Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (246 page)

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.

CHAPTER 47.

ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS — MELCHESTER

To be wise after the event is often to act foolishly with regard to it; and to preserve the illusion which has led to the event would frequently be a course that omniscience itself could not find fault with.  Reaction with Ethelberta was complete, and the more violent in that it threatened to be useless.  Sol’s bitter chiding had been the first thing to discompose her fortitude.  It reduced her to a consciousness that she had allowed herself to be coerced in her instincts, and yet had not triumphed in her duty.  She might have pleased her family better by pleasing her tastes, and have entirely avoided the grim irony of the situation disclosed later in the day.

After the second interview with Sol she was to some extent composed in mind by being able to nurse a definite intention.  As momentum causes the narrowest wheel to stand upright, a scheme, fairly imbibed, will give the weakest some power to maintain a position stoically.

In the temporary absence of Lord Mountclere, about six o’clock, she slipped out upon the balcony and handed down a note.  To her relief, a hand received it instantly.

The hour and a half wanting to half-past seven she passed with great effort.  The main part of the time was occupied by dinner, during which she attempted to devise some scheme for leaving him without suspicion just before the appointed moment.

Happily, and as if by a Providence, there was no necessity for any such thing.

A little while before the half-hour, when she moved to rise from dinner, he also arose, tenderly begging her to excuse him for a few minutes, that he might go and write an important note to his lawyer, until that moment forgotten, though the postman was nearly due.  She heard him retire along the corridor and shut himself into his study, his promised time of return being a quarter of an hour thence.

Five minutes after that memorable parting Ethelberta came from the little door by the bush of yew, well and thickly wrapped up from head to heels.  She skimmed across the park and under the boughs like a shade, mounting then the stone steps for pedestrians which were fixed beside the park gates here as at all the lodges.  Outside and below her she saw an oblong shape — it was a brougham, and it had been drawn forward close to the bottom of the steps that she might not have an inch further to go on foot than to this barrier.  The whole precinct was thronged with trees; half their foliage being overhead, the other half under foot, for the gardeners had not yet begun to rake and collect the leaves; thus it was that her dress rustled as she descended the steps.

The carriage door was held open by the driver, and she entered instantly.  He shut her in, and mounted to his seat.  As they drove away she became conscious of another person inside.

‘O! Sol — it is done!’ she whispered, believing the man to be her brother.  Her companion made no reply.

Ethelberta, familiar with Sol’s moods of troubled silence, did not press for an answer.  It was, indeed, certain that Sol’s assistance would have been given under a sullen protest; even if unwilling to disappoint her, he might well have been taciturn and angry at her course.

They sat in silence, and in total darkness.  The road ascended an incline, the horse’s tramp being still deadened by the carpet of leaves.  Then the large trees on either hand became interspersed by a low brushwood of varied sorts, from which a large bird occasionally flew, in its fright at their presence beating its wings recklessly against the hard stems with force enough to cripple the delicate quills.  It showed how deserted was the spot after nightfall.

‘Sol?’ said Ethelberta again.  ‘Why not talk to me?’

She now noticed that her fellow-traveller kept his head and his whole person as snugly back in the corner, out of her way, as it was possible to do.  She was not exactly frightened, but she could not understand the reason.  The carriage gave a quick turn, and stopped.

‘Where are we now?’ she said.  ‘Shall we get to Anglebury by nine?  What is the time, Sol?’

‘I will see,’ replied her companion.  They were the first words he had uttered.

The voice was so different from her brother’s that she was terrified; her limbs quivered.  In another instant the speaker had struck a wax vesta, and holding it erect in his fingers he looked her in the face.

‘Hee-hee-hee!’  The laugher was her husband the viscount.

He laughed again, and his eyes gleamed like a couple of tarnished brass buttons in the light of the wax match.

Ethelberta might have fallen dead with the shock, so terrible and hideous was it.  Yet she did not.  She neither shrieked nor fainted; but no poor January fieldfare was ever colder, no ice-house more dank with perspiration, than she was then.

‘A very pleasant joke, my dear — hee-hee!  And no more than was to be expected on this merry, happy day of our lives.  Nobody enjoys a good jest more than I do: I always enjoyed a jest — hee-hee!  Now we are in the dark again; and we will alight and walk.  The path is too narrow for the carriage, but it will not be far for you.  Take your husband’s arm.’

While he had been speaking a defiant pride had sprung up in her, instigating her to conceal every weakness.  He had opened the carriage door and stepped out.  She followed, taking the offered arm.

‘Take the horse and carriage to the stables,’ said the viscount to the coachman, who was his own servant, the vehicle and horse being also his.  The coachman turned the horse’s head and vanished down the woodland track by which they had ascended.

The viscount moved on, uttering private chuckles as numerous as a woodpecker’s taps, and Ethelberta with him.  She walked as by a miracle, but she would walk.  She would have died rather than not have walked then.

