CHAPTER II

Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees.  And it was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first time outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her.  He wore long water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making a circuit to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom—the river aforesaid—he made straight for the point whence proceeded the low roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the stream’s existence.  He speedily stood on the verge of the waterfall which caused the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall, waded through with the sure tread of one who knew every inch of his footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the darkness almost absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into the pool beneath.  Soon reaching the boundary of the grounds, he continued in the same direct line to traverse the alluvial valley, full of brooks and tributaries to the main stream—in former times quite impassable, and impassable in winter now.  Sometimes he would cross a deep gully on a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed his way through beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right or left he might have been sucked down into a morass.  At last he reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came to his house on the rise behind—Elsenford—an ordinary farmstead, from the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and snortings, the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an agriculturist’s home.

While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the candles.

‘I ought—I must now!’ she whispered to herself.  ‘I should not have begun it if I had not meant to carry it through!  It runs in the blood of us, I suppose.’  She alluded to a fact unknown to her lover, the clandestine marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat similar to the present.  In a few minutes she had penned the following note:-

October 13, 183-.

DEAR MR. BEALAND—Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me at the Church to-morrow morning at eight?  I name the early hour because it would suit me better than later on in the day.  You will find me in the chancel, if you can come.  An answer yes or no by the bearer of this will be sufficient.

CHRISTINE EVERARD.

She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side-door of the house till she heard the servant’s footsteps returning along the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage.  The rector had taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that he would meet her with pleasure.

A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly favourable to the scheme of the pair.  At that time of the century Froom-Everard House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane passed close under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the old parlours—the south parlour, as it was called—into the lane which led to the village.  Christine came out this way, and after following the lane for a short distance entered upon a path within a belt of plantation, by which the church could be reached privately.  She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside.  She crossed the wet graves, and so glided round to the door.  He was there, with his bag in his hand.  He kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment her heart would fail her.

Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour in Christine’s bearing—merely the momentum of an antecedent impulse.  They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and under such an atmosphere.  They stood by the altar-rail in silence, Christine’s skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.

Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came round by the front.  He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her without revealing any surprise at her unusual request.   But in truth he was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the present day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.

‘Good morning,’ he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more mechanically.

‘Good morning,’ she replied gravely.  ‘Mr. Bealand, I have a serious reason for asking you to meet me—us, I may say.  We wish you to marry us.’

The rector’s gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.

‘Ah!’ he said at last.

‘And we are quite ready.’

‘I had no idea—’

‘It has been kept rather private,’ she said calmly.

‘Where are your witnesses?’

‘They are outside in the meadow, sir.  I can call them in a moment,’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh—I see it is—Mr. Nicholas Long,’ said Mr. Bealand, and turning again to Christine, ‘Does your father know of this?’

‘Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?’

‘I am afraid it is—highly necessary.’

Christine began to look concerned.

‘Where is the licence?’ the rector asked; ‘since there have been no banns.’

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied him several minutes—or at least he made it appear so; till Christine said impatiently, ‘We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand.  Will you proceed?  Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles to-day.’

‘And you?’

‘No.  I remain.’

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness.  ‘There is something wrong in this,’ he said.  ‘I cannot marry you without your father’s presence.’

‘But have you a right to refuse us?’ interposed Nicholas.  ‘I believe we are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.’

‘No, you are not!  Is Miss Everard of age?  I think not.  I think she is months from being so.  Eh, Miss Everard?’

‘Am I bound to tell that?’

‘Certainly.  At any rate you are bound to write it.  Meanwhile I refuse to solemnize the service.  And let me entreat you two young people to do nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some strange church, you may do so without discovery.  The tragedy of marriage—’

‘Tragedy?’

‘Certainly.  It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the death of one of the actors.  The tragedy of marriage, as I was saying, is one I shall not be a party to your beginning with such light hearts, and I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard, Miss Everard.  Think better of it, I entreat you!  Remember the proverb, “Marry in haste and repent at leisure.”’

Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him.  Nicholas implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector.  She sat down and reflected.  By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.

‘Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,’ she said.  ‘Now grant me one favour, and in return I’ll promise you to do nothing rashly.  Do not tell my father a word of what has happened here.’

‘I agree—if you undertake not to elope.’

She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her.  ‘Do you wish me to elope, Nic?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas remaining till the last, and closing the door.  On his way home, carrying the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if they had been on the alert all the time.

‘You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?’

‘All right—never mind,’ he answered through the hedge.  ‘I did not require you after all.’ t/GcPV2SZ9iGa1PHNa+1QHSB1kn8XMshpnBVqG1tKkFIzZYlbN0u4DCuFimCCzhN