Picotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.
'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not begin to speak.
'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.
'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He has forgotten me--that's what it is!'
'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.
Ethelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escape her, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same. 'I suppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only a headache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meeting at Anglebury?'
'Yes, he remembered me.'
'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'
'I had seen him at Sandbourne. I don't think I told you.'
'At whose house did you meet him?'
'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in great distress.
Ethelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming with compassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom she continually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of her strong ones. But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: the intended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar of interests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans. 'Picotee, Iwould rather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said. 'You need not leave me any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'
Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not long been alone and in darkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without a candle.
'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'
'O yes,' said Ethelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house this evening?'
'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is going to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'
'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day she will let drop something or other before father can stop her.'
'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front of the couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and shaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple, and breathed out upon her cheek:
'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you just now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't be able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a long time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he was your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because I thought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't mean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to do it, either; it would come to me!
And I didn't know he belonged to you when I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I wouldn't!'
'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered Ethelberta.
'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on the road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round. But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide in Sandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.
'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and that caused--a confusion!'
'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee soothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it.
Perhaps it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?'
'Then don't you want him, Berta?'
'O no; not at all!'
'What--and don't you REALLY want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting up.
'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of man I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry, which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me because we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than that he takes an interest in me. It is not at all likely that I shall see him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are present.'
'That will be very nice.'
'Yes. And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave the room when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continue this to-morrow? I can tell you better then what to do.'
When Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over upon her breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationship with tears. This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun--not lasting more than a minute and a half altogether--and she got up in an unconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasm of this event--the unhappy love of Picotee--by mentioning something of it to another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a woman full of sympathy.
Ethelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o'clock.
The room was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, being busy about her own affairs upstairs. The French family had gone to the theatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night. Ethelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, and in a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.
The round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as she came, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time.
'Such a place as this London is, to be sure!' she exclaimed, turning on the gas till it whistled. 'I wish I was down in Wessex again.
Lord-a-mercy, Berta, I didn't see it was you! I thought it was Cornelia. As I was saying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all the week, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing 'em, and never shall, because I don't understand that line, I thought I would go out and see father, you know.'
'Is he very well?' said Ethelberta.
