Still no signs of the Rev. Guy Cattacomb. The morning following the night told of in the last chapter rose bright and sunny. Miss Blake rose with it, her energetic mind full of thought.
"I wonder how I am to begin to keep house?" said Lucy with a laugh, when she got up from the breakfast table, her cheeks as bright as the pink summer muslin she wore. "Do I go into the kitchen, Theresa?"
"You go with the cook to the larder," replied Theresa, gravely. "See what provisions remain in it from yesterday, and give your orders accordingly. Shall I go with you this morning, Lady Andinnian?"
"I wish you would! I wish you'd put me in the way of it. In Paris, when I was going to be married, mamma regretted she had not shown me more of housekeeping at home."
"You have, I believe, a careful and honest cook: and that is a great thing for an inexperienced mistress," said Miss Blake.
"As if cooks were ever dishonest in the country!" cried Sir Karl, laughing--and it was the first laugh Miss Blake had heard from his lips. "You must go to your grand London servants for that--making their perquisites out of everything, and feeding their friends and the policeman!"
"And then, Karl, when I come back, you will take me about everywhere, won't you?" whispered Lucy, leaning fondly over his shoulder as Miss Blake went on. "I want to see all about the grounds."
He nodded and let his cheek rest for a moment against hers. "Go and order your roast beef. And--Lucy!"
His manner had changed to seriousness. He turned in his chair to face her, his brow flushing as he took her hands.
"You will not be extravagant, Lucy--" his voice sinking to a whisper lower than hers. "When I told you of that--that trouble, which had fallen upon me and might fall deeper, I said that it would cost me a large portion of my income. You remember?"
"Oh Karl! do you think I could forget? We will live as quietly and simply as you please. It is all the same to me."
"Thank you, my dear wife."
Theresa stood at the open hall door, looking from it while she waited. "I was thinking," she said, when Lady Andinnian's step was heard, "that it really might be cheaper in the end if you took a regular housekeeper, Lucy, as you are so inexperienced. It would save you a great deal of trouble."
"The trouble's nothing, Theresa; and I should like to learn. I would not think of a housekeeper. I should be afraid of her."
"Oh, very well. As you please, of course. But when you get your whole staff of servants, the house full of them, the controlling of the supplies for so many will very much embarrass you."
"But we don't mean to have our house full of servants, Theresa. We do not care to set up on a grand scale, either of us. Just about as papa and mamma live, will be enough for us indoors."
"Nonsense," said Miss Blake.
"We must have a coachman--Karl thinks he shall take on Sir Joseph's; the man has asked to come--and, I suppose, one footman to help Hewitt, and a groom. That's all. I think we have enough maids now."
"You should consider that Sir Karl's income is a large one, Lucy," spoke Miss Blake in a tone of lofty reproach. "It is absurd to take your papa's scale of living as a guide for yours."
"But Sir Karl does not mean to spend his income: he has a reason for saving it."
"Oh that's another thing," said Miss Blake. "What is his reason?"
The young Lady Andinnian could have punished her rebellious tongue. She had spoken the hasty words "he has a reason for saving it" in the heat of argument, without thought. What right, either as a wife or a prudent woman, had she to allow allusion to it to escape her lips? Her rejoinder was given slowly and calmly.
"My husband is quite right not to begin by spending all his income, Theresa. We should both of us think it needless extravagance. Is this the kitchen? Let us go in here first. I must get acquainted with all my places and people."
The business transacted, Lucy went out with Karl. Theresa watched them on to the lawn and thence round the house, Lucy in her broad-brimmed straw hat, and her arm within her husband's. Miss Blake then dressed herself and walked rapidly to St. Jerome's. Some faint hope animated her that Mr. Cattacomb might have arrived, and be already inaugurating the morning service. But no. St. Jerome's was closely shut, and no Mr. Cattacomb was there.
She retraced her steps, lingering to rob the hedges of a wild honeysuckle or a dog-rose. This non-arrival of Mr. Cattacomb began to trouble her, and she could not imagine why, if he were prevented coming, he had not written to say so. Reaching the Maze, Miss Blake woke up from these thoughts with quite a start of surprise: for the gate was open and a woman servant stood there, holding colloquy with the butcher's boy on horseback: a young man in a blue frock, no hat, and a basket on his arm. A middle-aged and very respectable looking servant, but somewhat old-fashioned in her appearance: a spare figure straight up and down, in a black-and-white cotton gown and white muslin cap tied with black ribbon strings. In her hand was a dish with some meat on it, which she had just received from the basket, and she appeared to be reproaching the boy on the score of the last joint's toughness.
"This hot weather one can't keep nothing properly," said the boy, in apology. "I was to ask for the book, please, ma'am."
"The book!" returned the woman. "Why I meant to have brought it out. Wait there, and I'll get it."
The boy, having perhaps the spirit of restlessness upon him, backed his steed, and turned him round and round in the road like a horse in a mill. Miss Blake saw her opportunity and slipped in unseen. Gliding along the path, she concealed herself behind a huge tree-trunk near the hedge, until the servant should have come and gone again. Miss Blake soon caught sight of her skirts amid the trees of the maze.
