"Silence, foolish girl!" he said sternly. "Hast thou not been told a hundred times to think no more of him? How dost thou dare to answer thy mother thus? Culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is no match for thee. It is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy dwell still on him. Methought thou hadst been cured of that childish liking long since. But if it has not been so, thou shalt soon be cured now!"
Kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly formidable. No one knew better than his favourite daughter that when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she shrank yet further away as she asked:
"What dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?"
"I mean, Kate," answered Sir Richard, not unkindly, but so resolutely that his words fell upon her ear like a knell, "that the best and safest plan of curing thee of thy fond and foolish fancy, which can never come to good, is to wed thee with a man who will make thee a kind and loving husband, and will maintain thee in the state to which thou hast been born. Wherefore, prepare to wed with Sir Robert Fortescue without delay, for to him I will give thy hand in wedlock so soon as we can have thee ready to be his bride."
Kate stood for a moment as if transfixed and turned to stone, and then she suddenly sank upon her knees at her father"s feet.
"Father," she said, in a strange, choked voice, that indicated an intense emotion and agitation, "thou canst not make me the wife of another; for methinks I am well nigh, if not altogether, the wife of my cousin Culverhouse."
"What?" almost shouted Sir Richard, making one step forward and seizing his daughter by the arm. "Wretched girl, what is this that thou sayest? The wife of thy cousin Culverhouse! Shame upon thee for so base a falsehood! How dost thou dare to frame thy lips to it?"
"It is no falsehood!" answered Kate, with flashing eyes, springing to her feet and confronting her parents with all her old courage, and with a touch of defiance. "I would have kneeled to ask your pardon for my rashness, for my disobedience, for the long concealment; but I am no liar, I speak but the truth. Listen, and I will tell all. It was on May Day, and I rode forth into the forest and distanced pursuit, and joined my cousin Culverhouse, as we had vowed to do. We thought then of naught but the joy of a day together in the forest, and had not dreamed of such a matter as wedlock. But then to the church porch came one calling himself a priest. They say he comes every year, and weds all who will come to him. And many did. And Culverhouse and I stood before him, and he joined our hands, and we made our vows, and he p.r.o.nounced us man and wife before all a.s.sembled there. And whether it be binding wedlock or no, it is to us a solemn betrothal made before G.o.d and man; and not all the commands thou couldst lay upon me, my father, could make me stand up and vow myself to another as I have vowed myself to Culverhouse. I should hold myself forsworn; I should be guilty of the vilest crime in the world. Thou wilt not ask it of me. Thou canst not know, even as I do not know, whether that wedlock is not valid before man, as it is before G.o.d."
A thunderbolt falling between them could scarcely have produced more astonishment and dismay. Lady Frances sank back in her seat white with horror and bewilderment, whilst Sir Richard stood as if turned to stone; and when at last he was able to speak, it was to order Kate to her room in accents of the sternest anger, bidding her not to dare to leave it until he brought her forth himself.
Kate fled away gladly enough, her mind rent in twain betwixt remorse at her own disobedience and deceit, triumph in having stopped Sir Robert"s suit by so immovable an obstacle, and relief that the truth was out at last, even though her own dire disgrace was the result. The secret had preyed terribly on her mind of late, and had been undermining her health and spirits. Terrible as the anger of her parents might be, anything to her open nature seemed better than concealment; and she dashed up to her own room in a whirl of conflicting emotions, sinking down upon the floor when she reached it to try to get into order her chaotic thoughts.
Meantime husband and wife, left alone to their astonishment, stood gazing at each other in blank amaze.
"Husband," said Lady Frances at last, "surely such wedlock is not lawful?"
