Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (244 page)

‘To yourself you may have.  Father would have liked a word with you before — you did it.’

‘You both looked so forbidding that I did not like to stop the carriage when we passed you.  I want to see him on an important matter — his leaving Mrs. Doncastle’s service at once.  I am going to write and beg her to dispense with a notice, which I have no doubt she will do.’

‘He’s very much upset about you.’

‘My secrecy was perhaps an error of judgment,’ she said sadly.  ‘But I had reasons.  Why did you and my father come here at all if you did not want to see me?’

‘We did want to see you up to a certain time.’

‘You did not come to prevent my marriage?’

‘We wished to see you before the marriage — I can’t say more.’

‘I thought you might not approve of what I had done,’ said Ethelberta mournfully.  ‘But a time may come when you will approve.’

‘Never.’

‘Don’t be harsh, Sol.  A coronet covers a multitude of sins.’

‘A coronet: good Lord — and you my sister!  Look at my hand.’  Sol extended his hand.  ‘Look how my thumb stands out at the root, as if it were out of joint, and that hard place inside there.  Did you ever see anything so ugly as that hand — a misshaped monster, isn’t he?  That comes from the jackplane, and my pushing against it day after day and year after year.  If I were found drowned or buried, dressed or undressed, in fustian or in broadcloth, folk would look at my hand and say, “That man’s a carpenter.”  Well now, how can a man, branded with work as I be, be brother to a viscountess without something being wrong?  Of course there’s something wrong in it, or he wouldn’t have married you — something which won’t be righted without terrible suffering.’

‘No, no,’ said she.  ‘You are mistaken.  There is no such wonderful quality in a title in these days.  What I really am is second wife to a quiet old country nobleman, who has given up society.  What more commonplace?  My life will be as simple, even more simple, than it was before.’

‘Berta, you have worked to false lines.  A creeping up among the useless lumber of our nation that’ll be the first to burn if there comes a flare.  I never see such a deserter of your own lot as you be!  But you were always like it, Berta, and I am ashamed of ye.  More than that, a good woman never marries twice.’

‘You are too hard, Sol,’ said the poor viscountess, almost crying.  ‘I’ve done it all for you!  Even if I have made a mistake, and given my ambition an ignoble turn, don’t tell me so now, or you may do more harm in a minute than you will cure in a lifetime.  It is absurd to let republican passions so blind you to fact.  A family which can be honourably traced through history for five hundred years, does affect the heart of a person not entirely hardened against romance.  Whether you like the peerage or no, they appeal to our historical sense and love of old associations.’

‘I don’t care for history.  Prophecy is the only thing can do poor men any good.  When you were a girl, you wouldn’t drop a curtsey to ‘em, historical or otherwise, and there you were right.  But, instead of sticking to such principles, you must needs push up, so as to get girls such as you were once to curtsey to you, not even thinking marriage with a bad man too great a price to pay for’t.’

‘A bad man?  What do you mean by that?  Lord Mountclere is rather old, but he’s worthy.  What did you mean, Sol?’

‘Nothing — a mere sommat to say.’

At that moment Picotee emerged from behind a tree, and told her sister that Lord Mountclere was looking for her.

‘Well, Sol, I cannot explain all to you now,’ she said.  ‘I will send for you in London.’  She wished him goodbye, and they separated, Picotee accompanying Sol a little on his way.

Ethelberta was greatly perturbed by this meeting.  After retracing her steps a short distance, she still felt so distressed and unpresentable that she resolved not to allow Lord Mountclere to see her till the clouds had somewhat passed off; it was but a bare act of justice to him to hide from his sight such a bridal mood as this.  It was better to keep him waiting than to make him positively unhappy.  She turned aside, and went up the valley, where the park merged in miles of wood and copse.

She opened an iron gate and entered the wood, casually interested in the vast variety of colours that the half-fallen leaves of the season wore: more, much more, occupied with personal thought.  The path she pursued became gradually involved in bushes as well as trees, giving to the spot the character rather of a coppice than a wood.  Perceiving that she had gone far enough, Ethelberta turned back by a path which at this point intersected that by which she had approached, and promised a more direct return towards the Court.  She had not gone many steps among the hazels, which here formed a perfect thicket, when she observed a belt of holly-bushes in their midst; towards the outskirts of these an opening on her left hand directly led, thence winding round into a clear space of greensward, which they completely enclosed.  On this isolated and mewed-up bit of lawn stood a timber-built cottage, having ornamental barge-boards, balconettes, and porch.  It was an erection interesting enough as an experiment, and grand as a toy, but as a building contemptible.