"Here's the book," said she to the boy. "Ask your master to make it up for the month, and I'll pay." And shutting and locking the gate, she retreated into the maze again and disappeared.
When people do covert things in a hurry, they can't expect to have all their senses about them, and Miss Blake had probably forgotten that she should be locked in. However--here she was in the position, and must make the best of it.
First of all, she went round the path, intending to see where it led to. It was fenced in by the garden wall, the high hedge and shrubs on one side, by the trees of the maze on the other. Suddenly she came to what looked like a low vaulted passage built in the maze, which probably communicated with the house: but she could not tell. Its door was fast, and Miss Blake could see nothing.
Pursuing her way along the walk, it brought her round to the entrance gate again, and she remembered Tom Pepp's words about the path going round and round and leading to nowhere. Miss Blake was not one to be daunted. She had come in to look about her, and she meant to do it. She plunged into the maze.
Again had she cause to recall Master Pepp's account,--"Once get into that there maze and you'd never get out again without the clue." Miss Blake began to fear there was only too much truth in it. For a full hour in reality, and it seemed to her like two hours, did she wander about and wander again. She was in the maze and could not get out of it.
She stood against the back of a tree, her face turning hot and cold. It took a great deal to excite that young woman's pulses: but she did not like the position in which she had placed herself.
She must try again. Forward thither, backward hither, round and about, in and out. No; no escape; no clue; no opening: nothing but the same interminable trees and the narrow paths so exactly like one another.
"What will become of me?" gasped Miss Blake.
At that moment a voice very near rose upon her ear--the voice of the servant she had seen. "Yes, ma'am, I'll do it after dinner."
Unconsciously Miss Blake had wandered to the confines of the maze that were close on the house. A few steps further and she could peep out of her imprisonment.
A small, low, pretty-gabled house of red brick. A sitting-room window, large and thrown open, faced Miss Blake; the porch entrance, of which she could get a slanting glimpse, fronted a grass-plat, surrounded by most beautiful flower-beds, with a greenhouse at the end. It was a snug, compact spot, the whole shut in by a high laurel hedge. On the grass stood the woman servant, spreading some bits of linen to dry: Miss Blake made them out to be cambric handkerchiefs: her mistress had probably been speaking to her from the porch, and the answer was what she heard. An old man, with either a slight hump on his back or a dreadful stoop, was bending over a distant flower-bed. He wore a wide, yellow straw hat, and a smock-frock similar to that of the butcher's boy, only the latter's was blue and the old man's white. His hair was grey and he appeared to be toothless: but in his prime he must have been tall and powerful. Miss Blake made her comments.
"What an extraordinary solitude for a young person to live in! But what choice flowers those look to be! That toothless old man must be the gardener! he looks too aged and infirm for his work.Whydoes she live here? There must be more in it than meets the eye. Perhaps----"
The soliloquy was arrested. The door of the sitting-room opened, and a young lady entered. Crossing to the window, she stood looking at something on the table underneath, in full view of Miss Blake. A fair girl, with a delicate face, soft damask cheeks, blue eyes, and hair that gleamed like threads of light gold.
"Good gracious! how lovely she is!" was Miss Blake's involuntary thought. Could this young girl be Mrs. Grey?
The young lady left the window again. The next minute the keys of a piano were touched. A prelude was played softly, and then there rose a verse of those lines in the "Vicar of Wakefield" that you all know so well, the voice of the singer exceedingly melodious and simple:
"When lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray----"
Miss Blake had never in her life cared for the song, but it bore now a singular charm. Every word was distinct, and she listened to the end. A curious speculation crossed her.
Was this young girl singing the lines in character? "Heaven help her then!" cried Miss Blake--for she was not all hardness.
But how was she, herself, to get away? She might remain there unsought for ever. There was nothing for it but boldly showing herself. And, as the servant was then coming back across the lawn with some herbs which she had apparently been to gather, Miss Blake wound out of the maze, and presented herself before the woman's astonished eyes.
She made the best excuse she could. Had wandered inside the gate, attracted by the mass of beautiful trees, and lost herself amidst them. After a pause of wondering consideration, the servant understood how it must have been--that she had got in during her temporary absence from the gate when she went to fetch the butcher's book; and she knew what a long while she must have been there.
"I'll let you out," she said. "It's a pity you came in."
Very rapidly the woman walked on through the maze, Miss Blake following her. There were turnings and twistings, amid which the latter strove to catch some clue to the route. In vain. One turning, one path seemed just like another.
"Does your mistress live quite alone here?" she asked of the servant.
"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, more civilly spoken--for, that the servant had been at first much put out by the occurrence, her manner testified. "She's all alone, except for me and my old man."
"Your old man?" exclaimed Miss Blake questioningly.
"My husband," explained the woman, perceiving she was not understood. "He's the gardener."
