46. ENCKWORTH (continued) - THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY
He had not paced behind the firs more than ten minutes when
Ethelberta appeared from the opposite side. At great inconvenience
to herself, she had complied with his request.
Ethelberta was trembling. She took her brother's hand, and said,
'Is father, then, gone?'
'Yes,' said Sol. 'I should have been gone likewise, but I thought
you wanted to see me.'
'Of course I did, and him too. Why did you come so mysteriously,
and, I must say, unbecomingly? I am afraid I did wrong in not
informing you of my intention.'
'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.
'And what are you to do?' said Sol to her.
'I am to wait at Corvsgate till you come to me.'
'I can't understand it,' Sol muttered, with a gloomy face. 'There's
something wrong; and it was only to be expected; that's what I say,
Mr. Julian.'
'If necessary I can take care of Miss Chickerel till you come,' said
Christopher.
'Thank you,' said Sol. 'Then I will return to you as soon as I can,
at the "Castle" Inn, just ahead. 'Tis very awkward for you to be so
burdened by us, Mr. Julian; but we are in a trouble that I don't yet
see the bottom of.'
'I know,' said Christopher kindly. 'We will wait for you.'
He then drove on with Picotee to the inn, which was not far off, and
Sol returned again to Enckworth. Feeling somewhat like a thief in
the night, he zigzagged through the park, behind belts and knots of
trees, until he saw the yew, dark and clear, as if drawn in ink upon
the fair face of the mansion. The way up to it was in a little
cutting between shrubs, the door being a private entrance, sunk
below the surface of the lawn, and invisible from other parts of the
same front. As soon as he reached it, Ethelberta opened it at once,
as if she had listened for his footsteps.
She took him along a passage in the basement, up a flight of steps,
and into a huge, solitary, chill apartment. It was the ball-room.
Spacious mirrors in gilt frames formed panels in the lower part of
the walls, the remainder being toned in sage-green. In a recess
between each mirror was a statue. The ceiling rose in a segmental
curve, and bore sprawling upon its face gilt figures of wanton
goddesses, cupids, satyrs with tambourines, drums, and trumpets, the
whole ceiling seeming alive with them. But the room was very gloomy
now, there being little light admitted from without, and the
reflections from the mirrors gave a depressing coldness to the
scene. It was a place intended to look joyous by night, and
whatever it chose to look by day.
'We are safe here,' said she. 'But we must listen for footsteps. I
have only five minutes: Lord Mountclere is waiting for me. I mean
to leave this place, come what may.'
'Why?' said Sol, in astonishment.
'I cannot tell you--something has occurred. God has got me in his
power at last, and is going to scourge me for my bad doings--that's
what it seems like. Sol, listen to me, and do exactly what I say.
Go to Anglebury, hire a brougham, bring it on as far as Little
Enckworth: you will have to meet me with it at one of the park
gates later in the evening--probably the west, at half-past seven.
Leave it at the village with the man, come on here on foot, and stay
under the trees till just before six: it will then be quite dark,
and you must stand under the projecting balustrade a little further
on than the door you came in by. I will just step upon the balcony
over it, and tell you more exactly than I can now the precise time
that I shall be able to slip out, and where the carriage is to be
waiting. But it may not be safe to speak on account of his
closeness to me--I will hand down a note. I find it is impossible
to leave the house by daylight--I am certain to be pursued--he
already suspects something. Now I must be going, or he will be
here, for he watches my movements because of some accidental words
that escaped me.'
'Berta, I shan't have anything to do with this,' said Sol. 'It is
not right!'
'I am only going to Rouen, to Aunt Charlotte!' she implored. 'I
want to get to Southampton, to be in time for the midnight steamer.
When I am at Rouen I can negotiate with Lord Mountclere the terms on
which I will return to him. It is the only chance I have of rooting
out a scandal and a disgrace which threatens the beginning of my
life here! My letters to him, and his to me, can be forwarded
through you or through father, and he will not know where I am. Any
woman is justified in adopting such a course to bring her husband to
a sense of her dignity. If I don't go away now, it will end in a
permanent separation. If I leave at once, and stipulate that he
gets rid of her, we may be reconciled.'
'I can't help you: you must stick to your husband. I don't like
them, or any of their sort, barring about three or four, for the
reason that they despise me and all my sort. But, Ethelberta, for
all that I'll play fair with them. No half-and-half trimming
business. You have joined 'em, and 'rayed yourself against us; and
there you'd better bide. You have married your man, and your duty
is towards him. I know what he is and so does father; but if I were
to help you to run away now, I should scorn myself more than I scorn
him.'
'I don't care for that, or for any such politics! The Mountclere
line is noble, and how was I to know that this member was not noble,
too? As the representative of an illustrious family I was taken
with him, but as a man--I must shun him.'