"I cannot tell," he answered gloomily; "belike it is not. Yet a troth plight made in so solemn a fashion, and before so many witnesses, is no light thing; and the child may not be wedded to another whilst the smallest shadow of doubt remains. Doubtless Culverhouse foresaw this, the bold knave, and persuaded the child into it. Well it has served his purpose. Sir Robert must be content with Cecilia. But the artfulness of the little jade! I never thought Kate would so deceive us--"
"It is that that breaks my heart!" cried the mother--"that, and the thought that she should be willing to go before some Popish priest and take her vows to him. Oh, it cannot be binding on the child--it cannot be binding! And Sir Robert is stanch in the Reformed faith; he is just the husband that wild girl needs. Husband, can nothing be done?"
Sir Richard looked very grave.
"That would be hard to tell without strict inquiries. I doubt me if we could learn all before next May Day, when we might get hold of the man himself and find out who and what he is. Such wedlock as his cannot be without flaw, and might be made invalid by law; but, wife, there is no getting over this, that the child took her vows in the name of G.o.d, and I dare not act as though such vows were unspoken. Her youth and ignorance may plead in part for her. She scarce knew the solemnity of the step she was taking. Culverhouse won upon her and over persuaded her, I do not doubt. I do not seek to excuse her. I am grievously displeased and disappointed. But I cannot and I will not give her to Sir Robert; Cecilia must be his wife."
"Then Kate must be sent away," said Lady Frances, gravely and severely; "I cannot and will not have her here, mixing as before with her sisters with this cloud hanging upon her, with this secret still shadowing her life. She has proved unworthy of our confidence. I am more pained and displeased than I can say. She must go. She must not be able to tell Cecilia that she might have been Lady Fortescue but for her marriage with Culverhouse. She is no longer to be trusted. She must go forth from home as a punishment for her wrongdoing. I feel that I cannot bear to see her about the house, knowing how she has deceived us. She shall go forth this very day."
Sir Richard stood considering. He too was deeply displeased with his daughter, though he had some sympathy with the ardent and impulsive lovers, who had got themselves into a queer plight, and had thrown much perplexity upon others. But he decidedly agreed with his wife that it would be better for Kate to go--and to go in disgrace, that she might feel herself punished by being severed from her sisters when the first wedding of the family was taking place (save her own woodland nuptials). And it would doubtless save some natural embarra.s.sment to Sir Robert himself to have one of the sisters out of the way before he formally espoused the other; though, to be sure, such a proposition as his had been was a common enough thing in those days.
"It would be good to send her away; but whither can she go?"
"Where better than to Lady Humbert and Mistress Dowsabel, who have ofttimes asked us to send a daughter to enliven their dull solitude? We have ever excused them on account of their youth and high spirits, fearing they would be moped to death in that dismal place; but it will be the very house for our wayward Kate to go to repent of her ill deeds. If you will write a letter to them, we will send it forthwith by a mounted messenger, and the answer will be back before dark. If she is to go, she can start with the first light of tomorrow morning, and we can get her mails packed ready tonight; for she must not disgrace her state, but must be furnished with all things fitting to her condition."
Sir Richard thought that no other plan better than this could be devised for his erring daughter; and though he could not but feel some compa.s.sion for the girl, condemned to be the companion of a pair of aged and feeble gentlewomen such as his aunts had long been, was nevertheless of opinion that the captivity and dullness would be salutary, and despatched his letter without delay.
That same night Kate, who had pa.s.sed the long hours in weeping and rejoicing, and in all those conflicting phases of feeling common to the young, heard with a mixture of" pleasure and dismay that she was to be sent in disgrace to the keeping of her great aunts, and that without delay; also that she was not even to say goodbye to her sisters, or to see them again until something had been decided as to her future and the validity of her wilful espousals. She was made to feel that she had committed a terrible sin, and one that her parents would find it hard to forgive; yet she could not help exulting slightly in the thought that they had been obliged to take the matter so seriously; and she had a dim hope that her aged relatives, when she did come to them, might not prove altogether so crabbed and cross as she had always been led to suppose. Perhaps she might find a warm corner even in their old hearts.
Chapter 19: The Cross Way House.