"Oh, I saw him," said Miss Blake. "But he looks quite too old and infirm to do much."
"He's not as old as he looks--and he has a good deal of work in him still. Of course when a man gets rheumatics, he can't be as active as before."
"How very dull your mistress must be!"
"Not at all, ma'am. She has her birds, and flowers, and music, and work. And the garden she's very fond of: she'll spend hours in the greenhouse over the plants."
"Mrs. Grey, I think I have heard her called."
"Yes, Mrs. Grey."
"Well now--where's her husband?"
"She's not got a hus-- At least,--her husband's not here."
The first part of the answer was begun in a fierce, resentful tone: but at the break the woman seemed to recollect herself, and calmed down. Miss Blake was silently observant, pondering all in her inquisitive mind.
"Mr. Grey is travelling abroad just now," continued the woman. "Here we are."
Yes, there they were escaped from the maze, the iron gate before them. The woman took a key from her pocket and unlocked it--just as Sir Karl had taken a key from his pocket the previous night. Miss Blake saw now what a small key it was, to undo so large a gate.
"Good morning," she said. "Thank you very much. It was exceedingly thoughtless of me to stroll in."
"Good day to you, ma'am."
Very busy was Miss Blake's brain as she went home. The Maze puzzled her. That this young and pretty woman should be living alone in that perfect seclusion with only two servants to take care of her, one of them at least old and decrepid, was the very oddest thing she had ever met with. Miss Blake knew the world tolerably well; and, so far as her experience went, a man whose wife was so young and so lovely as this wife, would wish to take her travelling with him. Altogether, it seemed very singular: and more singular still seemed the stealthy and familiar entrance, that she had witnessed, of Sir Karl Andinnian.
Meanwhile, during this bold escapade of Miss Blake's, Lady Andinnian had gone out on a very different expedition. It could not be said that Lucy had no acquaintance whatever at Foxwood before she came to it. She knew the vicar's eldest daughter, Margaret, who had occasionally stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Blake at Winchester: the two clergymen were acquainted, having been at college together. On this morning Lucy had started to see Miss Sumnor; walking alone, for Karl was busy. The church, a very pretty one, with a tapering spire, stood in its churchyard, just through the village. The vicarage joined it: a nice house, with a verandah running along the front; a good garden and some glebe land.
On a couch in a shaded room, lay a lady of some thirty, or more, years of age; her face thin, with upright lines between the eyebrows, telling of long-standing trouble or pain, perhaps of both; her hands busy with some needle-work. Lady Andinnian, who had not given her name, but simply asked to see Miss Sumnor, was shown in. She did not recognize her at the first moment.
"Margaret! It cannot be you."
Margaret Sumnor smiled her sweet, patient smile, and held Lady Andinnian's hand in hers. "Yes it is, Lucy--if I may presume still to call you so. You find me changed. Worn and aged."
"It is true," candidly avowed Lucy, in the shock to her feelings. "You look altogether different. And yet, it is not three years since we parted. Mrs. Blake used to tell me you were ill, and had to lie down a great deal."
"I lie here always, Lucy. Getting off only at night to go to my bed in the next room. Now and then, if I am particularly well, they draw me across the garden to church in a hand-chair: but that is very seldom. Sit down. Here, close to me."
"And what is the matter with you?"
"It has to do with the spine, my dear. A bright young girl like you need not be troubled with the complication of particulars. The worst of it is, Lucy, that I shall be as I am for life."
"Oh Margaret!"
Miss Sumnor raised her work again and set a few stitches, as if determined not to give way to any kind of emotion. Lady Andinnian's face wore quite a frightened look.
"Surelynot for always, Margaret!"
"I believe so. The doctors say so. Papa went to the expense of having a very clever man down from London; but he only confirmed what Mr. Moore had feared."
"Then, Margaret, I think it was a cruel thing to let you know it. Hope and good spirits go so far to help recovery, no matter what the illness may be. Did the doctors tell you?"
"They told my father, not me. I learnt it through--through a sort of accident, Lucy," added Miss Sumnor: who would not explain that it was through the carelessness--to call it by a light name--of her stepmother. "After all, it is best that I should know it. I see it is now, if I did not at the time."
"How it must have tried you!"
"Oh it did; it did. What I felt for months, Lucy, I cannot describe. I had grown to be so useful to my dear father: he had begun to need me so very much; to depend upon me for so many things: and to find that I was suddenly cut off from being of any help to him, to be instead only a burden!--even now I cannot bear to recall it. It was that that changed me, Lucy: in a short while I had gone in looks from a young woman into an aged one."
"No, no, not that. And you have to bear it always!"