A blue gauze of smoke floated over the chimney, as if somebody was living there; round towards the side some empty hen-coops were piled away; while under the hollies were divers frameworks of wire netting and sticks, showing that birds were kept here at some seasons of the year.

Being lady of all she surveyed, Ethelberta crossed the leafy sward, and knocked at the door.  She was interested in knowing the purpose of the peculiar little edifice.

The door was opened by a woman wearing a clean apron upon a not very clean gown.  Ethelberta asked who lived in so pretty a place.

‘Miss Gruchette,’ the servant replied.  ‘But she is not here now.’

‘Does she live here alone?’

‘Yes — excepting myself and a fellow-servant.’

‘Oh.’

‘She lives here to attend to the pheasants and poultry, because she is so clever in managing them.  They are brought here from the keeper’s over the hill.  Her father was a fancier.’

‘Miss Gruchette attends to the birds, and two servants attend to Miss Gruchette?’

‘Well, to tell the truth, m’m, the servants do almost all of it.  Still, that’s what Miss Gruchette is here for.  Would you like to see the house?  It is pretty.’  The woman spoke with hesitation, as if in doubt between the desire of earning a shilling and the fear that Ethelberta was not a stranger.  That Ethelberta was Lady Mountclere she plainly did not dream.

‘I fear I can scarcely stay long enough; yet I will just look in,’ said Ethelberta.  And as soon as they had crossed the threshold she was glad of having done so.

The cottage internally may be described as a sort of boudoir extracted from the bulk of a mansion and deposited in a wood.  The front room was filled with nicknacks, curious work-tables, filigree baskets, twisted brackets supporting statuettes, in which the grotesque in every case ruled the design; love-birds, in gilt cages; French bronzes, wonderful boxes, needlework of strange patterns, and other attractive objects.  The apartment was one of those which seem to laugh in a visitor’s face and on closer examination express frivolity more distinctly than by words.

‘Miss Gruchette is here to keep the fowls?’ said Ethelberta, in a puzzled tone, after a survey.

‘Yes.  But they don’t keep her.’

Ethelberta did not attempt to understand, and ceased to occupy her mind with the matter.  They came from the cottage to the door, where she gave the woman a trifling sum, and turned to leave.  But footsteps were at that moment to be heard beating among the leaves on the other side of the hollies, and Ethelberta waited till the walkers should have passed.  The voices of two men reached herself and the woman as they stood.  They were close to the house, yet screened from it by the holly-bushes, when one could be heard to say distinctly, as if with his face turned to the cottage —

‘Lady Mountclere gone for good?’

‘I suppose so.  Ha-ha!  So come, so go.’

The speakers passed on, their backs becoming visible through the opening.  They appeared to be woodmen.

‘What Lady Mountclere do they mean?’ said Ethelberta.

The woman blushed.  ‘They meant Miss Gruchette.’

‘Oh — a nickname.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

The woman whispered why in a story of about two minutes’ length.  Ethelberta turned pale.

‘Is she going to return?’ she inquired, in a thin hard voice.

‘Yes; next week.  You know her, m’m?’

‘No.  I am a stranger.’

‘So much the better.  I may tell you, then, that an old tale is flying about the neighbourhood — that Lord Mountclere was privately married to another woman, at Knollsea, this morning early.  Can it be true?’

‘I believe it to be true.’

‘And that she is of no family?’

‘Of no family.’

‘Indeed.  Then the Lord only knows what will become of the poor thing.  There will be murder between ‘em.’

‘Between whom?’

‘Her and the lady who lives here.  She won’t budge an inch — not she!’

Ethelberta moved aside.  A shade seemed to overspread the world, the sky, the trees, and the objects in the foreground.  She kept her face away from the woman, and, whispering a reply to her Good-morning, passed through the hollies into the leaf-strewn path.  As soon as she came to a large trunk she placed her hands against it and rested her face upon them.  She drew herself lower down, lower, lower, till she crouched upon the leaves.  ‘Ay — ’tis what father and Sol meant!  O Heaven!’ she whispered.

