woo me, woo me; for I am like enough to consent,' was all a\nyoung woman had to tell.\n\nAll the reasoning of political and social economists would not have\nconvinced Christopher that he had a better chance in London than in\nSandbourne of making a decent income by reasonable and likely labour; but\na belief in a far more improbable proposition, impetuously expressed,\nwarmed him with the idea that he might become famous there.  The greater\nis frequently more readily credited than the less, and an argument which\nwill not convince on a matter of halfpence appears unanswerable when\napplied to questions of glory and honour.\n\nThe regulation wet towel and strong coffee of the ambitious and\nintellectual student floated before him in visions; but it was with a\nsense of relief that he remembered that music, in spite of its drawbacks\nas a means of sustenance, was a profession happily unencumbered with\nthose excruciating preliminaries to greatness.\n\nChristopher talked about the new move to his sister, and he was vexed\nthat her hopefulness was not roused to quite the pitch of his own.  As\nwith others of his sort, his too general habit of accepting the most\nclouded possibility that chances offered was only transcended by his\nreadiness to kindle with a fitful excitement now and then.  Faith was\nmuch more equable.  'If you were not the most melancholy man God ever\ncreated,' she said, kindly looking at his vague deep eyes and thin face,\nwhich was but a few degrees too refined and poetical to escape the\nepithet of lantern-jawed from any one who had quarrelled with him, 'you\nwould not mind my coolness about this.  It is a good thing of course to\ngo; I have always fancied that we were mistaken in coming here.\nMediocrity stamped \"London\" fetches more than talent marked \"provincial.\"\nBut I cannot feel so enthusiastic.'\n\n'Still, if we are to go, we may as well go by enthusiasm as by\ncalculation; it is a sensation pleasanter to the nerves, and leads to\njust as good a result when there is only one result possible.'\n\n'Very well,' said Faith.  'I will not depress you.  If I had to describe\nyou I should say you were a child in your impulses, and an old man in\nyour reflections.  Have you considered when we shall start?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'What have you thought?'\n\n'That we may very well leave the place in six weeks if we wish.'\n\n'We really may?'\n\n'Yes.  And what is more, we will.'\n\n* * * * *\n\nChristopher and Faith arrived in London on an afternoon at the end of\nwinter, and beheld from one of the river bridges snow-white scrolls of\nsteam from the tall chimneys of Lambeth, rising against the livid sky\nbehind, as if drawn in chalk on toned cardboard.\n\nThe first thing he did that evening, when settled in their apartments\nnear the British Museum, before applying himself to the beginning of the\nmeans by which success in life might be attained, was to go out in the\ndirection of Ethelberta's door, leaving Faith unpacking the things, and\nsniffing extraordinary smoke-smells which she discovered in all nooks and\ncrannies of the rooms.  It was some satisfaction to see Ethelberta's\nhouse, although the single feature in which it differed from the other\nhouses in the Crescent was that no lamp shone from the fanlight over the\nentrance--a speciality which, if he cared for omens, was hardly\nencouraging.  Fearing to linger near lest he might be detected,\nChristopher stole a glimpse at the door and at the steps, imagined what a\ntrifle of the depression worn in each step her feet had tended to\nproduce, and strolled home again.\n\nFeeling that his reasons for calling just now were scarcely sufficient,\nhe went next day about the business that had brought him to town, which\nreferred to a situation as organist in a large church in the north-west\ndistrict.  The post was half ensured already, and he intended to make of\nit the nucleus of a professional occupation and income.  Then he sat down\nto think of the preliminary steps towards publishing the song that had so\npleased her, and had also, as far as he could understand from her letter,\nhit the popular taste very successfully; a fact which, however little it\nmay say for the virtues of the song as a composition, was a great\nrecommendation to it as a property.  Christopher was delighted to\nperceive that out of this position he could frame an admissible, if not\nan unimpeachable, reason for calling upon Ethelberta.  He determined to\ndo so at once, and obtain the required permission by word of mouth.\n\nHe was greatly surprised, when the front of the house appeared in view on\nthis spring afternoon, to see what a white and sightless aspect pervaded\nall the windows.  He came close: the eyeball blankness was caused by all\nthe shutters and blinds being shut tight from top to bottom.  Possibly\nthis had been the case for some time--he could not tell.  In one of the\nwindows was a card bearing the announcement, 'This House to be let\nFurnished.'  Here was a merciless clash between fancy and fact.\nRegretting now his faint-heartedness in not letting her know beforehand\nby some means that he was about to make a new start in the world, and\ncoming to dwell near her, Christopher rang the bell to make inquiries.  A\ngloomy caretaker appeared after a while, and the young man asked whither\nthe ladies had gone to live.  He was beyond measure depressed to learn\nthat they were in the South of France--Arles, the man thought the place\nwas called--the time of their return to town being very uncertain; though\none thing was clear, they meant to miss the forthcoming London season\naltogether.\n\nAs Christopher's hope to see her again had brought a resolve to do so, so\nnow resolve led to dogged patience.  Instead of attempting anything by\nletter, he decided to wait; and he waited well, occupying himself in\npublishing a 'March' and a 'Morning and Evening Service in E flat.'  Some\nfour-part songs, too, engaged his attention when the heavier duties of\nthe day were over--these duties being the giving of lessons in harmony\nand counterpoint, in which he was aided by the introductions of a man\nwell known in the musical world, who had been acquainted with young\nJulian as a promising amateur long before he adopted music as the staff\nof his pilgrimage.\n\nIt was the end of summer when he again tried his fortune at the house in\nExonbury Crescent.  Scarcely calculating upon finding her at this\nstagnant time of the town year, and only hoping for information, Julian\nwas surprised and excited to see the shutters open, and the house wearing\naltogether a living look, its neighbours having decidedly died off\nmeanwhile.\n\n'The family here,' said a footman in answer to his inquiry, 'are only\ntemporary tenants of the house.  It is not Lady Petherwin's people.'\n\n'Do you know the Petherwins' present address?'\n\n'Underground, sir, for the old lady.  She died some time ago in\nSwitzerland, and was buried there, I believe.'\n\n'And Mrs. Petherwin--the young lady,' said Christopher, starting.\n\n'We are not acquainted personally with the family,' the man replied.  'My\nmaster has only taken the house for a few months, whilst extensive\nalterations are being made in his own on the other side of the park,\nwhich he goes to look after every day.  If you want any further\ninformation about Lady Petherwin, Mrs. Petherwin will probably give it.  I\ncan let you have her address.'\n\n'Ah, yes; thank you,' said Christopher.\n\nThe footman handed him one of some cards which appeared to have been left\nfor the purpose.  Julian, though tremblingly anxious to know where\nEthelberta was, did not look at it till he could take a cool survey in\nprivate.  The address was 'Arrowthorne Lodge, Upper Wessex.'\n\n'Dear me!' said Christopher to himself, 'not far from Melchester; and not\ndreadfully far from Sandbourne.'\n\n\n\n\n12. ARROWTHORNE PARK AND LODGE\n\n\nSummer was just over when Christopher Julian found himself rattling along\nin the train to Sandbourne on some trifling business appertaining to his\nlate father's affairs, which would afford him an excuse for calling at\nArrowthorne about the song of hers that he wished to produce.  He\nalighted in the afternoon at a little station some twenty miles short of\nSandbourne, and leaving his portmanteau behind him there, decided to walk\nacross the fields, obtain if possible the interview with the lady, and\nreturn then to the station to finish the journey to Sandbourne, which he\ncould thus reach at a convenient hour in the evening, and, if he chose,\ntake leave of again the next day.\n\nIt was an afternoon which had a fungous smell out of doors, all being\nsunless and stagnant overhead and around.  The various species of trees\nhad begun to assume the more distinctive colours of their decline, and\nwhere there had been one pervasive green were now twenty greenish\nyellows, the air in the vistas between them being half opaque with blue\nexhalation.  Christopher in his walk overtook a countryman, and inquired\nif the path they were following would lead him to Arrowthorne Lodge.\n\n''Twill take 'ee into Arr'thorne Park,' the man replied.  'But you won't\ncome anigh the Lodge, unless you bear round to the left as might be.'\n\n'Mrs. Petherwin lives there, I believe?'\n\n'No, sir.  Leastwise unless she's but lately come.  I have never heard of\nsuch a woman.'\n\n'She may possibly be only visiting there.'\n\n'Ah, perhaps that's the shape o't.  Well, now you tell o't, I have seen a\nstrange face thereabouts once or twice lately.  A young good-looking maid\nenough, seemingly.'\n\n'Yes, she's considered a very handsome lady.'\n\n'I've heard the woodmen say, now that you tell o't, that they meet her\nevery now and then, just at the closing in of the day, as they come home\nalong with their nitches of sticks; ay, stalking about under the trees by\nherself--a tall black martel, so long-legged and awful-like that you'd\nthink 'twas the old feller himself a-coming, they say.  Now a woman must\nbe a queer body to my thinking, to roam about by night so lonesome and\nthat?  Ay, now that you tell o't, there is such a woman, but 'a never\nhave showed in the parish; sure I never thought who the body was--no, not\nonce about her, nor where 'a was living and that--not I, till you spoke.\nWell, there, sir, that's Arr'thorne Lodge; do you see they three elms?'\nHe pointed across the glade towards some confused foliage a long way off.\n\n'I am not sure about the sort of tree you mean,' said Christopher, 'I see\na number of trees with edges shaped like edges of clouds.'\n\n'Ay, ay, they be oaks; I mean the elms to the left hand.'\n\n'But a man can hardly tell oaks from elms at that distance, my good\nfellow!'\n\n'That 'a can very well--leastwise, if he's got the sense.'\n\n'Well, I think I see what you mean,' said Christopher.  'What next?'\n\n'When you get there, you bear away smart to nor'-west, and you'll come\nstraight as a line to the Lodge.'\n\n'How the deuce am I to know which is north-west in a strange place, with\nno sun to tell me?'\n\n'What, not know nor-west?  Well, I should think a boy could never live\nand grow up to be a man without knowing the four quarters.  I knowed 'em\nwhen I was a mossel of a chiel.  We be no great scholars here, that's\ntrue, but there isn't a Tom-rig or Jack-straw in these parts that don't\nknow where they lie as well as I.  Now I've lived, man and boy, these\neight-and-sixty years, and never met a man in my life afore who hadn't\nlearnt such a common thing as the four quarters.'\n\nChristopher parted from his companion and soon reached a stile,\nclambering over which he entered a park.  Here he threaded his way, and\nrounding a clump of aged trees the young man came in view of a light and\nelegant country-house in the half-timbered Gothic style of the late\nrevival, apparently only a few years old.  Surprised at finding himself\nso near, Christopher's heart fluttered unmanageably till he had taken an\nabstract view of his position, and, in impatience at his want of nerve,\nadopted a sombre train of reasoning to convince himself that, far from\nindulgence in the passion of love bringing bliss, it was a folly, leading\nto grief and disquiet--certainly one which would do him no good.  Cooled\ndown by this, he stepped into the drive and went up to the house.\n\n'Is Mrs. Petherwin at home?' he said modestly.\n\n'Who did you say, sir?'\n\nHe repeated the name.\n\n'Don't know the person.'\n\n'The lady may be a visitor--I call on business.'\n\n'She is not visiting in this house, sir.'\n\n'Is not this Arrowthorne Lodge?'\n\n'Certainly not.'\n\n'Then where is Arrowthorne Lodge, please?'\n\n'Well, it is nearly a mile from here.  Under the trees by the high-road.\nIf you go across by that footpath it will bring you out quicker than by\nfollowing the bend of the drive.'\n\nChristopher wondered how he could have managed to get into the wrong\npark; but, setting it down to his ignorance of the difference between oak\nand elm, he immediately retraced his steps, passing across the park\nagain, through the gate at the end of the drive, and into the turnpike\nroad.  No other gate, park, or country seat of any description was within\nview.\n\n'Can you tell me the way to Arrowthorne Lodge?' he inquired of the first\nperson he met, who was a little girl.\n\n'You are just coming away from it, sir,' said she.  'I'll show you; I am\ngoing that way.'\n\nThey walked along together.  Getting abreast the entrance of the park he\nhad just emerged from, the child said, 'There it is, sir; I live there\ntoo.'\n\nChristopher, with a dazed countenance, looked towards a cottage which\nstood nestling in the shrubbery and ivy like a mushroom among grass.  'Is\nthat Arrowthorne Lodge?' he repeated.\n\n'Yes, and if you go up the drive, you come to Arrowthorne House.'\n\n'Arrowthorne Lodge--where Mrs. Petherwin lives, I mean.'\n\n'Yes.  She lives there along wi' mother and we.  But she don't want\nanybody to know it, sir, cause she's celebrate, and 'twouldn't do at\nall.'\n\nChristopher said no more, and the little girl became interested in the\nproducts of the bank and ditch by the wayside.  He left her, pushed open\nthe heavy gate, and tapped at the Lodge door.\n\nThe latch was lifted.  'Does Mrs. Petherwin,' he began, and, determined\nthat there should be no mistake, repeated, 'Does Mrs. Ethelberta\nPetherwin, the poetess, live here?' turning full upon the person who\nopened the door.\n\n'She does, sir,' said a faltering voice; and he found himself face to\nface with the pupil-teacher of Sandbourne.\n\n\n\n\n13. THE LODGE (continued)--THE COPSE BEHIND\n\n\n'This is indeed a surprise; I--am glad to see you!' Christopher\nstammered, with a wire-drawn, radically different smile from the one he\nhad intended--a smile not without a tinge of ghastliness.\n\n'Yes--I am home for the holidays,' said the blushing maiden; and, after a\ncritical pause, she added, 'If you wish to speak to my sister, she is in\nthe plantation with the children.'\n\n'O no--no, thank you--not necessary at all,' said Christopher, in haste.\n'I only wish for an interview with a lady called Mrs. Petherwin.'\n\n'Yes; Mrs Petherwin--my sister,' said Picotee.  'She is in the\nplantation.  That little path will take you to her in five minutes.'\n\nThe amazed Christopher persuaded himself that this discovery was very\ndelightful, and went on persuading so long that at last he felt it to be\nso.  Unable, like many other people, to enjoy being satirized in words\nbecause of the irritation it caused him as aimed-at victim, he sometimes\nhad philosophy enough to appreciate a satire of circumstance, because\nnobody intended it.  Pursuing the path indicated, he found himself in a\nthicket of scrubby undergrowth, which covered an area enclosed from the\npark proper by a decaying fence.  The boughs were so tangled that he was\nobliged to screen his face with his hands, to escape the risk of having\nhis eyes filliped out by the twigs that impeded his progress.  Thus\nslowly advancing, his ear caught, between the rustles, the tones of a\nvoice in earnest declamation; and, pushing round in that direction, he\nbeheld through some beech boughs an open space about ten yards in\ndiameter, floored at the bottom with deep beds of curled old leaves, and\ncushions of furry moss.  In the middle of this natural theatre was the\nstump of a tree that had been felled by a saw, and upon the flat stool\nthus formed stood Ethelberta, whom Christopher had not beheld since the\nball at Wyndway House.\n\nRound her, leaning against branches or prostrate on the ground, were five\nor six individuals.  Two were young mechanics--one of them evidently a\ncarpenter.  Then there was a boy about thirteen, and two or three younger\nchildren.  Ethelberta's appearance answered as fully as ever to that of\nan English lady skilfully perfected in manner, carriage, look, and\naccent; and the incongruity of her present position among lives which had\nhad many of Nature's beauties stamped out of them, and few of the\nbeauties of Art stamped in, brought him, as a second feeling, a pride in\nher that almost equalled his first sentiment of surprise.  Christopher's\nattention was meanwhile attracted from the constitution of the group to\nthe words of the speaker in the centre of it--words to which her auditors\nwere listening with still attention.\n\nIt appeared to Christopher that Ethelberta had lately been undergoing\nsome very extraordinary experiences.  What the beginning of them had been\nhe could not in the least understand, but the portion she was describing\ncame distinctly to his ears, and he wondered more and more.\n\n'He came forward till he, like myself, was about twenty yards from the\nedge.  I instinctively grasped my useless stiletto.  How I longed for the\nassistance which a little earlier I had so much despised!  Reaching the\nblock or boulder upon which I had been sitting, he clasped his arms\naround from behind; his hands closed upon the empty seat, and he jumped\nup with an oath.  This method of attack told me a new thing with wretched\ndistinctness; he had, as I suppose, discovered my sex, male attire was to\nserve my turn no longer.  The next instant, indeed, made it clear, for he\nexclaimed, \"You don't escape me, masquerading madam,\" or some such words,\nand came on.  My only hope was that in his excitement he might forget to\nnotice where the grass terminated near the edge of the cliff, though this\ncould be easily felt by a careful walker: to make my own feeling more\ndistinct on this point I hastily bared my feet.'\n\nThe listeners moistened their lips, Ethelberta took breath, and then went\non to describe the scene that ensued, 'A dreadful variation on the game\nof Blindman's buff,' being the words by which she characterized it.\n\nEthelberta's manner had become so impassioned at this point that the lips\nof her audience parted, the children clung to their elders, and\nChristopher could control himself no longer.  He thrust aside the boughs,\nand broke in upon the group.\n\n'For Heaven's sake, Ethelberta,' he exclaimed with great excitement,\n'where did you meet with such a terrible experience as that?'\n\nThe children shrieked, as if they thought that the interruption was in\nsome way the catastrophe of the events in course of narration.  Every one\nstarted up; the two young mechanics stared, and one of them inquired, in\nreturn, 'What's the matter, friend?'\n\nChristopher had not yet made reply when Ethelberta stepped from her\npedestal down upon the crackling carpet of deep leaves.\n\n'Mr. Julian!' said she, in a serene voice, turning upon him eyes of such\na disputable stage of colour, between brown and grey, as would have\ncommended itself to a gallant duellist of the last century as a point on\nwhich it was absolutely necessary to take some friend's life or other.\nBut the calmness was artificially done, and the astonishment that did not\nappear in Ethelberta's tones was expressed by her gaze.  Christopher was\nnot in a mood to draw fine distinctions between recognized and\nunrecognized organs of speech.  He replied to the eyes.\n\n'I own that your surprise is natural,' he said, with an anxious look into\nher face, as if he wished to get beyond this interpolated scene to\nsomething more congenial and understood.  'But my concern at such a\nhistory of yourself since I last saw you is even more natural than your\nsurprise at my manner of breaking in.'\n\n'That history would justify any conduct in one who hears it--'\n\n'Yes, indeed.'\n\n'If it were true,' added Ethelberta, smiling.  'But it is as false as--'\nShe could name nothing notoriously false without raising an image of what\nwas disagreeable, and she continued in a better manner: 'The story I was\ntelling is entirely a fiction, which I am getting up for a particular\npurpose--very different from what appears at present.'\n\n'I am sorry there was such a misunderstanding,' Christopher stammered,\nlooking upon the ground uncertain and ashamed.  'Yet I am not, either,\nfor I am very glad you have not undergone such trials, of course.  But\nthe fact is, I--being in the neighbourhood--I ventured to call on a\nmatter of business, relating to a poem which I had the pleasure of\nsetting to music at the beginning of the year.'\n\nEthelberta was only a little less ill at ease than Christopher showed\nhimself to be by this way of talking.\n\n'Will you walk slowly on?' she said gently to the two young men, 'and\ntake the children with you; this gentleman wishes to speak to me on\nbusiness.'\n\nThe biggest young man caught up a little one under his arm, and plunged\namid the boughs; another little one lingered behind for a few moments to\nlook shyly at Christopher, with an oblique manner of hiding her mouth\nagainst her shoulder and her eyes behind her pinafore.  Then she\nvanished, the boy and the second young man followed, and Ethelberta and\nChristopher stood within the wood-bound circle alone.\n\n'I hope I have caused no inconvenience by interrupting the proceedings,'\nsaid Christopher softly; 'but I so very much wished to see you!'\n\n'Did you, indeed--really wish to see me?' she said gladly.  'Never mind\ninconvenience then; it is a word which seems shallow in meaning under the\ncircumstances.  I surely must say that a visit is to my advantage, must I\nnot?  I am not as I was, you see, and may receive as advantages what I\nused to consider as troubles.'\n\n'Has your life really changed so much?'\n\n'It has changed.  But what I first meant was that an interesting visitor\nat a wrong time is better than a stupid one at a right time.'\n\n'I had been behind the trees for some minutes, looking at you, and\nthinking of you; but what you were doing rather interrupted my first\nmeditation.  I had thought of a meeting in which we should continue our\nintercourse at the point at which it was broken off years ago, as if the\nomitted part had not existed at all; but something, I cannot tell what,\nhas upset all that feeling, and--'\n\n'I can soon tell you the meaning of my extraordinary performance,'\nEthelberta broke in quickly, and with a little trepidation.  'My mother-\nin-law, Lady Petherwin, is dead; and she has left me nothing but her\nhouse and furniture in London--more than I deserve, but less than she had\ndistinctly led me to expect; and so I am somewhat in a corner.'\n\n'It is always so.'\n\n'Not always, I think.  But this is how it happened.  Lady Petherwin was\nvery capricious; when she was not foolishly kind she was unjustly harsh.\nA great many are like it, never thinking what a good thing it would be,\ninstead of going on tacking from side to side between favour and cruelty,\nto keep to a mean line of common justice.  And so we quarrelled, and she,\nbeing absolute mistress of all her wealth, destroyed her will that was in\nmy favour, and made another, leaving me nothing but the fag-end of the\nlease of the town-house and the furniture in it.  Then, when we were\nabroad, she turned to me again, forgave everything, and, becoming ill\nafterwards, wrote a letter to the brother, to whom she had left the bulk\nof her property, stating that I was to have twenty-thousand of the one-\nhundred-thousand pounds she had bequeathed to him--as in the original\nwill--doing this by letter in case anything should happen to her before a\nnew will could be considered, drawn, and signed, and trusting to his\nhonour quite that he would obey her expressed wish should she die abroad.\nWell, she did die, in the full persuasion that I was provided for; but\nher brother (as I secretly expected all the time) refused to be morally\nbound by a document which had no legal value, and the result is that he\nhas everything, except, of course, the furniture and the lease.  It would\nhave been enough to break the heart of a person who had calculated upon\ngetting a fortune, which I never did; for I felt always like an intruder\nand a bondswoman, and had wished myself out of the Petherwin family a\nhundred times, with my crust of bread and liberty.  For one thing, I was\nalways forbidden to see my relatives, and it pained me much.  Now I am\ngoing to move for myself, and consider that I have a good chance of\nsuccess in what I may undertake, because of an indifference I feel about\nsucceeding which gives the necessary coolness that any great task\nrequires.'\n\n'I presume you mean to write more poems?'\n\n'I cannot--that is, I can write no more that satisfy me.  To blossom into\nrhyme on the sparkling pleasures of life, you must be under the influence\nof those pleasures, and I am at present quite removed from\nthem--surrounded by gaunt realities of a very different description.'\n\n'Then try the mournful.  Trade upon your sufferings: many do, and\nthrive.'\n\n'It is no use to say that--no use at all.  I cannot write a line of\nverse.  And yet the others flowed from my heart like a stream.  But\nnothing is so easy as to seem clever when you have money.'\n\n'Except to seem stupid when you have none,' said Christopher, looking at\nthe dead leaves.\n\nEthelberta allowed herself to linger on that thought for a few seconds;\nand continued, 'Then the question arose, what was I to do?  I felt that\nto write prose would be an uncongenial occupation, and altogether a poor\nprospect for a woman like me.  Finally I have decided to appear in\npublic.'\n\n'Not on the stage?'\n\n'Certainly not on the stage.  There is no novelty in a poor lady turning\nactress, and novelty is what I want.  Ordinary powers exhibited in a new\nway effect as much as extraordinary powers exhibited in an old way.'\n\n'Yes--so they do.  And extraordinary powers, and a new way too, would be\nirresistible.'\n\n'I don't calculate upon both.  I had written a prose story by request,\nwhen it was found that I had grown utterly inane over verse.  It was\nwritten in the first person, and the style was modelled after De Foe's.\nThe night before sending it off, when I had already packed it up, I was\nreading about the professional story-tellers of Eastern countries, who\ndevoted their lives to the telling of tales.  I unfastened the manuscript\nand retained it, convinced that I should do better by telling the story.'\n\n'Well thought of!' exclaimed Christopher, looking into her face.  'There\nis a way for everybody to live, if they can only find it out.'\n\n'It occurred to me,' she continued, blushing slightly, 'that tales of the\nweird kind were made to be told, not written.  The action of a teller is\nwanted to give due effect to all stories of incident; and I hope that a\ntime will come when, as of old, instead of an unsocial reading of fiction\nat home alone, people will meet together cordially, and sit at the feet\nof a professed romancer.  I am going to tell my tales before a London\npublic.  As a child, I had a considerable power in arresting the\nattention of other children by recounting adventures which had never\nhappened; and men and women are but children enlarged a little.  Look at\nthis.'\n\nShe drew from her pocket a folded paper, shook it abroad, and disclosed a\nrough draft of an announcement to the effect that Mrs. Petherwin,\nProfessed Story-teller, would devote an evening to that ancient form of\nthe romancer's art, at a well-known fashionable hall in London.  'Now you\nsee,' she continued, 'the meaning of what you observed going on here.\nThat you heard was one of three tales I am preparing, with a view of\nselecting the best.  As a reserved one, I have the tale of my own life--to\nbe played as a last card.  It was a private rehearsal before my brothers\nand sisters--not with any view of obtaining their criticism, but that I\nmight become accustomed to my own voice in the presence of listeners.'\n\n'If I only had had half your enterprise, what I might have done in the\nworld!'\n\n'Now did you ever consider what a power De Foe's manner would have if\npractised by word of mouth?  Indeed, it is a style which suits itself\ninfinitely better to telling than to writing, abounding as it does in\ncolloquialisms that are somewhat out of place on paper in these days, but\nhave a wonderful power in making a narrative seem real.  And so, in\nshort, I am going to talk De Foe on a subject of my own.  Well?'\n\nThe last word had been given tenderly, with a long-drawn sweetness, and\nwas caused by a look that Christopher was bending upon her at the moment,\nin which he revealed that he was thinking less of the subject she was so\neagerly and hopefully descanting upon than upon her aspect in explaining\nit.  It is a fault of manner particularly common among men newly imported\ninto the society of bright and beautiful women; and we will hope that,\nspringing as it does from no unworthy source, it is as soon forgiven in\nthe general world as it was here.\n\n'I was only following a thought,' said Christopher:--'a thought of how I\nused to know you, and then lost sight of you, and then discovered you\nfamous, and how we are here under these sad autumn trees, and nobody in\nsight.'\n\n'I think it must be tea-time,' she said suddenly.  'Tea is a great meal\nwith us here--you will join us, will you not?'  And Ethelberta began to\nmake for herself a passage through the boughs.  Another rustle was heard\na little way off, and one of the children appeared.\n\n'Emmeline wants to know, please, if the gentleman that come to see 'ee\nwill stay to tea; because, if so, she's agoing to put in another spoonful\nfor him and a bit of best green.'\n\n'O Georgina--how candid!  Yes, put in some best green.'\n\nBefore Christopher could say any more to her, they were emerging by the\ncorner of the cottage, and one of the brothers drew near them.  'Mr.\nJulian, you'll bide and have a cup of tea wi' us?' he inquired of\nChristopher.  'An old friend of yours, is he not, Mrs. Petherwin?  Dan\nand I be going back to Sandbourne to-night, and we can walk with 'ee as\nfar as the station.'\n\n'I shall be delighted,' said Christopher; and they all entered the\ncottage.  The evening had grown clearer by this time; the sun was peeping\nout just previous to departure, and sent gold wires of light across the\nglades and into the windows, throwing a pattern of the diamond quarries,\nand outlines of the geraniums in pots, against the opposite wall.  One\nend of the room was polygonal, such a shape being dictated by the\nexterior design; in this part the windows were placed, as at the east end\nof continental churches.  Thus, from the combined effects of the\necclesiastical lancet lights and the apsidal shape of the room, it\noccurred to Christopher that the sisters were all a delightful set of\npretty saints, exhibiting themselves in a lady chapel, and backed up by\nunkempt major prophets, as represented by the forms of their big\nbrothers.\n\nChristopher sat down to tea as invited, squeezing himself in between two\nchildren whose names were almost as long as their persons, and whose tin\ncups discoursed primitive music by means of spoons rattled inside them\nuntil they were filled.  The tea proceeded pleasantly, notwithstanding\nthat the cake, being a little burnt, tasted on the outside like the\nlatter plums in snapdragon.  Christopher never could meet the eye of\nPicotee, who continued in a wild state of flushing all the time, fixing\nher looks upon the sugar-basin, except when she glanced out of the window\nto see how the evening was going on, and speaking no word at all unless\nit was to correct a small sister of somewhat crude manners as regards\nfilling the mouth, which Picotee did in a whisper, and a gentle\ninclination of her mouth to the little one's ear, and a still deeper\nblush than before.\n\nTheir visitor next noticed that an additional cup-and-saucer and plate\nmade their appearance occasionally at the table, were silently\nreplenished, and then carried off by one of the children to an inner\napartment.\n\n'Our mother is bedridden,' said Ethelberta, noticing Christopher's look\nat the proceeding.  'Emmeline attends to the household, except when\nPicotee is at home, and Joey attends to the gate; but our mother's\naffliction is a very unfortunate thing for the poor children.  We are\nthinking of a plan of living which will, I hope, be more convenient than\nthis is; but we have not yet decided what to do.'  At this minute a\ncarriage and pair of horses became visible through one of the angular\nwindows of the apse, in the act of turning in from the highway towards\nthe park gate.  The boy who answered to the name of Joey sprang up from\nthe table with the promptness of a Jack-in-the-box, and ran out at the\ndoor.  Everybody turned as the carriage passed through the gate, which\nJoey held open, putting his other hand where the brim of his hat would\nhave been if he had worn one, and lapsing into a careless boy again the\ninstant that the vehicle had gone by.\n\n'There's a tremendous large dinner-party at the House to-night,' said\nEmmeline methodically, looking at the equipage over the edge of her\nteacup, without leaving off sipping.  'That was Lord Mountclere.  He's a\nwicked old man, they say.'\n\n'Lord Mountclere?' said Ethelberta musingly.  'I used to know some\nfriends of his.  In what way is he wicked?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Emmeline, with simplicity.  'I suppose it is because\nhe breaks the commandments.  But I wonder how a big rich lord can want to\nsteal anything.'  Emmeline's thoughts of breaking commandments\ninstinctively fell upon the eighth, as being in her ideas the only case\nwherein the gain could be considered as at all worth the hazard.\n\nEthelberta said nothing; but Christopher thought that a shade of\ndepression passed over her.\n\n'Hook back the gate, Joey,' shouted Emmeline, when the carriage had\nproceeded up the drive.  'There's more to come.'\n\nJoey did as ordered, and by the time he got indoors another carriage\nturned in from the public road--a one-horse brougham this time.\n\n'I know who that is: that's Mr. Ladywell,' said Emmeline, in the same\nmatter-of-fact tone.  'He's been here afore: he's a distant relation of\nthe squire's, and he once gave me sixpence for picking up his gloves.'\n\n'What shall I live to see?' murmured the poetess, under her breath,\nnearly dropping her teacup in an involuntary trepidation, from which she\nmade it a point of dignity to recover in a moment.  Christopher's eyes,\nat that exhibition from Ethelberta, entered her own like a pair of\nlances.  Picotee, seeing Christopher's quick look of jealousy, became\ninvolved in her turn, and grew pale as a lily in her endeavours to\nconceal the complications to which it gave birth in her poor little\nbreast likewise.\n\n'You judge me very wrongly,' said Ethelberta, in answer to Christopher's\nhasty look of resentment.\n\n'In supposing Mr. Ladywell to be a great friend of yours?' said\nChristopher, who had in some indescribable way suddenly assumed a right\nto Ethelberta as his old property.\n\n'Yes: for I hardly know him, and certainly do not value him.'\n\nAfter this there was something in the mutual look of the two, though\ntheir words had been private, which did not tend to remove the anguish of\nfragile Picotee.  Christopher, assured that Ethelberta's embarrassment\nhad been caused by nothing more than the sense of her odd social\nsubsidence, recovered more bliss than he had lost, and regarded calmly\nthe profile of young Ladywell between the two windows of his brougham as\nit passed the open cottage door, bearing him along unconscious as the\ndead of the nearness of his beloved one, and of the sad buffoonery that\nfate, fortune, and the guardian angels had been playing with Ethelberta\nof late.  He recognized the face as that of the young man whom he had\nencountered when watching Ethelberta's window from Rookington Park.\n\n'Perhaps you remember seeing him at the Christmas dance at Wyndway?' she\ninquired.  'He is a good-natured fellow.  Afterwards he sent me that\nportfolio of sketches you see in the corner.  He might possibly do\nsomething in the world as a painter if he were obliged to work at the art\nfor his bread, which he is not.'  She added with bitter pleasantry: 'In\nbare mercy to his self-respect I must remain unseen here.'\n\nIt impressed Christopher to perceive how, under the estrangement which\narose from differences of education, surroundings, experience, and\ntalent, the sympathies of close relationship were perceptible in\nEthelberta's bearing towards her brothers and sisters.  At a remark upon\nsome simple pleasure wherein she had not participated because absent and\noccupied by far more comprehensive interests, a gloom as of banishment\nwould cross her face and dim it for awhile, showing that the free habits\nand enthusiasms of country life had still their charm with her, in the\nface of the subtler gratifications of abridged bodices, candlelight, and\nno feelings in particular, which prevailed in town.  Perhaps the one\ncondition which could work up into a permanent feeling the passing\nrevival of his fancy for a woman whose chief attribute he had supposed to\nbe sprightliness was added now by the romantic ubiquity of station that\nattached to her.  A discovery which might have grated on the senses of a\nman wedded to conventionality was a positive pleasure to one whose faith\nin society had departed with his own social ruin.\n\nThe room began to darken, whereupon Christopher arose to leave; and the\nbrothers Sol and Dan offered to accompany him.\n\n\n\n\n14. A TURNPIKE ROAD\n\n\n'We be thinking of coming to London ourselves soon,' said Sol, a\ncarpenter and joiner by trade, as he walked along at Christopher's left\nhand.  'There's so much more chance for a man up the country.  Now, if\nyou was me, how should you set about getting a job, sir?'\n\n'What can you do?' said Christopher.\n\n'Well, I am a very good staircase hand; and I have been called neat at\nsash-frames; and I can knock together doors and shutters very well; and I\ncan do a little at the cabinet-making.  I don't mind framing a roof,\nneither, if the rest be busy; and I am always ready to fill up my time at\nplaning floor-boards by the foot.'\n\n'And I can mix and lay flat tints,' said Dan, who was a house painter,\n'and pick out mouldings, and grain in every kind of wood you can\nmention--oak, maple, walnut, satinwood, cherry-tree--'\n\n'You can both do too much to stand the least chance of being allowed to\ndo anything in a city, where limitation is all the rule in labour.  To\nhave any success, Sol, you must be a man who can thoroughly look at a\ndoor to see what ought to be done to it, but as to looking at a window,\nthat's not your line; or a person who, to the remotest particular,\nunderstands turning a screw, but who does not profess any knowledge of\nhow to drive a nail.  Dan must know how to paint blue to a marvel, but\nmust be quite in the dark about painting green.  If you stick to some\nsuch principle of specialty as this, you may get employment in London.'\n\n'Ha-ha-ha!' said Dan, striking at a stone in the road with the stout\ngreen hazel he carried.  'A wink is as good as a nod: thank'ee--we'll\nmind all that now.'\n\n'If we do come,' said Sol, 'we shall not mix up with Mrs. Petherwin at\nall.'\n\n'O indeed!'\n\n'O no.  (Perhaps you think it odd that we call her \"Mrs. Petherwin,\" but\nthat's by agreement as safer and better than Berta, because we be such\nrough chaps you see, and she's so lofty.)  'Twould demean her to claim\nkin wi' her in London--two journeymen like we, that know nothing besides\nour trades.'\n\n'Not at all,' said Christopher, by way of chiming in in the friendliest\nmanner.  'She would be pleased to see any straightforward honest man and\nbrother, I should think, notwithstanding that she has moved in other\nsociety for a time.'\n\n'Ah, you don't know Berta!' said Dan, looking as if he did.\n\n'How--in what way do you mean?' said Christopher uneasily.\n\n'So lofty--so very lofty!  Isn't she, Sol?  Why she'll never stir out\nfrom mother's till after dark, and then her day begins; and she'll\ntraipse about under the trees, and never go into the high-road, so that\nnobody in the way of gentle-people shall run up against her and know her\nliving in such a little small hut after biding in a big mansion-place.\nThere, we don't find fault wi' her about it: we like her just the same,\nthough she don't speak to us in the street; for a feller must be a fool\nto make a piece of work about a woman's pride, when 'tis his own sister,\nand hang upon her and bother her when he knows 'tis for her good that he\nshould not.  Yes, her life has been quare enough.  I hope she enjoys it,\nbut for my part I like plain sailing.  None of your ups and downs for me.\nThere, I suppose 'twas her nater to want to look into the world a bit.'\n\n'Father and mother kept Berta to school, you understand, sir,' explained\nthe more thoughtful Sol, 'because she was such a quick child, and they\nalways had a notion of making a governess of her.  Sums?  If you said to\nthat child, \"Berta, 'levenpence-three-farthings a day, how much a year?\"\nshe would tell 'ee in three seconds out of her own little head.  And that\nhard sum about the herrings she had done afore she was nine.'\n\n'True, she had,' said Dan.  'And we all know that to do that is to do\nsomething that's no nonsense.'\n\n'What is the sum?' Christopher inquired.\n\n'What--not know the sum about the herrings?' said Dan, spreading his gaze\nall over Christopher in amazement.\n\n'Never heard of it,' said Christopher.\n\n'Why down in these parts just as you try a man's soul by the Ten\nCommandments, you try his head by that there sum--hey, Sol?'\n\n'Ay, that we do.'\n\n'A herring and a half for three-halfpence, how many can ye get for\n'levenpence: that's the feller; and a mortal teaser he is, I assure 'ee.\nOur parson, who's not altogether without sense o' week days, said one\nafternoon, \"If cunning can be found in the multiplication table at all,\nChickerel, 'tis in connection with that sum.\"  Well, Berta was so clever\nin arithmetic that she was asked to teach summing at Miss Courtley's, and\nthere she got to like foreign tongues more than ciphering, and at last\nshe hated ciphering, and took to books entirely.  Mother and we were very\nproud of her at that time: not that we be stuck-up people at all--be we,\nSol?'\n\n'Not at all; nobody can say that we be that, though there's more of it in\nthe country than there should be by all account.'\n\n'You'd be surprised to see how vain the girls about here be getting.\nLittle rascals, why they won't curtsey to the loftiest lady in the land;\nno, not if you were to pay 'em to do it.  Now, the men be different.  Any\nman will touch his hat for a pint of beer.  But then, of course, there's\nsome difference between the two.  Touching your hat is a good deal less\nto do than bending your knees, as Berta used to say, when she was blowed\nup for not doing it.  She was always one of the independent sort--you\nnever seed such a maid as she was!  Now, Picotee was quite the other\nway.'\n\n'Has Picotee left Sandbourne entirely?'\n\n'O no; she is home for the holidays.  Well, Mr. Julian, our road parts\nfrom yours just here, unless you walk into the next town along with us.\nBut I suppose you get across to this station and go by rail?'\n\n'I am obliged to go that way for my portmanteau,' said Christopher, 'or I\nshould have been pleased to walk further.  Shall I see you in Sandbourne\nto-morrow?  I hope so.'\n\n'Well, no.  'Tis hardly likely that you will see us--hardly.  We know how\nunpleasant it is for a high sort of man to have rough chaps like us\nhailing him, so we think it best not to meet you--thank you all the same.\nSo if you should run up against us in the street, we should be just as\nwell pleased by your taking no notice, if you wouldn't mind.  'Twill save\nso much awkwardness--being in our working clothes.  'Tis always the plan\nthat Mrs. Petherwin and we agree to act upon, and we find it best for\nboth.  I hope you take our meaning right, and as no offence, Mr. Julian.'\n\n'And do you do the same with Picotee?'\n\n'O Lord, no--'tisn't a bit of use to try.  That's the worst of\nPicotee--there's no getting rid of her.  The more in the rough we be the\nmore she'll stick to us; and if we say she shan't come, she'll bide and\nfret about it till we be forced to let her.'\n\nChristopher laughed, and promised, on condition that they would retract\nthe statement about their not being proud; and then he wished his friends\ngood-night.\n\n\n\n\n15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE\n\n\nAt the Lodge at this time a discussion of some importance was in\nprogress.  The scene was Mrs. Chickerel's bedroom, to which,\nunfortunately, she was confined by some spinal complaint; and here she\nnow appeared as an interesting woman of five-and-forty, properly dressed\nas far as visible, and propped up in a bed covered with a quilt which\npresented a field of little squares in many tints, looking altogether\nlike a bird's-eye view of a market garden.\n\nMrs. Chickerel had been nurse in a nobleman's family until her marriage,\nand after that she played the part of wife and mother, upon the whole,\naffectionately and well.  Among her minor differences with her husband\nhad been one about the naming of the children; a matter that was at last\ncompromised by an agreement under which the choice of the girls' names\nbecame her prerogative, and that of the boys' her husband's, who limited\nhis field of selection to strict historical precedent as a set-off to\nMrs. Chickerel's tendency to stray into the regions of romance.\n\nThe only grown-up daughters at home, Ethelberta and Picotee, with their\nbrother Joey, were sitting near her; the two youngest children, Georgina\nand Myrtle, who had been strutting in and out of the room, and otherwise\nendeavouring to walk, talk, and speak like the gentleman just gone away,\nwere packed off to bed.  Emmeline, of that transitional age which causes\nits exponent to look wistfully at the sitters when romping and at the\nrompers when sitting, uncertain whether her position in the household is\nthat of child or woman, was idling in a corner.  The two absent brothers\nand two absent sisters--eldest members of the family--completed the round\nten whom Mrs. Chickerel with thoughtless readiness had presented to a\ncrowded world, to cost Ethelberta many wakeful hours at night while she\nrevolved schemes how they might be decently maintained.\n\n'I still think,' Ethelberta was saying, 'that the plan I first proposed\nis the best.  I am convinced that it will not do to attempt to keep on\nthe Lodge.  If we are all together in town, I can look after you much\nbetter than when you are far away from me down here.'\n\n'Shall we not interfere with you--your plans for keeping up your\nconnections?' inquired her mother, glancing up towards Ethelberta by\nlifting the flesh of her forehead, instead of troubling to raise her face\naltogether.\n\n'Not nearly so much as by staying here.'\n\n'But,' said Picotee, 'if you let lodgings, won't the gentlemen and ladies\nknow it?'\n\n'I have thought of that,' said Ethelberta, 'and this is how I shall\nmanage.  In the first place, if mother is there, the lodgings can be let\nin her name, all bills will be receipted by her, and all tradesmen's\norders will be given as from herself.  Then, we will take no English\nlodgers at all; we will advertise the rooms only in Continental\nnewspapers, as suitable for a French or German gentleman or two, and by\nthis means there will be little danger of my acquaintance discovering\nthat my house is not entirely a private one, or of any lodger being a\nfriend of my acquaintance.  I have thought over every possible way of\ncombining the dignified social position I must maintain to make my story-\ntelling attractive, with my absolute lack of money, and I can see no\nbetter one.'\n\n'Then if Gwendoline is to be your cook, she must soon give notice at her\npresent place?'\n\n'Yes.  Everything depends upon Gwendoline and Cornelia.  But there is\ntime enough for them to give notice--Christmas will be soon enough.  If\nthey cannot or will not come as cook and housemaid, I am afraid the plan\nwill break down.  A vital condition is that I do not have a soul in the\nhouse (beyond the lodgers) who is not one of my own relations.  When we\nhave put Joey into buttons, he will do very well to attend to the door.'\n\n'But s'pose,' said Joey, after a glassy look at his future appearance in\nthe position alluded to, 'that any of your gentle-people come to see ye,\nand when I opens the door and lets 'em in a swinging big lodger stalks\ndownstairs.  What will 'em think?  Up will go their eye-glasses at one\nanother till they glares each other into holes.  My gracious!'\n\n'The one who calls will only think that another visitor is leaving, Joey.\nBut I shall have no visitors, or very few.  I shall let it be well known\namong my late friends that my mother is an invalid, and that on this\naccount we receive none but the most intimate friends.  These intimate\nfriends not existing, we receive nobody at all.'\n\n'Except Sol and Dan, if they get a job in London?  They'll have to call\nupon us at the back door, won't they, Berta?' said Joey.\n\n'They must go down the area steps.  But they will not mind that; they\nlike the idea.'\n\n'And father, too, must he go down the steps?'\n\n'He may come whichever way he likes.  He will be glad enough to have us\nnear at any price.  I know that he is not at all happy at leaving you\ndown here, and he away in London.  You remember that he has only taken\nthe situation at Mr. Doncastle's on the supposition that you all come to\ntown as soon as he can see an opening for getting you there; and as\nnothing of the sort has offered itself to him, this will be the very\nthing.  Of course, if I succeed wonderfully well in my schemes for story-\ntellings, readings of my ballads and poems, lectures on the art of\nversification, and what not, we need have no lodgers; and then we shall\nall be living a happy family--all taking our share in keeping the\nestablishment going.'\n\n'Except poor me!' sighed the mother.\n\n'My dear mother, you will be necessary as a steadying power--a flywheel,\nin short, to the concern.  I wish that father could live there, too.'\n\n'He'll never give up his present way of life--it has grown to be a part\nof his nature.  Poor man, he never feels at home except in somebody\nelse's house, and is nervous and quite a stranger in his own.  Sich is\nthe fatal effects of service!'\n\n'O mother, don't!' said Ethelberta tenderly, but with her teeth on edge;\nand Picotee curled up her toes, fearing that her mother was going to\nmoralize.\n\n'Well, what I mean is, that your father would not like to live upon your\nearnings, and so forth.  But in town we shall be near him--that's one\ncomfort, certainly.'\n\n'And I shall not be wanted at all,' said Picotee, in a melancholy tone.\n\n'It is much better to stay where you are,' her mother said.  'You will\ncome and spend the holidays with us, of course, as you do now.'\n\n'I should like to live in London best,' murmured Picotee, her head\nsinking mournfully to one side.  'I HATE being in Sandbourne now!'\n\n'Nonsense!' said Ethelberta severely.  'We are all contriving how to live\nmost comfortably, and it is by far the best thing for you to stay at the\nschool.  You used to be happy enough there.'\n\nPicotee sighed, and said no more.\n\n\n\n\n16. A LARGE PUBLIC HALL\n\n\nIt was the second week in February, Parliament had just met, and\nEthelberta appeared for the first time before an audience in London.\n\nThere was some novelty in the species of entertainment that the active\nyoung woman had proposed to herself, and this doubtless had due effect in\ncollecting the body of strangers that greeted her entry, over and above\nthose friends who came to listen to her as a matter of course.  Men and\nwomen who had become totally indifferent to new actresses, new readers,\nand new singers, once more felt the freshness of curiosity as they\nconsidered the promise of the announcement.  But the chief inducement to\nattend lay in the fact that here was to be seen in the flesh a woman with\nwhom the tongue of rumour had been busy in many romantic ways--a woman\nwho, whatever else might be doubted, had certainly produced a volume of\nverses which had been the talk of the many who had read them, and of the\nmany more who had not, for several consecutive weeks.\n\nWhat was her story to be?  Persons interested in the inquiry--a small\nproportion, it may be owned, of the whole London public, and chiefly\nyoung men--answered this question for themselves by assuming that it\nwould take the form of some pungent and gratifying revelation of the\ninnermost events of her own life, from which her gushing lines had sprung\nas an inevitable consequence, and which being once known, would cause\nsuch musical poesy to appear no longer wonderful.\n\nThe front part of the room was well filled, rows of listeners showing\nthemselves like a drilled-in crop of which not a seed has failed.  They\nwere listeners of the right sort, a majority having noses of the\nprominent and dignified type, which when viewed in oblique perspective\nranged as regularly as bow-windows at a watering place.  Ethelberta's\nplan was to tell her pretended history and adventures while sitting in a\nchair--as if she were at her own fireside, surrounded by a circle of\nfriends.  By this touch of domesticity a great appearance of truth and\nnaturalness was given, though really the attitude was at first more\ndifficult to maintain satisfactorily than any one wherein stricter\nformality should be observed.  She gently began her subject, as if\nscarcely knowing whether a throng were near her or not, and, in her fear\nof seeming artificial, spoke too low.  This defect, however, she soon\ncorrected, and ultimately went on in a charmingly colloquial manner.  What\nEthelberta relied upon soon became evident.  It was not upon the\nintrinsic merits of her story as a piece of construction, but upon her\nmethod of telling it.  Whatever defects the tale possessed--and they were\nnot a few--it had, as delivered by her, the one pre-eminent merit of\nseeming like truth.  A modern critic has well observed of De Foe that he\nhad the most amazing talent on record for telling lies; and Ethelberta,\nin wishing her fiction to appear like a real narrative of personal\nadventure, did wisely to make De Foe her model.  His is a style even\nbetter adapted for speaking than for writing, and the peculiarities of\ndiction which he adopts to give verisimilitude to his narratives acquired\nenormous additional force when exhibited as viva-voce mannerisms.  And\nalthough these artifices were not, perhaps, slavishly copied from that\nmaster of feigning, they would undoubtedly have reminded her hearers of\nhim, had they not mostly been drawn from an easeful section in society\nwhich is especially characterized by the mental condition of knowing\nnothing about any author a week after they have read him.  The few there\nwho did remember De Foe were impressed by a fancy that his words greeted\nthem anew in a winged auricular form, instead of by the weaker channels\nof print and eyesight.  The reader may imagine what an effect this well-\nstudied method must have produced when intensified by a clear, living\nvoice, animated action, and the brilliant and expressive eye of a\nhandsome woman--attributes which of themselves almost compelled belief.\nWhen she reached the most telling passages, instead of adding exaggerated\naction and sound, Ethelberta would lapse to a whisper and a sustained\nstillness, which were more striking than gesticulation.  All that could\nbe done by art was there, and if inspiration was wanting nobody missed\nit.\n\nIt was in performing this feat that Ethelberta seemed first to discover\nin herself the full power of that self-command which further onward in\nher career more and more impressed her as a singular possession, until at\nlast she was tempted to make of it many fantastic uses, leading to\nresults that affected more households than her own.  A talent for\ndemureness under difficulties without the cold-bloodedness which renders\nsuch a bearing natural and easy, a face and hand reigning unmoved outside\na heart by nature turbulent as a wave, is a constitutional arrangement\nmuch to be desired by people in general; yet, had Ethelberta been framed\nwith less of that gift in her, her life might have been more comfortable\nas an experience, and brighter as an example, though perhaps duller as a\nstory.\n\n'Ladywell, how came this Mrs. Petherwin to think of such a queer trick as\ntelling romances, after doing so well as a poet?' said a man in the\nstalls to his friend, who had been gazing at the Story-teller with a rapt\nface.\n\n'What--don't you know?--everybody did, I thought,' said the painter.\n\n'A mistake.  Indeed, I should not have come here at all had I not heard\nthe subject mentioned by accident yesterday at Grey's; and then I\nremembered her to be the same woman I had met at some place--Belmaine's I\nthink it was--last year, when I thought her just getting on for handsome\nand clever, not to put it too strongly.'\n\n'Ah! naturally you would not know much,' replied Ladywell, in an eager\nwhisper.  'Perhaps I am judging others by myself a little more than--but,\nas you have heard, she is an acquaintance of mine.  I know her very well,\nand, in fact, I originally suggested the scheme to her as a pleasant way\nof adding to her fame.  \"Depend upon it, dear Mrs. Petherwin,\" I said,\nduring a pause in one of our dances together some time ago, \"any public\nappearance of yours would be successful beyond description.\"'\n\n'O, I had no idea that you knew her so well!  Then it is quite through\nyou that she has adopted this course?'\n\n'Well, not entirely--I could not say entirely.  She said that some day,\nperhaps, she might do such a thing; and, in short, I reduced her vague\nideas to form.'\n\n'I should not mind knowing her better--I must get you to throw us\ntogether in some way,' said Neigh, with some interest.  'I had no idea\nthat you were such an old friend.  You could do it, I suppose?'\n\n'Really, I am afraid--hah-hah--may not have the opportunity of obliging\nyou.  I met her at Wyndway, you know, where she was visiting with Lady\nPetherwin.  It was some time ago, and I cannot say that I have ever met\nher since.'\n\n'Or before?' said Neigh.\n\n'Well--no; I never did.'\n\n'Ladywell, if I had half your power of going to your imagination for\nfacts, I would be the greatest painter in England.'\n\n'Now Neigh--that's too bad--but with regard to this matter, I do speak\nwith some interest,' said Ladywell, with a pleased sense of himself.\n\n'In love with her?--Smitten down?--Done for?'\n\n'Now, now!  However, several other fellows chaff me about her.  It was\nonly yesterday that Jones said--'\n\n'Do you know why she cares to do this sort of thing?'\n\n'Merely a desire for fame, I suppose.'\n\n'I should think she has fame enough already.'\n\n'That I can express no opinion upon.  I am thinking of getting her\npermission to use her face in a subject I am preparing.  It is a fine\nface for canvas.  Glorious contour--glorious.  Ah, here she is again, for\nthe second part.'\n\n'Dream on, young fellow.  You'll make a rare couple!' said Neigh, with a\nflavour of superciliousness unheeded by his occupied companion.\n\nFurther back in the room were a pair of faces whose keen interest in the\nperformance contrasted much with the languidly permissive air of those in\nfront.  When the ten minutes' break occurred, Christopher was the first\nof the two to speak.  'Well, what do you think of her, Faith?' he said,\nshifting restlessly on his seat.\n\n'I like the quiet parts of the tale best, I think,' replied the sister;\n'but, of course, I am not a good judge of these things.  How still the\npeople are at times!  I continually take my eyes from her to look at the\nlisteners.  Did you notice the fat old lady in the second row, with her\ncloak a little thrown back?  She was absolutely unconscious, and stayed\nwith her face up and lips parted like a little child of six.'\n\n'She well may! the thing is a triumph.  That fellow Ladywell is here, I\nbelieve--yes, it is he, busily talking to the man on his right.  If I\nwere a woman I would rather go donkey-driving than stick myself up there,\nfor gaping fops to quiz and say what they like about!  But she had no\nchoice, poor thing; for it was that or nothing with her.'\n\nFaith, who had secret doubts about the absolute necessity of Ethelberta's\nappearance in public, said, with remote meanings, 'Perhaps it is not\naltogether a severe punishment to her to be looked at by well-dressed\nmen.  Suppose she feels it as a blessing, instead of an affliction?'\n\n'She is a different sort of woman, Faith, and so you would say if you\nknew her.  Of course, it is natural for you to criticize her severely\njust now, and I don't wish to defend her.'\n\n'I think you do a little, Kit.'\n\n'No; I am indifferent about it all.  Perhaps it would have been better\nfor me if I had never seen her; and possibly it might have been better\nfor her if she had never seen me.  She has a heart, and the heart is a\ntroublesome encumbrance when great things have to be done.  I wish you\nknew her: I am sure you would like each other.'\n\n'O yes,' said Faith, in a voice of rather weak conviction.  'But, as we\nlive in such a plain way, it would be hardly desirable at present.'\n\n* * * * *\n\nEthelberta being regarded, in common with the latest conjurer, spirit-\nmedium, aeronaut, giant, dwarf or monarch, as a new sensation, she was\nduly criticized in the morning papers, and even obtained a notice in some\nof the weekly reviews.\n\n'A handsome woman,' said one of these, 'may have her own reasons for\ncausing the flesh of the London public to creep upon its bones by her\nundoubtedly remarkable narrative powers; but we question if much good can\nresult from such a form of entertainment.  Nevertheless, some praise is\ndue.  We have had the novel-writer among us for some time, and the novel-\nreader has occasionally appeared on our platforms; but we believe that\nthis is the first instance on record of a Novel-teller--one, that is to\nsay, who relates professedly as fiction a romantic tale which has never\nbeen printed--the whole owing its chief interest to the method whereby\nthe teller identifies herself with the leading character in the story.'\n\nAnother observed: 'When once we get away from the magic influence of the\nstory-teller's eye and tongue, we perceive how improbable, even\nimpossible, is the tissue of events to which we have been listening with\nso great a sense of reality, and we feel almost angry with ourselves at\nhaving been the victims of such utter illusion.'\n\n'Mrs. Petherwin's personal appearance is decidedly in her favour,' said\nanother.  'She affects no unconsciousness of the fact that form and\nfeature are no mean vehicles of persuasion, and she uses the powers of\neach to the utmost.  There spreads upon her face when in repose an air of\ninnocence which is charmingly belied by the subtlety we discover beneath\nit when she begins her tale; and this amusing discrepancy between her\nphysical presentment and the inner woman is further illustrated by the\nmisgiving, which seizes us on her entrance, that so impressionable a lady\nwill never bear up in the face of so trying an audience. . . .  The\ncombinations of incident which Mrs. Petherwin persuades her hearers that\nshe has passed through are not a little marvellous; and if what is\nrumoured be true, that the tales are to a great extent based upon her own\nexperiences, she has proved herself to be no less daring in adventure\nthan facile in her power of describing it.'\n\n\n\n\n17. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE\n\n\nAfter such successes as these, Christopher could not forego the seductive\nintention of calling upon the poetess and romancer, at her now\nestablished town residence in Exonbury Crescent.  One wintry afternoon he\nreached the door--now for the third time--and gave a knock which had in\nit every tender refinement that could be thrown into the somewhat\nantagonistic vehicle of noise.  Turning his face down the street he\nwaited restlessly on the step.  There was a strange light in the\natmosphere: the glass of the street-lamps, the varnished back of a\npassing cab, a milk-woman's cans, and a row of church-windows glared in\nhis eyes like new-rubbed copper; and on looking the other way he beheld a\nbloody sun hanging among the chimneys at the upper end, as a danger-lamp\nto warn him off.\n\nBy this time the door was opened, and before him stood Ethelberta's young\nbrother Joey, thickly populated with little buttons, the remainder of him\nconsisting of invisible green.\n\n'Ah, Joseph,' said Christopher, instantly recognizing the boy.  'What,\nare you here in office?  Is your--'\n\nJoey lifted his forefinger and spread his mouth in a genial manner, as if\nto signify particular friendliness mingled with general caution.\n\n'Yes, sir, Mrs. Petherwin is my mistress.  I'll see if she is at home,\nsir,' he replied, raising his shoulders and winking a wink of strategic\nmeanings by way of finish--all which signs showed, if evidence were\nwanted, how effectually this pleasant young page understood, though quite\nfresh from Wessex, the duties of his peculiar position.  Mr. Julian was\nshown to the drawing-room, and there he found Ethelberta alone.\n\nShe gave him a hand so cool and still that Christopher, much as he\ndesired the contact, was literally ashamed to let her see and feel his\nown, trembling with unmanageable excess of feeling.  It was always so,\nalways had been so, always would be so, at these meetings of theirs: she\nwas immeasurably the strongest; and the deep-eyed young man fancied, in\nthe chagrin which the perception of this difference always bred in him,\nthat she triumphed in her superior control.  Yet it was only in little\nthings that their sexes were thus reversed: Christopher would receive\nquite a shock if a little dog barked at his heels, and be totally unmoved\nwhen in danger of his life.\n\nCertainly the most self-possessed woman in the world, under pressure of\nthe incongruity between their last meeting and the present one, might\nhave shown more embarrassment than Ethelberta showed on greeting him to-\nday.  Christopher was only a man in believing that the shyness which she\ndid evince was chiefly the result of personal interest.  She might or\nmight not have been said to blush--perhaps the stealthy change upon her\nface was too slow an operation to deserve that name: but, though pale\nwhen he called, the end of ten minutes saw her colour high and wide.  She\nsoon set him at his ease, and seemed to relax a long-sustained tension as\nshe talked to him of her arrangements, hopes, and fears.\n\n'And how do you like London society?' said Ethelberta.\n\n'Pretty well, as far as I have seen it: to the surface of its front\ndoor.'\n\n'You will find nothing to be alarmed at if you get inside.'\n\n'O no--of course not--except my own shortcomings,' said the modest\nmusician.  'London society is made up of much more refined people than\nsociety anywhere else.'\n\n'That's a very prevalent opinion; and it is nowhere half so prevalent as\nin London society itself.  However, come and see my house--unless you\nthink it a trouble to look over a house?'\n\n'No; I should like it very much.'\n\nThe decorations tended towards the artistic gymnastics prevalent in some\nquarters at the present day.  Upon a general flat tint of duck's-egg\ngreen appeared quaint patterns of conventional foliage, and birds, done\nin bright auburn, several shades nearer to redbreast-red than was\nEthelberta's hair, which was thus thrust further towards brown by such\njuxtaposition--a possible reason for the choice of tint.  Upon the glazed\ntiles within the chimney-piece were the forms of owls, bats, snakes,\nfrogs, mice, spiders in their webs, moles, and other objects of aversion\nand darkness, shaped in black and burnt in after the approved fashion.\n\n'My brothers Sol and Dan did most of the actual work,' said Ethelberta,\n'though I drew the outlines, and designed the tiles round the fire.  The\nflowers, mice, and spiders are done very simply, you know: you only press\na real flower, mouse, or spider out flat under a piece of glass, and then\ncopy it, adding a little more emaciation and angularity at pleasure.'\n\n'In that \"at pleasure\" is where all the art lies,' said he.\n\n'Well, yes--that is the case,' said Ethelberta thoughtfully; and\npreceding him upstairs, she threw open a door on one of the floors,\ndisclosing Dan in person, engaged upon a similar treatment of this floor\nalso.  Sol appeared bulging from the door of a closet, a little further\non, where he was fixing some shelves; and both wore workmen's blouses.  At\nonce coming down from the short ladder he was standing upon, Dan shook\nChristopher's hand with some velocity.\n\n'We do a little at a time, you see,' he said, 'because Colonel down\nbelow, and Mrs. Petherwin's visitors, shan't smell the turpentine.'\n\n'We be pushing on to-day to get it out of the way,' said Sol, also coming\nforward and greeting their visitor, but more reluctantly than his brother\nhad done.  'Now I'll tell ye what--you two,' he added, after an uneasy\npause, turning from Christopher to Ethelberta and back again in great\nearnestness; 'you'd better not bide here, talking to we rough ones, you\nknow, for folks might find out that there's something closer between us\nthan workmen and employer and employer's friend.  So Berta and Mr.\nJulian, if you'll go on and take no more notice o' us, in case of\nvisitors, it would be wiser--else, perhaps, if we should be found out\nintimate with ye, and bring down your gentility, you'll blame us for it.\nI get as nervous as a cat when I think I may be the cause of any disgrace\nto ye.'\n\n'Don't be so silly, Sol,' said Ethelberta, laughing.\n\n'Ah, that's all very well,' said Sol, with an unbelieving smile; 'but if\nwe bain't company for you out of doors, you bain't company for we\nwithin--not that I find fault with ye or mind it, and shan't take\nanything for painting your house, nor will Dan neither, any more for\nthat--no, not a penny; in fact, we are glad to do it for 'ee.  At the\nsame time, you keep to your class, and we'll keep to ours.  And so, good\nafternoon, Berta, when you like to go, and the same to you, Mr. Julian.\nDan, is that your mind?'\n\n'I can but own it,' said Dan.\n\nThe two brothers then turned their backs upon their visitors, and went on\nworking, and Ethelberta and her lover left the room.  'My brothers, you\nperceive,' said she, 'represent the respectable British workman in his\nentirety, and a touchy individual he is, I assure you, on points of\ndignity, after imbibing a few town ideas from his leaders.  They are\npainfully off-hand with me, absolutely refusing to be intimate, from a\nmistaken notion that I am ashamed of their dress and manners; which, of\ncourse, is absurd.'\n\n'Which, of course, is absurd,' said Christopher.\n\n'Of course it is absurd!' she repeated with warmth, and looking keenly at\nhim.  But, finding no harm in his face, she continued as before: 'Yet,\nall the time, they will do anything under the sun that they think will\nadvance my interests.  In our hearts we are one.  All they ask me to do\nis to leave them to themselves, and therefore I do so.  Now, would you\nlike to see some more of your acquaintance?'\n\nShe introduced him to a large attic; where he found himself in the\nsociety of two or three persons considerably below the middle height,\nwhose manners were of that gushing kind sometimes called Continental,\ntheir ages ranging from five years to eight.  These were the youngest\nchildren, presided over by Emmeline, as professor of letters, capital and\nsmall.\n\n'I am giving them the rudiments of education here,' said Ethelberta; 'but\nI foresee several difficulties in the way of keeping them here, which I\nmust get over as best I can.  One trouble is, that they don't get enough\nair and exercise.'\n\n'Is Mrs. Chickerel living here as well?' Christopher ventured to inquire,\nwhen they were downstairs again.\n\n'Yes; but confined to her room as usual, I regret to say.  Two more\nsisters of mine, whom you have never seen at all, are also here.  They\nare older than any of the rest of us, and had, broadly speaking, no\neducation at all, poor girls.  The eldest, Gwendoline, is my cook, and\nCornelia is my housemaid.  I suffer much sadness, and almost misery\nsometimes, in reflecting that here are we, ten brothers and sisters, born\nof one father and mother, who might have mixed together and shared all in\nthe same scenes, and been properly happy, if it were not for the strange\naccidents that have split us up into sections as you see, cutting me off\nfrom them without the compensation of joining me to any others.  They are\nall true as steel in keeping the secret of our kin, certainly; but that\nbrings little joy, though some satisfaction perhaps.'\n\n'You might be less despondent, I think.  The tale-telling has been one of\nthe successes of the season.'\n\n'Yes, I might; but I may observe that you scarcely set the example of\nblitheness.'\n\n'Ah--that's not because I don't recognize the pleasure of being here.  It\nis from a more general cause: simply an underfeeling I have that at the\nmost propitious moment the distance to the possibility of sorrow is so\nshort that a man's spirits must not rise higher than mere cheerfulness\nout of bare respect to his insight.\n\n      \"As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,\n      Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,\n   Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.\"'\n\nEthelberta bowed uncertainly; the remark might refer to her past conduct\nor it might not.  'My great cause of uneasiness is the children,' she\npresently said, as a new page of matter.  'It is my duty, at all risk and\nall sacrifice of sentiment, to educate and provide for them.  The grown-\nup ones, older than myself, I cannot help much, but the little ones I\ncan.  I keep my two French lodgers for the sake of them.'\n\n'The lodgers, of course, don't know the relationship between yourself and\nthe rest of the people in the house?'\n\n'O no!--nor will they ever.  My mother is supposed to let the ground and\nfirst floors to me--a strange lady--as she does the second and third\nfloors to them.  Still, I may be discovered.'\n\n'Well--if you are?'\n\n'Let me be.  Life is a battle, they say; but it is only so in the sense\nthat a game of chess is a battle--there is no seriousness in it; it may\nbe put an end to at any inconvenient moment by owning yourself beaten,\nwith a careless \"Ha-ha!\" and sweeping your pieces into the box.\nExperimentally, I care to succeed in society; but at the bottom of my\nheart, I don't care.'\n\n'For that very reason you are likely to do it.  My idea is, make ambition\nyour business and indifference your relaxation, and you will fail; but\nmake indifference your business and ambition your relaxation, and you\nwill succeed.  So impish are the ways of the gods.'\n\n'I hope that you at any rate will succeed,' she said, at the end of a\nsilence.\n\n'I never can--if success means getting what one wants.'\n\n'Why should you not get that?'\n\n'It has been forbidden to me.'\n\nHer complexion changed just enough to show that she knew what he meant.\n'If you were as bold as you are subtle, you would take a more cheerful\nview of the matter,' she said, with a look signifying innermost things.\n\n'I will instantly!  Shall I test the truth of my cheerful view by a word\nof question?'\n\n'I deny that you are capable of taking that view, and until you prove\nthat you are, no question is allowed,' she said, laughing, and still\nwarmer in the face and neck.  'Nothing but melancholy, gentle melancholy,\nnow as in old times when there was nothing to cause it.'\n\n'Ah--you only tease.'\n\n'You will not throw aside that bitter medicine of distrust, for the\nworld.  You have grown so used to it, that you take it as food, as some\ninvalids do their mixtures.'\n\n'Ethelberta, you have my heart--my whole heart.  You have had it ever\nsince I first saw you.  Now you understand me, and no pretending that you\ndon't, mind, this second time.'\n\n'I understood you long ago; you have not understood me.'\n\n'You are mysterious,' he said lightly; 'and perhaps if I disentangle your\nmystery I shall find it to cover--indifference.  I hope it does--for your\nsake.'\n\n'How can you say so!' she exclaimed reproachfully.  'Yet I wish it did\ntoo--I wish it did cover indifference--for yours.  But you have all of me\nthat you care to have, and may keep it for life if you wish to.  Listen,\nsurely there was a knock at the door?  Let us go inside the room: I am\nalways uneasy when anybody comes, lest any awkward discovery should be\nmade by a visitor of my miserable contrivances for keeping up the\nestablishment.'\n\nJoey met them before they had left the landing.\n\n'Please, Berta,' he whispered, 'Mr. Ladywell has called, and I've showed\nhim into the liberry.  You know, Berta, this is how it was, you know: I\nthought you and Mr. Julian were in the drawing-room, and wouldn't want\nhim to see ye together, and so I asked him to step into the liberry a\nminute.'\n\n'You must improve your way of speaking,' she said, with quick\nembarrassment, whether at the mention of Ladywell's name before Julian,\nor at the way Joey coupled herself with Christopher, was quite uncertain.\n'Will you excuse me for a few moments?' she said, turning to Christopher.\n'Pray sit down; I shall not be long.'  And she glided downstairs.\n\nThey had been standing just by the drawing-room door, and Christopher\nturned back into the room with no very satisfactory countenance.  It was\nvery odd, he thought, that she should go down to Ladywell in that\nmysterious manner, when he might have been admitted to where they were\ntalking without any trouble at all.  What could Ladywell have to say, as\nan acquaintance calling upon her for a few minutes, that he was not to\nhear?  Indeed, if it came to that, what right had Ladywell to call upon\nher at all, even though she were a widow, and to some extent chartered to\nlive in a way which might be considered a trifle free if indulged in by\nother young women.  This was the first time that he himself had ventured\ninto her house on that very account--a doubt whether it was quite proper\nto call, considering her youth, and the fertility of her position as\nground for scandal.  But no sooner did he arrive than here was Ladywell\nblundering in, and, since this conjunction had occurred on his first\nvisit, the chances were that Ladywell came very often.\n\nJulian walked up and down the room, every moment expanding itself to a\nminute in his impatience at the delay and vexation at the cause.  After\nscrutinizing for the fifth time every object on the walls as if afflicted\nwith microscopic closeness of sight, his hands under his coat-tails, and\nhis person jigging up and down upon his toes, he heard her coming up the\nstairs.  When she entered the apartment her appearance was decidedly that\nof a person subsiding after some little excitement.\n\n'I did not calculate upon being so long,' she said sweetly, at the same\ntime throwing back her face and smiling.  'But I--was longer than I\nexpected.'\n\n'It seemed rather long,' said Christopher gloomily, 'but I don't mind\nit.'\n\n'I am glad of that,' said Ethelberta.\n\n'As you asked me to stay, I was very pleased to do so, and always should\nbe; but I think that now I will wish you good-bye.'\n\n'You are not vexed with me?' she said, looking quite into his face.  'Mr.\nLadywell is nobody, you know.'\n\n'Nobody?'\n\n'Well, he is not much, I mean.  The case is, that I am sitting to him for\na subject in which my face is to be used--otherwise than as a\nportrait--and he called about it.'\n\n'May I say,' said Christopher, 'that if you want yourself painted, you\nare ill-advised not to let it be done by a man who knows how to use the\nbrush a little?'\n\n'O, he can paint!' said Ethelberta, rather warmly.  'His last picture was\nexcellent, I think.  It was greatly talked about.'\n\n'I imagined you to say that he was a mere nobody!'\n\n'Yes, but--how provoking you are!--nobody, I mean, to talk to.  He is a\ntrue artist, nevertheless.'\n\nChristopher made no reply.  The warm understanding between them had quite\nended now, and there was no fanning it up again.  Sudden tiffs had been\nthe constant misfortune of their courtship in days gone by, had been the\nremote cause of her marriage to another; and the familiar shadows seemed\nto be rising again to cloud them with the same persistency as ever.