'How can you shun him? You have married him!'
'Nevertheless, I won't stay! Neither law nor gospel demands it of
me after what I have learnt. And if law and gospel did demand it, I
would not stay. And if you will not help me to escape, I go alone.'
'You had better not try any such wild thing.'
The creaking of a door was heard. 'O Sol,' she said appealingly,
'don't go into the question whether I am right or wrong--only
remember that I am very unhappy. Do help me--I have no other person
in the world to ask! Be under the balcony at six o'clock. Say you
will--I must go--say you will!'
'I'll think,' said Sol, very much disturbed. 'There, don't cry;
I'll try to be under the balcony, at any rate. I cannot promise
more, but I'll try to be there.'
She opened in the panelling one of the old-fashioned concealed modes
of exit known as jib-doors, which it was once the custom to
construct without architraves in the walls of large apartments, so
as not to interfere with the general design of the room. Sol found
himself in a narrow passage, running down the whole length of the
ball-room, and at the same time he heard Lord Mountclere's voice
within, talking to Ethelberta. Sol's escape had been marvellous:
as it was the viscount might have seen her tears. He passed down
some steps, along an area from which he could see into a row of
servants' offices, among them a kitchen with a fireplace flaming
like an altar of sacrifice. Nobody seemed to be concerned about
him; there were workmen upon the premises, and he nearly matched
them. At last he got again into the shrubberies and to the side of
the park by which he had entered.
On reaching Corvsgate he found Picotee in the parlour of the little
inn, as he had directed. Mr. Julian, she said, had walked up to the
ruins, and would be back again in a few minutes. Sol ordered the
horse to be put in, and by the time it was ready Christopher came
down from the hill. Room was made for Sol by opening the flap of
the dogcart, and Christopher drove on.
He was anxious to know the trouble, and Sol was not reluctant to
share the burden of it with one whom he believed to be a friend. He
told, scrap by scrap, the strange request of Ethelberta.
Christopher, though ignorant of Ethelberta's experience that
morning, instantly assumed that the discovery of some concealed
spectre had led to this precipitancy.
'When does she wish you to meet her with the carriage?'
'Probably at half-past seven, at the west lodge; but that is to be
finally fixed by a note she will hand down to me from the balcony.'
'Which balcony?'
'The nearest to the yew-tree.'
'At what time will she hand the note?'
'As the Court clock strikes six, she says. And if I am not there to
take her instructions of course she will give up the idea, which is
just what I want her to do.'
Christopher begged Sol to go. Whether Ethelberta was right or
wrong, he did not stop to inquire. She was in trouble; she was too
clear-headed to be in trouble without good reason; and she wanted
assistance out of it. But such was Sol's nature that the more he
reflected the more determined was he in not giving way to her
entreaty. By the time that they reached Anglebury he repented
having given way so far as to withhold a direct refusal.
'It can do no good,' he said mournfully. 'It is better to nip her
notion in its beginning. She says she wants to fly to Rouen, and
from there arrange terms with him. But it can't be done--she should
have thought of terms before.'
Christopher made no further reply. Leaving word at the 'Red Lion'
that a man was to be sent to take the horse of him, he drove
directly onwards to the station.
'Then you don't mean to help her?' said Julian, when Sol took the
tickets--one for himself and one for Picotee.
'I serve her best by leaving her alone!' said Sol.
'I don't think so.'
'She has married him.'
'She is in distress.'
'She has married him.'
Sol and Picotee took their seats, Picotee upbraiding her brother.
'I can go by myself!' she said, in tears. 'Do go back for Berta,
Sol. She said I was to go home alone, and I can do it!'
'You must not. It is not right for you to be hiring cabs and
driving across London at midnight. Berta should have known better
than propose it.'
'She was flurried. Go, Sol!'
But her entreaty was fruitless.
'Have you got your ticket, Mr. Julian?' said Sol. 'I suppose we
shall go together till we get near Melchester?'
'I have not got my ticket yet--I'll be back in two minutes.'
The minutes went by, and Christopher did not reappear. The train
moved off: Christopher was seen running up the platform, as if in a
vain hope to catch it.
'He has missed the train,' said Sol. Picotee looked disappointed,
and said nothing. They were soon out of sight.
'God forgive me for such a hollow pretence!' said Christopher to
himself. 'But he would have been uneasy had he known I wished to
stay behind. I cannot leave her in trouble like this!'
He went back to the 'Red Lion' with the manner and movement of a man
who after a lifetime of desultoriness had at last found something to
do. It was now getting late in the afternoon. Christopher ordered
a one-horse brougham at the inn, and entering it was driven out of
the town towards Enckworth as the evening shades were beginning to
fall. They passed into the hamlet of Little Enckworth at half-past
five, and drew up at a beer-house at the end. Jumping out here,
Julian told the man to wait till he should return.
