Miss Blake carried her point. In a very short space of time the little way-side room in the ruins--call it chapel, school-room, barn, what you will--was converted into a church and styled "St. Jerome." Setting to work at once with a will, Miss Blake had left not a stone unturned to accomplish her purpose. She pressed several of the young ladies in the village into the service. Nothing loth, they. Having heard of the divers merits of the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, they could but be desirous so shining a light should be secured amidst them. Miss Blake herself brought all her rare energy, her unflagging perseverance to the task. When she took a cause to heart, no woman was so indomitable as she. As may readily be supposed, a good deal had to be done to the room before it could be made what was wanted; but contrivance worked wonders. All the money Miss Blake could spare she freely applied: it was not sufficient, and she wrote to sundry friends, begging contributions. She next went, with Miss St. Henry and Miss Moore, to some of the houses in the vicinity, to every one where it might be safe to go, asking for aid. This personal canvass was not always successful. Some professed not to understand why a second church was required, and gave shillings instead of pounds. One old lady, however, had her generous instincts so worked upon by the eloquence of Miss Blake (as much as she could hear of it, for she was very deaf, and her companion declared afterwards that she believed all the while she was giving to a new industrial school possessing a resident chaplain) that she handed over a cheque for fifty guineas. Miss Blake could not believe her eyes when she saw it: and she assured the old lady that every blessing of heaven would be showered down on her in return. Miss Blake's personal friends also contributed well--and the matter was accomplished. Not only was the chapel itself set up, but the stipend of Mr. Cattacomb assured for the first few months. To do Miss Blake justice, she wished all things to be religiously right, and she never entertained a doubt that the place had once been duly consecrated. Her whole heart was in the work--always excepting a slight small corner of it that was still filled with her wrongs and Karl Andinnian.
The early afternoon sun shone down on the bright flowers, the well kept lawns of Foxwood Court, as Miss Blake stepped out of one of its windows, her walking costume perfect. She was always well dressed: but to-day her toilet was more elaborate than usual. Standing for a moment to look round at the beautiful place, at its complete order, there rose up in her heart one wild, angry thought--"But for Lucy, this would have been my own." A very mistaken assumption on Miss Blake's part, but who was to convince her of that? Banishing the thought resolutely, she walked along at a brisk pace, as if running a race with time. It was a great day this. Two events were coming off in it that stirred Miss Blake to the core. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb was expected by the four o'clock train; and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian would arrive at home for dinner.
Miss Blake took the way to St. Jerome's Church, a very choice bouquet of hothouse flowers in her hand. Glancing at the gate of the Maze--in regard to which place her interest had not in the least abated--she bore onwards, and soon joined some groups of ladies, who were advancing to St. Jerome's by the more direct route from the village. They had appointed to meet that afternoon and put the finishing touches to the room ere it should be seen by its pastor-- if indeed any touches remained to be done. A matter such as this could not but have excited much comment at Foxwood ever since the first day that Miss Blake took it in hand. Prudent mothers, full of occupation themselves, warned their daughters against being "led away." The daughters, whose hands were idle, rushed to the new attraction, stealthily at first, openly afterwards. They grew to be as energetic as Miss Blake herself, and were in a fervour of eagerness for the arrival of Mr. Cattacomb.
Miss Blake opened the door and allowed the rest to file in. She stayed looking at something that did not please her--a wheel-barrow full of earth lodging right against St. Jerome's outside walls.
"I should not wonder but it's that Tom Pepp who has left it there!" said Miss Blake severely. "The boy is for ever dodging about here--and brings other boys in his train. When Mr. Cattacomb----"
"Good afternoon, madam!"
Miss Blake turned at the address, and recognized Mr. Smith--his green spectacles on and his arm in a sling as usual. She had seen him once or twice since that first meeting, but he had only bowed in passing.
"May I be permitted to enter?" he asked, waving his hand at the church door.
"Oh, certainly," she replied. "Indeed I hope you will become one of St. Jerome's constant worshippers." So he went in with the crowd of ladies.
