CHAPTER III.

On the wrong road.

Lord and Lady Maulevrier left Southampton next morning, posting.  They took two servants in the rumble, Steadman and the footman.  Steadman was to valet his lordship, the footman to be useful in all emergencies of the journey.  The maid and the valet were to travel by heavy coach, with the luggage—­her ladyship dispensing with all personal attendance during the journey.

The first day took them to Rugby, whither they travelled across country by Wallingford and Oxford.  The second day took them to Lichfield.  Lord Maulevrier was out of health and feeble, and grumbled a good deal about the fatigue of the journey, the badness of the weather, which was dull and cold, east winds all day, and a light frost morning and night.  As they progressed northward the sky looked grayer, the air became more biting.  His lordship insisted upon the stages being shortened.  He lay in bed at his hotel till noon, and was seldom ready to start till two o’clock.  He could see no reason for haste; the winter would be long enough in all conscience at Fellside.  He complained of mysterious aches and pains, described himself in the presence of hotel-keepers and headwaiters as a mass of maladies.  He was nervous, irritable, intensely disagreeable.  Lady Maulevrier bore his humours with unwavering patience, and won golden opinions from all sorts of people by her devotion to a husband whose blighted name was the common talk of England.  Everybody, even in distant provincial towns, had heard of the scandal against the Governor of Madras; and everybody looked at the sallow, faded Anglo-Indian with morbid curiosity.  His lordship, sensitive on all points touching his own ease and comfort, was keenly conscious of this unflattering inquisitiveness.

The journey, protracted by Lord Maulevrier’s languor and ill-health, dragged its slow length along for nearly a fortnight; until it seemed to Lady Maulevrier as if they had been travelling upon those dismal, flat, unpicturesque roads for months.  Each day was so horribly like yesterday.  The same hedgerows and flat fields, and passing glimpse of river or canal.  The same absence of all beauty in the landscape—­the same formal hotel rooms, and smirking landladies—­and so on till they came to Lancaster, after which the country became more interesting—­hills arose in the background.  Even the smoky manufacturing towns through which they passed without stopping, were less abominable than the level monotony of the Midland counties.

But now as they drew nearer the hills the weather grew colder, snow was spoken of, and when they got into Westmoreland the mountain-peaks gleamed whitely against a lead-coloured sky.

‘You ought not to have brought me here in such weather,’ complained the Earl, shivering in his sables, as he sat in his corner of the travelling chariot, looking discontentedly at the gloomy landscape.  ’What is to become of us if we are caught in a snowstorm?’