With the first light of day the start was to be made. Kate, who had slept little, was ready betimes, had dressed herself in her riding suit long before she was sent for, and was employing herself in wondering if she would after all be permitted to say farewell to her sisters, and whether she should have an opportunity of asking her mother"s pardon for her wrongdoing in this matter of her secret espousals.
The girl had suffered a good deal during these past months. She had not realized when yielding to Culverhouse"s persuasions how hard it would be to live beneath her parents" roof with this secret preying on her mind. She had not realized what a weight it would become in time, and she had looked for a speedy meeting with her cousin and betrothed in London, whither Sir Richard had intended taking his family for a while before the autumn set in. Kate had looked forward then to making her confession to her parents and his, and winning pardon for them both, as she felt sure of doing when she had his support in the telling of the tale. But the change of her father"s plans, and the absence from England of Lord Culverhouse, who had been sent on a mission to France by his father, put an end to all these hopes, and she had felt the burden of her secret heavy indeed. Moreover, she was fearful lest Culverhouse should in some sort repent him of the step he had taken and wish it undone. Kate had but a small share of vanity, and only a very modest appreciation of her own attractions, and it seemed to her as though her cousin, moving as he did in the gay world of fashion, must surely see many other maidens tenfold more beautiful and graceful. Suppose he were to repent of his secret betrothal; suppose his troth plight weighed heavy on his spirit? what misery that would be for both! And during these long months of silence such thoughts and fears had preyed upon the girl"s spirit, and had produced in her the change that both her parents had observed.
Wherefore now that the confession had been made, and the burdensome secret was a secret no longer, a reaction set in that was almost like relief. She felt certain, since all was known, that Culverhouse would come forward and stand boldly beside her and lay claim to her hand before the world as he had talked of doing when he had led her to the troth plight on that May Day that seemed so long ago now.
Even the thought of the journey and the visit to her father"s great aunts was not altogether distasteful. She was more afraid of meeting her mother"s sorrowful glances than stern ones from strangers. Kate had no lack of courage, and the love of variety and change was implanted in her as strongly as it is in most young things; so that when Philip knocked at her door as the first rays of the October sun were gilding the trees and fields, it was with a smiling face that she opened to him, whilst he looked at her with something of smiling surprise in his glance.
"Art ready, my sister? the horses will be at the door in a few short minutes. I am glad to see thee so bright and happy. I had feared to discover thee bathed in tears of woe."
"Perchance I ought to be heavier hearted than I am," answered Kate, with a swift glance at Philip through her long lashes. "I do repent me that I have angered our father and mother. I know that I have been wrong to keep the secret; perchance I was wrong to let Culverhouse persuade me. But that the thing is done I cannot truly repent; the only thing which would make me wish that vow unsaid would be if Culverhouse were to wish to be free of his troth plight."
"Which I trow he never will be," answered Philip warmly, as he laid his hand on Kate"s shoulder.
Those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy. Kate knew all his love for Petronella, and his anxiety for her since her flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with Cuthbert in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers.
"He has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we played together as children. Save that concealment ever leads to trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings of, I could find it in my heart to wish that Petronella and I were wed in like fashion. But our mother is sorely grieved at what thou hast done--going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy parents before they pa.s.sed thy lips, and should have been made in different fashion and in a different place. Howbeit no doubt time will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought. When we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my father and I will to London to speak with Lord Andover of this business. I trust all will end well for thee, sister. But thou must learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that they do not fear to give thee to Culverhouse at last, since it must needs be so."
Kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her brother"s words.
"In very sooth I will try, Philip. I thank thee for thy good counsel. I will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts. I will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy my mother when she makes inquiry of them."
Kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through the forest and across the heath that day. Her father was stern and grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her. Philip and she talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure, and observed a befitting decorum and quietness. Sir Richard made his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him exactly how and where it had taken place. As they stopped to bait the horses at the little hostelry, he made various inquiries concerning the priest and his annual visitation to the wake on May Day, and his face looked none the less severe as he heard the replies.
