‘Never mind. I shall only be married once. When our honeymoon is over, we will go in for strict economy.’
Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was hired the next morning, and they started for Frank’s ancestral home.
It was a lovely September morning; the air was fresh and exhilarating. As soon as the dark dusty city was left behind, Millicent’s spirits rose to a mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly married adoration, fancied was not quite in keeping with what was to him at least a sort of solemn pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and squeezed them, she laughed and talked; in fact, generally misconducted herself. Frank had never seen her in such a mood before. He was fain to believe that she was forcing her merriment, to show him how little she cared for the loss of the wealth she would have shared. Nevertheless, as each landmark came in sight, and at last he knew that he was passing through lands which one day should have been his, he grew gloomy, moody, and miserable. Millicent saw what passed through his mind; she sank into silence; an occasional pressure of the hand only reminding him that at least he had her.
Presently he stopped the carriage. ‘You can get the best view of the dear old house from here,’ he said.
‘Let us get out,’ said his wife.
They alighted, and for some minutes stood looking at the long gray house. Frank’s eyes were full of tears.
‘Can’t we go over the house?’ asked Millicent.
‘By permission of Mr Tompkinson, no doubt; but he is a stranger to me, so I don’t care to ask it.’
‘But I want to see the inside so much, Frank; you have described it to me so often. Let us go up and ask if we can go over it.’
The idea of asking leave to go over Chewton Hall was more than Frank could bear. ‘I would much rather not,’ he said.