\nChristopher went downstairs with well-behaved moodiness, and left the\nhouse forthwith.  The postman came to the door at the same time.\n\nEthelberta opened a letter from Picotee--now at Sandbourne again; and,\nstooping to the fire-light, she began to read:--\n\n   'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA,--I have tried to like staying at Sandbourne\n   because you wished it, but I can't endure the town at all, dear Berta;\n   everything is so wretched and dull!  O, I only wish you knew how\n   dismal it is here, and how much I would give to come to London!  I\n   cannot help thinking that I could do better in town.  You see, I\n   should be close to you, and should have the benefit of your\n   experience.  I would not mind what I did for a living could I be there\n   where you all are.  It is so like banishment to be here.  If I could\n   not get a pupil-teachership in some London school (and I believe I\n   could by advertising) I could stay with you, and be governess to\n   Georgina and Myrtle, for I am sure you cannot spare time enough to\n   teach them as they ought to be taught, and Emmeline is not old enough\n   to have any command over them.  I could also assist at your\n   dressmaking, and you must require a great deal of that to be done if\n   you continue to appear in public.  Mr. Long read in the papers the\n   account of your first evening, and afterwards I heard two ladies of\n   our committee talking about it; but of course not one of them knew my\n   personal interest in the discussion.  Now will you, Ethelberta, think\n   if I may not come: Do, there's a dear sister!  I will do anything you\n   set me about if I may only come.--Your ever affectionate,\n   PICOTEE.'\n\n'Great powers above--what worries do beset me!' cried Ethelberta, jumping\nup.  'What can possess the child so suddenly?--she used to like\nSandbourne well enough!'  She sat down, and hastily scribbled the\nfollowing reply:--\n\n   'MY DEAR PICOTEE--There is only a little time to spare before the post\n   goes, but I will try to answer your letter at once.  Whatever is the\n   reason of this extraordinary dislike to Sandbourne?  It is a nice\n   healthy place, and you are likely to do much better than either of our\n   elder sisters, if you follow straight on in the path you have chosen.\n   Of course, if such good fortune should attend me that I get rich by my\n   contrivances of public story-telling and so on, I shall share\n   everything with you and the rest of us, in which case you shall not\n   work at all.  But (although I have been unexpectedly successful so\n   far) this is problematical; and it would be rash to calculate upon all\n   of us being able to live, or even us seven girls only, upon the\n   fortune I am going to make that way.  So, though I don't mean to be\n   harsh, I must impress upon you the necessity of going on as you are\n   going just at present.  I know the place must be dull, but we must all\n   put up with dulness sometimes.  You, being next to me in age, must aid\n   me as well as you can in doing something for the younger ones; and if\n   anybody at all comes and lives here otherwise than as a servant, it\n   must be our father--who will not, however, at present hear of such a\n   thing when I mention it to him.  Do think of all this, Picotee, and\n   bear up!  Perhaps we shall all be happy and united some day.  Joey is\n   waiting to run to the post-office with this at once.  All are well.\n   Sol and Dan have nearly finished the repairs and decorations of my\n   house--but I will tell you of that another time.--Your affectionate\n   sister,                 BERTA.'\n\n\n\n\n18. NEAR SANDBOURNE--LONDON STREETS--ETHELBERTA'S\n\n\nWhen this letter reached its destination the next morning, Picotee, in\nher over-anxiety, could not bring herself to read it in anybody's\npresence, and put it in her pocket till she was on her walk across the\nmoor.  She still lived at the cottage out of the town, though at some\ninconvenience to herself, in order to teach at a small village\nnight-school whilst still carrying on her larger occupation of\npupil-teacher in Sandbourne.\n\nSo she walked and read, and was soon in tears.  Moreover, when she\nthought of what Ethelberta would have replied had that keen sister known\nthe wildness of her true reason in wishing to go, she shuddered with\nmisery.  To wish to get near a man only because he had been kind to her,\nand had admired her pretty face, and had given her flowers, to nourish a\npassion all the more because of its hopeless impracticability, were\nthings to dream of, not to tell.  Picotee was quite an unreasoning\nanimal.  Her sister arranged situations for her, told her how to conduct\nherself in them, how to make up anew, in unobtrusive shapes, the valuable\nwearing apparel she sent from time to time--so as to provoke neither\nexasperation in the little gentry, nor superciliousness in the great.\nEthelberta did everything for her, in short; and Picotee obeyed orders\nwith the abstracted ease of mind which people show who have their\nthinking done for them, and put out their troubles as they do their\nwashing.  She was quite willing not to be clever herself, since it was\nunnecessary while she had a much-admired sister, who was clever enough\nfor two people and to spare.\n\nThis arrangement, by which she gained an untroubled existence in exchange\nfor freedom of will, had worked very pleasantly for Picotee until the\nanomaly of falling in love on her own account created a jar in the\nmachinery.  Then she began to know how wearing were miserable days, and\nhow much more wearing were miserable nights.  She pictured Christopher in\nLondon calling upon her dignified sister (for Ethelberta innocently\nmentioned his name sometimes in writing) and imagined over and over again\nthe mutual signs of warm feeling between them.  And now Picotee resolved\nupon a noble course.  Like Juliet, she had been troubled with a\nconsciousness that perhaps her love for Christopher was a trifle forward\nand unmaidenly, even though she had determined never to let him or\nanybody in the whole world know of it.  To set herself to pray that she\nmight have strength to see him without a pang the lover of her sister,\nwho deserved him so much more than herself, would be a grand penance and\ncorrective.\n\nAfter uttering petitions to this effect for several days, she still felt\nvery bad; indeed, in the psychological difficulty of striving for what in\nher soul she did not desire, rather worse, if anything.  At last, weary\nof walking the old road and never meeting him, and blank in a general\npowerlessness, she wrote the letter to Ethelberta, which was only the\nlast one of a series that had previously been written and torn up.\n\nNow this hope had been whirled away like thistledown, and the case was\ngrievous enough to distract a greater stoic than Picotee.  The end of it\nwas that she left the school on insufficient notice, gave up her cottage\nhome on the plea--true in the letter--that she was going to join a\nrelative in London, and went off thither by a morning train, leaving her\nthings packed ready to be sent on when she should write for them.\n\nPicotee arrived in town late on a cold February afternoon, bearing a\nsmall bag in her hand.  She crossed Westminster Bridge on foot, just\nafter dusk, and saw a luminous haze hanging over each well-lighted street\nas it withdrew into distance behind the nearer houses, showing its\ndirection as a train of morning mist shows the course of a distant stream\nwhen the stream itself is hidden.  The lights along the riverside towards\nCharing Cross sent an inverted palisade of gleaming swords down into the\nshaking water, and the pavement ticked to the touch of pedestrians' feet,\nmost of whom tripped along as if walking only to practise a favourite\nquick step, and held handkerchiefs to their mouths to strain off the\nriver mist from their lungs.  She inquired her way to Exonbury Crescent,\nand between five and six o'clock reached her sister's door.\n\nTwo or three minutes were passed in accumulating resolution sufficient to\nring the bell, which when at last she did, was not performed in a way at\nall calculated to make the young man Joey hasten to the door.  After the\nlapse of a certain time he did, however, find leisure to stroll and see\nwhat the caller might want, out of curiosity to know who there could be\nin London afraid to ring a bell twice.\n\nJoey's delight exceeded even his surprise, the ruling maxim of his life\nbeing the more the merrier, under all circumstances.  The beaming young\nman was about to run off and announce her upstairs and downstairs, left\nand right, when Picotee called him hastily to her.  In the hall her quick\nyoung eye had caught sight of an umbrella with a peculiar horn handle--an\numbrella she had been accustomed to meet on Sandbourne Moor on many happy\nafternoons.  Christopher was evidently in the house.\n\n'Joey,' she said, as if she were ready to faint, 'don't tell Berta I am\ncome.  She has company, has she not?'\n\n'O no--only Mr. Julian!' said the brother.  'He's quite one of the\nfamily!'\n\n'Never mind--can't I go down into the kitchen with you?' she inquired.\nThere had been bliss and misery mingled in those tidings, and she\nscarcely knew for a moment which way they affected her.  What she did\nknow was that she had run her dear fox to earth, and a sense of\nsatisfaction at that feat prevented her just now from counting the cost\nof the performance.\n\n'Does Mr. Julian come to see her very often?' said she.\n\n'O yes--he's always a-coming--a regular bore to me.'\n\n'A regular what?'\n\n'Bore!--Ah, I forgot, you don't know our town words.  However, come\nalong.'\n\nThey passed by the doors on tiptoe, and their mother upstairs being,\naccording to Joey's account, in the midst of a nap, Picotee was unwilling\nto disturb her; so they went down at once to the kitchen, when forward\nrushed Gwendoline the cook, flourishing her floury hands, and Cornelia\nthe housemaid, dancing over her brush; and these having welcomed and made\nPicotee comfortable, who should ring the area-bell, and be admitted down\nthe steps, but Sol and Dan.  The workman-brothers, their day's duties\nbeing over, had called to see their relations, first, as usual, going\nhome to their lodgings in Marylebone and making themselves as spruce as\nbridegrooms, according to the rules of their newly-acquired town\nexperience.  For the London mechanic is only nine hours a mechanic,\nthough the country mechanic works, eats, drinks, and sleeps a mechanic\nthroughout the whole twenty-four.\n\n'God bless my soul--Picotee!' said Dan, standing fixed.  'Well--I say,\nthis is splendid! ha-ha!'\n\n'Picotee--what brought you here?' said Sol, expanding the circumference\nof his face in satisfaction.  'Well, come along--never mind so long as\nyou be here.'\n\nPicotee explained circumstances as well as she could without stating\nthem, and, after a general conversation of a few minutes, Sol interrupted\nwith--'Anybody upstairs with Mrs. Petherwin?'\n\n'Mr. Julian was there just now,' said Joey; 'but he may be gone.  Berta\nalways lets him slip out how he can, the form of ringing me up not being\nnecessary with him.  Wait a minute--I'll see.'\n\nJoseph vanished up the stairs; and, the question whether Christopher were\ngone or not being an uninteresting one to the majority, the talking went\non upon other matters.  When Joey crept down again a minute later,\nPicotee was sitting aloof and silent, and he accordingly singled her out\nto speak to.\n\n'Such a lark, Picotee!' he whispered.  'Berta's a-courting of her young\nman.  Would you like to see how they carries on a bit?'\n\n'Dearly I should!' said Picotee, the pupils of her eyes dilating.\n\nJoey conducted her to the top of the basement stairs, and told her to\nlisten.  Within a few yards of them was the morning-room door, now\nstanding ajar; and an intermittent flirtation in soft male and female\ntones could be heard going on inside.  Picotee's lips parted at thus\nlearning the condition of things, and she leant against the stair-newel.\n\n'My?  What's the matter?' said Joey.\n\n'If this is London, I don't like it at all!' moaned Picotee.\n\n'Well--I never see such a girl--fainting all over the stairs for nothing\nin the world.'\n\n'O--it will soon be gone--it is--it is only indigestion.'\n\n'Indigestion?  Much you simple country people can know about that!  You\nshould see what devils of indigestions we get in high life--eating\n'normous great dinners and suppers that require clever physicians to\ncarry 'em off, or else they'd carry us off with gout next day; and waking\nin the morning with such a splitting headache, and dry throat, and inward\ncusses about human nature, that you feel all the world like some great\nlord.  However, now let's go down again.'\n\n'No, no, no!' said the unhappy maiden imploringly.  'Hark!'\n\nThey listened again.  The voices of the musician and poetess had changed:\nthere was a decided frigidity in their tone--then came a louder\nexpression--then a silence.\n\n'You needn't be afeard,' said Joey.  'They won't fight; bless you, they\nbusts out quarrelling like this times and times when they've been over-\nfriendly, but it soon gets straight with 'em again.'\n\nThere was now a quick walk across the room, and Joey and his sister drew\ndown their heads out of sight.  Then the room door was slammed, quick\nfootsteps went along the hall, the front door closed just as loudly, and\nChristopher's tread passed into nothing along the pavement.\n\n'That's rather a wuss one than they mostly have; but Lord, 'tis nothing\nat all.'\n\n'I don't much like biding here listening!' said Picotee.\n\n'O, 'tis how we do all over the West End,' said Joey.  ''Tis yer\nignorance of town life that makes it seem a good deal to 'ee.'\n\n'You can't make much boast about town life; for you haven't left off\ntalking just as they do down in Wessex.'\n\n'Well, I own to that--what's fair is fair, and 'tis a true charge; but if\nI talk the Wessex way 'tisn't for want of knowing better; 'tis because my\nstaunch nater makes me bide faithful to our old ancient institutions.\nYou'd soon own 'twasn't ignorance in me, if you knowed what large\nquantities of noblemen I gets mixed up with every day.  In fact 'tis\nthoughted here and there that I shall do very well in the world.'\n\n'Well, let us go down,' said Picotee.  'Everything seems so overpowering\nhere.'\n\n'O, you'll get broke in soon enough.  I felt just the same when I first\nentered into society.'\n\n'Do you think Berta will be angry with me?  How does she treat you?'\n\n'Well, I can't complain.  You see she's my own flesh and blood, and what\ncan I say?  But, in secret truth, the wages is terrible low, and barely\npays for the tobacco I consooms.'\n\n'O Joey, you wicked boy!  If mother only knew that you smoked!'\n\n'I don't mind the wickedness so much as the smell.  And Mrs. Petherwin\nhas got such a nose for a fellow's clothes.  'Tis one of the greatest\nknots in service--the smoke question.  'Tis thoughted that we shall make\na great stir about it in the mansions of the nobility soon.'\n\n'How much more you know of life than I do--you only fourteen and me\nseventeen!'\n\n'Yes, that's true.  You see, age is nothing--'tis opportunity.  And even\nI can't boast, for many a younger man knows more.'\n\n'But don't smoke, Joey--there's a dear!'\n\n'What can I do?  Society hev its rules, and if a person wishes to keep\nhimself up, he must do as the world do.  We be all Fashion's slave--as\nmuch a slave as the meanest in the land!'\n\nThey got downstairs again; and when the dinner of the French lady and\ngentleman had been sent up and cleared away, and also Ethelberta's\nevening tea (which she formed into a genuine meal, making a dinner of\nluncheon, when nobody was there, to give less trouble to her\nservant-sisters), they all sat round the fire.  Then the rustle of a\ndress was heard on the staircase, and squirrel-haired Ethelberta appeared\nin person.  It was her custom thus to come down every spare evening, to\nteach Joey and her sisters something or other--mostly French, which she\nspoke fluently; but the cook and housemaid showed more ambition than\nintelligence in acquiring that tongue, though Joey learnt it readily\nenough.\n\nThere was consternation in the camp for a moment or two, on account of\npoor Picotee, Ethelberta being not without firmness in matters of\ndiscipline.  Her eye instantly lighted upon her disobedient sister, now\nlooking twice as disobedient as she really was.\n\n'O, you are here, Picotee?  I am glad to see you,' said the mistress of\nthe house quietly.\n\nThis was altogether to Picotee's surprise, for she had expected a round\nrating at least, in her freshness hardly being aware that this reserve of\nfeeling was an acquired habit of Ethelberta's, and that civility stood in\ntown for as much vexation as a tantrum represented in Wessex.\n\nPicotee lamely explained her outward reasons for coming, and soon began\nto find that Ethelberta's opinions on the matter would not be known by\nthe tones of her voice.  But innocent Picotee was as wily as a\nreligionist in sly elusions of the letter whilst infringing the spirit of\na dictum; and by talking very softly and earnestly about the wondrous\ngood she could do by remaining in the house as governess to the children,\nand playing the part of lady's-maid to her sister at show times, she so\nfar coaxed Ethelberta out of her intentions that she almost accepted the\nplan as a good one.  It was agreed that for the present, at any rate,\nPicotee should remain.  Then a visit was made to Mrs. Chickerel's room,\nwhere the remainder of the evening was passed; and harmony reigned in the\nhousehold.\n\n\n\n\n19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM\n\n\nPicotee's heart was fitfully glad.  She was near the man who had enlarged\nher capacity from girl's to woman's, a little note or two of young\nfeeling to a whole diapason; and though nearness was perhaps not in\nitself a great reason for felicity when viewed beside the complete\nrealization of all that a woman can desire in such circumstances, it was\nmuch in comparison with the outer darkness of the previous time.\n\nIt became evident to all the family that some misunderstanding had arisen\nbetween Ethelberta and Mr. Julian.  What Picotee hoped in the centre of\nher heart as to the issue of the affair it would be too complex a thing\nto say.  If Christopher became cold towards her sister he would not come\nto the house; if he continued to come it would really be as Ethelberta's\nlover--altogether, a pretty game of perpetual check for Picotee.\n\nHe did not make his appearance for several days.  Picotee, being a\npresentable girl, and decidedly finer-natured than her sisters below\nstairs, was allowed to sit occasionally with Ethelberta in the afternoon,\nwhen the teaching of the little ones had been done for the day; and thus\nshe had an opportunity of observing Ethelberta's emotional condition with\nreference to Christopher, which Picotee did with an interest that the\nelder sister was very far from suspecting.\n\nAt first Ethelberta seemed blithe enough without him.  One more day went,\nand he did not come, and then her manner was that of apathy.  Another day\npassed, and from fanciful elevations of the eyebrow, and long breathings,\nit became apparent that Ethelberta had decidedly passed the indifferent\nstage, and was getting seriously out of sorts about him.  Next morning\nshe looked all hope.  He did not come that day either, and Ethelberta\nbegan to look pale with fear.\n\n'Why don't you go out?' said Picotee timidly.\n\n'I can hardly tell: I have been expecting some one.'\n\n'When she comes I must run up to mother at once, must I not?' said clever\nPicotee.\n\n'It is not a lady,' said Ethelberta blandly.  She came then and stood by\nPicotee, and looked musingly out of the window.  'I may as well tell you,\nperhaps,' she continued.  'It is Mr. Julian.  He is--I suppose--my lover,\nin plain English.'\n\n'Ah!' said Picotee.\n\n'Whom I am not going to marry until he gets rich.'\n\n'Ah--how strange!  If I had him--such a lover, I mean--I would marry him\nif he continued poor.'\n\n'I don't doubt it, Picotee; just as you come to London without caring\nabout consequences, or would do any other crazy thing and not mind in the\nleast what came of it.  But somebody in the family must take a practical\nview of affairs, or we should all go to the dogs.'\n\nPicotee recovered from the snubbing which she felt that she deserved, and\ncharged gallantly by saying, with delicate showings of indifference, 'Do\nyou love this Mr. What's-his-name of yours?'\n\n'Mr. Julian?  O, he's a very gentlemanly man.  That is, except when he is\nrude, and ill-uses me, and will not come and apologize!'\n\n'If I had him--a lover, I would ask him to come if I wanted him to.'\n\nEthelberta did not give her mind to this remark; but, drawing a long\nbreath, said, with a pouting laugh, which presaged unreality, 'The idea\nof his getting indifferent now!  I have been intending to keep him on\nuntil I got tired of his attentions, and then put an end to them by\nmarrying him; but here is he, before he has hardly declared himself,\nforgetting my existence as much as if he had vowed to love and cherish me\nfor life.  'Tis an unnatural inversion of the manners of society.'\n\n'When did you first get to care for him, dear Berta?'\n\n'O--when I had seen him once or twice.'\n\n'Goodness--how quick you were!'\n\n'Yes--if I am in the mind for loving I am not to be hindered by shortness\nof acquaintanceship.'\n\n'Nor I neither!' sighed Picotee.\n\n'Nor any other woman.  We don't need to know a man well in order to love\nhim.  That's only necessary when we want to leave off.'\n\n'O Berta--you don't believe that!'\n\n'If a woman did not invariably form an opinion of her choice before she\nhas half seen him, and love him before she has half formed an opinion,\nthere would be no tears and pining in the whole feminine world, and poets\nwould starve for want of a topic.  I don't believe it, do you say?  Ah,\nwell, we shall see.'\n\nPicotee did not know what to say to this; and Ethelberta left the room to\nsee about her duties as public story-teller, in which capacity she had\nundertaken to appear again this very evening.\n\n\n\n\n20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL--THE ROAD HOME\n\n\nLondon was illuminated by the broad full moon.  The pavements looked\nwhite as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to the\nrank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the faces of\nwomen walking the streets to those of calendared saints and\nguardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.\n\nIn the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall\nchosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting.  The\ntime was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out from the\nbuilding, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which they showed to\nbe that of the Story-teller herself.  She hastened across to the\ncarriage, when a second thought arrested her motion: telling the\nman-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for her, she wrapped\nup her features and glided round to the front of the house, where she\npaused to observe the carriages and cabs driving up to receive the\nfashionable crowd stepping down from the doors.  Standing here in the\nthrong which her own talent and ingenuity had drawn together, she\nappeared to enjoy herself by listening for a minute or two to the names\nof several persons of more or less distinction as they were called out,\nand then regarded attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to\nscrutinize the latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the\njourney from round the corner.  When nearly every one had left the doors,\nshe turned back disappointed.  Ethelberta had been fancying that her\nalienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as far as\ncould now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false one.\n\nWhen she got round to the back again, a man came forward.  It was\nLadywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening.  'Allow me to\nbring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten it,'\nhe said.  'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'\n\nEthelberta thanked him, and took the book.  'I use it to look into\nbetween the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained.  'I\nremember that I did lay it down, now you remind me.'\n\nLadywell had apparently more to say, and moved by her side towards the\ncarriage; but she declined the arm he offered, and said not another word\ntill he went on, haltingly:\n\n'Your triumph to-night was very great, and it was as much a triumph to me\nas to you; I cannot express my feeling--I cannot say half that I would.\nIf I might only--'\n\n'Thank you much,' said Ethelberta, with dignity.  'Thank you for bringing\nmy book, but I must go home now.  I know that you will see that it is not\nnecessary for us to be talking here.'\n\n'Yes--you are quite right,' said the repressed young painter, struck by\nher seriousness.  'Blame me; I ought to have known better.  But perhaps a\nman--well, I will say it--a lover without indiscretion is no lover at\nall.  Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms.  I saw\nthat, and hoped that I might speak without real harm.'\n\n'You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!' she\nsaid, with the slightest accent of sarcasm.  'But pray do not attend me\nfurther--it is not at all necessary or desirable.  My maid is in the\ncarriage.'  She bowed, turned, and entered the vehicle, seating herself\nbeside Picotee.\n\n'It was harsh!' said Ladywell to himself, as he looked after the\nretreating carriage.  'I was a fool; but it was harsh.  Yet what man on\nearth likes a woman to show too great a readiness at first?  She is\nright: she would be nothing without repulse!'  And he moved away in an\nopposite direction.\n\n'What man was that?' said Picotee, as they drove along.\n\n'O--a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter of good family, to whom I have been\nsitting for what he calls an Idealization.  He is a dreadful simpleton.'\n\n'Why did you choose him?'\n\n'I did not: he chose me.  But his silliness of behaviour is a hopeful\nsign for the picture.  I have seldom known a man cunning with his brush\nwho was not simple with his tongue; or, indeed, any skill in particular\nthat was not allied to general stupidity.'\n\n'Your own skill is not like that, is it, Berta?'\n\n'In men--in men.  I don't mean in women.  How childish you are!'\n\nThe slight depression at finding that Christopher was not present, which\nhad followed Ethelberta's public triumph that evening, was covered over,\nif not removed, by Ladywell's declaration, and she reached home serene in\nspirit.  That she had not the slightest notion of accepting the impulsive\npainter made little difference; a lover's arguments being apt to affect a\nlady's mood as much by measure as by weight.  A useless declaration like\na rare china teacup with a hole in it, has its ornamental value in\nenlarging a collection.\n\nNo sooner had they entered the house than Mr. Julian's card was\ndiscovered; and Joey informed them that he had come particularly to speak\nwith Ethelberta, quite forgetting that it was her evening for\ntale-telling.\n\nThis was real delight, for between her excitements Ethelberta had been\nseriously sick-hearted at the horrible possibility of his never calling\nagain.  But alas! for Christopher.  There being nothing like a dead\nsilence for getting one's off-hand sweetheart into a corner, there is\nnothing like prematurely ending it for getting into that corner one's\nself.\n\n'Now won't I punish him for daring to stay away so long!' she exclaimed\nas soon as she got upstairs.  'It is as bad to show constancy in your\nmanners as fickleness in your heart at such a time as this.'\n\n'But I thought honesty was the best policy?' said Picotee.\n\n'So it is, for the man's purpose.  But don't you go believing in sayings,\nPicotee: they are all made by men, for their own advantages.  Women who\nuse public proverbs as a guide through events are those who have not\ningenuity enough to make private ones as each event occurs.'\n\nShe sat down, and rapidly wrote a line to Mr. Julian:--\n\n   'EXONBURY CRESCENT.\n\n   'I return from Mayfair Hall to find you have called.  You will, I\n   know, be good enough to forgive my saying what seems an unfriendly\n   thing, when I assure you that the circumstances of my peculiar\n   situation make it desirable, if not necessary.  It is that I beg you\n   not to give me the pleasure of a visit from you for some little time,\n   for unhappily the frequency of your kind calls has been noticed; and I\n   am now in fear that we may be talked about--invidiously--to the injury\n   of us both.  The town, or a section of it, has turned its bull's-eye\n   upon me with a brightness which I did not in the least anticipate; and\n   you will, I am sure, perceive how indispensable it is that I should be\n   circumspect.--Yours sincerely,\n\n   E. PETHERWIN.'\n\n\n\n\n21. A STREET--NEIGH'S ROOMS--CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS\n\n\nAs soon as Ethelberta had driven off from the Hall, Ladywell turned back\nagain; and, passing the front entrance, overtook his acquaintance Mr.\nNeigh, who had been one of the last to emerge.  The two were going in the\nsame direction, and they walked a short distance together.\n\n'Has anything serious happened?' said Neigh, noticing an abstraction in\nhis companion.  'You don't seem in your usual mood to-night.'\n\n'O, it is only that affair between us,' said Ladywell.\n\n'Affair?  Between you and whom?'\n\n'Her and myself, of course.  It will be in every fellow's mouth now, I\nsuppose!'\n\n'But--not anything between yourself and Mrs. Petherwin?'\n\n'A mere nothing.  But surely you started, Neigh, when you suspected it\njust this moment?'\n\n'No--you merely fancied that.'\n\n'Did she not speak well to-night!  You were in the room, I believe?'\n\n'Yes, I just turned in for half-an-hour: it seems that everybody does, so\nI thought I must.  But I had no idea that you were feeble that way.'\n\n'It is very kind of you, Neigh--upon my word it is--very kind; and of\ncourse I appreciate the delicacy which--which--'\n\n'What's kind?'\n\n'I mean your well-intentioned plan for making me believe that nothing is\nknown of this.  But stories will of course get wind; and if our\nattachment has made more noise in the world than I intended it should,\nand causes any public interest, why--ha-ha!--it must.  There is some\nlittle romance in it perhaps, and people will talk of matters of that\nsort between individuals of any repute--little as that is with one of the\npair.'\n\n'Of course they will--of course.  You are a rising man, remember, whom\nsome day the world will delight to honour.'\n\n'Thank you for that, Neigh.  Thank you sincerely.'\n\n'Not at all.  It is merely justice to say it, and one must he generous to\ndeserve thanks.'\n\n'Ha-ha!--that's very nicely put, and undeserved I am sure.  And yet I\nneed a word of that sort sometimes!'\n\n'Genius is proverbially modest.'\n\n'Pray don't, Neigh--I don't deserve it, indeed.  Of course it is well\nmeant in you to recognize any slight powers, but I don't deserve it.\nCertainly, my self-assurance was never too great.  'Tis the misfortune of\nall children of art that they should be so dependent upon any scraps of\npraise they can pick up to help them along.'\n\n'And when that child gets so deep in love that you can only see the\nwhites of his eyes--'\n\n'Ah--now, Neigh--don't, I say!'\n\n'But why did--'\n\n'Why did I love her?'\n\n'Yes, why did you love her?'\n\n'Ah, if I could only turn self-vivisector, and watch the operation of my\nheart, I should know!'\n\n'My dear fellow, you must be very bad indeed to talk like that.  A poet\nhimself couldn't be cleaner gone.'\n\n'Now, don't chaff, Neigh; do anything, but don't chaff.  You know that I\nam the easiest man in the world for taking it at most times.  But I can't\nstand it now; I don't feel up to it.  A glimpse of paradise, and then\nperdition.  What would you do, Neigh?'\n\n'She has refused you, then?'\n\n'Well--not positively refused me; but it is so near it that a dull man\ncouldn't tell the difference.  I hardly can myself.'\n\n'How do you really stand with her?' said Neigh, with an anxiety\nill-concealed.\n\n'Off and on--neither one thing nor the other.  I was determined to make\nan effort the last time she sat to me, and so I met her quite coolly, and\nspoke only of technicalities with a forced smile--you know that way of\nmine for drawing people out, eh, Neigh?'\n\n'Quite, quite.'\n\n'A forced smile, as much as to say, \"I am obliged to entertain you, but\nas a mere model for art purposes.\"  But the deuce a bit did she care.  And\nthen I frequently looked to see what time it was, as the end of the\nsitting drew near--rather a rude thing to do, as a rule.'\n\n'Of course.  But that was your finesse.  Ha-ha!--capital!  Yet why not\nstruggle against such slavery?  It is regularly pulling you down.  What's\na woman's beauty, after all?'\n\n'Well you may say so!  A thing easier to feel than define,' murmured\nLadywell.  'But it's no use, Neigh--I can't help it as long as she\nrepulses me so exquisitely!  If she would only care for me a little, I\nmight get to trouble less about her.'\n\n'And love her no more than one ordinarily does a girl by the time one\ngets irrevocably engaged to her.  But I suppose she keeps you back so\nthoroughly that you carry on the old adoration with as much vigour as if\nit were a new fancy every time?'\n\n'Partly yes, and partly no!  It's very true, and it's not true!'\n\n''Tis to be hoped she won't hate you outright, for then you would\nabsolutely die of idolizing her.'\n\n'Don't, Neigh!--Still there's some truth in it--such is the perversity of\nour hearts.  Fancy marrying such a woman!'\n\n'We should feel as eternally united to her after years and years of\nmarriage as to a dear new angel met at last night's dance.'\n\n'Exactly--just what I should have said.  But did I hear you say \"We,\"\nNeigh?  You didn't say \"WE should feel?\"'\n\n'Say \"we\"?--yes--of course--putting myself in your place just in the way\nof speaking, you know.'\n\n'Of course, of course; but one is such a fool at these times that one\nseems to detect rivalry in every trumpery sound!  Were you never a little\ntouched?'\n\n'Not I.  My heart is in the happy position of a country which has no\nhistory or debt.'\n\n'I suppose I should rejoice to hear it,' said Ladywell.  'But the\nconsciousness of a fellow-sufferer being in just such another hole is\nsuch a relief always, and softens the sense of one's folly so very much.'\n\n'There's less Christianity in that sentiment than in your confessing to\nit, old fellow.  I know the truth of it nevertheless, and that's why\nmarried men advise others to marry.  Were all the world tied up, the\npleasantly tied ones would be equivalent to those at present free.  But\nwhat if your fellow-sufferer is not only in another such a hole, but in\nthe same one?'\n\n'No, Neigh--never!  Don't trifle with a friend who--'\n\n'That is, refused like yourself, as well as in love.'\n\n'Ah, thanks, thanks!  It suddenly occurred to me that we might be dead\nagainst one another as rivals, and a friendship of many long--days be\nsnapped like a--like a reed.'\n\n'No--no--only a jest,' said Neigh, with a strangely accelerated speech.\n'Love-making is an ornamental pursuit that matter-of-fact fellows like me\nare quite unfit for.  A man must have courted at least half-a-dozen women\nbefore he's a match for one; and since triumph lies so far ahead, I shall\nkeep out of the contest altogether.'\n\n'Your life would be pleasanter if you were engaged.  It is a nice thing,\nafter all.'\n\n'It is.  The worst of it would be that, when the time came for breaking\nit off, a fellow might get into an action for breach--women are so fond\nof that sort of thing now; and I hate love-affairs that don't end\npeaceably!'\n\n'But end it by peaceably marrying, my dear fellow!'\n\n'It would seem so singular.  Besides, I have a horror of antiquity: and\nyou see, as long as a man keeps single, he belongs in a measure to the\nrising generation, however old he may be; but as soon as he marries and\nhas children, he belongs to the last generation, however young he may be.\nOld Jones's son is a deal younger than young Brown's father, though they\nare both the same age.'\n\n'At any rate, honest courtship cures a man of many evils he had no power\nto stem before.'\n\n'By substituting an incurable matrimony!'\n\n'Ah--two persons must have a mind for that before it can happen!' said\nLadywell, sorrowfully shaking his head.\n\n'I think you'll find that if one has a mind for it, it will be quite\nsufficient.  But here we are at my rooms.  Come in for half-an-hour?'\n\n'Not to-night, thanks!'\n\nThey parted, and Neigh went in.  When he got upstairs he murmured in his\ndeepest chest note, 'O, lords, that I should come to this!  But I shall\nnever be such a fool as to marry her!  What a flat that poor young devil\nwas not to discover that we were tarred with the same brush.  O, the\ndeuce, the deuce!' he continued, walking about the room as if\npassionately stamping, but not quite doing it because another man had\nrooms below.\n\nNeigh drew from his pocket-book an envelope embossed with the name of a\nfashionable photographer, and out of this pulled a portrait of the lady\nwho had, in fact, enslaved his secret self equally with his frank young\nfriend the painter.  After contemplating it awhile with a face of cynical\nadoration, he murmured, shaking his head, 'Ah, my lady; if you only knew\nthis, I should be snapped up like a snail!  Not a minute's peace for me\ntill I had married you.  I wonder if I shall!--I wonder.'\n\nNeigh was a man of five-and-thirty--Ladywell's senior by ten years; and,\nbeing of a phlegmatic temperament, he had glided thus far through the\nperiod of eligibility with impunity.  He knew as well as any man how far\nhe could go with a woman and yet keep clear of having to meet her in\nchurch without her bonnet; but it is doubtful if his mind that night were\nless disturbed with the question how to guide himself out of the natural\ncourse which his passion for Ethelberta might tempt him into, than was\nLadywell's by his ardent wish to secure her.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAbout the time at which Neigh and Ladywell parted company, Christopher\nJulian was entering his little place in Bloomsbury.  The quaint figure of\nFaith, in her bonnet and cloak, was kneeling on the hearth-rug\nendeavouring to stir a dull fire into a bright one.\n\n'What--Faith! you have never been out alone?' he said.\n\nFaith's soft, quick-shutting eyes looked unutterable things, and she\nreplied, 'I have been to hear Mrs. Petherwin's story-telling again.'\n\n'And walked all the way home through the streets at this time of night, I\nsuppose!'\n\n'Well, nobody molested me, either going or coming back.'\n\n'Faith, I gave you strict orders not to go into the streets after two\no'clock in the day, and now here you are taking no notice of what I say\nat all!'\n\n'The truth is, Kit, I wanted to see with my spectacles what this woman\nwas really like, and I went without them last time.  I slipped in behind,\nand nobody saw me.'\n\n'I don't think much of her after what I have seen tonight,' said\nChristopher, moodily recurring to a previous thought.\n\n'Why? What is the matter?'\n\n'I thought I would call on her this afternoon, but when I got there I\nfound she had left early for the performance.  So in the evening, when I\nthought it would be all over, I went to the private door of the Hall to\nspeak to her as she came out, and ask her flatly a question or two which\nI was fool enough to think I must ask her before I went to bed.  Just as\nI was drawing near she came out, and, instead of getting into the\nbrougham that was waiting for her, she went round the corner.  When she\ncame back a man met her and gave her something, and they stayed talking\ntogether two or three minutes.  The meeting may certainly not have been\nintentional on her part; but she has no business to be going on so coolly\nwhen--when--in fact, I have come to the conclusion that a woman's\naffection is not worth having.  The only feeling which has any dignity or\npermanence or worth is family affection between close blood-relations.'\n\n'And yet you snub me sometimes, Mr. Kit.'\n\n'And, for the matter of that, you snub me.  Still, you know what I\nmean--there's none of that off-and-on humbug between us.  If we grumble\nwith one another we are united just the same: if we don't write when we\nare parted, we are just the same when we meet--there has been some\nrational reason for silence; but as for lovers and sweethearts, there is\nnothing worth a rush in what they feel!'\n\nFaith said nothing in reply to this.  The opinions she had formed upon\nthe wisdom of her brother's pursuit of Ethelberta would have come just\nthen with an ill grace.  It must, however, have been evident to\nChristopher, had he not been too preoccupied for observation, that\nFaith's impressions of Ethelberta were not quite favourable as regarded\nher womanhood, notwithstanding that she greatly admired her talents.\n\n\n\n\n22. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE\n\n\nEthelberta came indoors one day from the University boat-race, and sat\ndown, without speaking, beside Picotee, as if lost in thought.\n\n'Did you enjoy the sight?' said Picotee.\n\n'I scarcely know.  We couldn't see at all from Mrs. Belmaine's carriage,\nso two of us--very rashly--agreed to get out and be rowed across to the\nother side where the people were quite few.  But when the boatman had us\nin the middle of the river he declared he couldn't land us on the other\nside because of the barges, so there we were in a dreadful state--tossed\nup and down like corks upon great waves made by steamers till I made up\nmy mind for a drowning.  Well, at last we got back again, but couldn't\nreach the carriage for the crowd; and I don't know what we should have\ndone if a gentleman hadn't come--sent by Mrs. Belmaine, who was in a\ngreat fright about us; then he was introduced to me, and--I wonder how it\nwill end!'\n\n'Was there anything so wonderful in the beginning, then?'\n\n'Yes.  One of the coolest and most practised men in London was\nill-mannered towards me from sheer absence of mind--and could there be\nhigher flattery?  When a man of that sort does not give you the\npoliteness you deserve, it means that in his heart he is rebelling\nagainst another feeling which his pride suggests that you do not deserve.\nO, I forgot to say that he is a Mr. Neigh, a nephew of Mr. Doncastle's,\nwho lives at ease about Piccadilly and Pall Mall, and has a few acres\nsomewhere--but I don't know much of him.  The worst of my position now is\nthat I excite this superficial interest in many people and a deep\nfriendship in nobody.  If what all my supporters feel could be collected\ninto the hearts of two or three they would love me better than they love\nthemselves; but now it pervades all and operates in none.'\n\n'But it must operate in this gentleman?'\n\n'Well, yes--just for the present.  But men in town have so many\ncontrivances for getting out of love that you can't calculate upon\nkeeping them in for two days together.  However, it is all the same to\nme.  There's only--but let that be.'\n\n'What is there only?' said Picotee coaxingly.\n\n'Only one man,' murmured Ethelberta, in much lower tones.  'I mean, whose\nwife I should care to be; and the very qualities I like in him will, I\nfear, prevent his ever being in a position to ask me.'\n\n'Is he the man you punished the week before last by forbidding him to\ncome?'\n\n'Perhaps he is: but he does not want civility from me.  Where there's\nmuch feeling there's little ceremony.'\n\n'It certainly seems that he does not want civility from you to make him\nattentive to you,' said Picotee, stifling a sigh; 'for here is a letter\nin his handwriting, I believe.'\n\n'You might have given it to me at once,' said Ethelberta, opening the\nenvelope hastily.  It contained very few sentences: they were to the\neffect that Christopher had received her letter forbidding him to call;\nthat he had therefore at first resolved not to call or even see her more,\nsince he had become such a shadow in her path.  Still, as it was always\nbest to do nothing hastily, he had on second thoughts decided to ask her\nto grant him a last special favour, and see him again just once, for a\nfew minutes only that afternoon, in which he might at least say Farewell.\nTo avoid all possibility of compromising her in anybody's eyes, he would\ncall at half-past six, when other callers were likely to be gone, knowing\nthat from the peculiar constitution of the household the hour would not\ninterfere with her arrangements.  There being no time for an answer, he\nwould assume that she would see him, and keep the engagement; the request\nbeing one which could not rationally be objected to.\n\n'There--read it!' said Ethelberta, with glad displeasure.  'Did you ever\nhear such audacity?  Fixing a time so soon that I cannot reply, and thus\nmaking capital out of a pretended necessity, when it is really an\narbitrary arrangement of his own.  That's real rebellion--forcing himself\ninto my house when I said strictly he was not to come; and then, that it\ncannot rationally be objected to--I don't like his \"rationally.\"'\n\n'Where there's much love there's little ceremony, didn't you say just\nnow?' observed innocent Picotee.\n\n'And where there's little love, no ceremony at all.  These manners of his\nare dreadful, and I believe he will never improve.'\n\n'It makes you care not a bit about him, does it not, Berta?' said Picotee\nhopefully.\n\n'I don't answer for that,' said Ethelberta.  'I feel, as many others do,\nthat a want of ceremony which is produced by abstraction of mind is no\ndefect in a poet or musician, fatal as it may be to an ordinary man.'\n\n'Mighty me! You soon forgive him.'\n\n'Picotee, don't you be so quick to speak.  Before I have finished, how do\nyou know what I am going to say?  I'll never tell you anything again, if\nyou take me up so.  Of course I am going to punish him at once, and make\nhim remember that I am a lady, even if I do like him a little.'\n\n'How do you mean to punish him?' said Picotee, with interest.\n\n'By writing and telling him that on no account is he to come.'\n\n'But there is not time for a letter--'\n\n'That doesn't matter.  It will show him that I did not mean him to come.'\n\nAt hearing the very merciful nature of the punishment, Picotee sighed\nwithout replying; and Ethelberta despatched her note.  The hour of\nappointment drew near, and Ethelberta showed symptoms of unrest.  Six\no'clock struck and passed.  She walked here and there for nothing, and it\nwas plain that a dread was filling her: her letter might accidentally\nhave had, in addition to the moral effect which she had intended, the\npractical effect which she did not intend, by arriving before, instead of\nafter, his purposed visit to her, thereby stopping him in spite of all\nher care.\n\n'How long are letters going to Bloomsbury?' she said suddenly.\n\n'Two hours, Joey tells me,' replied Picotee, who had already inquired on\nher own private account.\n\n'There!' exclaimed Ethelberta petulantly.  'How I dislike a man to\nmisrepresent things!  He said there was not time for a reply!'\n\n'Perhaps he didn't know,' said Picotee, in angel tones; 'and so it\nhappens all right, and he has got it, and he will not come after all.'\n\nThey waited and waited, but Christopher did not appear that night; the\ntrue case being that his declaration about insufficient time for a reply\nwas merely an ingenious suggestion to her not to be so cruel as to forbid\nhim.  He was far from suspecting when the letter of denial did reach\nhim--about an hour before the time of appointment--that it was sent by a\nrefinement of art, of which the real intention was futility, and that but\nfor his own misstatement it would have been carefully delayed.\n\nThe next day another letter came from the musician, decidedly short and\nto the point.  The irate lover stated that he would not be made a fool of\nany longer: under any circumstances he meant to come that self-same\nafternoon, and should decidedly expect her to see him.\n\n'I will not see him!' said Ethelberta.  'Why did he not call last night?'\n\n'Because you told him not to,' said Picotee.\n\n'Good gracious, as if a woman's words are to be translated as literally\nas Homer!  Surely he is aware that more often than not \"No\" is said to a\nman's importunities because it is traditionally the correct modest reply,\nand for nothing else in the world.  If all men took words as\nsuperficially as he does, we should die of decorum in shoals.'\n\n'Ah, Berta! how could you write a letter that you did not mean should be\nobeyed?'\n\n'I did in a measure mean it, although I could have shown Christian\nforgiveness if it had not been.  Never mind; I will not see him.  I'll\nplague my heart for the credit of my sex.'\n\nTo ensure the fulfilment of this resolve, Ethelberta determined to give\nway to a headache that she was beginning to be aware of, go to her room,\ndisorganize her dress, and ruin her hair by lying down; so putting it out\nof her power to descend and meet Christopher on any momentary impulse.\n\nPicotee sat in the room with her, reading, or pretending to read, and\nEthelberta pretended to sleep.  Christopher's knock came up the stairs,\nand with it the end of the farce.\n\n'I'll tell you what,' said Ethelberta in the prompt and broadly-awake\ntone of one who had been concentrated on the expectation of that sound\nfor a length of time, 'it was a mistake in me to do this!  Joey will be\nsure to make a muddle of it.'\n\nJoey was heard coming up the stairs.  Picotee opened the door, and said,\nwith an anxiety transcending Ethelberta's, 'Well?'\n\n'O, will you tell Mrs. Petherwin that Mr. Julian says he'll wait.'\n\n'You were not to ask him to wait,' said Ethelberta, within.\n\n'I know that,' said Joey, 'and I didn't.  He's doing that out of his own\nhead.'\n\n'Then let Mr. Julian wait, by all means,' said Ethelberta.  'Allow him to\nwait if he likes, but tell him it is uncertain if I shall be able to come\ndown.'\n\nJoey then retired, and the two sisters remained in silence.\n\n'I wonder if he's gone,' Ethelberta said, at the end of a long time.\n\n'I thought you were asleep,' said Picotee.  'Shall we ask Joey?  I have\nnot heard the door close.'\n\nJoey was summoned, and after a leisurely ascent, interspersed by various\ngymnastic performances over the handrail here and there, appeared again.\n\n'He's there jest the same: he don't seem to be in no hurry at all,' said\nJoey.\n\n'What is he doing?' inquired Picotee solicitously.\n\n'O, only looking at his watch sometimes, and humming tunes, and playing\nrat-a-tat-tat upon the table.  He says he don't mind waiting a bit.'\n\n'You must have made a mistake in the message,' said Ethelberta, within.\n\n'Well, no.  I am correct as a jineral thing.  I jest said perhaps you\nwould be engaged all the evening, and perhaps you wouldn't.'\n\nWhen Joey had again retired, and they had waited another ten minutes,\nEthelberta said, 'Picotee, do you go down and speak a few words to him.  I\nam determined he shall not see me.  You know him a little; you remember\nwhen he came to the Lodge?'\n\n'What must I say to him?'\n\nEthelberta paused before replying.  'Try to find out if--if he is much\ngrieved at not seeing me, and say--give him to understand that I will\nforgive him, Picotee.'\n\n'Very well.'\n\n'And Picotee--'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'If he says he must see me--I think I will get up.  But only if he says\nmust: you remember that.'\n\nPicotee departed on her errand.  She paused on the staircase trembling,\nand thinking between the thrills how very far would have been the conduct\nof her poor slighted self from proud recalcitration had Mr. Julian's\ngentle request been addressed to her instead of to Ethelberta; and she\nwent some way in the painful discovery of how much more tantalizing it\nwas to watch an envied situation that was held by another than to be out\nof sight of it altogether.  Here was Christopher waiting to bestow love,\nand Ethelberta not going down to receive it: a commodity unequalled in\nvalue by any other in the whole wide world was being wantonly wasted\nwithin that very house.  If she could only have stood to-night as the\nbeloved Ethelberta, and not as the despised Picotee, how different would\nbe this going down!  Thus she went along, red and pale moving in her\ncheeks as in the Northern Lights at their strongest time.\n\nMeanwhile Christopher had sat waiting minute by minute till the evening\nshades grew browner, and the fire sank low.  Joey, finding himself not\nparticularly wanted upon the premises after the second inquiry, had\nslipped out to witness a nigger performance round the corner, and Julian\nbegan to think himself forgotten by all the household.  The perception\ngradually cooled his emotions and enabled him to hold his hat quite\nsteadily.\n\nWhen Picotee gently thrust open the door she was surprised to find the\nroom in darkness, the fire gone completely out, and the form of\nChristopher only visible by a faint patch of light, which, coming from a\nlamp on the opposite side of the way and falling upon the mirror, was\nthrown as a pale nebulosity upon his shoulder.  Picotee was too flurried\nat sight of the familiar outline to know what to do, and, instead of\ngoing or calling for a light, she mechanically advanced into the room.\nChristopher did not turn or move in any way, and then she perceived that\nhe had begun to doze in his chair.\n\nInstantly, with the precipitancy of the timorous, she said, 'Mr. Julian!'\nand touched him on the shoulder--murmuring then, 'O, I beg pardon, I--I\nwill get a light.'\n\nChristopher's consciousness returned, and his first act, before rising,\nwas to exclaim, in a confused manner, 'Ah--you have come--thank you,\nBerta!' then impulsively to seize her hand, as it hung beside his head,\nand kiss it passionately.  He stood up, still holding her fingers.\n\nPicotee gasped out something, but was completely deprived of articulate\nutterance, and in another moment being unable to control herself at this\nsort of first meeting with the man she had gone through fire and water to\nbe near, and more particularly by the overpowering kiss upon her hand,\nburst into hysterical sobbing.  Julian, in his inability to imagine so\nmuch emotion--or at least the exhibition of it--in Ethelberta, gently\ndrew Picotee further forward by the hand he held, and utilized the\nsolitary spot of light from the mirror by making it fall upon her face.\nRecognizing the childish features, he at once, with an exclamation,\ndropped her hand and started back.  Being in point of fact a complete\nbundle of nerves and nothing else, his thin figure shook like a\nharp-string in painful excitement at a contretemps which would scarcely\nhave quickened the pulse of an ordinary man.\n\nPoor Picotee, feeling herself in the wind of a civil d---, started back\nalso, sobbing more than ever.  It was a little too much that the first\nresult of his discovery of the mistake should be absolute repulse.  She\nleant against the mantelpiece, when Julian, much bewildered at her\nsuperfluity of emotion, assisted her to a seat in sheer humanity.  But\nChristopher was by no means pleased when he again thought round the\ncircle of circumstances.\n\n'How could you allow such an absurd thing to happen?' he said, in a\nstern, though trembling voice.  'You knew I might mistake.  I had no idea\nyou were in the house: I thought you were miles away, at Sandbourne or\nsomewhere!  But I see: it is just done for a joke, ha-ha!'\n\nThis made Picotee rather worse still.  'O-O-O-O!' she replied, in the\ntone of pouring from a bottle.  'What shall I do-o-o-o!  It is--not done\nfor a--joke at all-l-l-l!'\n\n'Not done for a joke?  Then never mind--don't cry, Picotee.  What was it\ndone for, I wonder?'\n\nPicotee, mistaking the purport of his inquiry, imagined him to refer to\nher arrival in the house, quite forgetting, in her guilty sense of having\ncome on his account, that he would have no right or thought of asking\nquestions about a natural visit to a sister, and she said: 'When you--went\naway from--Sandbourne, I--I--I didn't know what to do, and then I ran\naway, and came here, and then Ethelberta--was angry with me; but she says\nI may stay; but she doesn't know that I know you, and how we used to meet\nalong the road every morning--and I am afraid to tell her--O, what shall\nI do!'\n\n'Never mind it,' said Christopher, a sense of the true state of her case\ndawning upon him with unpleasant distinctness, and bringing some\nirritation at his awkward position; though it was impossible to be long\nangry with a girl who had not reasoning foresight enough to perceive that\ndoubtful pleasure and certain pain must be the result of any meeting\nwhilst hearts were at cross purposes in this way.\n\n'Where is your sister?' he asked.\n\n'She wouldn't come down, unless she MUST,' said Picotee.  'You have vexed\nher, and she has a headache besides that, and I came instead.'\n\n'So that I mightn't be wasted altogether.  Well, it's a strange business\nbetween the three of us.  I have heard of one-sided love, and reciprocal\nlove, and all sorts, but this is my first experience of a concatenated\naffection.  You follow me, I follow Ethelberta, and she follows--Heaven\nknows who!'\n\n'Mr. Ladywell!' said the mortified Picotee.\n\n'Good God, if I didn't think so!' said Christopher, feeling to the soles\nof his feet like a man in a legitimate drama.\n\n'No, no, no!' said the frightened girl hastily.  'I am not sure it is Mr.\nLadywell.  That's altogether a mistake of mine!'\n\n'Ah, yes, you want to screen her,' said Christopher, with a withering\nsmile at the spot of light.  'Very sisterly, doubtless; but none of that\nwill do for me.  I am too old a bird by far--by very far!  Now are you\nsure she does not love Ladywell?'\n\n'Yes!'\n\n'Well, perhaps I blame her wrongly.  She may have some little good\nfaith--a woman has, here and there.  How do you know she does not love\nLadywell?'\n\n'Because she would prefer Mr. Neigh to him, any day.'\n\n'Ha!'\n\n'No, no--you mistake, sir--she doesn't love either at all--Ethelberta\ndoesn't.  I meant that she cannot love Mr. Ladywell because he stands\nlower in her opinion than Mr. Neigh, and him she certainly does not care\nfor.  She only loves you.  If you only knew how true she is you wouldn't\nbe so suspicious about her, and I wish I had not come here--yes, I do!'\n\n'I cannot tell what to think of it.  Perhaps I don't know much of this\nworld after all, or what girls will do.  But you don't excuse her to me,\nPicotee.'\n\nBefore this time Picotee had been simulating haste in getting a light;\nbut in her dread of appearing visibly to Christopher's eyes, and showing\nhim the precise condition of her tear-stained face, she put it off moment\nafter moment, and stirred the fire, in hope that the faint illumination\nthus produced would be sufficient to save her from the charge of stupid\nconduct as entertainer.\n\nFluttering about on the horns of this dilemma, she was greatly relieved\nwhen Christopher, who read her difficulty, and the general painfulness of\nthe situation, said that since Ethelberta was really suffering from a\nheadache he would not wish to disturb her till to-morrow, and went off\ndownstairs and into the street without further ceremony.\n\nMeanwhile other things had happened upstairs.  No sooner had Picotee left\nher sister's room, than Ethelberta thought it would after all have been\nmuch better if she had gone down herself to speak to this admirably\npersistent lover.  Was she not drifting somewhat into the character of\ncoquette, even if her ground of offence--a word of Christopher's about\nsomebody else's mean parentage, which was spoken in utter forgetfulness\nof her own position, but had wounded her to the quick nevertheless--was\nto some extent a tenable one?  She knew what facilities in suffering\nChristopher always showed; how a touch to other people was a blow to him,\na blow to them his deep wound, although he took such pains to look stolid\nand unconcerned under those inflictions, and tried to smile as if he had\nno feelings whatever.  It would be more generous to go down to him, and\nbe kind.  She jumped up with that alertness which comes so spontaneously\nat those sweet bright times when desire and duty run hand in hand.\n\nShe hastily set her hair and dress in order--not such matchless order as\nshe could have wished them to be in, but time was precious--and descended\nthe stairs.  When on the point of pushing open the drawing-room door,\nwhich wanted about an inch of being closed, she was astounded to discover\nthat the room was in total darkness, and still more to hear Picotee\nsobbing inside.  To retreat again was the only action she was capable of\nat that moment: the clash between this picture and the anticipated scene\nof Picotee and Christopher sitting in frigid propriety at opposite sides\nof a well-lighted room was too great.  She flitted upstairs again with\nthe least possible rustle, and flung herself down on the couch as before,\npanting with excitement at the new knowledge that had come to her.\n\nThere was only one possible construction to be put upon this in\nEthelberta's rapid mind, and that approximated to the true one.  She had\nknown for some time that Picotee once had a lover, or something akin to\nit, and that he had disappointed her in a way which had never been told.\nNo stranger, save in the capacity of the one beloved, could wound a woman\nsufficiently to make her weep, and it followed that Christopher was the\nman of Picotee's choice.  As Ethelberta recalled the conversations,\nconclusion after conclusion came like pulsations in an aching head.  'O,\nhow did it happen, and who is to blame?' she exclaimed.  'I cannot doubt\nhis faith, and I cannot doubt hers; and yet how can I keep doubting them\nboth?'\n\nIt was characteristic of Ethelberta's jealous motherly guard over her\nyoung sisters that, amid these contending inquiries, her foremost feeling\nwas less one of hope for her own love than of championship for Picotee's.\n\n\n\n\n23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)\n\n\nPicotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.\n\n'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not begin\nto speak.\n\n'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.\n\n'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief.  'He has\nforgotten me--that's what it is!'\n\n'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.\n\nEthelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escape\nher, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same.  'I\nsuppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only a\nheadache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meeting\nat Anglebury?'\n\n'Yes, he remembered me.'\n\n'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'\n\n'I had seen him at Sandbourne.  I don't think I told you.'\n\n'At whose house did you meet him?'\n\n'At nobody's.  I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in great\ndistress.\n\nEthelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming with\ncompassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom she\ncontinually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of her\nstrong ones.  But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: the\nintended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar of\ninterests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans.  'Picotee, I would\nrather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said.  'You need not leave\nme any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'\n\nPicotee left the room.  But Ethelberta had not long been alone and in\ndarkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without a\ncandle.\n\n'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'\n\n'O yes,' said Ethelberta.  'Has everything gone right with the house this\nevening?'\n\n'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is\ngoing to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'\n\n'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants.  Some day she\nwill let drop something or other before father can stop her.'\n\n'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her.  She was kneeling in front of\nthe couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and\nshaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple,\nand breathed out upon her cheek:\n\n'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you\njust now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't\nbe able to to-morrow.  Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a\nlong time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he\nwas your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because I\nthought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't\nmean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to\ndo it, either; it would come to me!  And I didn't know he belonged to you\nwhen I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I\nwouldn't!'\n\n'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered\nEthelberta.\n\n'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it.  We used to meet on the\nroad, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round.\nBut it is worse than that, Berta!  That was why I couldn't bide in\nSandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted\nto see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--'\n\n'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.\n\n'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and\nthat caused--a confusion!'\n\n'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee\nsoothingly.  'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a\nmanner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it.  Perhaps\nit may end happily for you and for him.  Who knows?'\n\n'Then don't you want him, Berta?'\n\n'O no; not at all!'\n\n'What--and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting\nup.\n\n'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you.  He is not the sort of\nman I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry,\nwhich I have no intention of doing at present.  He calls to see me\nbecause we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than\nthat he takes an interest in me.  It is not at all likely that I shall\nsee him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are\npresent.'\n\n'That will be very nice.'\n\n'Yes.  And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave the\nroom when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continue\nthis to-morrow?  I can tell you better then what to do.'\n\nWhen Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over upon\nher breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationship\nwith tears.  This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun--not\nlasting more than a minute and a half altogether--and she got up in an\nunconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasm\nof this event--the unhappy love of Picotee--by mentioning something of it\nto another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a\nwoman full of sympathy.\n\nEthelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o'clock.  The\nroom was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, being\nbusy about her own affairs upstairs.  The French family had gone to the\ntheatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night.\nEthelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, and\nin a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.\n\nThe round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as she\ncame, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time.  'Such a\nplace as this London is, to be sure!' she exclaimed, turning on the gas\ntill it whistled.  'I wish I was down in Wessex again.  Lord-a-mercy,\nBerta, I didn't see it was you!  I thought it was Cornelia.  As I was\nsaying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all the\nweek, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing 'em, and\nnever shall, because I don't understand that line, I thought I would go\nout and see father, you know.'\n\n'Is he very well?' said Ethelberta.\n\n'Yes; and he is going to call round when he has time.  Well, as I was a-\ncoming home-along I thought, \"Please the Lord I'll have some chippols for\nsupper just for a plain trate,\" and I went round to the late\ngreengrocer's for 'em; and do you know they sweared me down that they\nhadn't got such things as chippols in the shop, and had never heard of\n'em in their lives.  At last I said, \"Why, how can you tell me such a\nbrazen story?--here they be, heaps of 'em!\"  It made me so vexed that I\ncame away there and then, and wouldn't have one--no, not at a gift.'\n\n'They call them young onions here,' said Ethelberta quietly; 'you must\nalways remember that.  But, Gwendoline, I wanted--'\n\nEthelberta felt sick at heart, and stopped.  She had come down on the\nwings of an impulse to unfold her trouble about Picotee to her\nhard-headed and much older sister, less for advice than to get some heart-\nease by interchange of words; but alas, she could proceed no further.  The\nwretched homeliness of Gwendoline's mind seemed at this particular\njuncture to be absolutely intolerable, and Ethelberta was suddenly\nconvinced that to involve Gwendoline in any such discussion would simply\nbe increasing her own burden, and adding worse confusion to her sister's\nalready confused existence.\n\n'What were you going to say?' said the honest and unsuspecting\nGwendoline.\n\n'I will put it off until to-morrow,' Ethelberta murmured gloomily; 'I\nhave a bad headache, and I am afraid I cannot stay with you after all.'\n\nAs she ascended the stairs, Ethelberta ached with an added pain not much\nless than the primary one which had brought her down.  It was that old\nsense of disloyalty to her class and kin by feeling as she felt now which\ncaused the pain, and there was no escaping it.  Gwendoline would have\ngone to the ends of the earth for her: she could not confide a thought to\nGwendoline!\n\n'If she only knew of that unworthy feeling of mine, how she would\ngrieve,' said Ethelberta miserably.\n\nShe next went up to the servants' bedrooms, and to where Cornelia slept.\nOn Ethelberta's entrance Cornelia looked up from a perfect wonder of a\nbonnet, which she held in her hands.  At sight of Ethelberta the look of\nkeen interest in her work changed to one of gaiety.\n\n'I am so glad--I was just coming down,' Cornelia said in a whisper;\nwhenever they spoke as relations in this house it was in whispers.  'Now,\nhow do you think this bonnet will do?  May I come down, and see how I\nlook in your big glass?'  She clapped the bonnet upon her head.  'Won't\nit do beautiful for Sunday afternoon?'\n\n'It looks very attractive, as far as I can see by this light,' said\nEthelberta.  'But is it not rather too brilliant in colour--blue and red\ntogether, like that?  Remember, as I often tell you, people in town never\nwear such bright contrasts as they do in the country.'\n\n'O Berta!' said Cornelia, in a deprecating tone; 'don't object.  If\nthere's one thing I do glory in it is a nice flare-up about my head o'\nSundays--of course if the family's not in mourning, I mean.'  But, seeing\nthat Ethelberta did not smile, she turned the subject, and added\ndocilely: 'Did you come up for me to do anything?  I will put off\nfinishing my bonnet if I am wanted.'\n\n'I was going to talk to you about family matters, and Picotee,' said\nEthelberta.  'But, as you are busy, and I have a headache, I will put it\noff till to-morrow.'\n\nCornelia seemed decidedly relieved, for family matters were far from\nattractive at the best of times; and Ethelberta went down to the next\nfloor, and entered her mother's room.\n\nAfter a short conversation Mrs. Chickerel said, 'You say you want to ask\nme something?'\n\n'Yes: but nothing of importance, mother.  I was thinking about Picotee,\nand what would be the best thing to do--'\n\n'Ah, well you may, Berta.  I am so uneasy about this life you have led us\ninto, and full of fear that your plans may break down; if they do,\nwhatever will become of us?  I know you are doing your best; but I cannot\nhelp thinking that the coming to London and living with you was wild and\nrash, and not well weighed afore we set about it.  You should have\ncounted the cost first, and not advised it.  If you break down, and we\nare all discovered living so queer and unnatural, right in the heart of\nthe aristocracy, we should be the laughing-stock of the country: it would\nkill me, and ruin us all--utterly ruin us!'\n\n'O mother, I know all that so well!' exclaimed Ethelberta, tears of\nanguish filling her eyes.  'Don't depress me more than I depress myself\nby such fears, or you will bring about the very thing we strive to avoid!\nMy only chance is in keeping in good spirits, and why don't you try to\nhelp me a little by taking a brighter view of things?'\n\n'I know I ought to, my dear girl, but I cannot.  I do so wish that I\nnever let you tempt me and the children away from the Lodge.  I cannot\nthink why I allowed myself to be so persuaded--cannot think!  You are not\nto blame--it is I.  I am much older than you, and ought to have known\nbetter than listen to such a scheme.  This undertaking seems too big--the\nbills frighten me.  I have never been used to such wild adventure, and I\ncan't sleep at night for fear that your tale-telling will go wrong, and\nwe shall all be exposed and shamed.  A story-teller seems such an\nimpossible castle-in-the-air sort of a trade for getting a living by--I\ncannot think how ever you came to dream of such an unheard-of thing.'\n\n'But it is not a castle in the air, and it does get a living!' said\nEthelberta, her lip quivering.\n\n'Well, yes, while it is just a new thing; but I am afraid it cannot\nlast--that's what I fear.  People will find you out as one of a family of\nservants, and their pride will be stung at having gone to hear your\nromancing; then they will go no more, and what will happen to us and the\npoor little ones?'\n\n'We must all scatter again!'\n\n'If we could get as we were once, I wouldn't mind that.  But we shall\nhave lost our character as simple country folk who know nothing, which\nare the only class of poor people that squires will give any help to; and\nI much doubt if the girls would get places after such a discovery--it\nwould be so awkward and unheard-of.'\n\n'Well, all I can say is,' replied Ethelberta, 'that I will do my best.\nAll that I have is theirs and yours as much as mine, and these\narrangements are simply on their account.  I don't like my relations\nbeing my servants; but if they did not work for me, they would have to\nwork for others, and my service is much lighter and pleasanter than any\nother lady's would be for them, so the advantages are worth the risk.  If\nI stood alone, I would go and hide my head in any hole, and care no more\nabout the world and its ways.  I wish I was well out of it, and at the\nbottom of a quiet grave--anybody might have the world for me then!  But\ndon't let me disturb you longer; it is getting late.'\n\nEthelberta then wished her mother good-night, and went away.  To attempt\nconfidences on such an ethereal matter as love was now absurd; her hermit\nspirit was doomed to dwell apart as usual; and she applied herself to\ndeep thinking without aid and alone.  Not only was there Picotee's misery\nto disperse; it became imperative to consider how best to overpass a more\ngeneral catastrophe.\n\n\n\n\n24. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)--THE BRITISH MUSEUM\n\n\nMrs. Chickerel, in deploring the risks of their present speculative mode\nof life, was far from imagining that signs of the foul future so much\ndreaded were actually apparent to Ethelberta at the time the lament was\nspoken.  Hence the daughter's uncommon sensitiveness to prophecy.  It was\nas if a dead-reckoner poring over his chart should predict breakers ahead\nto one who already beheld them.\n\nThat her story-telling would prove so attractive Ethelberta had not\nventured to expect for a moment; that having once proved attractive there\nshould be any falling-off until such time had elapsed as would enable her\nto harvest some solid fruit was equally a surprise.  Future expectations\nare often based without hesitation upon one happy accident, when the only\nsimilar condition remaining to subsequent sets of circumstances is that\nthe same person forms the centre of them.  Her situation was so peculiar,\nand so unlike that of most public people, that there was hardly an\nargument explaining this triumphant opening which could be used in\nforecasting the close; unless, indeed, more strategy were employed in the\nconduct of the campaign than Ethelberta seemed to show at present.\n\nThere was no denying that she commanded less attention than at first: the\naudience had lessened, and, judging by appearances, might soon be\nexpected to be decidedly thin.  In excessive lowness of spirit,\nEthelberta translated these signs with the bias that a lingering echo of\nher mother's dismal words naturally induced, reading them as conclusive\nevidence that her adventure had been chimerical in its birth.  Yet it was\nvery far less conclusive than she supposed.  Public interest might\nwithout doubt have been renewed after a due interval, some of the falling-\noff being only an accident of the season.  Her novelties had been hailed\nwith pleasure, the rather that their freshness tickled than that their\nintrinsic merit was appreciated; and, like many inexperienced dispensers\nof a unique charm, Ethelberta, by bestowing too liberally and too\nfrequently, was destroying the very element upon which its popularity\ndepended.  Her entertainment had been good in its conception, and partly\ngood in its execution; yet her success had but little to do with that\ngoodness.  Indeed, what might be called its badness in a histrionic\nsense--that is, her look sometimes of being out of place, the sight of a\nbeautiful woman on a platform, revealing tender airs of domesticity which\nshowed her to belong by character to a quiet drawing-room--had been\nprimarily an attractive feature.  But alas, custom was staling this by\nimproving her up to the mark of an utter impersonator, thereby\neradicating the pretty abashments of a poetess out of her sphere; and\nmore than one well-wisher who observed Ethelberta from afar feared that\nit might some day come to be said of her that she had\n\n   'Enfeoffed herself to popularity:\n   That, being daily swallowed by men's eyes,\n   They surfeited with honey, and began\n   To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little\n   More than a little is by much too much.'\n\nBut this in its extremity was not quite yet.\n\nWe discover her one day, a little after this time, sitting before a table\nstrewed with accounts and bills from different tradesmen of the\nneighbourhood, which she examined with a pale face, collecting their\ntotals on a blank sheet.  Picotee came into the room, but Ethelberta took\nno notice whatever of her.  The younger sister, who subsisted on scraps\nof notice and favour, like a dependent animal, even if these were only an\noccasional glance of the eye, could not help saying at last, 'Berta, how\nsilent you are.  I don't think you know I am in the room.'\n\n'I did not observe you,' said Ethelberta.  'I am very much engaged: these\nbills have to be paid.'\n\n'What, and cannot we pay them?' said Picotee, in vague alarm.\n\n'O yes, I can pay them.  The question is, how long shall I be able to do\nit?'\n\n'That is sad; and we are going on so nicely, too.  It is not true that\nyou have really decided to leave off story-telling now the people don't\ncrowd to hear it as they did?'\n\n'I think I shall leave off.'\n\n'And begin again next year?'\n\n'That is very doubtful.'\n\n'I'll tell you what you might do,' said Picotee, her face kindling with a\nsense of great originality.  'You might travel about to country towns and\ntell your story splendidly.'\n\n'A man in my position might perhaps do it with impunity; but I could not\nwithout losing ground in other domains.  A woman may drive to Mayfair\nfrom her house in Exonbury Crescent, and speak from a platform there, and\nbe supposed to do it as an original way of amusing herself; but when it\ncomes to starring in the provinces she establishes herself as a woman of\na different breed and habit.  I wish I were a man!  I would give up this\nhouse, advertise it to be let furnished, and sally forth with confidence.\nBut I am driven to think of other ways to manage than that.'\n\nPicotee fell into a conjectural look, but could not guess.\n\n'The way of marriage,' said Ethelberta.  'Otherwise perhaps the poetess\nmay live to become what Dryden called himself when he got old and poor--a\nrent-charge on Providence. . . . .  Yes, I must try that way,' she\ncontinued, with a sarcasm towards people out of hearing.  