That night there was consternation at the Grange--Harry had not
returned. His horse, which he had left in charge of a man he knew
at the station, was brought back late in the day to Garstone, with
the intelligence that his master had gone by the London train. The
man said he thought it must have been a sudden determination of Mr.
Braithwaite’s, who had only said, when he left the horse in his care:
“I shall be back in five minutes, Tom. He’ll keep quiet enough; he
doesn’t mind the trains.”
Such a freak was not at all an unheard-of thing among the Braithwaites,
and little more was thought of it after Sir George’s return home that
evening, for he looked upon it as an escapade which would end in the
truant’s return the next day with an empty pocket and the appearance of
having been up all night.
But, when a week passed, and still no tidings were heard of him, and
when, moreover, it came to be known that the late governess of the
Mainwarings had left Beckham by the same train, and, as appeared later,
in the same carriage, then the people of the village and the people in
the town began to chatter, George to swear, and the Vicar of Garstone
to look very grave. Mrs. Mainwaring wrote to the aunt to whose house
Miss Lane had said she was going, and received in answer the news that
the girl had not arrived, but had written, without giving her address,
to say she was in lodgings in London. And Mrs. Mainwaring repented
her abrupt harshness most bitterly, and did not need the reproaches
of her husband, who blamed now his own inaction in allowing the young
girl-governess’ abrupt dismissal. Joan and Betty ceased their snappish
comments on her, and talked together in whispers about her. And at the
Grange they wondered how Harry was getting on without any money, for
they knew he had only a small sum with him on the day he left Beckham.
Then came a letter from a friend of Sir George’s, saying that Harry had
been seen in Paris, where he seemed to be enjoying himself very much.
And then an event happened which, for the time, turned all thoughts
away from the truant son.
Sir George, who passed most of his time on horseback, was riding home
one afternoon on a horse which had carried him safely through many
a hard day’s hunting, when, in taking a fence, with a ditch on the
further side, over which they had gone easily time after time together,
the horse slipped on landing, and rolled into the ditch on the top of
his rider. Sir George tried to rise, but found that he was too much
hurt to do so; he called for help, but fainted with pain before any
came. At last a man who was passing with a cart saw him, and brought
others to the spot by his shouts. They carried him home to the Grange,
the doctor was ridden for with all speed, and, before night came, all
Garstone knew that the baronet’s life was in danger. Day after day he
lingered on, though the hope of his recovery grew slender; hour after
hour he lay conscious, but silent to all. The only person he asked for
was the missing Harry. Every morning he asked the same questions.
“Has Harry come back? Has any one heard from him?”
And every morning the reply was the same. There were no tidings of him.
At last one evening George entered his father’s room with a face dark
with ill news. Sir George knew that something had happened which
his son scarcely dared to tell him. His eyes brightened with stern
eagerness.
“Well, speak out. You have heard news of Harry--bad news?”
“Yes, bad news.”
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Worse?”
“I--I think so; I am afraid so.”
“Go on. I am not afraid to hear.”
“I have just received a letter from Stanmer & Lloyd.”
“Ah”--the sick man drew a sharp breath--“the bankers! Well?”
“They wrote about a check which----”
“Was forged?”
“They think so. It was in your name, and for three hundred pounds.”
There was a long silence. When Sir George spoke again, his voice was
changed.
“It must be hushed up. And you must find out the boy and bring him back
to me. If--if I were well, it might be different; but I must forgive
him now. You will find him out, George?”
“Yes, father.”
Sir George lay back again in silence; but his face was still very
stern; there was remorse for his own conduct as well as shame for his
ill-brought-up sons in the expression it wore.
George went up to town the next day, and fulfilled the first part of
his father’s commission, that relating to the check, without much
difficulty; but he failed to find a clew to his brother’s hiding-place,
if he were in hiding, which George doubted. It was more characteristic
of the Braithwaites to do wrong and brave the consequences openly; and
this course, while apparently favoring detection, often proved the
safest.
