CHAPTER II
Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the
fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees.
And it was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first
time outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her. He wore
long water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making a
circuit to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom--the river
aforesaid--he made straight for the point whence proceeded the low
roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the stream's
existence. He speedily stood on the verge of the waterfall which
caused the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall,
waded through with the sure tread of one who knew every inch of his
footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the darkness almost
absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into the pool
beneath. Soon reaching the boundary of the grounds, he continued in
the same direct line to traverse the alluvial valley, full of brooks
and tributaries to the main stream--in former times quite impassable,
and impassable in winter now. Sometimes he would cross a deep gully
on a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed his
way through beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right or
left he might have been sucked down into a morass. At last he
reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came to
his house on the rise behind--Elsenford--an ordinary farmstead, from
the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and
snortings, the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an
agriculturist's home.
While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this
dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at
Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the
candles.
'I ought--I must now!' she whispered to herself. 'I should not have
begun it if I had not meant to carry it through! It runs in the
blood of us, I suppose.' She alluded to a fact unknown to her lover,
the clandestine marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat
similar to the present. In a few minutes she had penned the
following note:-
October 13, 183--.
DEAR MR. BEALAND--Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me
at the Church to-morrow morning at eight? I name the early hour
because it would suit me better than later on in the day. You will
find me in the chancel, if you can come. An answer yes or no by the
bearer of this will be sufficient.
CHRISTINE EVERARD.
She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side-
door of the house till she heard the servant's footsteps returning
along the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage. The
rector had taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that he
would meet her with pleasure.
A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly
favourable to the scheme of the pair. At that time of the century
Froom-Everard House had not been altered and enlarged; the public
lane passed close under its walls; and there was a door opening
directly from one of the old parlours--the south parlour, as it was
called--into the lane which led to the village. Christine came out
this way, and after following the lane for a short distance entered
upon a path within a belt of plantation, by which the church could be
reached privately. She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking
along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose into a
mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside.
She crossed the wet graves, and so glided round to the door. He was
there, with his bag in his hand. He kissed her with a sort of
surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment her heart
would fail her.
Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great
ardour in Christine's bearing--merely the momentum of an antecedent
impulse. They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of
the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and
under such an atmosphere. They stood by the altar-rail in silence,
Christine's skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.
Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came
round by the front. He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards
Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring
yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her
without revealing any surprise at her unusual request. But in truth
he was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women
at the present day in church decoration and festivals being then
unknown.
'Good morning,' he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more
mechanically.
'Good morning,' she replied gravely. 'Mr. Bealand, I have a serious
reason for asking you to meet me--us, I may say. We wish you to
marry us.'
The rector's gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either
of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.
'Ah!' he said at last.
'And we are quite ready.'
'I had no idea--'
'It has been kept rather private,' she said calmly.
'Where are your witnesses?'
'They are outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them in a moment,'
said Nicholas.
'Oh--I see it is--Mr. Nicholas Long,' said Mr. Bealand, and turning
again to Christine, 'Does your father know of this?'
'Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?'
'I am afraid it is--highly necessary.'
Christine began to look concerned.
'Where is the licence?' the rector asked; 'since there have been no
banns.'
Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which
occupied him several minutes--or at least he made it appear so; till
Christine said impatiently, 'We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will
you proceed? Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles
to-day.'
'And you?'
'No. I remain.'
Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. 'There is something wrong in this,' he
said. 'I cannot marry you without your father's presence.'
'But have you a right to refuse us?' interposed Nicholas. 'I believe
we are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.'
'No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think not. I think she
is months from being so. Eh, Miss Everard?'
'Am I bound to tell that?'
'Certainly. At any rate you are bound to write it. Meanwhile I
refuse to solemnize the service. And let me entreat you two young
people to do nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some
strange church, you may do so without discovery. The tragedy of
marriage--'
'Tragedy?'
'Certainly. It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the
death of one of the actors. The tragedy of marriage, as I was
saying, is one I shall not be a party to your beginning with such
light hearts, and I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard,
Miss Everard. Think better of it, I entreat you! Remember the
proverb, "Marry in haste and repent at leisure."'
Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him. Nicholas
implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector. She sat down
and reflected. By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.
'Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,' she said. 'Now
grant me one favour, and in return I'll promise you to do nothing
rashly. Do not tell my father a word of what has happened here.'
'I agree--if you undertake not to elope.'
She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. 'Do you wish me to
elope, Nic?' she asked.
'No,' he said.
So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas
remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home,
carrying the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the
two men who were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the
hedge, as if they had been on the alert all the time.
'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'
'All right--never mind,' he answered through the hedge. 'I did not
require you after all.'