I must buy a\n\"Peerage\" for one thing, and a \"Baronetage,\" and a \"House of Commons,\"\nand a \"Landed Gentry,\" and learn what people are about me.  'I must go to\nDoctors' Commons and read up wills of the parents of any likely gudgeons\nI may know.  I must get a Herald to invent an escutcheon of my family,\nand throw a genealogical tree into the bargain in consideration of my\ntaking a few second-hand heirlooms of a pawnbroking friend of his.  I\nmust get up sham ancestors, and find out some notorious name to start my\npedigree from.  It does not matter what his character was; either villain\nor martyr will do, provided that he lived five hundred years ago.  It\nwould be considered far more creditable to make good my descent from\nSatan in the age when he went to and fro on the earth than from a\nministering angel under Victoria.'\n\n'But, Berta, you are not going to marry any stranger who may turn up?'\nsaid Picotee, who had creeping sensations of dread when Ethelberta talked\nlike this.\n\n'I had no such intention.  But, having once put my hand to the plough,\nhow shall I turn back?'\n\n'You might marry Mr. Ladywell,' said Picotee, who preferred to look at\nthings in the concrete.\n\n'Yes, marry him villainously; in cold blood, without a moment to prepare\nhimself.'\n\n'Ah, you won't!'\n\n'I am not so sure about that.  I have brought mother and the children to\ntown against her judgment and against my father's; they gave way to my\nopinion as to one who from superior education has larger knowledge of the\nworld than they.  I must prove my promises, even if Heaven should fall\nupon me for it, or what a miserable future will theirs be!  We must not\nbe poor in London.  Poverty in the country is a sadness, but poverty in\ntown is a horror.  There is something not without grandeur in the thought\nof starvation on an open mountain or in a wide wood, and your bones lying\nthere to bleach in the pure sun and rain; but a back garret in a rookery,\nand the other starvers in the room insisting on keeping the window\nshut--anything to deliver us from that!'\n\n'How gloomy you can be, Berta!  It will never be so dreadful.  Why, I can\ntake in plain sewing, and you can do translations, and mother can knit\nstockings, and so on.  How much longer will this house be yours?'\n\n'Two years.  If I keep it longer than that I shall have to pay rent at\nthe rate of three hundred a year.  The Petherwin estate provides me with\nit till then, which will be the end of Lady Petherwin's term.'\n\n'I see it; and you ought to marry before the house is gone, if you mean\nto marry high,' murmured Picotee, in an inadequate voice, as one\nconfronted by a world so tragic that any hope of her assisting therein\nwas out of the question.\n\nIt was not long after this exposition of the family affairs that\nChristopher called upon them; but Picotee was not present, having gone to\nthink of superhuman work on the spur of Ethelberta's awakening talk.\nThere was something new in the way in which Ethelberta received the\nannouncement of his name; passion had to do with it, so had\ncircumspection; the latter most, for the first time since their reunion.\n\n'I am going to leave this part of England,' said Christopher, after a few\ngentle preliminaries.  'I was one of the applicants for the post of\nassistant-organist at Melchester Cathedral when it became vacant, and I\nfind I am likely to be chosen, through the interest of one of my father's\nfriends.'\n\n'I congratulate you.'\n\n'No, Ethelberta, it is not worth that.  I did not originally mean to\nfollow this course at all; but events seemed to point to it in the\nabsence of a better.'\n\n'I too am compelled to follow a course I did not originally mean to\ntake.'  After saying no more for a few moments, she added, in a tone of\nsudden openness, a richer tincture creeping up her cheek, 'I want to put\na question to you boldly--not exactly a question--a thought.  Have you\nconsidered whether the relations between us which have lately prevailed\nare--are the best for you--and for me?'\n\n'I know what you mean,' said Christopher, hastily anticipating all that\nshe might be going to say; 'and I am glad you have given me the\nopportunity of speaking upon that subject.  It has been very good and\nconsiderate in you to allow me to share your society so frequently as you\nhave done since I have been in town, and to think of you as an object to\nexist for and strive for.  But I ought to have remembered that, since you\nhave nobody at your side to look after your interests, it behoved me to\nbe doubly careful.  In short, Ethelberta, I am not in a position to\nmarry, nor can I discern when I shall be, and I feel it would be an\ninjustice to ask you to be bound in any way to one lower and less\ntalented than you.  You cannot, from what you say, think it desirable\nthat the engagement should continue.  I have no right to ask you to be my\nbetrothed, without having a near prospect of making you my wife.  I don't\nmind saying this straight out--I have no fear that you will doubt my\nlove; thank Heaven, you know what that is well enough!  However, as\nthings are, I wish you to know that I cannot conscientiously put in a\nclaim upon your attention.'\n\nA second meaning was written in Christopher's look, though he scarcely\nuttered it.  A woman so delicately poised upon the social globe could not\nin honour be asked to wait for a lover who was unable to set bounds to\nthe waiting period.  Yet he had privily dreamed of an approach to that\nposition--an unreserved, ideally perfect declaration from Ethelberta that\ntime and practical issues were nothing to her; that she would stand as\nfast without material hopes as with them; that love was to be an end with\nher henceforth, having utterly ceased to be a means.  Therefore this\nsurreptitious hope of his, founded on no reasonable expectation, was like\na guilty thing surprised when Ethelberta answered, with a predominance of\njudgment over passion still greater than before:\n\n'It is unspeakably generous in you to put it all before me so nicely,\nChristopher.  I think infinitely more of you for being so unreserved,\nespecially since I too have been thinking much on the indefiniteness of\nthe days to come.  We are not numbered among the blest few who can afford\nto trifle with the time.  Yet to agree to anything like a positive\nparting will be quite unnecessary.  You did not mean that, did you? for\nit is harsh if you did.'  Ethelberta smiled kindly as she said this, as\nmuch as to say that she was far from really upbraiding him.  'Let it be\nonly that we will see each other less.  We will bear one another in mind\nas deeply attached friends if not as definite lovers, and keep up\nfriendly remembrances of a sort which, come what may, will never have to\nbe ended by any painful process termed breaking off.  Different persons,\ndifferent natures; and it may be that marriage would not be the most\nfavourable atmosphere for our old affection to prolong itself in.  When\ndo you leave London?'\n\nThe disconnected query seemed to be subjoined to disperse the crude\neffect of what had gone before.\n\n'I hardly know,' murmured Christopher.  'I suppose I shall not call here\nagain.'\n\nWhilst they were silent somebody entered the room softly, and they turned\nto discover Picotee.\n\n'Come here, Picotee,' said Ethelberta.\n\nPicotee came with an abashed bearing to where the other two were\nstanding, and looked down steadfastly.\n\n'Mr. Julian is going away,' she continued, with determined firmness.  'He\nwill not see us again for a long time.'  And Ethelberta added, in a lower\ntone, though still in the unflinching manner of one who had set herself\nto say a thing, and would say it--'He is not to be definitely engaged to\nme any longer.  We are not thinking of marrying, you know, Picotee.  It\nis best that we should not.'\n\n'Perhaps it is,' said Christopher hurriedly, taking up his hat.  'Let me\nnow wish you good-bye; and, of course, you will always know where I am,\nand how to find me.'\n\nIt was a tender time.  He inclined forward that Ethelberta might give him\nher hand, which she did; whereupon their eyes met.  Mastered by an\nimpelling instinct she had not reckoned with, Ethelberta presented her\ncheek.  Christopher kissed it faintly.  Tears were in Ethelberta's eyes\nnow, and she was heartfull of many emotions.  Placing her arm round\nPicotee's waist, who had never lifted her eyes from the carpet, she drew\nthe slight girl forward, and whispered quickly to him--'Kiss her, too.\nShe is my sister, and I am yours.'\n\nIt seemed all right and natural to their respective moods and the tone of\nthe moment that free old Wessex manners should prevail, and Christopher\nstooped and dropped upon Picotee's cheek likewise such a farewell kiss as\nhe had imprinted upon Ethelberta's.\n\n'Care for us both equally!' said Ethelberta.\n\n'I will,' said Christopher, scarcely knowing what he said.\n\nWhen he had reached the door of the room, he looked back and saw the two\nsisters standing as he had left them, and equally tearful.  Ethelberta at\nonce said, in a last futile struggle against letting him go altogether,\nand with thoughts of her sister's heart:\n\n'I think that Picotee might correspond with Faith; don't you, Mr.\nJulian?'\n\n'My sister would much like to do so,' said he.\n\n'And you would like it too, would you not, Picotee?'\n\n'O yes,' she replied.  'And I can tell them all about you.'\n\n'Then it shall be so, if Miss Julian will.'  She spoke in a settled way,\nas if something intended had been set in train; and Christopher having\npromised for his sister, he went out of the house with a parting smile of\nmisgiving.\n\nHe could scarcely believe as he walked along that those late words, yet\nhanging in his ears, had really been spoken, that still visible scene\nenacted.  He could not even recollect for a minute or two how the final\nresult had been produced.  Did he himself first enter upon the\nlong-looming theme, or did she?  Christopher had been so nervously alive\nto the urgency of setting before the hard-striving woman a clear outline\nof himself, his surroundings and his fears, that he fancied the main\nimpulse to this consummation had been his, notwithstanding that a faint\ninitiative had come from Ethelberta.  All had completed itself quickly,\nunceremoniously, and easily.  Ethelberta had let him go a second time;\nyet on foregoing mornings and evenings, when contemplating the necessity\nof some such explanation, it had seemed that nothing less than Atlantean\nforce could overpower their mutual gravitation towards each other.\n\nOn his reaching home Faith was not in the house, and, in the restless\nstate which demands something to talk at, the musician went off to find\nher, well knowing her haunt at this time of the day.  He entered the\nspiked and gilded gateway of the Museum hard by, turned to the wing\ndevoted to sculptures, and descended to a particular basement room, which\nwas lined with bas-reliefs from Nineveh.  The place was cool, silent, and\nsoothing; it was empty, save of a little figure in black, that was\nstanding with its face to the wall in an innermost nook.  This spot was\nFaith's own temple; here, among these deserted antiques, Faith was always\nhappy.  Christopher looked on at her for some time before she noticed\nhim, and dimly perceived how vastly differed her homely suit and\nunstudied contour--painfully unstudied to fastidious eyes--from\nEthelberta's well-arranged draperies, even from Picotee's clever bits of\nribbon, by which she made herself look pretty out of nothing at all.  Yet\nthis negligence was his sister's essence; without it she would have been\na spoilt product.  She had no outer world, and her rusty black was as\nappropriate to Faith's unseen courses as were Ethelberta's correct lights\nand shades to her more prominent career.\n\n'Look, Kit,' said Faith, as soon as she knew who was approaching.  'This\nis a thing I never learnt before; this person is really Sennacherib,\nsitting on his throne; and these with fluted beards and hair like plough-\nfurrows, and fingers with no bones in them, are his warriors--really\ncarved at the time, you know.  Only just think that this is not imagined\nof Assyria, but done in Assyrian times by Assyrian hands.  Don't you feel\nas if you were actually in Nineveh; that as we now walk between these\nslabs, so walked Ninevites between them once?'\n\n'Yes. . . .  Faith, it is all over.  Ethelberta and I have parted.'\n\n'Indeed.  And so my plan is to think of verses in the Bible about\nSennacherib and his doings, which resemble these; this verse, for\ninstance, I remember: \"Now in the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah did\nSennacherib, King of Assyria, come up against all the fenced cities of\nJudah and took them.  And Hezekiah, King of Judah, sent to the King of\nAssyria to Lachish,\" and so on.  Well, there it actually is, you see.\nThere's Sennacherib, and there's Lachish.  Is it not glorious to think\nthat this is a picture done at the time of those very events?'\n\n'Yes.  We did not quarrel this time, Ethelberta and I.  If I may so put\nit, it is worse than quarrelling.  We felt it was no use going on any\nlonger, and so--Come, Faith, hear what I say, or else tell me that you\nwon't hear, and that I may as well save my breath!'\n\n'Yes, I will really listen,' she said, fluttering her eyelids in her\nconcern at having been so abstracted, and excluding Sennacherib there and\nthen from Christopher's affairs by the first settlement of her features\nto a present-day aspect, and her eyes upon his face.  'You said you had\nseen Ethelberta.  Yes, and what did she say?'\n\n'Was there ever anybody so provoking!  Why, I have just told you!'\n\n'Yes, yes; I remember now.  You have parted.  The subject is too large\nfor me to know all at once what I think of it, and you must give me time,\nKit.  Speaking of Ethelberta reminds me of what I have done.  I just\nlooked into the Academy this morning--I thought I would surprise you by\ntelling you about it.  And what do you think I saw?  Ethelberta--in the\npicture painted by Mr. Ladywell.'\n\n'It is never hung?' said he, feeling that they were at one as to a topic\nat last.\n\n'Yes.  And the subject is an Elizabethan knight parting from a lady of\nthe same period--the words explaining the picture being--\n\n   \"Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,\n   And like enough thou know'st thy estimate.\"\n\nThe lady is Ethelberta, to the shade of a hair--her living face; and the\nknight is--'\n\n'Not Ladywell?'\n\n'I think so; I am not sure.'\n\n'No wonder I am dismissed!  And yet she hates him.  Well, come along,\nFaith.  Women allow strange liberties in these days.'\n\n\n\n\n25. THE ROYAL ACADEMY--THE FARNFIELD ESTATE\n\n\nEthelberta was a firm believer in the kindly effects of artistic\neducation upon the masses.  She held that defilement of mind often arose\nfrom ignorance of eye; and her philanthropy being, by the simple force of\nher situation, of that sort which lingers in the neighbourhood of home,\nshe concentrated her efforts in this kind upon Sol and Dan.  Accordingly,\nthe Academy exhibition having now just opened, she ordered the brothers\nto appear in their best clothes at the entrance to Burlington House just\nafter noontide on the Saturday of the first week, this being the only day\nand hour at which they could attend without 'losing a half' and therefore\nit was necessary to put up with the inconvenience of arriving at a\ncrowded and enervating time.\n\nWhen Ethelberta was set down in the quadrangle she perceived the faithful\npair, big as the Zamzummims of old time, standing like sentinels in the\nparticular corner that she had named to them: for Sol and Dan would as\nsoon have attempted petty larceny as broken faith with their admired lady-\nsister Ethelberta.  They welcomed her with a painfully lavish exhibition\nof large new gloves, and chests covered with broad triangular areas of\npadded blue silk, occupying the position that the shirt-front had\noccupied in earlier days, and supposed to be lineally descended from the\ntie of a neckerchief.\n\nThe dress of their sister for to-day was exactly that of a respectable\nworkman's relative who had no particular ambition in the matter of\nfashion--a black stuff gown, a plain bonnet to match.  A veil she wore\nfor obvious reasons: her face was getting well known in London, and it\nhad already appeared at the private view in an uncovered state, when it\nwas scrutinized more than the paintings around.  But now homely and\nuseful labour was her purpose.\n\nCatalogue in hand she took the two brothers through the galleries,\nteaching them in whispers as they walked, and occasionally correcting\nthem--first, for too reverential a bearing towards the well-dressed\ncrowd, among whom they persisted in walking with their hats in their\nhands and with the contrite bearing of meek people in church; and,\nsecondly, for a tendency which they too often showed towards straying\nfrom the contemplation of the pictures as art to indulge in curious\nspeculations on the intrinsic nature of the delineated subject, the\ngilding of the frames, the construction of the skylights overhead, or\nadmiration for the bracelets, lockets, and lofty eloquence of persons\naround them.\n\n'Now,' said Ethelberta, in a warning whisper, 'we are coming near the\npicture which was partly painted from myself.  And, Dan, when you see it,\ndon't you exclaim \"Hullo!\" or \"That's Berta to a T,\" or anything at all.\nIt would not matter were it not dangerous for me to be noticed here to-\nday.  I see several people who would recognize me on the least\nprovocation.'\n\n'Not a word,' said Dan.  'Don't you be afeard about that.  I feel that I\nbaint upon my own ground to-day; and wouldn't do anything to cause an\nupset, drown me if I would.  Would you, Sol?'\n\nIn this temper they all pressed forward, and Ethelberta could not but be\ngratified at the reception of Ladywell's picture, though it was accorded\nby critics not very profound.  It was an operation of some minutes to get\nexactly opposite, and when side by side the three stood there they\noverheard the immediate reason of the pressure.  'Farewell, thou art too\ndear for my possessing' had been lengthily discoursed upon that morning\nby the Coryphaeus of popular opinion; and the spirit having once been\npoured out sons and daughters could prophesy.  But, in truth, Ladywell's\nwork, if not emphatically original, was happily centred on a middle\nstratum of taste, and apart from this adventitious help commanded, and\ndeserved to command, a wide area of appreciation.\n\nWhile they were standing here in the very heart of the throng\nEthelberta's ears were arrested by two male voices behind her, whose\nwords formed a novel contrast to those of the other speakers around.\n\n'Some men, you see, with extravagant expectations of themselves, coolly\nget them gratified, while others hope rationally and are disappointed.\nLuck, that's what it is.  And the more easily a man takes life the more\npersistently does luck follow him.'\n\n'Of course; because, if he's industrious he does not want luck's\nassistance.  Natural laws will help him instead.'\n\n'Well, if it is true that Ladywell has painted a good picture he has done\nit by an exhaustive process.  He has painted every possible bad one till\nnothing more of that sort is left for him.  You know what lady's face\nserved as the original to this, I suppose?'\n\n'Mrs. Petherwin's, I hear.'\n\n'Yes, Mrs. Alfred Neigh that's to be.'\n\n'What, that elusive fellow caught at last?'\n\n'So it appears; but she herself is hardly so well secured as yet, it\nseems, though he takes the uncertainty as coolly as possible.  I knew\nnothing about it till he introduced the subject as we were standing here\non Monday, and said, in an off-hand way, \"I mean to marry that lady.\"  I\nasked him how.  \"Easily,\" he said; \"I will have her if there are a\nhundred at her heels.\"  You will understand that this was quite in\nconfidence.'\n\n'Of course, of course.'  Then there was a slight laugh, and the\ncompanions proceeded to other gossip.\n\nEthelberta, calm and compressed in manner, sidled along to extricate\nherself, not daring to turn round, and Dan and Sol followed, till they\nwere all clear of the spot.  The brothers, who had heard the words\nequally well with Ethelberta, made no remark to her upon them, assuming\nthat they referred to some peculiar system of courtship adopted in high\nlife, with which they had rightly no concern.\n\nEthelberta ostensibly continued her business of tutoring the young\nworkmen just as before, though every emotion in her had been put on the\nalert by this discovery.  She had known that Neigh admired her; yet his\npresumption in uttering such a remark as he was reported to have uttered,\nconfidentially or otherwise, nearly took away her breath.  Perhaps it was\nnot altogether disagreeable to have her breath so taken away.\n\n'I mean to marry that lady.'  She whispered the words to herself twenty\ntimes in the course of the afternoon.  Sol and Dan were left considerably\nlonger to their private perceptions of the false and true in art than\nthey had been earlier in the day.\n\nWhen she reached home Ethelberta was still far removed in her\nreflections; and it was noticed afterwards that about this time in her\ncareer her openness of manner entirely deserted her.  She mostly was\nsilent as to her thoughts, and she wore an air of unusual stillness.  It\nwas the silence and stillness of a starry sky, where all is force and\nmotion.  This deep undecipherable habit sometimes suggested, though it\ndid not reveal, Ethelberta's busy brain to her sisters, and they said to\none another, 'I cannot think what's coming to Berta: she is not so nice\nas she used to be.'\n\nThe evening under notice was passed desultorily enough after the\ndiscovery of Neigh's self-assured statement.  Among other things that she\ndid after dark, while still musingly examining the probabilities of the\nreport turning out true, was to wander to the large attic where the\nchildren slept, a frequent habit of hers at night, to learn if they were\nsnug and comfortable.  They were talking now from bed to bed, the person\nunder discussion being herself.  Herself seemed everywhere to-day.\n\n'I know that she is a fairy,' Myrtle was insisting, 'because she must be,\nto have such pretty things in her house, and wear silk dresses such as\nmother and we and Picotee haven't got, and have money to give us whenever\nwe want it.'\n\n'Emmeline says perhaps she knows the fairy's godmother, and is not a\nfairy herself, because Berta is too tall for a real fairy.'\n\n'She must be one; for when there was a notch burnt in the hem of my\npretty blue frock she said it should be gone in the morning if I would go\nto bed and not cry; and in the morning it was gone, and all nice and\nstraight as new.'\n\nEthelberta was recalling to mind how she had sat up and repaired the\ndamage alluded to by cutting off half an inch of the skirt all round and\nhemming it anew, when the breathing of the children became regular, and\nthey fell asleep.  Here were bright little minds ready for a training,\nwhich without money and influence she could never give them.  The wisdom\nwhich knowledge brings, and the power which wisdom may bring, she had\nalways assumed would be theirs in her dreams for their social elevation.\nBy what means were these things to be ensured to them if her skill in\nbread-winning should fail her?  Would not a well-contrived marriage be of\nservice?  She covered and tucked in one more closely, lifted another upon\nthe pillow and straightened the soft limbs to an easy position; then sat\ndown by the window and looked out at the flashing stars.  Thoughts of\nNeigh's audacious statement returned again upon Ethelberta.  He had said\nthat he meant to marry her.  Of what standing was the man who had uttered\nsuch an intention respecting one to whom a politic marriage had become\nalmost a necessity of existence?\n\nShe had often heard Neigh speak indefinitely of some estate--'my little\nplace' he had called it--which he had purchased no very long time ago.\nAll she knew was that its name was Farnfield, that it lay thirty or forty\nmiles out of London in a south-westerly direction, a railway station in\nthe district bearing the same name, so that there was probably a village\nor small town adjoining.  Whether the dignity of this landed property was\nthat of domain, farmstead, allotment, or garden-plot, Ethelberta had not\nthe slightest conception.  She was almost certain that Neigh never lived\nthere, but that might signify nothing.  The exact size and value of the\nestate would, she mused, be curious, interesting, and almost necessary\ninformation to her who must become mistress of it were she to allow him\nto carry out his singularly cool and crude, if tender, intention.\nMoreover, its importance would afford a very good random sample of his\nworldly substance throughout, from which alone, after all, could the true\nspirit and worth and seriousness of his words be apprehended.\nImpecuniosity may revel in unqualified vows and brim over with\nconfessions as blithely as a bird of May, but such careless pleasures are\nnot for the solvent, whose very dreams are negotiable, and are expressed\nwith due care accordingly.\n\nThat Neigh had used the words she had far more than prima-facie\nappearances for believing.  Neigh's own conduct towards her, though\npeculiar rather than devoted, found in these words alone a reasonable\nkey.  But, supposing the estate to be such a verbal hallucination as, for\ninstance, hers had been at Arrowthorne, when her poor, unprogressive,\nhopelessly impracticable Christopher came there to visit her, and was so\nwonderfully undeceived about her social standing: what a fiasco, and what\na cuckoo-cry would his utterances about marriage seem then.  Christopher\nhad often told her of his expectations from 'Arrowthorne Lodge,' and of\nthe blunders that had resulted in consequence.  Had not Ethelberta's\naffection for Christopher partaken less of lover's passion than of old-\nestablished tutelary tenderness she might have been reminded by this\nreflection of the transcendent fidelity he had shown under that trial--as\nsevere a trial, considering the abnormal, almost morbid, development of\nthe passion for position in present-day society, as can be prepared for\nmen who move in the ordinary, unheroic channels of life.\n\nBy the following evening the consideration of this possibility, that\nNeigh's position might furnish scope for such a disillusive discovery by\nherself as hers had afforded to Christopher, decoyed Ethelberta into a\ncurious little scheme.  She was piqued into a practical undertaking by\nthe man who could say to his friend with such sangfroid, 'I mean to marry\nthat lady.'\n\nMerely telling Picotee to prepare for an evening excursion, of which she\nwas to talk to no one, Ethelberta made ready likewise, and they left the\nhouse in a cab about half-an-hour before sunset, and drove to the\nWaterloo Station.\n\nWith the decline and departure of the sun a fog gathered itself out of\nthe low meadow-land that bordered the railway as they went along towards\nthe west, stretching over it like a placid lake, till at the end of the\njourney, the mist became generally pervasive, though not dense.  Avoiding\nobservation as much as they conveniently could, the two sisters walked\nfrom the long wooden shed which formed the station here, into the rheumy\nair and along the road to the open country.  Picotee occasionally\nquestioned Ethelberta on the object of the strange journey: she did not\nquestion closely, being satisfied that in such sure hands as Ethelberta's\nshe was safe.\n\nDeeming it unwise to make any inquiry just yet beyond the simple one of\nthe way to Farnfield, Ethelberta led her companion along a newly-fenced\nroad across a heath.  In due time they came to an ornamental gate with a\ncurved sweep of wall on each side, signifying the entrance to some\nenclosed property or other.  Ethelberta, being quite free from any\ndigested plan for encouraging Neigh in his resolve to wive, was startled\nto find a hope in her that this very respectable beginning before their\neyes was the entrance to the Farnfield property: that she hoped it was\nnevertheless unquestionable.  Just beyond lay a turnpike-house, where was\ndimly visible a woman in the act of putting up a shutter to the front\nwindow.\n\nCompelled by this time to come to special questions, Ethelberta\ninstructed Picotee to ask of this person if the place they had just\npassed was the entrance to Farnfield Park.  The woman replied that it\nwas.  Directly she had gone indoors Ethelberta turned back again towards\nthe park gate.\n\n'What have we come for, Berta?' said Picotee, as she turned also.\n\n'I'll tell you some day,' replied her sister.\n\nIt was now much past eight o'clock, and, from the nature of the evening,\ndusk.  The last stopping up-train was about ten, so that half-an-hour\ncould well be afforded for looking round.  Ethelberta went to the gate,\nwhich was found to be fastened by a chain and padlock.\n\n'Ah, the London season,' she murmured.\n\nThere was a wicket at the side, and they entered.  An avenue of young fir\ntrees three or four feet in height extended from the gate into the mist,\nand down this they walked.  The drive was not in very good order, and the\ntwo women were frequently obliged to walk on the grass to avoid the rough\nstones in the carriage-way.  The double line of young firs now abruptly\nterminated, and the road swept lower, bending to the right, immediately\nin front being a large lake, calm and silent as a second sky.  They could\nhear from somewhere on the margin the purl of a weir, and around were\nclumps of shrubs, araucarias and deodars being the commonest.\n\nEthelberta could not resist being charmed with the repose of the spot,\nand hastened on with curiosity to reach the other side of the pool,\nwhere, by every law of manorial topography, the mansion would be situate.\nThe fog concealed all objects beyond a distance of twenty yards or\nthereabouts, but it was nearly full moon, and though the orb was hidden,\na pale diffused light enabled them to see objects in the foreground.\nReaching the other side of the lake the drive enlarged itself most\nlegitimately to a large oval, as for a sweep before a door, a pile of\nrockwork standing in the midst.\n\nBut where should have been the front door of a mansion was simply a rough\nrail fence, about four feet high.  They drew near and looked over.\n\nIn the enclosure, and on the site of the imaginary house, was an\nextraordinary group.  It consisted of numerous horses in the last stage\nof decrepitude, the animals being such mere skeletons that at first\nEthelberta hardly recognized them to be horses at all; they seemed rather\nto be specimens of some attenuated heraldic animal, scarcely thick enough\nthrough the body to throw a shadow: or enlarged castings of the fire-dog\nof past times.  These poor creatures were endeavouring to make a meal\nfrom herbage so trodden and thin that scarcely a wholesome blade\nremained; the little that there was consisted of the sourer sorts common\non such sandy soils, mingled with tufts of heather and sprouting ferns.\n\n'Why have we come here, dear Berta?' said Picotee, shuddering.\n\n'I hardly know,' said Ethelberta.\n\nAdjoining this enclosure was another and smaller one, formed of high\nboarding, within which appeared to be some sheds and outhouses.\nEthelberta looked through the crevices, and saw that in the midst of the\nyard stood trunks of trees as if they were growing, with branches also\nextending, but these were sawn off at the points where they began to be\nflexible, no twigs or boughs remaining.  Each torso was not unlike a huge\nhat-stand, and suspended to the pegs and prongs were lumps of some\nsubstance which at first she did not recognize; they proved to be a\nchronological sequel to the previous scene.  Horses' skulls, ribs,\nquarters, legs, and other joints were hung thereon, the whole forming a\nhuge open-air larder emitting not too sweet a smell.\n\nBut what Stygian sound was this?  There had arisen at the moment upon the\nmute and sleepy air a varied howling from a hundred tongues.  It had\nburst from a spot close at hand--a low wooden building by a stream which\nfed the lake--and reverberated for miles.  No further explanation was\nrequired.\n\n'We are close to a kennel of hounds,' said Ethelberta, as Picotee held\ntightly to her arm.  'They cannot get out, so you need not fear.  They\nhave a horrid way of suddenly beginning thus at different hours of the\nnight, for no apparent reason: though perhaps they hear us.  These poor\nhorses are waiting to be killed for their food.'\n\nThe experience altogether, from its intense melancholy, was very\ndepressing, almost appalling to the two lone young women, and they\nquickly retraced their footsteps.  The pleasant lake, the purl of the\nweir, the rudimentary lawns, shrubberies, and avenue, had changed their\ncharacter quite.  Ethelberta fancied at that moment that she could not\nhave married Neigh, even had she loved him, so horrid did his belongings\nappear to be.  But for many other reasons she had been gradually feeling\nwithin this hour that she would not go out of her way at a beck from a\nman whose interest was so unimpassioned.\n\nThinking no more of him as a possible husband she ceased to be afraid to\nmake inquiries about the peculiarities of his possessions.  In the high-\nroad they came on a local man, resting from wheeling a wheelbarrow, and\nEthelberta asked him, with the air of a countrywoman, who owned the\nestate across the road.\n\n'The man owning that is one of the name of Neigh,' said the native,\nwiping his face.  ''Tis a family that have made a very large fortune by\nthe knacker business and tanning, though they be only sleeping partners\nin it now, and live like lords.  Mr. Neigh was going to pull down the old\nhuts here, and improve the place and build a mansion--in short, he went\nso far as to have the grounds planted, and the roads marked out, and the\nfish-pond made, and the place christened Farnfield Park; but he did no\nmore.  \"I shall never have a wife,\" he said, \"so why should I want a\nhouse to put her in?\"  He's a terrible hater of women, I hear,\nparticularly the lower class.'\n\n'Indeed!'\n\n'Yes, and since then he has let half the land to the Honourable Mr.\nMountclere, a brother of Lord Mountclere's.  Mr. Mountclere wanted the\nspot for a kennel, and as the land is too poor and sandy for cropping,\nMr. Neigh let him have it.  'Tis his hounds that you hear howling.'\n\nThey passed on.  'Berta, why did we come down here?' said Picotee.\n\n'To see the nakedness of the land.  It was a whim only, and as it will\nend in nothing, it is not worth while for me to make further\nexplanation.'\n\nIt was with a curious sense of renunciation that Ethelberta went\nhomeward.  Neigh was handsome, grim-natured, rather wicked, and an\nindifferentist; and these attractions interested her as a woman.  But the\nnews of this evening suggested to Ethelberta that herself and Neigh were\ntoo nearly cattle of one colour for a confession on the matter of lineage\nto be well received by him; and without confidence of every sort on the\nnature of her situation, she was determined to contract no union at all.\nThe sympathy of unlikeness might lead the scion of some family, hollow\nand fungous with antiquity, and as yet unmarked by a mesalliance, to be\nwon over by her story; but the antipathy of resemblance would be\nineradicable.\n\n\n\n\n26. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM\n\n\nWhile Ethelberta during the next few days was dismissing that evening\njourney from her consideration, as an incident altogether foreign to the\norganized course of her existence, the hidden fruit thereof was rounding\nto maturity in a species unforeseen.\n\nInferences unassailable as processes, are, nevertheless, to be suspected,\nfrom the almost certain deficiency of particulars on some side or other.\nThe truth in relation to Neigh's supposed frigidity was brought before\nher at the end of the following week, when Dan and Sol had taken Picotee,\nCornelia, and the young children to Kew for the afternoon.\n\nEarly that morning, hours before it was necessary, there had been such a\nchatter of preparation in the house as was seldom heard there.  Sunday\nhats and bonnets had been retrimmed with such cunning that it would have\ntaken a milliner's apprentice at least to discover that any thread in\nthem was not quite new.  There was an anxious peep through the blind at\nthe sky at daybreak by Georgina and Myrtle, and the perplexity of these\nrural children was great at the weather-signs of the town, where\natmospheric effects had nothing to do with clouds, and fair days and foul\ncame apparently quite by chance.  Punctually at the hour appointed two\nfriendly human shadows descended across the kitchen window, followed by\nSol and Dan, much to the relief of the children's apprehensions that they\nmight forget the day.\n\nThe brothers were by this time acquiring something of the airs and\nmanners of London workmen; they were less spontaneous and more\ncomparative; less genial, but smarter; in obedience to the usual law by\nwhich the emotion that takes the form of humour in country workmen\nbecomes transmuted to irony among the same order in town.  But the fixed\nand dogged fidelity to one another under apparent coolness, by which this\nfamily was distinguished, remained unshaken in these members as in all\nthe rest, leading them to select the children as companions in their\nholiday in preference to casual acquaintance.  At last they were ready,\nand departed, and Ethelberta, after chatting with her mother awhile,\nproceeded to her personal duties.\n\nThe house was very silent that day, Gwendoline and Joey being the only\nones left below stairs.  Ethelberta was wishing that she had thrown off\nher state and gone to Kew to have an hour of childhood over again in a\nromp with the others, when she was startled by the announcement of a male\nvisitor--none other than Mr. Neigh.\n\nEthelberta's attitude on receipt of this information sufficiently\nexpressed a revived sense that the incidence of Mr. Neigh on her path\nmight have a meaning after all.  Neigh had certainly said he was going to\nmarry her, and now here he was come to her house--just as if he meant to\ndo it forthwith.  She had mentally discarded him; yet she felt a shock\nwhich was scarcely painful, and a dread which was almost exhilarating.\nHer flying visit to Farnfield she thought little of at this moment.  From\nthe fact that the mind prefers imaginings to recapitulation, conjecture\nto history, Ethelberta had dwelt more upon Neigh's possible plans and\nanticipations than upon the incidents of her evening journey; and the\nformer assumed a more distinct shape in her mind's eye than anything on\nthe visible side of the curtain.\n\nNeigh was perhaps not quite so placidly nonchalant as in ordinary; still,\nhe was by far the most trying visitor that Ethelberta had lately faced,\nand she could not get above the stage--not a very high one for the\nmistress of a house--of feeling her personality to be inconveniently in\nthe way of his eyes.  He had somewhat the bearing of a man who was going\nto do without any fuss what gushing people would call a philanthropic\naction.\n\n'I have been intending to write a line to you,' said Neigh; 'but I felt\nthat I could not be sure of writing my meaning in a way which might\nplease you.  I am not bright at a letter--never was.  The question I mean\nis one that I hope you will be disposed to answer favourably, even though\nI may show the awkwardness of a fellow-person who has never put such a\nquestion before.  Will you give me a word of encouragement--just a hope\nthat I may not be unacceptable as a husband to you?  Your talents are\nvery great; and of course I know that I have nothing at all in that way.\nStill people are happy together sometimes in spite of such things.  Will\nyou say \"Yes,\" and settle it now?'\n\n'I was not expecting you had come upon such an errand as this,' said she,\nlooking up a little, but mostly looking down.  'I cannot say what you\nwish, Mr. Neigh.\n\n'Perhaps I have been too sudden and presumptuous.  Yes, I know I have\nbeen that.  However, directly I saw you I felt that nobody ever came so\nnear my idea of what is desirable in a lady, and it occurred to me that\nonly one obstacle should stand in the way of the natural results, which\nobstacle would be your refusal.  In common kindness consider.  I daresay\nI am judged to be a man of inattentive habits--I know that's what you\nthink of me; but under your influence I should be very different; so pray\ndo not let your dislike to little matters influence you.'\n\n'I would not indeed.  But believe me there can be no discussion of\nmarriage between us,' said Ethelberta decisively.\n\n'If that's the case I may as well say no more.  To burden you with my\nregrets would be out of place, I suppose,' said Neigh, looking calmly out\nof the window.\n\n'Apart from personal feeling, there are considerations which would\nprevent what you contemplated,' she murmured.  'My affairs are too\nlengthy, intricate, and unpleasant for me to explain to anybody at\npresent.  And that would be a necessary first step.'\n\n'Not at all.  I cannot think that preliminary to be necessary at all.  I\nwould put my lawyer in communication with yours, and we would leave the\nrest to them: I believe that is the proper way.  You could say anything\nin confidence to your family-man; and you could inquire through him\nanything you might wish to know about my--about me.  All you would need\nto say to myself are just the two little words--\"I will,\" in the church\nhere at the end of the Crescent.'\n\n'I am sorry to pain you, Mr. Neigh--so sorry,' said Ethelberta.  'But I\ncannot say them.'  She was rather distressed that, despite her\ndiscouraging words, he still went on with his purpose, as if he imagined\nwhat she so distinctly said to be no bar, but rather a stimulant, usual\nunder the circumstances.\n\n'It does not matter about paining me,' said Neigh.  'Don't take that into\nconsideration at all.  But I did not expect you to leave me so entirely\nwithout help--to refuse me absolutely as far as words go--after what you\ndid.  If it had not been for that I should never have ventured to call.  I\nmight otherwise have supposed your interest to be fixed in another\nquarter; but your acting in that manner encouraged me to think you could\nlisten to a word.'\n\n'What do you allude to?' said Ethelberta.  'How have I acted?'\n\nNeigh appeared reluctant to go any further; but the allusion soon became\nsufficiently clear.  'I wish my little place at Farnfield had been\nworthier of you,' he said brusquely.  'However, that's a matter of time\nonly.  It is useless to build a house there yet.  I wish I had known that\nyou would be looking over it at that time of the evening.  A single word,\nwhen we were talking about it the other day, that you were going to be in\nthe neighbourhood, would have been sufficient.  Nothing could have given\nme so much delight as to have driven you round.'\n\nHe knew that she had been to Farnfield: that knowledge was what had\ninspired him to call upon her to-day!  Ethelberta breathed a sort of\nexclamation, not right out, but stealthily, like a parson's damn.  Her\nface did not change, since a face must be said not to change while it\npreserves the same pleasant lines in the mobile parts as before; but\nanybody who has preserved his pleasant lines under the half-minute's peer\nof the invidious camera, and found what a wizened, starched kind of thing\nthey stiffen to towards the end of the time, will understand the tendency\nof Ethelberta's lovely features now.\n\n'Yes; I walked round,' said Ethelberta faintly.\n\nNeigh was decidedly master of the position at last; but he spoke as if he\ndid not value that.  His knowledge had furnished him with grounds for\ncalling upon her, and he hastened to undeceive her from supposing that he\ncould think ill of any motive of hers which gave him those desirable\ngrounds.\n\n'I supposed you, by that, to give some little thought to me\noccasionally,' he resumed, in the same slow and orderly tone.  'How could\nI help thinking so?  It was your doing that which encouraged me.  Now,\nwas it not natural--I put it to you?'\n\nEthelberta was almost exasperated at perceiving the awful extent to which\nshe had compromised herself with this man by her impulsive visit.  Lightly\nand philosophically as he seemed to take it--as a thing, in short, which\nevery woman would do by nature unless hindered by difficulties--it was no\ntrifle to her as long as he was ignorant of her justification; and this\nshe determined that he should know at once, at all hazards.\n\n'It was through you in the first place that I did look into your\ngrounds!' she said excitedly.  'It was your presumption that caused me to\ngo there.  I should not have thought of such a thing else.  If you had\nnot said what you did say I never should have thought of you or Farnfield\neither--Farnfield might have been in Kamtschatka for all I cared.'\n\n'I hope sincerely that I never said anything to disturb you?'\n\n'Yes, you did--not to me, but to somebody,' said Ethelberta, with her\neyes over-full of retained tears.\n\n'What have I said to somebody that can be in the least objectionable to\nyou?' inquired Neigh, with much concern.\n\n'You said--you said, you meant to marry me--just as if I had no voice in\nthe matter!  And that annoyed me, and made me go there out of curiosity.'\n\nNeigh changed colour a little.  'Well, I did say it: I own that I said\nit,' he replied at last.  Probably he knew enough of her nature not to\nfeel long disconcerted by her disclosure, however she might have become\npossessed of the information.  The explanation was certainly a great\nexcuse to her curiosity; but if Ethelberta had tried she could not have\ngiven him a better ground for making light of her objections to his suit.\n'I felt that I must marry you, that we were predestined to marry ages\nago, and I feel it still!' he continued, with listless ardour.  'You seem\nto regret your interest in Farnfield; but to me it is a charm, and has\nbeen ever since I heard of it.'\n\n'If you only knew all!' she said helplessly, showing, without perceiving\nit, an unnecessary humility in the remark, since there was no more reason\njust then that she should go into details about her life than that he\nshould about his.  But melancholy and mistaken thoughts of herself as a\ncounterfeit had brought her to this.\n\n'I do not wish to know more,' said Neigh.\n\n'And would you marry any woman off-hand, without being thoroughly\nacquainted with her circumstances?' she said, looking at him curiously,\nand with a little admiration, for his unconscionably phlegmatic treatment\nof her motives in going to Farnfield had a not unbecoming daring about it\nin Ethelberta's eye.\n\n'I would marry a woman off-hand when that woman is you.  I would make you\nmine this moment did I dare; or, to speak with absolute accuracy, within\ntwenty-four hours.  Do assent to it, dear Mrs. Petherwin, and let me be\nsure of you for ever.  I'll drive to Doctors' Commons this minute, and\nmeet you to-morrow morning at nine in the church just below.  It is a\nsimple impulse, but I would adhere to it in the coolest moment.  Shall it\nbe arranged in that way, instead of our waiting through the ordinary\nroutine of preparation?  I am not a youth now, but I can see the bliss of\nsuch an act as that, and the contemptible nature of methodical\nproceedings beside it!'\n\nHe had taken her hand.  Ethelberta gave it a subtle movement backwards to\nimply that he was not to retain the prize, and said, 'One whose inner\nlife is almost unknown to you, and whom you have scarcely seen except at\nother people's houses!'\n\n'We know each other far better than we may think at first,' said Neigh.\n'We are not people to love in a hurry, and I have not done so in this\ncase.  As for worldly circumstances, the most important items in a\nmarriage contract are the persons themselves, and, as far as I am\nconcerned, if I get a lady fair and wise I care for nothing further.  I\nknow you are beautiful, for all London owns it; I know you are talented,\nfor I have read your poetry and heard your romances; and I know you are\npolitic and discreet--'\n\n'For I have examined your property,' said she, with a weak smile.\n\nNeigh bowed.  'And what more can I wish to know?  Come, shall it be?'\n\n'Certainly not to-morrow.'\n\n'I would be entirely in your hands in that matter.  I will not urge you\nto be precipitate--I could not expect you to be ready yet.  My suddenness\nperhaps offended you; but, having thought deeply of this bright\npossibility, I was apt to forget the forbearance that one ought to show\nat first in mentioning it.  If I have done wrong forgive me.'\n\n'I will think of that,' said Ethelberta, with a cooler manner.  'But\nseriously, all these words are nothing to the purpose.  I must remark\nthat I prize your friendship, but it is not for me to marry now.  You\nhave convinced me of your goodness of heart and freedom from unworthy\nsuspicions; let that be enough.  The best way in which I in my turn can\nconvince you of my goodness of heart is by asking you to see me in\nprivate no more.'\n\n'And do you refuse to think of me as ---.  Why do you treat me like that,\nafter all?' said Neigh, surprised at this want of harmony with his\nprinciple that one convert to matrimony could always find a second ready-\nmade.\n\n'I cannot explain, I cannot explain,' said she, impatiently.  'I would\nand I would not--explain I mean, not marry.  I don't love anybody, and I\nhave no heart left for beginning.  It is only honest in me to tell you\nthat I am interested in watching another man's career, though that is not\nto the point either, for no close relationship with him is contemplated.\nBut I do not wish to speak of this any more.  Do not press me to it.'\n\n'Certainly I will not,' said Neigh, seeing that she was distressed and\nsorrowful.  'But do consider me and my wishes; I have a right to ask it\nfor it is only asking a continuance of what you have already begun to do.\nTo-morrow I believe I shall have the happiness of seeing you again.'\n\nShe did not say no, and long after the door had closed upon him she\nremained fixed in thought.  'How can he be blamed for his manner,' she\nsaid, 'after knowing what I did!'\n\nEthelberta as she sat felt herself much less a Petherwin than a\nChickerel, much less a poetess richly freighted with fancy than an\nadventuress with a nebulous prospect.  Neigh was one of the few men whose\npresence seemed to attenuate her dignity in some mysterious way to its\nvery least proportions; and that act of espial, which had so quickly and\ninexplicably come to his knowledge, helped his influence still more.  She\nknew little of the nature of the town bachelor; there were opaque depths\nin him which her thoughts had never definitely plumbed.  Notwithstanding\nher exaltation to the atmosphere of the Petherwin family, Ethelberta was\nvery far from having the thoroughbred London woman's knowledge of sets,\ngrades, coteries, cliques, forms, glosses, and niceties, particularly on\nthe masculine side.  Setting the years from her infancy to her first look\ninto town against those linking that epoch with the present, the former\nperiod covered not only the greater time, but contained the mass of her\nmost vivid impressions of life and its ways.  But in recognizing her\nignorance of the ratio between words to women and deeds to women in the\nethical code of the bachelor of the club, she forgot that human nature in\nthe gross differs little with situation, and that a gift which, if the\ngerms were lacking, no amount of training in clubs and coteries could\nsupply, was mother-wit like her own.\n\n\n\n\n27. MRS. BELMAINE'S--CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH\n\n\nNeigh's remark that he believed he should see Ethelberta again the next\nday referred to a contemplated pilgrimage of an unusual sort which had\nbeen arranged for that day by Mrs. Belmaine upon the ground of an\nincidental suggestion of Ethelberta's.  One afternoon in the week\nprevious they had been chatting over tea at the house of the former lady,\nNeigh being present as a casual caller, when the conversation was\ndirected upon Milton by somebody opening a volume of the poet's works\nthat lay on a table near.\n\n   'Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:\n   England hath need of thee--'\n\nsaid Mrs. Belmaine with the degree of flippancy which is considered\ncorrect for immortal verse, the Bible, God, etc., in these days.  And\nEthelberta replied, lit up by a quick remembrance, 'It is a good time to\ntalk of Milton; for I have been much impressed by reading the \"Life;\" and\nI have decided to go and see his tomb.  Could we not all go?  We ought to\nquicken our memories of the great, and of where they lie, by such a visit\noccasionally.'\n\n'We ought,' said Mrs. Belmaine.\n\n'And why shouldn't we?' continued Ethelberta, with interest.\n\n'To Westminster Abbey?' said Mr. Belmaine, a common man of thirty,\nyounger than his wife, who had lately come into the room.\n\n'No; to where he lies comparatively alone--Cripplegate Church.'\n\n'I always thought that Milton was buried in Poet's Corner,' said Mr.\nBelmaine.\n\n'So did I,' said Neigh; 'but I have such an indifferent head for places\nthat my thinking goes for nothing.'\n\n'Well, it would be a pretty thing to do,' said Mrs. Belmaine, 'and\ninstructive to all of us.  If Mrs. Petherwin would like to go, I should.\nWe can take you in the carriage and call round for Mrs. Doncastle on our\nway, and set you both down again coming back.'\n\n'That would be excellent,' said Ethelberta.  'There is nowhere I like\ngoing to so much as the depths of the city.  The absurd narrowness of\nworld-renowned streets is so surprising--so crooked and shady as they are\ntoo, and full of the quaint smells of old cupboards and cellars.  Walking\nthrough one of them reminds me of being at the bottom of some crevasse or\ngorge, the proper surface of the globe being the tops of the houses.'\n\n'You will come to take care of us, John?  And you, Mr. Neigh, would like\nto come?  We will tell Mr. Ladywell that he may join us if he cares to,'\nsaid Mrs. Belmaine.\n\n'O yes,' said her husband quietly; and Neigh said he should like nothing\nbetter, after a faint aspect of apprehension at the remoteness of the\nidea from the daily track of his thoughts.  Mr. Belmaine observing this,\nand mistaking it for an indication that Neigh had been dragged into the\nparty against his will by his over-hasty wife, arranged that Neigh should\ngo independently and meet them there at the hour named if he chose to do\nso, to give him an opportunity of staying away.  Ethelberta also was by\nthis time doubting if she had not been too eager with her proposal.  To\ngo on such a sentimental errand might be thought by her friends to be\nsimply troublesome, their adherence having been given only in the regular\ncourse of complaisance.  She was still comparatively an outsider here,\nher life with Lady Petherwin having been passed chiefly in alternations\nbetween English watering-places and continental towns.  However, it was\ntoo late now to muse on this, and it may be added that from first to last\nEthelberta never discovered from the Belmaines whether her proposal had\nbeen an infliction or a charm, so perfectly were they practised in\nsustaining that complete divorce between thinking and saying which is the\nhall-mark of high civilization.\n\nBut, however she might doubt the Belmaines, she had no doubt as to\nNeigh's true sentiments: the time had come when he, notwithstanding his\nair of being oppressed by almost every lively invention of town and\ncountry for charming griefs to rest, would not be at all oppressed by a\nquiet visit to the purlieus of St Giles's, Cripplegate, since she was the\noriginator, and was going herself.\n\nIt was a bright hope-inspiring afternoon in this mid-May time when the\ncarriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, Mrs. Doncastle, and\nEthelberta, crept along the encumbered streets towards Barbican; till\nturning out of that thoroughfare into Redcross Street they beheld the\nbold shape of the old tower they sought, clothed in every neutral shade,\nstanding clear against the sky, dusky and grim in its upper stage, and\nhoary grey below, where every corner of every stone was completely\nrounded off by the waves of wind and storm.\n\nAll people were busy here: our visitors seemed to be the only idle\npersons the city contained; and there was no dissonance--there never\nis--between antiquity and such beehive industry; for pure industry, in\nfailing to observe its own existence and aspect, partakes of the\nunobtrusive nature of material things.  This intra-mural stir was a\nflywheel transparent by excessive motion, through which Milton and his\nday could be seen as if nothing intervened.  Had there been ostensibly\nharmonious accessories, a crowd of observing people in search of the\npoetical, conscious of the place and the scene, what a discord would have\narisen there!  But everybody passed by Milton's grave except Ethelberta\nand her friends, and for the moment the city's less invidious conduct\nappeared to her more respectful as a practice than her own.\n\nBut she was brought out of this rumination by the halt at the church\ndoor, and completely reminded of the present by finding the church open,\nand Neigh--the, till yesterday, unimpassioned Neigh--waiting in the\nvestibule to receive them, just as if he lived there.  Ladywell had not\narrived.  It was a long time before Ethelberta could get back to Milton\nagain, for Neigh was continuing to impend over her future more and more\nvisibly.  The objects along the journey had distracted her mind from him;\nbut the moment now was as a direct renewal and prolongation of the\ndeclaration-time yesterday, and as if in furtherance of the conclusion of\nthe episode.\n\nThey all alighted and went in, the coachman being told to take the\ncarriage to a quiet nook further on, and return in half-an-hour.  Mrs.\nBelmaine and her carriage some years before had accidentally got jammed\ncrosswise in Cheapside through the clumsiness of the man in turning up a\nside street, blocking that great artery of the civilized world for the\nspace of a minute and a half, when they were pounced upon by half-a-dozen\npolicemen and forced to back ignominiously up a little slit between the\nhouses where they did not mean to go, amid the shouts of the hindered\ndrivers; and it was her nervous recollection of that event which caused\nMrs. Belmaine to be so precise in her directions now.\n\nBy the time that they were grouped around the tomb the visit had assumed\na much more solemn complexion than any one among them had anticipated.\nAshamed of the influence that she discovered Neigh to be exercising over\nher, and opposing it steadily, Ethelberta drew from her pocket a small\nedition of Milton, and proposed that she should read a few lines from\n'Paradise Lost.'  The responsibility of producing a successful afternoon\nwas upon her shoulders; she was, moreover, the only one present who could\nproperly manage blank verse, and this was sufficient to justify the\nproposal.\n\nShe stood with her head against the marble slab just below the bust, and\nbegan a selected piece, Neigh standing a few yards off on her right\nlooking into his hat in order to listen accurately, Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine\nand Mrs. Doncastle seating themselves in a pew directly facing the\nmonument.  The ripe warm colours of afternoon came in upon them from the\nwest, upon the sallow piers and arches, and the infinitely deep brown\npews beneath, the aisle over Ethelberta's head being in misty shade\nthrough which glowed a lurid light from a dark-stained window behind.  The\nsentences fell from her lips in a rhythmical cadence one by one, and she\ncould be fancied a priestess of him before whose image she stood, when\nwith a vivid suggestiveness she delivered here, not many yards from the\ncentral money-mill of the world, yet out from the very tomb of their\nauthor, the passage containing the words:\n\n         'Mammon led them on;\n   Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell\n   From heaven.'\n\nWhen she finished reading Ethelberta left the monument, and then each one\npresent strayed independently about the building, Ethelberta turning to\nthe left along the passage to the south door.  Neigh--from whose usually\napathetic face and eyes there had proceeded a secret smouldering light as\nhe listened and regarded her--followed in the same direction and vanished\nat her heels into the churchyard, whither she had now gone.  Mr. and Mrs.\nBelmaine exchanged glances, and instead of following the pair they went\nwith Mrs. Doncastle into the vestry to inquire of the person in charge\nfor the register of the marriage of Oliver Cromwell, which was solemnized\nhere.  The church was now quite empty, and its stillness was as a vacuum\ninto which an occasional noise from the street overflowed and became\nrarefied away to nothing.\n\nSomething like five minutes had passed when a hansom stopped outside the\ndoor, and Ladywell entered the porch.  He stood still, and, looking\ninquiringly round for a minute or two, sat down in one of the high pews,\nas if under the impression that the others had not yet arrived.\n\nWhile he sat here Neigh reappeared at the south door opposite, and came\nslowly in.  Ladywell, in rising to go to him, saw that Neigh's attention\nwas engrossed by something he held in his hand.  It was his pocket-book,\nand Neigh was looking at a few loose flower-petals which had been placed\nbetween the pages.  When Ladywell came forward Neigh looked up, started,\nand closed the book quickly, so that some of the petals fluttered to the\nground between the two men.  They were striped, red and white, and\nappeared to be leaves of the Harlequin rose.\n\n'Ah! here you are, Ladywell,' he said, recovering himself.  'We had given\nyou up: my aunt said that you would not care to come.  They are all in\nthe vestry.'  How it came to pass that Neigh designated those in the\nvestry as 'all,' when there was one in the churchyard, was a thing that\nhe himself could hardly have explained, so much more had it to do with\ninstinct than with calculation.\n\n'Never mind them--don't interrupt them,' said Ladywell.  'The plain truth\nis that I have been very greatly disturbed in mind; and I could not\nappear earlier by reason of it.  I had some doubt about coming at all.'\n\n'I am sorry to hear that.'\n\n'Neigh--I may as well tell you and have done with it.  I have found that\na lady of my acquaintance has two strings to her bow, or I am very much\nin error.'\n\n'What--Mrs. Petherwin?' said Neigh uneasily.  'But I thought that--that\nfancy was over with you long ago.  Even your acquaintance with her was at\nan end, I thought.'\n\n'In a measure it is at an end.  But let me tell you that what you call a\nfancy has been anything but a fancy with me, to be over like a spring\nshower.  To speak plainly, Neigh, I consider myself badly used by that\nwoman; damn badly used.'\n\n'Badly used?' said Neigh mechanically, and wondering all the time if\nLadywell had been informed that Ethelberta was to be one of the party to-\nday.\n\n'Well, I ought not to talk like that,' said Ladywell, adopting a lighter\ntone.  'All is fair in courtship, I suppose, now as ever.  Indeed, I mean\nto put a good face upon it: if I am beaten, I am.  But it is very\nprovoking, after supposing matters to be going on smoothly, to find out\nthat you are quite mistaken.'\n\n'I told you you were quite mistaken in supposing she cared for you.'\n\n'That is just the point I was not mistaken in,' said Ladywell warmly.\n'She did care for me, and I stood as well with her as any man could stand\nuntil this fellow came, whoever he is.  I sometimes feel so disturbed\nabout it that I have a good mind to call upon her and ask his name.\nWouldn't you, Neigh?  Will you accompany me?'\n\n'I would in a moment, but, but-- I strongly advise you not to go,' said\nNeigh earnestly.  'It would be rash, you know, and rather unmannerly; and\nwould only hurt your feelings.'\n\n'Well, I am always ready to yield to a friend's arguments. . . .  A\nsneaking scamp, that's what he is.  Why does he not show himself?'\n\n'Don't you really know who he is?' said Neigh, in a pronounced and\nexceptional tone, on purpose to give Ladywell a chance of suspecting, for\nthe position was getting awkward.  But Ladywell was blind as Bartimeus in\nthat direction, so well had indifference to Ethelberta's charms been\nfeigned by Neigh until he thought seriously of marrying her.  Yet,\nunfortunately for the interests of calmness, Ladywell was less blind with\nhis outward eye.  In his reflections his glance had lingered again upon\nthe pocket-book which Neigh still held in his hand, and upon the two or\nthree rose-leaves on the floor, until he said idly, superimposing\nhumorousness upon misery, as men in love can:\n\n'Rose-leaves, Neigh?  I thought you did not care for flowers.  What makes\nyou amuse yourself with such sentimental objects as those, only fit for\nwomen, or painters like me?  If I had not observed you with my own eyes I\nshould have said that you were about the last man in the world to care\nfor things of that sort.  Whatever makes you keep rose-leaves in your\npocket-book?'\n\n'The best reason on earth,' said Neigh.  'A woman gave them to me.'\n\n'That proves nothing unless she is a great deal to you,' said Ladywell,\nwith the experienced air of a man who, whatever his inferiority in years\nto Neigh, was far beyond him in knowledge of that sort, by virtue of his\nrecent trials.\n\n'She is a great deal to me.'\n\n'If I did not know you to be such a confirmed misogynist I should say\nthat this is a serious matter.'\n\n'It is serious,' said Neigh quietly.  'The probability is that I shall\nmarry the woman who gave me these.  Anyhow I have asked her the question,\nand she has not altogether said no.'\n\n'I am glad to hear it, Neigh,' said Ladywell heartily.  'I am glad to\nhear that your star is higher than mine.'\n\nBefore Neigh could make further reply Ladywell was attracted by the glow\nof green sunlight reflected through the south door by the grass of the\nchurchyard, now in all its spring freshness and luxuriance.  He bent his\nsteps thither, followed anxiously by Neigh.\n\n'I had no idea there was such a lovely green spot in the city,' Ladywell\ncontinued, passing out.  'Trees too, planted in the manner of an orchard.\nWhat a charming place!'\n\nThe place was truly charming just at that date.  The untainted leaves of\nthe lime and plane trees and the newly-sprung grass had in the sun a\nbrilliancy of beauty that was brought into extraordinary prominence by\nthe sable soil showing here and there, and the charcoaled stems and\ntrunks out of which the leaves budded: they seemed an importation, not a\nproduce, and their delicacy such as would perish in a day.\n\n'What is this round tower?' Ladywell said again, walking towards the iron-\ngrey bastion, partly covered with ivy and Virginia creeper, which stood\nobtruding into the enclosure.\n\n'O, didn't you know that was here?  That's a piece of the old city wall,'\nsaid Neigh, looking furtively around at the same time.  Behind the\nbastion the churchyard ran into a long narrow strip, grassed like the\nother part, but completely hidden from it by the cylinder of ragged\nmasonry.  On rounding this projection, Ladywell beheld within a few feet\nof him a lady whom he knew too well.\n\n'Mrs. Petherwin here!' exclaimed he, proving how ignorant he had been of\nthe composition of the party he was to meet, and accounting at the same\ntime for his laxity in attending it.\n\n'I forgot to tell you,' said Neigh awkwardly, behind him, 'that Mrs.\nPetherwin was to come with us.'\n\nEthelberta's look was somewhat blushful and agitated, as if from some\nlate transaction: she appeared to have been secluding herself there till\nshe should have recovered her equanimity.  However, she came up to him\nand said, 'I did not see you before this moment: we had been thinking you\nwould not come.'\n\nWhile these words were being prettily spoken, Ladywell's face became pale\nas death.  On Ethelberta's bosom were the stem and green calyx of a rose,\nalmost all its flower having disappeared.  It had been a Harlequin rose,\nfor two or three of its striped leaves remained to tell the tale.\n\nShe could not help noticing his fixed gaze, and she said quickly, 'Yes, I\nhave lost my pretty rose: this may as well go now,' and she plucked the\nstem from its fastening in her dress and flung it away.\n\nPoor Ladywell turned round to meet Mr. and Mrs. Belmaine, whose voices\nwere beginning to be heard just within the church door, leaving Neigh and\nEthelberta together.  It was a graceful act of young Ladywell's that, in\nthe midst of his own pain at the strange tale the rose-leaves\nsuggested--Neigh's rivalry, Ethelberta's mutability, his own defeat--he\nwas not regardless of the intense embarrassment which might have been\ncaused had he remained.\n\nThe two were silent at first, and it was evident that Ethelberta's mood\nwas one of anger at something that had gone before.  She turned aside\nfrom him to follow the others, when Neigh spoke in a tone somewhat bitter\nand somewhat stern.\n\n'What--going like that!  After being compromised together, why don't you\nclose with me?  Ladywell knows all: I had already told him that the rose-\nleaves were given me by my intended wife.  We seem to him to be\npractising deceptions all of a piece, and what folly it is to play off\nso!  As to what I did, that I ask your forgiveness for.'\n\nEthelberta looked upon the ground and maintained a compressed lip.  Neigh\nresumed: 'If I showed more feeling than you care for, I insist that it\nwas not more than was natural under the circumstances, if not quite\nproper.  Opinions may differ, but my experience goes to prove that\nconventional squeamishness at such times as these is more talked and\nwritten about than practised.  Plain behaviour must be expected when\nmarriage is the question.  Nevertheless, I do say--and I cannot say\nmore--that I am sincerely sorry to have offended you by exceeding my\nprivileges.  I will never do so again.'\n\n'Don't say privileges.  You have none.'\n\n'I am sorry that I thought otherwise, and that others will think so too.\nLadywell is, at any rate, bent on thinking so. . . .  It might have been\nmade known to him in a gentle way--but God disposes.'\n\n'There is nothing to make known--I don't understand,' said Ethelberta,\ngoing from him.\n\nBy this time Ladywell had walked round the gravel walks with the two\nother ladies and Mr. Belmaine, and they were all turning to come back\nagain.  The young painter had deputed his voice to reply to their\nremarks, but his understanding continued poring upon other things.  When\nhe came up to Ethelberta, his agitation had left him: she too was free\nfrom constraint; while Neigh was some distance off, carefully examining\nnothing in particular in an old fragment of wall.\n\nThe little party was now united again as to its persons; though in spirit\nfar otherwise.  They went through the church in general talk, Ladywell\nsad but serene, and Ethelberta keeping far-removed both from him and from\nNeigh.  She had at this juncture entered upon that Sphinx-like stage of\nexistence in which, contrary to her earlier manner, she signified to no\none of her ways, plans, or sensations, and spoke little on any subject at\nall.  There were occasional smiles now which came only from the face, and\nspeeches from the lips merely.\n\nThe journey home was performed as they had come, Ladywell not accepting\nthe seat in Neigh's cab which was phlegmatically offered him.  Mrs.\nDoncastle's acquaintance with Ethelberta had been slight until this day;\nbut the afternoon's proceeding had much impressed the matron with her\nyounger friend.  Before they parted she said, with the sort of affability\nwhich is meant to signify the beginning of permanent friendship: 'A\nfriend of my husband's, Lord Mountclere, has been anxious for some time\nto meet you.  He is a great admirer of the poems, and more still of the\nstory-telling invention, and your power in it.  He has been present many\ntimes at the Mayfair Hall to hear you.  When will you dine with us to\nmeet him?  I know you will like him.  Will Thursday be convenient?'\n\nEthelberta stood for a moment reflecting, and reflecting hoped that Mrs.\nDoncastle had not noticed her momentary perplexity.  Crises were becoming\nas common with her as blackberries; and she had foreseen this one a long\ntime.  It was not that she was to meet Lord Mountclere, for he was only a\nname and a distant profile to her: it was that her father would\nnecessarily be present at the meeting, in the most anomalous position\nthat human nature could endure.\n\nHowever, having often proved in her disjointed experience that the\nshortest way out of a difficulty lies straight through it, Ethelberta\ndecided to dine at the Doncastles', and, as she murmured that she should\nhave great pleasure in meeting any friend of theirs, set about contriving\nhow the encounter with her dearest relative might be made safe and\nunsuspected.  She bade them adieu blithely; but the thoughts engendered\nby the invitation stood before her as sorrowful and rayless ghosts which\ncould not be laid.  Often at such conjunctures as these, when the\nfutility of her great undertaking was more than usually manifest, did\nEthelberta long like a tired child for the conclusion of the whole\nmatter; when her work should be over, and the evening come; when she\nmight draw her boat upon the shore, and in some thymy nook await eternal\nnight with a placid mind.\n\n\n\n\n28. ETHELBERTA'S--MR. CHICKEREL'S ROOM\n\n\nThe question of Neigh or no Neigh had reached a pitch of insistence which\nno longer permitted of dallying, even by a popular beauty.  His character\nwas becoming defined to Ethelberta as something very differently composed\nfrom that of her first imagining.  She had set him down to be a man whose\nexternal in excitability owed nothing to self-repression, but stood as\nthe natural surface of the mass within.  Neigh's urban torpor, she said,\nmight have been in the first instance produced by art, but, were it thus,\nit had gone so far as to permeate him.  This had been disproved, first\nsurprisingly, by his reported statement; wondrously, in the second place,\nby his call upon her and sudden proposal; thirdly, to a degree simply\nastounding, by what had occurred in the city that day.  For Neigh, before\nthe fervour had subsided which was produced in him by her look and\ngeneral power while reading 'Paradise Lost,' found himself alone with her\nin a nook outside the church, and there had almost demanded her promise\nto be his wife.  She had replied by asking for time, and idly offering\nhim the petals of her rose, that had shed themselves in her hand.  Neigh,\nin taking them, pressed her fingers more warmly than she thought she had\ngiven him warrant for, which offended her.  It was certainly a very\nmomentary affair, and when it was over seemed to surprise himself almost\nas much as it had vexed her; but it had reminded her of one truth which\nshe was in danger of forgetting.  The town gentleman was not half so far\nremoved from Sol and Dan, and the hard-handed order in general, in his\npassions as in his philosophy.  He still continued to be the male of his\nspecies, and when the heart was hot with a dream Pall Mall had much the\nsame aspect as Wessex.\n\nWell, she had not accepted him yet; indeed, for the moment they were in a\npet with one another.  Yet that might soon be cleared off, and then\nrecurred the perpetual question, would the advantage that might accrue to\nher people by her marriage be worth the sacrifice?  One palliative\nfeature must be remembered when we survey the matrimonial ponderings of\nthe poetess and romancer.  What she contemplated was not meanly to\nensnare a husband just to provide incomes for her and her family, but to\nfind some man she might respect, who would maintain her in such a stage\nof comfort as should, by setting her mind free from temporal anxiety,\nenable her to further organize her talent, and provide incomes for them\nherself.  Plenty of saleable originality was left in her as yet, but it\nwas getting crushed under the rubbish of her necessities.\n\nShe was not sure that Neigh would stand the test of her revelations.  It\nwould be possible to lead him to marry her without revealing anything--the\nevents of the last few days had shown her that--yet Ethelberta's honesty\nshrank from the safe course of holding her tongue.  It might be pleasant\nto many a modern gentleman to find himself allied with a lady, none of\nwhose ancestors had ever pandered to a court, lost an army, taken a\nbribe, oppressed a community, or broken a bank; but the added disclosure\nthat, in avoiding these stains, her kindred had worked and continued to\nwork with their hands for bread, might lead such an one to consider that\nthe novelty was dearly purchased.\n\nEthelberta was, upon the whole, dissatisfied with her progress thus far.\nShe had planned many things and fulfilled few.  Had her father been by\nthis time provided for and made independent of the world, as she had\nthought he might be, not only would her course with regard to Neigh be\nquite clear, but the impending awkwardness of dining with her father\nbehind her chair could not have occurred.  True, that was a small matter\nbeside her regret for his own sake that he was still in harness; and a\nmere change of occupation would be but a tribute to a fastidiousness\nwhich he did not himself share.  She had frequently tried to think of a\nvocation for him that would have a more dignified sound, and be less\ndangerously close to her own path: the post of care-taker at some\nprovincial library, country stationer, registrar of births and deaths,\nand many others had been discussed and dismissed in face of the\nunmanageable fact that her father was serenely happy and comfortable as a\nbutler, looking with dread at any hint of change short of perfect\nretirement.  Since, then, she could not offer him this retirement, what\nright had she to interfere with his mode of life at all?  In no other\nsocial groove on earth would he thrive as he throve in his present one,\nto which he had been accustomed from boyhood, and where the remuneration\nwas actually greater than in professions ten times as stately in name.\n\nFor the rest, too, Ethelberta had indulged in hopes, the high education\nof the younger ones being the chief of these darling wishes.  Picotee\nwanted looking to badly enough.  Sol and Dan required no material help;\nthey had quickly obtained good places of work under a Pimlico builder;\nfor though the brothers scarcely showed as yet the light-fingered\ndeftness of London artizans, the want was in a measure compensated by\ntheir painstaking, and employers are far from despising country hands who\nbring with them strength, industry, and a desire to please.  But their\nsister had other lines laid down for them than those of level progress;\nto start them some day as masters instead of men was a long-cherished\nwish of Ethelberta's.\n\nThus she had quite enough machinery in her hands to keep decently going,\neven were she to marry a man who would take a kindly view of her peculiar\nsituation, and afford her opportunities of strengthening her powers for\nher kindred's good.  But what would be the result if, eighteen months\nhence--the date at which her occupation of the house in Exonbury Crescent\ncame to an end--she were still a widow, with no accumulated capital, her\nplatform talents grown homely and stunted through narrow living, and her\ntender vein of poesy completely dispersed by it?  To calmly relinquish\nthe struggle at that point would have been the act of a stoic, but not of\na woman, particularly when she considered the children, the hopes of her\nmother for them, and her own condition--though this was least--under the\nironical cheers which would greet a slip back into the mire.\n\nIt here becomes necessary to turn for a moment to Master Joey Chickerel,\nEthelberta's troublesome page and brother.  The face of this juvenile was\nthat of a Graeco-Roman satyr to the furthest degree of completeness.\nViewed in front, the outer line of his upper lip rose in a double arch\nnearly to his little round nostrils, giving an expression of a jollity so\ndelicious to himself as to compel a perpetual drawing in of his breath.\nDuring half-laughs his lips parted in the middle, and remained closed at\nthe corners, which were small round pits like his nostrils, the same form\nbeing repeated as dimples a little further back upon his cheek.  The\nopening for each eye formed a sparkling crescent, both upper and under\nlid having the convexity upwards.\n\nBut during some few days preceding the dinner-party at the Doncastles'\nall this changed.  The luxuriant curves departed, a compressed lineality\nwas to be observed everywhere, the pupils of his eyes seemed flattened,\nand the carriage of his head was limp and sideways.  This was a feature\nso remarkable and new in him that Picotee noticed it, and was lifted from\nthe melancholy current of her own affairs in contemplating his.