Then a suggestion occurred to him for tracking the runaway. He wrote
to Mrs. Mainwaring for the address of Miss Lane’s aunt, and, on the
day he received it, he knocked in the afternoon at the door of a very
small semi-detached house a few miles out of London. The door had
figured glass let into it in place of the upper panels, and he saw a
face pressed against one of these in doubtful contemplation of him some
minutes after his second ring. His hand was on the bell for the third
time, when the door was opened, and a little servant with a very small
and very dirty face asked what he wanted. He had not got further than
to ask doubtfully if Mrs. Mansfield lived there when she turned round
and abruptly left him standing at the entrance of the most pretentious
“hall,” for its size, that he had ever seen. For it was esthetically
papered, and had an inappropriate dado, while a pair of ugly China
monsters left scarcely room for the stranger to pass between them and
the umbrella-stand. It was so small that he could distinctly hear the
conversation which followed in the backyard.
“It’s a gentleman, ma’am, who wants to see you--such a nice gentleman,
in a great long coat!”
“Did you show him into the drawing-room?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Show him in at once, and then you hang up the rest of the stockings.
Say I will be with him in a minute, and take the pin out of my gown
behind.” Then, in a severe tone, “You dirty little thing, you are not
fit to speak to a visitor!” And indeed this domestic did not harmonize
well with the dado.
The small servant showed George into a tiny room, the furniture and
arrangement of which told more of its owner’s history than the hall
had done. For it was a room which belonged to an anterior period of
civilization. The carpet was of the aggressive kind, with old fashioned
impossibly-colored roses. There was an inlaid round table, much too
big for the room, jutting a long way out of one corner; the piano was
worn and old-fashioned, the chairs were evidently relics of two or
three different suits of furniture. The books were suggestive too--the
“Pilgrim’s Progress,” with much gilt on the binding, odd numbers of
the _Sunday at Home_, and the current number of the _Quiver_, two or
three _Keepsakes_, some little-used volumes of miscellaneous poetry,
which looked like school-prizes, _et cetera_. But the ornaments spoke
more plainly than anything in the room--large, blue-glass vases on the
mantel-piece, crochet antimacassars, each of a different pattern, over
the chairs; and every ornament stood on a wool mat.
He had to wait some time; he heard Mrs. Mansfield go softly past the
door and up the stairs, and the small servant follow her with hot
water, as he could tell by her spilling it as she went along. Presently
the door opened, and a woman of about forty, dressed in rusty black,
much covered by trimmings which enhanced the shabbiness they were meant
to hide, came in and apologized more than was necessary.
He stated the object of his visit as soon as he could. He had come on
behalf of his mother and some other friends of Miss Lane, to find out
her address.
“I could not have given it you myself before this morning,” said Mrs.
Mansfield. “She has written twice to me since she left Garstone; but
it was only in the letter I received to-day from her that she put any
address. She is lodging in London by herself, and trying to get daily
pupils.”
“Are you going to see her?” asked George.
“No, I have no time; she knows that herself, and doesn’t expect me.”
“Do you approve of her plan of living by herself? It seems a strange
one for such a young girl.”
“Indeed Annie doesn’t trouble herself about my approval. I can’t say I
think it a proper thing for a girl to do who has been brought up like
Annie; but she is so obstinate--just like her mother, my poor sister.”
“It is a great pity that she does not consult you more,” said George
deferentially. “Having no mother, she ought certainly to defer to you
as her representative.”
“That is just what I say!” cried Mrs. Mansfield, growing confidential.
“I have begged her to come and live here; the house is certainly
smaller than she is used to, but still it’s a home, and she would be
more comfortable, or she ought to be”--this with some asperity--“among
her own relations.”
“Certainly,” said George, with conviction. He had just caught the sound
of children quarreling and screaming up-stairs, and his thoughts hardly
went with his words.
“She might go backward and forward to town for her music-lessons from
here quite easily; and why should she not get daily pupils about here
as well as in town, if she has made up her mind to that? Then she would
have the comforts of a home to come to in the evening, and she might
amuse herself in her spare time by helping me to teach my own children.”
“It would be a delightful arrangement,” said George, with fervor; then,
growing bold--“And, as she is a nice, lady-like girl, I have no doubt
she would soon find a husband among her own friends.”
Mrs. Mansfield shook her head, with her lips drawn tightly together.
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Braithwaite, that Annie considers herself too
good for my friends. I don’t wish to say anything against one of my own
blood; but I must say I don’t think such high-and-mighty airs becoming.