She perceived now that they were somewhere in Enckworth wood.  As they went, she noticed a faint shine upon the ground on the other side of the viscount, which showed her that they were walking beside a wet ditch.  She remembered having seen it in the morning: it was a shallow ditch of mud.  She might push him in, and run, and so escape before he could extricate himself.  It would not hurt him.  It was her last chance.  She waited a moment for the opportunity.

‘We are one to one, and I am the stronger!’ she at last exclaimed triumphantly, and lifted her hand for a thrust.

‘On the contrary, darling, we are one to half-a-dozen, and you considerably the weaker,’ he tenderly replied, stepping back adroitly, and blowing a whistle.  At once the bushes seemed to be animated in four or five places.

‘John?’ he said, in the direction of one of them.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied a voice from the bush, and a keeper came forward.

‘William?’

Another man advanced from another bush.

‘Quite right.  Remain where you are for the present.  Is Tomkins there?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said a man from another part of the thicket.

‘You go and keep watch by the further lodge: there are poachers about.  Where is Strongway?’

‘Just below, my lord.’

‘Tell him and his brother to go to the west gate, and walk up and down.  Let them search round it, among the trees inside.  Anybody there who cannot give a good account of himself to be brought before me to-morrow morning.  I am living at the cottage at present.  That’s all I have to say to you.’  And, turning round to Ethelberta: ‘Now, dearest, we will walk a little further if you are able.  I have provided that your friends shall be taken care of.’  He tried to pull her hand towards him, gently, like a cat opening a door.

They walked a little onward, and Lord Mountclere spoke again, with imperturbable good-humour:

‘I will tell you a story, to pass the time away.  I have learnt the art from you — your mantle has fallen upon me, and all your inspiration with it.  Listen, dearest.  I saw a young man come to the house to-day.  Afterwards I saw him cross a passage in your company.  You entered the ball-room with him.  That room is a treacherous place.  It is panelled with wood, and between the panels and the walls are passages for the servants, opening from the room by doors hidden in the woodwork.  Lady Mountclere knew of one of these, and made use of it to let out her conspirator; Lord Mountclere knew of another, and made use of it to let in himself.  His sight is not good, but his ears are unimpaired.  A meeting was arranged to take place at the west gate at half-past seven, unless a note handed from the balcony mentioned another time and place.  He heard it all — hee-hee!

‘When Lady Mountclere’s confederate came for the note, I was in waiting above, and handed one down a few minutes before the hour struck, confirming the time, but changing the place.  When Lady Mountclere handed down her note, just as the clock was striking, her confederate had gone, and I was standing beneath the balcony to receive it.  She dropped it into her husband’s hands — ho-ho-ho-ho!

‘Lord Mountclere ordered a brougham to be at the west lodge, as fixed by Lady Mountclere’s note.  Probably Lady Mountclere’s friend ordered a brougham to be at the north gate, as fixed by my note, written in imitation of Lady Mountclere’s hand.  Lady Mountclere came to the spot she had mentioned, and like a good wife rushed into the arms of her husband — hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’

As if by an ungovernable impulse, Ethelberta broke into laughter also — laughter which had a wild unnatural sound; it was hysterical.  She sank down upon the leaves, and there continued the fearful laugh just as before.

Lord Mountclere became greatly frightened.  The spot they had reached was a green space within a girdle of hollies, and in front of them rose an ornamental cottage.  This was the building which Ethelberta had visited earlier in the day: it was the Petit Trianon of Enckworth Court.

The viscount left her side and hurried forward.  The door of the building was opened by a woman.

‘Have you prepared for us, as I directed?’

‘Yes, my lord; tea and coffee are both ready.’

‘Never mind that now.  Lady Mountclere is ill; come and assist her indoors.  Tell the other woman to bring wine and water at once.’

He returned to Ethelberta.  She was better, and was sitting calmly on the bank.  She rose without assistance.

‘You may retire,’ he said to the woman who had followed him, and she turned round.  When Ethelberta saw the building, she drew back quickly.

‘Where is the
other
Lady Mountclere?’ she inquired.

‘Gone!’

‘She shall never return — never?’

‘Never.  It was not intended that she should.’

‘That sounds well.  Lord Mountclere, we may as well compromise matters.’

‘I think so too.  It becomes a lady to make a virtue of a necessity.’

‘It was stratagem against stratagem.  Mine was ingenious; yours was masterly!  Accept my acknowledgment.  We will enter upon an armed neutrality.’

‘No.  Let me be your adorer and slave again, as ever.  Your beauty, dearest, covers everything!  You are my mistress and queen!  But here we are at the door.  Tea is prepared for us here.  I have a liking for life in this cottage mode, and live here on occasion.  Women, attend to Lady Mountclere.’

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.