\n\n'Well, what's the matter?' said Picotee.\n\n'O--nothing,' said Joey.\n\n'Nothing?  How can you say so?'\n\n'The world's a holler mockery--that's what I say.'\n\n'Yes, so it is, to some; but not to you,' said Picotee, sighing.\n\n'Don't talk argument, Picotee.  I only hope you'll never feel what I feel\nnow.  If it wasn't for my juties here I know what I'd do; I'd 'list,\nthat's what I'd do.  But having my position to fill here as the only\nresponsible man-servant in the house, I can't leave.'\n\n'Has anybody been beating you?'\n\n'Beating!  Do I look like a person who gets beatings?  No, it is a\nmadness,' said Joey, putting his hand upon his chest.  'The case is, I am\nin love.'\n\n'O Joey, a boy no bigger than you are!' said Picotee reprovingly.  Her\npersonal interest in the passion, however, provoked her to inquire, in\nthe next breath, 'Who is it?  Do tell, Joey.'\n\n'No bigger than I!  What hev bigness to do with it?  That's just like\nyour old-fashioned notions.  Bigness is no more wanted in courting\nnowadays than in soldiering or smoking or any other duty of man.  Husbands\nis rare; and a promising courter who means business will fetch his price\nin these times, big or small, I assure ye.  I might have been engaged a\ndozen times over as far as the bigness goes.  You should see what a\nmiserable little fellow my rival is afore you talk like that.  Now you\nknow I've got a rival, perhaps you'll own there must be something in it.'\n\n'Yes, that seems like the real thing.  But who is the young woman?'\n\n'Well, I don't mind telling you, Picotee.  It is Mrs. Doncastle's new\nmaid.  I called to see father last night, and had supper there; and you\nshould have seen how lovely she were--eating sparrowgrass sideways, as if\nshe were born to it.  But, of course, there's a rival--there always is--I\nmight have known that, and I will crush him!'\n\n'But Mrs. Doncastle's new maid--if that was she I caught a glimpse of the\nother day--is ever so much older than you--a dozen years.'\n\n'What's that to a man in love?  Pooh--I wish you would leave me, Picotee;\nI wants to be alone.'\n\nA short time after this Picotee was in the company of Ethelberta, and she\ntook occasion to mention Joey's attachment.  Ethelberta grew exceedingly\nangry directly she heard of it.\n\n'What a fearful nuisance that boy is becoming,' she said.  'Does father\nknow anything of this?'\n\n'I think not,' said Picotee.  'O no, he cannot; he would not allow any\nsuch thing to go on; she is so much older than Joey.'\n\n'I should think he wouldn't allow it!  The fact is I must be more strict\nabout this growing friendliness between you all and the Doncastle\nservants.  There shall be absolutely no intimacy or visiting of any sort.\nWhen father wants to see any of you he must come here, unless there is a\nmost serious reason for your calling upon him.  Some disclosure or\nreference to me otherwise than as your mistress, will certainly be made\nelse, and then I am ruined.  I will speak to father myself about Joey's\nabsurd nonsense this evening.  I am going to see him on another matter.'\nAnd Ethelberta sighed.  'I am to dine there on Thursday,' she added.\n\n'To dine there, Berta?  Well, that is a strange thing!  Why, father will\nbe close to you!'\n\n'Yes,' said Ethelberta quietly.\n\n'How I should like to see you sitting at a grand dinner-table, among\nlordly dishes and shining people, and father about the room unnoticed!\nBerta, I have never seen a dinner-party in my life, and father said that\nI should some day; he promised me long ago.'\n\n'How will he be able to carry out that, my dear child?' said Ethelberta,\ndrawing her sister gently to her side.\n\n'Father says that for an hour and a half the guests are quite fixed in\nthe dining-room, and as unlikely to move as if they were trees planted\nround the table.  Do let me go and see you, Berta,' Picotee added\ncoaxingly.  'I would give anything to see how you look in the midst of\nelegant people talking and laughing, and you my own sister all the time,\nand me looking on like puss-in-the-corner.'\n\nEthelberta could hardly resist the entreaty, in spite of her recent\nresolution.\n\n'We will leave that to be considered when I come home to-night,' she\nsaid.  'I must hear what father says.'\n\nAfter dark the same evening a woman, dressed in plain black and wearing a\nhood, went to the servants' entrance of Mr. Doncastle's house, and\ninquired for Mr. Chickerel.  Ethelberta found him in a room by himself,\nand on entering she closed the door behind her, and unwrapped her face.\n\n'Can you sit with me a few minutes, father?' she said.\n\n'Yes, for a quarter of an hour or so,' said the butler.  'Has anything\nhappened?  I thought it might be Picotee.'\n\n'No.  All's well yet.  But I thought it best to see you upon one or two\nmatters which are harassing me a little just now.  The first is, that\nstupid boy Joey has got entangled in some way with the lady's-maid at\nthis house; a ridiculous affair it must be by all account, but it is too\nserious for me to treat lightly.  She will worm everything out of him,\nand a pretty business it will be then.'\n\n'God bless my soul! why, the woman is old enough to be his mother!  I\nhave never heard a sound of it till now.  What do you propose to do?'\n\n'I have hardly thought: I cannot tell at all.  But we will consider that\nafter I have done.  The next thing is, I am to dine here Thursday--that\nis, to-morrow.'\n\n'You going to dine here, are you?' said her father in surprise.  'Dear\nme, that's news.  We have a dinner-party to-morrow, but I was not aware\nthat you knew our people.'\n\n'I have accepted the invitation,' said Ethelberta.  'But if you think I\nhad better stay away, I will get out of it by some means.  Heavens! what\ndoes that mean--will anybody come in?' she added, rapidly pulling up her\nhood and jumping from the seat as the loud tones of a bell clanged forth\nin startling proximity.\n\n'O no--it is all safe,' said her father.  'It is the area door--nothing\nto do with me.  About the dinner: I don't see why you may not come.  Of\ncourse you will take no notice of me, nor shall I of you.  It is to be\nrather a large party.  Lord What's-his-name is coming, and several good\npeople.'\n\n'Yes; he is coming to meet me, it appears.  But, father,' she said more\nsoftly and slowly, 'how wrong it will be for me to come so close to you,\nand never recognize you!  I don't like it.  I wish you could have given\nup service by this time; it would have been so much less painful for us\nall round.  I thought we might have been able to manage it somehow.'\n\n'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr. Chickerel crossly.  'There is not the\nleast reason why I should give up.  I want to save a little money first.\nIf you don't like me as I am, you must keep away from me.  Don't be\nuneasy about my comfort; I am right enough, thank God.  I can mind myself\nfor many a year yet.'\n\nEthelberta looked at him with tears in her eyes, but she did not speak.\nShe never could help crying when she met her father here.\n\n'I have been in service now for more than seven-and-thirty years,' her\nfather went on.  'It is an honourable calling; and why should you\nmaintain me because you can earn a few pounds by your gifts, and an old\nwoman left you her house and a few sticks of furniture?  If she had left\nyou any money it would have been a different thing, but as you have to\nwork for every penny you get, I cannot think of it.  Suppose I should\nagree to come and live with you, and then you should be ill, or such\nlike, and I no longer able to help myself?  O no, I'll stick where I am,\nfor here I am safe as to food and shelter at any rate.  Surely,\nEthelberta, it is only right that I, who ought to keep you all, should at\nleast keep your mother and myself?  As to our position, that we cannot\nhelp; and I don't mind that you are unable to own me.'\n\n'I wish I could own you--all of you.'\n\n'Well, you chose your course, my dear; and you must abide by it.  Having\nput your hand to the plough, it will be foolish to turn back.'\n\n'It would, I suppose.  Yet I wish I could get a living by some simple\nhumble occupation, and drop the name of Petherwin, and be Berta Chickerel\nagain, and live in a green cottage as we used to do when I was small.  I\nam miserable to a pitiable degree sometimes, and sink into regrets that I\never fell into such a groove as this.  I don't like covert deeds, such as\ncoming here to-night, and many are necessary with me from time to time.\nThere is something without which splendid energies are a drug; and that\nis a cold heart.  There is another thing necessary to energy, too--the\npower of distinguishing your visions from your reasonable forecasts when\nlooking into the future, so as to allow your energy to lay hold of the\nforecasts only.  I begin to have a fear that mother is right when she\nimplies that I undertook to carry out visions and all.  But ten of us are\nso many to cope with.  If God Almighty had only killed off three-quarters\nof us when we were little, a body might have done something for the rest;\nbut as we are it is hopeless!'\n\n'There is no use in your going into high doctrine like that,' said\nChickerel.  'As I said before, you chose your course.  You have begun to\nfly high, and you had better keep there.'\n\n'And to do that there is only one way--that is, to do it surely, so that\nI have some groundwork to enable me to keep up to the mark in my\nprofession.  That way is marriage.'\n\n'Marriage?  Who are you going to marry?'\n\n'God knows.  Perhaps Lord Mountclere.  Stranger things have happened.'\n\n'Yes, so they have; though not many wretcheder things.  I would sooner\nsee you in your grave, Ethelberta, than Lord Mountclere's wife, or the\nwife of anybody like him, great as the honour would be.'\n\n'Of course that was only something to say; I don't know the man even.'\n\n'I know his valet.  However, marry who you may, I hope you'll be happy,\nmy dear girl.  You would be still more divided from us in that event; but\nwhen your mother and I are dead, it will make little difference.'\n\nEthelberta placed her hand upon his shoulder, and smiled cheerfully.\n'Now, father, don't despond.  All will be well, and we shall see no such\nmisfortune as that for many a year.  Leave all to me.  I am a rare hand\nat contrivances.'\n\n'You are indeed, Berta.  It seems to me quite wonderful that we should be\nliving so near together and nobody suspect the relationship, because of\nthe precautions you have taken.'\n\n'Yet the precautions were rather Lady Petherwin's than mine, as you know.\nConsider how she kept me abroad.  My marriage being so secret made it\neasy to cut off all traces, unless anybody had made it a special business\nto search for them.  That people should suspect as yet would be by far\nthe more wonderful thing of the two.  But we must, for one thing, have no\nvisiting between our girls and the servants here, or they soon will\nsuspect.'\n\nEthelberta then laid down a few laws on the subject, and, explaining the\nother details of her visit, told her father soon that she must leave him.\n\nHe took her along the passage and into the area.  They were standing at\nthe bottom of the steps, saying a few parting words about Picotee's visit\nto see the dinner, when a female figure appeared by the railing above,\nslipped in at the gate, and flew down the steps past the father and\ndaughter.  At the moment of passing she whispered breathlessly to him,\n'Is that you, Mr. Chickerel?'\n\n'Yes,' said the butler.\n\nShe tossed into his arms a quantity of wearing apparel, and adding,\n'Please take them upstairs for me--I am late,' rushed into the house.\n\n'Good heavens, what does that mean?' said Ethelberta, holding her\nfather's arm in her uneasiness.\n\n'That's the new lady's-maid, just come in from an evening walk--that\nyoung scamp's sweetheart, if what you tell me is true.  I don't yet know\nwhat her character is, but she runs neck and neck with time closer than\nany woman I ever met.  She stays out at night like this till the last\nmoment, and often throws off her dashing courting-clothes in this way, as\nshe runs down the steps, to save a journey to the top of the house to her\nroom before going to Mrs. Doncastle's, who is in fact at this minute\nwaiting for her.  Only look here.'  Chickerel gathered up a hat decked\nwith feathers and flowers, a parasol, and a light muslin train-skirt, out\nof the pocket of the latter tumbling some long golden tresses of hair.\n\n'What an extraordinary woman,' said Ethelberta.  'A perfect Cinderella.\nThe idea of Joey getting desperate about a woman like that; no doubt she\nhas just come in from meeting him.'\n\n'No doubt--a blockhead.  That's his taste, is it!  I'll soon see if I\ncan't cure his taste if it inclines towards Mrs. Menlove.'\n\n'Mrs. what?'\n\n'Menlove; that's her name.  She came about a fortnight ago.'\n\n'And is that Menlove--what shall we do!' exclaimed Ethelberta.  'The idea\nof the boy singling out her--why it is ruin to him, to me, and to us\nall!'\n\nShe hastily explained to her father that Menlove had been Lady\nPetherwin's maid and her own at some time before the death of her mother-\nin-law, that she had only stayed with them through a three months' tour\nbecause of her flightiness, and hence had learnt nothing of Ethelberta's\nhistory, and probably had never thought at all about it.  But\nnevertheless they were as well acquainted as a lady and her maid well\ncould be in the time.  'Like all such doubtful characters,' continued\nEthelberta, 'she was one of the cleverest and lightest-handed women we\never had about us.  When she first came, my hair was getting quite weak;\nbut by brushing it every day in a peculiar manner, and treating it as\nonly she knew how, she brought it into splendid condition.'\n\n'Well, this is the devil to pay, upon my life!' said Mr. Chickerel, with\na miserable gaze at the bundle of clothes and the general situation at\nthe same time.  'Unfortunately for her friendship, I have snubbed her two\nor three times already, for I don't care about her manner.  You know she\nhas a way of trading on a man's sense of honour till it puts him into an\nawkward position.  She is perfectly well aware that, whatever scrape I\nfind her out in, I shall not have the conscience to report her, because I\nam a man, and she is a defenceless woman; and so she takes advantage of\none's feeling by making me, or either of the menservants, her\nbottle-holder, as you see she has done now.'\n\n'This is all simply dreadful,' said Ethelberta.  'Joey is shrewd and\ntrustworthy; but in the hands of such a woman as that!  I suppose she did\nnot recognize me.'\n\n'There was no chance of that in the dark.'\n\n'Well, I cannot do anything in it,' said she.  'I cannot manage Joey at\nall.'\n\n'I will see if I can,' said Mr. Chickerel.  'Courting at his age,\nindeed--what shall we hear next!'\n\nChickerel then accompanied his daughter along the street till an empty\ncab passed them, and putting her into it he returned to the house again.\n\n\n\n\n29. ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM--MR. DONCASTLE'S HOUSE\n\n\nThe dressing of Ethelberta for the dinner-party was an undertaking into\nwhich Picotee threw her whole skill as tirewoman.  Her energies were\nbrisker that day than they had been at any time since the Julians first\nmade preparations for departure from town; for a letter had come to her\nfrom Faith, telling of their arrival at the old cathedral city, which was\nfound to suit their inclinations and habits infinitely better than\nLondon; and that she would like Picotee to visit them there some day.\nPicotee felt, and so probably felt the writer of the letter, that such a\nvisit would not be very practicable just now; but it was a pleasant idea,\nand for fastening dreams upon was better than nothing.\n\nSuch musings were encouraged also by Ethelberta's remarks as the dressing\nwent on.\n\n'We will have a change soon,' she said; 'we will go out of town for a few\ndays.  It will do good in many ways.  I am getting so alarmed about the\nhealth of the children; their faces are becoming so white and thin and\npinched that an old acquaintance would hardly know them; and they were so\nplump when they came.  You are looking as pale as a ghost, and I daresay\nI am too.  A week or two at Knollsea will see us right.'\n\n'O, how charming!' said Picotee gladly.\n\nKnollsea was a village on the coast, not very far from Melchester, the\nnew home of Christopher; not very far, that is to say, in the eye of a\nsweetheart; but seeing that there was, as the crow flies, a stretch of\nthirty-five miles between the two places, and that more than one-third\nthe distance was without a railway, an elderly gentleman might have\nconsidered their situations somewhat remote from each other.\n\n'Why have you chosen Knollsea?' inquired Picotee.\n\n'Because of aunt's letter from Rouen--have you seen it?'\n\n'I did not read it through.'\n\n'She wants us to get a copy of the register of her baptism; and she is\nnot absolutely certain which of the parishes in and about Knollsea they\nwere living in when she was born.  Mother, being a year younger, cannot\ntell of course.  First I thought of writing to the clergyman of each\nparish, but that would be troublesome, and might reveal the secret of my\nbirth; but if we go down there for a few days, and take some lodgings, we\nshall be able to find out all about it at leisure.  Gwendoline and Joey\ncan attend to mother and the people downstairs, especially as father will\nlook in every evening until he goes out of town, to see if they are\ngetting on properly.  It will be such a weight off my soul to slip away\nfrom acquaintances here.'\n\n'Will it?'\n\n'Yes.  At the same time I ought not to speak so, for they have been very\nkind.  I wish we could go to Rouen afterwards; aunt repeats her\ninvitation as usual.  However, there is time enough to think of that.'\n\nEthelberta was dressed at last, and, beholding the lonely look of poor\nPicotee when about to leave the room, she could not help having a\nsympathetic feeling that it was rather hard for her sister to be denied\nso small an enjoyment as a menial peep at a feast when she herself was to\nsit down to it as guest.\n\n'If you still want to go and see the procession downstairs you may do\nso,' she said reluctantly; 'provided that you take care of your tongue\nwhen you come in contact with Menlove, and adhere to father's\ninstructions as to how long you may stay.  It may be in the highest\ndegree unwise; but never mind, go.'\n\nThen Ethelberta departed for the scene of action, just at the hour of the\nsun's lowest decline, when it was fading away, yellow and mild as candle-\nlight, and when upper windows facing north-west reflected to persons in\nthe street dissolving views of tawny cloud with brazen edges, the\noriginal picture of the same being hidden from sight by soiled walls and\nslaty slopes.\n\nBefore entering the presence of host and hostess, Ethelberta contrived to\nexchange a few words with her father.\n\n'In excellent time,' he whispered, full of paternal pride at the superb\naudacity of her situation here in relation to his.  'About half of them\nare come.'\n\n'Mr. Neigh?'\n\n'Not yet; he's coming.'\n\n'Lord Mountclere?'\n\n'Yes.  He came absurdly early; ten minutes before anybody else, so that\nMrs. D. could hardly get on her bracelets and things soon enough to\nscramble downstairs and receive him; and he's as nervous as a boy.  Keep\nup your spirits, dear, and don't mind me.'\n\n'I will, father.  And let Picotee see me at dinner if you can.  She is\nvery anxious to look at me.  She will be here directly.'\n\nAnd Ethelberta, having been announced, joined the chamberful of assembled\nguests, among whom for the present we lose sight of her.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMeanwhile the evening outside the house was deepening in tone, and the\nlamps began to blink up.  Her sister having departed, Picotee hastily\narrayed herself in a little black jacket and chip hat, and tripped across\nthe park to the same point.  Chickerel had directed a maid-servant known\nas Jane to receive his humbler daughter and make her comfortable; and\nthat friendly person, who spoke as if she had known Picotee\nfive-and-twenty years, took her to the housekeeper's room, where the\nvisitor deposited her jacket and hat, and rested awhile.\n\nA quick-eyed, light-haired, slight-built woman came in when Jane had\ngone.  'Are you Miss Chickerel?' she said to Picotee.\n\n'Yes,' said Picotee, guessing that this was Menlove, and fearing her a\nlittle.\n\n'Jane tells me that you have come to visit your father, and would like to\nlook at the company going to dinner.  Well, they are not much to see, you\nknow; but such as they are you are welcome to the sight of.  Come along\nwith me.'\n\n'I think I would rather wait for father, if you will excuse me, please.'\n\n'Your father is busy now; it is no use for you to think of saying\nanything to him.'\n\nPicotee followed her guide up a back staircase to the height of several\nflights, and then, crossing a landing, they descended to the upper part\nof the front stairs.\n\n'Now look over the balustrade, and you will see them all in a minute,'\nsaid Mrs. Menlove.  'O, you need not be timid; you can look out as far as\nyou like.  We are all independent here; no slavery for us: it is not as\nit is in the country, where servants are considered to be of different\nblood and bone from their employers, and to have no eyes for anything but\ntheir work.  Here they are coming.'\n\nPicotee then had the pleasure of looking down upon a series of human\ncrowns--some black, some white, some strangely built upon, some smooth\nand shining--descending the staircase in disordered column and great\ndiscomfort, their owners trying to talk, but breaking off in the midst of\nsyllables to look to their footing.  The young girl's eyes had not\ndrooped over the handrail more than a few moments when she softly\nexclaimed, 'There she is, there she is!  How lovely she looks, does she\nnot?'\n\n'Who?' said Mrs. Menlove.\n\nPicotee recollected herself, and hastily drew in her impulses.  'My dear\nmistress,' she said blandly.  'That is she on Mr. Doncastle's arm.  And\nlook, who is that funny old man the elderly lady is helping downstairs?'\n\n'He is our honoured guest, Lord Mountclere.  Mrs. Doncastle will have him\nall through the dinner, and after that he will devote himself to Mrs.\nPetherwin, your \"dear mistress.\"  He keeps looking towards her now, and\nno doubt thinks it a nuisance that she is not with him.  Well, it is\nuseless to stay here.  Come a little further--we'll follow them.'  Menlove\nbegan to lead the way downstairs, but Picotee held back.\n\n'Won't they see us?' she said.\n\n'No.  And if they do, it doesn't matter.  Mrs. Doncastle would not object\nin the least to the daughter of her respected head man being accidentally\nseen in the hall.'\n\nThey descended to the bottom and stood in the hall.  'O, there's father!'\nwhispered Picotee, with childlike gladness, as Chickerel became visible\nto her by the door.  The butler nodded to his daughter, and became again\nengrossed in his duties.\n\n'I wish I could see her--my mistress--again,' said Picotee.\n\n'You seem mightily concerned about your mistress,' said Menlove.  'Do you\nwant to see if you have dressed her properly?'\n\n'Yes, partly; and I like her, too.  She is very kind to me.'\n\n'You will have a chance of seeing her soon.  When the door is nicely open\nyou can look in for a moment.  I must leave you now for a few minutes,\nbut I will come again.'\n\nMenlove departed, and Picotee stood waiting.  She wondered how Ethelberta\nwas getting on, and whether she enjoyed herself as much as it seemed her\nduty to do in such a superbly hospitable place.  Picotee then turned her\nattention to the hall, every article of furniture therein appearing\nworthy of scrutiny to her unaccustomed eyes.  Here she walked and looked\nabout for a long time till an excellent opportunity offered itself of\nseeing how affairs progressed in the dining-room.\n\nThrough the partly-opened door there became visible a sideboard which\nfirst attracted her attention by its richness.  It was, indeed, a\nnoticeable example of modern art-workmanship, in being exceptionally\nlarge, with curious ebony mouldings at different stages; and, while the\nheavy cupboard doors at the bottom were enriched with inlays of paler\nwood, other panels were decorated with tiles, as if the massive\ncomposition had been erected on the spot as part of the solid building.\nHowever, it was on a space higher up that Picotee's eyes and thoughts\nwere fixed.  In the great mirror above the middle ledge she could see\nreflected the upper part of the dining-room, and this suggested to her\nthat she might see Ethelberta and the other guests reflected in the same\nway by standing on a chair, which, quick as thought, she did.\n\nTo Picotee's dazed young vision her beautiful sister appeared as the\nchief figure of a glorious pleasure-parliament of both sexes, surrounded\nby whole regiments of candles grouped here and there about the room.  She\nand her companions were seated before a large flowerbed, or small hanging\ngarden, fixed at about the level of the elbow, the attention of all being\nconcentrated rather upon the uninteresting margin of the bed, and upon\neach other, than on the beautiful natural objects growing in the middle,\nas it seemed to Picotee.  In the ripple of conversation Ethelberta's\nclear voice could occasionally be heard, and her young sister could see\nthat her eyes were bright, and her face beaming, as if divers social\nwants and looming penuriousness had never been within her experience.  Mr.\nDoncastle was quite absorbed in what she was saying.  So was the queer\nold man whom Menlove had called Lord Mountclere.\n\n'The dashing widow looks very well, does she not?' said a person at\nPicotee's elbow.\n\nIt was her conductor Menlove, now returned again, whom Picotee had quite\nforgotten.\n\n'She will do some damage here to-night you will find,' continued Menlove.\n'How long have you been with her?'\n\n'O, a long time--I mean rather a short time,' stammered Picotee.\n\n'I know her well enough.  I was her maid once, or rather her mother-in-\nlaw's, but that was long before you knew her.  I did not by any means\nfind her so lovable as you seem to think her when I had to do with her at\nclose quarters.  An awful flirt--awful.  Don't you find her so?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'If you don't yet you will know.  But come down from your perch--the\ndining-room door will not be open again for some time--and I will show\nyou about the rooms upstairs.  This is a larger house than Mrs.\nPetherwin's, as you see.  Just come and look at the drawing-rooms.'\n\nWishing much to get rid of Menlove, yet fearing to offend her, Picotee\nfollowed upstairs.  Dinner was almost over by this time, and when they\nentered the front drawing-room a young man-servant and maid were there\nrekindling the lights.\n\n'Now let's have a game of cat-and-mice,' said the maid-servant cheerily.\n'There's plenty of time before they come up.'\n\n'Agreed,' said Menlove promptly.  'You will play, will you not, Miss\nChickerel?'\n\n'No, indeed,' said Picotee, aghast.\n\n'Never mind, then; you look on.'\n\nAway then ran the housemaid and Menlove, and the young footman started at\ntheir heels.  Round the room, over the furniture, under the furniture,\nthrough the furniture, out of one window, along the balcony, in at\nanother window, again round the room--so they glided with the swiftness\nof swallows and the noiselessness of ghosts.\n\nThen the housemaid drew a jew's-harp from her pocket, and struck up a\nlively waltz sotto voce.  The footman seized Menlove, who appeared\nnothing loth, and began spinning gently round the room with her, to the\ntime of the fascinating measure\n\n   'Which fashion hails, from countesses to queens,\n   And maids and valets dance behind the scenes.'\n\nPicotee, who had been accustomed to unceiled country cottages all her\nlife, wherein the scamper of a mouse is heard distinctly from floor to\nfloor, exclaimed in a terrified whisper, at viewing all this, 'They'll\nhear you underneath, they'll hear you, and we shall all be ruined!'\n\n'Not at all,' came from the cautious dancers.  'These are some of the\nbest built houses in London--double floors, filled in with material that\nwill deaden any row you like to make, and we make none.  But come and\nhave a turn yourself, Miss Chickerel.'\n\nThe young man relinquished Menlove, and on the spur of the moment seized\nPicotee.  Picotee flounced away from him in indignation, backing into a\ncorner with ruffled feathers, like a pullet trying to appear a hen.\n\n'How dare you touch me!' she said, with rounded eyes.  'I'll tell\nsomebody downstairs of you, who'll soon see about it!'\n\n'What a baby; she'll tell her father.'\n\n'No I shan't; somebody you are all afraid of, that's who I'll tell.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Menlove; 'he meant no harm.'\n\nPlaytime was now getting short, and further antics being dangerous on\nthat account, the performers retired again downstairs, Picotee of\nnecessity following.  Her nerves were screwed up to the highest pitch of\nuneasiness by the grotesque habits of these men and maids, who were quite\nunlike the country servants she had known, and resembled nothing so much\nas pixies, elves, or gnomes, peeping up upon human beings from their\nshady haunts underground, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill--sometimes\ndoing heavy work, sometimes none; teasing and worrying with impish\nlaughter half suppressed, and vanishing directly mortal eyes were bent on\nthem.  Separate and distinct from overt existence under the sun, this\nlife could hardly be without its distinctive pleasures, all of them being\nmore or less pervaded by thrills and titillations from games of hazard,\nand the perpetual risk of sensational surprises.\n\nLong before this time Picotee had begun to be anxious to get home again,\nbut Menlove seemed particularly to desire her company, and pressed her to\nsit awhile, telling her young friend, by way of entertainment, of various\nextraordinary love adventures in which she had figured as heroine when\ntravelling on the Continent.  These stories had one and all a remarkable\nlikeness in a certain point--Menlove was always unwilling to love the\nadorer, and the adorer was always unwilling to live afterwards on account\nof it.\n\n'Ha-ha-ha!' in men's voices was heard from the distant dining-room as the\ntwo women went on talking.\n\n'And then,' continued Menlove, 'there was that duel I was the cause of\nbetween the courier and the French valet.  Dear me, what a trouble that\nwas; yet I could do nothing to prevent it.  This courier was a very\nhandsome man--they are handsome sometimes.'\n\n'Yes, they are.  My aunt married one.'\n\n'Did she?  Where do they live?'\n\n'They keep an hotel at Rouen,' murmured Picotee, in doubt whether this\nshould have been told or not.\n\n'Well, he used to follow me to the English Church every Sunday regularly,\nand I was so determined not to give my hand where my heart could never\nbe, that I slipped out at the other door while he stood expecting me by\nthe one I entered.  Here I met M. Pierre, when, as ill luck would have\nit, the other came round the corner, and seeing me talking to the valet,\nhe challenged him at once.'\n\n'Ha-ha-ha!' was heard again afar.\n\n'Did they fight?' said Picotee.\n\n'Yes, I believe they did.  We left Nice the next day; but I heard some\ntime after of a duel not many miles off, and although I could not get\nhold of the names, I make no doubt it was between those two gentlemen.  I\nnever knew which of them fell; poor fellow, whichever it was.'\n\n'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!' came from the dining-room.\n\n'Whatever are those boozy men laughing at, I wonder?' said Menlove.  'They\nare always so noisy when the ladies have gone upstairs.  Upon my soul,\nI'll run up and find out.'\n\n'No, no, don't,' entreated Picotee, putting her hand on her entertainer's\narm.  'It seems wrong; it is no concern of ours.'\n\n'Wrong be hanged--anything on an impulse,' said Mrs. Menlove, skipping\nacross the room and out of the door, which stood open, as did others in\nthe house, the evening being sultry and oppressive.\n\nPicotee waited in her seat until it occurred to her that she could escape\nthe lady's-maid by going off into her father's pantry in her absence.  But\nbefore this had been put into effect Menlove appeared again.\n\n'Such fun as they are having up there,' she said.  'Somebody asked Mr.\nNeigh to tell a story which he had told at some previous time, but he was\nvery reluctant to do so, and pretended he could not recollect it.  Well,\nthen, the other man--I could not distinguish him by his voice--began\ntelling it, to prompt Mr. Neigh's memory; and, as far as I could\nunderstand, it was about some lady who thought Mr. Neigh was in love with\nher, and, to find whether he was worth accepting or not, she went with\nher maid at night to see his estate, and wandered about and got lost, and\nwas frightened, and I don't know what besides.  Then Mr. Neigh laughed\ntoo, and said he liked such common sense in a woman.  No names were\nmentioned, but I fancy, from the awkwardness of Mr. Neigh at being\ncompelled to tell it, that the lady is one of those in the drawing-room.\nI should like to know which it was.'\n\n'I know--have heard something about it,' said Picotee, blushing with\nanger.  'It was nothing at all like that.  I wonder Mr. Neigh had the\naudacity ever to talk of the matter, and to misrepresent it so greatly!'\n\n'Tell all about it, do,' said Menlove.\n\n'O no,' said Picotee.  'I promised not to say a word.'\n\n'It is your mistress, I expect.'\n\n'You may think what you like; but the lady is anything but a mistress of\nmine.'\n\nThe flighty Menlove pressed her to tell the whole story, but finding this\nuseless the subject was changed.  Presently her father came in, and,\ntaking no notice of Menlove, told his daughter that she had been called\nfor.  Picotee very readily put on her things, and on going outside found\nJoey awaiting her.  Mr. Chickerel followed closely, with sharp glances\nfrom the corner of his eye, and it was plain from Joey's nervous manner\nof lingering in the shadows of the area doorway instead of entering the\nhouse, that the butler had in some way set himself to prevent all\ncommunion between the fair lady's-maid and his son for that evening at\nleast.\n\nHe watched Picotee and her brother off the premises, and the pair went on\ntheir way towards Exonbury Crescent, very few words passing between them.\nPicotee's thoughts had turned to the proposed visit to Knollsea, and Joey\nwas sulky under disappointment and the blank of thwarted purposes.\n\n\n\n\n30. ON THE HOUSETOP\n\n\n'Picotee, are you asleep?' Ethelberta whispered softly at dawn the next\nmorning, by the half-opened door of her sister's bedroom.\n\n'No, I keep waking, it is so warm.'\n\n'So do I.  Suppose we get up and see the sun rise.  The east is filling\nwith flame.'\n\n'Yes, I should like it,' said Picotee.\n\nThe restlessness which had brought Ethelberta hither in slippers and\ndressing-gown at such an early hour owed its origin to another cause than\nthe warmth of the weather; but of that she did not speak as yet.\nPicotee's room was an attic, with windows in the roof--a chamber dismal\nenough at all times, and very shadowy now.  While Picotee was wrapping\nup, Ethelberta placed a chair under the window, and mounting upon this\nthey stepped outside, and seated themselves within the parapet.\n\nThe air was as clear and fresh as on a mountain side; sparrows chattered,\nand birds of a species unsuspected at later hours could be heard singing\nin the park hard by, while here and there on ridges and flats a cat might\nbe seen going calmly home from the devilries of the night to resume the\namiabilities of the day.\n\n'I am so sorry I was asleep when you reached home,' said Picotee.  'I was\nso anxious to tell you something I heard of, and to know what you did;\nbut my eyes would shut, try as I might, and then I tried no longer.  Did\nyou see me at all, Berta?'\n\n'Never once.  I had an impression that you were there.  I fancied you\nwere from father's carefully vacuous look whenever I glanced at his face.\nBut were you careful about what you said, and did you see Menlove?  I\nfelt all the time that I had done wrong in letting you come; the\ngratification to you was not worth the risk to me.'\n\n'I saw her, and talked to her.  But I am certain she suspected nothing.  I\nenjoyed myself very much, and there was no risk at all.'\n\n'I am glad it is no worse news.  However, you must not go there again:\nupon that point I am determined.'\n\n'It was a good thing I did go, all the same.  I'll tell you why when you\nhave told me what happened to you.'\n\n'Nothing of importance happened to me.'\n\n'I expect you got to know the lord you were to meet?'\n\n'O yes--Lord Mountclere.'\n\n'And it's dreadful how fond he is of you--quite ridiculously taken up\nwith you--I saw that well enough.  Such an old man, too; I wouldn't have\nhim for the world!'\n\n'Don't jump at conclusions so absurdly, Picotee.  Why wouldn't you have\nhim for the world?'\n\n'Because he is old enough to be my grandfather, and yours too.'\n\n'Indeed he is not; he is only middle-aged.'\n\n'O Berta!  Sixty-five at least.'\n\n'He may or may not be that; and if he is, it is not old.  He is so\nentertaining that one forgets all about age in connection with him.'\n\n'He laughs like this--\"Hee-hee-hee!\"'  Picotee introduced as much\nantiquity into her face as she could by screwing it up and suiting the\naction to the word.\n\n'This very odd thing occurred,' said Ethelberta, to get Picotee off the\ntrack of Lord Mountclere's peculiarities, as it seemed.  'I was saying to\nMr. Neigh that we were going to Knollsea for a time, feeling that he\nwould not be likely to know anything about such an out-of-the-way place,\nwhen Lord Mountclere, who was near, said, \"I shall be at Enckworth Court\nin a few days, probably at the time you are at Knollsea.  The Imperial\nArchaeological Association holds its meetings in that part of Wessex this\nseason, and Corvsgate Castle, near Knollsea, is one of the places on our\nlist.\"  Then he hoped I should be able to attend.  Did you ever hear\nanything so strange?  Now, I should like to attend very much, not on Lord\nMountclere's account, but because such gatherings are interesting, and I\nhave never been to one; yet there is this to be considered, would it be\nright for me to go without a friend to such a place?  Another point is,\nthat we shall live in menagerie style at Knollsea for the sake of the\nchildren, and we must do it economically in case we accept Aunt\nCharlotte's invitation to Rouen; hence, if he or his friends find us out\nthere it will be awkward for me.  So the alternative is Knollsea or some\nother place for us.'\n\n'Let it be Knollsea, now we have once settled it,' said Picotee\nanxiously.  'I have mentioned to Faith Julian that we shall be there.'\n\n'Mentioned it already!  You must have written instantly.'\n\n'I had a few minutes to spare, and I thought I might as well write.'\n\n'Very well; we will stick to Knollsea,' said Ethelberta, half in doubt.\n'Yes--otherwise it will be difficult to see about aunt's baptismal\ncertificate.  We will hope nobody will take the trouble to pry into our\nhousehold. . . .  And now, Picotee, I want to ask you something--something\nvery serious.  How would you like me to marry Mr. Neigh?'\n\nEthelberta could not help laughing with a faint shyness as she asked the\nquestion under the searching east ray.  'He has asked me to marry him,'\nshe continued, 'and I want to know what you would say to such an\narrangement.  I don't mean to imply that the event is certain to take\nplace; but, as a mere supposition, what do you say to it, Picotee?'\nEthelberta was far from putting this matter before Picotee for advice or\nopinion; but, like all people who have an innate dislike to\nhole-and-corner policy, she felt compelled to speak of it to some one.\n\n'I should not like him for you at all,' said Picotee vehemently.  'I\nwould rather you had Mr. Ladywell.'\n\n'O, don't name him!'\n\n'I wouldn't have Mr. Neigh at any price, nevertheless.  It is about him\nthat I was going to tell you.'  Picotee proceeded to relate Menlove's\naccount of the story of Ethelberta's escapade, which had been dragged\nfrom Neigh the previous evening by the friend to whom he had related it\nbefore he was so enamoured of Ethelberta as to regard that performance as\na positive virtue in her.  'Nobody was told, or even suspected, who the\nlady of the anecdote was,' Picotee concluded; 'but I knew instantly, of\ncourse, and I think it very unfortunate that we ever went to that\ndreadful ghostly estate of his, Berta.'\n\nEthelberta's face heated with mortification.  She had no fear that Neigh\nhad told names or other particulars which might lead to her\nidentification by any friend of his, and she could make allowance for\nbursts of confidence; but there remained the awkward fact that he himself\nknew her to be the heroine of the episode.  What annoyed her most was\nthat Neigh could ever have looked upon her indiscretion as a humorous\nincident, which he certainly must have done at some time or other to\naccount for his telling it.  Had he been angry with her, or sneered at\nher for going, she could have forgiven him; but to see her manoeuvre in\nthe light of a joke, to use it as illustrating his grim theory of\nwomankind, and neither to like nor to dislike her the more for it from\nfirst to last, this was to treat her with a cynicism which was\nintolerable.  That Neigh's use of the incident as a stock anecdote ceased\nlong before he had decided to ask her to marry him she had no doubt, but\nit showed that his love for her was of that sort in which passion makes\nwar upon judgment, and prevails in spite of will.  Moreover, he might\nhave been speaking ironically when he alluded to the act as a virtue in a\nwoman, which seemed the more likely when she remembered his cool bearing\ntowards her in the drawing-room.  Possibly it was an antipathetic\nreaction, induced by the renewed recollection of her proceeding.\n\n'I will never marry Mr. Neigh!' she said, with decision.  'That shall\nsettle it.  You need not think over any such contingency, Picotee.  He is\none of those horrid men who love with their eyes, the remainder part of\nhim objecting all the time to the feeling; and even if his objections\nprove the weaker, and the man marries, his general nature conquers again\nby the time the wedding trip is over, so that the woman is miserable at\nlast, and had better not have had him at all.'\n\n'That applies still more to Lord Mountclere, to my thinking.  I never saw\nanything like the look of his eyes upon you.'\n\n'O no, no--you understand nothing if you say that.  But one thing be sure\nof, there is no marriage likely to take place between myself and Mr.\nNeigh.  I have longed for a sound reason for disliking him, and now I\nhave got it.  Well, we will talk no more of this--let us think of the\nnice little pleasure we have in store--our stay at Knollsea.  There we\nwill be as free as the wind.  And when we are down there, I can drive\nacross to Corvsgate Castle if I wish to attend the Imperial Association\nmeeting, and nobody will know where I came from.  Knollsea is not more\nthan five miles from the Castle, I think.'\n\nPicotee was by this time beginning to yawn, and Ethelberta did not feel\nnearly so wakeful as she had felt half-an-hour earlier.  Tall and swarthy\ncolumns of smoke were now soaring up from the kitchen chimneys around,\nspreading horizontally when at a great height, and forming a roof of haze\nwhich was turning the sun to a copper colour, and by degrees spoiling the\nsweetness of the new atmosphere that had rolled in from the country\nduring the night, giving it the usual city smell.  The resolve to make\nthis rising the beginning of a long and busy day, which should set them\nbeforehand with the rest of the world, weakened with their growing\nweariness, and an impulse to lie down just for a quarter of an hour\nbefore dressing, ended in a sound sleep that did not relinquish its hold\nupon them till late in the forenoon.\n\n\n\n\n31. KNOLLSEA--A LOFTY DOWN--A RUINED CASTLE\n\n\nKnollsea was a seaside village lying snug within two headlands as between\na finger and thumb.  Everybody in the parish who was not a boatman was a\nquarrier, unless he were the gentleman who owned half the property and\nhad been a quarryman, or the other gentleman who owned the other half,\nand had been to sea.\n\nThe knowledge of the inhabitants was of the same special sort as their\npursuits.  The quarrymen in white fustian understood practical geology,\nthe laws and accidents of dips, faults, and cleavage, far better than the\nways of the world and mammon; the seafaring men in Guernsey frocks had a\nclearer notion of Alexandria, Constantinople, the Cape, and the Indies\nthan of any inland town in their own country.  This, for them, consisted\nof a busy portion, the Channel, where they lived and laboured, and a dull\nportion, the vague unexplored miles of interior at the back of the ports,\nwhich they seldom thought of.\n\nSome wives of the village, it is true, had learned to let lodgings, and\nothers to keep shops.  The doors of these latter places were formed of an\nupper hatch, usually kept open, and a lower hatch, with a bell attached,\nusually kept shut.  Whenever a stranger went in, he would hear a\nwhispering of astonishment from a back room, after which a woman came\nforward, looking suspiciously at him as an intruder, and advancing slowly\nenough to allow her mouth to get clear of the meal she was partaking of.\nMeanwhile the people in the back room would stop their knives and forks\nin absorbed curiosity as to the reason of the stranger's entry, who by\nthis time feels ashamed of his unwarrantable intrusion into this hermit's\ncell, and thinks he must take his hat off.  The woman is quite alarmed at\nseeing that he is not one of the fifteen native women and children who\npatronize her, and nervously puts her hand to the side of her face, which\nshe carries slanting.  The visitor finds himself saying what he wants in\nan apologetic tone, when the woman tells him that they did keep that\narticle once, but do not now; that nobody does, and probably never will\nagain; and as he turns away she looks relieved that the dilemma of having\nto provide for a stranger has passed off with no worse mishap than\ndisappointing him.\n\nA cottage which stood on a high slope above this townlet and its bay\nresounded one morning with the notes of a merry company.  Ethelberta had\nmanaged to find room for herself and her young relations in the house of\none of the boatmen, whose wife attended upon them all.  Captain Flower,\nthe husband, assisted her in the dinner preparations, when he slipped\nabout the house as lightly as a girl and spoke of himself as cook's mate.\nThe house was so small that the sailor's rich voice, developed by\nshouting in high winds during a twenty years' experience in the coasting\ntrade, could be heard coming from the kitchen between the chirpings of\nthe children in the parlour.  The furniture of this apartment consisted\nmostly of the painting of a full-rigged ship, done by a man whom the\ncaptain had specially selected for the purpose because he had been seven-\nand-twenty years at sea before touching a brush, and thereby offered a\nsufficient guarantee that he understood how to paint a vessel properly.\n\nBefore this picture sat Ethelberta in a light linen dress, and with\ntightly-knotted hair--now again Berta Chickerel as of old--serving out\nbreakfast to the rest of the party, and sometimes lifting her eyes to the\noutlook from the window, which presented a happy combination of grange\nscenery with marine.  Upon the irregular slope between the house and the\nquay was an orchard of aged trees wherein every apple ripening on the\nboughs presented its rubicund side towards the cottage, because that\nbuilding chanced to lie upwards in the same direction as the sun.  Under\nthe trees were a few Cape sheep, and over them the stone chimneys of the\nvillage below: outside these lay the tanned sails of a ketch or smack,\nand the violet waters of the bay, seamed and creased by breezes\ninsufficient to raise waves; beyond all a curved wall of cliff,\nterminating in a promontory, which was flanked by tall and shining\nobelisks of chalk rising sheer from the trembling blue race beneath.\n\nBy one sitting in the room that commanded this prospect, a white\nbutterfly among the apple-trees might be mistaken for the sails of a\nyacht far away on the sea; and in the evening when the light was dim,\nwhat seemed like a fly crawling upon the window-pane would turn out to be\na boat in the bay.\n\nWhen breakfast was over, Ethelberta sat leaning on the window-sill\nconsidering her movements for the day.  It was the time fixed for the\nmeeting of the Imperial Association at Corvsgate Castle, the celebrated\nruin five miles off, and the meeting had some fascinations for her.  For\none thing, she had never been present at a gathering of the kind,\nalthough what was left in any shape from the past was her constant\ninterest, because it recalled her to herself and fortified her mind.\nPersons waging a harassing social fight are apt in the interest of the\ncombat to forget the smallness of the end in view; and the hints that\nperishing historical remnants afforded her of the attenuating effects of\ntime even upon great struggles corrected the apparent scale of her own.\nShe was reminded that in a strife for such a ludicrously small object as\nthe entry of drawing-rooms, winning, equally with losing, is below the\nzero of the true philosopher's concern.\n\nThere could never be a more excellent reason than this for going to view\nthe meagre stumps remaining from flourishing bygone centuries, and it had\nweight with Ethelberta this very day; but it would be difficult to state\nthe whole composition of her motive.  The approaching meeting had been\none of the great themes at Mr. Doncastle's dinner-party, and Lord\nMountclere, on learning that she was to be at Knollsea, had recommended\nher attendance at some, if not all of the meetings, as a desirable and\nexhilarating change after her laborious season's work in town.  It was\npleasant to have won her way so far in high places that her health of\nbody and mind should be thus considered--pleasant, less as personal\ngratification, than that it casually reflected a proof of her good\njudgment in a course which everybody among her kindred had condemned by\ncalling a foolhardy undertaking.\n\nAnd she might go without the restraint of ceremony.\nUnconventionality--almost eccentricity--was de rigueur for one who had\nbeen first heard of as a poetess; from whose red lips magic romance had\nsince trilled for weeks to crowds of listeners, as from a perennial\nspring.\n\nSo Ethelberta went, after a considerable pondering how to get there\nwithout the needless sacrifice either of dignity or cash.  It would be\ninconsiderate to the children to spend a pound on a brougham when as much\nas she could spare was wanted for their holiday.  It was almost too far\ntoo walk.  She had, however, decided to walk, when she met a boy with a\ndonkey, who offered to lend it to her for three shillings.  The animal\nwas rather sad-looking, but Ethelberta found she could sit upon the pad\nwithout discomfort.  Considering that she might pull up some distance\nshort of the castle, and leave the ass at a cottage before joining her\nfour-wheeled friends, she struck the bargain and rode on her way.\n\nThis was, first by a path on the shore where the tide dragged huskily up\nand down the shingle without disturbing it, and thence up the steep crest\nof land opposite, whereon she lingered awhile to let the ass breathe.  On\none of the spires of chalk into which the hill here had been split was\nperched a cormorant, silent and motionless, with wings spread out to dry\nin the sun after his morning's fishing, their white surface shining like\nmail.  Retiring without disturbing him and turning to the left along the\nlofty ridge which ran inland, the country on each side lay beneath her\nlike a map, domains behind domains, parishes by the score, harbours, fir-\nwoods, and little inland seas mixing curiously together.  Thence she\nambled along through a huge cemetery of barrows, containing human dust\nfrom prehistoric times.\n\nStanding on the top of a giant's grave in this antique land, Ethelberta\nlifted her eyes to behold two sorts of weather pervading Nature at the\nsame time.  Far below on the right hand it was a fine day, and the silver\nsunbeams lighted up a many-armed inland sea which stretched round an\nisland with fir-trees and gorse, and amid brilliant crimson heaths\nwherein white paths and roads occasionally met the eye in dashes and\nzigzags like flashes of lightning.  Outside, where the broad Channel\nappeared, a berylline and opalized variegation of ripples, currents,\ndeeps, and shallows, lay as fair under the sun as a New Jerusalem, the\nshores being of gleaming sand.  Upon the radiant heather bees and\nbutterflies were busy, she knew, and the birds on that side were just\nbeginning their autumn songs.\n\nOn the left, quite up to her position, was dark and cloudy weather,\nshading a valley of heavy greens and browns, which at its further side\nrose to meet the sea in tall cliffs, suggesting even here at their back\nhow terrible were their aspects seaward in a growling southwest gale.\nHere grassed hills rose like knuckles gloved in dark olive, and little\nplantations between them formed a still deeper and sadder monochrome.  A\nzinc sky met a leaden sea on this hand, the low wind groaned and whined,\nand not a bird sang.\n\nThe ridge along which Ethelberta rode divided these two climates like a\nwall; it soon became apparent that they were wrestling for mastery\nimmediately in her pathway.  The issue long remained doubtful, and this\nbeing an imaginative hour with her, she watched as typical of her own\nfortunes how the front of battle swayed--now to the west, flooding her\nwith sun, now to the east, covering her with shade: then the wind moved\nround to the north, a blue hole appeared in the overhanging cloud, at\nabout the place of the north star; and the sunlight spread on both sides\nof her.\n\nThe towers of the notable ruin to be visited rose out of the furthermost\nshoulder of the upland as she advanced, its site being the slope and\ncrest of a smoothly nibbled mount at the toe of the ridge she had\nfollowed.  When observing the previous uncertainty of the weather on this\nside Ethelberta had been led to doubt if the meeting would be held here\nto-day, and she was now strengthened in her opinion that it would not by\nthe total absence of human figures amid the ruins, though the time of\nappointment was past.  This disposed of another question which had\nperplexed her: where to find a stable for the ass during the meeting, for\nshe had scarcely liked the idea of facing the whole body of lords and\ngentlemen upon the animal's back.  She now decided to retain her seat,\nride round the ruin, and go home again, without troubling further about\nthe movements of the Association or acquaintance with the members\ncomposing it.\n\nAccordingly Ethelberta crossed the bridge over the moat, and rode under\nthe first archway into the outer ward.  As she had expected, not a soul\nwas here.  The arrow-slits, portcullis-grooves, and staircases met her\neye as familiar friends, for in her childhood she had once paid a visit\nto the spot.  Ascending the green incline and through another arch into\nthe second ward, she still pressed on, till at last the ass was unable to\nclamber an inch further.  Here she dismounted, and tying him to a stone\nwhich projected like a fang from a raw edge of wall, performed the\nremainder of the ascent on foot.  Once among the towers above, she became\nso interested in the windy corridors, mildewed dungeons, and the tribe of\ndaws peering invidiously upon her from overhead, that she forgot the\nflight of time.\n\nNearly three-quarters of an hour passed before she came out from the\nimmense walls, and looked from an opening to the front over the wide\nexpanse of the outer ward, by which she had ascended.\n\nEthelberta was taken aback to see there a file of shining carriages,\nwhich had arrived during her seclusion in the keep.  From these began to\nburst a miscellany of many-coloured draperies, blue, buff, pied, and\nblack; they united into one, and crept up the incline like a cloud, which\nthen parted into fragments, dived into old doorways, and lost substance\nbehind projecting piles.  Recognizing in this the ladies and gentlemen of\nthe meeting, her first thought was how to escape, for she was suddenly\novercome with dread to meet them all single-handed as she stood.  She\ndrew back and hurried round to the side, as the laughter and voices of\nthe assembly began to be audible, and, more than ever vexed that she\ncould not have fallen in with them in some unobtrusive way, Ethelberta\nfound that they were immediately beneath her.\n\nVenturing to peep forward again, what was her mortification at finding\nthem gathered in a ring, round no object of interest belonging to the\nruin, but round her faithful beast, who had loosened himself in some way\nfrom the stone, and stood in the middle of a plat of grass, placidly\nregarding them.\n\nBeing now in the teeth of the Association, there was nothing to do but to\ngo on, since, if she did not, the next few steps of their advance would\ndisclose her.  She made the best of it, and began to descend in the broad\nview of the assembly, from the midst of which proceeded a laugh--'Hee-hee-\nhee!'  Ethelberta knew that Lord Mountclere was there.\n\n'The poor thing has strayed from its owner,' said one lady, as they all\nstood eyeing the apparition of the ass.\n\n'It may belong to some of the villagers,' said the President in a\nhistorical voice: 'and it may be appropriate to mention that many were\nkept here in olden times: they were largely used as beasts of burden in\nvictualling the castle previous to the last siege, in the year sixteen\nhundred and forty-five.'\n\n'It is very weary, and has come a long way, I think,' said a lady;\nadding, in an imaginative tone, 'the humble creature looks so aged and is\nso quaintly saddled that we may suppose it to be only an animated relic,\nof the same date as the other remains.'\n\nBy this time Lord Mountclere had noticed Ethelberta's presence, and\nstraightening himself to ten years younger, he lifted his hat in answer\nto her smile, and came up jauntily.  It was a good time now to see what\nthe viscount was really like.  He appeared to be about sixty-five, and\nthe dignified aspect which he wore to a gazer at a distance became\ndepreciated to jocund slyness upon nearer view, when the small type could\nbe read between the leading lines.  Then it could be seen that his upper\nlip dropped to a point in the middle, as if impressing silence upon his\ntoo demonstrative lower one.  His right and left profiles were different,\none corner of his mouth being more compressed than the other, producing a\ndeep line thence downwards to the side of his chin.  Each eyebrow rose\nobliquely outwards and upwards, and was thus far above the little eye,\nshining with the clearness of a pond that has just been able to weather\nthe heats of summer.  Below this was a preternaturally fat jowl, which,\nby thrusting against cheeks and chin, caused the arch old mouth to be\nalmost buried at the corners.\n\nA few words of greeting passed, and Ethelberta told him how she was\nfearing to meet them all, united and primed with their morning's\nknowledge as they appeared to be.\n\n'Well, we have not done much yet,' said Lord Mountclere.  'As for myself,\nI have given no thought at all to our day's work.  I had not forgotten\nyour promise to attend, if you could possibly drive across, and--hee-hee-\nhee!--I have frequently looked towards the hill where the road descends.\n. . .  Will you now permit me to introduce some of my party--as many of\nthem as you care to know by name?  I think they would all like to speak\nto you.'\n\nEthelberta then found herself nominally made known to ten or a dozen\nladies and gentlemen who had wished for special acquaintance with her.\nShe stood there, as all women stand who have made themselves remarkable\nby their originality, or devotion to any singular cause, as a person\nfreed of her hampering and inconvenient sex, and, by virtue of her\npopularity, unfettered from the conventionalities of manner prescribed by\ncustom for household womankind.  The charter to move abroad unchaperoned,\nwhich society for good reasons grants only to women of three sorts--the\nfamous, the ministering, and the improper--Ethelberta was in a fair way\nto make splendid use of: instead of walking in protected lanes she\nexperienced that luxury of isolation which normally is enjoyed by men\nalone, in conjunction with the attention naturally bestowed on a woman\nyoung and fair.  Among the presentations were Mr. and Mrs. Tynn, member\nand member's mainspring for North Wessex; Sir Cyril and Lady Blandsbury;\nLady Jane Joy; and the Honourable Edgar Mountclere, the viscount's\nbrother.  There also hovered near her the learned Doctor Yore; Mr. Small,\na profound writer, who never printed his works; the Reverend Mr. Brook,\nrector; the Very Reverend Dr. Taylor, dean; and the undoubtedly Reverend\nMr. Tinkleton, Nonconformist, who had slipped into the fold by chance.\n\nThese and others looked with interest at Ethelberta: the old county\nfathers hard, as at a questionable town phenomenon, the county sons\ntenderly, as at a pretty creature, and the county daughters with great\nadmiration, as at a lady reported by their mammas to be no better than\nshe should be.  It will be seen that Ethelberta was the sort of woman\nthat well-rooted local people might like to look at on such a free and\nfriendly occasion as an archaeological meeting, where, to gratify a\npleasant whim, the picturesque form of acquaintance is for the nonce\npreferred to the useful, the spirits being so brisk as to swerve from\nstrict attention to the select and sequent gifts of heaven, blood and\nacres, to consider for an idle moment the subversive Mephistophelian\nendowment, brains.\n\n'Our progress in the survey of the castle has not been far as yet,' Lord\nMountclere resumed; 'indeed, we have only just arrived, the weather this\nmorning being so unsettled.  When you came up we were engaged in a\npreliminary study of the poor animal you see there: how it could have got\nup here we cannot understand.'\n\nHe pointed as he spoke to the donkey which had brought Ethelberta\nthither, whereupon she was silent, and gazed at her untoward beast as if\nshe had never before beheld him.\n\nThe ass looked at Ethelberta as though he would say, 'Why don't you own\nme, after safely bringing you over those weary hills?'  But the pride and\nemulation which had made her what she was would not permit her, as the\nmost lovely woman there, to take upon her own shoulders the ridicule that\nhad already been cast upon the ass.  Had he been young and gaily\ncaparisoned, she might have done it; but his age, the clumsy trappings of\nrustic make, and his needy woful look of hard servitude, were too much to\nendure.\n\n'Many come and picnic here,' she said serenely, 'and the animal may have\nbeen left till they return from some walk.'\n\n'True,' said Lord Mountclere, without the slightest suspicion of the\ntruth.  The humble ass hung his head in his usual manner, and it demanded\nlittle fancy from Ethelberta to imagine that he despised her.  And then\nher mind flew back to her history and extraction, to her father--perhaps\nat that moment inventing a private plate-powder in an underground\npantry--and with a groan at her inconsistency in being ashamed of the\nass, she said in her heart, 'My God, what a thing am I!'\n\nThey then all moved on to another part of the castle, the viscount\nbusying himself round and round her person like the head scraper at a pig-\nkilling; and as they went indiscriminately mingled, jesting lightly or\ntalking in earnest, she beheld ahead of her the form of Neigh among the\nrest.\n\nNow, there could only be one reason on earth for Neigh's presence--her\nremark that she might attend--for Neigh took no more interest in\nantiquities than in the back of the moon.  Ethelberta was a little\nflurried; perhaps he had come to scold her, or to treat her badly in that\nindefinable way of his by which he could make a woman feel as nothing\nwithout any direct act at all.  She was afraid of him, and, determining\nto shun him, was thankful that Lord Mountclere was near, to take off the\nedge of Neigh's manner towards her if he approached.\n\n'Do you know in what part of the ruins the lecture is to be given?' she\nsaid to the viscount.\n\n'Wherever you like,' he replied gallantly.  'Do you propose a place, and\nI will get Dr. Yore to adopt it.  Say, shall it be here, or where they\nare standing?'\n\nHow could Ethelberta refrain from exercising a little power when it was\nput into her hands in this way?\n\n'Let it be here,' she said, 'if it makes no difference to the meeting.'\n\n'It shall be,' said Lord Mountclere.\n\nAnd then the lively old nobleman skipped like a roe to the President and\nto Dr. Yore, who was to read the paper on the castle, and they soon\nappeared coming back to where the viscount's party and Ethelberta were\nbeginning to seat themselves.  The bulk of the company followed, and Dr.\nYore began.\n\nHe must have had a countenance of leather--as, indeed, from his colour he\nappeared to have--to stand unmoved in his position, and read, and look up\nto give explanations, without a change of muscle, under the dozens of\nbright eyes that were there converged upon him, like the sticks of a fan,\nfrom the ladies who sat round him in a semicircle upon the grass.\nHowever, he went on calmly, and the women sheltered themselves from the\nheat with their umbrellas and sunshades, their ears lulled by the hum of\ninsects, and by the drone of the doctor's voice.  The reader buzzed on\nwith the history of the castle, tracing its development from a mound with\na few earthworks to its condition in Norman times; he related monkish\nmarvels connected with the spot; its resistance under Matilda to Stephen,\nits probable shape while a residence of King John, and the sad story of\nthe Damsel of Brittany, sister of his victim Arthur, who was confined\nhere in company with the two daughters of Alexander, king of Scotland.  He\nwent on to recount the confinement of Edward II. herein, previous to his\nmurder at Berkeley, the gay doings in the reign of Elizabeth, and so\ndownward through time to the final overthrow of the stern old pile.  As\nhe proceeded, the lecturer pointed with his finger at the various\nfeatures appertaining to the date of his story, which he told with\nsplendid vigour when he had warmed to his work, till his narrative,\nparticularly in the conjectural and romantic parts, where it became\ncoloured rather by the speaker's imagination than by the pigments of\nhistory, gathered together the wandering thoughts of all.  It was easy\nfor him then to meet those fair concentred eyes, when the sunshades were\nthrown back, and complexions forgotten, in the interest of the history.\nThe doctor's face was then no longer criticized as a rugged boulder, a\ndried fig, an oak carving, or a walnut shell, but became blotted out like\na mountain top in a shining haze by the nebulous pictures conjured by his\ntale.\n\nThen the lecture ended, and questions were asked, and individuals of the\ncompany wandered at will, the light dresses of the ladies sweeping over\nthe hot grass and brushing up thistledown which had hitherto lain\nquiescent, so that it rose in a flight from the skirts of each like a\ncomet's tail.\n\nSome of Lord Mountclere's party, including himself and Ethelberta,\nwandered now into a cool dungeon, partly open to the air overhead, where\nlong arms of ivy hung between their eyes and the white sky.  While they\nwere here, Lady Jane Joy and some other friends of the viscount told\nEthelberta that they were probably coming on to Knollsea.\n\nShe instantly perceived that getting into close quarters in that way\nmight be very inconvenient, considering the youngsters she had under her\ncharge, and straightway decided upon a point that she had debated for\nseveral days--a visit to her aunt in Normandy.  In London it had been a\nmere thought, but the Channel had looked so tempting from its brink that\nthe journey was virtually fixed as soon as she reached Knollsea, and\nfound that a little pleasure steamer crossed to Cherbourg once a week\nduring the summer, so that she would not have to enter the crowded routes\nat all.\n\n'I am afraid I shall not see you in Knollsea,' she said.  'I am about to\ngo to Cherbourg and then to Rouen.'\n\n'How sorry I am.  When do you leave?'\n\n'At the beginning of next week,' said Ethelberta, settling the time there\nand then.\n\n'Did I hear you say that you were going to Cherbourg and Rouen?' Lord\nMountclere inquired.\n\n'I think to do so,' said Ethelberta.\n\n'I am going to Normandy myself,' said a voice behind her, and without\nturning she knew that Neigh was standing there.\n\nThey next went outside, and Lord Mountclere offered Ethelberta his arm on\nthe ground of assisting her down the burnished grass slope.  Ethelberta,\ntaking pity upon him, took it; but the assistance was all on her side;\nshe stood like a statue amid his slips and totterings, some of which\ntaxed her strength heavily, and her ingenuity more, to appear as the\nsupported and not the supporter.  The incident brought Neigh still\nfurther from his retirement, and she learnt that he was one of a yachting\nparty which had put in at Knollsea that morning; she was greatly relieved\nto find that he was just now on his way to London, whence he would\nprobably proceed on his journey abroad.\n\nEthelberta adhered as well as she could to her resolve that Neigh should\nnot speak with her alone, but by dint of perseverance he did manage to\naddress her without being overheard.\n\n'Will you give me an answer?' said Neigh.  'I have come on purpose.'\n\n'I cannot just now.  I have been led to doubt you.'\n\n'Doubt me?  What new wrong have I done?'\n\n'Spoken jestingly of my visit to Farnfield.'\n\n'Good ---!  I did not speak or think of you.  When I told that incident I\nhad no idea who the lady was--I did not know it was you till two days\nlater, and I at once held my tongue.  I vow to you upon my soul and life\nthat what I say is true.  How shall I prove my truth better than by my\nerrand here?'\n\n'Don't speak of this now.  I am so occupied with other things.  I am\ngoing to Rouen, and will think of it on my way.'\n\n'I am going there too.  When do you go?'\n\n'I shall be in Rouen next Wednesday, I hope.'\n\n'May I ask where?'\n\n'Hotel Beau Sejour.'\n\n'Will you give me an answer there?  I can easily call upon you.  It is\nnow a month and more since you first led me to hope--'\n\n'I did not lead you to hope--at any rate clearly.'\n\n'Indirectly you did.  And although I am willing to be as considerate as\nany man ought to be in giving you time to think over the question, there\nis a limit to my patience.  Any necessary delay I will put up with, but I\nwon't be trifled with.  I hate all nonsense, and can't stand it.'\n\n'Indeed.  Good morning.'\n\n'But Mrs. Petherwin--just one word.'\n\n'I have nothing to say.'\n\n'I will meet you at Rouen for an answer.  I would meet you in Hades for\nthe matter of that.  Remember this: next Wednesday, if I live, I shall\ncall upon you at Rouen.'\n\nShe did not say nay.\n\n'May I?' he added.\n\n'If you will.'\n\n'But say it shall be an appointment?'\n\n'Very well.'\n\nLord Mountclere was by this time toddling towards them to ask if they\nwould come on to his house, Enckworth Court, not very far distant, to\nlunch with the rest of the party.  Neigh, having already arranged to go\non to town that afternoon, was obliged to decline, and Ethelberta thought\nfit to do the same, idly asking Lord Mountclere if Enckworth Court lay in\nthe direction of a gorge that was visible where they stood.\n\n'No; considerably to the left,' he said.  'The opening you are looking at\nwould reveal the sea if it were not for the trees that block the way.  Ah,\nthose trees have a history; they are half-a-dozen elms which I planted\nmyself when I was a boy.  How time flies!'\n\n'It is unfortunate they stand just so as to cover the blue bit of sea.\nThat addition would double the value of the view from here.'\n\n'You would prefer the blue sea to the trees?'\n\n'In that particular spot I should; they might have looked just as well,\nand yet have hidden nothing worth seeing.  The narrow slit would have\nbeen invaluable there.'\n\n'They shall fall before the sun sets, in deference to your opinion,' said\nLord Mountclere.\n\n'That would be rash indeed,' said Ethelberta, laughing, 'when my opinion\non such a point may be worth nothing whatever.'\n\n'Where no other is acted upon, it is practically the universal one,' he\nreplied gaily.\n\nAnd then Ethelberta's elderly admirer bade her adieu, and away the whole\nparty drove in a long train over the hills towards the valley wherein\nstood Enckworth Court.  Ethelberta's carriage was supposed by her friends\nto have been left at the village inn, as were many others, and her\nretiring from view on foot attracted no notice.\n\nShe watched them out of sight, and she also saw the rest depart--those\nwho, their interest in archaeology having begun and ended with this spot,\nhad, like herself, declined the hospitable viscount's invitation, and\nstarted to drive or walk at once home again.  Thereupon the castle was\nquite deserted except by Ethelberta, the ass, and the jackdaws, now\nfloundering at ease again in and about the ivy of the keep.\n\nNot wishing to enter Knollsea till the evening shades were falling, she\nstill walked amid the ruins, examining more leisurely some points which\nthe stress of keeping herself companionable would not allow her to attend\nto while the assemblage was present.  At the end of the survey, being\nsomewhat weary with her clambering, she sat down on the slope commanding\nthe gorge where the trees grew, to make a pencil sketch of the landscape\nas it was revealed between the ragged walls.  Thus engaged she weighed\nthe circumstances of Lord Mountclere's invitation, and could not be\ncertain if it were prudishness or simple propriety in herself which had\ninstigated her to refuse.  She would have liked the visit for many\nreasons, and if Lord Mountclere had been anybody but a remarkably\nattentive old widower, she would have gone.  As it was, it had occurred\nto her that there was something in his tone which should lead her to\nhesitate.  Were any among the elderly or married ladies who had appeared\nupon the ground in a detached form as she had done--and many had appeared\nthus--invited to Enckworth; and if not, why were they not?  That Lord\nMountclere admired her there was no doubt, and for this reason it behoved\nher to be careful.  His disappointment at parting from her was, in one\naspect, simply laughable, from its odd resemblance to the unfeigned\nsorrow of a boy of fifteen at a first parting from his first love; in\nanother aspect it caused reflection; and she thought again of his\ncuriosity about her doings for the remainder of the summer.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWhile she sketched and thought thus, the shadows grew longer, and the sun\nlow.  And then she perceived a movement in the gorge.  One of the trees\nforming the curtain across it began to wave strangely: it went further to\none side, and fell. Where the tree had stood was now a rent in the\nfoliage, and through the narrow rent could be seen the distant sea.\n\nEthelberta uttered a soft exclamation.  It was not caused by the surprise\nshe had felt, nor by the intrinsic interest of the sight, nor by want of\ncomprehension.  It was a sudden realization of vague things hitherto\ndreamed of from a distance only--a sense of novel power put into her\nhands without request or expectation.  A landscape was to be altered to\nsuit her whim.  She had in her lifetime moved essentially larger\nmountains, but they had seemed of far less splendid material than this;\nfor it was the nature of the gratification rather than its magnitude\nwhich enchanted the fancy of a woman whose poetry, in spite of her\nnecessities, was hardly yet extinguished.  But there was something more,\nwith which poetry had little to do.  Whether the opinion of any pretty\nwoman in England was of more weight with Lord Mountclere than memories of\nhis boyhood, or whether that distinction was reserved for her alone; this\nwas a point that she would have liked to know.\n\nThe enjoyment of power in a new element, an enjoyment somewhat resembling\nin kind that which is given by a first ride or swim, held Ethelberta to\nthe spot, and she waited, but sketched no more.  Another tree-top swayed\nand vanished as before, and the slit of sea was larger still.  Her mind\nand eye were so occupied with this matter that, sitting in her nook, she\ndid not observe a thin young man, his boots white with the dust of a long\njourney on foot, who arrived at the castle by the valley-road from\nKnollsea.  He looked awhile at the ruin, and, skirting its flank instead\nof entering by the great gateway, climbed up the scarp and walked in\nthrough a breach.  After standing for a moment among the walls, now\nsilent and apparently empty, with a disappointed look he descended the\nslope, and proceeded along on his way.\n\nEthelberta, who was in quite another part of the castle, saw the black\nspot diminishing to the size of a fly as he receded along the dusty road,\nand soon after she descended on the other side, where she remounted the\nass, and ambled homeward as she had come, in no bright mood.  What,\nseeing the precariousness of her state, was the day's triumph worth after\nall, unless, before her beauty abated, she could ensure her position\nagainst the attacks of chance?\n\n      'To be thus is nothing;\n   But to be safely thus.'\n\n--she said it more than once on her journey that day.\n\nOn entering the sitting-room of their cot up the hill she found it empty,\nand from a change perceptible in the position of small articles of\nfurniture, something unusual seemed to have taken place in her absence.\nThe dwelling being of that sort in which whatever goes on in one room is\naudible through all the rest, Picotee, who was upstairs, heard the\narrival and came down.  Picotee's face was rosed over with the brilliance\nof some excitement.  'What do you think I have to tell you, Berta?' she\nsaid.\n\n'I have no idea,' said her sister.  'Surely,' she added, her face\nintensifying to a wan sadness, 'Mr. Julian has not been here?'\n\n'Yes,' said Picotee.  'And we went down to the sands--he, and Myrtle, and\nGeorgina, and Emmeline, and I--and Cornelia came down when she had put\naway the dinner.  And then we dug wriggles out of the sand with Myrtle's\nspade: we got such a lot, and had such fun; they are in a dish in the\nkitchen.  Mr. Julian came to see you; but at last he could wait no\nlonger, and when I told him you were at the meeting in the castle ruins\nhe said he would try to find you there on his way home, if he could get\nthere before the meeting broke up.'\n\n'Then it was he I saw far away on the road--yes, it must have been.'  She\nremained in gloomy reverie a few moments, and then said, 'Very well--let\nit be.  Picotee, get me some tea: I do not want dinner.'\n\nBut the news of Christopher's visit seemed to have taken away her\nappetite for tea also, and after sitting a little while she flung herself\ndown upon the couch, and told Picotee that she had settled to go and see\ntheir aunt Charlotte.\n\n'I am going to write to Sol and Dan to ask them to meet me there,' she\nadded.  'I want them, if possible, to see Paris.  It will improve them\ngreatly in their trades, I am thinking, if they can see the kinds of\njoinery and decoration practised in France.  They agreed to go, if I\nshould wish it, before we left London.  You, of course, will go as my\nmaid.'\n\nPicotee gazed upon the sea with a crestfallen look, as if she would\nrather not cross it in any capacity just then.\n\n'It would scarcely be worth going to the expense of taking me, would it?'\nshe said.\n\nThe cause of Picotee's sudden sense of economy was so plain that her\nsister smiled; but young love, however foolish, is to a thinking person\nfar too tragic a power for ridicule; and Ethelberta forbore, going on as\nif Picotee had not spoken: 'I must have you with me.  I may be seen\nthere: so many are passing through Rouen at this time of the year.\nCornelia can take excellent care of the children while we are gone.  I\nwant to get out of England, and I will get out of England.  There is\nnothing but vanity and vexation here.'\n\n'I am sorry you were away when he called,' said Picotee gently.\n\n'O, I don't mean that.  I wish there were no different ranks in the\nworld, and that contrivance were not a necessary faculty to have at all.\nWell, we are going to cross by the little steamer that puts in here, and\nwe are going on Monday.'  