She soon arose, and went on her way to the house.  Her fair features were firmly set, and she scarcely heeded the path in the concentration which had followed her paroxysm.  When she reached the park proper she became aware of an excitement that was in progress there.

Ethelberta’s absence had become unaccountable to Lord Mountclere, who could hardly permit her retirement from his sight for a minute.  But at first he had made due allowance for her eccentricity as a woman of genius, and would not take notice of the half-hour’s desertion, unpardonable as it might have been in other classes of wives.  Then he had inquired, searched, been alarmed: he had finally sent men-servants in all directions about the park to look for her.  He feared she had fallen out of a window, down a well, or into the lake.  The next stage of search was to have been drags and grapnels: but Ethelberta entered the house.

Lord Mountclere rushed forward to meet her, and such was her contrivance that he noticed no change.  The searchers were called in, Ethelberta explaining that she had merely obeyed the wish of her brother in going out to meet him.  Picotee, who had returned from her walk with Sol, was upstairs in one of the rooms which had been allotted to her.  Ethelberta managed to run in there on her way upstairs to her own chamber.

‘Picotee, put your things on again,’ she said.  ‘You are the only friend I have in this house, and I want one badly.  Go to Sol, and deliver this message to him — that I want to see him at once.  You must overtake him, if you walk all the way to Anglebury.  But the train does not leave till four, so that there is plenty of time.’

‘What is the matter?’ said Picotee.  ‘I cannot walk all the way.’

‘I don’t think you will have to do that — I hope not.’

‘He is going to stop at Corvsgate to have a bit of lunch: I might overtake him there, if I must!’

‘Yes.  And tell him to come to the east passage door.  It is that door next to the entrance to the stable-yard.  There is a little yew-tree outside it.  On second thoughts you, dear, must not come back.  Wait at Corvsgate in the little inn parlour till Sol comes to you again.  You will probably then have to go home to London alone; but do not mind it.  The worst part for you will be in going from the station to the Crescent; but nobody will molest you in a four-wheel cab: you have done it before.  However, he will tell you if this is necessary when he gets back.  I can best fight my battles alone.  You shall have a letter from me the day after to-morrow, stating where I am.  I shall not be here.’

‘But what is it so dreadful?’

‘Nothing to frighten you.’  But she spoke with a breathlessness that completely nullified the assurance.  ‘It is merely that I find I must come to an explanation with Lord Mountclere before I can live here permanently, and I cannot stipulate with him while I am here in his power.  Till I write, good-bye.  Your things are not unpacked, so let them remain here for the present — they can be sent for.’

Poor Picotee, more agitated than her sister, but never questioning her orders, went downstairs and out of the house.  She ran across the shrubberies, into the park, and to the gate whereat Sol had emerged some half-hour earlier.  She trotted along upon the turnpike road like a lost doe, crying as she went at the new trouble which had come upon Berta, whatever that trouble might be.  Behind her she heard wheels and the stepping of a horse, but she was too concerned to turn her head.  The pace of the vehicle slackened, however, when it was abreast of Picotee, and she looked up to see Christopher as the driver.

‘Miss Chickerel!’ he said, with surprise.

Picotee had quickly looked down again, and she murmured, ‘Yes.’

Christopher asked what he could not help asking in the circumstances, ‘Would you like to ride?’

‘I should be glad,’ said she, overcoming her flurry.  ‘I am anxious to overtake my brother Sol.’

‘I have arranged to pick him up at Corvsgate,’ said Christopher.

He descended, and assisted her to mount beside him, and drove on again, almost in silence.  He was inclined to believe that some supernatural legerdemain had to do with these periodic impacts of Picotee on his path.  She sat mute and melancholy till they were within half-a-mile of Corvsgate.

‘Thank you,’ she said then, perceiving Sol upon the road, ‘there is my brother; I will get down now.’

‘He was going to ride on to Anglebury with me,’ said Julian.

Picotee did not reply, and Sol turned round.  Seeing her he instantly exclaimed, ‘What’s the matter, Picotee?’

She explained to him that he was to go back immediately, and meet her sister at the door by the yew, as Ethelberta had charged her.  Christopher, knowing them so well, was too much an interested member of the group to be left out of confidence, and she included him in her audience.