Chickerel, Mrs. Chickerel, and Picotee, the matron being reclined on a couch, which improved health had permitted her to substitute for a bed.

He had been expected, and all were glad to see again the sojourner in foreign lands, even down to the ladylike tabby, who was all purr and warmth towards him except when she was all claws and nippers.  But had the prime sentiment of the meeting shown itself it would have been the unqualified surprise of Christopher at seeing how much Picotee’s face had grown to resemble her sister’s: it was less a resemblance in contours than in expression and tone.

They had an early tea, and then Mr. Chickerel, sitting in a patriarchal chair, conversed pleasantly with his guest, being well acquainted with him through other members of the family.  They talked of Julian’s residence at different Italian towns with his sister; of Faith, who was at the present moment staying with some old friends in Melchester: and, as was inevitable, the discourse hovered over and settled upon Ethelberta, the prime ruler of the courses of them all, with little exception, through recent years.

‘It was a hard struggle for her,’ said Chickerel, looking reflectively out at the fir trees.  ‘I never thought the girl would have got through it.  When she first entered the house everybody was against her.  She had to fight a whole host of them single-handed.  There was the viscount’s brother, other relations, lawyers, ladies, servants, not one of them was her friend; and not one who wouldn’t rather have seen her arrive there in evil relationship with him than as she did come.  But she stood her ground.  She was put upon her mettle; and one by one they got to feel there was somebody among them whose little finger, if they insulted her, was thicker than a Mountclere’s loins.  She must have had a will of iron; it was a situation that would have broken the hearts of a dozen ordinary women, for everybody soon knew that we were of no family, and that’s what made it so hard for her.  But there she is as mistress now, and everybody respecting her.  I sometimes fancy she is occasionally too severe with the servants and I know what service is.  But she says it is necessary, owing to her birth; and perhaps she is right.’

‘I suppose she often comes to see you?’

‘Four or five times a year,’ said Picotee.

‘She cannot come quite so often as she would,’ said Mrs. Chickerel, ‘because of her lofty position, which has its juties.  Well, as I always say, Berta doesn’t take after me.  I couldn’t have married the man even though he did bring a coronet with him.’

‘I shouldn’t have cared to let him ask ye,’ said Chickerel.  ‘However, that’s neither here nor there—all ended better than I expected.  He’s fond of her.’

‘And it is wonderful what can be done with an old man when you are his darling,’ said Mrs. Chickerel.

‘If I were Berta I should go to London oftener,’ said Picotee, to turn the conversation.  ‘But she lives mostly in the library.  And, O, what do you think?  She is writing an epic poem, and employs Emmeline as her reader.’

‘Dear me.  And how are Sol and Dan?  You mentioned them once in your letters,’ said Christopher.

‘Berta has set them up as builders in London.’

‘She bought a business for them,’ said Chickerel.  ‘But Sol wouldn’t accept her help for a long time, and now he has only agreed to it on condition of paying her back the money with interest, which he is doing.  They have just signed a contract to build a hospital for twenty thousand pounds.’

Picotee broke in—‘You knew that both Gwendoline and Cornelia married two years ago, and went to Queensland?  They married two brothers, who were farmers, and left England the following week.  Georgie and Myrtle are at school.’

‘And Joey?’

‘We are thinking of making Joseph a parson,’ said Mrs. Chickerel.

‘Indeed! a parson.’

‘Yes; ’tis a genteel living for the boy.  And he’s talents that way.  Since he has been under masters he knows all the strange sounds the old Romans and Greeks used to make by way of talking, and the love stories of the ancient women as if they were his own.  I assure you, Mr. Julian, if you could hear how beautiful the boy tells about little Cupid with his bow and arrows, and the rows between that pagan apostle Jupiter and his wife because of another woman, and the handsome young gods who kissed Venus, you’d say he deserved to be made a bishop at once!’

The evening advanced, and they walked in the garden.  Here, by some means, Picotee and Christopher found themselves alone.

‘Your letters to my sister have been charming,’ said Christopher.  ‘And so regular, too.  It was as good as a birthday every time one arrived.’

Picotee blushed and said nothing.

Christopher had full assurance that her heart was where it always had been.  A suspicion of the fact had been the reason of his visit here to-day.

‘Other letters were once written from England to Italy, and they acquired great celebrity.  Do you know whose?’

‘Walpole’s?’ said Picotee timidly.

‘Yes; but they never charmed me half as much as yours.  You may rest assured that one person in the world thinks Walpole your second.’

‘You should not have read them; they were not written to you.  But I suppose you wished to hear of Ethelberta?’

‘At first I did,’ said Christopher.  ‘But, oddly enough, I got more interested in the writer than in her news.  I don’t know if ever before there has been an instance of loving by means of letters.  If not, it is because there have never been such sweet ones written.  At last I looked for them more anxiously than Faith.’

‘You see, you knew me before.’  Picotee would have withdrawn this remark if she could, fearing that it seemed like a suggestion of her love long ago.

‘Then, on my return, I thought I would just call and see you, and go away and think what would be best for me to do with a view to the future.  But since I have been here I have felt that I could not go away to think without first asking you what you think on one point—whether you could ever marry me?’

‘I thought you would ask that when I first saw you.’

‘Did you.  Why?’

‘You looked at me as if you would.’

‘Well,’ continued Christopher, ‘the worst of it is I am as poor as Job.  Faith and I have three hundred a year between us, but only half is mine.  So that before I get your promise I must let your father know how poor I am.  Besides what I mention, I have only my earnings by music.  But I am to be installed as chief organist at Melchester soon, instead of deputy, as I used to be; which is something.’

‘I am to have five hundred pounds when I marry.  That was Lord Mountclere’s arrangement with Ethelberta.  He is extremely anxious that I should marry well.’

‘That’s unfortunate.  A marriage with me will hardly be considered well.’

‘O yes, it will,’ said Picotee quickly, and then looked frightened.

Christopher drew her towards him, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, at which Picotee was not so wretched as she had been some years before when he mistook her for another in that performance.

‘Berta will never let us come to want,’ she said, with vivacity, when she had recovered.  ‘She always gives me what is necessary.’

‘We will endeavour not to trouble her,’ said Christopher, amused by Picotee’s utter dependence now as ever upon her sister, as upon an eternal Providence.  ‘However, it is well to be kin to a coach though you never ride in it.  Now, shall we go indoors to your father?  You think he will not object?’

‘I think he will be very glad,’ replied Picotee.  ‘Berta will, I know.’

 

 

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