She added in another minute, 'What had Mr.\nJulian to tell us that he came here?  How did he find us out?'\n\n'I mentioned that we were coming here in my letter to Faith.  Mr. Julian\nsays that perhaps he and his sister may also come for a few days before\nthe season is over.  I should like to see Miss Julian again.  She is such\na nice girl.'\n\n'Yes.'  Ethelberta played with her hair, and looked at the ceiling as she\nreclined.  'I have decided after all,' she said, 'that it will be better\nto take Cornelia as my maid, and leave you here with the children.\nCornelia is stronger as a companion than you, and she will be delighted\nto go.  Do you think you are competent to keep Myrtle and Georgina out of\nharm's way?'\n\n'O yes--I will be exceedingly careful,' said Picotee, with great\nvivacity.  'And if there is time I can go on teaching them a little.'\nThen Picotee caught Ethelberta's eye, and colouring red, sank down beside\nher sister, whispering, 'I know why it is!  But if you would rather have\nme with you I will go, and not once wish to stay.'\n\nEthelberta looked as if she knew all about that, and said, 'Of course\nthere will be no necessity to tell the Julians about my departure until\nthey have fixed the time for coming, and cannot alter their minds.'\n\nThe sound of the children with Cornelia, and their appearance outside the\nwindow, pushing between the fuchsia bushes which overhung the path, put\nan end to this dialogue; they entered armed with buckets and spades, a\nvery moist and sandy aspect pervading them as far up as the high-water\nmark of their clothing, and began to tell Ethelberta of the wonders of\nthe deep.\n\n\n\n\n32. A ROOM IN ENCKWORTH COURT\n\n\n'Are you sure the report is true?'\n\n'I am sure that what I say is true, my lord; but it is hardly to be\ncalled a report.  It is a secret, known at present to nobody but myself\nand Mrs. Doncastle's maid.'\n\nThe speaker was Lord Mountclere's trusty valet, and the conversation was\nbetween him and the viscount in a dressing-room at Enckworth Court, on\nthe evening after the meeting of archaeologists at Corvsgate Castle.\n\n'H'm-h'm; the daughter of a butler.  Does Mrs. Doncastle know of this\nyet, or Mr. Neigh, or any of their friends?'\n\n'No, my lord.'\n\n'You are quite positive?'\n\n'Quite positive.  I was, by accident, the first that Mrs. Menlove named\nthe matter to, and I told her it might be much to her advantage if she\ntook particular care it should go no further.'\n\n'Mrs. Menlove!  Who's she?'\n\n'The lady's-maid at Mrs. Doncastle's, my lord.'\n\n'O, ah--of course.  You may leave me now, Tipman.'  Lord Mountclere\nremained in thought for a moment.  'A clever little puss, to hoodwink us\nall like this--hee-hee!' he murmured.  'Her education--how finished; and\nher beauty--so seldom that I meet with such a woman.  Cut down my elms to\nplease a butler's daughter--what a joke--certainly a good joke!  To\ninterest me in her on the right side instead of the wrong was strange.\nBut it can be made to change sides--hee-hee!--it can be made to change\nsides!  Tipman!'\n\nTipman came forward from the doorway.\n\n'Will you take care that that piece of gossip you mentioned to me is not\nrepeated in this house?  I strongly disapprove of talebearing of any\nsort, and wish to hear no more of this.  Such stories are never true.\nAnswer me--do you hear?  Such stories are never true.'\n\n'I beg pardon, but I think your lordship will find this one true,' said\nthe valet quietly.\n\n'Then where did she get her manners and education?  Do you know?'\n\n'I do not, my lord.  I suppose she picked 'em up by her wits.'\n\n'Never mind what you suppose,' said the old man impatiently.  'Whenever I\nask a question of you tell me what you know, and no more.'\n\n'Quite so, my lord.  I beg your lordship's pardon for supposing.'\n\n'H'm-h'm.  Have the fashion-books and plates arrived yet?'\n\n'Le Follet has, my lord; but not the others.'\n\n'Let me have it at once.  Always bring it to me at once.  Are there any\nhandsome ones this time?'\n\n'They are much the same class of female as usual, I think, my lord,' said\nTipman, fetching the paper and laying it before him.\n\n'Yes, they are,' said the viscount, leaning back and scrutinizing the\nfaces of the women one by one, and talking softly to himself in a way\nthat had grown upon him as his age increased.  'Yet they are very well:\nthat one with her shoulder turned is pure and charming--the brown-haired\none will pass.  All very harmless and innocent, but without character; no\nsoul, or inspiration, or eloquence of eye.  What an eye was hers!  There\nis not a girl among them so beautiful. . . .  Tipman!  Come and take it\naway.  I don't think I will subscribe to these papers any longer--how\nlong have I subscribed?  Never mind--I take no interest in these things,\nand I suppose I must give them up.  What white article is that I see on\nthe floor yonder?'\n\n'I can see nothing, my lord.'\n\n'Yes, yes, you can.  At the other end of the room.  It is a white\nhandkerchief.  Bring it to me.'\n\n'I beg pardon, my lord, but I cannot see any white handkerchief.\nWhereabouts does your lordship mean?'\n\n'There in the corner.  If it is not a handkerchief, what is it?  Walk\nalong till you come to it--that is it; now a little further--now your\nfoot is against it.'\n\n'O that--it is not anything.  It is the light reflected against the\nskirting, so that it looks like a white patch of something--that is all.'\n\n'H'm-hm.  My eyes--how weak they are!  I am getting old, that's what it\nis: I am an old man.'\n\n'O no, my lord.'\n\n'Yes, an old man.'\n\n'Well, we shall all be old some day, and so will your lordship, I\nsuppose; but as yet--'\n\n'I tell you I am an old man!'\n\n'Yes, my lord--I did not mean to contradict.  An old man in one sense--old\nin a young man's sense, but not in a house-of-parliament or historical\nsense.  A little oldish--I meant that, my lord.'\n\n'I may be an old man in one sense or in another sense in your mind; but\nlet me tell you there are men older than I--'\n\n'Yes, so there are, my lord.'\n\n'People may call me what they please, and you may be impertinent enough\nto repeat to me what they say, but let me tell you I am not a very old\nman after all.  I am not an old man.'\n\n'Old in knowledge of the world I meant, my lord, not in years.'\n\n'Well, yes.  Experience of course I cannot be without.  And I like what\nis beautiful.  Tipman, you must go to Knollsea; don't send, but go\nyourself, as I wish nobody else to be concerned in this.  Go to Knollsea,\nand find out when the steamboat for Cherbourg starts; and when you have\ndone that, I shall want you to send Taylor to me.  I wish Captain Strong\nto bring the Fawn round into Knollsea Bay.  Next week I may want you to\ngo to Cherbourg in the yacht with me--if the Channel is pretty calm--and\nthen perhaps to Rouen and Paris.  But I will speak of that to-morrow.'\n\n'Very good, my lord.'\n\n'Meanwhile I recommend that you and Mrs. Menlove repeat nothing you may\nhave heard concerning the lady you just now spoke of.  Here is a slight\npresent for Mrs. Menlove; and accept this for yourself.'  He handed\nmoney.\n\n'Your lordship may be sure we will not,' the valet replied.\n\n\n\n\n33. THE ENGLISH CHANNEL--NORMANDY\n\n\nOn Monday morning the little steamer Speedwell made her appearance round\nthe promontory by Knollsea Bay, to take in passengers for the transit to\nCherbourg.  Breezes the freshest that could blow without verging on\nkeenness flew over the quivering deeps and shallows; and the sunbeams\npierced every detail of barrow, path and rabbit-run upon the lofty\nconvexity of down and waste which shut in Knollsea from the world to the\nwest.\n\nThey left the pier at eight o'clock, taking at first a short easterly\ncourse to avoid a sinister ledge of limestones jutting from the water\nlike crocodile's teeth, which first obtained notoriety in English history\nthrough being the spot whereon a formidable Danish fleet went to pieces a\nthousand years ago.  At the moment that the Speedwell turned to enter\nupon the direct course, a schooner-yacht, whose sheets gleamed like\nbridal satin, loosed from a remoter part of the bay; continuing to bear\noff, she cut across the steamer's wake, and took a course almost due\nsoutherly, which was precisely that of the Speedwell.  The wind was very\nfavourable for the yacht, blowing a few points from north in a steady\npressure on her quarter, and, having been built with every modern\nappliance that shipwrights could offer, the schooner found no difficulty\nin getting abreast, and even ahead, of the steamer, as soon as she had\nescaped the shelter of the hills.\n\nThe more or less parallel courses of the vessels continued for some time\nwithout causing any remark among the people on board the Speedwell.  At\nlength one noticed the fact, and another; and then it became the general\ntopic of conversation in the group upon the bridge, where Ethelberta, her\nhair getting frizzed and her cheeks carnationed by the wind, sat upon a\ncamp-stool looking towards the prow.\n\n'She is bound for Guernsey,' said one.  'In half-an-hour she will put\nabout for a more westerly course, you'll see.'\n\n'She is not for Guernsey or anywhere that way,' said an acquaintance,\nlooking through his glass.  'If she is out for anything more than a\nmorning cruise, she is bound for our port.  I should not wonder if she is\ncrossing to get stocked, as most of them do, to save the duty on her wine\nand provisions.'\n\n'Do you know whose yacht it is?'\n\n'I do not.'\n\nEthelberta looked at the light leaning figure of the pretty schooner,\nwhich seemed to skate along upon her bilge and make white shavings of all\nthe sea that touched her.  She at first imagined that this might be the\nyacht Neigh had arrived in at the end of the previous week, for she knew\nthat he came as one of a yachting party, and she had noticed no other\nboat of that sort in the bay since his arrival.  But as all his party had\ngone ashore and not yet returned, she was surprised to see the supposed\nvessel here.  To add to her perplexity, she could not be positive, now\nthat it came to a real nautical query, whether the craft of Neigh's\nfriends had one mast or two, for she had caught but a fragmentary view of\nthe topsail over the apple-trees.\n\n'Is that the yacht which has been lying at Knollsea for the last few\ndays?' she inquired of the master of the Speedwell, as soon as she had an\nopportunity.\n\nThe master warmed beneath his copper-coloured rind.  'O no, miss; that\none you saw was a cutter--a smaller boat altogether,' he replied.  'Built\non the sliding-keel principle, you understand, miss--and red below her\nwater-line, if you noticed.  This is Lord Mountclere's yacht--the Fawn.\nYou might have seen her re'ching in round Old-Harry Rock this morning\nafore we started.'\n\n'Lord Mountclere's?'\n\n'Yes--a nobleman of this neighbourhood.  But he don't do so much at\nyachting as he used to in his younger days.  I believe he's aboard this\nmorning, however.'\n\nEthelberta now became more absorbed than ever in their ocean comrade, and\nwatched its motions continually.  The schooner was considerably in\nadvance of them by this time, and seemed to be getting by degrees out of\ntheir course.  She wondered if Lord Mountclere could be really going to\nCherbourg: if so, why had he said nothing about the trip to her when she\nspoke of her own approaching voyage thither?  The yacht changed its\ncharacter in her eyes; losing the indefinite interest of the unknown, it\nacquired the charm of a riddle on motives, of which the alternatives\nwere, had Lord Mountclere's journey anything to do with her own, or had\nit not?  Common probability pointed to the latter supposition; but the\ntime of starting, the course of the yacht, and recollections of Lord\nMountclere's homage, suggested the more extraordinary possibility.\n\nShe went across to Cornelia.  'The man who handed us on board--didn't I\nsee him speaking to you this morning?' she said.\n\n'O yes,' said Cornelia.  'He asked if my mistress was the popular Mrs.\nPetherwin?\n\n'And you told him, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'What made you do that, Cornelia?'\n\n'I thought I might: I couldn't help it.  When I went through the toll-\ngate, such a gentlemanly-looking man asked me if he should help me to\ncarry the things to the end of the pier; and as we went on together he\nsaid he supposed me to be Mrs. Petherwin's maid.  I said, \"Yes.\"  The two\nmen met afterwards, so there would ha' been no good in my denying it to\none of 'em.'\n\n'Who was this gentlemanly person?'\n\n'I asked the other man that, and he told me one of Lord Mountclere's\nupper servants.  I knew then there was no harm in having been civil to\nhim.  He is well-mannered, and talks splendid language.'\n\n'That yacht you see on our right hand is Lord Mountclere's property.  If\nI do not mistake, we shall have her closer by-and-by, and you may meet\nyour gentlemanly friend again.  Be careful how you talk to him.'\n\nEthelberta sat down, thought of the meeting at Corvsgate Castle, of the\ndinner-party at Mr. Doncastle's, of the strange position she had there\nbeen in, and then of her father.  She suddenly reproached herself for\nthoughtlessness; for in her pocket lay a letter from him, which she had\ntaken from the postman that morning at the moment of coming from the\ndoor, and in the hurry of embarking had forgotten ever since.  Opening it\nquickly, she read:--\n\n   'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA,--Your letter reached me yesterday, and I called\n   round at Exonbury Crescent in the afternoon, as you wished.  Everything\n   is going on right there, and you have no occasion to be anxious about\n   them.  I do not leave town for another week or two, and by the time I\n   am gone Sol and Dan will have returned from Paris, if your mother and\n   Gwendoline want any help: so that you need not hurry back on their\n   account.\n\n   'I have something else to tell you, which is not quite so\n   satisfactory, and it is this that makes me write at once; but do not\n   be alarmed.  It began in this way.  A few nights after the\n   dinner-party here I was determined to find out if there was any truth\n   in what you had been told about that boy, and having seen Menlove go\n   out as usual after dark, I followed her.  Sure enough, when she had\n   got into the park, up came master Joe, smoking a cigar.  As soon as\n   they had met I went towards them, and Menlove, seeing somebody draw\n   nigh, began to edge off, when the blockhead said, \"Never mind, my\n   love, it is only the old man.\"  Being very provoked with both of them,\n   though she was really the most to blame, I gave him some smart cuts\n   across the shoulders with my cane, and told him to go home, which he\n   did with a flea in his ear, the rascal.  I believe I have cured his\n   courting tricks for some little time.\n\n   'Well, Menlove then walked by me, quite cool, as if she were merely a\n   lady passing by chance at the time, which provoked me still more,\n   knowing the whole truth of it, and I could not help turning upon her\n   and saying, \"You, madam, ought to be served the same way.\"  She\n   replied in very haughty words, and I walked away, saying that I had\n   something better to do than argue with a woman of her character at\n   that hour of the evening.  This so set her up that she followed me\n   home, marched into my pantry, and told me that if I had been more\n   careful about my manners in calling her a bad character, it might have\n   been better both for me and my stuck-up daughter--a daw in eagle's\n   plumes--and so on.  Now it seems that she must have coaxed something\n   out of Joey about you--for what lad in the world could be a match for\n   a woman of her experience and arts!  I hope she will do you no serious\n   damage; but I tell you the whole state of affairs exactly as they are,\n   that you may form your own opinions.  After all, there is no real\n   disgrace, for none of us have ever done wrong, but have worked\n   honestly for a living.  However, I will let you know if anything\n   serious really happens.'\n\nThis was all that her father said on the matter, the letter concluding\nwith messages to the children and directions from their mother with\nregard to their clothes.\n\nEthelberta felt very distinctly that she was in a strait; the old\nimpression that, unless her position were secured soon, it never would be\nsecured, returned with great force.  A doubt whether it was worth\nsecuring would have been very strong ere this, had not others besides\nherself been concerned in her fortunes.  She looked up from her letter,\nand beheld the pertinacious yacht; it led her up to a conviction that\ntherein lay a means and an opportunity.\n\nNothing further of importance occurred in crossing.  Ethelberta's head\nached after a while, and Cornelia's healthy cheeks of red were found to\nhave diminished their colour to the size of a wafer and the quality of a\nstain.  The Speedwell entered the breakwater at Cherbourg to find the\nschooner already in the roadstead; and by the time the steamer was\nbrought up Ethelberta could see the men on board the yacht clewing up and\nmaking things snug in a way from which she inferred that they were not\ngoing to leave the harbour again that day.  With the aspect of a fair\ngalleon that could easily out-manoeuvre her persevering buccaneer,\nEthelberta passed alongside.  Could it be possible that Lord Mountclere\nhad on her account fixed this day for his visit across the Channel?\n\n'Well, I would rather be haunted by him than by Mr. Neigh,' she said; and\nbegan laying her plans so as to guard against inconvenient surprises.\n\nThe next morning Ethelberta was at the railway station, taking tickets\nfor herself and Cornelia, when she saw an old yet sly and somewhat merry-\nfaced Englishman a little way off.  He was attended by a younger man, who\nappeared to be his valet.\n\n'I will exchange one of these tickets,' she said to the clerk, and having\ndone so she went to Cornelia to inform her that it would after all be\nadvisable for them to travel separate, adding, 'Lord Mountclere is in the\nstation, and I think he is going on by our train.  Remember, you are my\nmaid again now.  Is not that the gentlemanly man who assisted you\nyesterday?'  She signified the valet as she spoke.\n\n'It is,' said Cornelia.\n\nWhen the passengers were taking their seats, and Ethelberta was thinking\nwhether she might not after all enter a second-class with Cornelia\ninstead of sitting solitary in a first because of an old man's proximity,\nshe heard a shuffling at her elbow, and the next moment found that he was\novertly observing her as if he had not done so in secret at all.  She at\nonce gave him an unsurprised gesture of recognition.  'I saw you some\ntime ago; what a singular coincidence,' she said.\n\n'A charming one,' said Lord Mountclere, smiling a half-minute smile, and\nmaking as if he would take his hat off and would not quite.  'Perhaps we\nmust not call it coincidence entirely,' he continued; 'my journey, which\nI have contemplated for some time, was not fixed this week altogether\nwithout a thought of your presence on the road--hee-hee!  Do you go far\nto-day?'\n\n'As far as Caen,' said Ethelberta.\n\n'Ah!  That's the end of my day's journey, too,' said Lord Mountclere.\nThey parted and took their respective places, Lord Mountclere choosing a\ncompartment next to the one Ethelberta was entering, and not, as she had\nexpected, attempting to join her.\n\nNow she had instantly fancied when the viscount was speaking that there\nwere signs of some departure from his former respectful manner towards\nher; and an enigma lay in that.  At their earlier meetings he had never\nventured upon a distinct coupling of himself and herself as he had done\nin his broad compliment to-day--if compliment it could be called.  She\nwas not sure that he did not exceed his license in telling her\ndeliberately that he had meant to hover near her in a private journey\nwhich she was taking without reference to him.  She did not object to the\nact, but to the avowal of the act; and, being as sensitive as a barometer\non signs affecting her social condition, it darted upon Ethelberta for\none little moment that he might possibly have heard a word or two about\nher being nothing more nor less than one of a tribe of thralls; hence his\nfreedom of manner.  Certainly a plain remark of that sort was exactly\nwhat a susceptible peer might be supposed to say to a pretty woman of far\ninferior degree.  A rapid redness filled her face at the thought that he\nmight have smiled upon her as upon a domestic whom he was disposed to\nchuck under the chin.  'But no,' she said.  'He would never have taken\nthe trouble to follow and meet with me had he learnt to think me other\nthan a lady.  It is extremity of devotion--that's all.'\n\nIt was not Ethelberta's inexperience, but that her conception of self\nprecluded such an association of ideas, which led her to dismiss the\nsurmise that his attendance could be inspired by a motive beyond that of\npaying her legitimate attentions as a co-ordinate with him and his in the\nsocial field.  Even if he only meant flirtation, she read it as of that\nsort from which courtship with an eye to matrimony differs only in\ndegree.  Hence, she thought, his interest in her was not likely, under\nthe ordinary influences of caste feeling, to continue longer than while\nhe was kept in ignorance of her consanguinity with a stock proscribed.\nShe sighed at the anticipated close of her full-feathered towering when\nher ties and bonds should be uncovered.  She might have seen matters in a\ndifferent light, and sighed more.  But in the stir of the moment it\nescaped her thought that ignorance of her position, and a consequent\nregard for her as a woman of good standing, would have prevented his\nindulgence in any course which was open to the construction of being\ndisrespectful.\n\nValognes, Carentan, Isigny, Bayeux, were passed, and the train drew up at\nCaen.  Ethelberta's intention had been to stay here for one night, but\nhaving learnt from Lord Mountclere, as previously described, that this\nwas his destination, she decided to go on.  On turning towards the\ncarriage after a few minutes of promenading at the Caen station, she was\nsurprised to perceive that Lord Mountclere, who had alighted as if to\nleave, was still there.\n\nThey spoke again to each other.  'I find I have to go further,' he\nsuddenly said, when she had chatted with him a little time.  And\nbeckoning to the man who was attending to his baggage, he directed the\nthings to be again placed in the train.\n\nTime passed, and they changed at the next junction.  When Ethelberta\nentered a carriage on the branch line to take her seat for the remainder\nof the journey, there sat the viscount in the same division.  He\nexplained that he was going to Rouen.\n\nEthelberta came to a quick resolution.  Her audacity, like that of a\nchild getting nearer and nearer a parent's side, became wonderfully\nvigorous as she approached her destination; and though there were three\ngood hours of travel to Rouen as yet, the heavier part of the journey was\npast.  At her aunt's would be a safe refuge, play what pranks she might,\nand there she would to-morrow meet those bravest of defenders Sol and\nDan, to whom she had sent as much money as she could conveniently spare\ntowards their expenses, with directions that they were to come by the\nmost economical route, and meet her at the house of her aunt, Madame\nMoulin, previous to their educational trip to Paris, their own\ncontribution being the value of the week's work they would have to lose.\nThus backed up by Sol and Dan, her aunt, and Cornelia, Ethelberta felt\nquite the reverse of a lonely female persecuted by a wicked lord in a\nforeign country.  'He shall pay for his weaknesses, whatever they mean,'\nshe thought; 'and what they mean I will find out at once.'\n\n'I am going to Paris,' she said.\n\n'You cannot to-night, I think.'\n\n'To-morrow, I mean.'\n\n'I should like to go on to-morrow.  Perhaps I may.  So that there is a\nchance of our meeting again.'\n\n'Yes; but I do not leave Rouen till the afternoon.  I first shall go to\nthe cathedral, and drive round the city.'\n\nLord Mountclere smiled pleasantly.  There seemed a sort of encouragement\nin her words.  Ethelberta's thoughts, however, had flown at that moment\nto the approaching situation at her aunt's hotel: it would be extremely\nembarrassing if he should go there.\n\n'Where do you stay, Lord Mountclere?' she said.\n\nThus directly asked, he could not but commit himself to the name of the\nhotel he had been accustomed to patronize, which was one in the upper\npart of the city.\n\n'Mine is not that one,' said Ethelberta frigidly.\n\nNo further remark was made under this head, and they conversed for the\nremainder of the daylight on scenery and other topics, Lord Mountclere's\nair of festivity lending him all the qualities of an agreeable companion.\nBut notwithstanding her resolve, Ethelberta failed, for that day at\nleast, to make her mind clear upon Lord Mountclere's intentions.  To that\nend she would have liked first to know what were the exact limits set by\nsociety to conduct under present conditions, if society had ever set any\nat all, which was open to question: since experience had long ago taught\nher that much more freedom actually prevails in the communion of the\nsexes than is put on paper as etiquette, or admitted in so many words as\ncorrect behaviour.  In short, everything turned upon whether he had\nlearnt of her position when off the platform at Mayfair Hall.\n\nWearied with these surmises, and the day's travel, she closed her eyes.\nAnd then her enamoured companion more widely opened his, and traced the\nbeautiful features opposite him.  The arch of the brows--like a slur in\nmusic--the droop of the lashes, the meeting of the lips, and the sweet\nrotundity of the chin--one by one, and all together, they were adored,\ntill his heart was like a retort full of spirits of wine.\n\nIt was a warm evening, and when they arrived at their journey's end\ndistant thunder rolled behind heavy and opaque clouds.  Ethelberta bade\nadieu to her attentive satellite, called to Cornelia, and entered a cab;\nbut before they reached the inn the thunder had increased.  Then a cloud\ncracked into flame behind the iron spire of the cathedral, showing in\nrelief its black ribs and stanchions, as if they were the bars of a\nblazing cresset held on high.\n\n'Ah, we will clamber up there to-morrow,' said Ethelberta.\n\nA wondrous stillness pervaded the streets of the city after this, though\nit was not late; and their arrival at M. Moulin's door was quite an event\nfor the quay.  No rain came, as they had expected, and by the time they\nhalted the western sky had cleared, so that the newly-lit lamps on the\nquay, and the evening glow shining over the river, inwove their\nharmonious rays as the warp and woof of one lustrous tissue.  Before they\nhad alighted there appeared from the archway Madame Moulin in person,\nfollowed by the servants of the hotel in a manner signifying that they\ndid not receive a visitor once a fortnight, though at that moment the\nclatter of sixty knives, forks, and tongues was audible through an open\nwindow from the adjoining dining-room, to the great interest of a group\nof idlers outside.  Ethelberta had not seen her aunt since she last\npassed through the town with Lady Petherwin, who then told her that this\nlandlady was the only respectable relative she seemed to have in the\nworld.\n\nAunt Charlotte's face was an English outline filled in with French shades\nunder the eyes, on the brows, and round the mouth, by the natural effect\nof years; she resembled the British hostess as little as well could be,\nno point in her causing the slightest suggestion of drops taken for the\nstomach's sake.  Telling the two young women she would gladly have met\nthem at the station had she known the hour of their arrival, she kissed\nthem both without much apparent notice of a difference in their\nconditions; indeed, seeming rather to incline to Cornelia, whose country\nface and homely style of clothing may have been more to her mind than\nEthelberta's finished travelling-dress, a class of article to which she\nappeared to be well accustomed.  Her husband was at this time at the head\nof the table-d'hote, and mentioning the fact as an excuse for his non-\nappearance, she accompanied them upstairs.\n\nAfter the strain of keeping up smiles with Lord Mountclere, the rattle\nand shaking, and the general excitements of the chase across the water\nand along the rail, a face in which she saw a dim reflex of her mother's\nwas soothing in the extreme, and Ethelberta went up to the staircase with\na feeling of expansive thankfulness.  Cornelia paused to admire the clean\ncourt and the small caged birds sleeping on their perches, the boxes of\nveronica in bloom, of oleander, and of tamarisk, which freshened the air\nof the court and lent a romance to the lamplight, the cooks in their\npaper caps and white blouses appearing at odd moments from an Avernus\nbehind; while the prompt 'v'la!' of teetotums in mob caps, spinning down\nthe staircase in answer to the periodic clang of bells, filled her with\nwonder, and pricked her conscience with thoughts of how seldom such\ntranscendent nimbleness was attempted by herself in a part so nearly\nsimilar.\n\n\n\n\n34. THE HOTEL BEAU SEJOUR AND SPOTS NEAR IT\n\n\nThe next day, much to Ethelberta's surprise, there was a letter for her\nin her mother's up-hill hand.  She neglected all the rest of its contents\nfor the following engrossing sentences:--\n\n   'Menlove has wormed everything out of poor Joey, we find, and your\n   father is much upset about it.  She had another quarrel with him, and\n   then declared she would expose you and us to Mrs. Doncastle and all\n   your friends.  I think that Menlove is the kind of woman who will\n   stick to her word, and the question for you to consider is, how can\n   you best face out any report of the truth which she will spread, and\n   contradict the lies that she will add to it?  It appears to me to be a\n   dreadful thing, and so it will probably appear to you.  The worst part\n   will be that your sisters and brothers are your servants, and that\n   your father is actually engaged in the house where you dine.  I am\n   dreadful afraid that this will be considered a fine joke for gossips,\n   and will cause no end of laughs in society at your expense.  At any\n   rate, should Menlove spread the report, it would absolutely prevent\n   people from attending your lectures next season, for they would feel\n   like dupes, and be angry with theirselves, and you, and all of us.\n\n   'The only way out of the muddle that I can see for you is to put some\n   scheme of marrying into effect as soon as possible, and before these\n   things are known.  Surely by this time, with all your opportunities,\n   you have been able to strike up an acquaintance with some gentleman or\n   other, so as to make a suitable match.  You see, my dear Berta,\n   marriage is a thing which, once carried out, fixes you more firm in a\n   position than any personal brains can do; for as you stand at present,\n   every loose tooth, and every combed-out hair, and every new wrinkle,\n   and every sleepless night, is so much took away from your chance for\n   the future, depending as it do upon your skill in charming.  I know\n   that you have had some good offers, so do listen to me, and warm up\n   the best man of them again a bit, and get him to repeat his words\n   before your roundness shrinks away, and 'tis too late.\n\n   'Mr. Ladywell has called here to see you; it was just after I had\n   heard that this Menlove might do harm, so I thought I could do no\n   better than send down word to him that you would much like to see him,\n   and were wondering sadly why he had not called lately.  I gave him\n   your address at Rouen, that he might find you, if he chose, at once,\n   and be got to propose, since he is better than nobody.  I believe he\n   said, directly Joey gave him the address, that he was going abroad,\n   and my opinion is that he will come to you, because of the\n   encouragement I gave him.  If so, you must thank me for my foresight\n   and care for you.\n\n   'I heave a sigh of relief sometimes at the thought that I, at any\n   rate, found a husband before the present man-famine began.  Don't\n   refuse him this time, there's a dear, or, mark my words, you'll have\n   cause to rue it--unless you have beforehand got engaged to somebody\n   better than he.  You will not if you have not already, for the\n   exposure is sure to come soon.'\n\n'O, this false position!--it is ruining your nature, my too thoughtful\nmother!  But I will not accept any of them--I'll brazen it out!' said\nEthelberta, throwing the letter wherever it chose to fly, and picking it\nup to read again.  She stood and thought it all over.  'I must decide to\ndo something!' was her sigh again; and, feeling an irresistible need of\nmotion, she put on her things and went out to see what resolve the\nmorning would bring.\n\nNo rain had fallen during the night, and the air was now quiet in a warm\nheavy fog, through which old cider-smells, reminding her of Wessex,\noccasionally came from narrow streets in the background.  Ethelberta\npassed up the Rue Grand-Pont into the little dusky Rue Saint-Romain,\nbehind the cathedral, being driven mechanically along by the fever and\nfret of her thoughts.  She was about to enter the building by the\ntransept door, when she saw Lord Mountclere coming towards her.\n\nEthelberta felt equal to him, or a dozen such, this morning.  The looming\nspectres raised by her mother's information, the wearing sense of being\nover-weighted in the race, were driving her to a Hamlet-like fantasticism\nand defiance of augury; moreover, she was abroad.\n\n'I am about to ascend to the parapets of the cathedral,' said she, in\nanswer to a half inquiry.\n\n'I should be delighted to accompany you,' he rejoined, in a manner as\ncapable of explanation by his knowledge of her secret as was Ethelberta's\nmanner by her sense of nearing the end of her maying.  But whether this\nfrequent glide into her company was meant as ephemeral flirtation, to\nfill the half-hours of his journey, or whether it meant a serious love-\nsuit--which were the only alternatives that had occurred to her on the\nsubject--did not trouble her now.  'I am bound to be civil to so great a\nlord,' she lightly thought, and expressing no objection to his presence,\nshe passed with him through the outbuildings, containing Gothic lumber\nfrom the shadowy pile above, and ascended the stone staircase.  Emerging\nfrom its windings, they duly came to the long wooden ladder suspended in\nmid-air that led to the parapet of the tower.  This being wide enough for\ntwo abreast, she could hardly do otherwise than wait a moment for the\nviscount, who up to this point had never faltered, and who amused her as\nthey went by scraps of his experience in various countries, which, to do\nhim justice, he told with vivacity and humour.  Thus they reached the end\nof the flight, and entered behind a balustrade.\n\n'The prospect will be very lovely from this point when the fog has blown\noff,' said Lord Mountclere faintly, for climbing and chattering at the\nsame time had fairly taken away his breath.  He leant against the masonry\nto rest himself.  'The air is clearing already; I fancy I saw a sunbeam\nor two.'\n\n'It will be lovelier above,' said Ethelberta.  'Let us go to the platform\nat the base of the fleche, and wait for a view there.'\n\n'With all my heart,' said her attentive companion.\n\nThey passed in at a door and up some more stone steps, which landed them\nfinally in the upper chamber of the tower.  Lord Mountclere sank on a\nbeam, and asked smilingly if her ambition was not satisfied with this\ngoal.  'I recollect going to the top some years ago,' he added, 'and it\ndid not occur to me as being a thing worth doing a second time.  And\nthere was no fog then, either.'\n\n'O,' said Ethelberta, 'it is one of the most splendid things a person can\ndo!  The fog is going fast, and everybody with the least artistic feeling\nin the direction of bird's-eye views makes the ascent every time of\ncoming here.'\n\n'Of course, of course,' said Lord Mountclere.  'And I am only too happy\nto go to any height with you.'\n\n'Since you so kindly offer, we will go to the very top of the spire--up\nthrough the fog and into the sunshine,' said Ethelberta.\n\nLord Mountclere covered a grim misgiving by a gay smile, and away they\nwent up a ladder admitting to the base of the huge iron framework above;\nthen they entered upon the regular ascent of the cage, towards the hoped-\nfor celestial blue, and among breezes which never descended so low as the\ntown.  The journey was enlivened with more breathless witticisms from\nLord Mountclere, till she stepped ahead of him again; when he asked how\nmany more steps there were.\n\nShe inquired of the man in the blue blouse who accompanied them.  'Fifty-\nfive,' she returned to Lord Mountclere a moment later.\n\nThey went round, and round, and yet around.\n\n'How many are there now?' Lord Mountclere demanded this time of the man.\n\n'A hundred and ninety, Monsieur,' he said.\n\n'But there were only fifty-five ever so long ago!'\n\n'Two hundred and five, then,' said the man.  'Perhaps the mist prevented\nMademoiselle hearing me distinctly?'\n\n'Never mind: I would follow were there five thousand more, did\nMademoiselle bid me!' said the exhausted nobleman gallantly, in English.\n\n'Hush!' said Ethelberta, with displeasure.\n\n'He doesn't understand a word,' said Lord Mountclere.\n\nThey paced the remainder of their spiral pathway in silence, and having\nat last reached the summit, Lord Mountclere sank down on one of the\nsteps, panting out, 'Dear me, dear me!'\n\nEthelberta leaned and looked around, and said, 'How extraordinary this\nis.  It is sky above, below, everywhere.'\n\nHe dragged himself together and stepped to her side.  They formed as it\nwere a little world to themselves, being completely ensphered by the fog,\nwhich here was dense as a sea of milk.  Below was neither town, country,\nnor cathedral--simply whiteness, into which the iron legs of their\ngigantic perch faded to nothing.\n\n'We have lost our labour; there is no prospect for you, after all, Lord\nMountclere,' said Ethelberta, turning her eyes upon him.  He looked at\nher face as if there were, and she continued, 'Listen; I hear sounds from\nthe town: people's voices, and carts, and dogs, and the noise of a\nrailway-train.  Shall we now descend, and own ourselves disappointed?'\n\n'Whenever you choose.'\n\nBefore they had put their intention in practice there appeared to be\nreasons for waiting awhile.  Out of the plain of fog beneath, a stone\ntooth seemed to be upheaving itself: then another showed forth.  These\nwere the summits of the St. Romain and the Butter Towers--at the western\nend of the building.  As the fog stratum collapsed other summits\nmanifested their presence further off--among them the two spires and\nlantern of St. Ouen's; when to the left the dome of St. Madeline's caught\na first ray from the peering sun, under which its scaly surface glittered\nlike a fish.  Then the mist rolled off in earnest, and revealed far\nbeneath them a whole city, its red, blue, and grey roofs forming a\nvariegated pattern, small and subdued as that of a pavement in mosaic.\nEastward in the spacious outlook lay the hill of St. Catherine, breaking\nintrusively into the large level valley of the Seine; south was the river\nwhich had been the parent of the mist, and the Ile Lacroix, gorgeous in\nscarlet, purple, and green.  On the western horizon could be dimly\ndiscerned melancholy forests, and further to the right stood the hill and\nrich groves of Boisguillaume.\n\nEthelberta having now done looking around, the descent was begun and\ncontinued without intermission till they came to the passage behind the\nparapet.\n\nEthelberta was about to step airily forward, when there reached her ear\nthe voices of persons below.  She recognized as one of them the slow\nunaccented tones of Neigh.\n\n'Please wait a minute!' she said in a peremptory manner of confusion\nsufficient to attract Lord Mountclere's attention.\n\nA recollection had sprung to her mind in a moment.  She had half made an\nappointment with Neigh at her aunt's hotel for this very week, and here\nwas he in Rouen to keep it.  To meet him while indulging in this vagary\nwith Lord Mountclere--which, now that the mood it had been engendered by\nwas passing off, she somewhat regretted--would be the height of\nimprudence.\n\n'I should like to go round to the other side of the parapet for a few\nmoments,' she said, with decisive quickness.  'Come with me, Lord\nMountclere.'\n\nThey went round to the other side.  Here she kept the viscount and their\nsuisse until she deemed it probable that Neigh had passed by, when she\nreturned with her companions and descended to the bottom.  They emerged\ninto the Rue Saint-Romain, whereupon a woman called from the opposite\nside of the way to their guide, stating that she had told the other\nEnglish gentleman that the English lady had gone into the fleche.\n\nEthelberta turned and looked up.  She could just discern Neigh's form\nupon the steps of the fleche above, ascending toilsomely in search of\nher.\n\n'What English gentleman could that have been?' said Lord Mountclere,\nafter paying the man.  He spoke in a way which showed he had not\noverlooked her confusion.  'It seems that he must have been searching for\nus, or rather for you?'\n\n'Only Mr. Neigh,' said Ethelberta.  'He told me he was coming here.  I\nbelieve he is waiting for an interview with me.'\n\n'H'm,' said Lord Mountclere.\n\n'Business--only business,' said she.\n\n'Shall I leave you?  Perhaps the business is important--most important.'\n\n'Unfortunately it is.'\n\n'You must forgive me this once: I cannot help--will you give me\npermission to make a difficult remark?' said Lord Mountclere, in an\nimpatient voice.\n\n'With pleasure.'\n\n'Well, then, the business I meant was--an engagement to be married.'\n\nHad it been possible for a woman to be perpetually on the alert she might\nnow have supposed that Lord Mountclere knew all about her; a mechanical\ndeference must have restrained such an illusion had he seen her in any\nother light than that of a distracting slave.  But she answered quietly,\n'So did I.'\n\n'But how does he know--dear me, dear me!  I beg pardon,' said the\nviscount.\n\nShe looked at him curiously, as if to imply that he was seriously out of\nhis reckoning in respect of her if he supposed that he would be allowed\nto continue this little play at love-making as long as he chose, when she\nwas offered the position of wife by a man so good as Neigh.\n\nThey stood in silence side by side till, much to her ease, Cornelia\nappeared at the corner waiting.  At the last moment he said, in somewhat\nagitated tones, and with what appeared to be a renewal of the respect\nwhich had been imperceptibly dropped since they crossed the Channel, 'I\nwas not aware of your engagement to Mr. Neigh.  I fear I have been acting\nmistakenly on that account.'\n\n'There is no engagement as yet,' said she.\n\nLord Mountclere brightened like a child.  'Then may I have a few words in\nprivate--'\n\n'Not now--not to-day,' said Ethelberta, with a certain irritation at she\nknew not what.  'Believe me, Lord Mountclere, you are mistaken in many\nthings.  I mean, you think more of me than you ought.  A time will come\nwhen you will despise me for this day's work, and it is madness in you to\ngo further.'\n\nLord Mountclere, knowing what he did know, may have imagined what she\nreferred to; but Ethelberta was without the least proof that he had the\nkey to her humour.  'Well, well, I'll be responsible for the madness,' he\nsaid.  'I know you to be--a famous woman, at all events; and that's\nenough.  I would say more, but I cannot here.  May I call upon you?'\n\n'Not now.'\n\n'When shall I?'\n\n'If you must, let it be a month hence at my house in town,' she said\nindifferently, the Hamlet mood being still upon her.  'Yes, call upon us\nthen, and I will tell you everything that may remain to be told, if you\nshould be inclined to listen.  A rumour is afloat which will undeceive\nyou in much, and depress me to death.  And now I will walk back: pray\nexcuse me.'  She entered the street, and joined Cornelia.\n\nLord Mountclere paced irregularly along, turned the corner, and went\ntowards his inn, nearing which his tread grew lighter, till he scarcely\nseemed to touch the ground.  He became gleeful, and said to himself,\nnervously palming his hip with his left hand, as if previous to plunging\nit into hot water for some prize: 'Upon my life I've a good mind!  Upon\nmy life I have!. . . .  I must make a straightforward thing of it, and at\nonce; or he will have her.  But he shall not, and I will--hee-hee!'\n\nThe fascinated man, screaming inwardly with the excitement, glee, and\nagony of his position, entered the hotel, wrote a hasty note to\nEthelberta and despatched it by hand, looked to his dress and appearance,\nordered a carriage, and in a quarter of an hour was being driven towards\nthe Hotel Beau Sejour, whither his note had preceded him.\n\n\n\n\n35. THE HOTEL (continued), AND THE QUAY IN FRONT\n\n\nEthelberta, having arrived there some time earlier, had gone straight to\nher aunt, whom she found sitting behind a large ledger in the office,\nmaking up the accounts with her husband, a well-framed reflective man\nwith a grey beard.  M. Moulin bustled, waited for her remarks and\nreplies, and made much of her in a general way, when Ethelberta said,\nwhat she had wanted to say instantly, 'Has a gentleman called Mr. Neigh\nbeen here?'\n\n'O yes--I think it is Neigh--there's a card upstairs,' replied her aunt.\n'I told him you were alone at the cathedral, and I believe he walked that\nway.  Besides that one, another has come for you--a Mr. Ladywell, and he\nis waiting.'\n\n'Not for me?'\n\n'Yes, indeed.  I thought he seemed so anxious, under a sort of assumed\ncalmness, that I recommended him to remain till you came in.'\n\n'Goodness, aunt; why did you?' Ethelberta said, and thought how much her\nmother's sister resembled her mother in doings of that sort.\n\n'I thought he had some good reason for seeing you.  Are these men\nintruders, then?'\n\n'O no--a woman who attempts a public career must expect to be treated as\npublic property: what would be an intrusion on a domiciled gentlewoman is\na tribute to me.  You cannot have celebrity and sex-privilege both.'  Thus\nEthelberta laughed off the awkward conjuncture, inwardly deploring the\nunconscionable maternal meddling which had led to this, though not\nresentfully, for she had too much staunchness of heart to decry a\nparent's misdirected zeal.  Had the clanship feeling been universally as\nstrong as in the Chickerel family, the fable of the well-bonded fagot\nmight have remained unwritten.\n\nLadywell had sent her a letter about getting his picture of herself\nengraved for an illustrated paper, and she had not replied, considering\nthat she had nothing to do with the matter, her form and feature having\nbeen given in the painting as no portrait at all, but as those of an\nideal.  To see him now would be vexatious; and yet it was chilly and\nformal to an ungenerous degree to keep aloof from him, sitting lonely in\nthe same house.  'A few weeks hence,' she thought, 'when Menlove's\ndisclosures make me ridiculous, he may slight me as a lackey's girl, an\nupstart, an adventuress, and hardly return my bow in the street.  Then I\nmay wish I had given him no personal cause for additional bitterness.'\nSo, putting off the fine lady, Ethelberta thought she would see Ladywell\nat once.\n\nLadywell was unaffectedly glad to meet her; so glad, that Ethelberta\nwished heartily, for his sake, there could be warm friendship between\nherself and him, as well as all her lovers, without that insistent\ncourtship-and-marriage question, which sent them all scattering like\nleaves in a pestilent blast, at enmity with one another.  She was less\npleased when she found that Ladywell, after saying all there was to say\nabout his painting, gently signified that he had been misinformed, as he\nbelieved, concerning her future intentions, which had led to his\nabsenting himself entirely from her; the remark being of course, a\nnatural product of her mother's injudicious message to him.\n\nShe cut him short with terse candour.  'Yes,' she said, 'a false report\nis in circulation.  I am not yet engaged to be married to any one, if\nthat is your meaning.'\n\nLadywell looked cheerful at this frank answer, and said tentatively, 'Am\nI forgotten?'\n\n'No; you are exactly as you always were in my mind.'\n\n'Then I have been cruelly deceived.  I was guided too much by\nappearances, and they were very delusive.  I am beyond measure glad I\ncame here to-day.  I called at your house and learnt that you were here;\nand as I was going out of town, in any indefinite direction, I settled\nthen to come this way.  What a happy idea it was!  To think of you\nnow--and I may be permitted to--'\n\n'Assuredly you may not.  How many times I have told you that!'\n\n'But I do not wish for any formal engagement,' said Ladywell quickly,\nfearing she might commit herself to some expression of positive denial,\nwhich he could never surmount.  'I'll wait--I'll wait any length of time.\nRemember, you have never absolutely forbidden my--friendship.  Will you\ndelay your answer till some time hence, when you have thoroughly\nconsidered; since I fear it may be a hasty one now?'\n\n'Yes, indeed; it may be hasty.'\n\n'You will delay it?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'When shall it be?'\n\n'Say a month hence.  I suggest that, because by that time you will have\nfound an answer in your own mind: strange things may happen before then.\n\"She shall follow after her lovers, but she shall not overtake them; and\nshe shall seek them, but shall not find them; then shall she say, I will\ngo and return to my first\"--however, that's no matter.'\n\n'What--did you--?' Ladywell began, altogether bewildered by this.\n\n'It is a passage in Hosea which came to my mind, as possibly applicable\nto myself some day,' she answered.  'It was mere impulse.'\n\n'Ha-ha!--a jest--one of your romances broken loose.  There is no law for\nimpulse: that is why I am here.'\n\nThus fancifully they conversed till the interview concluded.  Getting her\nto promise that she would see him again, Ladywell retired to a sitting-\nroom on the same landing, in which he had been writing letters before she\ncame up.  Immediately upon this her aunt, who began to suspect that\nsomething peculiar was in the wind, came to tell her that Mr. Neigh had\nbeen inquiring for her again.\n\n'Send him in,' said Ethelberta.\n\nNeigh's footsteps approached, and the well-known figure entered.\nEthelberta received him smilingly, for she was getting so used to awkward\njuxtapositions that she treated them quite as a natural situation.  She\nmerely hoped that Ladywell would not hear them talking through the\npartition.\n\nNeigh scarcely said anything as a beginning: she knew his errand\nperfectly; and unaccountable as it was to her, the strange and\nunceremonious relationship between them, that had originated in the\npeculiar conditions of their first close meeting, was continued now as\nusual.\n\n'Have you been able to bestow a thought on the question between us?  I\nhope so,' said Neigh.\n\n'It is no use,' said Ethelberta.  'Wait a month, and you will not require\nan answer.  You will not mind speaking low, because of a person in the\nnext room?'\n\n'Not at all.--Why will that be?'\n\n'I might say; but let us speak of something else.'\n\n'I don't see how we can,' said Neigh brusquely.  'I had no other reason\non earth for calling here.  I wished to get the matter settled, and I\ncould not be satisfied without seeing you.  I hate writing on matters of\nthis sort.  In fact I can't do it, and that's why I am here.'\n\nHe was still speaking when an attendant entered with a note.\n\n'Will you excuse me one moment?' said Ethelberta, stepping to the window\nand opening the missive.  It contained these words only, in a scrawl so\nfull of deformities that she could hardly piece its meaning together:--\n\n   'I must see you again to-day unless you absolutely deny yourself to\n   me, which I shall take as a refusal to meet me any more.  I will\n   arrive, punctually, five minutes after you receive this note.  Do pray\n   be alone if you can, and eternally gratify,--Yours,\n\n   'MOUNTCLERE.'\n\n'If anything has happened I shall be pleased to wait,' said Neigh, seeing\nher concern when she had closed the note.\n\n'O no, it is nothing,' said Ethelberta precipitately.  'Yet I think I\nwill ask you to wait,' she added, not liking to dismiss Neigh in a hurry;\nfor she was not insensible to his perseverance in seeking her over all\nthese miles of sea and land; and secondly, she feared that if he were to\nleave on the instant he might run into the arms of Lord Mountclere and\nLadywell.\n\n'I shall be only too happy to stay till you are at leisure,' said Neigh,\nin the unimpassioned delivery he used whether his meaning were a trite\ncompliment or the expression of his most earnest feeling.\n\n'I may be rather a long time,' said Ethelberta dubiously.\n\n'My time is yours.'\n\nEthelberta left the room and hurried to her aunt, exclaiming, 'O, Aunt\nCharlotte, I hope you have rooms enough to spare for my visitors, for\nthey are like the fox, the goose, and the corn, in the riddle; I cannot\nleave them together, and I can only be with one at a time.  I want the\nnicest drawing-room you have for an interview of a bare two minutes with\nan old gentleman.  I am so sorry this has happened, but it is not\naltogether my fault!  I only arranged to see one of them; but the other\nwas sent to me by mother, in a mistake, and the third met with me on my\njourney: that's the explanation.  There's the oldest of them just come.'\n\nShe looked through the glass partition, and under the arch of the court-\ngate, as the wheels of the viscount's carriage were heard outside.\nEthelberta ascended to a room on the first floor, Lord Mountclere was\nshown up, and the door closed upon them.\n\nAt this time Neigh was very comfortably lounging in an arm-chair in\nEthelberta's room on the second floor.  This was a pleasant enough way of\npassing the minutes with such a tender interview in prospect; and as he\nleant he looked with languid and luxurious interest through the open\ncasement at the spars and rigging of some luggers on the Seine, the\npillars of the suspension bridge, and the scenery of the Faubourg St.\nSever on the other side of the river.  How languid his interest might\nultimately have become there is no knowing; but there soon arose upon his\near the accents of Ethelberta in low distinctness from somewhere outside\nthe room.\n\n'Yes; the scene is pleasant to-day,' she said.  'I like a view over a\nriver.'\n\n'I should think the steamboats are objectionable when they stop here,'\nsaid another person.\n\nNeigh's face closed in to an aspect of perplexity.  'Surely that cannot\nbe Lord Mountclere?' he muttered.\n\nHad he been certain that Ethelberta was only talking to a stranger, Neigh\nwould probably have felt their conversation to be no business of his,\nmuch as he might have been surprised to find her giving audience to\nanother man at such a place.  But his impression that the voice was that\nof his acquaintance, Lord Mountclere, coupled with doubts as to its\npossibility, was enough to lead him to rise from the chair and put his\nhead out of the window.\n\nUpon a balcony beneath him were the speakers, as he had\nsuspected--Ethelberta and the viscount.\n\nLooking right and left, he saw projecting from the next window the head\nof his friend Ladywell, gazing right and left likewise, apparently just\ndrawn out by the same voice which had attracted himself.\n\n'What--you, Neigh!--how strange,' came from Ladywell's lips before he had\ntime to recollect that great coolness existed between himself and Neigh\non Ethelberta's account, which had led to the reduction of their intimacy\nto the most attenuated of nods and good-mornings ever since the Harlequin-\nrose incident at Cripplegate.\n\n'Yes; it is rather strange,' said Neigh, with saturnine evenness.  'Still\na fellow must be somewhere.'\n\nEach then looked over his window-sill downwards, upon the speakers who\nhad attracted them thither.\n\nLord Mountclere uttered something in a low tone which did not reach the\nyoung men; to which Ethelberta replied, 'As I have said, Lord Mountclere,\nI cannot give you an answer now.  I must consider what to do with Mr.\nNeigh and Mr. Ladywell.  It is too sudden for me to decide at once.  I\ncould not do so until I have got home to England, when I will write you a\nletter, stating frankly my affairs and those of my relatives.  I shall\nnot consider that you have addressed me on the subject of marriage until,\nhaving received my letter, you--'\n\n'Repeat my proposal,' said Lord Mountclere.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'My dear Mrs. Petherwin, it is as good as repeated!  But I have no right\nto assume anything you don't wish me to assume, and I will wait.  How\nlong is it that I am to suffer in this uncertainty?'\n\n'A month.  By that time I shall have grown weary of my other two\nsuitors.'\n\n'A month!  Really inflexible?'\n\nEthelberta had returned inside the window, and her answer was inaudible.\nLadywell and Neigh looked up, and their eyes met.  Both had been\nreluctant to remain where they stood, but they were too fascinated to\ninstantly retire.  Neigh moved now, and Ladywell did the same.  Each saw\nthat the face of his companion was flushed.\n\n'Come in and see me,' said Ladywell quickly, before quite withdrawing his\nhead.  'I am staying in this room.'\n\n'I will,' said Neigh; and taking his hat he left Ethelberta's apartment\nforthwith.\n\nOn entering the quarters of his friend he found him seated at a table\nwhereon writing materials were strewn.  They shook hands in silence, but\nthe meaning in their looks was enough.\n\n'Just let me write a note, Ladywell, and I'm your man,' said Neigh then,\nwith the freedom of an old acquaintance.\n\n'I was going to do the same thing,' said Ladywell.\n\nNeigh then sat down, and for a minute or two nothing was to be heard but\nthe scratching of a pair of pens, ending on the one side with a more\nboisterous scratch, as the writer shaped 'Eustace Ladywell,' and on the\nother with slow firmness in the characters 'Alfred Neigh.'\n\n'There's for you, my fair one,' said Neigh, closing and directing his\nletter.\n\n'Yours is for Mrs. Petherwin?  So is mine,' said Ladywell, grasping the\nbell-pull.  'Shall I direct it to be put on her table with this one?'\n\n'Thanks.'  And the two letters went off to Ethelberta's sitting-room,\nwhich she had vacated to receive Lord Mountclere in an empty one beneath.\nNeigh's letter was simply a pleading of a sudden call away which\nprevented his waiting till she should return; Ladywell's, though stating\nthe same reason for leaving, was more of an upbraiding nature, and might\nalmost have told its reader, were she to take the trouble to guess, that\nhe knew of the business of Lord Mountclere with her to-day.\n\n'Now, let us get out of this place,' said Neigh.  He proceeded at once\ndown the stairs, followed by Ladywell, who--settling his account at the\nbureau without calling for a bill, and directing his portmanteau to be\nsent to the Right-bank railway station--went with Neigh into the street.\n\nThey had not walked fifty yards up the quay when two British workmen, in\nholiday costume, who had just turned the corner of the Rue Jeanne d'Arc,\napproached them.  Seeing him to be an Englishman, one of the two\naddressed Neigh, saying, 'Can you tell us the way, sir, to the Hotel Bold\nSoldier?'\n\nNeigh pointed out the place he had just come from to the tall young men,\nand continued his walk with Ladywell.\n\nLadywell was the first to break silence.  'I have been considerably\nmisled, Neigh,' he said; 'and I imagine from what has just happened that\nyou have been misled too.'\n\n'Just a little,' said Neigh, bringing abstracted lines of meditation into\nhis face.  'But it was my own fault: for I ought to have known that these\nstage and platform women have what they are pleased to call Bohemianism\nso thoroughly engrained with their natures that they are no more constant\nto usage in their sentiments than they are in their way of living.  Good\nLord, to think she has caught old Mountclere!  She is sure to have him if\nshe does not dally with him so long that he gets cool again.'\n\n'A beautiful creature like her to think of marrying such an infatuated\nidiot as he!'\n\n'He can give her a title as well as younger men.  It will not be the\nfirst time that such matches have been made.'\n\n'I can't believe it,' said Ladywell vehemently.  'She has too much poetry\nin her--too much good sense; her nature is the essence of all that's\nromantic.  I can't help saying it, though she has treated me cruelly.'\n\n'She has good looks, certainly.  I'll own to that.  As for her romance\nand good-feeling, that I leave to you.  I think she has treated you no\nmore cruelly, as you call it, than she has me, come to that.'\n\n'She told me she would give me an answer in a month,' said Ladywell\nemotionally.\n\n'So she told me,' said Neigh.\n\n'And so she told him,' said Ladywell.\n\n'And I have no doubt she will keep her word to him in her usual precise\nmanner.'\n\n'But see what she implied to me!  I distinctly understood from her that\nthe answer would be favourable.'\n\n'So did I.'\n\n'So does he.'\n\n'And he is sure to be the one who gets it, since only one of us can.\nWell, I wouldn't marry her for love, money, nor--'\n\n'Offspring.'\n\n'Exactly: I would not.  \"I'll give you an answer in a month\"--to all\nthree of us!  For God's sake let's sit down here and have something to\ndrink.'\n\nThey drew up a couple of chairs to one of the tables of a wine-shop close\nby, and shouted to the waiter with the vigour of persons going to the\ndogs.  Here, behind the horizontal-headed trees that dotted this part of\nthe quay, they sat over their bottles denouncing womankind till the sun\ngot low down upon the river, and the houses on the further side began to\nbe toned by a blue mist.  At last they rose from their seats and\ndeparted, Neigh to dine and consider his route, and Ladywell to take the\ntrain for Dieppe.\n\nWhile these incidents had been in progress the two workmen had found\ntheir way into the hotel where Ethelberta was staying.  Passing through\nthe entrance, they stood at gaze in the court, much perplexed as to the\ndoor to be made for; the difficulty was solved by the appearance of\nCornelia, who in expectation of them had been for the last half-hour\nleaning over the sill of her bed-room window, which looked into the\ninterior, amusing herself by watching the movements to and fro in the\ncourt beneath.\n\nAfter conversing awhile in undertones as if they had no real right there\nat all, Cornelia told them she would call their sister, if an old\ngentleman who had been to see her were gone again.  Cornelia then ran\naway, and Sol and Dan stood aloof, till they had seen the old gentleman\nalluded to go to the door and drive off, shortly after which Ethelberta\nran down to meet them.\n\n'Whatever have you got as your luggage?' she said, after hearing a few\nwords about their journey, and looking at a curious object like a huge\nextended accordion with bellows of gorgeous-patterned carpeting.\n\n'Well, I thought to myself,' said Sol, ''tis a terrible bother about\ncarrying our things.  So what did I do but turn to and make a carpet-bag\nthat would hold all mine and Dan's too.  This, you see, Berta, is a deal\ntop and bottom out of three-quarter stuff, stained and varnished.  Well,\nthen you see I've got carpet sides tacked on with these brass nails,\nwhich make it look very handsome; and so when my bag is empty 'twill shut\nup and be only a couple of boards under yer arm, and when 'tis open it\nwill hold a'most anything you like to put in it.  That portmantle didn't\ncost more than three half-crowns altogether, and ten pound wouldn't ha'\ngot anything so strong from a portmantle maker, would it, Dan?'\n\n'Well, no.'\n\n'And then you see, Berta,' Sol continued in the same earnest tone, and\nfurther exhibiting the article, 'I've made this trap-door in the top with\nhinges and padlock complete, so that--'\n\n'I am afraid it is tiring you after your journey to explain all this to\nme,' said Ethelberta gently, noticing that a few Gallic smilers were\ngathering round.  'Aunt has found a nice room for you at the top of the\nstaircase in that corner--\"Escalier D\" you'll see painted at the\nbottom--and when you have been up come across to me at number thirty-four\non this side, and we'll talk about everything.'\n\n'Look here, Sol,' said Dan, who had left his brother and gone on to the\nstairs.  'What a rum staircase--the treads all in little blocks, and\npainted chocolate, as I am alive!'\n\n'I am afraid I shall not be able to go on to Paris with you, after all,'\nEthelberta continued to Sol.  'Something has just happened which makes it\ndesirable for me to return at once to England.  But I will write a list\nof all you are to see, and where you are to go, so that it will make\nlittle difference, I hope.'\n\nTen minutes before this time Ethelberta had been frankly and earnestly\nasked by Lord Mountclere to become his bride; not only so, but he pressed\nher to consent to have the ceremony performed before they returned to\nEngland.  Ethelberta had unquestionably been much surprised; and, barring\nthe fact that the viscount was somewhat ancient in comparison with\nherself, the temptation to close with his offer was strong, and would\nhave been felt as such by any woman in the position of Ethelberta, now a\nlittle reckless by stress of circumstances, and tinged with a bitterness\nof spirit against herself and the world generally.  But she was\nexperienced enough to know what heaviness might result from a hasty\nmarriage, entered into with a mind full of concealments and suppressions\nwhich, if told, were likely to stop the marriage altogether; and after\ntrying to bring herself to speak of her family and situation to Lord\nMountclere as he stood, a certain caution triumphed, and she concluded\nthat it would be better to postpone her reply till she could consider\nwhich of two courses it would be advisable to adopt; to write and explain\nto him, or to explain nothing and refuse him.  The third course, to\nexplain nothing and hasten the wedding, she rejected without hesitation.\nWith a pervading sense of her own obligations in forming this compact it\ndid not occur to her to ask if Lord Mountclere might not have duties of\nexplanation equally with herself, though bearing rather on the moral than\nthe social aspects of the case.\n\nHer resolution not to go on to Paris was formed simply because Lord\nMountclere himself was proceeding in that direction, which might lead to\nother unseemly rencounters with him had she, too, persevered in her\njourney.  She accordingly gave Sol and Dan directions for their guidance\nto Paris and back, starting herself with Cornelia the next day to return\nagain to Knollsea, and to decide finally and for ever what to do in the\nvexed question at present agitating her.\n\nNever before in her life had she treated marriage in such a terribly cool\nand cynical spirit as she had done that day; she was almost frightened at\nherself in thinking of it.  How far any known system of ethics might\nexcuse her on the score of those curious pressures which had been brought\nto bear upon her life, or whether it could excuse her at all, she had no\nspirit to inquire.  English society appeared a gloomy concretion enough\nto abide in as she contemplated it on this journey home; yet, since its\ngloominess was less an essential quality than an accident of her point of\nview, that point of view she had determined to change.\n\nThere lay open to her two directions in which to move.  She might annex\nherself to the easy-going high by wedding an old nobleman, or she might\njoin for good and all the easy-going low, by plunging back to the level\nof her family, giving up all her ambitions for them, settling as the wife\nof a provincial music-master named Julian, with a little shop of fiddles\nand flutes, a couple of old pianos, a few sheets of stale music pinned to\na string, and a narrow back parlour, wherein she would wait for the\nphenomenon of a customer.  And each of these divergent grooves had its\nfascinations, till she reflected with regard to the first that, even\nthough she were a legal and indisputable Lady Mountclere, she might be\ndespised by my lord's circle, and left lone and lorn.  The intermediate\npath of accepting Neigh or Ladywell had no more attractions for her taste\nthan the fact of disappointing them had qualms for her conscience; and\nhow few these were may be inferred from her opinion, true or false, that\ntwo words about the spigot on her escutcheon would sweep her lovers'\naffections to the antipodes.  She had now and then imagined that her\nprevious intermarriage with the Petherwin family might efface much\nbesides her surname, but experience proved that the having been wife for\na few weeks to a minor who died in his father's lifetime, did not weave\nsuch a tissue of glory about her course as would resist a speedy undoing\nby startling confessions on her station before her marriage, and her\nenvironments now.\n\n\n\n\n36. THE HOUSE IN TOWN\n\n\nReturning by way of Knollsea, where she remained a week or two,\nEthelberta appeared one evening at the end of September before her house\nin Exonbury Crescent, accompanied by a pair of cabs with the children and\nluggage; but Picotee was left at Knollsea, for reasons which Ethelberta\nexplained when the family assembled in conclave.  Her father was there,\nand began telling her of a surprising change in Menlove--an unasked-for\nconcession to their cause, and a vow of secrecy which he could not\naccount for, unless any friend of Ethelberta's had bribed her.\n\n'O no--that cannot be,' said she.  Any influence of Lord Mountclere to\nthat effect was the last thing that could enter her thoughts.  'However,\nwhat Menlove does makes little difference to me now.'  And she proceeded\nto state that she had almost come to a decision which would entirely\nalter their way of living.\n\n'I hope it will not be of the sort your last decision was,' said her\nmother.\n\n'No; quite the reverse.  I shall not live here in state any longer.  We\nwill let the house throughout as lodgings, while it is ours; and you and\nthe girls must manage it.  I will retire from the scene altogether, and\nstay for the winter at Knollsea with Picotee.  I want to consider my\nplans for next year, and I would rather be away from town.  Picotee is\nleft there, and I return in two days with the books and papers I\nrequire.'\n\n'What are your plans to be?'\n\n'I am going to be a schoolmistress--I think I am.'\n\n'A schoolmistress?'\n\n'Yes.  And Picotee returns to the same occupation, which she ought never\nto have forsaken.  We are going to study arithmetic and geography until\nChristmas; then I shall send her adrift to finish her term as\npupil-teacher, while I go into a training-school.  By the time I have to\ngive up this house I shall just have got a little country school.'\n\n'But,' said her mother, aghast, 'why not write more poems and sell 'em?'\n\n'Why not be a governess as you were?' said her father.\n\n'Why not go on with your tales at Mayfair Hall?' said Gwendoline.\n\n'I'll answer as well as I can.  I have decided to give up romancing\nbecause I cannot think of any more that pleases me.  I have been trying\nat Knollsea for a fortnight, and it is no use.  I will never be a\ngoverness again: I would rather be a servant.  If I am a schoolmistress I\nshall be entirely free from all contact with the great, which is what I\ndesire, for I hate them, and am getting almost as revolutionary as Sol.\nFather, I cannot endure this kind of existence any longer; I sleep at\nnight as if I had committed a murder: I start up and see processions of\npeople, audiences, battalions of lovers obtained under false\npretences--all denouncing me with the finger of ridicule.  Mother's\nsuggestion about my marrying I followed out as far as dogged resolution\nwould carry me, but during my journey here I have broken down; for I\ndon't want to marry a second time among people who would regard me as an\nupstart or intruder.  I am sick of ambition.  My only longing now is to\nfly from society altogether, and go to any hovel on earth where I could\nbe at peace.'\n\n'What--has anybody been insulting you?' said Mrs. Chickerel.\n\n'Yes; or rather I sometimes think he may have: that is, if a proposal of\nmarriage is only removed from being a proposal of a very different kind\nby an accident.'\n\n'A proposal of marriage can never be an insult,' her mother returned.\n\n'I think otherwise,' said Ethelberta.\n\n'So do I,' said her father.\n\n'Unless the man was beneath you, and I don't suppose he was that,' added\nMrs. Chickerel.\n\n'You are quite right; he was not that.  But we will not talk of this\nbranch of the subject.  By far the most serious concern with me is that I\nought to do some good by marriage, or by heroic performance of some kind;\nwhile going back to give the rudiments of education to remote hamleteers\nwill do none of you any good whatever.'\n\n'Never you mind us,' said her father; 'mind yourself.'\n\n'I shall hardly be minding myself either, in your opinion, by doing\nthat,' said Ethelberta dryly.  'But it will be more tolerable than what I\nam doing now.  Georgina, and Myrtle, and Emmeline, and Joey will not get\nthe education I intended for them; but that must go, I suppose.'\n\n'How full of vagaries you are,' said her mother.  'Why won't it do to\ncontinue as you are?  No sooner have I learnt up your schemes, and got\nenough used to 'em to see something in 'em, than you must needs bewilder\nme again by starting some fresh one, so that my mind gets no rest at\nall.'\n\nEthelberta too keenly felt the justice of this remark, querulous as it\nwas, to care to defend herself.  It was hopeless to attempt to explain to\nher mother that the oscillations of her mind might arise as naturally\nfrom the perfection of its balance, like those of a logan-stone, as from\ninherent lightness; and such an explanation, however comforting to its\nsubject, was little better than none to simple hearts who only could look\nto tangible outcrops.\n\n'Really, Ethelberta,' remonstrated her mother, 'this is very odd.  Making\nyourself miserable in trying to get a position on our account is one\nthing, and not necessary; but I think it ridiculous to rush into the\nother extreme, and go wilfully down in the scale.  You may just as well\nexercise your wits in trying to swim as in trying to sink.'\n\n'Yes; that's what I think,' said her father.  'But of course Berta knows\nbest.'\n\n'I think so too,' said Gwendoline.\n\n'And so do I,' said Cornelia.  'If I had once moved about in large\ncircles like Ethelberta, I wouldn't go down and be a schoolmistress--not\nI.'\n\n'I own it is foolish--suppose it is,' said Ethelberta wearily, and with a\nreadiness of misgiving that showed how recent and hasty was the scheme.\n'Perhaps you are right, mother; anything rather than retreat.  I wonder\nif you are right!  Well, I will think again of it to-night.  Do not let\nus speak more about it now.'\n\nShe did think of it that night, very long and painfully.  The arguments\nof her relatives seemed ponderous as opposed to her own inconsequent\nlonging for escape from galling trammels.  If she had stood alone, the\nsentiment that she had begun to build but was not able to finish, by\nwhomsoever it might have been entertained, would have had few terrors;\nbut that the opinion should be held by her nearest of kin, to cause them\npain for life, was a grievous thing.  The more she thought of it, the\nless easy seemed the justification of her desire for obscurity.  From\nregarding it as a high instinct she passed into a humour that gave that\ndesire the appearance of a whim.  But could she really set in train\nevents, which, if not abortive, would take her to the altar with Viscount\nMountclere?\n\nIn one determination she never faltered; to commit her sin thoroughly if\nshe committed it at all.  Her relatives believed her choice to lie\nbetween Neigh and Ladywell alone.  But once having decided to pass over\nChristopher, whom she had loved, there could be no pausing for Ladywell\nbecause she liked him, or for Neigh in that she was influenced by him.\nThey were both too near her level to be trusted to bear the shock of\nreceiving her from her father's hands.  But it was possible that though\nher genesis might tinge with vulgarity a commoner's household,\nsusceptible of such depreciation, it might show as a picturesque contrast\nin the family circle of a peer.  Hence it was just as well to go to the\nend of her logic, where reasons for tergiversation would be most\npronounced.  This thought of the viscount, however, was a secret for her\nown breast alone.\n\nNearly the whole of that night she sat weighing--first, the question\nitself of marrying Lord Mountclere; and, at other times, whether, for\nsafety, she might marry him without previously revealing family\nparticulars hitherto held necessary to be revealed--a piece of conduct\nshe had once felt to be indefensible.  The ingenious Ethelberta, much\nmore prone than the majority of women to theorize on conduct, felt the\nneed of some soothing defence of the actions involved in any ambiguous\ncourse before finally committing herself to it.\n\nShe took down a well-known treatise on Utilitarianism which she had\nperused once before, and to which she had given her adherence ere any\ninstance had arisen wherein she might wish to take it as a guide.  Here\nshe desultorily searched for argument, and found it; but the application\nof her author's philosophy to the marriage question was an operation of\nher own, as unjustifiable as it was likely in the circumstances.\n\n   'The ultimate end,' she read, 'with reference to and for the sake of\n   which all other things are desirable (whether we are considering our\n   own good or that of other people) is an existence exempt as far as\n   possible from pain, and as rich as possible in enjoyments, both in\n   point of quantity and quality. . . .  This being, according to the\n   utilitarian opinion, the end of human action, is necessarily also the\n   standard of morality.'\n\nIt was an open question, so far, whether her own happiness should or\nshould not be preferred to that of others.  But that her personal\ninterests were not to be considered as paramount appeared further on:--\n\n   'The happiness which forms the standard of what is right in conduct is\n   not the agent's own happiness but that of all concerned.  As between\n   his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to\n   be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator.'\n\nAs to whose happiness was meant by that of 'other people,' 'all\nconcerned,' and so on, her luminous moralist soon enlightened her:--\n\n   'The occasions on which any person (except one in a thousand) has it\n   in his power to do this on an extended scale--in other words, to be a\n   public benefactor--are but exceptional; and on these occasions alone\n   is he called on to consider public utility; in every other case\n   private utility, the interest or happiness of some few persons, is all\n   he has to attend to.'\n\nAnd that these few persons should be those endeared to her by every\ndomestic tie no argument was needed to prove.  That their happiness would\nbe in proportion to her own well-doing, and power to remove their risks\nof indigence, required no proving either to her now.\n\nBy a sorry but unconscious misapplication of sound and wide reasoning did\nthe active mind of Ethelberta thus find itself a solace.  At about the\nmidnight hour she felt more fortified on the expediency of marriage with\nLord Mountclere than she had done at all since musing on it.  In respect\nof the second query, whether or not, in that event, to conceal from Lord\nMountclere the circumstances of her position till it should be too late\nfor him to object to them, she found her conscience inconveniently in the\nway of her theory, and the oracle before her afforded no hint.  'Ah--it\nis a point for a casuist!' she said.\n\nAn old treatise on Casuistry lay on the top shelf.  She opened it--more\nfrom curiosity than from guidance this time, it must be observed--at a\nchapter bearing on her own problem, 'The disciplina arcani, or, the\ndoctrine of reserve.'\n\nHere she read that there were plenty of apparent instances of this in\nScripture, and that it was formed into a recognized system in the early\nChurch.  With reference to direct acts of deception, it was argued that\nsince there were confessedly cases where killing is no murder, might\nthere not be cases where lying is no sin?  It could not be right--or,\nindeed, anything but most absurd--to say in effect that no doubt\ncircumstances would occur where every sound man would tell a lie, and\nwould be a brute or a fool if he did not, and to say at the same time\nthat it is quite indefensible in principle.  