It certainly looked a sweet little place--as Jane St. Henry remarked aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls--for Miss Blake knew exactly what would please Mr. Cattacomb. The common whitewashed walls were nearly hidden: mottoes, a painting or two, and prints lay thickly on them, all of course of a sacred character. The plain, straw-seated chairs stood pretty thickly. The other arrangements were as good as funds, time, and space had allowed. Leading off on one side at the upper end, was a small vestry; with a sort of corner box in it that was to serve as a confessional. This vestry--which used to be the place where The school children put their hats and bonnets--had an objectionable, modern window in it; before which was hung a blind of printed calico, securing the vestry's privacy from sun and gazers.
Mr. Smith might have been a travelled man, but in all his travels he had seen no place of worship like unto this. He was saying so to himself as he turned and gazed about through his green glasses. He took them off and gazed again.
"Is it not charming, sir?" asked Jane St. Henry.
"It is rather small," was the response.
"Oh, that's the worst," said the young lady. "One cannot have everything at the beginning: there must always be some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much larger than this, where there are three sweet little private sanctuaries: here we have only one."
"Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not understanding.
"Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry."
"Oh, then the place is Roman Catholic!" said Mr. Smith, quietly. "I thought so."
He had no intention to offend: it was simply what he inferred: but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her two hands to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a free, showy girl, stepped up.
"For goodness' sake don't call it that," she said. "Papa would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does."
Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help thinking this was a daughter of the vicar of the old church, but was not sure: and he wondered much.
Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined St. Jerome's. They and their mother had long set the vicar at defiance.
Foxwood was deemed to be a particularly healthy place; in the summer months, invalids were wont to resort to it from the neighbouring town of Basham. To meet requirements, lodgings being scarce, a row of houses had been run up in the heart of the village, near where the old pound used to stand. They were called Paradise Row. Very pretty to look at; perhaps not quite so good to wear; stuccoed white fronts outside, lath and plaster within. If the door of one banged, the whole of the houses shook; and the ringing of a sitting-room bell was heard right and left throughout the Row.
It was in the middle house of these favoured dwellings, No. 5, kept by Mrs. Jinks, that the ladies had secured apartments for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The bow-windowed front parlour, and the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks, familiarly called by her neighbours and friends the Widow Jinks, was beyond the middle age--to speak politely--with a huge widow's cap nearly as black as the chimney, and a huge black bonnet generally tilted on the top of it. She had deemed herself very lucky to find her rooms taken by the ladies for the new clergyman, boasting to her neighbours that it was of course a "permanent let:" but before the clergyman arrived, she had grown somewhat out of conceit of the "let," so worried was she by the young ladies. Parties of them were always calling, bringing this, that, and the other for the comfort of their expected pastor, and calling the Widow Jinks to the door a dozen times in a day.
Upon leaving St. Jerome's this afternoon, the ladies went in a body to Paradise Row, intending to await the advent of the Reverend Guy, and to see that butter and other essentials had been got in for him. Miss Blake could have dispensed with so large a party--but what was she to do?--There they were, and stuck to her. All the way to the house they had been talking of Mr. Smith; wondering who he was and why he had come to live at Foxwood. Miss St. Henry at length remembered to have heard he was a friend of the Andinnian family, and had been looking after things as agent during the absence of Sir Karl.
"An agent!" exclaimed Miss Blake, drawing herself up.
"Not a common agent, of course. Does what he does out of friendship. Here we are."
"Oh, that's very different," returned Miss Blake, giving a loud, long, important knock at the Widow Jinks's door.
"Well, that is a shame of old Jinks!" cried Jemima Moore, in an undertone to the rest as they got admittance and went into the parlour.
For the Widow Jinks had not deemed it necessary to smarten herself up to receive her new lodger. She answered the door in her ordinary working costume: rusty black gown, huge cap, and bonnet. Her face and hands were black too, as if she had been disturbed in cleaning the pots and kettles.
"She ought to be told of it. And did you see how sour she looked?"
Miss Blake put the beautiful bouquet of hothouse flowers--which she had been guarding carefully--into a vase of water, for it was for Mr. Cattacomb they had been destined. Some light refreshment in the shape of wine and cake stood ready on the table; and Mrs. Jinks was examined as to other preparations. All was in readiness, and the ladies waited with impatience.