It is not as if she was living now as she did when her father was
alive, and when nothing was too good for her.”
“Her father was well off, I believe?”
“Oh, yes; and, if he had been prudent, instead of spending heaps of
money upon her education, he would have left her a little to live upon!”
“It must be a hard change for her, though. She is so young, and of
course it is so natural to spoil a beautiful girl.”
This rather rash speech caused Mrs. Mansfield to draw herself up.
“Well, I can’t say that I see her beauty myself! I don’t say she is a
bad-looking girl; but I don’t think her face is likely to do much for
her: and in my young days gentlemen looked for something more than a
pretty face in a wife, though to be sure they liked a pair of fine eyes
too!”
George gathered from her manner of saying this that she judged her
own vacant, round, bead-like eyes to be handsome; and he smiled a
compliment, which brought a gratified but not becoming blush to her
particularly plain face.
Before long he succeeded in getting from her Miss Lane’s address, in
one of the streets off Regent Street; and, pondering this choice of a
rather expensive locality, he left Mrs. Mansfield’s domestic paradise,
and returned to town. At his hotel he found the following telegram:
“Come back at once. Sir George much worse. Harry has returned.”
That night he was again at the Grange--not a minute too soon. They told
him, on his arrival, that his father was not expected to live till
morning, and he went straight up to the sickroom. Harry was there on
his knees by the bedside, very still and grave and unlike himself. Sir
George opened his eyes as his eldest son came in.
“George,” said he, with difficulty, “I have forgiven him. Don’t let it
be mentioned again. I cut him out of my will a week ago; it is too late
to alter it. Promise me to provide for him.”
“I promise,” said George, in a low voice.
“Call the rest. It’s near now.”
And they came one by one softly into the room. An old hound, a great
favorite of his, slipped in too, slunk up to the bed, and wagged his
tail at the master he had missed for days.
“Hallo, Diamond, come to say good-bye to me?”
And the hound, thus encouraged, licked his master’s hand.
“Have you forgotten the old days, Diamond? They are over for me as well
as for you now, my old beauty!” Then, gathering a remnant of strength,
he gave a ringing “View-halloo!”
The hound bounded away in great excitement among the silent figures in
the room, then came back, and once more licked his master’s hand. But
he got no answering caress, for the hand was still forever.
The days which followed between Sir George’s death and the funeral were
an awkward time for Harry and his eldest brother. The younger purposely
held aloof, and avoided any private conversation with the present head
of the family. Only once did George catch him alone, and instantly took
advantage of the opportunity.
“Don’t go,” said he, laying his hand on the arm of his brother, who
was going to leave the stable as he entered it. “I have been waiting
for a chance to speak to you. Our father left your future in my hands,
you know,” he added, in a tone which, if he chose, the other might take
as a warning.
“Well, what is it?” asked Harry, impatiently.
“Don’t be so fidgety. It is nothing unpleasant. I only want to know if
you can tell me where to find the Mainwarings’ late governess, Miss
Lane?”
“And you said you had nothing unpleasant to say! I call it
unpleasant--confoundedly unpleasant--to ask me such a question! As if I
had anything to do with Miss Lane! What do you want to know for?” His
manner changed from sullen to fierce with this question.
“Your manner is a little inconsistent. If you know nothing about her,
why are you so angry when I ask you if you do?”
“I don’t care to be put through my catechism. You ask more questions
than my father did.”
“Then he spoke to you about this matter?”
“What if he did?”
“And you told him the truth?”
“Yes, the truth. I swear it! But I am not bound to answer your
questions, and I won’t. Take your hand off my arm; do you hear?”
“Only one question. When you have answered it, I won’t bother you
again. Do you know where Miss Lane lives?”
A light suddenly came into his brother’s eyes, and he answered readily:
“I haven’t the least idea where Miss Lane lives; I swear it!”
His brother took his hand sharply off his arm and turned away. He
thought it was a lie; but he had no means of extracting the truth. He
was more interested in Miss Lane than the younger guessed, more anxious
for the interview he was about to seek with the prim little girl than
he had ever been before about a meeting with a woman.