Duty was the key to conduct\nthen, and if in such cases duties appeared to clash they would be found\nnot to do so on examination.  The lesser duty would yield to the greater,\nand therefore ceased to be a duty.\n\nThis author she found to be not so tolerable; he distracted her.  She put\nhim aside and gave over reading, having decided on this second point,\nthat she would, at any hazard, represent the truth to Lord Mountclere\nbefore listening to another word from him.  'Well, at last I have done,'\nshe said, 'and am ready for my role.'\n\nIn looking back upon her past as she retired to rest, Ethelberta could\nalmost doubt herself to be the identical woman with her who had entered\non a romantic career a few short years ago.  For that doubt she had good\nreason.  She had begun as a poet of the Satanic school in a sweetened\nform; she was ending as a pseudo-utilitarian.  Was there ever such a\ntransmutation effected before by the action of a hard environment?  It\nwas not without a qualm of regret that she discerned how the last\ninfirmity of a noble mind had at length nearly departed from her.  She\nwondered if her early notes had had the genuine ring in them, or whether\na poet who could be thrust by realities to a distance beyond recognition\nas such was a true poet at all.  Yet Ethelberta's gradient had been\nregular: emotional poetry, light verse, romance as an object, romance as\na means, thoughts of marriage as an aid to her pursuits, a vow to marry\nfor the good of her family; in other words, from soft and playful\nRomanticism to distorted Benthamism.  Was the moral incline upward or\ndown?\n\n\n\n\n37. KNOLLSEA--AN ORNAMENTAL VILLA\n\n\nHer energies collected and fermented anew by the results of the vigil,\nEthelberta left town for Knollsea, where she joined Picotee the same\nevening.  Picotee produced a letter, which had been addressed to her\nsister at their London residence, but was not received by her there, Mrs.\nChickerel having forwarded it to Knollsea the day before Ethelberta\narrived in town.\n\nThe crinkled writing, in character like the coast-line of Tierra del\nFuego, was becoming familiar by this time.  While reading the note she\ninformed Picotee, between a quick breath and a rustle of frills, that it\nwas from Lord Mountclere, who wrote on the subject of calling to see her,\nsuggesting a day in the following week.  'Now, Picotee,' she continued,\n'we shall have to receive him, and make the most of him, for I have\naltered my plans since I was last in Knollsea.'\n\n'Altered them again?  What are you going to be now--not a poor person\nafter all?'\n\n'Indeed not.  And so I turn and turn.  Can you imagine what Lord\nMountclere is coming for?  But don't say what you think.  Before I reply\nto this letter we must go into new lodgings, to give them as our address.\nThe first business to-morrow morning will be to look for the gayest house\nwe can find; and Captain Flower and this little cabin of his must be\nthings we have never known.'\n\nThe next day after breakfast they accordingly sallied forth.\n\nKnollsea had recently begun to attract notice in the world.  It had this\nyear undergone visitation from a score of professional gentlemen and\ntheir wives, a minor canon, three marine painters, seven young ladies\nwith books in their hands, and nine-and-thirty babies.  Hence a few\nlodging-houses, of a dash and pretentiousness far beyond the mark of the\nold cottages which formed the original substance of the village, had been\nerected to meet the wants of such as these.  To a building of this class\nEthelberta now bent her steps, and the crush of the season having\ndeparted in the persons of three-quarters of the above-named visitors,\nwho went away by a coach, a van, and a couple of wagonettes one morning,\nshe found no difficulty in arranging for a red and yellow streaked villa,\nwhich was so bright and glowing that the sun seemed to be shining upon it\neven on a cloudy day, and the ruddiest native looked pale when standing\nby its walls.  It was not without regret that she renounced the sailor's\npretty cottage for this porticoed and balconied dwelling; but her lines\nwere laid down clearly at last, and thither she removed forthwith.\n\nFrom this brand-new house did Ethelberta pen the letter fixing the time\nat which she would be pleased to see Lord Mountclere.\n\nWhen the hour drew nigh enormous force of will was required to keep her\nperturbation down.  She had not distinctly told Picotee of the object of\nthe viscount's visit, but Picotee guessed nearly enough.  Ethelberta was\nupon the whole better pleased that the initiative had again come from him\nthan if the first step in the new campaign had been her sending the\nexplanatory letter, as intended and promised.  She had thought almost\ndirectly after the interview at Rouen that to enlighten him by writing a\nconfession in cold blood, according to her first intention, would be\nlittle less awkward for her in the method of telling than in the facts to\nbe told.\n\nSo the last hair was arranged and the last fold adjusted, and she sat\ndown to await a new page of her history.  Picotee sat with her, under\norders to go into the next room when Lord Mountclere should call; and\nEthelberta determined to waste no time, directly he began to make\nadvances, in clearing up the phenomena of her existence to him; to the\nend that no fact which, in the event of his taking her to wife, could be\nused against her as an example of concealment, might remain unrelated.\nThe collapse of his attachment under the test might, however, form the\ngrand climax of such a play as this.\n\nThe day was rather cold for the season, and Ethelberta sat by a fire; but\nthe windows were open, and Picotee was amusing herself on the balcony\noutside.  The hour struck: Ethelberta fancied she could hear the wheels\nof a carriage creeping up the steep ascent which led to the drive before\nthe door.\n\n'Is it he?' she said quickly.\n\n'No,' said Picotee, whose indifference contrasted strangely with the\nrestlessness of her who was usually the coolest.  'It is a man shaking\ndown apples in the garden over the wall.'\n\nThey lingered on till some three or four minutes had gone by.  'Surely\nthat's a carriage?' said Ethelberta, then.\n\n'I think it is,' said Picotee outside, stretching her neck forward as far\nas she could.  'No, it is the men on the beach dragging up their boats;\nthey expect wind to-night.'\n\n'How wearisome!  Picotee, you may as well come inside; if he means to\ncall he will; but he ought to be here by this time.'\n\nIt was only once more, and that some time later that she again said\n'Listen!'\n\n'That's not the noise of a carriage; it is the fizz of a rocket.  The\ncoastguardsmen are practising the life-apparatus to-day, to be ready for\nthe autumn wrecks.'\n\n'Ah!' said Ethelberta, her face clearing up.  Hers had not been a\nsweetheart's impatience, but her mood had intensified during these\nminutes of suspense to a harassing mistrust of her man-compelling power,\nwhich was, if that were possible, more gloomy than disappointed love.  'I\nknow now where he is.  That operation with the cradle-apparatus is very\ninteresting, and he is stopping to see it. . . .  But I shall not wait\nindoors much longer, whatever he may be stopping to see.  It is very\nunaccountable, and vexing, after moving into this new house too.  We were\nmuch more comfortable in the old one.  In keeping any previous\nappointment in which I have been concerned he has been ridiculously\nearly.'\n\n'Shall I run round?' said Picotee, 'and if he is not watching them we\nwill go out.'\n\n'Very well,' said her sister.\n\nThe time of Picotee's absence seemed an age.  Ethelberta heard the roar\nof another rocket, and still Picotee did not return.  'What can the girl\nbe thinking of?' she mused. . . .  'What a half-and-half policy mine has\nbeen!  Thinking of marrying for position, and yet not making it my rigid\nplan to secure the man the first moment that he made his offer.  So I\nlose the comfort of having a soul above worldliness, and my compensation\nfor not having it likewise!'  A minute or two more and in came Picotee.\n\n'What has kept you so long--and how excited you look,' said Ethelberta.\n\n'I thought I would stay a little while, as I had never seen a\nrocket-apparatus,' said Picotee, faintly and strangely.\n\n'But is he there?' asked her sister impatiently.\n\n'Yes--he was.  He's gone now!'\n\n'Lord Mountclere?'\n\n'No.  There is no old man there at all.  Mr Julian was there.'\n\nA little 'Ah!' came from Ethelberta, like a note from a storm-bird at\nnight.  She turned round and went into the back room.  'Is Mr. Julian\ngoing to call here?' she inquired, coming forward again.\n\n'No--he's gone by the steamboat.  He was only passing through on his way\nto Sandbourne, where he is gone to settle a small business relating to\nhis father's affairs.  He was not in Knollsea ten minutes, owing to\nsomething which detained him on the way.'\n\n'Did he inquire for me?'\n\n'No.  And only think, Ethelberta--such a remarkable thing has happened,\nthough I nearly forgot to tell you.  He says that coming along the road\nhe was overtaken by a carriage, and when it had just passed him one of\nthe horses shied, pushed the other down a slope, and overturned the\ncarriage.  One wheel came off and trundled to the bottom of the hill by\nitself.  Christopher of course ran up, and helped out of the carriage an\nold gentleman--now do you know what's likely?'\n\n'It was Lord Mountclere.  I am glad that's the cause,' said Ethelberta\ninvoluntarily.\n\n'I imagined you would suppose it to be Lord Mountclere.  But Mr. Julian\ndid not know the gentleman, and said nothing about who he might be.'\n\n'Did he describe him?'\n\n'Not much--just a little.'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'He said he was a sly old dog apparently, to hear how he swore in\nwhispers.  This affair is what made Mr. Julian so late that he had no\ntime to call here.  Lord Mountclere's ankle--if it was Lord\nMountclere--was badly sprained.  But the servants were not injured beyond\na scratch on the coachman's face.  Then they got another carriage and\ndrove at once back again.  It must be he, or else why is he not come?  It\nis a pity, too, that Mr. Julian was hindered by this, so that there was\nno opportunity for him to bide a bit in Knollsea.'\n\nEthelberta was not disposed to believe that Christopher would have\ncalled, had time favoured him to the utmost.  Between himself and her\nthere was that kind of division which is more insurmountable than enmity;\nfor estrangements produced by good judgment will last when those of\nfeeling break down in smiles.  Not the lovers who part in passion, but\nthe lovers who part in friendship, are those who most frequently part for\never.\n\n'Did you tell Mr. Julian that the injured gentleman was possibly Lord\nMountclere, and that he was coming here?' said Ethelberta.\n\n'I made no remark at all--I did not think of him till afterwards.'\n\nThe inquiry was hardly necessary, for Picotee's words would dry away like\na brook in the sands when she held conversation with Christopher.\n\nAs they had anticipated, the sufferer was no other than their intending\nvisitor.  Next morning there was a note explaining the accident, and\nexpressing its writer's suffering from the cruel delay as greater than\nthat from the swollen ankle, which was progressing favourably.\n\nNothing further was heard of Lord Mountclere for more than a week, when\nshe received another letter, which put an end to her season of\nrelaxation, and once more braced her to the contest.  This epistle was\nvery courteously written, and in point of correctness, propriety, and\ngravity, might have come from the quill of a bishop.  Herein the old\nnobleman gave a further description of the accident, but the main\nbusiness of the communication was to ask her if, since he was not as yet\nvery active, she would come to Enckworth Court and delight himself and a\nsmall group of friends who were visiting there.\n\nShe pondered over the letter as she walked by the shore that day, and\nafter some hesitation decided to go.\n\n\n\n\n38. ENCKWORTH COURT\n\n\nIt was on a dull, stagnant, noiseless afternoon of autumn that Ethelberta\nfirst crossed the threshold of Enckworth Court.  The daylight was so\nlowered by the impervious roof of cloud overhead that it scarcely reached\nfurther into Lord Mountclere's entrance-hall than to the splays of the\nwindows, even but an hour or two after midday; and indoors the glitter of\nthe fire reflected itself from the very panes, so inconsiderable were the\nopposing rays.\n\nEnckworth Court, in its main part, had not been standing more than a\nhundred years.  At that date the weakened portions of the original\nmediaeval structure were pulled down and cleared away, old jambs being\ncarried off for rick-staddles, and the foliated timbers of the hall roof\nmaking themselves useful as fancy chairs in the summer-houses of rising\ninns.  A new block of masonry was built up from the ground of such height\nand lordliness that the remnant of the old pile left standing became as a\nmere cup-bearer and culinary menial beside it.  The rooms in this old\nfragment, which had in times past been considered sufficiently dignified\nfor dining-hall, withdrawing-room, and so on, were now reckoned barely\nhigh enough for sculleries, servants' hall, and laundries, the whole of\nwhich were arranged therein.\n\nThe modern portion had been planned with such a total disregard of\nassociation, that the very rudeness of the contrast gave an interest to\nthe mass which it might have wanted had perfect harmony been attempted\nbetween the old nucleus and its adjuncts, a probable result if the\nenlargement had taken place later on in time.  The issue was that the\nhooded windows, simple string-courses, and random masonry of the Gothic\nworkman, stood elbow to elbow with the equal-spaced ashlar, architraves,\nand fasciae of the Classic addition, each telling its distinct tale as to\nstage of thought and domestic habit without any of those artifices of\nblending or restoration by which the seeker for history in stones will be\nutterly hoodwinked in time to come.\n\nTo the left of the door and vestibule which Ethelberta passed through\nrose the principal staircase, constructed of a freestone so milk-white\nand delicately moulded as to be easily conceived in the lamplight as of\nbiscuit-ware.  Who, unacquainted with the secrets of geometrical\nconstruction, could imagine that, hanging so airily there, to all\nappearance supported on nothing, were twenty or more tons dead weight of\nstone, that would have made a prison for an elephant if so arranged?  The\nart which produced this illusion was questionable, but its success was\nundoubted.  'How lovely!' said Ethelberta, as she looked at the fairy\nascent.  'His staircase alone is worth my hand!'\n\nPassing along by the colonnade, which partly fenced the staircase from\nthe visitor, the saloon was reached, an apartment forming a double cube.\nAbout the left-hand end of this were grouped the drawing-rooms and\nlibrary; while on the right was the dining-hall, with billiard, smoking,\nand gun rooms in mysterious remoteness beyond.\n\nWithout attempting to trace an analogy between a man and his mansion, it\nmay be stated that everything here, though so dignified and magnificent,\nwas not conceived in quite the true and eternal spirit of art.  It was a\nhouse in which Pugin would have torn his hair.  Those massive blocks of\nred-veined marble lining the hall--emulating in their surface-glitter the\nEscalier de Marbre at Versailles--were cunning imitations in paint and\nplaster by workmen brought from afar for the purpose, at a prodigious\nexpense, by the present viscount's father, and recently repaired and re-\nvarnished.  The dark green columns and pilasters corresponding were brick\nat the core.  Nay, the external walls, apparently of massive and solid\nfreestone, were only veneered with that material, being, like the\npillars, of brick within.\n\nTo a stone mask worn by a brick face a story naturally appertained--one\nwhich has since done service in other quarters.  When the vast addition\nhad just been completed King George visited Enckworth.  Its owner pointed\nout the features of its grand architectural attempt, and waited for\ncommendation.\n\n'Brick, brick, brick,' said the king.\n\nThe Georgian Lord Mountclere blushed faintly, albeit to his very poll,\nand said nothing more about his house that day.  When the king was gone\nhe sent frantically for the craftsmen recently dismissed, and soon the\ngreen lawns became again the colour of a Nine-Elms cement wharf.  Thin\nfreestone slabs were affixed to the whole series of fronts by copper\ncramps and dowels, each one of substance sufficient to have furnished a\npoor boy's pocket with pennies for a month, till not a speck of the\noriginal surface remained, and the edifice shone in all the grandeur of\nmassive masonry that was not massive at all.  But who remembered this\nsave the builder and his crew? and as long as nobody knew the truth,\npretence looked just as well.\n\nWhat was honest in Enckworth Court was that portion of the original\nedifice which still remained, now degraded to subservient uses.  Where\nthe untitled Mountclere of the White Rose faction had spread his knees\nover the brands, when the place was a castle and not a court, the still-\nroom maid now simmered her preserves; and where Elizabethan mothers and\ndaughters of that sturdy line had tapestried the love-scenes of Isaac and\nJacob, boots and shoes were now cleaned and coals stowed away.\n\nLord Mountclere had so far recovered from the sprain as to be nominally\nquite well, under pressure of a wish to receive guests.  The sprain had\nin one sense served him excellently.  He had now a reason, apart from\nthat of years, for walking with his stick, and took care to let the\nreason be frequently known.  To-day he entertained a larger number of\npersons than had been assembled within his walls for a great length of\ntime.\n\nUntil after dinner Ethelberta felt as if she were staying at an hotel.\nFew of the people whom she had met at the meeting of the Imperial\nAssociation greeted her here.  The viscount's brother was not present,\nbut Sir Cyril Blandsbury and his wife were there, a lively pair of\npersons, entertaining as actors, and friendly as dogs.  Beyond these all\nthe faces and figures were new to her, though they were handsome and\ndashing enough to satisfy a court chronicler.  Ethelberta, in a dress\nsloped about as high over the shoulder as would have drawn approval from\nReynolds, and expostulation from Lely, thawed and thawed each friend who\ncame near her, and sent him or her away smiling; yet she felt a little\nsurprise.  She had seldom visited at a country-house, and knew little of\nthe ordinary composition of a group of visitors within its walls; but the\npresent assemblage seemed to want much of that old-fashioned stability\nand quaint monumental dignity she had expected to find under this\nhistorical roof.  Nobody of her entertainer's own rank appeared.  Not a\nsingle clergyman was there.  A tendency to talk Walpolean scandal about\nforeign courts was particularly manifest.  And although tropical\ntravellers, Indian officers and their wives, courteous exiles, and\ndescendants of Irish kings, were infinitely more pleasant than Lord\nMountclere's landed neighbours would probably have been, to such a\ncosmopolite as Ethelberta a calm Tory or old Whig company would have\ngiven a greater treat.  They would have struck as gratefully upon her\nsenses as sylvan scenery after crags and cliffs, or silence after the\nroar of a cataract.\n\nIt was evening, and all these personages at Enckworth Court were merry,\nsnug, and warm within its walls.  Dinner-time had passed, and everything\nhad gone on well, when Mrs. Tara O'Fanagan, who had a gold-clamped tooth,\nwhich shone every now and then, asked Ethelberta if she would amuse them\nby telling a story, since nobody present, except Lord Mountclere, had\never heard one from her lips.\n\nSeeing that Ethelberta had been working at that art as a profession, it\ncan hardly be said that the question was conceived with tact, though it\nwas put with grace.  Lord Mountclere evidently thought it objectionable,\nfor he looked unhappy.  To only one person in the brilliant room did the\nrequest appear as a timely accident, and that was to Ethelberta herself.\nHer honesty was always making war upon her manoeuvres, and shattering\ntheir delicate meshes, to her great inconvenience and delay.  Thus there\narose those devious impulses and tangential flights which spoil the works\nof every would-be schemer who instead of being wholly machine is half\nheart.  One of these now was to show herself as she really was, not only\nto Lord Mountclere, but to his friends assembled, whom, in her ignorance,\nshe respected more than they deserved, and so get rid of that\nself-reproach which had by this time reached a morbid pitch, through her\nover-sensitiveness to a situation in which a large majority of women and\nmen would have seen no falseness.\n\nFull of this curious intention, she quietly assented to the request, and\nlaughingly bade them put themselves in listening order.\n\n'An old story will suit us,' said the lady who had importuned her.  'We\nhave never heard one.'\n\n'No; it shall be quite new,' she replied.  'One not yet made public;\nthough it soon will be.'\n\nThe narrative began by introducing to their notice a girl of the poorest\nand meanest parentage, the daughter of a serving-man, and the fifth of\nten children.  She graphically recounted, as if they were her own, the\nstrange dreams and ambitious longings of this child when young, her\nattempts to acquire education, partial failures, partial successes, and\nconstant struggles; instancing how, on one of these occasions, the girl\nconcealed herself under a bookcase of the library belonging to the\nmansion in which her father served as footman, and having taken with her\nthere, like a young Fawkes, matches and a halfpenny candle, was going to\nsit up all night reading when the family had retired, until her father\ndiscovered and prevented her scheme.  Then followed her experiences as\nnursery-governess, her evening lessons under self-selected masters, and\nher ultimate rise to a higher grade among the teaching sisterhood.  Next\ncame another epoch.  To the mansion in which she was engaged returned a\ntruant son, between whom and the heroine an attachment sprang up.  The\nmaster of the house was an ambitious gentleman just knighted, who,\nperceiving the state of their hearts, harshly dismissed the homeless\ngoverness, and rated the son, the consequence being that the youthful\npair resolved to marry secretly, and carried their resolution into\neffect.  The runaway journey came next, and then a moving description of\nthe death of the young husband, and the terror of the bride.\n\nThe guests began to look perplexed, and one or two exchanged whispers.\nThis was not at all the kind of story that they had expected; it was\nquite different from her usual utterances, the nature of which they knew\nby report.  Ethelberta kept her eye upon Lord Mountclere.  Soon, to her\namazement, there was that in his face which told her that he knew the\nstory and its heroine quite well.  When she delivered the sentence ending\nwith the professedly fictitious words: 'I thus was reduced to great\ndistress, and vainly cast about me for directions what to do,' Lord\nMountclere's manner became so excited and anxious that it acted\nreciprocally upon Ethelberta; her voice trembled, she moved her lips but\nuttered nothing.  To bring the story up to the date of that very evening\nhad been her intent, but it was beyond her power.  The spell was broken;\nshe blushed with distress and turned away, for the folly of a disclosure\nhere was but too apparent.\n\nThough every one saw that she had broken down, none of them appeared to\nknow the reason why, or to have the clue to her performance.  Fortunately\nLord Mountclere came to her aid.\n\n'Let the first part end here,' he said, rising and approaching her.  'We\nhave been well entertained so far.  I could scarcely believe that the\nstory I was listening to was utterly an invention, so vividly does Mrs.\nPetherwin bring the scenes before our eyes.  She must now be exhausted;\nwe will have the remainder to-morrow.'\n\nThey all agreed that this was well, and soon after fell into groups, and\ndispersed about the rooms.  When everybody's attention was thus occupied\nLord Mountclere whispered to Ethelberta tremulously, 'Don't tell more:\nyou think too much of them: they are no better than you!  Will you meet\nme in the little winter garden two minutes hence?  Pass through that\ndoor, and along the glass passage.'  He himself left the room by an\nopposite door.\n\nShe had not set three steps in the warm snug octagon of glass and plants\nwhen he appeared on the other side.\n\n'You knew it all before!' she said, looking keenly at him.  'Who told\nyou, and how long have you known it?'\n\n'Before yesterday or last week,' said Lord Mountclere.  'Even before we\nmet in France.  Why are you so surprised?'\n\nEthelberta had been surprised, and very greatly, to find him, as it were,\nsecreted in the very rear of her position.  That nothing she could tell\nwas new to him was a good deal to think of, but it was little beside the\nrecollection that he had actually made his first declaration in the face\nof that knowledge of her which she had supposed so fatal to all her\nmatrimonial ambitions.\n\n'And now only one point remains to be settled,' he said, taking her hand.\n'You promised at Rouen that at our next interview you would honour me\nwith a decisive reply--one to make me happy for ever.'\n\n'But my father and friends?' said she.\n\n'Are nothing to be concerned about.  Modern developments have shaken up\nthe classes like peas in a hopper.  An annuity, and a comfortable\ncottage--'\n\n'My brothers are workmen.'\n\n'Manufacture is the single vocation in which a man's prospects may be\nsaid to be illimitable.  Hee-hee!--they may buy me up before they die!\nAnd now what stands in the way?  It would take fifty alliances with fifty\nfamilies so little disreputable as yours, darling, to drag mine down.'\n\nEthelberta had anticipated the scene, and settled her course; what had to\nbe said and done here was mere formality; yet she had been unable to go\nstraight to the assent required.  However, after these words of\nself-depreciation, which were let fall as much for her own future ease of\nconscience as for his present warning, she made no more ado.\n\n'I shall think it a great honour to be your wife,' she said simply.\n\n\n\n\n39. KNOLLSEA--MELCHESTER\n\n\nThe year was now moving on apace, but Ethelberta and Picotee chose to\nremain at Knollsea, in the brilliant variegated brick and stone villa to\nwhich they had removed in order to be in keeping with their ascending\nfortunes.  Autumn had begun to make itself felt and seen in bolder and\nless subtle ways than at first.  In the morning now, on coming\ndownstairs, in place of a yellowish-green leaf or two lying in a corner\nof the lowest step, which had been the only previous symptoms around the\nhouse, she saw dozens of them playing at corkscrews in the wind, directly\nthe door was opened.  Beyond, towards the sea, the slopes and scarps that\nhad been muffled with a thick robe of cliff herbage, were showing their\nchill grey substance through the withered verdure, like the background of\nvelvet whence the pile has been fretted away.  Unexpected breezes broomed\nand rasped the smooth bay in evanescent patches of stippled shade, and,\nbesides the small boats, the ponderous lighters used in shipping stone\nwere hauled up the beach in anticipation of the equinoctial attack.\n\nA few days after Ethelberta's reception at Enckworth, an improved\nstanhope, driven by Lord Mountclere himself, climbed up the hill until it\nwas opposite her door.  A few notes from a piano softly played reached\nhis ear as he descended from his place: on being shown in to his\nbetrothed, he could perceive that she had just left the instrument.\nMoreover, a tear was visible in her eye when she came near him.\n\nThey discoursed for several minutes in the manner natural between a\ndefenceless young widow and an old widower in Lord Mountclere's position\nto whom she was plighted--a great deal of formal considerateness making\nitself visible on her part, and of extreme tenderness on his.  While thus\noccupied, he turned to the piano, and casually glanced at a piece of\nmusic lying open upon it.  Some words of writing at the top expressed\nthat it was the composer's original copy, presented by him, Christopher\nJulian, to the author of the song.  Seeing that he noticed the sheet\nsomewhat lengthily, Ethelberta remarked that it had been an offering made\nto her a long time ago--a melody written to one of her own poems.\n\n'In the writing of the composer,' observed Lord Mountclere, with\ninterest.  'An offering from the musician himself--very gratifying and\ntouching.  Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see upon it, I believe?  I\nknew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne man, if I recollect.'\n\n'Yes,' said Ethelberta placidly.  But it was really with an effort.  The\nsong was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her from\nSandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends;\nand the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had started\neddies of emotion for some time checked.\n\n'I am sorry you have been grieved,' said Lord Mountclere, with gloomy\nrestlessness.\n\n'Grieved?' said Ethelberta.\n\n'Did I not see a tear there? or did my eyes deceive me?'\n\n'You might have seen one.'\n\n'Ah! a tear, and a song.  I think--'\n\n'You naturally think that a woman who cries over a man's gift must be in\nlove with the giver?'  Ethelberta looked him serenely in the face.\n\nLord Mountclere's jealous suspicions were considerably shaken.\n\n'Not at all,' he said hastily, as if ashamed.  'One who cries over a song\nis much affected by its sentiment.'\n\n'Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?' she inquired,\nmerging defence in attack.  'I am afraid they don't often do that.'\n\n'You would make me uneasy.'\n\n'On the contrary, I would reassure you.  Are you not still doubting?' she\nasked, with a pleasant smile.\n\n'I cannot doubt you!'\n\n'Swear, like a faithful knight.'\n\n'I swear, my fairy, my flower!'\n\nAfter this the old man appeared to be pondering; indeed, his thoughts\ncould hardly be said to be present when he uttered the words.  For though\nthe tabernacle was getting shaky by reason of years and merry living, so\nthat what was going on inside might often be guessed without by the\nmovement of the hangings, as in a puppet-show with worn canvas, he could\nbe quiet enough when scheming any plot of particular neatness, which had\nless emotion than impishness in it.  Such an innocent amusement he was\npondering now.\n\nBefore leaving her, he asked if she would accompany him to a morning\ninstrumental concert at Melchester, which was to take place in the course\nof that week for the benefit of some local institution.\n\n'Melchester,' she repeated faintly, and observed him as searchingly as it\nwas possible to do without exposing herself to a raking fire in return.\nCould he know that Christopher was living there, and was this said in\nprolongation of his recent suspicion?  But Lord Mountclere's face gave no\nsign.\n\n'You forget one fatal objection,' said she; 'the secrecy in which it is\nimperative that the engagement between us should be kept.'\n\n'I am not known in Melchester without my carriage; nor are you.'\n\n'We may be known by somebody on the road.'\n\n'Then let it be arranged in this way.  I will not call here to take you\nup, but will meet you at the station at Anglebury; and we can go on\ntogether by train without notice.  Surely there can be no objection to\nthat?  It would be mere prudishness to object, since we are to become one\nso shortly.'  He spoke a little impatiently.  It was plain that he\nparticularly wanted her to go to Melchester.\n\n'I merely meant that there was a chance of discovery in our going out\ntogether.  And discovery means no marriage.'  She was pale now, and sick\nat heart, for it seemed that the viscount must be aware that Christopher\ndwelt at that place, and was about to test her concerning him.\n\n'Why does it mean no marriage?' said he.\n\n'My father might, and almost certainly would, object to it.  Although he\ncannot control me, he might entreat me.'\n\n'Why would he object?' said Lord Mountclere uneasily, and somewhat\nhaughtily.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'But you will be my wife--say again that you will.'\n\n'I will.'\n\nHe breathed.  'He will not object--hee-hee!' he said.  'O no--I think you\nwill be mine now.'\n\n'I have said so.  But look to me all the same.'\n\n'You malign yourself, dear one.  But you will meet me at Anglebury, as I\nwish, and go on to Melchester with me?'\n\n'I shall be pleased to--if my sister may accompany me.'\n\n'Ah--your sister.  Yes, of course.'\n\nThey settled the time of the journey, and when the visit had been\nstretched out as long as it reasonably could be with propriety, Lord\nMountclere took his leave.\n\nWhen he was again seated on the driving-phaeton which he had brought that\nday, Lord Mountclere looked gleeful, and shrewd enough in his own opinion\nto outwit Mephistopheles.  As soon as they were ascending a hill, and he\ncould find time to free his hand, he pulled off his glove, and drawing\nfrom his pocket a programme of the Melchester concert referred to,\ncontemplated therein the name of one of the intended performers.  The\nname was that of Mr. C. Julian.  Replacing it again, he looked ahead, and\nsome time after murmured with wily mirth, 'An excellent test--a lucky\nthought!'\n\nNothing of importance occurred during the intervening days.  At two\no'clock on the appointed afternoon Ethelberta stepped from the train at\nMelchester with the viscount, who had met her as proposed; she was\nfollowed behind by Picotee.\n\nThe concert was to be held at the Town-hall half-an-hour later.  They\nentered a fly in waiting, and secure from recognition, were driven\nleisurely in that direction, Picotee silent and absorbed with her own\nthoughts.\n\n'There's the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere humorously, as they caught\na view of one of its towers through a street leading into the Close.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'It boasts of a very fine organ.'\n\n'Ah.'\n\n'And the organist is a clever young man.'\n\n'Oh.'\n\nLord Mountclere paused a moment or two.  'By the way, you may remember\nthat he is the Mr. Julian who set your song to music!'\n\n'I recollect it quite well.'  Her heart was horrified and she thought\nLord Mountclere must be developing into an inquisitor, which perhaps he\nwas.  But none of this reached her face.\n\nThey turned in the direction of the Hall, were set down, and entered.\n\nThe large assembly-room set apart for the concert was upstairs, and it\nwas possible to enter it in two ways: by the large doorway in front of\nthe landing, or by turning down a side passage leading to council-rooms\nand subsidiary apartments of small size, which were allotted to\nperformers in any exhibition; thus they could enter from one of these\ndirectly upon the platform, without passing through the audience.\n\n'Will you seat yourselves here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead of\nentering by the direct door, had brought the young women round into this\ngreen-room, as it may be called.  'You see we have come in privately\nenough; when the musicians arrive we can pass through behind them, and\nstep down to our seats from the front.'\n\nThe players could soon be heard tuning in the next room.  Then one came\nthrough the passage-room where the three waited, and went in, then\nanother, then another.  Last of all came Julian.\n\nEthelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never in the least\nexpecting her there, did not recognize her till he was quite inside.  When\nhe had really perceived her to be the one who had troubled his soul so\nmany times and long, the blood in his face--never very much--passed off\nand left it, like the shade of a cloud.  Between them stood a table\ncovered with green baize, which, reflecting upwards a band of sunlight\nshining across the chamber, flung upon his already white features the\nvirescent hues of death.  The poor musician, whose person, much to his\nown inconvenience, constituted a complete breviary of the gentle\nemotions, looked as if he were going to fall down in a faint.\n\nEthelberta flung at Lord Mountclere a look which clipped him like\npincers: he never forgot it as long as he lived.\n\n'This is your pretty jealous scheme--I see it!' she hissed to him, and\nwithout being able to control herself went across to Julian.\n\nBut a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had been\nsitting.  Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere looked that way: and behold,\nPicotee had nearly swooned.\n\nEthelberta's show of passion went as quickly as it had come, for she felt\nthat a splendid triumph had been put into her hands.  'Now do you see the\ntruth?' she whispered to Lord Mountclere without a drachm of feeling;\npointing to Christopher and then to Picotee--as like as two snowdrops\nnow.\n\n'I do, I do,' murmured the viscount hastily.\n\nThey both went forward to help Christopher in restoring the fragile\nPicotee: he had set himself to that task as suddenly as he possibly could\nto cover his own near approach to the same condition.  Not much help was\nrequired, the little girl's indisposition being quite momentary, and she\nsat up in the chair again.\n\n'Are you better?' said Ethelberta to Christopher.\n\n'Quite well--quite,' he said, smiling faintly.  'I am glad to see you.  I\nmust, I think, go into the next room now.'  He bowed and walked out\nawkwardly.\n\n'Are you better, too?' she said to Picotee.\n\n'Quite well,' said Picotee.\n\n'You are quite sure you know between whom the love lies now--eh?'\nEthelberta asked in a sarcastic whisper of Lord Mountclere.\n\n'I am--beyond a doubt,' murmured the anxious nobleman; he feared that\nlook of hers, which was not less dominant than irresistible.\n\nSome additional moments given to thought on the circumstances rendered\nEthelberta still more indignant and intractable.  She went out at the\ndoor by which they had entered, along the passage, and down the stairs.  A\nshuffling footstep followed, but she did not turn her head.  When they\nreached the bottom of the stairs the carriage had gone, their exit not\nbeing expected till two hours later.  Ethelberta, nothing daunted, swept\nalong the pavement and down the street in a turbulent prance, Lord\nMountclere trotting behind with a jowl reduced to a mere nothing by his\nconcern at the discourtesy into which he had been lured by jealous\nwhisperings.\n\n'My dearest--forgive me; I confess I doubted you--but I was beside\nmyself,' came to her ears from over her shoulder.  But Ethelberta walked\non as before.\n\nLord Mountclere sighed like a poet over a ledger.  'An old man--who is\nnot very old--naturally torments himself with fears of losing--no, no--it\nwas an innocent jest of mine--you will forgive a joke--hee-hee?' he said\nagain, on getting no reply.\n\n'You had no right to mistrust me!'\n\n'I do not--you did not blench.  You should have told me before that it\nwas your sister and not yourself who was entangled with him.'\n\n'You brought me to Melchester on purpose to confront him!'\n\n'Yes, I did.'\n\n'Are you not ashamed?'\n\n'I am satisfied.  It is better to know the truth by any means than to die\nof suspense; better for us both--surely you see that?'\n\nThey had by this time got to the end of a long street, and into a\ndeserted side road by which the station could be indirectly reached.\nPicotee appeared in the distance as a mere distracted speck of girlhood,\nfollowing them because not knowing what else to do in her sickness of\nbody and mind.  Once out of sight here, Ethelberta began to cry.\n\n'Ethelberta,' said Lord Mountclere, in an agony of trouble, 'don't be\nvexed!  It was an inconsiderate trick--I own it.  Do what you will, but\ndo not desert me now!  I could not bear it--you would kill me if you were\nto leave me.  Anything, but be mine.'\n\nEthelberta continued her way, and drying her eyes entered the station,\nwhere, on searching the time-tables, she found there would be no train\nfor Anglebury for the next two hours.  Then more slowly she turned\ntowards the town again, meeting Picotee and keeping in her company.\n\nLord Mountclere gave up the chase, but as he wished to get into the town\nagain, he followed in the same direction.  When Ethelberta had proceeded\nas far as the Red Lion Hotel, she turned towards it with her companion,\nand being shown to a room, the two sisters shut themselves in.  Lord\nMountclere paused and entered the White Hart, the rival hotel to the Red\nLion, which stood in an adjoining street.\n\nHaving secluded himself in an apartment here, walked from window to\nwindow awhile, and made himself generally uncomfortable, he sat down to\nthe writing materials on the table, and concocted a note:--\n\n   'WHITE HART HOTEL.\n\n   'MY DEAR MRS. PETHERWIN,--You do not mean to be so cruel as to break\n   your plighted word to me?  Remember, there is no love without much\n   jealousy, and lovers are ever full of sighs and misgiving.  I have\n   owned to as much contrition as can reasonably be expected.  I could\n   not endure the suspicion that you loved another.--Yours always,\n\n   'MOUNTCLERE.'\n\nThis he sent, watching from the window its progress along the street.  He\nawaited anxiously for an answer, and waited long.  It was nearly twenty\nminutes before he could hear a messenger approaching the door.  Yes--she\nhad actually sent a reply; he prized it as if it had been the first\nencouragement he had ever in his life received from woman:--\n\n   'MY LORD' (wrote Ethelberta),--'I am not prepared at present to enter\n   into the question of marriage at all. The incident which has occurred\n   affords me every excuse for withdrawing my promise, since it was given\n   under misapprehensions on a point that materially affects my\n   happiness.\n\n   'E. PETHERWIN.'\n\n'Ho-ho-ho--Miss Hoity-toity!' said Lord Mountclere, trotting up and down.\nBut, remembering it was her June against his November, this did not last\nlong, and he frantically replied:--\n\n   'MY DARLING,--I cannot release you--I must do anything to keep my\n   treasure.  Will you not see me for a few minutes, and let bygones go\n   to the winds?'\n\nWas ever a thrush so safe in a cherry net before!\n\nThe messenger came back with the information that Mrs. Petherwin had\ntaken a walk to the Close, her companion alone remaining at the hotel.\nThere being nothing else left for the viscount to do, he put on his hat,\nand went out on foot in the same direction.  He had not walked far when\nhe saw Ethelberta moving slowly along the High Street before him.\n\nEthelberta was at this hour wandering without any fixed intention beyond\nthat of consuming time.  She was very wretched, and very indifferent: the\nformer when thinking of her past, the latter when thinking of the days to\ncome.  While she walked thus unconscious of the streets, and their groups\nof other wayfarers, she saw Christopher emerge from a door not many paces\nin advance, and close it behind him: he stood for a moment on the step\nbefore descending into the road.\n\nShe could not, even had she wished it, easily check her progress without\nrendering the chance of his perceiving her still more certain.  But she\ndid not wish any such thing, and it made little difference, for he had\nalready seen her in taking his survey round, and came down from the door\nto her side.  It was impossible for anything formal to pass between them\nnow.\n\n'You are not at the concert, Mr. Julian?' she said.  'I am glad to have a\nbetter opportunity of speaking to you, and of asking for your sister.\nUnfortunately there is not time for us to call upon her to-day.'\n\n'Thank you, but it makes no difference,' said Julian, with somewhat sad\nreserve.  'I will tell her I have met you; she is away from home just at\npresent.'  And finding that Ethelberta did not rejoin immediately he\nobserved, 'The chief organist, old Dr. Breeve, has taken my place at the\nconcert, as it was arranged he should do after the opening part.  I am\nnow going to the Cathedral for the afternoon service.  You are going\nthere too?'\n\n'I thought of looking at the interior for a moment.'\n\nSo they went on side by side, saying little; for it was a situation in\nwhich scarcely any appropriate thing could be spoken.  Ethelberta was the\nless reluctant to walk in his company because of the provocation to\nskittishness that Lord Mountclere had given, a provocation which she\nstill resented.  But she was far from wishing to increase his jealousy;\nand yet this was what she was doing, Lord Mountclere being a perturbed\nwitness from behind of all that was passing now.\n\nThey turned the corner of the short street of connection which led under\nan archway to the Cathedral Close, the old peer dogging them still.\nChristopher seemed to warm up a little, and repeated the invitation.  'You\nwill come with your sister to see us before you leave?' he said.  'We\nhave tea at six.'\n\n'We shall have left Melchester before that time.  I am now only waiting\nfor the train.'\n\n'You two have not come all the way from Knollsea alone?'\n\n'Part of the way,' said Ethelberta evasively.\n\n'And going back alone?'\n\n'No.  Only for the last five miles.  At least that was the arrangement--I\nam not quite sure if it holds good.'\n\n'You don't wish me to see you safely in the train?'\n\n'It is not necessary: thank you very much.  We are well used to getting\nabout the world alone, and from Melchester to Knollsea is no serious\njourney, late or early. . . .  Yet I think I ought, in honesty, to tell\nyou that we are not entirely by ourselves in Melchester to-day.'\n\n'I remember I saw your friend--relative--in the room at the Town-hall.  It\ndid not occur to my mind for the moment that he was any other than a\nstranger standing there.'\n\n'He is not a relative,' she said, with perplexity.  'I hardly know,\nChristopher, how to explain to you my position here to-day, because of\nsome difficulties that have arisen since we have been in the town, which\nmay alter it entirely.  On that account I will be less frank with you\nthan I should like to be, considering how long we have known each other.\nIt would be wrong, however, if I were not to tell you that there has been\na possibility of my marriage with him.'\n\n'The elderly gentleman?'\n\n'Yes.  And I came here in his company, intending to return with him.  But\nyou shall know all soon.  Picotee shall write to Faith.'\n\n'I always think the Cathedral looks better from this point than from the\npoint usually chosen by artists,' he said, with nervous quickness,\ndirecting her glance upwards to the silent structure, now misty and\nunrelieved by either high light or deep shade.  'We get the grouping of\nthe chapels and choir-aisles more clearly shown--and the whole culminates\nto a more perfect pyramid from this spot--do you think so?'\n\n'Yes.  I do.'\n\nA little further, and Christopher stopped to enter, when Ethelberta bade\nhim farewell.  'I thought at one time that our futures might have been\ndifferent from what they are apparently becoming,' he said then,\nregarding her as a stall-reader regards the brilliant book he cannot\nafford to buy.  'But one gets weary of repining about that.  I wish\nPicotee and yourself could see us oftener; I am as confirmed a bachelor\nnow as Faith is an old maid.  I wonder if--should the event you\ncontemplate occur--you and he will ever visit us, or we shall ever visit\nyou!'\n\nChristopher was evidently imagining the elderly gentleman to be some\nretired farmer, or professional man already so intermixed with the\nmetamorphic classes of society as not to be surprised or inconvenienced\nby her beginnings; one who wished to secure Ethelberta as an ornament to\nhis parlour fire in a quiet spirit, and in no intoxicated mood regardless\nof issues.  She could scarcely reply to his supposition; and the parting\nwas what might have been predicted from a conversation so carefully\ncontrolled.\n\nEthelberta, as she had intended, now went on further, and entering the\nnave began to inspect the sallow monuments which lined the grizzled pile.\nShe did not perceive amid the shadows an old gentleman who had crept into\nthe mouldy place as stealthily as a worm into a skull, and was keeping\nhimself carefully beyond her observation.  She continued to regard\nfeature after feature till the choristers had filed in from the south\nside, and peals broke forth from the organ on the black oaken mass at the\njunction of nave and choir, shaking every cobweb in the dusky vaults, and\nEthelberta's heart no less.  She knew the fingers that were pressing out\nthose rolling sounds, and knowing them, became absorbed in tracing their\nprogress.  To go towards the organ-loft was an act of unconsciousness,\nand she did not pause till she stood almost beneath it.\n\nEthelberta was awakened from vague imaginings by the close approach of\nthe old gentleman alluded to, who spoke with a great deal of agitation.\n\n'I have been trying to meet with you,' said Lord Mountclere.  'Come, let\nus be friends again!--Ethelberta, I MUST not lose you!  You cannot mean\nthat the engagement shall be broken off?'  He was far too desirous to\npossess her at any price now to run a second risk of exasperating her,\nand forbore to make any allusion to the recent pantomime between herself\nand Christopher that he had beheld, though it might reasonably have\nfilled him with dread and petulance.\n\n'I do not mean anything beyond this,' said she, 'that I entirely withdraw\nfrom it on the faintest sign that you have not abandoned such miserable\njealous proceedings as those you adopted to-day.'\n\n'I have quite abandoned them.  Will you come a little further this way,\nand walk in the aisle?  You do still agree to be mine?'\n\n'If it gives you any pleasure, I do.'\n\n'Yes, yes.  I implore that the marriage may be soon--very soon.'  The\nviscount spoke hastily, for the notes of the organ which were plunging\ninto their ears ever and anon from the hands of his young rival seemed\ninconveniently and solemnly in the way of his suit.\n\n'Well, Lord Mountclere?'\n\n'Say in a few days?--it is the only thing that will satisfy me.'\n\n'I am absolutely indifferent as to the day.  If it pleases you to have it\nearly I am willing.'\n\n'Dare I ask that it may be this week?' said the delighted old man.\n\n'I could not say that.'\n\n'But you can name the earliest day?'\n\n'I cannot now.  We had better be going from here, I think.'\n\nThe Cathedral was filling with shadows, and cold breathings came round\nthe piers, for it was November, when night very soon succeeds noon in\nspots where noon is sobered to the pallor of eve.  But the service was\nnot yet over, and before quite leaving the building Ethelberta cast one\nother glance towards the organ and thought of him behind it.  At this\nmoment her attention was arrested by the form of her sister Picotee, who\ncame in at the north door, closed the lobby-wicket softly, and went\nlightly forward to the choir.  When within a few yards of it she paused\nby a pillar, and lingered there looking up at the organ as Ethelberta had\ndone.  No sound was coming from the ponderous mass of tubes just then;\nbut in a short space a whole crowd of tones spread from the instrument to\naccompany the words of a response.  Picotee started at the burst of music\nas if taken in a dishonest action, and moved on in a manner intended to\nefface the lover's loiter of the preceding moments from her own\nconsciousness no less than from other people's eyes.\n\n'Do you see that?' said Ethelberta.  'That little figure is my dearest\nsister.  Could you but ensure a marriage between her and him she listens\nto, I would do anything you wish!'\n\n'That is indeed a gracious promise,' said Lord Mountclere.  'And would\nyou agree to what I asked just now?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'When?'  A gleeful spark accompanied this.\n\n'As you requested.'\n\n'This week?  The day after to-morrow?'\n\n'If you will.  But remember what lies on your side of the contract.  I\nfancy I have given you a task beyond your powers.'\n\n'Well, darling, we are at one at last,' said Lord Mountclere, rubbing his\nhand against his side.  'And if my task is heavy and I cannot guarantee\nthe result, I can make it very probable.  Marry me on Friday--the day\nafter to-morrow--and I will do all that money and influence can effect to\nbring about their union.'\n\n'You solemnly promise?  You will never cease to give me all the aid in\nyour power until the thing is done?'\n\n'I do solemnly promise--on the conditions named.'\n\n'Very good.  You will have ensured my fulfilment of my promise before I\ncan ensure yours; but I take your word.'\n\n'You will marry me on Friday!  Give me your hand upon it.'\n\nShe gave him her hand.\n\n'Is it a covenant?' he asked.\n\n'It is,' said she.\n\nLord Mountclere warmed from surface to centre as if he had drunk of\nhippocras, and, after holding her hand for some moments, raised it gently\nto his lips.\n\n'Two days and you are mine,' he said.\n\n'That I believe I never shall be.'\n\n'Never shall be?  Why, darling?'\n\n'I don't know.  Some catastrophe will prevent it.  I shall be dead\nperhaps.'\n\n'You distress me.  Ah,--you meant me--you meant that I should be dead,\nbecause you think I am old!  But that is a mistake--I am not very old!'\n\n'I thought only of myself--nothing of you.'\n\n'Yes, I know.  Dearest, it is dismal and chilling here--let us go.'\n\nEthelberta mechanically moved with him, and felt there was no retreating\nnow.  In the meantime the young ladykin whom the solemn vowing concerned\nhad lingered round the choir screen, as if fearing to enter, yet loth to\ngo away.  The service terminated, the heavy books were closed, doors were\nopened, and the feet of the few persons who had attended evensong began\npattering down the paved alleys.  Not wishing Picotee to know that the\nobject of her secret excursion had been discovered, Ethelberta now\nstepped out of the west doorway with the viscount before Picotee had\nemerged from the other; and they walked along the path together until she\novertook them.\n\n'I fear it becomes necessary for me to stay in Melchester to-night,' said\nLord Mountclere.  'I have a few matters to attend to here, as the result\nof our arrangements.  But I will first accompany you as far as Anglebury,\nand see you safely into a carriage there that shall take you home.  To-\nmorrow I will drive to Knollsea, when we will make the final\npreparations.'\n\nEthelberta would not have him go so far and back again, merely to attend\nupon her; hence they parted at the railway, with due and correct\ntenderness; and when the train had gone, Lord Mountclere returned into\nthe town on the special business he had mentioned, for which there\nremained only the present evening and the following morning, if he were\nto call upon her in the afternoon of the next day--the day before the\nwedding--now so recklessly hastened on his part, and so coolly assented\nto on hers.\n\nBy the time that the two young people had started it was nearly dark.\nSome portions of the railway stretched through little copses and\nplantations where, the leaf-shedding season being now at its height, red\nand golden patches of fallen foliage lay on either side of the rails; and\nas the travellers passed, all these death-stricken bodies boiled up in\nthe whirlwind created by the velocity, and were sent flying right and\nleft of them in myriads, a clean-fanned track being left behind.\n\nPicotee was called from the observation of these phenomena by a remark\nfrom her sister: 'Picotee, the marriage is to be very early indeed.  It\nis to be the day after to-morrow--if it can.  Nevertheless I don't\nbelieve in the fact--I cannot.'\n\n'Did you arrange it so?  Nobody can make you marry so soon.'\n\n'I agreed to the day,' murmured Ethelberta languidly.\n\n'How can it be?  The gay dresses and the preparations and the people--how\ncan they be collected in the time, Berta?  And so much more of that will\nbe required for a lord of the land than for a common man.  O, I can't\nthink it possible for a sister of mine to marry a lord!'\n\n'And yet it has been possible any time this last month or two, strange as\nit seems to you. . . .  It is to be not only a plain and simple wedding,\nwithout any lofty appliances, but a secret one--as secret as if I were\nsome under-age heiress to an Indian fortune, and he a young man of\nnothing a year.'\n\n'Has Lord Mountclere said it must be so private?  I suppose it is on\naccount of his family.'\n\n'No.  I say so; and it is on account of my family.  Father might object\nto the wedding, I imagine, from what he once said, or he might be much\ndisturbed about it; so I think it better that he and the rest should know\nnothing till all is over.  You must dress again as my sister to-morrow,\ndear.  Lord Mountclere is going to pay us an early visit to conclude\nnecessary arrangements.'\n\n'O, the life as a lady at Enckworth Court!  The flowers, the woods, the\nrooms, the pictures, the plate, and the jewels!  Horses and carriages\nrattling and prancing, seneschals and pages, footmen hopping up and\nhopping down.  It will be glory then!'\n\n'We might hire our father as one of my retainers, to increase it,' said\nEthelberta drily.\n\nPicotee's countenance fell.  'How shall we manage all about that?  'Tis\nterrible, really!'\n\n'The marriage granted, those things will right themselves by time and\nweight of circumstances.  You take a wrong view in thinking of glories of\nthat sort.  My only hope is that my life will be quite private and\nsimple, as will best become my inferiority and Lord Mountclere's\nstaidness.  Such a splendid library as there is at Enckworth,\nPicotee--quartos, folios, history, verse, Elzevirs, Caxtons--all that has\nbeen done in literature from Moses down to Scott--with such companions I\ncan do without all other sorts of happiness.'\n\n'And you will not go to town from Easter to Lammastide, as other noble\nladies do?' asked the younger girl, rather disappointed at this aspect of\na viscountess's life.\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'But you will give dinners, and travel, and go to see his friends, and\nhave them to see you?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'Will you not be, then, as any other peeress; and shall not I be as any\nother peeress's sister?'\n\n'That, too, I do not know.  All is mystery.  Nor do I even know that the\nmarriage will take place.  I feel that it may not; and perhaps so much\nthe better, since the man is a stranger to me.  I know nothing whatever\nof his nature, and he knows nothing of mine.'\n\n\n\n\n40. MELCHESTER (continued)\n\n\nThe commotion wrought in Julian's mind by the abrupt incursion of\nEthelberta into his quiet sphere was thorough and protracted.  The\nwitchery of her presence he had grown strong enough to withstand in part;\nbut her composed announcement that she had intended to marry another,\nand, as far as he could understand, was intending it still, added a new\nchill to the old shade of disappointment which custom was day by day\nenabling him to endure.  During the whole interval in which he had\nproduced those diapason blasts, heard with such inharmonious feelings by\nthe three auditors outside the screen, his thoughts had wandered wider\nthan his notes in conjectures on the character and position of the\ngentleman seen in Ethelberta's company.  Owing to his assumption that\nLord Mountclere was but a stranger who had accidentally come in at the\nside door, Christopher had barely cast a glance upon him, and the wide\ndifference between the years of the viscount and those of his betrothed\nwas not so particularly observed as to raise that point to an item in his\nobjections now.  Lord Mountclere was dressed with all the cunning that\ncould be drawn from the metropolis by money and reiterated\ndissatisfaction; he prided himself on his upright carriage; his stick was\nso thin that the most malevolent could not insinuate that it was of any\npossible use in walking; his teeth had put on all the vigour and\nfreshness of a second spring.  Hence his look was the slowest of possible\nclocks in respect of his age, and his manner was equally as much in the\nrear of his appearance.\n\nChristopher was now over five-and-twenty.  He was getting so well\naccustomed to the spectacle of a world passing him by and splashing him\nwith its wheels that he wondered why he had ever minded it.  His habit of\ndreaming instead of doing had led him up to a curious discovery.  It is\nno new thing for a man to fathom profundities by indulging humours: the\nactive, the rapid, the people of splendid momentum, have been surprised\nto behold what results attend the lives of those whose usual plan for\ndischarging their active labours has been to postpone them indefinitely.\nCertainly, the immediate result in the present case was, to all but\nhimself, small and invisible; but it was of the nature of highest things.\nWhat he had learnt was that a woman who has once made a permanent\nimpression upon a man cannot altogether deny him her image by denying him\nher company, and that by sedulously cultivating the acquaintance of this\nCreature of Contemplation she becomes to him almost a living soul.  Hence\na sublimated Ethelberta accompanied him everywhere--one who never teased\nhim, eluded him, or disappointed him: when he smiled she smiled, when he\nwas sad she sorrowed.  He may be said to have become the literal\nduplicate of that whimsical unknown rhapsodist who wrote of his own\nsimilar situation--\n\n   'By absence this good means I gain,\n      That I can catch her,\n      Where none can watch her,\n   In some close corner of my brain:\n      There I embrace and kiss her;\n      And so I both enjoy and miss her.'\n\nThis frame of mind naturally induced an amazing abstraction in the\norganist, never very vigilant at the best of times.  He would stand and\nlook fixedly at a frog in a shady pool, and never once think of\nbatrachians, or pause by a green bank to split some tall blade of grass\ninto filaments without removing it from its stalk, passing on ignorant\nthat he had made a cat-o'-nine-tails of a graceful slip of vegetation.  He\nwould hear the cathedral clock strike one, and go the next minute to see\nwhat time it was.  'I never seed such a man as Mr. Julian is,' said the\nhead blower.  'He'll meet me anywhere out-of-doors, and never wink or\nnod.  You'd hardly expect it.  I don't find fault, but you'd hardly\nexpect it, seeing how I play the same instrument as he do himself, and\nhave done it for so many years longer than he.  How I have indulged that\nman, too!  If 'tis Pedals for two martel hours of practice I never\ncomplain; and he has plenty of vagaries.  When 'tis hot summer weather\nthere's nothing will do for him but Choir, Great, and Swell altogether,\ntill yer face is in a vapour; and on a frosty winter night he'll keep me\nthere while he tweedles upon the Twelfth and Sixteenth till my arms be\nscrammed for want of motion.  And never speak a word out-of-doors.'\nSomebody suggested that perhaps Christopher did not notice his\ncoadjutor's presence in the street; and time proved to the organ-blower\nthat the remark was just.\n\nWhenever Christopher caught himself at these vacuous tricks he would be\nstruck with admiration of Ethelberta's wisdom, foresight, and\nself-command in refusing to wed such an incapable man: he felt that he\nought to be thankful that a bright memory of her was not also denied to\nhim, and resolved to be content with it as a possession, since it was as\nmuch of her as he could decently maintain.\n\nWrapped thus in a humorous sadness he passed the afternoon under notice,\nand in the evening went home to Faith, who still lived with him, and\nshowed no sign of ever being likely to do otherwise.  Their present place\nand mode of life suited her well.  She revived at Melchester like an\nexotic sent home again.  The leafy Close, the climbing buttresses, the\npondering ecclesiastics, the great doors, the singular keys, the\nwhispered talk, echoes of lonely footsteps, the sunset shadow of the tall\nsteeple, reaching further into the town than the good bishop's teaching,\nand the general complexion of a spot where morning had the stillness of\nevening and spring some of the tones of autumn, formed a proper\nbackground to a person constituted as Faith, who, like Miss Hepzibah\nPyncheon's chicken, possessed in miniature all the antiquity of her\nprogenitors.\n\nAfter tea Christopher went into the streets, as was frequently his\ncustom, less to see how the world crept on there than to walk up and down\nfor nothing at all.  It had been market-day, and remnants of the rural\npopulation that had visited the town still lingered at corners, their\ntoes hanging over the edge of the pavement, and their eyes wandering\nabout the street.\n\nThe angle which formed the turning-point of Christopher's promenade was\noccupied by a jeweller's shop, of a standing which completely outshone\nevery other shop in that or any trade throughout the town.  Indeed, it\nwas a staple subject of discussion in Melchester how a shop of such\npretensions could find patronage sufficient to support its existence in a\nplace which, though well populated, was not fashionable.  It had not long\nbeen established there, and was the enterprise of an incoming man whose\nwhole course of procedure seemed to be dictated by an intention to\nastonish the native citizens very considerably before he had done.  Nearly\neverything was glass in the frontage of this fairy mart, and its contents\nglittered like the hammochrysos stone.  The panes being of plate-glass,\nand the shop having two fronts, a diagonal view could be had through it\nfrom one to the other of the streets to which it formed a corner.\n\nThis evening, as on all evenings, a flood of radiance spread from the\nwindow-lamps into the thick autumn air, so that from a distance that\ncorner appeared as the glistening nucleus of all the light in the town.\nTowards it idle men and women unconsciously bent their steps, and closed\nin upon the panes like night-birds upon the lantern of a lighthouse.\n\nWhen Christopher reached the spot there stood close to the pavement a\nplain close carriage, apparently waiting for some person who was\npurchasing inside.  Christopher would hardly have noticed this had he not\nalso perceived, pressed against the glass of the shop window, an unusual\nnumber of local noses belonging to overgrown working lads, tosspots, an\nidiot, the ham-smoker's assistant with his sleeves rolled up, a scot-and-\nlot freeholder, three or four seamstresses, the young woman who brought\nhome the washing, and so on.  The interest of these gazers in some\nproceedings within, which by reason of the gaslight were as public as if\ncarried on in the open air, was very great.\n\n'Yes, that's what he's a buying o'--haw, haw!' said one of the young men,\nas the shopman removed from the window a gorgeous blue velvet tray of\nwedding-rings, and laid it on the counter.\n\n''Tis what you may come to yerself, sooner or later, God have mercy upon\nye; and as such no scoffing matter,' said an older man.  'Faith, I'd as\nlief cry as laugh to see a man in that corner.'\n\n'He's a gent getting up in years too.  He must hev been through it a few\ntimes afore, seemingly, to sit down and buy the tools so cool as that.'\n\n'Well, no.  See what the shyest will do at such times.  You bain't\nyerself then; no man living is hisself then.'\n\n'True,' said the ham-smoker's man.  ''Tis a thought to look at that a\nchap will take all this trouble to get a woman into his house, and a\ntwelvemonth after would as soon hear it thunder as hear her sing!'\n\nThe policeman standing near was a humane man, through having a young\nfamily he could hardly keep, and he hesitated about telling them to move\non.  Christopher had before this time perceived that the articles were\nlaid down before an old gentleman who was seated in the shop, and that\nthe gentleman was none other than he who had been with Ethelberta in the\nconcert-room.  The discovery was so startling that, constitutionally\nindisposed as he was to stand and watch, he became as glued to the spot\nas the other idlers.  Finding himself now for the first time directly\nconfronting the preliminaries of Ethelberta's marriage to a stranger, he\nwas left with far less equanimity than he could have supposed possible to\nthe situation.\n\n'So near the time!' he said, and looked hard at Lord Mountclere.\n\nChristopher had now a far better opportunity than before for observing\nEthelberta's betrothed.  Apart from any bias of jealousy, disappointment,\nor mortification, he was led to judge that this was not quite the man to\nmake Ethelberta happy.  He had fancied her companion to be a man under\nfifty; he was now visibly sixty or more.  And it was not the sort of\nsexagenarianism beside which a young woman's happiness can sometimes\ncontrive to keep itself alive in a quiet sleepy way.  Suddenly it\noccurred to him that this was the man whom he had helped in the carriage\naccident on the way to Knollsea.  He looked again.\n\nBy no means undignified, the face presented that combination of slyness\nand jocundity which we are accustomed to imagine of the canonical jolly-\ndogs in mediaeval tales.  The gamesome Curate of Meudon might have\nsupplied some parts of the countenance; cunning Friar Tuck the remainder.\nNothing but the viscount's constant habit of going to church every Sunday\nmorning when at his country residence kept unholiness out of his\nfeatures, for though he lived theologically enough on the Sabbath, as it\nbecame a man in his position to do, he was strikingly mundane all the\nrest of the week, always preferring the devil to God in his oaths.  And\nnothing but antecedent good-humour prevented the short fits of crossness\nincident to his passing infirmities from becoming established.  His look\nwas exceptionally jovial now, and the corners of his mouth twitched as\nthe telegraph-needles of a hundred little erotic messages from his heart\nto his brain.  Anybody could see that he was a merry man still, who loved\ngood company, warming drinks, nymph-like shapes, and pretty words, in\nspite of the disagreeable suggestions he received from the pupils of his\neyes, and the joints of his lively limbs, that imps of mischief were busy\nsapping and mining in those regions, with the view of tumbling him into a\ncertain cool cellar under the church aisle.\n\nIn general, if a lover can find any ground at all for serenity in the\ntide of an elderly rival's success, he finds it in the fact itself of\nthat ancientness.  The other side seems less a rival than a makeshift.\nBut Christopher no longer felt this, and the significant signs before his\neyes of the imminence of Ethelberta's union with this old hero filled him\nwith restless dread.  True, the gentleman, as he appeared illuminated by\nthe jeweller's gas-jets, seemed more likely to injure Ethelberta by\nindulgence than by severity, while her beauty lasted; but there was a\nnameless something in him less tolerable than this.\n\nThe purchaser having completed his dealings with the goldsmith, was\nconducted to the door by the master of the shop, and into the carriage,\nwhich was at once driven off up the street.\n\nChristopher now much desired to know the name of the man whom a nice\nchain of circumstantial evidence taught him to regard as the happy winner\nwhere scores had lost.  He was grieved that Ethelberta's confessed\nreserve should have extended so far as to limit her to mere indefinite\nhints of marriage when they were talking almost on the brink of the\nwedding-day.  That the ceremony was to be a private one--which it\nprobably would be because of the disparity of ages--did not in his\nopinion justify her secrecy.  He had shown himself capable of a\ntransmutation as valuable as it is rare in men, the change from pestering\nlover to staunch friend, and this was all he had got for it.  But even an\nold lover sunk to an indifferentist might have been tempted to spend an\nunoccupied half-hour in discovering particulars now, and Christopher had\nnot lapsed nearly so far as to absolute unconcern.\n\nThat evening, however, nothing came in his way to enlighten him.  But the\nnext day, when skirting the Close on his ordinary duties, he saw the same\ncarriage standing at a distance, and paused to behold the same old\ngentleman come from a well-known office and re-enter the vehicle--Lord\nMountclere, in fact, in earnest pursuit of the business of yesternight,\nhaving just pocketed a document in which romance, rashness, law, and\ngospel are so happily made to work together that it may safely be\nregarded as the neatest compromise which has ever been invented since\nAdam sinned.\n\nThis time Julian perceived that the brougham was one belonging to the\nWhite Hart Hotel, which Lord Mountclere was using partly from the\nnecessities of these hasty proceedings, and also because, by so doing, he\nescaped the notice that might have been bestowed upon his own equipage,\nor men-servants, the Mountclere hammer-cloths being known in Melchester.\nChristopher now walked towards the hotel, leisurely, yet with anxiety.  He\ninquired of a porter what people were staying there that day, and was\ninformed that they had only one person in the house, Lord Mountclere,\nwhom sudden and unexpected business had detained in Melchester since the\nprevious day.\n\nChristopher lingered to hear no more.  He retraced the street much more\nquickly than he had come; and he only said, 'Lord Mountclere--it must\nnever be!'\n\nAs soon as he entered the house, Faith perceived that he was greatly\nagitated.  He at once told her of his discovery, and she exclaimed, 'What\na brilliant match!'\n\n'O Faith,' said Christopher, 'you don't know!  You are far from knowing.\nIt is as gloomy as midnight.  Good God, can it be possible?'\n\nFaith blinked in alarm, without speaking.\n\n'Did you never hear anything of Lord Mountclere when we lived at\nSandbourne?'\n\n'I knew the name--no more.'\n\n'No, no--of course you did not.  Well, though I never saw his face, to my\nknowledge, till a short time ago, I know enough to say that, if earnest\nrepresentations can prevent it, this marriage shall not be.  Father knew\nhim, or about him, very well; and he once told me--what I cannot tell\nyou.  Fancy, I have seen him three times--yesterday, last night, and this\nmorning--besides helping him on the road some weeks ago, and never once\nconsidered that he might be Lord Mountclere.  He is here almost in\ndisguise, one may say; neither man nor horse is with him; and his object\naccounts for his privacy.  I see how it is--she is doing this to benefit\nher brothers and sisters, if possible; but she ought to know that if she\nis miserable they will never be happy.  That's the nature of women--they\ntake the form for the essence, and that's what she is doing now.  I\nshould think her guardian angel must have quitted her when she agreed to\na marriage which may tear her heart out like a claw.'\n\n'You are too warm about it, Kit--it cannot be so bad as that.  It is not\nthe thing, but the sensitiveness to the thing, which is the true measure\nof its pain.  Perhaps what seems so bad to you falls lightly on her mind.\nA campaigner in a heavy rain is not more uncomfortable than we are in a\nslight draught; and Ethelberta, fortified by her sapphires and gold cups\nand wax candles, will not mind facts which look like spectres to us\noutside.  A title will turn troubles into romances, and she will shine as\nan interesting viscountess in spite of them.'\n\nThe discussion with Faith was not continued, Christopher stopping the\nargument by saying that he had a good mind to go off at once to Knollsea,\nand show her her danger.  But till the next morning Ethelberta was\ncertainly safe; no marriage was possible anywhere before then.  He passed\nthe afternoon in a state of great indecision, constantly reiterating, 'I\nwill go!'\n\n\n\n\n41. WORKSHOPS--AN INN--THE STREET\n\n\nOn an extensive plot of ground, lying somewhere between the Thames and\nthe Kensington squares, stood the premises of Messrs. Nockett and Perch,\nbuilders and contractors.  The yard with its workshops formed part of one\nof those frontier lines between mangy business and garnished domesticity\nthat occur in what are called improving neighbourhoods.  We are\naccustomed to regard increase as the chief feature in a great city's\nprogress, its well-known signs greeting our eyes on every outskirt.  Slush-\nponds may be seen turning into basement-kitchens; a broad causeway of\nshattered earthenware smothers plots of budding gooseberry-bushes and\nvegetable trenches, foundations following so closely upon gardens that\nthe householder may be expected to find cadaverous sprouts from\noverlooked potatoes rising through the chinks of his cellar floor.  But\nthe other great process, that of internal transmutation, is not less\ncurious than this encroachment of grey upon green.  Its first erections\nare often only the milk-teeth of a suburb, and as the district rises in\ndignity they are dislodged by those which are to endure.  Slightness\nbecomes supplanted by comparative solidity, commonness by novelty,\nlowness and irregularity by symmetry and height.\n\nAn observer of the precinct which has been named as an instance in point\nmight have stood under a lamp-post and heard simultaneously the peal of\nthe visitor's bell from the new terrace on the right hand, and the stroke\nof tools from the musty workshops on the left.  Waggons laden with deals\ncame up on this side, and landaus came down on the other--the former to\nlumber heavily through the old-established contractors' gates, the latter\nto sweep fashionably into the square.\n\nAbout twelve o'clock on the day following Lord Mountclere's exhibition of\nhimself to Christopher in the jeweller's shop at Melchester, and almost\nat the identical time when the viscount was seen to come from the office\nfor marriage-licences in the same place, a carriage drove nearly up to\nthe gates of Messrs. Nockett and Co.'s yard.  A gentleman stepped out and\nlooked around.  He was a man whose years would have been pronounced as\nfive-and-forty by the friendly, fifty by the candid, fifty-two or three\nby the grim.  He was as handsome a study in grey as could be seen in\ntown, there being far more of the raven's plumage than of the gull's in\nthe mixture as yet; and he had a glance of that practised sort which can\nmeasure people, weigh them, repress them, encourage them to sprout and\nblossom as a March sun encourages crocuses, ask them questions, give them\nanswers--in short, a glance that could do as many things as an American\ncooking-stove or a multum-in-parvo pocket-knife.  But, as with most men\nof the world, this was mere mechanism: his actual emotions were kept so\nfar within his person that they were rarely heard or seen near his\nfeatures.\n\nOn reading the builders' names over the gateway he entered the yard, and\nasked at the office if Solomon Chickerel was engaged on the premises.  The\nclerk was going to be very attentive, but finding the visitor had come\nonly to speak to a workman, his tense attitude slackened a little, and he\nmerely signified the foot of a Flemish ladder on the other side of the\nyard, saying, 'You will find him, sir, up there in the joiner's shop.'\n\nWhen the man in the black coat reached the top he found himself at the\nend of a long apartment as large as a chapel and as low as a malt-room,\nacross which ran parallel carpenters' benches to the number of twenty or\nmore, a gangway being left at the side for access throughout.  Behind\nevery bench there stood a man or two, planing, fitting, or chiselling, as\nthe case might be.  The visitor paused for a moment, as if waiting for\nsome cessation of their violent motions and uproar till he could make his\nerrand known.  He waited ten seconds, he waited twenty; but, beyond that\na quick look had been thrown upon him by every pair of eyes, the muscular\nperformances were in no way interrupted: every one seemed oblivious of\nhis presence, and absolutely regardless of his wish.  In truth, the\ntexture of that salmon-coloured skin could be seen to be aristocratic\nwithout a microscope, and the exceptious artizan has an offhand way when\ncontrasts are made painfully strong by an idler of this kind coming,\ngloved and brushed, into the very den where he is sweating and muddling\nin his shirt-sleeves.\n\nThe gentleman from the carriage then proceeded down the workshop, wading\nup to his knees in a sea of shavings, and bruising his ankles against\ncorners of board and sawn-off blocks, that lay hidden like reefs beneath.\nAt the ninth bench he made another venture.\n\n'Sol Chickerel?' said the man addressed, as he touched his plane-iron\nupon the oilstone.  'He's one of them just behind.'