"The bearing is light now," said Miss Sumnor, looking up with a happy smile. "One day, Lucy, when I was in a sad mood of distress and inward repining, papa came in. He saw a little of what I felt; he saw my tears, for he had come upon me quickly. Down he sat in that very chair that you are sitting in now. 'Margaret, are you realizing that this calamity has come upon you from God--that it is His will?' he asked: and he talked to me as he had never talked before. That night, as I lay awake thinking, the new light seemed to dawn upon me. 'It is,it is God's will,' I said; 'why should I repine in misery?' Bit by bit, Lucy, after that, the light grew greater. I gained--oh such comfort!--in a few weeks more I seemed to lie right under God's protection; to be, as it were, always in His sheltering Arms: and my life is happier now than I can tell you of, in spite of very many and constant trials."
"And you manage to amuse yourself, I see," resumed Lucy, breaking the pause that had ensued.
"Amuse myself! I can assure you my days are quite busy and useful ones. I sew--as you perceive, resting my elbows on the board; see, this is a pillowcase that I am darning. I read, and can even write a note; I manage the housekeeping; and I have my class of poor children here, and teach them as before. They are ten times more obedient and considerate, seeing me as I am, than when I was in health."
Lucy could readily believe it. "And now tell me, Margaret, what brought this illness on?"
"Nothing in particular. It must have been coming on for years, only we did not suspect it. Do you remember that when at the rectory I never used to run or walk much, but always wanted to sit still, and dear Mrs. Blake would call me idle? It was coming on then. But now, Lucy, let me hear about yourself. I need not ask if you are happy."
Lucy blushed rosy red: she was only too happy: and gave an account of her marriage and sojourn abroad, promising to bring her husband some day soon to see Miss Sumnor. Next, they spoke of the new place--St. Jerome's, and the invalid's brow wore a look of pain.
"It has so grieved papa, Lucy. Indeed, there's no want of another church in the place; even if it were a proper church, there's no one to attend it: our own is too large for the population. Papa is grieved at the movement, and at the way it is being done; it is anything but orthodox. And to think that it should be Theresa Blake who has put it forward!"
"The excuse she makes to us is that she wanted a daily service."
"A year ago papa took to hold daily service, and he had to discontinue it, for no one attended. Very often there would be only himself and the clerk."
"I do not suppose this affair of Theresa's will last," said Lucy, kindly, as she took her leave, and went home.
Karl was out at luncheon, but they all three met at dinner: he, Lucy, and Miss Blake. Lucy told him of her visit to Margaret Sumnor, and asked him to go there with her on his return from London, whither he was proceeding on the morrow. Miss Blake had not heard of the intention before, and inquired of Sir Karl whether he was going for long.
"For a couple of days; perhaps three," he answered. "I have several matters of business to attend to."
"I think I might as well have gone with you, Karl," said his wife.
"Not this time, Lucy. You have only just come home from travelling, you know, and need repose."
Miss Blake, having previously taken her determination to do it, mentioned, in a casual, airy kind of way, her adventure of the morning: not however giving to the intrusion quite its true aspect, and not saying that she had seen the young lady. She had "strolled accidentally" into the place called the Maze, she said, seeing the gate open, and lost herself. A woman servant came to her assistance and let her out again; but not before she had caught a glimpse of the interior: the pretty house and lawn and flowers, and the infirm old gardener.
To Miss Blake's surprise--or, rather, perhaps not to her surprise--Sir Karl's pale face turned to a burning red. He made her no answer, but whisked his head round to the butler, who stood behind him.
"Hewitt," he cried sharply, "this is not the same hock that we had yesterday."
"Yes, Sir Karl, it is. At least I--I believe it is."
Hewitt took up the bottle on the sideboard and examined it. Miss Blake thought he looked as confused as his master. "He plays tricks with the wine," was the mental conclusion she drew.
Hewitt came round, grave as ever, and filled up the glasses again. Karl began talking to him, about the wine in the cellar: but Miss Blake was not going to let her subject drop.
"Do you know this place that they call the Maze, Sir Karl?"
"Scarcely."
"Or its mistress, Mrs. Grey?"
"I have seen her," shortly replied Karl.
"Oh, have you! When?"
"She wrote me a note relative to some repairs that were required, and I went over."
"Since you were back this time, do you mean?"
"Oh no. It was just after my mother's death."
"Don't you think it very singular that so young a woman should be living there alone?"
"I suppose she likes it. The husband is said to be abroad."
"You have no acquaintance with the people?" persisted Miss Blake.
"Oh dear no."
"And going in with a key from his own pocket!" thought Miss Blake, as she drew in her lips.
"Foxwood and its inhabitants, as I told Lucy, are tolerably strange to me," added Sir Karl. "Lucy, you were talking of Margaret Sumnor. What age is she?"
He was resolute in turning the conversation from the Maze: as Miss Blake saw. What was his motive? All kinds of comical ideas were in her mind, not all of them good ones.
"I'll watch," she mentally said. "In the interests of religion, to say nothing of respectability,I'll watch."
"Lucy, you will come with me to the opening service?"
Lady Andinnian shook her head. "I think not, Theresa."
"Why, it would be quite a distraction for you," urged Miss Blake, using the word in the French sense.
