The woman who had seen Ethelberta in the morning was alarmed at recognizing her, having since been informed officially of the marriage: she murmured entreaties for pardon. They assisted the viscountess to a chair, the door was closed, and the wind blew past as if nobody had ever stood there to interrupt its flight.
Full of misgivings, Christopher continued to wait at the north gate.
Half-past seven had long since been past, and no Ethelberta had appeared. He did not for the moment suppose the delay to be hers, and this gave him patience; having taken up the position, he was induced by fidelity to abide by the consequences. It would be only a journey of two hours to reach Anglebury Station; he would ride outside with the driver, put her into the train, and bid her adieu for ever. She had cried for help, and he had heard her cry.
At last through the trees came the sound of the Court clock striking eight, and then, for the first time, a doubt arose in his mind whether she could have mistaken the gate. She had distinctly told Sol the west lodge; her note had expressed the north lodge. Could she by any accident have written one thing while meaning another?
He entered the carriage, and drove round to the west gate. All was as silent there as at the other, the meeting between Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere being then long past; and he drove back again.
He left the carriage, and entered the park on foot, approaching the house slowly. All was silent; the windows were dark; moping sounds came from the trees and sky, as from Sorrow whispering to Night. By this time he felt assured that the scheme had miscarried. While he stood here a carriage without lights came up the drive; it turned in towards the stable-yard without going to the door. The carriage had plainly been empty.
Returning across the grass by the way he had come, he was startled by the voices of two men from the road hard by.
'Have ye zeed anybody?'
'Not a soul.'
'Shall we go across again?'
'What's the good? let's home to supper.'
'My lord must have heard somebody, or 'a wouldn't have said it.'
'Perhaps he's nervous now he's living in the cottage again. Ithought that fancy was over. Well, I'm glad 'tis a young wife he's brought us. She'll have her routs and her rackets as well as the high-born ones, you'll see, as soon as she gets used to the place.'
'She must be a queer Christian to pick up with him.'
'Well, if she've charity 'tis enough for we poor men; her faith and hope may be as please God. Now I be for on-along homeward.'
As soon as they had gone Christopher moved from his hiding, and, avoiding the gravel-walk, returned to his coachman, telling him to drive at once to Anglebury.
Julian was so impatient of the futility of his adventure that he wished to annihilate its existence. On reaching Anglebury he determined to get on at once to Melchester, that the event of the night might be summarily ended; to be still in the neighbourhood was to be still engaged in it. He reached home before midnight.
Walking into their house in a quiet street, as dissatisfied with himself as a man well could be who still retained health and an occupation, he found Faith sitting up as usual. His news was ******: the marriage had taken place before he could get there, and he had seen nothing of either ceremony or viscountess. The remainder he reserved for a more convenient season.
Edith looked anxiously at him as he ate supper, smiling now and then.
'Well, I am tired of this life,' said Christopher.
'So am I,' said Faith. 'Ah, if we were only rich!'
'Ah, yes.'
'Or if we were not rich,' she said, turning her eyes to the fire.
'If we were only slightly provided for, it would be better than nothing. How much would you be content with, Kit?'
'As much as I could get.'
'Would you be content with a thousand a year for both of us?'
'I daresay I should,' he murmured, breaking his bread.
'Or five hundred for both?'
'Or five hundred.'
'Or even three hundred?'
'Bother three hundred. Less than double the sum would not satisfy me. We may as well imagine much as little.'
Faith's countenance had fallen. 'O Kit,' she said, 'you always disappoint me.'
'I do. How do I disappoint you this time?'
'By not caring for three hundred a year--a hundred and fifty each--when that is all I have to offer you.'
'Faith!' said he, looking up for the first time. 'Ah--of course!
Lucy's will. I had forgotten.'
'It is true, and I had prepared such a pleasant surprise for you, and now you don't care! Our cousin Lucy did leave us something after all. I don't understand the exact total sum, but it comes to a hundred and fifty a year each--more than I expected, though not so much as you deserved. Here's the letter. I have been dwelling upon it all day, and thinking what a pleasure it would be; and it is not after all!'
'Good gracious, Faith, I was only supposing. The real thing is another matter altogether. Well, the idea of Lucy's will containing our names! I am sure I would have gone to the funeral had I known.'
'I wish it were a thousand.'
'O no--it doesn't matter at all. But, certainly, three hundred for two is a tantalizing sum: not enough to enable us to change our condition, and enough to make us dissatisfied with going on as we are.'
'We must forget we have it, and let it increase.'
'It isn't enough to increase much. We may as well use it. But how?
Take a bigger house--what's the use? Give up the organ?--then Ishall be rather worse off than I am at present. Positively, it is the most provoking amount anybody could have invented had they tried ever so long. Poor Lucy, to do that, and not even to come near us when father died. . . . Ah, I know what we'll do. We'll go abroad--we'll live in Italy.'