Thus far he had exactly obeyed her orders to Sol. He hoped to be
able to obey them throughout, and supply her with the aid her
brother refused. He also hoped that the change in the personality
of her confederate would make no difference to her intention. That
he was putting himself in a wrong position he allowed, but time and
attention were requisite for such analysis: meanwhile Ethelberta
was in trouble. On the one hand was she waiting hopefully for Sol;
on the other was Sol many miles on his way to town; between them was
himself.
He ran with all his might towards Enckworth Park, mounted the lofty
stone steps by the lodge, saw the dark bronze figures on the piers
through the twilight, and then proceeded to thread the trees. Among
these he struck a light for a moment: it was ten minutes to six.
In another five minutes he was panting beneath the walls of her
house.
Enckworth Court was not unknown to Christopher, for he had
frequently explored that spot in his Sandbourne days. He perceived
now why she had selected that particular balcony for handing down
directions; it was the only one round the house that was low enough
to be reached from the outside, the basement here being a little way
sunk in the ground.
He went close under, turned his face outwards, and waited. About a
foot over his head was the stone floor of the balcony, forming a
ceiling to his position. At his back, two or three feet behind, was
a blank wall--the wall of the house. In front of him was the misty
park, crowned by a sky sparkling with winter stars. This was
abruptly cut off upward by the dark edge of the balcony which
overhung him.
It was as if some person within the room above had been awaiting his
approach. He had scarcely found time to observe his situation when
a human hand and portion of a bare arm were thrust between the
balusters, descended a little way from the edge of the balcony, and
remained hanging across the starlit sky. Something was between the
fingers. Christopher lifted his hand, took the scrap, which was
paper, and the arm was withdrawn. As it withdrew, a jewel on one of
the fingers sparkled in the rays of a large planet that rode in the
opposite sky.
Light steps retreated from the balcony, and a window closed.
Christopher had almost held his breath lest Ethelberta should
discover him at the critical moment to be other than Sol, and mar
her deliverance by her alarm. The still silence was anything but
silence to him; he felt as if he were listening to the clanging
chorus of an oratorio. And then he could fancy he heard words
between Ethelberta and the viscount within the room; they were
evidently at very close quarters, and dexterity must have been
required of her. He went on tiptoe across the gravel to the grass,
and once on that he strode in the direction whence he had come. By
the thick trunk of one of a group of aged trees he stopped to get a
light, just as the Court clock struck six in loud long tones. The
transaction had been carried out, through her impatience possibly,
four or five minutes before the time appointed.
The note contained, in a shaken hand, in which, however, the well-
known characters were distinguishable, these words in pencil:
'At half-past seven o'clock. Just outside the north lodge; don't
fail.'
This was the time she had suggested to Sol as that which would
probably best suit her escape, if she could escape at all. She had
changed the place from the west to the north lodge--nothing else.
The latter was certainly more secluded, though a trifle more remote
from the course of the proposed journey; there was just time enough
and none to spare for fetching the brougham from Little Enckworth to
the lodge, the village being two miles off. The few minutes gained
by her readiness at the balcony were useful now. He started at once
for the village, diverging somewhat to observe the spot appointed
for the meeting. It was excellently chosen; the gate appeared to be
little used, the lane outside it was covered with trees, and all
around was silent as the grave. After this hasty survey by the wan
starlight, he hastened on to Little Enckworth.
An hour and a quarter later a little brougham without lamps was
creeping along by the park wall towards this spot. The leaves were
so thick upon the unfrequented road that the wheels could not be
heard, and the horse's pacing made scarcely more noise than a rabbit
would have done in limping along. The vehicle progressed slowly,
for they were in good time. About ten yards from the park entrance
it stopped, and Christopher stepped out.
'We may have to wait here ten minutes,' he said to the driver. 'And
then shall we be able to reach Anglebury in time for the up mail-
train to Southampton?'
'Half-past seven, half-past eight, half-past nine--two hours. O
yes, sir, easily. A young lady in the case perhaps, sir?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I hope she'll be done honestly by, even if she is of humble
station. 'Tis best, and cheapest too, in the long run.' The
coachman was apparently imagining the dove about to flit away to be
one of the pretty maid-servants that abounded in Enckworth Court;
such escapades as these were not unfrequent among them, a fair face
having been deemed a sufficient recommendation to service in that
house, without too close an inquiry into character, since the death
of the first viscountess.
'Now then, silence; and listen for a footstep at the gate.'
Such calmness as there was in the musician's voice had been produced
by considerable effort. For his heart had begun to beat fast and
loud as he strained his attentive ear to catch the footfall of a
woman who could only be his illegally.
The obscurity was as great as a starry sky would permit it to be.
Beneath the trees where the carriage stood the darkness was total.