Sir Karl had been in London some three or four days now; and Lucy, all aweary without him, was longing and looking for his return every hour of the live-long summer's day. But she was proof against this offered temptation.
"I don't think Karl would like me to go to St. Jerome's, Theresa. Thank you all the same."
"Do you mean to make Sir Karl your guide and model through life, Lucy?"--and Lady Andinnian, sincere and simple herself, detected not the covert sarcasm.
"I hope I shall never do, or wish to do anything that he would object to," was her answer, a sweet blush dyeing her cheeks.
"Well, if you won't appear at church, will you attend the kettledrum afterwards, Lucy?"
"The kettledrum?" echoed Lucy. "What kettledrum?"
"We are going to hold one at Mrs. Jinks's--that is, in Mr. Cattacomb's rooms--for the purpose of introducing him to some of his friends, and to organize the parish work."
Lady Andinnian looked up in surprise. "The parish work? What can you be talking of, Theresa?"
"Oh, there will be district visiting, and that. It must all be arranged and organized."
"Will it not be interfering with Mr. Sumnor?" Lucy ventured to ask, after a pause of silence.
"Not at all," was the answer, given loftily. "Shall I come round this way and call for you as we return from the service?"
"Thank you, no, Theresa; I would rather not. I do not think I should myself much care for the kettledrum."
"Very well," coolly replied Miss Blake. "As you please, of course, Lady Andinnian."
The service at St. Jerome's was at length about to be inaugurated: for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly appeared after a few days' delay, for which he satisfactorily accounted. It was to be held in the afternoon, this afternoon, he having arrived in the morning; and Miss Blake, while talking to Lady Andinnian, was already dressed for it. She started forth alone: just as other eager young women, mostly young, some middle-aged, were starting for it, and flocking into St. Jerome's.
Much inward speculation had existed as to what the new parson would be like; and the ladies looked at him eagerly when he entered from the vestry to commence the service. They saw a tall young man in a narrow surplice, with a sheep-skin tippet worn hind before, and a cross at the back in the opening: spectacles; no hair on his face, and not over much on his head, a few tufts of it only standing up like young carrots; eyes very much turned up. Certainly, in regard to personal beauty, the new pastor could not boast great things; but he made up for it in zeal, and--if such a thing may be said of a clergyman--in vanity; for that he was upon remarkably good terms with himself and his looks, every tone and gesture betrayed. It was rather a novel service, but a very attractive one. Mr. Cattacomb had a good sonorous voice--though it was marred by an affected accent and a drawling kind of delivery that savoured of insincerity and was most objectionably out of place. Miss Jane St. Henry played the harmonium; the ladies sang: and their singing, so far as it went, was good, but men's voices were much wanted. There was a short sermon, very rapidly delivered, and not to be understood--quite after a new fashion of the day. During its progress, little Miss Etheridge happened to look round, and saw Mr. Moore, the surgeon, at the back of the room.
"If you'll believe me, old Moore's here!" she whispered to Mary St. Henry.
Yes, the surgeon was there. He had laughed a little over this curious new place that was being called a church, and said at home that day that he should look in and see what its services were to be like. He was more surprised than pleased. Just as Mr. Smith, the agent, asked, Is it Roman Catholic or Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally ask the question now. The place was pretty full. Some few people had come over from Basham to be present. Mr. Moore's eyes went ranging amid the chairs, scanning the congregation. His daughters were not there. They are too sensible, thought the doctor: though he did not give them credit for overmuch sense in general. The fact was, the Misses Moore had been afraid to come. Hearing their father say he should look in, they deemed it wise to keep away--and did so, to their own deep mortification and disappointment. Mr. Moore was an easy-tempered man, and an indulgent father; but if once in a way he did by chance issue an edict, they knew it might not be disobeyed--and had he seen them there with his own eyes, he might have prohibited their going for the future. So they allowed policy to prevail, and stayed at home.
What with the opening service, and what with the coming party at Mrs. Jinks's, Foxwood was that day stirred to its centre. The preparations for the kettledrum were on an exhaustive scale, the different ladies having vied with each other in sending in supplies. Butter, cream, delicate bread and cakes, jam, marmalade, choice fruit, biscuits, and other things too numerous to mention. Miss Blake had taken a huge packet of tea, and some beautiful flowers, the latter offering cajoled out of old Maclean, the head gardener at the Court.
The walk to St. Jerome's and back, together with the excitement of the new service, had made them thirsty, and it was universally agreed to take tea first, though only four o'clock, and proceed to business afterwards. The table groaned under the weight of good things on it, and Miss Blake was president-in-chief. The room was too small for the company, who sat or stood as they could, elbowing each other, and making much of Mr. Cattacomb. Tongues were going fast, Mr. Cattacomb's amidst them, and Miss Blake was getting hot with the work of incessantly filling cups from the tea-pots, when a loud knock, announcing further visitors, shook the street door and Paradise Row.
"Who can it be? I'm sure we have no room for more!"
Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing open the front door, there stood the Misses Moore. Though debarred of the opening service, they would not be done out of the kettledrum.
"Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks?" cried the young ladies eagerly.
"Yes, they are here," replied the Widow Jinks, her cap (clean for the occasion, and no bonnet) trembling with suppressed wrath.
"Oh dear! Has tea begun?"
"Begun, Miss Jemima! it's to be hoped it's three-parts over. I'll tell you what it is, young ladies: when I agreed to let my parlours to the Reverend Cattakin, I didn't bargain to keep the whole parish in kettledrumming. Leastways, not to wait on 'em; and bile kettles for 'em, and toast muffins for 'em by the hour at a stretch. I thought what a nice quiet lodger I should have--a single man, and him a minister! Instead of which I might just as well keep an inn."
The young ladies walked on, wisely giving no answer, and entered the parlour. There they were presented to Mr. Cattacomb, and joined the tea-table.
Kettledrums, as we are all aware, cannot last for ever, and before six o'clock Miss Blake was on her way back to Foxwood Court. The discussion as to district visiting and other matters was postponed to another day, Mr. Cattacomb pleading fatigue (and no wonder); and Miss Blake--who was in point of fact the prime mover and prop and stay of it all--inwardly thinking that a less crowded meeting would be more conducive to business. As she was nearing the gate at Foxwood Court, she met Mr. Smith sauntering along, apparently out for an airing.
"Good afternoon, madam!"
He would have passed with the words, but she stopped to talk with him. The truth was, Miss Blake had taken, she knew not why or wherefore, a liking for Mr. Smith. From the first moment she saw him he had possessed a kind of attraction for her. It must be said that she believed him to be a gentleman.
"You were not at the opening service at St. Jerome's this afternoon, Mr. Smith?" she said, half-reproachfully.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I should be out of place there, as the congregation was comprised only of ladies," was his reply. "Happening to be walking that way, I saw lots of them go in."
"Foxwood cannot boast of gentlemen in the middle of the day; the few who reside here are off to Basham for their different occupations. But you are an idle man, Mr. Smith."
"I am not always idle, I assure you, Miss Blake. I have Sir Karl Andinnian's interests to look after."
"Oh, indeed! As a friend, I presume?"
"Just so."
"Well, you would not have been quite solitary if you had come into the church. Mr. Moore was there."
"Ay. He looked in for five minutes, and came out laughing. I don't know what amused him, unless it was to see the Misses Sumnor there."
"I think you must have been watching us all--all who went in, and all who came out," said Miss Blake. The agent smiled as he disclaimed the imputation: and with that they parted.
"Those flowers were so much admired and appreciated, Maclean," said Miss Blake to the gardener as she passed the lodge--where he sat at tea with his wife--the door open. "There are no such hothouse flowers anywhere as yours."
Maclean rose and thanked her for the compliment. She passed rapidly on, and entered the house by the window of the North room.
"I wonder where Lucy is?--Dressing, perhaps; or seated at the window looking out for her husband. Foolish child! Does he deserve that love?"
Treading softly on the carpeted staircase, her knock at Lady Andinnian's door and her entrance were simultaneous. Lucy, in her white morning dress with its blue ribbons, was standing up beside her husband. His arm was round her waist, her face lay upon his breast, his own bent down upon it.
It was an awkward moment for Miss Blake; she bit her lips as she stammered an apology. Lucy, blushing and laughing, drew away. Karl stood his ground, laughing too.
"I did not know you had returned, Sir Karl."
"I have just come; three minutes ago," he said, holding out his hand. "Lucy was telling me you had gone to a kettledrum, and I saucily assured her she must have dreamt it. Fancy kettledrums at Foxwood!"
They separated for the purpose of dressing, Miss Blake biting her lips still as she went to her room. The little matter had turned her hot and cold. Do as she would, she could not get rid entirely of her love for Karl Andinnian, in spite of the chronic resentment she indulged towards him.
"If this is jealousy," she murmured, sitting down to think, and undoing her veil with fingers that thrilled to their extreme ends, "I must indeed school myself. I thought I had learned to bear calmly."
At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better spirits than usual. He told them he had been to the Opera to hear the new singer, Ilma di Murska, in "Robert le Diable."
"Oh, Karl!--and not to have had me with you!" cried Lucy.
"I will take you up on purpose, Lucy. You must hear her. In the song 'Robert, toi que j'aime' she electrified us all. I never heard anything like it in my life. And she is most elegant on the stage. Her dresses are splendid."
"Was anyone there that you knew?"
"I hardly looked at the house at all. I was in the stalls. The Prince and Princess of Wales were in the royal box."
"I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to hear that you went!"
"True, Lucy; but my evenings hung heavily on my hands. What with Plunkett and Plunkett and other business matters, the days were busy enough: I used to wish the evenings were. I felt very dull."
"Just as I have been feeling here, Karl, without you."
His answer to his wife was but a look; but Miss Blake wished she had not caught it. What had she done, that his love should have missed her to be lavished on this girl-child?