\n\n'Damn it all, can't one of you show me?' the visitor angrily observed,\nfor he had been used to more attention than this.  'Here, point him out.'\nHe handed the man a shilling.\n\n'No trouble to do that,' said the workman; and he turned and signified\nSol by a nod without moving from his place.\n\nThe stranger entered Sol's division, and, nailing him with his eye, said\nat once: 'I want to speak a few words with you in private.  Is not a Mrs.\nPetherwin your sister?'\n\nSol started suspiciously.  'Has anything happened to her?' he at length\nsaid hurriedly.\n\n'O no.  It is on a business matter that I have called.  You need not mind\nowning the relationship to me--the secret will be kept.  I am the brother\nof one whom you may have heard of from her--Lord Mountclere.'\n\n'I have not.  But if you will wait a minute, sir--'  He went to a little\nglazed box at the end of the shop, where the foreman was sitting, and,\nafter speaking a few words to this person, Sol led Mountclere to the\ndoor, and down the ladder.\n\n'I suppose we cannot very well talk here, after all?' said the gentleman,\nwhen they reached the yard, and found several men moving about therein.\n\n'Perhaps we had better go to some room--the nearest inn will answer the\npurpose, won't it?'\n\n'Excellently.'\n\n'There's the \"Green Bushes\" over the way.  They have a very nice private\nroom upstairs.'\n\n'Yes, that will do.'  And passing out of the yard, the man with the\nglance entered the inn with Sol, where they were shown to the parlour as\nrequested.\n\nWhile the waiter was gone for some wine, which Mountclere ordered, the\nmore ingenuous of the two resumed the conversation by saying, awkwardly:\n'Yes, Mrs. Petherwin is my sister, as you supposed, sir; but on her\naccount I do not let it be known.'\n\n'Indeed,' said Mountclere.  'Well, I came to see you in order to speak of\na matter which I thought you might know more about than I do, for it has\ntaken me quite by surprise.  My brother, Lord Mountclere, is, it seems,\nto be privately married to Mrs. Petherwin to-morrow.'\n\n'Is that really the fact?' said Sol, becoming quite shaken.  'I had no\nthought that such a thing could be possible!'\n\n'It is imminent.'\n\n'Father has told me that she has lately got to know some nobleman; but I\nnever supposed there could be any meaning in that.'\n\n'You were altogether wrong,' said Mountclere, leaning back in his chair\nand looking at Sol steadily.  'Do you feel it to be a matter upon which\nyou will congratulate her?'\n\n'A very different thing!' said Sol vehemently.  'Though he is your\nbrother, sir, I must say this, that I would rather she married the\npoorest man I know.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'From what my father has told me of him, he is not--a more desirable\nbrother-in-law to me than I shall be in all likelihood to him.  What\nbusiness has a man of that character to marry Berta, I should like to\nask?'\n\n'That's what I say,' returned Mountclere, revealing his satisfaction at\nSol's estimate of his noble brother: it showed that he had calculated\nwell in coming here.  'My brother is getting old, and he has lived\nstrangely: your sister is a highly respectable young lady.'\n\n'And he is not respectable, you mean?  I know he is not.  I worked near\nEnckworth once.'\n\n'I cannot say that,' returned Mountclere.  Possibly a certain fraternal\nfeeling repressed a direct assent: and yet this was the only\nrepresentation which could be expected to prejudice the young man against\nthe wedding, if he were such an one as the visitor supposed Sol to be--a\nman vulgar in sentiment and ambition, but pure in his anxiety for his\nsister's happiness.  'At any rate, we are agreed in thinking that this\nwould be an unfortunate marriage for both,' added Mountclere.\n\n'About both I don't know.  It may be a good thing for him.  When do you\nsay it is to be, sir--to-morrow?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'I don't know what to do!' said Sol, walking up and down.  'If half what\nI have heard is true, I would lose a winter's work to prevent her\nmarrying him.  What does she want to go mixing in with people who despise\nher for?  Now look here, Mr. Mountclere, since you have been and called\nme out to talk this over, it is only fair that you should tell me the\nexact truth about your brother.  Is it a lie, or is it true, that he is\nnot fit to be the husband of a decent woman?'\n\n'That is a curious inquiry,' said Mountclere, whose manner and aspect,\nneutral as a winter landscape, had little in common with Sol's warm and\nunrestrained bearing.  'There are reasons why I think your sister will\nnot be happy with him.'\n\n'Then it is true what they say,' said Sol, bringing down his fist upon\nthe table.  'I know your meaning well enough.  What's to be done?  If I\ncould only see her this minute, she might be kept out of it.'\n\n'You think your presence would influence your sister--if you could see\nher before the wedding?'\n\n'I think it would.  But who's to get at her?'\n\n'I am going, so you had better come on with me--unless it would be best\nfor your father to come.'\n\n'Perhaps it might,' said the bewildered Sol.  'But he will not be able to\nget away; and it's no use for Dan to go.  If anybody goes I must!  If she\nhas made up her mind nothing can be done by writing to her.'\n\n'I leave at once to see Lord Mountclere,' the other continued.  'I feel\nthat as my brother is evidently ignorant of the position of Mrs.\nPetherwin's family and connections, it is only fair in me, as his nearest\nrelative, to make them clear to him before it is too late.'\n\n'You mean that if he knew her friends were working-people he would not\nthink of her as a wife?  'Tis a reasonable thought.  But make your mind\neasy: she has told him.  I make a great mistake if she has for a moment\nthought of concealing that from him.'\n\n'She may not have deliberately done so.  But--and I say this with no ill-\nfeeling--it is a matter known to few, and she may have taken no steps to\nundeceive him.  I hope to bring him to see the matter clearly.\nUnfortunately the thing has been so secret and hurried that there is\nbarely time.  I knew nothing until this morning--never dreamt of such a\npreposterous occurrence.'\n\n'Preposterous!  If it should come to pass, she would play her part as his\nlady as well as any other woman, and better.  I wish there was no more\nreason for fear on my side than there is on yours!  Things have come to a\nsore head when she is not considered lady enough for such as he.  But\nperhaps your meaning is, that if your brother were to have a son, you\nwould lose your heir-presumptive title to the cor'net of Mountclere?\nWell, 'twould be rather hard for ye, now I come to think o't--upon my\nlife, 'twould.'\n\n'The suggestion is as delicate as the --- atmosphere of this vile room.\nBut let your ignorance be your excuse, my man.  It is hardly worth while\nfor us to quarrel when we both have the same object in view: do you think\nso?'\n\n'That's true--that's true.  When do you start, sir?'\n\n'We must leave almost at once,' said Mountclere, looking at his watch.\n'If we cannot catch the two o'clock train, there is no getting there to-\nnight--and to-morrow we could not possibly arrive before one.'\n\n'I wish there was time for me to go and tidy myself a bit,' said Sol,\nanxiously looking down at his working clothes.  'I suppose you would not\nlike me to go with you like this?'\n\n'Confound the clothes!  If you cannot start in five minutes, we shall not\nbe able to go at all.'\n\n'Very well, then--wait while I run across to the shop, then I am ready.\nHow do we get to the station?'\n\n'My carriage is at the corner waiting.  When you come out I will meet you\nat the gates.'\n\nSol then hurried downstairs, and a minute or two later Mr. Mountclere\nfollowed, looking like a man bent on policy at any price.  The carriage\nwas brought round by the time that Sol reappeared from the yard.  He\nentered and sat down beside Mountclere, not without a sense that he was\nspoiling good upholstery; the coachman then allowed the lash of his whip\nto alight with the force of a small fly upon the horses, which set them\nup in an angry trot.  Sol rolled on beside his new acquaintance with the\nshamefaced look of a man going to prison in a van, for pedestrians\noccasionally gazed at him, full of what seemed to himself to be ironical\nsurprise.\n\n'I am afraid I ought to have changed my clothes after all,' he said,\nwrithing under a perception of the contrast between them.  'Not knowing\nanything about this, I ain't a bit prepared.  If I had got even my second-\nbest hat, it wouldn't be so bad.'\n\n'It makes no difference,' said Mountclere inanimately.\n\n'Or I might have brought my portmantle, with some things.'\n\n'It really is not important.'\n\nOn reaching the station they found there were yet a few minutes to spare,\nwhich Sol made use of in writing a note to his father, to explain what\nhad occurred.\n\n\n\n\n42. THE DONCASTLES' RESIDENCE, AND OUTSIDE THE SAME\n\n\nMrs. Doncastle's dressing-bell had rung, but Menlove, the lady's maid,\nhaving at the same time received a letter by the evening post, paused to\nread it before replying to the summons:--\n\n   'ENCKWORTH COURT, Wednesday.\n\n   DARLING LOUISA,--I can assure you that I am no more likely than\n   yourself to form another attachment, as you will perceive by what\n   follows.  Before we left town I thought that to be able to see you\n   occasionally was sufficient for happiness, but down in this lonely\n   place the case is different.  In short, my dear, I ask you to consent\n   to a union with me as soon as you possibly can.  Your prettiness has\n   won my eyes and lips completely, sweet, and I lie awake at night to\n   think of the golden curls you allowed to escape from their confinement\n   on those nice times of private clothes, when we walked in the park and\n   slipped the bonds of service, which you were never born to any more\n   than I. . . .\n\n   'Had not my own feelings been so strong, I should have told you at the\n   first dash of my pen that what I expected is coming to pass at\n   last--the old dog is going to be privately married to Mrs. P.  Yes,\n   indeed, and the wedding is coming off to-morrow, secret as the grave.\n   All her friends will doubtless leave service on account of it.  What\n   he does now makes little difference to me, of course, as I had already\n   given warning, but I shall stick to him like a Briton in spite of it.\n   He has to-day made me a present, and a further five pounds for\n   yourself, expecting you to hold your tongue on every matter connected\n   with Mrs. P.'s friends, and to say nothing to any of them about this\n   marriage until it is over.  His lordship impressed this upon me very\n   strong, and familiar as a brother, and of course we obey his\n   instructions to the letter; for I need hardly say that unless he keeps\n   his promise to help me in setting up the shop, our nuptials cannot be\n   consumed.  His help depends upon our obedience, as you are aware. . .\n   .'\n\nThis, and much more, was from her very last lover, Lord Mountclere's\nvalet, who had been taken in hand directly she had convinced herself of\nJoey's hopeless youthfulness.  The missive sent Mrs. Menlove's spirits\nsoaring like spring larks; she flew upstairs in answer to the bell with a\njoyful, triumphant look, which the illuminated figure of Mrs. Doncastle\nin her dressing-room could not quite repress.  One could almost forgive\nMenlove her arts when so modest a result brought such vast content.\n\nMrs. Doncastle seemed inclined to make no remark during the dressing, and\nat last Menlove could repress herself no longer.\n\n'I should like to name something to you, m'm.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'I shall be wishing to leave soon, if it is convenient.'\n\n'Very well, Menlove,' answered Mrs. Doncastle, as she serenely surveyed\nher right eyebrow in the glass.  'Am I to take this as a formal notice?'\n\n'If you please; but I could stay a week or two beyond the month if\nsuitable.  I am going to be married--that's what it is, m'm.'\n\n'O!  I am glad to hear it, though I am sorry to lose you.'\n\n'It is Lord Mountclere's valet--Mr. Tipman--m'm.'\n\n'Indeed.'\n\nMenlove went on building up Mrs. Doncastle's hair awhile in silence.\n\n'I suppose you heard the other news that arrived in town to-day, m'm?'\nshe said again.  'Lord Mountclere is going to be married to-morrow.'\n\n'To-morrow?  Are you quite sure?'\n\n'O yes, m'm.  Mr. Tipman has just told me so in his letter.  He is going\nto be married to Mrs. Petherwin.  It is to be quite a private wedding.'\n\nMrs. Doncastle made no remark, and she remained in the same still\nposition as before; but a countenance expressing transcendent surprise\nwas reflected to Menlove by the glass.\n\nAt this sight Menlove's tongue so burned to go further, and unfold the\nlady's relations with the butler downstairs, that she would have lost a\nmonth's wages to be at liberty to do it.  The disclosure was almost too\nmagnificent to be repressed.  To deny herself so exquisite an indulgence\nrequired an effort which nothing on earth could have sustained save the\none thing that did sustain it--the knowledge that upon her silence hung\nthe most enormous desideratum in the world, her own marriage.  She said\nno more, and Mrs. Doncastle went away.\n\nIt was an ordinary family dinner that day, but their nephew Neigh\nhappened to be present.  Just as they were sitting down Mrs. Doncastle\nsaid to her husband: 'Why have you not told me of the wedding\nto-morrow?--or don't you know anything about it?'\n\n'Wedding?' said Mr. Doncastle.\n\n'Lord Mountclere is to be married to Mrs. Petherwin quite privately.'\n\n'Good God!' said some person.\n\nMr. Doncastle did not speak the words; they were not spoken by Neigh:\nthey seemed to float over the room and round the walls, as if originating\nin some spiritualistic source.  Yet Mrs. Doncastle, remembering the\nsymptoms of attachment between Ethelberta and her nephew which had\nappeared during the summer, looked towards Neigh instantly, as if she\nthought the words must have come from him after all; but Neigh's face was\nperfectly calm; he, together with her husband, was sitting with his eyes\nfixed in the direction of the sideboard; and turning to the same spot she\nbeheld Chickerel standing pale as death, his lips being parted as if he\ndid not know where he was.\n\n'Did you speak?' said Mrs. Doncastle, looking with astonishment at the\nbutler.\n\n'Chickerel, what's the matter--are you ill?' said Mr. Doncastle\nsimultaneously.  'Was it you who said that?'\n\n'I did, sir,' said Chickerel in a husky voice, scarcely above a whisper.\n'I could not help it.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'She is my daughter, and it shall be known at once!'\n\n'Who is your daughter?'\n\nHe paused a few moments nervously.  'Mrs. Petherwin,' he said.\n\nUpon this announcement Neigh looked at poor Chickerel as if he saw\nthrough him into the wall.  Mrs. Doncastle uttered a faint exclamation\nand leant back in her chair: the bare possibility of the truth of\nChickerel's claims to such paternity shook her to pieces when she viewed\nher intimacies with Ethelberta during the past season--the court she had\npaid her, the arrangements she had entered into to please her; above all,\nthe dinner-party which she had contrived and carried out solely to\ngratify Lord Mountclere and bring him into personal communication with\nthe general favourite; thus making herself probably the chief though\nunconscious instrument in promoting a match by which her butler was to\nbecome father-in-law to a peer she delighted to honour.  The crowd of\nperceptions almost took away her life; she closed her eyes in a white\nshiver.\n\n'Do you mean to say that the lady who sat here at dinner at the same time\nthat Lord Mountclere was present, is your daughter?' asked Doncastle.\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Chickerel respectfully.\n\n'How did she come to be your daughter?'\n\n'I--  Well, she is my daughter, sir.'\n\n'Did you educate her?'\n\n'Not altogether, sir.  She was a very clever child.  Lady Petherwin took\na deal of trouble about her education.  They were both left widows about\nthe same time: the son died, then the father.  My daughter was only\nseventeen then.  But though she's older now, her marriage with Lord\nMountclere means misery.  He ought to marry another woman.'\n\n'It is very extraordinary,' Mr. Doncastle murmured.  'If you are ill you\nhad better go and rest yourself, Chickerel.  Send in Thomas.'\n\nChickerel, who seemed to be much disturbed, then very gladly left the\nroom, and dinner proceeded.  But such was the peculiarity of the case,\nthat, though there was in it neither murder, robbery, illness, accident,\nfire, or any other of the tragic and legitimate shakers of human nerves,\ntwo of the three who were gathered there sat through the meal without the\nleast consciousness of what viands had composed it.  Impressiveness\ndepends as much upon propinquity as upon magnitude; and to have honoured\nunawares the daughter of the vilest Antipodean miscreant and murderer\nwould have been less discomfiting to Mrs. Doncastle than it was to make\nthe same blunder with the daughter of a respectable servant who happened\nto live in her own house.  To Neigh the announcement was as the\ncatastrophe of a story already begun, rather than as an isolated wonder.\nEthelberta's words had prepared him for something, though the nature of\nthat thing was unknown.\n\n'Chickerel ought not to have kept us in ignorance of this--of course he\nought not!' said Mrs. Doncastle, as soon as they were left alone.\n\n'I don't see why not,' replied Mr. Doncastle, who took the matter very\ncoolly, as was his custom.\n\n'Then she herself should have let it be known.'\n\n'Nor does that follow.  You didn't tell Mrs. Petherwin that your\ngrandfather narrowly escaped hanging for shooting his rival in a duel.'\n\n'Of course not.  There was no reason why I should give extraneous\ninformation.'\n\n'Nor was there any reason why she should.  As for Chickerel, he doubtless\nfelt how unbecoming it would be to make personal remarks upon one of your\nguests--Ha-ha-ha!  Well, well--Ha-ha-ha-ha!'\n\n'I know this,' said Mrs. Doncastle, in great anger, 'that if my father\nhad been in the room, I should not have let the fact pass unnoticed, and\ntreated him like a stranger!'\n\n'Would you have had her introduce Chickerel to us all round?  My dear\nMargaret, it was a complicated position for a woman.'\n\n'Then she ought not to have come!'\n\n'There may be something in that, though she was dining out at other\nhouses as good as ours.  Well, I should have done just as she did, for\nthe joke of the thing.  Ha-ha-ha!--it is very good--very.  It was a case\nin which the appetite for a jest would overpower the sting of conscience\nin any well-constituted being--that, my dear, I must maintain.'\n\n'I say she should not have come!' answered Mrs. Doncastle firmly.  'Of\ncourse I shall dismiss Chickerel.'\n\n'Of course you will do no such thing.  I have never had a butler in the\nhouse before who suited me so well.  It is a great credit to the man to\nhave such a daughter, and I am not sure that we do not derive some lustre\nof a humble kind from his presence in the house.  But, seriously, I\nwonder at your short-sightedness, when you know the troubles we have had\nthrough getting new men from nobody knows where.'\n\nNeigh, perceiving that the breeze in the atmosphere might ultimately\nintensify to a palpable black squall, seemed to think it would be well to\ntake leave of his uncle and aunt as soon as he conveniently could;\nnevertheless, he was much less discomposed by the situation than by the\nactive cause which had led to it.  When Mrs. Doncastle arose, her husband\nsaid he was going to speak to Chickerel for a minute or two, and Neigh\nfollowed his aunt upstairs.\n\nPresently Doncastle joined them.  'I have been talking to Chickerel,' he\nsaid.  'It is a very curious affair--this marriage of his daughter and\nLord Mountclere.  The whole situation is the most astounding I have ever\nmet with.  The man is quite ill about the news.  He has shown me a letter\nwhich has just reached him from his son on the same subject.  Lord\nMountclere's brother and this young man have actually gone off together\nto try to prevent the wedding, and Chickerel has asked to be allowed to\ngo himself, if he can get soon enough to the station to catch the night\nmail.  Of course he may go if he wishes.'\n\n'What a funny thing!' said the lady, with a wretchedly factitious smile.\n'The times have taken a strange turn when the angry parent of the comedy,\nwho goes post-haste to prevent the undutiful daughter's rash marriage, is\na gentleman from below stairs, and the unworthy lover a peer of the\nrealm!'\n\nNeigh spoke for almost the first time.  'I don't blame Chickerel in\nobjecting to Lord Mountclere.  I should object to him myself if I had a\ndaughter.  I never liked him.'\n\n'Why?' said Mrs. Doncastle, lifting her eyelids as if the act were a\nheavy task.\n\n'For reasons which don't generally appear.'\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. Doncastle, in a low tone.  'Still, we must not believe\nall we hear.'\n\n'Is Chickerel going?' said Neigh.\n\n'He leaves in five or ten minutes,' said Doncastle.\n\nAfter a few further words Neigh mentioned that he was unable to stay\nlonger that evening, and left them.  When he had reached the outside of\nthe door he walked a little way up the pavement and back again, as if\nreluctant to lose sight of the street, finally standing under a lamp-post\nwhence he could command a view of Mr. Doncastle's front.  Presently a man\ncame out in a great-coat and with a small bag in his hand; Neigh at once\nrecognizing the person as Chickerel, went up to him.\n\n'Mr. Doncastle tells me you are going on a sudden journey.  At what time\ndoes your train leave?' Neigh asked.\n\n'I go by the ten o'clock, sir: I hope it is a third-class,' said\nChickerel; 'though I am afraid it may not be.'\n\n'It is as much as you will do to get to the station,' said Neigh, turning\nthe face of his watch to the light.  'Here, come into my cab--I am\ndriving that way.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' said Chickerel.\n\nNeigh called a cab at the first opportunity, and they entered and drove\nalong together.  Neither spoke during the journey.  When they were\ndriving up to the station entrance Neigh looked again to see the hour.\n\n'You have not a minute to lose,' he said, in repressed anxiety.  'And\nyour journey will be expensive: instead of walking from Anglebury to\nKnollsea, you had better drive--above all, don't lose time.  Never mind\nwhat class the train is.  Take this from me, since the emergency is\ngreat.'  He handed something to Chickerel folded up small.\n\nThe butler took it without inquiry, and stepped out hastily.\n\n'I sincerely hope she--  Well, good-night, Chickerel,' continued Neigh,\nending his words abruptly.  The cab containing him drove again towards\nthe station-gates, leaving Chickerel standing on the kerb.\n\nHe passed through the booking-office, and looked at the paper Neigh had\nput into his hand.  It was a five-pound note.\n\nChickerel mused on the circumstance as he took his ticket and got into\nthe train.\n\n\n\n\n43. THE RAILWAY--THE SEA--THE SHORE BEYOND\n\n\nBy this time Sol and the Honourable Edgar Mountclere had gone far on\ntheir journey into Wessex.  Enckworth Court, Mountclere's destination,\nthough several miles from Knollsea, was most easily accessible by the\nsame route as that to the village, the latter being the place for which\nSol was bound.\n\nFrom the few words that passed between them on the way, Mountclere became\nmore stubborn than ever in a belief that this was a carefully laid trap\nof the fair Ethelberta's to ensnare his brother without revealing to him\nher family ties, which it therefore behoved him to make clear, with the\nutmost force of representation, before the fatal union had been\ncontracted.  Being himself the viscount's only remaining brother and near\nrelative, the disinterestedness of his motives may be left to\nimagination; that there was much real excuse for his conduct must,\nhowever, be borne in mind.  Whether his attempt would prevent the union\nwas another question: he believed that, conjoined with his personal\ninfluence over the viscount, and the importation of Sol as a firebrand to\nthrow between the betrothed pair, it might do so.\n\nAbout half-an-hour before sunset the two individuals, linked by their\ndifferences, reached the point of railway at which the branch to\nSandbourne left the main line.  They had taken tickets for Sandbourne,\nintending to go thence to Knollsea by the steamer that plied between the\ntwo places during the summer months--making this a short and direct\nroute.  But it occurred to Mountclere on the way that, summer being over,\nthe steamer might possibly have left off running, the wind might be too\nhigh for a small boat, and no large one might be at hand for hire:\ntherefore it would be safer to go by train to Anglebury, and the\nremaining sixteen miles by driving over the hills, even at a great loss\nof time.\n\nAccident, however, determined otherwise.  They were in the station at the\njunction, inquiring of an official if the Speedwell had ceased to sail,\nwhen a countryman who had just come up from Sandbourne stated that,\nthough the Speedwell had left off for the year, there was that day\nanother steamer at Sandbourne.  This steamer would of necessity return to\nKnollsea that evening, partly because several people from that place had\nbeen on board, and also because the Knollsea folk were waiting for\ngroceries and draperies from London: there was not an ounce of tea or a\nhundredweight of coal in the village, owing to the recent winds, which\nhad detained the provision parcels at Sandbourne, and kept the colliers\nup-channel until the change of weather this day.  To introduce\nnecessaries by a roundabout land journey was not easy when they had been\nordered by the other and habitual route.  The boat returned at six\no'clock.\n\nSo on they went to Sandbourne, driving off to the pier directly they\nreached that place, for it was getting towards night.  The steamer was\nthere, as the man had told them, much to the relief of Sol, who, being\nextremely anxious to enter Knollsea before a late hour, had known that\nthis was the only way in which it could be done.\n\nSome unforeseen incident delayed the boat, and they walked up and down\nthe pier to wait.  The prospect was gloomy enough.  The wind was north-\neast; the sea along shore was a chalky-green, though comparatively calm,\nthis part of the coast forming a shelter from wind in its present\nquarter.  The clouds had different velocities, and some of them shone\nwith a coppery glare, produced by rays from the west which did not enter\nthe inferior atmosphere at all.  It was reflected on the distant waves in\npatches, with an effect as if the waters were at those particular spots\nstained with blood.  This departed, and what daylight was left to the\nearth came from strange and unusual quarters of the heavens.  The zenith\nwould be bright, as if that were the place of the sun; then all overhead\nwould close, and a whiteness in the east would give the appearance of\nmorning; while a bank as thick as a wall barricaded the west, which\nlooked as if it had no acquaintance with sunsets, and would blush red no\nmore.\n\n'Any other passengers?' shouted the master of the steamboat.  'We must be\noff: it may be a dirty night.'\n\nSol and Mountclere went on board, and the pier receded in the dusk.\n\n'Shall we have any difficulty in getting into Knollsea Bay?' said\nMountclere.\n\n'Not if the wind keeps where it is for another hour or two.'\n\n'I fancy it is shifting to the east'ard,' said Sol.\n\nThe captain looked as if he had thought the same thing.\n\n'I hope I shall be able to get home to-night,' said a Knollsea woman.  'My\nlittle children be left alone.  Your mis'ess is in a bad way, too--isn't\nshe, skipper?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And you've got the doctor from Sandbourne aboard, to tend her?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Then you'll be sure to put into Knollsea, if you can?'\n\n'Yes.  Don't be alarmed, ma'am.  We'll do what we can.  But no one must\nboast.'\n\nThe skipper's remark was the result of an observation that the wind had\nat last flown to the east, the single point of the compass whence it\ncould affect Knollsea Bay.  The result of this change was soon\nperceptible.  About midway in their transit the land elbowed out to a\nbold chalk promontory; beyond this stretched a vertical wall of the same\ncliff, in a line parallel with their course.  In fair weather it was\npossible and customary to steer close along under this hoary facade for\nthe distance of a mile, there being six fathoms of water within a few\nboats' lengths of the precipice.  But it was an ugly spot at the best of\ntimes, landward no less than seaward, the cliff rounding off at the top\nin vegetation, like a forehead with low-grown hair, no defined edge being\nprovided as a warning to unwary pedestrians on the downs above.\n\nAs the wind sprung up stronger, white clots could be discerned at the\nwater level of the cliff, rising and falling against the black band of\nshaggy weed that formed a sort of skirting to the base of the wall.  They\nwere the first-fruits of the new east blast, which shaved the face of the\ncliff like a razor--gatherings of foam in the shape of heads, shoulders,\nand arms of snowy whiteness, apparently struggling to rise from the\ndeeps, and ever sinking back to their old levels again.  They reminded an\nobserver of a drowning scene in a picture of the Deluge.  At some points\nthe face of rock was hollowed into gaping caverns, and the water began to\nthunder into these with a leap that was only topped by the rebound\nseaward again.  The vessel's head was kept a little further to sea, but\nbeyond that everything went on as usual.\n\nThe precipice was still in view, and before it several huge columns of\nrock appeared, detached from the mass behind.  Two of these were\nparticularly noticeable in the grey air--one vertical, stout and square;\nthe other slender and tapering.  They were individualized as husband and\nwife by the coast men.  The waves leapt up their sides like a pack of\nhounds; this, however, though fearful in its boisterousness, was nothing\nto the terrible games that sometimes went on round the knees of those\ngiants in stone.  Yet it was sufficient to cause the course of the frail\nsteamboat to be altered yet a little more--from south-west-by-south to\nsouth-by-west--to give the breakers a still wider berth.\n\n'I wish we had gone by land, sir; 'twould have been surer play,' said Sol\nto Mountclere, a cat-and-dog friendship having arisen between them.\n\n'Yes,' said Mountclere.  'Knollsea is an abominable place to get into\nwith an east wind blowing, they say.'\n\nAnother circumstance conspired to make their landing more difficult,\nwhich Mountclere knew nothing of.  With the wind easterly, the highest\nsea prevailed in Knollsea Bay from the slackening of flood-tide to the\nfirst hour of ebb.  At that time the water outside stood without a\ncurrent, and ridges and hollows chased each other towards the beach\nunchecked.  When the tide was setting strong up or down Channel its flow\nacross the mouth of the bay thrust aside, to some extent, the landward\nplunge of the waves.\n\nWe glance for a moment at the state of affairs on the land they were\nnearing.\n\nThis was the time of year to know the truth about the inner nature and\ncharacter of Knollsea; for to see Knollsea smiling to the summer sun was\nto see a courtier before a king; Knollsea was not to be known by such\nsimple means.  The half-dozen detached villas used as lodging-houses in\nthe summer, standing aloof from the cots of the permanent race, rose in\nthe dusk of this gusty evening, empty, silent, damp, and dark as tombs.\nThe gravel walks leading to them were invaded by leaves and tufts of\ngrass.  As the darkness thickened the wind increased, and each blast\nraked the iron railings before the houses till they hummed as if in a\nsong of derision.  Certainly it seemed absurd at this time of year that\nhuman beings should expect comfort in a spot capable of such moods as\nthese.\n\nHowever, one of the houses looked cheerful, and that was the dwelling to\nwhich Ethelberta had gone.  Its gay external colours might as well have\nbeen black for anything that could be seen of them now, but an unblinded\nwindow revealed inside it a room bright and warm.  It was illuminated by\nfirelight only.  Within, Ethelberta appeared against the curtains, close\nto the glass.  She was watching through a binocular a faint light which\nhad become visible in the direction of the bluff far away over the bay.\n\n'Here is the Spruce at last, I think,' she said to her sister, who was by\nthe fire.  'I hope they will be able to land the things I have ordered.\nThey are on board I know.'\n\nThe wind continued to rise till at length something from the lungs of the\ngale alighted like a feather upon the pane, and remained there sticking.\nSeeing the substance, Ethelberta opened the window to secure it.  The\nfire roared and the pictures kicked the walls; she closed the sash, and\nbrought to the light a crisp fragment of foam.\n\n'How suddenly the sea must have risen,' said Picotee.\n\nThe servant entered the room.  'Please, mis'ess says she is afraid you\nwon't have your things to-night, 'm.  They say the steamer can't land,\nand mis'ess wants to know if she can do anything?'\n\n'It is of no consequence,' said Ethelberta.  'They will come some time,\nunless they go to the bottom.'\n\nThe girl left the room.  'Shall we go down to the shore and see what the\nnight is like?' said Ethelberta.  'This is the last opportunity I shall\nhave.'\n\n'Is it right for us to go, considering you are to be married to-morrow?'\nsaid Picotee, who had small affection for nature in this mood.\n\nHer sister laughed.  'Let us put on our cloaks--nobody will know us.  I\nam sorry to leave this grim and primitive place, even for Enckworth\nCourt.'\n\nThey wrapped themselves up, and descended the hill.\n\nOn drawing near the battling line of breakers which marked the meeting of\nsea and land they could perceive within the nearly invisible horizon an\nequilateral triangle of lights.  It was formed of three stars, a red on\nthe one side, a green on the other, and a white on the summit.  This,\ncomposed of mast-head and side lamps, was all that was visible of the\nSpruce, which now faced end-on about half-a-mile distant, and was still\nnearing the pier.  The girls went further, and stood on the foreshore,\nlistening to the din.  Seaward appeared nothing distinct save a black\nhorizontal band embodying itself out of the grey water, strengthening its\nblackness, and enlarging till it looked like a nearing wall.  It was the\nconcave face of a coming wave.  On its summit a white edging arose with\nthe aspect of a lace frill; it broadened, and fell over the front with a\nterrible concussion.  Then all before them was a sheet of whiteness,\nwhich spread with amazing rapidity, till they found themselves standing\nin the midst of it, as in a field of snow.  Both felt an insidious chill\nencircling their ankles, and they rapidly ran up the beach.\n\n'You girls, come away there, or you'll be washed off: what need have ye\nfor going so near?'\n\nEthelberta recognized the stentorian voice as that of Captain Flower,\nwho, with a party of boatmen, was discovered to be standing near, under\nthe shelter of a wall.  He did not know them in the gloom, and they took\ncare that he should not.  They retreated further up the beach, when the\nhissing fleece of froth slid again down the shingle, dragging the pebbles\nunder it with a rattle as of a beast gnawing bones.\n\nThe spot whereon the men stood was called 'Down-under-wall;' it was a\nnook commanding a full view of the bay, and hither the nautical portion\nof the village unconsciously gravitated on windy afternoons and nights,\nto discuss past disasters in the reticent spirit induced by a sense that\nthey might at any moment be repeated.  The stranger who should walk the\nshore on roaring and sobbing November eves when there was not light\nsufficient to guide his footsteps, and muse on the absoluteness of the\nsolitude, would be surprised by a smart 'Good-night' being returned from\nthis corner in company with the echo of his tread.  In summer the six or\neight perennial figures stood on the breezy side of the wall--in winter\nand in rain to leeward; but no weather was known to dislodge them.\n\n'I had no sooner come ashore than the wind began to fly round,' said the\nprevious speaker; 'and it must have been about the time they were off Old-\nHarry Point.  \"She'll put back for certain,\" I said; and I had no more\nthought o' seeing her than John's set-net that was carried round the\npoint o' Monday.'\n\n'Poor feller: his wife being in such a state makes him anxious to land if\n'a can: that's what 'tis, plain enough.'\n\n'Why that?' said Flower.\n\n'The doctor's aboard, 'a believe: \"I'll have the most understanding man\nin Sandbourne, cost me little or much,\" he said.'\n\n''Tis all over and she's better,' said the other.  'I called half-an-hour\nafore dark.'\n\nFlower, being an experienced man, knew how the judgment of a ship's\nmaster was liable to be warped by family anxieties, many instances of the\nsame having occurred in the history of navigation.  He felt uneasy, for\nhe knew the deceit and guile of this bay far better than did the master\nof the Spruce, who, till within a few recent months, had been a stranger\nto the place.  Indeed, it was the bay which had made Flower what he was,\ninstead of a man in thriving retirement.  The two great ventures of his\nlife had been blown ashore and broken up within that very semicircle.  The\nsturdy sailor now stood with his eyes fixed on the triangle of lights\nwhich showed that the steamer had not relinquished her intention of\nbringing up inside the pier if possible; his right hand was in his\npocket, where it played with a large key which lay there.  It was the key\nof the lifeboat shed, and Flower was coxswain.  His musing was on the\npossibility of a use for it this night.\n\nIt appeared that the captain of the Spruce was aiming to pass in under\nthe lee of the pier; but a strong current of four or five knots was\nrunning between the piles, drifting the steamer away at every attempt as\nsoon as she slowed.  To come in on the other side was dangerous, the hull\nof the vessel being likely to crash against and overthrow the fragile\nerection, with damage to herself also.  Flower, who had disappeared for a\nfew minutes, now came back.\n\n'It is just possible I can make 'em hear with the trumpet, now they be to\nleeward,' he said, and proceeded with two or three others to grope his\nway out upon the pier, which consisted simply of a row of rotten piles\ncovered with rotten planking, no balustrade of any kind existing to keep\nthe unwary from tumbling off.  At the water level the piles were eaten\naway by the action of the sea to about the size of a man's wrist, and at\nevery fresh influx the whole structure trembled like a spider's web.  In\nthis lay the danger of making fast, for a strong pull from a headfast\nrope might drag the erection completely over.  Flower arrived at the end,\nwhere a lantern hung.\n\n'Spruce ahoy!' he blared through the speaking trumpet two or three times.\n\nThere seemed to be a reply of some sort from the steamer.\n\n'Tuesday's gale hev loosened the pier, Cap'n Ounce; the bollards be too\nweak to make fast to: must land in boats if ye will land, but dangerous;\nyer wife is out of danger, and 'tis a boy-y-y-y!'\n\nEthelberta and Picotee were at this time standing on the beach a hundred\nand fifty yards off.  Whether or not the master of the steamer received\nthe information volunteered by Flower, the two girls saw the triangle of\nlamps get narrow at its base, reduce themselves to two in a vertical\nline, then to one, then to darkness.  The Spruce had turned her head from\nKnollsea.\n\n'They have gone back, and I shall not have my wedding things after all!'\nsaid Ethelberta.  'Well, I must do without them.'\n\n'You see, 'twas best to play sure,' said Flower to his comrades, in a\ntone of complacency.  'They might have been able to do it, but 'twas\nrisky.  The shop-folk be out of stock, I hear, and the visiting lady up\nthe hill is terribly in want of clothes, so 'tis said.  But what's that?\nOunce ought to have put back afore.'\n\nThen the lantern which hung at the end of the jetty was taken down, and\nthe darkness enfolded all around from view.  The bay became nothing but a\nvoice, the foam an occasional touch upon the face, the Spruce an\nimagination, the pier a memory.  Everything lessened upon the senses but\none; that was the wind.  It mauled their persons like a hand, and caused\nevery scrap of their raiment to tug westward.  To stand with the face to\nsea brought semi-suffocation, from the intense pressure of air.\n\nThe boatmen retired to their position under the wall, to lounge again in\nsilence.  Conversation was not considered necessary: their sense of each\nother's presence formed a kind of conversation.  Meanwhile Picotee and\nEthelberta went up the hill.\n\n'If your wedding were going to be a public one, what a misfortune this\ndelay of the packages would be,' said Picotee.\n\n'Yes,' replied the elder.\n\n'I think the bracelet the prettiest of all the presents he brought to-\nday--do you?'\n\n'It is the most valuable.'\n\n'Lord Mountclere is very kind, is he not?  I like him a great deal better\nthan I did--do you, Berta?'\n\n'Yes, very much better,' said Ethelberta, warming a little.  'If he were\nnot so suspicious at odd moments I should like him exceedingly.  But I\nmust cure him of that by a regular course of treatment, and then he'll be\nvery nice.'\n\n'For an old man.  He likes you better than any young man would take the\ntrouble to do.  I wish somebody else were old too.'\n\n'He will be some day.'\n\n'Yes, but--'\n\n'Never mind: time will straighten many crooked things.'\n\n'Do you think Lord Mountclere has reached home by this time?'\n\n'I should think so: though I believe he had to call at the parsonage\nbefore leaving Knollsea.'\n\n'Had he?  What for?'\n\n'Why, of course somebody must--'\n\n'O yes.  Do you think anybody in Knollsea knows it is going to be except\nus and the parson?'\n\n'I suppose the clerk knows.'\n\n'I wonder if a lord has ever been married so privately before.'\n\n'Frequently: when he marries far beneath him, as in this case.  But even\nif I could have had it, I should not have liked a showy wedding.  I have\nhad no experience as a bride except in the private form of the ceremony.'\n\n'Berta, I am sometimes uneasy about you even now and I want to ask you\none thing, if I may.  Are you doing this for my sake?  Would you have\nmarried Mr. Julian if it had not been for me?'\n\n'It is difficult to say exactly.  It is possible that if I had had no\nrelations at all, I might have married him.  And I might not.'\n\n'I don't intend to marry.'\n\n'In that case you will live with me at Enckworth.  However, we will leave\nsuch details till the ground-work is confirmed.  When we get indoors will\nyou see if the boxes have been properly corded, and are quite ready to be\nsent for?  Then come in and sit by the fire, and I'll sing some songs to\nyou.'\n\n'Sad ones, you mean.'\n\n'No, they shall not be sad.'\n\n'Perhaps they may be the last you will ever sing to me.'\n\n'They may be.  Such a thing has occurred.'\n\n'But we will not think so.  We'll suppose you are to sing many to me\nyet.'\n\n'Yes.  There's good sense in that, Picotee.  In a world where the blind\nonly are cheerful we should all do well to put out our eyes.  There, I\ndid not mean to get into this state: forgive me, Picotee.  It is because\nI have had a thought--why I cannot tell--that as much as this man brings\nto me in rank and gifts he may take out of me in tears.'\n\n'Berta!'\n\n'But there's no reason in it--not any; for not in a single matter does\nwhat has been supply us with any certain ground for knowing what will be\nin the world.  I have seen marriages where happiness might have been said\nto be ensured, and they have been all sadness afterwards; and I have seen\nthose in which the prospect was black as night, and they have led on to a\ntime of sweetness and comfort.  And I have seen marriages neither joyful\nnor sorry, that have become either as accident forced them to become, the\npersons having no voice in it at all.  Well, then, why should I be afraid\nto make a plunge when chance is as trustworthy as calculation?'\n\n'If you don't like him well enough, don't have him, Berta.  There's time\nenough to put it off even now.'\n\n'O no.  I would not upset a well-considered course on the haste of an\nimpulse.  Our will should withstand our misgivings.  Now let us see if\nall has been packed, and then we'll sing.'\n\nThat evening, while the wind was wheeling round and round the dwelling,\nand the calm eye of the lighthouse afar was the single speck perceptible\nof the outside world from the door of Ethelberta's temporary home, the\nmusic of songs mingled with the stroke of the wind across the iron\nrailings, and was swept on in the general tide of the gale, and the noise\nof the rolling sea, till not the echo of a tone remained.\n\nAn hour before this singing, an old gentleman might have been seen to\nalight from a little one-horse brougham, and enter the door of Knollsea\nparsonage.  He was bent upon obtaining an entrance to the vicar's study\nwithout giving his name.\n\nBut it happened that the vicar's wife was sitting in the front room,\nmaking a pillow-case for the children's bed out of an old surplice which\nhad been excommunicated the previous Easter; she heard the newcomer's\nvoice through the partition, started, and went quickly to her husband,\nwho was where he ought to have been, in his study.  At her entry he\nlooked up with an abstracted gaze, having been lost in meditation over a\nlittle schooner which he was attempting to rig for their youngest boy.  At\na word from his wife on the suspected name of the visitor, he resumed his\nearlier occupation of inserting a few strong sentences, full of the\nobservation of maturer life, between the lines of a sermon written during\nhis first years of ordination, in order to make it available for the\ncoming Sunday.  His wife then vanished with the little ship in her hand,\nand the visitor appeared.  A talk went on in low tones.\n\nAfter a ten minutes' stay he departed as secretly as he had come.  His\nerrand was the cause of much whispered discussion between the vicar and\nhis wife during the evening, but nothing was said concerning it to the\noutside world.\n\n\n\n\n44. SANDBOURNE--A LONELY HEATH--THE 'RED LION'--THE HIGHWAY\n\n\nIt was half-past eleven before the Spruce, with Mountclere and Sol\nChickerel on board, had steamed back again to Sandbourne.  The direction\nand increase of the wind had made it necessary to keep the vessel still\nfurther to sea on their return than in going, that they might clear\nwithout risk the windy, sousing, thwacking, basting, scourging Jack Ketch\nof a corner called Old-Harry Point, which lay about halfway along their\ntrack, and stood, with its detached posts and stumps of white rock, like\na skeleton's lower jaw, grinning at British navigation.  Here strong\ncurrents and cross currents were beginning to interweave their scrolls\nand meshes, the water rising behind them in tumultuous heaps, and\nslamming against the fronts and angles of cliff, whence it flew into the\nair like clouds of flour.  Who could now believe that this roaring abode\nof chaos smiled in the sun as gently as an infant during the summer days\nnot long gone by, every pinnacle, crag, and cave returning a doubled\nimage across the glassy sea?\n\nThey were now again at Sandbourne, a point in their journey reached more\nthan four hours ago.  It became necessary to consider anew how to\naccomplish the difficult remainder.  The wind was not blowing much beyond\nwhat seamen call half a gale, but there had been enough unpleasantness\nafloat to make landsmen glad to get ashore, and this dissipated in a\nslight measure their vexation at having failed in their purpose.  Still,\nMountclere loudly cursed their confidence in that treacherously short\nroute, and Sol abused the unknown Sandbourne man who had brought the news\nof the steamer's arrival to them at the junction.  The only course left\nopen to them now, short of giving up the undertaking, was to go by the\nroad along the shore, which, curving round the various little creeks and\ninland seas between their present position and Knollsea, was of no less\nlength than thirty miles.  There was no train back to the junction till\nthe next morning, and Sol's proposition that they should drive thither in\nhope of meeting the mail-train, was overruled by Mountclere.\n\n'We will have nothing more to do with chance,' he said.  'We may miss the\ntrain, and then we shall have gone out of the way for nothing.  More than\nthat, the down mail does not stop till it gets several miles beyond the\nnearest station for Knollsea; so it is hopeless.'\n\n'If there had only been a telegraph to the confounded place!'\n\n'Telegraph--we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old booby\nand a damned scheming young widow.  I very much question if we shall do\nanything in the matter, even if we get there.  But I suppose we had\nbetter go on now?'\n\n'You can do as you like.  I shall go on, if I have to walk every step\no't.'\n\n'That's not necessary.  I think the best posting-house at this end of the\ntown is Tempett's--we must knock them up at once.  Which will you\ndo--attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first, and get\non to Anglebury?  We may rest an hour or two there, unless you feel\nreally in want of a meal.'\n\n'No.  I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the hands\nof a cursed old Vandal.'\n\n'Very well,' said Mountclere.  'We'll go on at once.'\n\nAn additional half-hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the\nlateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a\nconveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the whole\ntown, gentle and simple, early to their beds.  And when at length the\ntravellers were on their way the aspect of the weather grew yet more\nforbidding.  The rain came down unmercifully, the booming wind caught it,\nbore it across the plain, whizzed it against the carriage like a sower\nsowing his seed.  It was precisely such weather, and almost at the same\nseason, as when Picotee traversed the same moor, stricken with her great\ndisappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.\n\nFurther on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath, dotted\noccasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told the tale of\ntheir species without help from outline or colour; they spoke in those\nmelancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a solemn sadness\nsurpassing even that of the sea.  From each carriage-lamp the long rays\nstretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat cheered the way, until\nthe insidious damp that pervaded all things above, around, and\nunderneath, overpowered one of them, and rendered every attempt to\nrekindle it ineffectual.  Even had the two men's dislike to each other's\nsociety been less, the general din of the night would have prevented much\ntalking; as it was, they sat in a rigid reticence that was almost a third\npersonality.  The roads were laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel,\nwhich, though not clogging, was soft and friable.  It speedily became\nsaturated, and the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.\n\nAt length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal\nheaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of\nlight winking to them in the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale\nhaze.  They were looking on the little town of Havenpool.  Soon after\nthis cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their\npresent direction, led down on the left to that place.  Here the man\nstopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile\nor two further.\n\n'Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere.  'Does our\nway lie through the town?'\n\n'No, sir--unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to do.  The\ndirect road is straight on.  Havenpool lies about three miles down there\non the left.  But the water is over the road, and we had better go round.\nWe shall come to no place for two or three miles, and then only to\nFlychett.'\n\n'What's Flychett like?'\n\n'A trumpery small bit of a village.'\n\n'Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol.  'I am against running\nthe risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'\n\n'So am I,' returned Mountclere.\n\n'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, 'and he keeps a beer-\nhouse, and owns two horses.  We could hire them, and have a bit of sommat\nin the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury.  Perhaps the rain\nmay hold up by that time.  Anything's better than going out of our way.'\n\n'Yes.  And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere.  'Up\nand on again, my man.'\n\nOn they went towards Flychett.  Still the everlasting heath, the black\nhills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round summits like\nwarts on a swarthy skin.  The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather\nand furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers\nproceeded as before.  But the horses were now far from fresh, and the\ntime spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that\ntaken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive.  When they entered\nFlychett it was about three.\n\n'Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.\n\n'Just on the knap,' Sol answered.  ''Tis a little small place, and we\nmust do as well as we can.'\n\nThey pulled up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of which\ncould be seen a square board representing the sign.  After an infinite\nlabour of rapping and shouting, a casement opened overhead, and a woman's\nvoice inquired what was the matter.  Sol explained, when she told them\nthat the horses were away from home.\n\n'Now we must wait till these are rested,' growled Mountclere.  'A pretty\nmuddle!'\n\n'It cannot be helped,' answered Sol; and he asked the woman to open the\ndoor.  She replied that her husband was away with the horses and van, and\nthat they could not come in.\n\nSol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only began\nto abuse him.\n\n'Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law for't,'\nrejoined Sol, with more spirit.  'You don't dare to keep nobility waiting\nlike this.'\n\n'Nobility!'\n\n'My mate hev the title of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have none\nof your slack,' said Sol.\n\n'Don't be a fool, young chopstick,' exclaimed Mountclere.  'Get the door\nopened.'\n\n'I will--in my own way,' said Sol testily.  'You mustn't mind my trading\nupon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity.  This is a woman nothing\nwill bring to reason but an appeal to the higher powers.  If every man of\ntitle was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I'd never call them lumber\nagain as long as I live.'\n\n'How singular!'\n\n'There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep it\nseven years.'\n\n'If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h--- for\nlacking every atom of the virtue.'\n\n'Hear, hear!  But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man so\nmuch older than I, or I could say more.  Suppose we draw a line here for\nthe present, sir, and get indoors?'\n\n'Do what you will, in Heaven's name.'\n\nA few more words to the woman resulted in her agreeing to admit them if\nthey would attend to themselves afterwards.  This Sol promised, and the\nkey of the door was let down to them from the bedroom window by a string.\nWhen they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well, busied himself in\nlighting a fire, the driver going off with a lantern to the stable, where\nhe found standing-room for the two horses.  Mountclere walked up and down\nthe kitchen, mumbling words of disgust at the situation, the few of this\nkind that he let out being just enough to show what a fearfully large\nnumber he kept in.\n\n'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman occasionally\nexclaimed down the stairs.  'But folks show no mercy upon their flesh and\nblood--not one bit or mite.'\n\n'Now never be stomachy, my good soul,' cried Sol from the fireplace,\nwhere he stood blowing the fire with his breath.  'Only tell me where the\nvictuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking.  We'll pay like\nprinces--especially my mate.'\n\n'There's but little in house,' said the sleepy woman from her bedroom.\n'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions.'\n\n'Conger eel?' said Sol to Mountclere.\n\n'No, thank you.'\n\n'Pig's fry?'\n\n'No, thank you.'\n\n'Well, then, tell me where the bacon is,' shouted Sol to the woman.\n\n'You must find it,' came again down the stairs.  ''Tis somewhere up in\nchimley, but in which part I can't mind.  Really I don't know whether I\nbe upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a spin, wi' being\nrafted up in such a larry!'\n\n'Bide where you be, there's a dear,' said Sol.  'We'll do it all.  Just\ntell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you can go to\nsleep again.'\n\nThe woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information, and\nsilence soon reigned upstairs.\n\nWhen one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the newly-\nlit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: 'Now look\nhere, sir, I think while I am making the tea, you ought to go on\ngriddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at all?'\n\n'I do the paying. . . .  Well, give me the bacon.'\n\n'And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the poor feller's\nhungry, I make no doubt.'\n\nMountclere, fork in hand, then began with his rasher, tossing it about\nthe gridiron in masterly style, Sol attending to the tea.  He was\nattracted from this occupation by a brilliant flame up the chimney,\nMountclere exclaiming, 'Now the cursed thing is on fire!'\n\n'Blow it out--hard--that's it!  Well now, sir, do you come and begin upon\nmine, as you must be hungry.  I'll finish the griddling.  Ought we to\nmind the man sitting down in our company, as there's no other room for\nhim?  I hear him coming in.'\n\n'O no--not at all.  Put him over at that table.'\n\n'And I'll join him.  You can sit here by yourself, sir.'\n\nThe meal was despatched, and the coachman again retired, promising to\nhave the horses ready in about an hour and a half.  Sol and Mountclere\nmade themselves comfortable upon either side of the fireplace, since\nthere was no remedy for the delay: after sitting in silence awhile, they\nnodded and slept.\n\nHow long they would have remained thus, in consequence of their fatigues,\nthere is no telling, had not the mistress of the cottage descended the\nstairs about two hours later, after peeping down upon them at intervals\nof five minutes during their sleep, lest they should leave without her\nknowledge.  It was six o'clock, and Sol went out for the man, whom he\nfound snoring in the hay-loft.  There was now real necessity for haste,\nand in ten minutes they were again on their way.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDay dawned upon the 'Red Lion' inn at Anglebury with a timid and watery\neye.  From the shadowy archway came a shining lantern, which was seen to\nbe dangling from the hand of a little bow-legged old man--the hostler,\nJohn.  Having reached the front, he looked around to measure the\ndaylight, opened the lantern, and extinguished it by a pinch of his\nfingers.  He paused for a moment to have the customary word or two with\nhis neighbour the milkman, who usually appeared at this point at this\ntime.\n\n'It sounds like the whistle of the morning train,' the milkman said as he\ndrew near, a scream from the further end of the town reaching their ears.\n'Well, I hope, now the wind's in that quarter, we shall ha'e a little\nmore fine weather--hey, hostler?'\n\n'What be ye a talking o'?'\n\n'Can hear the whistle plain, I say.'\n\n'O ay.  I suppose you do.  But faith, 'tis a poor fist I can make at\nhearing anything.  There, I could have told all the same that the wind\nwas in the east, even if I had not seed poor Thomas Tribble's smoke\nblowing across the little orchard.  Joints be a true weathercock enough\nwhen past three-score.  These easterly rains, when they do come, which is\nnot often, come wi' might enough to squail a man into his grave.'\n\n'Well, we must look for it, hostler. . . .  Why, what mighty ekkypage is\nthis, come to town at such a purblinking time of day?'\n\n''Tis what time only can tell--though 'twill not be long first,' the\nhostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage\ncontaining Sol and Mountclere slackened pace, and drew rein before the\ninn.\n\nFresh horses were immediately called for, and while they were being put\nin the two travellers walked up and down.\n\n'It is now a quarter to seven o'clock,' said Mountclere; 'and the\nquestion arises, shall I go on to Knollsea, or branch off at Corvsgate\nCastle for Enckworth?  I think the best plan will be to drive first to\nEnckworth, set me down, and then get him to take you on at once to\nKnollsea.  What do you say?'\n\n'When shall I reach Knollsea by that arrangement?'\n\n'By half-past eight o'clock.  We shall be at Enckworth before eight,\nwhich is excellent time.'\n\n'Very well, sir, I agree to that,' said Sol, feeling that as soon as one\nof the two birds had been caught, the other could not mate without their\nknowledge.\n\nThe carriage and horses being again ready, away they drove at once, both\nhaving by this time grown too restless to spend in Anglebury a minute\nmore than was necessary.\n\nThe hostler and his lad had taken the jaded Sandbourne horses to the\nstable, rubbed them down, and fed them, when another noise was heard\noutside the yard; the omnibus had returned from meeting the train.\nRelinquishing the horses to the small stable-lad, the old hostler again\nlooked out from the arch.\n\nA young man had stepped from the omnibus, and he came forward.  'I want a\nconveyance of some sort to take me to Knollsea, at once.  Can you get a\nhorse harnessed in five minutes?'\n\n'I'll make shift to do what I can master, not promising about the\nminutes.  The truest man can say no more.  Won't ye step into the bar,\nsir, and give your order?  I'll let ye know as soon as 'tis ready.'\n\nChristopher turned into a room smelling strongly of the night before, and\nstood by the newly-kindled fire to wait.  He had just come in haste from\nMelchester.  The upshot of his excitement about the wedding, which, as\nthe possible hour of its solemnization drew near, had increased till it\nbore him on like a wind, was this unpremeditated journey.  Lying awake\nthe previous night, the hangings of his bed pulsing to every beat of his\nheart, he decided that there was one last and great service which it\nbehoved him, as an honest man and friend, to say nothing of lover, to\nrender to Ethelberta at this juncture.  It was to ask her by some means\nwhether or not she had engaged with open eyes to marry Lord Mountclere;\nand if not, to give her a word or two of enlightenment.  That done, she\nmight be left to take care of herself.\n\nHis plan was to obtain an interview with Picotee, and learn from her\naccurately the state of things.  Should he, by any possibility, be\nmistaken in his belief as to the contracting parties, a knowledge of the\nmistake would be cheaply purchased by the journey.  Should he not, he\nwould send up to Ethelberta the strong note of expostulation which was\nalready written, and waiting in his pocket.  To intrude upon her at such\na time was unseemly; and to despatch a letter by a messenger before\nevidence of its necessity had been received was most undesirable.  The\nwhole proceeding at best was clumsy; yet earnestness is mostly clumsy;\nand how could he let the event pass without a protest?  Before daylight\non that autumn morning he had risen, told Faith of his intention, and\nstarted off.\n\nAs soon as the vehicle was ready, Christopher hastened to the door and\nstepped up.  The little stable-boy led the horse a few paces on the way\nbefore relinquishing his hold; at the same moment a respectably dressed\nman on foot, with a small black bag in his hand, came up from the\nopposite direction, along the street leading from the railway.  He was a\nthin, elderly man, with grey hair; that a great anxiety pervaded him was\nas plainly visible as were his features.  Without entering the inn, he\ncame up at once to old John.\n\n'Have you anything going to Knollsea this morning that I can get a lift\nin?' said the pedestrian--no other than Ethelberta's father.\n\n'Nothing empty, that I know of.'\n\n'Or carrier?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'A matter of fifteen shillings, then, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes--no doubt.  But yond there's a young man just now starting; he might\nnot take it ill if ye were to ask him for a seat, and go halves in the\nhire of the trap.  Shall I call out?'\n\n'Ah, do.'\n\nThe hostler bawled to the stable-boy, who put the question to\nChristopher.  There was room for two in the dogcart, and Julian had no\nobjection to save the shillings of a fellow-traveller who was evidently\nnot rich.  When Chickerel mounted to his seat, Christopher paused to look\nat him as we pause in some enactment that seems to have been already\nbefore us in a dream long ago.  Ethelberta's face was there, as the\nlandscape is in the map, the romance in the history, the aim in the deed:\ndenuded, rayless, and sorry, but discernible.\n\nFor the moment, however, this did not occur to Julian.  He took the whip,\nthe boy loosed his hold upon the horse, and they proceeded on their way.\n\n'What slap-dash jinks may there be going on at Knollsea, then, my sonny?'\nsaid the hostler to the lad, as the dogcart and the backs of the two men\ndiminished on the road.  'You be a Knollsea boy: have anything reached\nyour young ears about what's in the wind there, David Straw?'\n\n'No, nothing: except that 'tis going to be Christmas day in five weeks:\nand then a hide-bound bull is going to be killed if he don't die afore\nthe time, and gi'ed away by my lord in three-pound junks, as a reward to\ngood people who never curse and sing bad songs, except when they be\ndrunk; mother says perhaps she will have some, and 'tis excellent if well\nstewed, mother says.'\n\n'A very fair chronicle for a boy to give, but not what I asked for.  When\nyou try to answer a old man's question, always bear in mind what it was\nthat old man asked.  A hide-bound bull is good when well stewed, I make\nno doubt--for they who like it; but that's not it.  What I said was, do\nyou know why three fokes, a rich man, a middling man, and a poor man,\nshould want horses for Knollsea afore seven o'clock in the morning on a\nblinking day in Fall, when everything is as wet as a dishclout, whereas\nthat's more than often happens in fine summer weather?'\n\n'No--I don't know, John hostler.'\n\n'Then go home and tell your mother that ye be no wide-awake boy, and that\nold John, who went to school with her father afore she was born or\nthought o', says so. . . .  Chok' it all, why should I think there's\nsommat going on at Knollsea?  Honest travelling have been so rascally\nabused since I was a boy in pinners, by tribes of nobodies tearing from\none end of the country to t'other, to see the sun go down in salt water,\nor the moon play jack-lantern behind some rotten tower or other, that,\nupon my song, when life and death's in the wind there's no telling the\ndifference!'\n\n'I like their sixpences ever so much.'\n\n'Young sonny, don't you answer up to me when you baint in the\nstory--stopping my words in that fashion.  I won't have it, David.  Now\nup in the tallet with ye, there's a good boy, and down with another lock\nor two of hay--as fast as you can do it for me.'\n\nThe boy vanished under the archway, and the hostler followed at his\nheels.  Meanwhile the carriage bearing Mr. Mountclere and Sol was\nspeeding on its way to Enckworth.  When they reached the spot at which\nthe road forked into two, they left the Knollsea route, and keeping\nthence under the hills for the distance of five or six miles, drove into\nLord Mountclere's park.  In ten minutes the house was before them, framed\nin by dripping trees.\n\nMountclere jumped out, and entered without ceremony.  Sol, being anxious\nto know if Lord Mountclere was there, ordered the coachman to wait a few\nmoments.  It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the smoke which ascended\nfrom the newly-lit fires of the Court painted soft blue tints upon the\nbrown and golden leaves of lofty boughs adjoining.\n\n'O, Ethelberta!' said Sol, as he regarded the fair prospect.\n\nThe gravel of the drive had been washed clean and smooth by the night's\nrain, but there were fresh wheelmarks other than their own upon the\ntrack.  Yet the mansion seemed scarcely awake, and stillness reigned\neverywhere around.\n\nNot more than three or four minutes had passed when the door was opened\nfor Mountclere, and he came hastily from the doorsteps.\n\n'I must go on with you,' he said, getting into the vehicle.  'He's gone.'\n\n'Where--to Knollsea?' said Sol.\n\n'Yes,' said Mountclere.  'Now, go ahead to Knollsea!' he shouted to the\nman.  'To think I should be fooled like this!  I had no idea that he\nwould be leaving so soon!  We might perhaps have been here an hour\nearlier by hard striving.  But who was to dream that he would arrange to\nleave it at such an unearthly time of the morning at this dark season of\nthe year?  Drive--drive!' he called again out of the window, and the pace\nwas increased.\n\n'I have come two or three miles out of my way on account of you,' said\nSol sullenly.  'And all this time lost.  I don't see why you wanted to\ncome here at all.  I knew it would be a waste of time.'\n\n'Damn it all, man,' said Mountclere; 'it is no use for you to be angry\nwith me!'\n\n'I think it is, for 'tis you have brought me into this muddle,' said Sol,\nin no sweeter tone.  'Ha, ha!  Upon my life I should be inclined to\nlaugh, if I were not so much inclined to do the other thing, at Berta's\ntrick of trying to make close family allies of such a cantankerous pair\nas you and I!  So much of one mind as we be, so alike in our ways of\nliving, so close connected in our callings and principles, so matched in\nmanners and customs! 'twould be a thousand pities to part us--hey, Mr.\nMountclere!'\n\nMountclere faintly laughed with the same hideous merriment at the same\nidea, and then both remained in a withering silence, meant to express the\nutter contempt of each for the other, both in family and in person.  They\npassed the Lodge, and again swept into the highroad.\n\n'Drive on!' said Mountclere, putting his head again out of the window,\nand shouting to the man.  'Drive like the devil!' he roared again a few\nminutes afterwards, in fuming dissatisfaction with their rate of\nprogress.\n\n'Baint I doing of it?' said the driver, turning angrily round.  'I ain't\ngoing to ruin my governor's horses for strangers who won't pay double for\n'em--not I.  I am driving as fast as I can.  If other folks get in the\nway with their traps I suppose I must drive round 'em, sir?'\n\nThere was a slight crash.\n\n'There!' continued the coachman.  'That's what comes of my turning\nround!'\n\nSol looked out on the other side, and found that the forewheel of their\ncarriage had become locked in the wheel of a dogcart they had overtaken,\nthe road here being very narrow.  Their coachman, who knew he was to\nblame for this mishap, felt the advantage of taking time by the forelock\nin a case of accusation, and began swearing at his victim as if he were\nthe sinner.  Sol jumped out, and looking up at the occupants of the other\nconveyance, saw against the sky the back elevation of his father and\nChristopher Julian, sitting upon a little seat which they overhung, like\ntwo big puddings upon a small dish.\n\n'Father--what, you going?' said Sol.  'Is it about Berta that you've\ncome?'\n\n'Yes, I got your letter,' said Chickerel, 'and I felt I should like to\ncome--that I ought to come, to save her from what she'll regret.  Luckily,\nthis gentleman, a stranger to me, has given me a lift from Anglebury, or\nI must have hired.'  He pointed to Christopher.\n\n'But he's Mr. Julian!' said Sol.\n\n'You are Mrs. Petherwin's father?--I have travelled in your company\nwithout knowing it!' exclaimed Christopher, feeling and looking both\nastonished and puzzled.  At first, it had appeared to him that, in direct\nantagonism to his own purpose, her friends were favouring Ethelberta's\nwedding; but it was evidently otherwise.\n\n'Yes, that's father,' said Sol.  'Father, this is Mr. Julian.  Mr.\nJulian, this gentleman here is Lord Mountclere's brother--and, to cut the\nstory short, we all wish to stop the wedding.'\n\n'Then let us get on, in Heaven's name!' said Mountclere.  'You are the\nlady's father?'\n\n'I am,' said Chickerel.\n\n'Then you had better come into this carriage.  We shall go faster than\nthe dogcart.  Now, driver, are the wheels right again?'\n\nChickerel hastily entered with Mountclere, Sol joined them, and they sped\non.  Christopher drove close in their rear, not quite certain whether he\ndid well in going further, now that there were plenty of people to attend\nto the business, but anxious to see the end.  The other three sat in\nsilence, with their eyes upon their knees, though the clouds were\ndispersing, and the morning grew bright.  In about twenty minutes the\nsquare unembattled tower of Knollsea Church appeared below them in the\nvale, its summit just touching the distant line of sea upon sky.  The\nelement by which they had been victimized on the previous evening now\nsmiled falsely to the low morning sun.\n\nThey descended the road to the village at a little more mannerly pace\nthan that of the earlier journey, and saw the rays glance upon the hands\nof the church clock, which marked five-and-twenty minutes to nine.\n\n\n\n\n45. KNOLLSEA--THE ROAD THENCE--ENCKWORTH\n\n\nAll eyes were directed to the church-gate, as the travellers descended\nthe hill.  No wedding carriages were there, no favours, no slatternly\ngroup of women brimming with interest, no aged pauper on two sticks, who\ncomes because he has nothing else to do till dying time, no nameless\nfemale passing by on the other side with a laugh of indifference, no\nringers taking off their coats as they vanish up a turret, no\nhobbledehoys on tiptoe outside the chancel windows--in short, none\nwhatever of the customary accessories of a country wedding was anywhere\nvisible.\n\n'Thank God!' said Chickerel.\n\n'Wait till you know he deserves it,' said Mountclere.\n\n'Nothing's done yet between them.'\n\n'It is not likely that anything is done at this time of day.  But I have\ndecided to go to the church first.  You will probably go to your\nrelative's house at once?'\n\nSol looked to his father for a reply.\n\n'No, I too shall go to the church first, just to assure myself,' said\nChickerel.  'I shall then go on to Mrs Petherwin's.'\n\nThe carriage was stopped at the corner of a steep incline leading down to\nthe edifice.  Mountclere and Chickerel alighted and walked on towards the\ngates, Sol remaining in his place.  Christopher was some way off,\ndescending the hill on foot, having halted to leave his horse and trap at\na small inn at the entrance to the village.\n\nWhen Chickerel and Mountclere reached the churchyard gate they found it\nslightly open.  The church-door beyond it was also open, but nobody was\nnear the spot.\n\n'We have arrived not a minute too soon, however,' said Mountclere.\n'Preparations have apparently begun.  It was to be an early wedding, no\ndoubt.'\n\nEntering the building, they looked around; it was quite empty.  Chickerel\nturned towards the chancel, his eye being attracted by a red kneeling-\ncushion, placed at about the middle of the altar-railing, as if for early\nuse.  Mountclere strode to the vestry, somewhat at a loss how to proceed\nin his difficult task of unearthing his brother, obtaining a private\ninterview with him, and then, by the introduction of Sol and Chickerel,\ncausing a general convulsion.\n\n'Ha! here's somebody,' he said, observing a man in the vestry.  He\nadvanced with the intention of asking where Lord Mountclere was to be\nfound.  Chickerel came forward in the same direction.\n\n'Are you the parish clerk?' said Mountclere to the man, who was dressed\nup in his best clothes.\n\n'I hev the honour of that calling,' the man replied.\n\nTwo large books were lying before him on the vestry table, one of them\nbeing open.  As the clerk spoke he looked slantingly on the page, as a\nperson might do to discover if some writing were dry.  Mountclere and\nChickerel gazed on the same page.  The book was the marriage-register.\n\n'Too late!' said Chickerel.\n\nThere plainly enough stood the signatures of Lord Mountclere and\nEthelberta.  The viscount's was very black, and had not yet dried.  Her\nstrokes were firm, and comparatively thick for a woman's, though paled by\njuxtaposition with her husband's muddled characters.  In the space for\nwitnesses' names appeared in trembling lines as fine as silk the\nautograph of Picotee, the second name being that of a stranger, probably\nthe clerk.\n\n'Yes, yes--we are too late, it seems,' said Mountclere coolly.  'Who\ncould have thought they'd marry at eight!'\n\nChickerel stood like a man baked hard and dry.  Further than his first\ntwo words he could say nothing.\n\n'They must have set about it early, upon my soul,' Mountclere continued.\n'When did the wedding take place?' he asked of the clerk sharply.\n\n'It was over about five minutes before you came in,' replied that\nluminary pleasantly, as he played at an invisible game of pitch-and-toss\nwith some half-sovereigns in his pocket.  'I received orders to have the\nchurch ready at five minutes to eight this morning, though I knew nothing\nabout such a thing till bedtime last night.  It was very private and\nplain, not that I should mind another such a one, sir;' and he secretly\npitched and tossed again.\n\nMeanwhile Sol had found himself too restless to sit waiting in the\ncarriage for more than a minute after the other two had left it.  He\nstepped out at the same instant that Christopher came past, and together\nthey too went on to the church.\n\n'Father, ought we not to go on at once to Ethelberta's, instead of\nwaiting?' said Sol, on reaching the vestry, still in ignorance.  ''Twas\nno use in coming here.'\n\n'No use at all,' said Chickerel, as if he had straw in his throat.  'Look\nat this.  I would almost sooner have had it that in leaving this church I\ncame from her grave--well, no, perhaps not that, but I fear it is a bad\nthing.'\n\nSol then saw the names in the register, Christopher saw them, and the man\nclosed the book.  Christopher could not well command himself, and he\nretired.\n\n'I knew it.  I always said that pride would lead Berta to marry an\nunworthy man, and so it has!' said Sol bitterly.  'What shall we do now?\nI'll see her.'\n\n'Do no such thing, young man,' said Mountclere.  'The best course is to\nleave matters alone.  They are married.  If you are wise, you will try to\nthink the match a good one, and be content to let her keep her position\nwithout inconveniencing her by your intrusions or complaints.  It is\npossible that the satisfaction of her ambition will help her to endure\nany few surprises to her propriety that may occur.  She is a clever young\nwoman, and has played her cards adroitly.  I only hope she may never\nrepent of the game!  A-hem.  Good morning.'  Saying this, Mountclere\nslightly bowed to his relations, and marched out of the church with\ndignity; but it was told afterwards by the coachman, who had no love for\nMountclere, that when he stepped into the fly, and was as he believed\nunobserved, he was quite overcome with fatuous rage, his lips frothing\nlike a mug of hot ale.\n\n'What an impertinent gentleman 'tis,' said Chickerel.  'As if we had\ntried for her to marry his brother!'\n\n'He knows better than that,' said Sol.  'But he'll never believe that\nBerta didn't lay a trap for the old fellow.  He thinks at this moment\nthat Lord Mountclere has never been told of us and our belongings.'\n\n'I wonder if she has deceived him in anything,' murmured Chickerel.  'I\ncan hardly suppose it.  But she is altogether beyond me.  However, if she\nhas misled him on any point she will suffer for it.'\n\n'You need not fear that, father.  It isn't her way of working.  Why\ncouldn't she have known that when a title is to be had for the asking,\nthe owner must be a shocking one indeed?'\n\n'The title is well enough.  Any poor scrubs in our place must be fools\nnot to think the match a very rare and astonishing honour, as far as the\nposition goes.  