"Methinks the knot hath been something tightly tied--too tight for it to be easily unloosed," whispered Philip to his sister as he lifted her to the saddle after the noontide halt; and she could not but answer by a bright smile, which she saw reflected in his face.
The day, which had been bright and fine, turned dull and lowering as the riders neared the Cross Way House, as the residence of Lady Humbert was called; and Kate looked curiously at the house as they approached it, wondering what sort of a life its inmates led.
To her eyes, accustomed to the seclusion of park and grounds, the most striking feature of this house was that it stood actually upon the road itself. It occupied an angle of the cross formed by the junction of four roads, and its north and east windows looked out straight upon these two highways, with nothing intervening between them but some twenty feet of paved walk enclosed behind walls ten feet high, and guarded by strong gates of wrought iron.
Doubtless to the south and west there were gardens and grounds. The walls seemed to run a long way along the road, and Kate felt certain that she should find seclusion and privacy there. She could see tall trees rearing their heads above the wall, and was certain from the aspect of the house, which was sufficiently imposing, that she should find within the ease and luxury to which she was accustomed.
On the whole, she rather liked the prospect of looking out upon the roads. If Culverhouse were to ride by, she could signal to him from the windows. She could watch the fine folk pa.s.sing to and fro on their way to London. Possibly a belated traveller might ask shelter at the house, and amuse them with tales of adventure and peril. Kate had time to think of many things as their horses stood at the gates awaiting admittance; and when these were thrown back at last, and they rode through an archway and into a centre courtyard round which the house was built, the girl was delighted with everything; for the quadrangular structure was a novelty to her, and a novelty which took her fancy not a little. There were servants to look after the horses; and it was plain the travellers were expected, for they were quickly ushered into the house by one of the great doors which opened on a wide flight of steps leading down into the court, and were there met by an aged majordomo, who greeted them with ceremonious solemnity.
"My lady is looking for you, sir," he said to Sir Richard; and turning to Kate, he added, in the same mechanical fashion, "Your maid will show you to your room, madam. My lady will see you after you have recovered from the fatigues of the journey."
Kate was not in the least fatigued, but she was too well brought up to remonstrate in any way. The maid was hovering in the background; an elderly woman with a capable face and slightly repellent manner. It was plain to Kate that her relatives would not receive her till they had learned more of the details of her banishment from home from her father, and had made up their minds how to treat her. She felt that even the serving woman regarded her somewhat in the light of a culprit, and it was with a mind divided betwixt amus.e.m.e.nt and girlish shame that she followed the attendant into the bed chamber that had been prepared for her.
This was a more sumptuous apartment than her room at home, and looked comfortable enough in the glow of the great fire of logs. The hangings of the bed were dark and heavy, and the carved oak furniture was also sombre in its polished blackness; but there was a thick square carpet on the floor, which was a luxury Kate had never possessed in her bed chamber before, and the mirrors and silver sconces for the candles all bespoke an ease and luxury that reminded Kate of what life would be like when she lived as a Countess or Viscountess in her own house, with Lord Culverhouse as lord and master.
"This is your room," said the woman. "Your mails arrived earlier in the day, and your things have been put away in the cupboard there and in the bureau yonder. My lady gave orders you were to be served with something to eat and drink in your own room, and that she would visit you later. There is another young lady visiting in the house; she will come and see you if you will permit her."
"Very willingly," answered Kate, who was always ready for company, and very curious to know something about these great aunts of hers, whom she had never seen as yet. "I shall be glad of food, as I liked not what they served us with at the inn in the forest. As for the young lady, albeit I know not who she can be, I should gladly welcome her. I have no love for too much of my own company; wherefore the sooner she comes the better shall I be pleased."
The woman withdrew, and Kate removed her hat and gloves, and looked about her with quick, searching glances.
"A good room in sooth, and no bad prison, if prisoner I am to be. And since I may have company, I can scarce be in such dire disgrace as that. I wonder who this visitor may be? Some Wyvern, belike; but doubtless we shall learn to take pleasure in each other.
"Soft! are those steps without? Yes; and some one knocks at the door.