"Sir Karl," she cried somewhat abruptly, "who is Mr. Smith?"
"I don't know," carelessly replied Sir Karl, whose thoughts were preoccupied.
"Not know! but is he not your agent?--and a friend also?"
Sir Karl was fully aroused now. "Know who Mr. Smith is?" herepeated--and he wished to heaven in his secret heart that he did know. "How do you mean, Miss Blake? He is Mr. Smith, and--yes--a kind of agent to me on the estate."
The latter part of the answer was given lightly, half merrily, as if he would pass it off with a laugh. Miss Blake resumed.
"Is he not an old friend of the Andinnian family?"
"Of some of them, I believe. I did not know him myself."
"Who gave him his appointment?"
"My mother. She considered it well to have some responsible person here to look after my interests, as I was living abroad."
"Do you not intend, Sir Karl, to make an acquaintance of him?--a friend?"
For a moment Sir Karl's brows were heavily knitted. "I do not suppose I shall," he quietly said.
"He seems a well-informed, agreeable man; and is, I conclude, a gentleman," returned Miss Blake, quite in a tone of remonstrance.
"I am glad to hear it," replied Sir Karl, his manner somewhat freezing. "And so, Lucy, you have had some of the neighbours calling here?" he continued, addressing his wife and turning the conversation.
"Oh, Karl, yes! And you were not here to help me; and I did not know them, and confused their names hopelessly with one another."
"I should not have known them either," laughed Sir Karl.
Miss Blake had some letters to write, and got to them after dinner: she had been too much engaged with other things during the day. Tea was taken in early to the drawing-room, and afterwards she went back early to her own room, the North room, to finish her writing by what little light remained. She saw Sir Karl and Lucy in the garden arm-in-arm, conversing together in low, confidential tones. Evidently they were all-sufficient for each other and did not miss her.
Say what we will, it could but seem to Miss Blake a neglect and something worse, looking upon past matters in her own light; and it told upon her cruelly.
The evening dusk drew on. She heard Lucy at the piano in thedrawing-room, seemingly alone, trying a bit of one song and a bit of, another. There was no doubt that Lucy thought Theresa was still busy and would not interrupt her. Miss Blake put up her desk and sat at the open window. By and by, when it was nearly dark, she threw a shawl on her shoulders, stepped out, crossed the lawn, and lost herself amidst the opposite trees. Miss Blake was that night in no mood for companionship: she preferred her own company to that of Lucy or her husband. As we say by the cross little children, the black dog was on her back; she did not listen even to the sweet melody of the nightingales.
"But for St. Jerome's I would not stay another day here," ran her thoughts. "I almost wish now I had not stirred in the church matter, but let the benighted place alone. As it is--and Mr. Cattacomb'scome--why, I must make the best of it, and do my duty. Stay! stay, Theresa Blake!" she broke off in self-soliloquising sternness. "Is this fulfilling your good resolution--to give up all and bear all? Let me put away these most evil thoughts and work bravely on, and stay here cheerfully for Lucy's sake. It may be that she will want a friend, and I--Oh, there he is!"
The last sentence related to Karl. She had gradually got round the house to the other side, which brought her in face of Sir Karl's room. The doors of the window stood wide open; a lamp was on the table, by the light of which he seemed to be reading a note and talking to Hewitt, who stood near. Crossing over on the soft grass she drew within ear-shot, not really with any intention of listening, but in her mind's abstraction--what was there likely to pass between Sir Karl and his servant that concerned her to hear? With the bright lamp inside and the darkness out, they could not see her.
"You must be very cautious, Hewitt," Sir Karl was saying. "Implicitly silent."
"I have been, sir, and shall be," was the answer. "There's no fear ofme. I have not had the interests of the family at heart all these years, Sir Karl, to compromise them now."
"I know, I know, Hewitt. Well, that's all, I think, for to-night."
Miss Blake passed back again out of hearing, very slowly and thoughtfully. She had heard the words, and was dissecting them: it almost sounded as though Sir Karl and his man had some secret together. Stepping on to the terrace, she was about to go in, when she heard Sir Karl enter the drawing-room and speak to his wife.
"I think I shall take a bit of a stroll, Lucy."
"To smoke your cigar? Do so, Karl."
"I--wonder--whether it is an excuse to go where he went the other night?" thought Miss Blake, the idea striking her like a flash of lightning. "I'll watch him. I will. I said I would, and I will. His family may have interests of their own, but Lucy and her family have theirs, and for her sake I'll watch."
Drawing the shawl over her head, she passed out at one of the small gates, crossed the road, and glided along under cover of the opposite hedge as far as the Maze. There she stood, back amidst the trees, and sheltered from observation. The dress she wore happened to be black, for it was one of St. Jerome's fast-days, the shawl was black, and she could not be seen in the shade.
It was a still night. The dew was rising, and there seemed to be some damp exhaled from the trees. The time passed, ever so many minutes, and she began to think she had come on a fruitless errand. Or was it that Sir Karl was only lingering with his wife?