But that my brave girl will be miserable is a part of the\nhonour I can't stomach so well.  If he had been any other lord in the\nkingdom, we might have been merry indeed.  I believe he will ruin her\nhappiness--yes, I do--not by any personal snubbing or rough conduct, but\nby other things, causing her to be despised; and that is a thing she\ncan't endure.'\n\n'She's not to be despised without a deal of trouble--we must remember\nthat.  And if he insults her by introducing new favourites, as they say\nhe did his first wife, I'll call upon him and ask his meaning, and take\nher away.'\n\n'Nonsense--we shall never know what he does, or how she feels; she will\nnever let out a word.  However unhappy she may be, she will always deny\nit--that's the unfortunate part of such marriages.'\n\n'An old chap like that ought to leave young women alone, damn him!'\n\nThe clerk came nearer.  'I am afraid I cannot allow bad words to be spoke\nin this sacred pile,' he said.  'As far as my personal self goes, I\nshould have no objection to your cussing as much as you like, but as a\nofficial of the church my conscience won't allow it to be done.'\n\n'Your conscience has allowed something to be done that cussing and\nswearing are godly worship to.'\n\n'The prettiest maid is left out of harness, however,' said the clerk.\n'The little witness was the chicken to my taste--Lord forgive me for\nsaying it, and a man with a wife and family!'\n\nSol and his father turned to withdraw, and soon forgot the remark, but it\nwas frequently recalled by Christopher.\n\n'Do you think of trying to see Ethelberta before you leave?' said Sol.\n\n'Certainly not,' said Chickerel.  'Mr. Mountclere's advice was good in\nthat.  The more we keep out of the way the more good we are doing her.  I\nshall go back to Anglebury by the carrier, and get on at once to London.\nYou will go with me, I suppose?'\n\n'The carrier does not leave yet for an hour or two.'\n\n'I shall walk on, and let him overtake me.  If possible, I will get one\nglimpse of Enckworth Court, Berta's new home; there may be time, if I\nstart at once.'\n\n'I will walk with you,' said Sol.\n\n'There is room for one with me,' said Christopher.  'I shall drive back\nearly in the afternoon.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Sol.  'I will endeavour to meet you at Corvsgate.'\n\nThus it was arranged.  Chickerel could have wished to search for Picotee,\nand learn from her the details of this mysterious matter.  But it was\nparticularly painful to him to make himself busy after the event; and to\nappear suddenly and uselessly where he was plainly not wanted to appear\nwould be an awkwardness which the pleasure of seeing either daughter\ncould scarcely counterbalance.  Hence he had resolved to return at once\nto town, and there await the news, together with the detailed directions\nas to his own future movements, carefully considered and laid down, which\nwere sure to be given by the far-seeing Ethelberta.\n\nSol and his father walked on together, Chickerel to meet the carrier just\nbeyond Enckworth, Sol to wait for Christopher at Corvsgate.  His wish to\nsee, in company with his father, the outline of the seat to which\nEthelberta had been advanced that day, was the triumph of youthful\ncuriosity and interest over dogged objection.  His father's wish was\nbased on calmer reasons.\n\nChristopher, lone and out of place, remained in the church yet a little\nlonger.  He desultorily walked round.  Reaching the organ chamber, he\nlooked at the instrument, and was surprised to find behind it a young\nman.  Julian first thought him to be the organist; on second inspection,\nhowever, he proved to be a person Christopher had met before, under far\ndifferent circumstances; it was our young friend Ladywell, looking as\nsick and sorry as a lily with a slug in its stalk.\n\nThe occasion, the place, and their own condition, made them kin.\nChristopher had despised Ladywell, Ladywell had disliked Christopher; but\na third item neutralized the other two--it was their common lot.\n\nChristopher just nodded, for they had only met on Ethelberta's stairs.\nLadywell nodded more, and spoke.  'The church appears to be interesting,'\nhe said.\n\n'Yes.  Such a tower is rare in England,' said Christopher.\n\nThey then dwelt on other features of the building, thence enlarging to\nthe village, and then to the rocks and marine scenery, both avoiding the\nmalady they suffered from--the marriage of Ethelberta.\n\n'The village streets are very picturesque, and the cliff scenery is good\nof its kind,' rejoined Ladywell.  'The rocks represent the feminine side\nof grandeur.  Here they are white, with delicate tops.  On the west coast\nthey are higher, black, and with angular summits.  Those represent\ngrandeur in its masculine aspect.  It is merely my own idea, and not very\nbright, perhaps.'\n\n'It is very ingenious,' said Christopher, 'and perfectly true.'\n\nLadywell was pleased.  'I am here at present making sketches for my next\nsubject--a winter sea.  Otherwise I should not have--happened to be in\nthe church.'\n\n'You are acquainted with Mrs. Petherwin--I think you are Mr. Ladywell,\nwho painted her portrait last season?'\n\n'Yes,' said Ladywell, colouring.\n\n'You may have heard her speak of Mr. Julian?'\n\n'O yes,' said Ladywell, offering his hand.  Then by degrees their tongues\nwound closer round the subject of their sadness, each tacitly owning to\nwhat he would not tell.\n\n'I saw it,' said Ladywell heavily.\n\n'Did she look troubled?'\n\n'Not in the least--bright and fresh as a May morning.  She has played me\nmany a bitter trick, and poor Neigh too, a friend of mine.  But I cannot\nhelp forgiving her. . . .  I saw a carriage at the door, and strolled in.\nThe ceremony was just proceeding, so I sat down here.  Well, I have done\nwith Knollsea.  The place has no further interest for me now.  I may own\nto you as a friend, that if she had not been living here I should have\nstudied at some other coast--of course that's in confidence.'\n\n'I understand, quite.'\n\n'I only arrived in the neighbourhood two days ago, and did not set eyes\nupon her till this morning, she has kept so entirely indoors.'\n\nThen the young men parted, and half-an-hour later the ingenuous Ladywell\ncame from the visitors' inn by the shore, a man walking behind him with a\nquantity of artists' materials and appliances.  He went on board the\nsteamer, which this morning had performed the passage in safety.\nEthelberta single having been the loadstone in the cliffs that had\nattracted Ladywell hither, Ethelberta married was the negative pole of\nthe same, sending him away.  And thus did a woman put an end to the only\nopportunity of distinction, on Art-exhibition walls, that ever offered\nitself to the tortuous ways, quaint alleys, and marbled bluffs of\nKnollsea, as accessories in the picture of a winter sea.\n\nChristopher's interest in the village was of the same evaporating nature.\nHe looked upon the sea, and the great swell, and the waves sending up a\nsound like the huzzas of multitudes; but all the wild scene was irksome\nnow.  The ocean-bound steamers far away on the horizon inspired him with\nno curiosity as to their destination; the house Ethelberta had occupied\nwas positively hateful; and he turned away to wait impatiently for the\nhour at which he had promised to drive on to meet Sol at Corvsgate.\n\nSol and Chickerel plodded along the road, in order to skirt Enckworth\nbefore the carrier came up.  Reaching the top of a hill on their way,\nthey paused to look down on a peaceful scene.  It was a park and wood,\nglowing in all the matchless colours of late autumn, parapets and\npediments peering out from a central position afar.  At the bottom of the\ndescent before them was a lodge, to which they now descended.  The gate\nstood invitingly open.  Exclusiveness was no part of the owner's\ninstincts: one could see that at a glance.  No appearance of a\nwell-rolled garden-path attached to the park-drive; as is the case with\nmany, betokening by the perfection of their surfaces their proprietor's\ndeficiency in hospitality.  The approach was like a turnpike road full of\ngreat ruts, clumsy mendings; bordered by trampled edges and incursions\nupon the grass at pleasure.  Butchers and bakers drove as freely herein\nas peers and peeresses.  Christening parties, wedding companies, and\nfuneral trains passed along by the doors of the mansion without check or\nquestion.  A wild untidiness in this particular has its recommendations;\nfor guarded grounds ever convey a suspicion that their owner is young to\nlanded possessions, as religious earnestnesss implies newness of\nconversion, and conjugal tenderness recent marriage.\n\nHalf-an-hour being wanting as yet to Chickerel's time with the carrier,\nSol and himself, like the rest of the world when at leisure, walked into\nthe extensive stretch of grass and grove.  It formed a park so large that\nnot one of its owners had ever wished it larger, not one of its owner's\nrivals had ever failed to wish it smaller, and not one of its owner's\nsatellites had ever seen it without praise.  They somewhat avoided the\nroadway passing under the huge, misshapen, ragged trees, and through fern\nbrakes, ruddy and crisp in their decay.  On reaching a suitable eminence,\nthe father and son stood still to look upon the many-chimneyed building,\nor rather conglomeration of buildings, to which these groves and glades\nformed a setting.\n\n'We will just give a glance,' said Chickerel, 'and then go away.  It\ndon't seem well to me that Ethelberta should have this; it is too much.\nThe sudden change will do her no good.  I never believe in anything that\ncomes in the shape of wonderful luck.  As it comes, so it goes.  Had she\nbeen brought home today to one of those tenant-farms instead of these\nwoods and walls, I could have called it good fortune.  What she should\nhave done was glorify herself by glorifying her own line of life, not by\nforsaking that line for another.  Better have been admired as a governess\nthan shunned as a peeress, which is what she will be.  But it is just the\nsame everywhere in these days.  Young men will rather wear a black coat\nand starve than wear fustian and do well.'\n\n'One man to want such a monstrous house as that!  Well, 'tis a fine\nplace.  See, there's the carpenters' shops, the timber-yard, and\neverything, as if it were a little town.  Perhaps Berta may hire me for a\njob now and then.'\n\n'I always knew she would cut herself off from us.  She marked for it from\nchildhood, and she has finished the business thoroughly.'\n\n'Well, it is no matter, father, for why should we want to trouble her?\nShe may write, and I shall answer; but if she calls to see me, I shall\nnot return the visit; and if she meets me with her husband or any of her\nnew society about her, I shall behave as a stranger.'\n\n'It will be best,' said Chickerel.  'Well, now I must move.'\n\nHowever, by the sorcery of accident, before they had very far retraced\ntheir steps an open carriage became visible round a bend in the drive.\nChickerel, with a servant's instinct, was for beating a retreat.\n\n'No,' said Sol.  'Let us stand our ground.  We have already been seen,\nand we do no harm.'\n\nSo they stood still on the edge of the drive, and the carriage drew near.\nIt was a landau, and the sun shone in upon Lord Mountclere, with Lady\nMountclere sitting beside him, like Abishag beside King David.\n\nVery blithe looked the viscount, for he rode upon a cherub to-day.  She\nappeared fresh, rosy, and strong, but dubious; though if mien was\nanything, she was a viscountess twice over.  Her dress was of a\ndove-coloured material, with a bonnet to match, a little tufted white\nfeather resting on the top, like a truce-flag between the blood of noble\nand vassal.  Upon the cool grey of her shoulders hung a few locks of\nhair, toned warm as fire by the sunshiny addition to its natural hue.\n\nChickerel instinctively took off his hat; Sol did the same.\n\nFor only a moment did Ethelberta seem uncertain how to act.  But a\nsolution to her difficulty was given by the face of her brother.  There\nshe saw plainly at one glance more than a dozen speeches would have\ntold--for Sol's features thoroughly expressed his intention that to him\nshe was to be a stranger.  Her eyes flew to Chickerel, and he slightly\nshook his head.  She understood them now.  With a tear in her eye for her\nfather, and a sigh in her bosom for Sol, she bowed in answer to their\nsalute; her husband moved his hat and nodded, and the carriage rolled on.\nLord Mountclere might possibly be making use of the fine morning in\nshowing her the park and premises.  Chickerel, with a moist eye, now went\non with his son towards the highroad.  When they reached the lodge, the\nlodge-keeper was walking in the sun, smoking his pipe.  'Good morning,'\nhe said to Chickerel.\n\n'Any rejoicings at the Court to-day?' the butler inquired.\n\n'Quite the reverse.  Not a soul there.  'Tisn't knowed anywhere at all.  I\nhad no idea of such a thing till he brought my lady here.  Not going off,\nneither.  They've come home like the commonest couple in the land, and\nnot even the bells allowed to ring.'\n\nThey walked along the public road, and the carrier came in view.\n\n'Father,' said Sol, 'I don't think I'll go further with you.  She's gone\ninto the house; and suppose she should run back without him to try to\nfind us?  It would be cruel to disappoint her.  I'll bide about here for\na quarter of an hour, in case she should.  Mr. Julian won't have passed\nCorvsgate till I get there.'\n\n'Well, one or two of her old ways may be left in her still, and it is not\na bad thought.  Then you will walk the rest of the distance if you don't\nmeet Mr. Julian?  I must be in London by the evening.'\n\n'Any time to-night will do for me.  I shall not begin work until\nto-morrow, so that the four o'clock train will answer my purpose.'\n\nThus they parted, and Sol strolled leisurely back.  The road was quite\ndeserted, and he lingered by the park fence.\n\n'Sol!' said a bird-like voice; 'how did you come here?'\n\nHe looked up, and saw a figure peering down upon him from the top of the\npark wall, the ground on the inside being higher than the road.  The\nspeaker was to the expected Ethelberta what the moon is to the sun, a\nstar to the moon.  It was Picotee.\n\n'Hullo, Picotee!' said Sol.\n\n'There's a little gate a quarter of a mile further on,' said Picotee.  'We\ncan meet there without your passing through the big lodge.  I'll be there\nas soon as you.'\n\nSol ascended the hill, passed through the second gate, and turned back\nagain, when he met Picotee coming forward under the trees.  They walked\ntogether in this secluded spot.\n\n'Berta says she wants to see you and father,' said Picotee breathlessly.\n'You must come in and make yourselves comfortable.  She had no idea you\nwere here so secretly, and she didn't know what to do.'\n\n'Father's gone,' said Sol.\n\n'How vexed she will be!  She thinks there is something the matter--that\nyou are angry with her for not telling you earlier.  But you will come\nin, Sol?'\n\n'No, I can't come in,' said her brother.\n\n'Why not?  It is such a big house, you can't think.  You need not come\nnear the front apartments, if you think we shall be ashamed of you in\nyour working clothes.  How came you not to dress up a bit, Sol?  Still,\nBerta won't mind it much.  She says Lord Mountclere must take her as she\nis, or he is kindly welcome to leave her.'\n\n'Ah, well!  I might have had a word or two to say about that, but the\ntime has gone by for it, worse luck.  Perhaps it is best that I have said\nnothing, and she has had her way.  No, I shan't come in, Picotee.  Father\nis gone, and I am going too.'\n\n'O Sol!'\n\n'We are rather put out at her acting like this--father and I and all of\nus.  She might have let us know about it beforehand, even if she is a\nlady and we what we always was.  It wouldn't have let her down so\nterrible much to write a line.  She might have learnt something that\nwould have led her to take a different step.'\n\n'But you will see poor Berta?  She has done no harm.  She was going to\nwrite long letters to all of you to-day, explaining her wedding, and how\nshe is going to help us all on in the world.'\n\nSol paused irresolutely.  'No, I won't come in,' he said.  'It would\ndisgrace her, for one thing, dressed as I be; more than that, I don't\nwant to come in.  But I should like to see her, if she would like to see\nme; and I'll go up there to that little fir plantation, and walk up and\ndown behind it for exactly half-an-hour.  She can come out to me there.'\nSol had pointed as he spoke to a knot of young trees that hooded a knoll\na little way off.\n\n'I'll go and tell her,' said Picotee.\n\n'I suppose they will be off somewhere, and she is busy getting ready?'\n\n'O no.  They are not going to travel till next year.  Ethelberta does not\nwant to go anywhere; and Lord Mountclere cannot endure this changeable\nweather in any place but his own house.'\n\n'Poor fellow!'\n\n'Then you will wait for her by the firs?  I'll tell her at once.'\n\nPicotee left him, and Sol went across the glade.\n\n\n\n\n46. ENCKWORTH (continued)--THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY\n\n\nHe had not paced behind the firs more than ten minutes when Ethelberta\nappeared from the opposite side.  At great inconvenience to herself, she\nhad complied with his request.\n\nEthelberta was trembling.  She took her brother's hand, and said, 'Is\nfather, then, gone?'\n\n'Yes,' said Sol.  'I should have been gone likewise, but I thought you\nwanted to see me.'\n\n'Of course I did, and him too.  Why did you come so mysteriously, and, I\nmust say, unbecomingly?  I am afraid I did wrong in not informing you of\nmy intention.'\n\n'To yourself you may have.  Father would have liked a word with you\nbefore--you did it.'\n\n'You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage\nwhen we passed you.  I want to see him on an important matter--his\nleaving Mrs. Doncastle's service at once.  I am going to write and beg\nher to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.'\n\n'He's very much upset about you.'\n\n'My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,' she said sadly.  'But I\nhad reasons.  Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not\nwant to see me?'\n\n'We did want to see you up to a certain time.'\n\n'You did not come to prevent my marriage?'\n\n'We wished to see you before the marriage--I can't say more.'\n\n'I thought you might not approve of what I had done,' said Ethelberta\nmournfully.  'But a time may come when you will approve.'\n\n'Never.'\n\n'Don't be harsh, Sol.  A coronet covers a multitude of sins.'\n\n'A coronet: good Lord--and you my sister!  Look at my hand.'  Sol\nextended his hand.  'Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it\nwere out of joint, and that hard place inside there.  Did you ever see\nanything so ugly as that hand--a misshaped monster, isn't he?  That comes\nfrom the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year\nafter year.  If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in\nfustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, \"That man's\na carpenter.\"  Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be\nbrother to a viscountess without something being wrong?  Of course\nthere's something wrong in it, or he wouldn't have married you--something\nwhich won't be righted without terrible suffering.'\n\n'No, no,' said she.  'You are mistaken.  There is no such wonderful\nquality in a title in these days.  What I really am is second wife to a\nquiet old country nobleman, who has given up society.  What more\ncommonplace?  My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was\nbefore.'\n\n'Berta, you have worked to false lines.  A creeping up among the useless\nlumber of our nation that'll be the first to burn if there comes a flare.\nI never see such a deserter of your own lot as you be!  But you were\nalways like it, Berta, and I am ashamed of ye.  More than that, a good\nwoman never marries twice.'\n\n'You are too hard, Sol,' said the poor viscountess, almost crying.  'I've\ndone it all for you!  Even if I have made a mistake, and given my\nambition an ignoble turn, don't tell me so now, or you may do more harm\nin a minute than you will cure in a lifetime.  It is absurd to let\nrepublican passions so blind you to fact.  A family which can be\nhonourably traced through history for five hundred years, does affect the\nheart of a person not entirely hardened against romance.  Whether you\nlike the peerage or no, they appeal to our historical sense and love of\nold associations.'\n\n'I don't care for history.  Prophecy is the only thing can do poor men\nany good.  When you were a girl, you wouldn't drop a curtsey to 'em,\nhistorical or otherwise, and there you were right.  But, instead of\nsticking to such principles, you must needs push up, so as to get girls\nsuch as you were once to curtsey to you, not even thinking marriage with\na bad man too great a price to pay for't.'\n\n'A bad man?  What do you mean by that?  Lord Mountclere is rather old,\nbut he's worthy.  What did you mean, Sol?'\n\n'Nothing--a mere sommat to say.'\n\nAt that moment Picotee emerged from behind a tree, and told her sister\nthat Lord Mountclere was looking for her.\n\n'Well, Sol, I cannot explain all to you now,' she said.  'I will send for\nyou in London.'  She wished him goodbye, and they separated, Picotee\naccompanying Sol a little on his way.\n\nEthelberta was greatly perturbed by this meeting.  After retracing her\nsteps a short distance, she still felt so distressed and unpresentable\nthat she resolved not to allow Lord Mountclere to see her till the clouds\nhad somewhat passed off; it was but a bare act of justice to him to hide\nfrom his sight such a bridal mood as this.  It was better to keep him\nwaiting than to make him positively unhappy.  She turned aside, and went\nup the valley, where the park merged in miles of wood and copse.\n\nShe opened an iron gate and entered the wood, casually interested in the\nvast variety of colours that the half-fallen leaves of the season wore:\nmore, much more, occupied with personal thought.  The path she pursued\nbecame gradually involved in bushes as well as trees, giving to the spot\nthe character rather of a coppice than a wood.  Perceiving that she had\ngone far enough, Ethelberta turned back by a path which at this point\nintersected that by which she had approached, and promised a more direct\nreturn towards the Court.  She had not gone many steps among the hazels,\nwhich here formed a perfect thicket, when she observed a belt of holly-\nbushes in their midst; towards the outskirts of these an opening on her\nleft hand directly led, thence winding round into a clear space of\ngreensward, which they completely enclosed.  On this isolated and mewed-\nup bit of lawn stood a timber-built cottage, having ornamental\nbarge-boards, balconettes, and porch.  It was an erection interesting\nenough as an experiment, and grand as a toy, but as a building\ncontemptible.\n\nA blue gauze of smoke floated over the chimney, as if somebody was living\nthere; round towards the side some empty hen-coops were piled away; while\nunder the hollies were divers frameworks of wire netting and sticks,\nshowing that birds were kept here at some seasons of the year.\n\nBeing lady of all she surveyed, Ethelberta crossed the leafy sward, and\nknocked at the door.  She was interested in knowing the purpose of the\npeculiar little edifice.\n\nThe door was opened by a woman wearing a clean apron upon a not very\nclean gown.  Ethelberta asked who lived in so pretty a place.\n\n'Miss Gruchette,' the servant replied.  'But she is not here now.'\n\n'Does she live here alone?'\n\n'Yes--excepting myself and a fellow-servant.'\n\n'Oh.'\n\n'She lives here to attend to the pheasants and poultry, because she is so\nclever in managing them.  They are brought here from the keeper's over\nthe hill.  Her father was a fancier.'\n\n'Miss Gruchette attends to the birds, and two servants attend to Miss\nGruchette?'\n\n'Well, to tell the truth, m'm, the servants do almost all of it.  Still,\nthat's what Miss Gruchette is here for.  Would you like to see the house?\nIt is pretty.'  The woman spoke with hesitation, as if in doubt between\nthe desire of earning a shilling and the fear that Ethelberta was not a\nstranger.  That Ethelberta was Lady Mountclere she plainly did not dream.\n\n'I fear I can scarcely stay long enough; yet I will just look in,' said\nEthelberta.  And as soon as they had crossed the threshold she was glad\nof having done so.\n\nThe cottage internally may be described as a sort of boudoir extracted\nfrom the bulk of a mansion and deposited in a wood.  The front room was\nfilled with nicknacks, curious work-tables, filigree baskets, twisted\nbrackets supporting statuettes, in which the grotesque in every case\nruled the design; love-birds, in gilt cages; French bronzes, wonderful\nboxes, needlework of strange patterns, and other attractive objects.  The\napartment was one of those which seem to laugh in a visitor's face and on\ncloser examination express frivolity more distinctly than by words.\n\n'Miss Gruchette is here to keep the fowls?' said Ethelberta, in a puzzled\ntone, after a survey.\n\n'Yes.  But they don't keep her.'\n\nEthelberta did not attempt to understand, and ceased to occupy her mind\nwith the matter.  They came from the cottage to the door, where she gave\nthe woman a trifling sum, and turned to leave.  But footsteps were at\nthat moment to be heard beating among the leaves on the other side of the\nhollies, and Ethelberta waited till the walkers should have passed.  The\nvoices of two men reached herself and the woman as they stood.  They were\nclose to the house, yet screened from it by the holly-bushes, when one\ncould be heard to say distinctly, as if with his face turned to the\ncottage--\n\n'Lady Mountclere gone for good?'\n\n'I suppose so.  Ha-ha!  So come, so go.'\n\nThe speakers passed on, their backs becoming visible through the opening.\nThey appeared to be woodmen.\n\n'What Lady Mountclere do they mean?' said Ethelberta.\n\nThe woman blushed.  'They meant Miss Gruchette.'\n\n'Oh--a nickname.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Why?'\n\nThe woman whispered why in a story of about two minutes' length.\nEthelberta turned pale.\n\n'Is she going to return?' she inquired, in a thin hard voice.\n\n'Yes; next week.  You know her, m'm?'\n\n'No.  I am a stranger.'\n\n'So much the better.  I may tell you, then, that an old tale is flying\nabout the neighbourhood--that Lord Mountclere was privately married to\nanother woman, at Knollsea, this morning early.  Can it be true?'\n\n'I believe it to be true.'\n\n'And that she is of no family?'\n\n'Of no family.'\n\n'Indeed.  Then the Lord only knows what will become of the poor thing.\nThere will be murder between 'em.'\n\n'Between whom?'\n\n'Her and the lady who lives here.  She won't budge an inch--not she!'\n\nEthelberta moved aside.  A shade seemed to overspread the world, the sky,\nthe trees, and the objects in the foreground.  She kept her face away\nfrom the woman, and, whispering a reply to her Good-morning, passed\nthrough the hollies into the leaf-strewn path.  As soon as she came to a\nlarge trunk she placed her hands against it and rested her face upon\nthem.  She drew herself lower down, lower, lower, till she crouched upon\nthe leaves.  'Ay--'tis what father and Sol meant!  O Heaven!' she\nwhispered.\n\nShe soon arose, and went on her way to the house.  Her fair features were\nfirmly set, and she scarcely heeded the path in the concentration which\nhad followed her paroxysm.  When she reached the park proper she became\naware of an excitement that was in progress there.\n\nEthelberta's absence had become unaccountable to Lord Mountclere, who\ncould hardly permit her retirement from his sight for a minute.  But at\nfirst he had made due allowance for her eccentricity as a woman of\ngenius, and would not take notice of the half-hour's desertion,\nunpardonable as it might have been in other classes of wives.  Then he\nhad inquired, searched, been alarmed: he had finally sent men-servants in\nall directions about the park to look for her.  He feared she had fallen\nout of a window, down a well, or into the lake.  The next stage of search\nwas to have been drags and grapnels: but Ethelberta entered the house.\n\nLord Mountclere rushed forward to meet her, and such was her contrivance\nthat he noticed no change.  The searchers were called in, Ethelberta\nexplaining that she had merely obeyed the wish of her brother in going\nout to meet him.  Picotee, who had returned from her walk with Sol, was\nupstairs in one of the rooms which had been allotted to her.  Ethelberta\nmanaged to run in there on her way upstairs to her own chamber.\n\n'Picotee, put your things on again,' she said.  'You are the only friend\nI have in this house, and I want one badly.  Go to Sol, and deliver this\nmessage to him--that I want to see him at once.  You must overtake him,\nif you walk all the way to Anglebury.  But the train does not leave till\nfour, so that there is plenty of time.'\n\n'What is the matter?' said Picotee.  'I cannot walk all the way.'\n\n'I don't think you will have to do that--I hope not.'\n\n'He is going to stop at Corvsgate to have a bit of lunch: I might\novertake him there, if I must!'\n\n'Yes.  And tell him to come to the east passage door.  It is that door\nnext to the entrance to the stable-yard.  There is a little yew-tree\noutside it.  On second thoughts you, dear, must not come back.  Wait at\nCorvsgate in the little inn parlour till Sol comes to you again.  You\nwill probably then have to go home to London alone; but do not mind it.\nThe worst part for you will be in going from the station to the Crescent;\nbut nobody will molest you in a four-wheel cab: you have done it before.\nHowever, he will tell you if this is necessary when he gets back.  I can\nbest fight my battles alone.  You shall have a letter from me the day\nafter to-morrow, stating where I am.  I shall not be here.'\n\n'But what is it so dreadful?'\n\n'Nothing to frighten you.'  But she spoke with a breathlessness that\ncompletely nullified the assurance.  'It is merely that I find I must\ncome to an explanation with Lord Mountclere before I can live here\npermanently, and I cannot stipulate with him while I am here in his\npower.  Till I write, good-bye.  Your things are not unpacked, so let\nthem remain here for the present--they can be sent for.'\n\nPoor Picotee, more agitated than her sister, but never questioning her\norders, went downstairs and out of the house.  She ran across the\nshrubberies, into the park, and to the gate whereat Sol had emerged some\nhalf-hour earlier.  She trotted along upon the turnpike road like a lost\ndoe, crying as she went at the new trouble which had come upon Berta,\nwhatever that trouble might be.  Behind her she heard wheels and the\nstepping of a horse, but she was too concerned to turn her head.  The\npace of the vehicle slackened, however, when it was abreast of Picotee,\nand she looked up to see Christopher as the driver.\n\n'Miss Chickerel!' he said, with surprise.\n\nPicotee had quickly looked down again, and she murmured, 'Yes.'\n\nChristopher asked what he could not help asking in the circumstances,\n'Would you like to ride?'\n\n'I should be glad,' said she, overcoming her flurry.  'I am anxious to\novertake my brother Sol.'\n\n'I have arranged to pick him up at Corvsgate,' said Christopher.\n\nHe descended, and assisted her to mount beside him, and drove on again,\nalmost in silence.  He was inclined to believe that some supernatural\nlegerdemain had to do with these periodic impacts of Picotee on his path.\nShe sat mute and melancholy till they were within half-a-mile of\nCorvsgate.\n\n'Thank you,' she said then, perceiving Sol upon the road, 'there is my\nbrother; I will get down now.'\n\n'He was going to ride on to Anglebury with me,' said Julian.\n\nPicotee did not reply, and Sol turned round.  Seeing her he instantly\nexclaimed, 'What's the matter, Picotee?'\n\nShe explained to him that he was to go back immediately, and meet her\nsister at the door by the yew, as Ethelberta had charged her.\nChristopher, knowing them so well, was too much an interested member of\nthe group to be left out of confidence, and she included him in her\naudience.\n\n'And what are you to do?' said Sol to her.\n\n'I am to wait at Corvsgate till you come to me.'\n\n'I can't understand it,' Sol muttered, with a gloomy face.  'There's\nsomething wrong; and it was only to be expected; that's what I say, Mr.\nJulian.'\n\n'If necessary I can take care of Miss Chickerel till you come,' said\nChristopher.\n\n'Thank you,' said Sol.  'Then I will return to you as soon as I can, at\nthe \"Castle\" Inn, just ahead.  'Tis very awkward for you to be so\nburdened by us, Mr. Julian; but we are in a trouble that I don't yet see\nthe bottom of.'\n\n'I know,' said Christopher kindly.  'We will wait for you.'\n\nHe then drove on with Picotee to the inn, which was not far off, and Sol\nreturned again to Enckworth.  Feeling somewhat like a thief in the night,\nhe zigzagged through the park, behind belts and knots of trees, until he\nsaw the yew, dark and clear, as if drawn in ink upon the fair face of the\nmansion.  The way up to it was in a little cutting between shrubs, the\ndoor being a private entrance, sunk below the surface of the lawn, and\ninvisible from other parts of the same front.  As soon as he reached it,\nEthelberta opened it at once, as if she had listened for his footsteps.\n\nShe took him along a passage in the basement, up a flight of steps, and\ninto a huge, solitary, chill apartment.  It was the ball-room.  Spacious\nmirrors in gilt frames formed panels in the lower part of the walls, the\nremainder being toned in sage-green.  In a recess between each mirror was\na statue.  The ceiling rose in a segmental curve, and bore sprawling upon\nits face gilt figures of wanton goddesses, cupids, satyrs with\ntambourines, drums, and trumpets, the whole ceiling seeming alive with\nthem.  But the room was very gloomy now, there being little light\nadmitted from without, and the reflections from the mirrors gave a\ndepressing coldness to the scene.  It was a place intended to look joyous\nby night, and whatever it chose to look by day.\n\n'We are safe here,' said she.  'But we must listen for footsteps.  I have\nonly five minutes: Lord Mountclere is waiting for me.  I mean to leave\nthis place, come what may.'\n\n'Why?' said Sol, in astonishment.\n\n'I cannot tell you--something has occurred.  God has got me in his power\nat last, and is going to scourge me for my bad doings--that's what it\nseems like.  Sol, listen to me, and do exactly what I say.  Go to\nAnglebury, hire a brougham, bring it on as far as Little Enckworth: you\nwill have to meet me with it at one of the park gates later in the\nevening--probably the west, at half-past seven.  Leave it at the village\nwith the man, come on here on foot, and stay under the trees till just\nbefore six: it will then be quite dark, and you must stand under the\nprojecting balustrade a little further on than the door you came in by.  I\nwill just step upon the balcony over it, and tell you more exactly than I\ncan now the precise time that I shall be able to slip out, and where the\ncarriage is to be waiting.  But it may not be safe to speak on account of\nhis closeness to me--I will hand down a note.  I find it is impossible to\nleave the house by daylight--I am certain to be pursued--he already\nsuspects something.  Now I must be going, or he will be here, for he\nwatches my movements because of some accidental words that escaped me.'\n\n'Berta, I shan't have anything to do with this,' said Sol.  'It is not\nright!'\n\n'I am only going to Rouen, to Aunt Charlotte!' she implored.  'I want to\nget to Southampton, to be in time for the midnight steamer.  When I am at\nRouen I can negotiate with Lord Mountclere the terms on which I will\nreturn to him.  It is the only chance I have of rooting out a scandal and\na disgrace which threatens the beginning of my life here!  My letters to\nhim, and his to me, can be forwarded through you or through father, and\nhe will not know where I am.  Any woman is justified in adopting such a\ncourse to bring her husband to a sense of her dignity.  If I don't go\naway now, it will end in a permanent separation.  If I leave at once, and\nstipulate that he gets rid of her, we may be reconciled.'\n\n'I can't help you: you must stick to your husband.  I don't like them, or\nany of their sort, barring about three or four, for the reason that they\ndespise me and all my sort.  But, Ethelberta, for all that I'll play fair\nwith them.  No half-and-half trimming business.  You have joined 'em, and\n'rayed yourself against us; and there you'd better bide.  You have\nmarried your man, and your duty is towards him.  I know what he is and so\ndoes father; but if I were to help you to run away now, I should scorn\nmyself more than I scorn him.'\n\n'I don't care for that, or for any such politics!  The Mountclere line is\nnoble, and how was I to know that this member was not noble, too?  As the\nrepresentative of an illustrious family I was taken with him, but as a\nman--I must shun him.'\n\n'How can you shun him?  You have married him!'\n\n'Nevertheless, I won't stay!  Neither law nor gospel demands it of me\nafter what I have learnt.  And if law and gospel did demand it, I would\nnot stay.  And if you will not help me to escape, I go alone.'\n\n'You had better not try any such wild thing.'\n\nThe creaking of a door was heard.  'O Sol,' she said appealingly, 'don't\ngo into the question whether I am right or wrong--only remember that I am\nvery unhappy.  Do help me--I have no other person in the world to ask!  Be\nunder the balcony at six o'clock.  Say you will--I must go--say you\nwill!'\n\n'I'll think,' said Sol, very much disturbed.  'There, don't cry; I'll try\nto be under the balcony, at any rate.  I cannot promise more, but I'll\ntry to be there.'\n\nShe opened in the panelling one of the old-fashioned concealed modes of\nexit known as jib-doors, which it was once the custom to construct\nwithout architraves in the walls of large apartments, so as not to\ninterfere with the general design of the room.  Sol found himself in a\nnarrow passage, running down the whole length of the ball-room, and at\nthe same time he heard Lord Mountclere's voice within, talking to\nEthelberta.  Sol's escape had been marvellous: as it was the viscount\nmight have seen her tears.  He passed down some steps, along an area from\nwhich he could see into a row of servants' offices, among them a kitchen\nwith a fireplace flaming like an altar of sacrifice.  Nobody seemed to be\nconcerned about him; there were workmen upon the premises, and he nearly\nmatched them.  At last he got again into the shrubberies and to the side\nof the park by which he had entered.\n\nOn reaching Corvsgate he found Picotee in the parlour of the little inn,\nas he had directed.  Mr. Julian, she said, had walked up to the ruins,\nand would be back again in a few minutes.  Sol ordered the horse to be\nput in, and by the time it was ready Christopher came down from the hill.\nRoom was made for Sol by opening the flap of the dogcart, and Christopher\ndrove on.\n\nHe was anxious to know the trouble, and Sol was not reluctant to share\nthe burden of it with one whom he believed to be a friend.  He told,\nscrap by scrap, the strange request of Ethelberta.  Christopher, though\nignorant of Ethelberta's experience that morning, instantly assumed that\nthe discovery of some concealed spectre had led to this precipitancy.\n\n'When does she wish you to meet her with the carriage?'\n\n'Probably at half-past seven, at the west lodge; but that is to be\nfinally fixed by a note she will hand down to me from the balcony.'\n\n'Which balcony?'\n\n'The nearest to the yew-tree.'\n\n'At what time will she hand the note?'\n\n'As the Court clock strikes six, she says.  And if I am not there to take\nher instructions of course she will give up the idea, which is just what\nI want her to do.'\n\nChristopher begged Sol to go.  Whether Ethelberta was right or wrong, he\ndid not stop to inquire.  She was in trouble; she was too clear-headed to\nbe in trouble without good reason; and she wanted assistance out of it.\nBut such was Sol's nature that the more he reflected the more determined\nwas he in not giving way to her entreaty.  By the time that they reached\nAnglebury he repented having given way so far as to withhold a direct\nrefusal.\n\n'It can do no good,' he said mournfully.  'It is better to nip her notion\nin its beginning.  She says she wants to fly to Rouen, and from there\narrange terms with him.  But it can't be done--she should have thought of\nterms before.'\n\nChristopher made no further reply.  Leaving word at the 'Red Lion' that a\nman was to be sent to take the horse of him, he drove directly onwards to\nthe station.\n\n'Then you don't mean to help her?' said Julian, when Sol took the\ntickets--one for himself and one for Picotee.\n\n'I serve her best by leaving her alone!' said Sol.\n\n'I don't think so.'\n\n'She has married him.'\n\n'She is in distress.'\n\n'She has married him.'\n\nSol and Picotee took their seats, Picotee upbraiding her brother.  'I can\ngo by myself!' she said, in tears.  'Do go back for Berta, Sol.  She said\nI was to go home alone, and I can do it!'\n\n'You must not.  It is not right for you to be hiring cabs and driving\nacross London at midnight.  Berta should have known better than propose\nit.'\n\n'She was flurried.  Go, Sol!'\n\nBut her entreaty was fruitless.\n\n'Have you got your ticket, Mr. Julian?' said Sol.  'I suppose we shall go\ntogether till we get near Melchester?'\n\n'I have not got my ticket yet--I'll be back in two minutes.'\n\nThe minutes went by, and Christopher did not reappear.  The train moved\noff: Christopher was seen running up the platform, as if in a vain hope\nto catch it.\n\n'He has missed the train,' said Sol.  Picotee looked disappointed, and\nsaid nothing.  They were soon out of sight.\n\n'God forgive me for such a hollow pretence!' said Christopher to himself.\n'But he would have been uneasy had he known I wished to stay behind.  I\ncannot leave her in trouble like this!'\n\nHe went back to the 'Red Lion' with the manner and movement of a man who\nafter a lifetime of desultoriness had at last found something to do.  It\nwas now getting late in the afternoon.  Christopher ordered a one-horse\nbrougham at the inn, and entering it was driven out of the town towards\nEnckworth as the evening shades were beginning to fall.  They passed into\nthe hamlet of Little Enckworth at half-past five, and drew up at a beer-\nhouse at the end.  Jumping out here, Julian told the man to wait till he\nshould return.\n\nThus far he had exactly obeyed her orders to Sol.  He hoped to be able to\nobey them throughout, and supply her with the aid her brother refused.  He\nalso hoped that the change in the personality of her confederate would\nmake no difference to her intention.  That he was putting himself in a\nwrong position he allowed, but time and attention were requisite for such\nanalysis: meanwhile Ethelberta was in trouble.  On the one hand was she\nwaiting hopefully for Sol; on the other was Sol many miles on his way to\ntown; between them was himself.\n\nHe ran with all his might towards Enckworth Park, mounted the lofty stone\nsteps by the lodge, saw the dark bronze figures on the piers through the\ntwilight, and then proceeded to thread the trees.  Among these he struck\na light for a moment: it was ten minutes to six.  In another five minutes\nhe was panting beneath the walls of her house.\n\nEnckworth Court was not unknown to Christopher, for he had frequently\nexplored that spot in his Sandbourne days.  He perceived now why she had\nselected that particular balcony for handing down directions; it was the\nonly one round the house that was low enough to be reached from the\noutside, the basement here being a little way sunk in the ground.\n\nHe went close under, turned his face outwards, and waited.  About a foot\nover his head was the stone floor of the balcony, forming a ceiling to\nhis position.  At his back, two or three feet behind, was a blank\nwall--the wall of the house.  In front of him was the misty park, crowned\nby a sky sparkling with winter stars.  This was abruptly cut off upward\nby the dark edge of the balcony which overhung him.\n\nIt was as if some person within the room above had been awaiting his\napproach.  He had scarcely found time to observe his situation when a\nhuman hand and portion of a bare arm were thrust between the balusters,\ndescended a little way from the edge of the balcony, and remained hanging\nacross the starlit sky.  Something was between the fingers.  Christopher\nlifted his hand, took the scrap, which was paper, and the arm was\nwithdrawn.  As it withdrew, a jewel on one of the fingers sparkled in the\nrays of a large planet that rode in the opposite sky.\n\nLight steps retreated from the balcony, and a window closed.  Christopher\nhad almost held his breath lest Ethelberta should discover him at the\ncritical moment to be other than Sol, and mar her deliverance by her\nalarm.  The still silence was anything but silence to him; he felt as if\nhe were listening to the clanging chorus of an oratorio.  And then he\ncould fancy he heard words between Ethelberta and the viscount within the\nroom; they were evidently at very close quarters, and dexterity must have\nbeen required of her.  He went on tiptoe across the gravel to the grass,\nand once on that he strode in the direction whence he had come.  By the\nthick trunk of one of a group of aged trees he stopped to get a light,\njust as the Court clock struck six in loud long tones.  The transaction\nhad been carried out, through her impatience possibly, four or five\nminutes before the time appointed.\n\nThe note contained, in a shaken hand, in which, however, the well-known\ncharacters were distinguishable, these words in pencil:\n\n'At half-past seven o'clock.  Just outside the north lodge; don't fail.'\n\nThis was the time she had suggested to Sol as that which would probably\nbest suit her escape, if she could escape at all.  She had changed the\nplace from the west to the north lodge--nothing else.  The latter was\ncertainly more secluded, though a trifle more remote from the course of\nthe proposed journey; there was just time enough and none to spare for\nfetching the brougham from Little Enckworth to the lodge, the village\nbeing two miles off.  The few minutes gained by her readiness at the\nbalcony were useful now.  He started at once for the village, diverging\nsomewhat to observe the spot appointed for the meeting.  It was\nexcellently chosen; the gate appeared to be little used, the lane outside\nit was covered with trees, and all around was silent as the grave.  After\nthis hasty survey by the wan starlight, he hastened on to Little\nEnckworth.\n\nAn hour and a quarter later a little brougham without lamps was creeping\nalong by the park wall towards this spot.  The leaves were so thick upon\nthe unfrequented road that the wheels could not be heard, and the horse's\npacing made scarcely more noise than a rabbit would have done in limping\nalong.  The vehicle progressed slowly, for they were in good time.  About\nten yards from the park entrance it stopped, and Christopher stepped out.\n\n'We may have to wait here ten minutes,' he said to the driver.  'And then\nshall we be able to reach Anglebury in time for the up mail-train to\nSouthampton?'\n\n'Half-past seven, half-past eight, half-past nine--two hours.  O yes,\nsir, easily.  A young lady in the case perhaps, sir?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Well, I hope she'll be done honestly by, even if she is of humble\nstation.  'Tis best, and cheapest too, in the long run.'  The coachman\nwas apparently imagining the dove about to flit away to be one of the\npretty maid-servants that abounded in Enckworth Court; such escapades as\nthese were not unfrequent among them, a fair face having been deemed a\nsufficient recommendation to service in that house, without too close an\ninquiry into character, since the death of the first viscountess.\n\n'Now then, silence; and listen for a footstep at the gate.'\n\nSuch calmness as there was in the musician's voice had been produced by\nconsiderable effort.  For his heart had begun to beat fast and loud as he\nstrained his attentive ear to catch the footfall of a woman who could\nonly be his illegally.\n\nThe obscurity was as great as a starry sky would permit it to be.  Beneath\nthe trees where the carriage stood the darkness was total.\n\n\n\n\n47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS--MELCHESTER\n\n\nTo be wise after the event is often to act foolishly with regard to it;\nand to preserve the illusion which has led to the event would frequently\nbe a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with.  Reaction\nwith Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatened\nto be useless.  Sol's bitter chiding had been the first thing to\ndiscompose her fortitude.  It reduced her to a consciousness that she had\nallowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not triumphed\nin her duty.  She might have pleased her family better by pleasing her\ntastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the situation\ndisclosed later in the day.\n\nAfter the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed in\nmind by being able to nurse a definite intention.  As momentum causes the\nnarrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give the\nweakest some power to maintain a position stoically.\n\nIn the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o'clock, she\nslipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note.  To her relief, a\nhand received it instantly.\n\nThe hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with great\neffort.  The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during which\nshe attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicion\njust before the appointed moment.\n\nHappily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any such\nthing.\n\nA little while before the half-hour, when she moved to rise from dinner,\nhe also arose, tenderly begging her to excuse him for a few minutes, that\nhe might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that moment\nforgotten, though the postman was nearly due.  She heard him retire along\nthe corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised time of return\nbeing a quarter of an hour thence.\n\nFive minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the little\ndoor by the bush of yew, well and thickly wrapped up from head to heels.\nShe skimmed across the park and under the boughs like a shade, mounting\nthen the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside the park\ngates here as at all the lodges.  Outside and below her she saw an oblong\nshape--it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close to the\nbottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go on foot\nthan to this barrier.  The whole precinct was thronged with trees; half\ntheir foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for the\ngardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it was\nthat her dress rustled as she descended the steps.\n\nThe carriage door was held open by the driver, and she entered instantly.\nHe shut her in, and mounted to his seat.  As they drove away she became\nconscious of another person inside.\n\n'O! Sol--it is done!' she whispered, believing the man to be her brother.\nHer companion made no reply.\n\nEthelberta, familiar with Sol's moods of troubled silence, did not press\nfor an answer.  It was, indeed, certain that Sol's assistance would have\nbeen given under a sullen protest; even if unwilling to disappoint her,\nhe might well have been taciturn and angry at her course.\n\nThey sat in silence, and in total darkness.  The road ascended an\nincline, the horse's tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves.\nThen the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a low\nbrushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, in\nits fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against the\nhard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills.  It showed\nhow deserted was the spot after nightfall.\n\n'Sol?' said Ethelberta again.  'Why not talk to me?'\n\nShe now noticed that her fellow-traveller kept his head and his whole\nperson as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possible\nto do.  She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand the\nreason.  The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.\n\n'Where are we now?' she said.  'Shall we get to Anglebury by nine?  What\nis the time, Sol?'\n\n'I will see,' replied her companion.  They were the first words he had\nuttered.\n\nThe voice was so different from her brother's that she was terrified; her\nlimbs quivered.  In another instant the speaker had struck a wax vesta,\nand holding it erect in his fingers he looked her in the face.\n\n'Hee-hee-hee!'  The laugher was her husband the viscount.\n\nHe laughed again, and his eyes gleamed like a couple of tarnished brass\nbuttons in the light of the wax match.\n\nEthelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and hideous\nwas it.  Yet she did not.  She neither shrieked nor fainted; but no poor\nJanuary fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank with\nperspiration, than she was then.\n\n'A very pleasant joke, my dear--hee-hee!  And no more than was to be\nexpected on this merry, happy day of our lives.  Nobody enjoys a good\njest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest--hee-hee!  Now we are in the\ndark again; and we will alight and walk.  The path is too narrow for the\ncarriage, but it will not be far for you.  Take your husband's arm.'\n\nWhile he had been speaking a defiant pride had sprung up in her,\ninstigating her to conceal every weakness.  He had opened the carriage\ndoor and stepped out.  She followed, taking the offered arm.\n\n'Take the horse and carriage to the stables,' said the viscount to the\ncoachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his.\nThe coachman turned the horse's head and vanished down the woodland track\nby which they had ascended.\n\nThe viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as a\nwoodpecker's taps, and Ethelberta with him.  She walked as by a miracle,\nbut she would walk.  She would have died rather than not have walked\nthen.\n\nShe perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood.  As they\nwent, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of the\nviscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch.  She\nremembered having seen it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch of mud.\nShe might push him in, and run, and so escape before he could extricate\nhimself.  It would not hurt him.  It was her last chance.  She waited a\nmoment for the opportunity.\n\n'We are one to one, and I am the stronger!' she at last exclaimed\ntriumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.\n\n'On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and you\nconsiderably the weaker,' he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly,\nand blowing a whistle.  At once the bushes seemed to be animated in four\nor five places.\n\n'John?' he said, in the direction of one of them.\n\n'Yes, my lord,' replied a voice from the bush, and a keeper came forward.\n\n'William?'\n\nAnother man advanced from another bush.\n\n'Quite right.  Remain where you are for the present.  Is Tomkins there?'\n\n'Yes, my lord,' said a man from another part of the thicket.\n\n'You go and keep watch by the further lodge: there are poachers about.\nWhere is Strongway?'\n\n'Just below, my lord.'\n\n'Tell him and his brother to go to the west gate, and walk up and down.\nLet them search round it, among the trees inside.  Anybody there who\ncannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrow\nmorning.  I am living at the cottage at present.  That's all I have to\nsay to you.'  And, turning round to Ethelberta: 'Now, dearest, we will\nwalk a little further if you are able.  I have provided that your friends\nshall be taken care of.'  He tried to pull her hand towards him, gently,\nlike a cat opening a door.\n\nThey walked a little onward, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with\nimperturbable good-humour:\n\n'I will tell you a story, to pass the time away.  I have learnt the art\nfrom you--your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration with\nit.  Listen, dearest.  I saw a young man come to the house to-day.\nAfterwards I saw him cross a passage in your company.  You entered the\nball-room with him.  That room is a treacherous place.  It is panelled\nwith wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for the\nservants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork.  Lady\nMountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out her\nconspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to let\nin himself.  His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired.  A\nmeeting was arranged to take place at the west gate at half-past seven,\nunless a note handed from the balcony mentioned another time and place.\nHe heard it all--hee-hee!\n\n'When Lady Mountclere's confederate came for the note, I was in waiting\nabove, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck,\nconfirming the time, but changing the place.  When Lady Mountclere handed\ndown her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone,\nand I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it.  She dropped it\ninto her husband's hands--ho-ho-ho-ho!\n\n'Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed by\nLady Mountclere's note.  Probably Lady Mountclere's friend ordered a\nbrougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written in\nimitation of Lady Mountclere's hand.  Lady Mountclere came to the spot\nshe had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of her\nhusband--hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'\n\nAs if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughter\nalso--laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical.  She\nsank down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just as\nbefore.\n\nLord Mountclere became greatly frightened.  The spot they had reached was\na green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose an\nornamental cottage.  This was the building which Ethelberta had visited\nearlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.\n\nThe viscount left her side and hurried forward.  The door of the building\nwas opened by a woman.\n\n'Have you prepared for us, as I directed?'\n\n'Yes, my lord; tea and coffee are both ready.'\n\n'Never mind that now.  Lady Mountclere is ill; come and assist her\nindoors.  Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.'\n\nHe returned to Ethelberta.  She was better, and was sitting calmly on the\nbank.  She rose without assistance.\n\n'You may retire,' he said to the woman who had followed him, and she\nturned round.  When Ethelberta saw the building, she drew back quickly.\n\n'Where is the other Lady Mountclere?' she inquired.\n\n'Gone!'\n\n'She shall never return--never?'\n\n'Never.  It was not intended that she should.'\n\n'That sounds well.  Lord Mountclere, we may as well compromise matters.'\n\n'I think so too.  It becomes a lady to make a virtue of a necessity.'\n\n'It was stratagem against stratagem.  Mine was ingenious; yours was\nmasterly!  Accept my acknowledgment.  We will enter upon an armed\nneutrality.'\n\n'No.  Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever.  Your beauty,\ndearest, covers everything!  You are my mistress and queen!  But here we\nare at the door.  Tea is prepared for us here.  I have a liking for life\nin this cottage mode, and live here on occasion.  Women, attend to Lady\nMountclere.'\n\nThe woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed at\nrecognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage:\nshe murmured entreaties for pardon.  They assisted the viscountess to a\nchair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had ever\nstood there to interrupt its flight.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFull of misgivings, Christopher continued to wait at the north gate.  Half-\npast seven had long since been past, and no Ethelberta had appeared.  He\ndid not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and this gave him\npatience; having taken up the position, he was induced by fidelity to\nabide by the consequences.  It would be only a journey of two hours to\nreach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver, put her\ninto the train, and bid her adieu for ever.  She had cried for help, and\nhe had heard her cry.\n\nAt last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock striking\neight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whether\nshe could have mistaken the gate.  She had distinctly told Sol the west\nlodge; her note had expressed the north lodge.  Could she by any accident\nhave written one thing while meaning another?  He entered the carriage,\nand drove round to the west gate.  All was as silent there as at the\nother, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then long\npast; and he drove back again.\n\nHe left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the house\nslowly.  All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came from\nthe trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night.  By this time he\nfelt assured that the scheme had miscarried.  While he stood here a\ncarriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards the\nstable-yard without going to the door.  The carriage had plainly been\nempty.\n\nReturning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by the\nvoices of two men from the road hard by.\n\n'Have ye zeed anybody?'\n\n'Not a soul.'\n\n'Shall we go across again?'\n\n'What's the good? let's home to supper.'\n\n'My lord must have heard somebody, or 'a wouldn't have said it.'\n\n'Perhaps he's nervous now he's living in the cottage again.  I thought\nthat fancy was over.  Well, I'm glad 'tis a young wife he's brought us.\nShe'll have her routs and her rackets as well as the high-born ones,\nyou'll see, as soon as she gets used to the place.'\n\n'She must be a queer Christian to pick up with him.'\n\n'Well, if she've charity 'tis enough for we poor men; her faith and hope\nmay be as please God.  Now I be for on-along homeward.'\n\nAs soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and, avoiding\nthe gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive at once\nto Anglebury.\n\nJulian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wished\nto annihilate its existence.  On reaching Anglebury he determined to get\non at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarily\nended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it.  He\nreached home before midnight.\n\nWalking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himself\nas a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, he\nfound Faith sitting up as usual.  His news was simple: the marriage had\ntaken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of either\nceremony or viscountess.  The remainder he reserved for a more convenient\nseason.\n\nEdith looked anxiously at him as he ate supper, smiling now and then.\n\n'Well, I am tired of this life,' said Christopher.\n\n'So am I,' said Faith.  'Ah, if we were only rich!'\n\n'Ah, yes.'\n\n'Or if we were not rich,' she said, turning her eyes to the fire.  'If we\nwere only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing.  How\nmuch would you be content with, Kit?'\n\n'As much as I could get.'\n\n'Would you be content with a thousand a year for both of us?'\n\n'I daresay I should,' he murmured, breaking his bread.\n\n'Or five hundred for both?'\n\n'Or five hundred.'\n\n'Or even three hundred?'\n\n'Bother three hundred.  Less than double the sum would not satisfy me.  We\nmay as well imagine much as little.'\n\nFaith's countenance had fallen.  'O Kit,' she said, 'you always\ndisappoint me.'\n\n'I do.  How do I disappoint you this time?'\n\n'By not caring for three hundred a year--a hundred and fifty each--when\nthat is all I have to offer you.'\n\n'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time.  'Ah--of course!  Lucy's\nwill.  I had forgotten.'\n\n'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and now\nyou don't care!  Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all.  I\ndon't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and fifty\na year each--more than I expected, though not so much as you deserved.\nHere's the letter.  I have been dwelling upon it all day, and thinking\nwhat a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'\n\n'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing.  The real thing is another\nmatter altogether.  Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names!  I\nam sure I would have gone to the funeral had I known.'\n\n'I wish it were a thousand.'\n\n'O no--it doesn't matter at all.  But, certainly, three hundred for two\nis a tantalizing sum: not enough to enable us to change our condition,\nand enough to make us dissatisfied with going on as we are.'\n\n'We must forget we have it, and let it increase.'\n\n'It isn't enough to increase much.  We may as well use it.  But how?  Take\na bigger house--what's the use?  Give up the organ?--then I shall be\nrather worse off than I am at present.  Positively, it is the most\nprovoking amount anybody could have invented had they tried ever so long.\nPoor Lucy, to do that, and not even to come near us when father died. . .\n.  Ah, I know what we'll do.  We'll go abroad--we'll live in Italy.'\n\n\n\n\nSEQUEL. ANGLEBURY--ENCKWORTH--SANDBOURNE\n\n\nTwo years and a half after the marriage of Ethelberta and the evening\nadventures which followed it, a man young in years, though considerably\nolder in mood and expression, walked up to the 'Red Lion' Inn at\nAnglebury.  The anachronism sat not unbecomingly upon him, and the voice\nwas precisely that of the Christopher Julian of heretofore.  His way of\nentering the inn and calling for a conveyance was more off-hand than\nformerly; he was much less afraid of the sound of his own voice now than\nwhen he had gone through the same performance on a certain chill evening\nthe last time that he visited the spot.  He wanted to be taken to\nKnollsea to meet the steamer there, and was not coming back by the same\nvehicle.\n\nIt was a very different day from that of his previous journey along the\nsame road; different in season; different in weather; and the humour of\nthe observer differed yet more widely from its condition then than did\nthe landscape from its former hues.  In due time they reached a\ncommanding situation upon the road, from which were visible knots and\nplantations of trees on the Enckworth manor.  Christopher broke the\nsilence.\n\n'Lord Mountclere is still alive and well, I am told?'\n\n'O ay.  He'll live to be a hundred.  Never such a change as has come over\nthe man of late years.'\n\n'Indeed!'\n\n'O, 'tis my lady.  She's a one to put up with!  Still, 'tis said here and\nthere that marrying her was the best day's work that he ever did in his\nlife, although she's got to be my lord and my lady both.'\n\n'Is she happy with him?'\n\n'She is very sharp with the pore man--about happy I don't know.  He was a\ngood-natured old man, for all his sins, and would sooner any day lay out\nmoney in new presents than pay it in old debts.  But 'tis altered now.\n'Tisn't the same place.  Ah, in the old times I have seen the floor of\nthe servants' hall over the vamp of your boot in solid beer that we had\npoured aside from the horns because we couldn't see straight enough to\npour it in.  See?  No, we couldn't see a hole in a ladder!  And now, even\nat Christmas or Whitsuntide, when a man, if ever he desires to be\novercome with a drop, would naturally wish it to be, you can walk out of\nEnckworth as straight as you walked in.  All her doings.'\n\n'Then she holds the reins?'\n\n'She do!  There was a little tussle at first; but how could a old man\nhold his own against such a spry young body as that!  She threatened to\nrun away from him, and kicked up Bob's-a-dying, and I don't know what\nall; and being the woman, of course she was sure to beat in the long run.\nPore old nobleman, she marches him off to church every Sunday as regular\nas a clock, makes him read family prayers that haven't been read in\nEnckworth for the last thirty years to my certain knowledge, and keeps\nhim down to three glasses of wine a day, strict, so that you never see\nhim any the more generous for liquor or a bit elevated at all, as it used\nto be.  There, 'tis true, it has done him good in one sense, for they say\nhe'd have been dead in five years if he had gone on as he was going.'\n\n'So that she's a good wife to him, after all.'\n\n'Well, if she had been a little worse 'twould have been a little better\nfor him in one sense, for he would have had his own way more.  But he was\na curious feller at one time, as we all know and I suppose 'tis as much\nas he can expect; but 'tis a strange reverse for him.  It is said that\nwhen he's asked out to dine, or to anything in the way of a jaunt, his\neye flies across to hers afore he answers: and if her eye says yes, he\nsays yes: and if her eye says no, he says no.  'Tis a sad condition for\none who ruled womankind as he, that a woman should lead him in a string\nwhether he will or no.'\n\n'Sad indeed!'\n\n'She's steward, and agent, and everything.  She has got a room called \"my\nlady's office,\" and great ledgers and cash-books you never see the like.\nIn old times there were bailiffs to look after the workfolk, foremen to\nlook after the tradesmen, a building-steward to look after the foremen, a\nland-steward to look after the building-steward, and a dashing grand\nagent to look after the land-steward: fine times they had then, I assure\nye.  My lady said they were eating out the property like a honeycomb, and\nthen there was a terrible row.  Half of 'em were sent flying; and now\nthere's only the agent, and the viscountess, and a sort of surveyor man,\nand of the three she does most work so 'tis said.  She marks the trees to\nbe felled, settles what horses are to be sold and bought, and is out in\nall winds and weathers.  There, if somebody hadn't looked into things\n'twould soon have been all up with his lordship, he was so very\nextravagant.  In one sense 'twas lucky for him that she was born in\nhumble life, because owing to it she knows the ins and outs of\ncontriving, which he never did.'\n\n'Then a man on the verge of bankruptcy will do better to marry a poor and\nsensible wife than a rich and stupid one.  Well, here we are at the tenth\nmilestone.  I will walk the remainder of the distance to Knollsea, as\nthere is ample time for meeting the last steamboat.'\n\nWhen the man was gone Christopher proceeded slowly on foot down the hill,\nand reached that part of the highway at which he had stopped in the cold\nNovember breeze waiting for a woman who never came.  He was older now,\nand he had ceased to wish that he had not been disappointed.  There was\nthe lodge, and around it were the trees, brilliant in the shining greens\nof June.  Every twig sustained its bird, and every blossom its bee.  The\nroadside was not muffled in a garment of dead leaves as it had been then,\nand the lodge-gate was not open as it always used to be.  He paused to\nlook through the bars.  The drive was well kept and gravelled; the grass\nedgings, formerly marked by hoofs and ruts, and otherwise trodden away,\nwere now green and luxuriant, bent sticks being placed at intervals as a\nprotection.\n\nWhile he looked through the gate a woman stepped from the lodge to open\nit.  In her haste she nearly swung the gate into his face, and would have\ncompletely done so had he not jumped back.\n\n'I beg pardon, sir,' she said, on perceiving him.  'I was going to open\nit for my lady, and I didn't see you.'\n\nChristopher moved round the corner.  The perpetual snubbing that he had\nreceived from Ethelberta ever since he had known her seemed about to be\ncontinued through the medium of her dependents.\n\nA trotting, accompanied by the sound of light wheels, had become\nperceptible; and then a vehicle came through the gate, and turned up the\nroad which he had come down.  He saw the back of a basket carriage, drawn\nby a pair of piebald ponies.  A lad in livery sat behind with folded\narms; the driver was a lady.  He saw her bonnet, her shoulders, her\nhair--but no more.  She lessened in his gaze, and was soon out of sight.\n\nHe stood a long time thinking; but he did not wish her his.\n\nIn this wholesome frame of mind he proceeded on his way, thankful that he\nhad escaped meeting her, though so narrowly.  But perhaps at this remote\nseason the embarrassment of a rencounter would not have been intense.  At\nKnollsea he entered the steamer for Sandbourne.\n\nMr. Chickerel and his family now lived at Firtop Villa, in that place, a\nhouse which, like many others, had been built since Julian's last visit\nto the town.  He was directed to the outskirts, and into a fir plantation\nwhere drives and intersecting roads had been laid out, and where new\nvillas had sprung up like mushrooms.  He entered by a swing gate, on\nwhich 'Firtop' was painted, and a maid-servant showed him into a neatly-\nfurnished room, containing Mr. Chickerel, Mrs. Chickerel, and Picotee,\nthe matron being reclined on a couch, which improved health had permitted\nher to substitute for a bed.\n\nHe had been expected, and all were glad to see again the sojourner in\nforeign lands, even down to the ladylike tabby, who was all purr and\nwarmth towards him except when she was all claws and nippers.  But had\nthe prime sentiment of the meeting shown itself it would have been the\nunqualified surprise of Christopher at seeing how much Picotee's face had\ngrown to resemble her sister's: it was less a resemblance in contours\nthan in expression and tone.\n\nThey had an early tea, and then Mr. Chickerel, sitting in a patriarchal\nchair, conversed pleasantly with his guest, being well acquainted with\nhim through other members of the family.  They talked of Julian's\nresidence at different Italian towns with his sister; of Faith, who was\nat the present moment staying with some old friends in Melchester: and,\nas was inevitable, the discourse hovered over and settled upon\nEthelberta, the prime ruler of the courses of them all, with little\nexception, through recent years.\n\n'It was a hard struggle for her,' said Chickerel, looking reflectively\nout at the fir trees.  'I never thought the girl would have got through\nit.  When she first entered the house everybody was against her.  She had\nto fight a whole host of them single-handed.  There was the viscount's\nbrother, other relations, lawyers, ladies, servants, not one of them was\nher friend; and not one who wouldn't rather have seen her arrive there in\nevil relationship with him than as she did come.  But she stood her\nground.  She was put upon her mettle; and one by one they got to feel\nthere was somebody among them whose little finger, if they insulted her,\nwas thicker than a Mountclere's loins.  She must have had a will of iron;\nit was a situation that would have broken the hearts of a dozen ordinary\nwomen, for everybody soon knew that we were of no family, and that's what\nmade it so hard for her.  But there she is as mistress now, and everybody\nrespecting her.  I sometimes fancy she is occasionally too severe with\nthe servants and I know what service is.  But she says it is necessary,\nowing to her birth; and perhaps she is right.'\n\n'I suppose she often comes to see you?'\n\n'Four or five times a year,' said Picotee.\n\n'She cannot come quite so often as she would,' said Mrs. Chickerel,\n'because of her lofty position, which has its juties.  Well, as I always\nsay, Berta doesn't take after me.  I couldn't have married the man even\nthough he did bring a coronet with him.'\n\n'I shouldn't have cared to let him ask ye,' said Chickerel.  'However,\nthat's neither here nor there--all ended better than I expected.  He's\nfond of her.'\n\n'And it is wonderful what can be done with an old man when you are his\ndarling,' said Mrs. Chickerel.\n\n'If I were Berta I should go to London oftener,' said Picotee, to turn\nthe conversation.  'But she lives mostly in the library.  And, O, what do\nyou think?  She is writing an epic poem, and employs Emmeline as her\nreader.'\n\n'Dear me.  And how are Sol and Dan?  You mentioned them once in your\nletters,' said Christopher.\n\n'Berta has set them up as builders in London.'\n\n'She bought a business for them,' said Chickerel.  'But Sol wouldn't\naccept her help for a long time, and now he has only agreed to it on\ncondition of paying her back the money with interest, which he is doing.\nThey have just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand\npounds.'\n\nPicotee broke in--'You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia married two\nyears ago, and went to Queensland?  They married two brothers, who were\nfarmers, and left England the following week.  Georgie and Myrtle are at\nschool.'\n\n'And Joey?'\n\n'We are thinking of making Joseph a parson,' said Mrs. Chickerel.\n\n'Indeed! a parson.'\n\n'Yes; 'tis a genteel living for the boy.  And he's talents that way.\nSince he has been under masters he knows all the strange sounds the old\nRomans and Greeks used to make by way of talking, and the love stories of\nthe ancient women as if they were his own.  I assure you, Mr. Julian, if\nyou could hear how beautiful the boy tells about little Cupid with his\nbow and arrows, and the rows between that pagan apostle Jupiter and his\nwife because of another woman, and the handsome young gods who kissed\nVenus, you'd say he deserved to be made a bishop at once!'\n\nThe evening advanced, and they walked in the garden.  Here, by some\nmeans, Picotee and Christopher found themselves alone.\n\n'Your letters to my sister have been charming,' said Christopher.  'And\nso regular, too.  It was as good as a birthday every time one arrived.'\n\nPicotee blushed and said nothing.\n\nChristopher had full assurance that her heart was where it always had\nbeen.  A suspicion of the fact had been the reason of his visit here to-\nday.\n\n'Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they acquired\ngreat celebrity.  Do you know whose?'\n\n'Walpole's?' said Picotee timidly.\n\n'Yes; but they never charmed me half as much as yours.  You may rest\nassured that one person in the world thinks Walpole your second.'\n\n'You should not have read them; they were not written to you.  But I\nsuppose you wished to hear of Ethelberta?'\n\n'At first I did,' said Christopher.  'But, oddly enough, I got more\ninterested in the writer than in her news.  I don't know if ever before\nthere has been an instance of loving by means of letters.  If not, it is\nbecause there have never been such sweet ones written.  At last I looked\nfor them more anxiously than Faith.'\n\n'You see, you knew me before.'  Picotee would have withdrawn this remark\nif she could, fearing that it seemed like a suggestion of her love long\nago.\n\n'Then, on my return, I thought I would just call and see you, and go away\nand think what would be best for me to do with a view to the future.  But\nsince I have been here I have felt that I could not go away to think\nwithout first asking you what you think on one point--whether you could\never marry me?'\n\n'I thought you would ask that when I first saw you.'\n\n'Did you.  Why?'\n\n'You looked at me as if you would.'\n\n'Well,' continued Christopher, 'the worst of it is I am as poor as Job.\nFaith and I have three hundred a year between us, but only half is mine.\nSo that before I get your promise I must let your father know how poor I\nam.  Besides what I mention, I have only my earnings by music.  But I am\nto be installed as chief organist at Melchester soon, instead of deputy,\nas I used to be; which is something.'\n\n'I am to have five hundred pounds when I marry.  That was Lord\nMountclere's arrangement with Ethelberta.  He is extremely anxious that I\nshould marry well.'\n\n'That's unfortunate.  A marriage with me will hardly be considered well.'\n\n'O yes, it will,' said Picotee quickly, and then looked frightened.\n\nChristopher drew her towards him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, at\nwhich Picotee was not so wretched as she had been some years before when\nhe mistook her for another in that performance.\n\n'Berta will never let us come to want,' she said, with vivacity, when she\nhad recovered.  'She always gives me what is necessary.'\n\n'We will endeavour not to trouble her,' said Christopher, amused by\nPicotee's utter dependence now as ever upon her sister, as upon an\neternal Providence.  'However, it is well to be kin to a coach though you\nnever ride in it.  Now, shall we go indoors to your father?  You think he\nwill not object?'\n\n'I think he will be very glad,' replied Picotee.  'Berta will, I know.'"