An impatience that at length subsided into doubt, and that into disappointment. The clock had gone ticking on; the train must have been in long ago, and it became evident Mr. Cattacomb had not come. Miss Blake walked home slightly vexed: and there she found Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian.
Things often go cross and contrary. They had not been expected until later, and Miss Blake had intended to preside--if it may be called
so--at both arrivals. As it happened, she had presided at neither. It was in crossing the lawn, that Lucy, radiant, blooming, joyous, ran out to meet her.
"Good gracious!" cried Miss Blake.
"Oh, Theresa, how beautiful and happy everything is!" cried the young wife, pushing back her bonnet to give and take the kiss of greeting. "Karl has been showing me the rooms. Hewitt said you would not be long."
"But when did you come, Lucy?"
"We came in by the four o'clock train, and took a fly. Here's my husband. Karl, do you see Theresa?"
Karl was coming down the terrace steps to greet her. Miss Blake advanced coldly.
"How do you do, Sir Karl?" and the hand she put into his seemed limp and cold. He did not look blooming; but worn, ill, and depressed.
They entered the hall together, the rays from the coloured windows shining on them and on the tesselated floor, lighting all up with a cheerful brightness. The reception-rooms were on either side the hall: they were what Sir Karl had been showing to his wife. Lucy declared it was the prettiest house she was ever in.
"I like this room better than any of the grand ones," spoke Miss Blake, leading to the little north room she generally sat in, where we saw her breakfasting with Mrs. Cleeve.
"It shall be called your room then, Theresa," said Lucy. "Oh yes, it is very pretty," she continued, looking at the light paper, flecked with gold, the light furniture with its crimson satin coverings, the various tasty objects scattered about, and the glass doors, wide open to the terrace, to the sweet flowers, and to the smooth lawn beyond.
"I believe this was the late Lady Andinnian's favourite room," observed Karl.
"Let me see," said Lucy, stepping outside, "this must look towards the railway station. Oh yes; and Foxwood lies the other way."
Opposite to this window some steps descended to the lawn from the terrace. In very lightness of heart, she ran down and up them. Karl was talking to Miss Blake.
"There's a room answering to this in size and position on the other side the house; as of course you know," he observed. "Sir Joseph, I hear, made it his business room."
"Hewitt calls it Sir Karl's room, now," interrupted Miss Blake. "You smoke in it, don't you, Sir Karl?"
"I did smoke in it once or twice when I was staying down here during the time of my mother's illness," he replied. "But I am not a great smoker. Just one cigar at night: and not always that."
"Did I see that room, Karl?" asked his wife.
"No, Lucy. It was hardly worth showing you."
"Oh, but I shall like it better than all the rest, if it's yours."
"Come and see it then."
She put her arm within his, and he looked down on her with a smile as they went through the house. Miss Blake walked behind with drawn-in lips. Sir Karl was greatly altered in manner, she thought; all his life and spirits had left him: and he did not seem in the least glad to see her.
The room on the other side had grey walls and looked altogether rather dowdy. Books and maps were on the shelves, a large inkstand stood on the table, and the chimney-piece was ornamented with a huge Chinese tobacco-box.
"Now, Karl, that great arm-chair shall be yours, and this little one mine," said Lucy. "And you must let me come in when I please--although I can see it is to be your business room, just as it was Sir Joseph's."
"As often as you will, my darling."
He threw open the glass doors as he spoke, stepped across the terrace, and down the steps to the lawn--for this room answered in every respect to the other. This room faced the south; the front of the house the west, and Miss Blake's favourite room the north. The sun came slantwise across the flower beds. Sir Karl plucked one of the sweetest roses, and brought it to his wife. Lucy said nothing as she took it; but Miss Blake, observant Miss Blake, saw the lingering touch of their hands; the loving glance from Lucy's eyes to his.
"Shall I show you your rooms upstairs, Lady Andinnian? If you have not been up."
"Thank you, I'll take Lucy myself," said Karl. "No, we have not been up."