He had to keep his impatience in check until the funeral was over; but
on the very day after, the young baronet went up to town and to the
address Mrs. Mansfield had given him.
“Is Miss Lane at home?” he asked of the servant who opened the door.
“Ask if she will see Sir George Braithwaite,” he added, as the girl did
not answer.
She left him in the hall while she went up-stairs, and then returned
and asked him to walk up. And in the sitting-room into which he was
shown sat Miss Lane--but not the downcast little creature of Garstone
Vicarage days--a little, smiling fairy in cream-colored muslin, with
a rose at her throat, and a small hand put out in welcome. After the
first greetings, her glance fell on his deep hatband.
“My father is dead,” said he.
She looked grave and sorry at once, but not so much surprised as if the
fact of his illness had been unknown to her.
“You had heard of his accident?”
“Yes, I saw it in the papers,” she answered, blushing, and not looking
at him.
He looked at her searchingly. Who could have told her all about it but
Harry?
“Were they all there when he died?” she asked, softly.
“All the family were there--yes. Didn’t you know?”
“How could I know, Sir George? I have not kept up correspondence with
the Mainwarings. They do not care enough about me.”
“But you left others behind you at Garstone who did,” said he, more
hurriedly than he generally spoke such speeches, for his heart was
beating faster.
He had never yet looked on a woman who so completely fulfilled his
ideal of a beautiful and graceful lady. A passionate wish sprung up in
him that he might be mistaken in spite of all, and that his brother
might have no interest for her. He glanced at her hands; they were
ringless. He would fain have convinced himself that the very glance
of her steadfast brown eyes proved her to be innocent of any evil.
Yet these rooms, this dainty dress, did not proclaim the struggling
governess out of work. For the first time it flashed across his mind,
as he looked at her, that, if only she could convince him that she
was as free and as pure as he would fain believe, he, Sir George
Braithwaite of Garstone Grange, would be ready to marry the little
governess out of employment.
She had noticed his compliment only by a short, sharp breath, and asked
after the vicar’s family to divert the conversation.
“I am sure I shall like daily teaching much better than my life with
them,” she went on quickly.
“You have some pupils then?”
“Not yet. I--there have been difficulties in the way of my getting any
before now; but I hope to do so soon,” she said, hurriedly.
“And you don’t find this life dull?” said Sir George, his jealousy
awake again.
“Oh, no!”
“I suppose your friends come to see you very often?”
“No; I don’t have many visitors.”
“Perhaps they don’t know where you are. You know you promised to give
me your address; but you never did. You left me to find it out as best
I could for myself.”
“It--it is very kind of you to come,” said the girl, flushing, “How did
you find me out?” she asked, anxiously.
“I asked Mrs. Mainwaring for your aunt’s address, and went from
Garstone to her house.”
“You went all the way to my aunt’s!”
“I would have gone to the world’s end to find you!” He left his seat
and stood by the mantel-piece, bending over her. “Didn’t you know
I loved you? You were kind to me that day at the flower show. You
promised me your address, you told me the train you were going by.” She
was trying to stop him; but it was out of her power now. “Then, when
I said I would see you off, as your own words had given me the right
to do, you gave me a cruel snub. And then you let Harry see you off,
and--and travel up to town with you, they say.”
She had risen, and was confronting him with bright, eager eyes.
“I did not let him--I did not expect him. He came, and I could not
prevent it.”
“Is that true, my darling?” cried George, passionately. She was
standing, with upturned face, close to him. He threw his arms round her.
“Then you don’t love him! You have nothing to do with him and his
forgeries?”
“Forgeries?” she cried, paralyzed even while she tried to free herself.
As they stood, he with one arm round her, she still with horror, Harry
came in. He sprung upon his brother and tore the trembling girl out of
his arms.
“Oh, is this true? Is it true? You heard what he said!” she cried, with
a shudder.
“Is it a time to accuse me when I find you in another man’s arms?” he
cried, fiercely.
“And by what right do you object to her being anywhere she pleases?”
“Pleases?”
“Yes. You swore to me two days ago that you did not know where Miss
Lane lived. It was a lie!”
“It was not a lie. There is no such person as Miss Lane. This is Mrs.
Harry Braithwaite, my wife!”