"Good gracious! What was that?"
A shrill shriek right over Miss Blake's head had caused the words and the start. It must have been only a night bird; but her nerves--what few she had--were on the tension, and she began to tremble slightly. It was not a pleasant position, and she wished herself away.
"I'll go," she mentally cried. "I wish I had not come. I--hope--Mr. Smith's--not looking out, or he will see me!" she added, slowly and dubiously.
The doubt caused her to stay where she was and strain her eyes at the opposite cottage. Was it fancy? One of the windows stood open, and she thought she saw a head and eyes peeping from it. Peeping, not openly looking.
"He must have seen me come!" decided Miss Blake. "But surely he'd not know me, wrapped up like this! Hark!"
A very slight sound had dawned upon her ear. Was it Sir Karl advancing? Surely the sound was that of footsteps! At the same moment, there arose another and separate sound; and that was close to her, inside the gates by which she stood.
"Some one must be coming out!" breathed Miss Blake. "It's getting complicated. I wish I was safe away. Two pairs of eyes may see what one would not."
Sir Karl Andinnian--for the footsteps were his--advanced. Very quietly and cautiously. Miss Blake could see that he had changed his dress coat for another, which he had buttoned round him, though the night was close. Halting at the gate he drew the key from his pocket as before, unlocked it, and passed in. Some one met him.
"Karl! I am so glad you have come! I thought you would! I knew you had returned."
It was a soft, sweet voice: the same voice, Miss Blake could have laid a wager on it, that had sung "When lovely woman stoops to folly." Their hands met: she was sure of that. Perhaps their lips also: but she could not see.
"Why, how did you know I was back?" he asked. "Oh, Ann came to the gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass by from the station."
"Why are you out here!" he resumed. "Is it prudent!"
"I was restless, expecting you. I have so much to say; and, do you know, Karl----"
The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the thirsty ears outside. Both had spoken but in whispers. Miss Blake cautiously stretched forth her head, so as to get a glimpse through theclosely-barred gate. Yes: it was the lovely girl she had seen during that stealthy visit of hers: and she had taken Sir Karl's arm while she talked to him. Another minute, and they both disappeared within the trees of the maze.
Whether Miss Blake was glued to the trunk of the tree she stood at, or whether it was glued to her, remains a problem to be solved. It was one of the two. There she stood; and leave it she could not. That the flood-gates of a full tide of iniquity had suddenly been opened upon her was as clear to her mind as the light of day. Much that had been incomprehensible in the Maze and its inmates admitted of no doubt now. An instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously: but she had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to dwell on it. And now--it seemed as though she stood at the edge of a yawning precipice looking down on a gulf of almost unnatural evil, from the midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone prominently out, the incarnation of all that was wicked and false and treacherous. But for the necessity of stillness and silence, Miss Blake could have groaned aloud.
A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to wait or watch for: she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis Cottage and the eyes that might be peeping from it, she got back into the grounds of Foxwood and sat down on the bare terrace in the night to commune with herself. What should her course be? Surely she ought to impart the secret to that poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife.
Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was by nature, she strove to do her duty in all conscientiousness at all times and in all places. Sin she detested, no matter of what nature; detested it both as sin and for its offence against God. That Sir Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his innocent and unsuspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not be allowed to go on--at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To allow her to remain the loving and unsuspicious partner of this man would be almost like making her a third in the wickedness, was what Miss Blake thought in her anger. And she decided on her course.
"And I--if I did not enlighten her, knowing what I know--should be countenancing and administering to the sin," she said aloud. "Good heavens! what a pit seems to be around us! may I be helped to do right!"
Rising, and shaking the night dew from her hair, she passed upstairs to her own chamber. Lady Andinnian was moving about her dressing-room. Impulse induced Miss Blake to knock at the door. Not that she intended to speak then.
"Are you undressing, Lucy?" she asked, an unconscious pity in her voice for the poor young wife.
"Not yet, Theresa. Aglaé's coming up, though, I think. It was dull downstairs by myself, and I thought I might as well come on. I could not find you anywhere. I thought you must have gone to bed."
"I was out of doors."
"Were you? I called to you outside on the terrace, but no one answered."
"Sir Karl is out, then?"
"He is strolling about somewhere," replied Lucy. "He does not sleep well, and likes to take half an hour's stroll the last thing. It strikes me sometimes that Karl's not strong, Theresa: but I try to throw the fear off."
Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting them to an enforced silence. She was burning to say what she could say, but knew it would be premature.
"I will wish you goodnight, Lucy, my dear. I am tired, and--and out of sorts."
"Good night, Theresa: dormez bien," was the gay answer.
"To waste her love and solicitude uponhim!" thought Miss Blake, as she stepped along the corridor with erect head and haughty brow. "I told Colonel Cleeve before the marriage that he was wild--little Dennet had said so--but I was put down. No wonder Sir Karl cannot spend his income on his home! he has other ways and means for it. Oh, how true are the words of holy writ! 'The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.'"