The rooms they were to occupy lay in front, towards the northern end of the corridor. The bedroom was large and beautifully fitted up. Just now Aglaé had it in confusion, unpacking. Two dressing-rooms opened from it. Sir Karl's on the right--the last room at that end; Lucy's on the left: and beyond Lucy's was another bedroom. These four rooms all communicated with each other: when their doors stood open you might see straight through all of them: each one could also be entered from the corridor.
"But what do we want with this second bedroom?" asked Lucy, as she stood in it with her husband.
A full minute elapsed before he answered her, for it was the room where that strange communication, which was o'ershadowing his life, had been made to him by his mother. The remembrance of the turbulent night and its startling disclosures was very present with him, and he turned to the window, and put his head out, as though gasping for a breath of air.
"They have not made any change, you see, Lucy: I did not give orders: It was my mother's chamber during her short span of residence here. The next, that little dressing-room of yours, she made her upstairs sitting-room. Perhaps you would like to have this made into a
sitting-room for yourself."
"Nay, Karl, if I want to sit upstairs, there's my dressing-room. We will let this be as it is. Is that Foxwood?" she added, pointing to the roofs of houses and a church-spire in the distance.
"Yes, that's Foxwood."
"And what are all those trees over the way?" turning her finger rather towards the right: in fact to the Maze. "There are some chimneys amidst them. Is it a house?"
"Yes."
"A gentleman's house? It must be pleasant to have neighbours so near, if they are nice people. Is it occupied, Karl!"
"I--I fancy so. The truth is, Lucy,"--breaking into rather a forced laugh--"that I am as yet almost as much a a stranger here as yourself. Shall I call Aglaé? I'm sure you must want to get your bonnet off."
"Aglaé's there, you know; I am going to her. But first of
all"--clasping her arms fondly round him and lifting her sweet face to his--"let me thank you for this beautiful home. Oh, Karl! how happy we shall be in it."
"God willing!" he answered in a beseeching tone of exquisite pain. And, as he held her to him in the moment's tenderness, his chest heaved with a strange emotion.
"How he loves me," thought Lucy, passing to her own rooms. For she put the emotion down to that. "I wonder if there ever was such love before in the world as his and mine? Aglaé, I must wear white to-day."
She went down to dinner in white muslin and white ribbons, with a lily in her hair, a very bride to look at. Poor girl! it was a gala-day with her, this coming home, almost like her wedding day. Poor wife!
The only one to talk much at dinner was Lucy. Miss Blake was not in one of her amiable moods: Sir Karl and Lucy had both dressed for dinner: she had not, not supposing they would, and that helped to put her out. In this retired spot, and with her head filled with Mr. Cattacomb and St. Jerome's, Miss Blake had been almost forgetting that there existed such a thing as dressing for dinner. Karl was silent and grave as usual, just like a man preoccupied. His wife had become used to his air of sadness. She set it down, partly to the cause of the mysterious communication he had made to her the night before their marriage, and which had never since been mentioned between them, and partly to his ill-fated brother's trouble and shocking death. Therefore Lucy took the sadness as a matter of course, and never would appear to notice it.
Miss Blake began to converse at last. She spoke of St. Jerome's: telling with much exultation all that had been done. But Sir Karl looked grave. The good sound doctrines and worship of what used to be called High-Church were his own: but he did not like these new and extreme movements that caused scandal.
"You say that this St. Jerome's is on my land, Miss Blake?"
"On your land, Sir Karl: but in Farmer Truefit's occupation. The consent lay with him and he gave it."
"Well, I hope you will have the good sense not to go too far."
Miss Blake lifted her head, and asked Hewitt for some bread. Lucy's pretty face had flushed, and she glanced timidly at her husband. Remembering past days, she had not much faith in Theresa's moderation.
"When Mrs. Cleeve, knowing Lucy's inexperience and youth, suggested that I should stay here for some time after her return home, Sir Karl, if agreeable to you and to her, and I acquiesced, wishing to be useful to both of you in any way that might be, I had no conception there was not a church open for daily worship in the place. I must go to daily worship, Sir Karl. It is as essential to me as my bread and cheese."
"I'm sure I can say nothing against daily worship--to those who have the time for it," rejoined Karl. "It is not that I fear, Miss Blake; think how beautiful the daily service was in Winchester Cathedral!"
"Oh, of course; yes," replied Miss Blake, in a slighting tone; "the cathedral service was very well as far as it went. But you need not fear, Sir Karl."
"Thank you," he replied; "I am glad to hear you say so." And the subject dropped.
The two ladies were alone for a few minutes after dinner in the North room. Lucy was standing at the open window.
"Of course you know all about the place by this time, Theresa," she suddenly said. "There's a house over there amidst those trees: who lives in it?"
"Some lady, I believe, who chooses to keep herself very retired," replied Miss Blake.
"Oh, I asked Karl, but he could not tell me: he says he is nearly as much a stranger here as I am. Theresa! I do think that's a nightingale! Listen."
"Yes we have nightingales here," said Miss Blake, indifferently.
Lucy crossed the lawn, and paced before the clusters of trees. The bird was just beginning its sweet notes. Karl came out, drew her hand within his arm, and walked with her until Miss Blake called out that the tea was waiting.
But Lucy yet was not very strong. She began to feel tired, and a sudden headache came on. When tea was over Karl said she must go to bed.
"I think I will," she answered, rising. "If you will pardon my leaving you, Theresa. Good night."
Karl went up with her and stayed a few minutes talking. In coming down he went straight to his smoking-room and shut the door.
"Very polite, I'm sure!" thought Miss Blake, resentfully.
But the next moment she heard him leave it and come towards the sitting-room.
"I will wish you good night too, Miss Blake," he said, offering his hand. "Pray ring for anything you may require; you are more at home, you know, than we are," he concluded with a slight laugh.
"Are you going to bed also, Sir Karl?"
"I? Oh no. I am going into my smoking-room. I have a letter to write."
Now Miss Blake resented this frightfully. Lucy might go to bed; it was best for her as she was fatigued; but that Sir Karl should thus unceremoniously leave her to her own company at nine o'clock, she could not pardon. As to letter writing, the post had gone out. It was evident he thought nothing of her, even as a friend; nothing.
Dropping her forehead upon her hands, she sat there she knew not how long. When she looked up it was nearly dark. Her thoughts had wandered to Mr. Cattacomb, and she wondered whether he would be arriving by the last train.
Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Miss Blake went into the garden, and thence by one of the small private gates into the lonely road. It was still and solitary. The nightingales were singing now, and she paced along, lost in thought, past the Maze and onwards.
She had reached nearly as far as the road to Foxwood, not having met a soul, when the advance of two or three passengers from the station told her the train was in. They turned off to the village, walking rapidly: but neither of them was the expected clergyman.
"What can have kept him?" she murmured, as she retraced her steps.
There was no moon, but the summer sky was light: not much of it, however, penetrated to the sides of the road through the overshadowing trees. Miss Blake had nearly gained the Maze when she heard the approach of footsteps. Not caring to be seen out so late alone, she drew back between the hedge and the clump of trees at the gate, and waited.
To her vexation, peeping forth from her place of shelter, she recognised Sir Karl Andinnian. He was stealing along under shadow of the hedge too--stealing along, as it seemed to Miss Blake, covertly and quietly. When he reached the gate he looked up the road and down the road, apparently to make sure that no one was within sight or hearing: then he took a small key from his pocket, unlocked the strong gate with it, entered, locked it after him again, and disappeared within the trees of the veritable maze.
To say that Miss Blake was struck with amazement would be saying little. What could it mean? What could Sir Karl want there? He had told his wife he knew not who lived in it. And yet he carried a private key to the place, and covertly stole into it on this the first night of his return! The queer ideas that floated through Miss Blake's mind, rapidly chasing each other, three parts bewildered her. They culminated in one emphatically spoken sentence.
"I should like to get inside too!"
Softly making her way across the road to enter the Court's grounds by the nearest gate, she chanced to lift her eyes to Clematis Cottage. The venetian shutters were closed. But, peering through one of them from the dark room, was a face that she was sure was Mr. Smith's. It looked just as though he had been watching Sir Karl Andinnian.