SILVER.
These words had scarcely passed Rowton’s lips before he abruptly turned
and saw a little man crossing the lawn to meet him.
“Scrivener! by all that is unpleasant,” he muttered under his breath. He
turned to Nancy who, very white and frightened, stood by his side.
“Go into the house now,” he said; “go up to your room and unpack your
things, or sit by the fire in the library and enjoy a right good read of
one of the many novels which are scattered about. I want to speak to that
man who is coming across the lawn.”
“Who is he, Adrian?”
“A devil,” said Adrian. “Go away; he is not to see you.”
She turned abruptly at his words. His tone completed the trembling at her
heart; she tottered rather than walked into the house; she was full of
fear and misery.
Rowton, without even glancing after her, went to meet his unwelcome guest.
“Now, what has brought you here?” he asked.
“Ah! I expected you would take that sort of air when you returned to your
property,” said Scrivener. “The whole thing was a mistake, and I told
Long John so. And so that young lady is the angel of your life?”
“I forbid you to mention her name. What is your business here to-day?”
“To bring you a message,” said Scrivener, favouring Rowton with a long
and steady glance. “You have had your five weeks; the end of your tether
is therefore reached; you belong to us now, and we have something for you
to do.”
“I doubt not that you have,” said Rowton.
“Yes, there is some important business waiting for you. Can you return
with me to town this afternoon?”
Rowton looked both disturbed and annoyed.
“Does Long John want me so soon?” he asked.
“He wants you to-night. We have an important meeting at our club
to-night, and it is absolutely necessary that you should be present.”
Rowton stood quite still, a frown between his thick brows. Presently it
cleared away.
“I am at your service,” he said.
Scrivener was evidently relieved at this sudden acquiescence.
“That is a good thing,” he said. “I was commissioned to bring you with
or against your will. When you submit to the inevitable you make things
far easier for us. I’ll get straight back to Pitstow Station and take
the next train to town. The meeting is appointed for eleven o’clock
to-night—you’ll be sure to be there? You won’t play us false?”
“No, I shall come up to town by your train. Go, Scrivener, I don’t want
people to see you about.”
“As you please,” said the man; “but I expect folks round here will
have to get accustomed to me. I am thinking of taking lodgings in the
neighbourhood.”
“You are not?”
“Yes, I am. The air is wonderfully bracing, and I have been feeling
rather pulled down lately. Well, good-day, I am sorry, sir, you have not
got a job for me on the premises.”
These last remarks were made in a servile tone, and for the benefit of an
under-gardener who was seen approaching.
Rowton nodded. Scrivener turned on his heel and disappeared.
“Come here,” said Rowton to the gardener. He walked with him across the
lawn, gave him some directions with regard to the moving of several
plants, and then sauntered slowly into the house.
He went into the library, where he hoped to find Nance. She was there;
she had seated herself in a chair in front of a great fire; a book lay
open on her lap, but she was not reading; with the tears undried on her
cheeks, she was fast asleep. She looked weary, almost ethereal, in her
sleep. Rowton looked at her fair face with a great pang at his heart.
“Poor lily flower,” he murmured; “she looks as unfit as girl could look
to stand the storms of this troublesome world, and what storms she may
have to encounter with her lot linked to mine, Heaven only knows. But
there, perhaps I wrong her, there is, I sometimes think, muscle as well
as weakness under all that delicate womanly charm. Poor little girl!
shall I go away without telling her, or shall I tell her? No, I won’t
shirk the nasty things which I undertook when I married one like her—she
must bear her burden—Heaven knows I want to make it light to her. Yes,
I’ll tell her.”
He went up to Nancy, knelt by her side, put his arms round her, and
gently transferred her head from the sofa cushions to his breast. The
movement, light as it was, awakened her. She opened her eyes, saw him
looking down at her, and smiled at first dreamily and happily.
“Where am I?” she asked. “I thought I was back at San Remo—I remember
now, I am at home, and you are with me.”
“I am glad you have had a sleep, Nance,” said her husband in a
matter-of-fact voice. “Now I have something to say which is not quite
pleasant.”
“What is that?” she asked.
She started up and pushed her hair from her brow.
“I remember everything now,” she repeated; “the garden which I am not to
see, and the poor afflicted lady, and the dreadful man who walked across
the grass.”
“The man has gone, dearest. I trust you may not be troubled with him
again—in any case he has nothing whatever to do with you.”
“Then what unpleasant thing have you to tell me, Adrian?”
“Only that I must leave thee, sweetheart.”
“Leave me, leave me?” she asked, her face turning very white.
“But not for long.” Rowton bent forward and kissed her lips. “Only for
a few hours at the worst. That man brought me a message which makes it
imperative for me to go to town to-night. In fact, I am leaving almost
immediately—I shall take the very next train from Pitstow. If my business
is happily concluded I shall be back in time to go to church with you
to-morrow, if not——”
“Why do you say ‘if not’?” she asked. “Is there any fear?”
“No, none really. Of course there is a possibility that I may not return
in time for church—in that case, you will go with Murray; be sure you go,
Nance, whether I am with you or not. Now I have not a moment to spare.”
Rowton walked across the room and rang the bell. When the servant
appeared he gave orders that his dog-cart was to be brought round in a
quarter of an hour. He then prepared to leave the room.
“Let me come with you and help you to pack,” said Nancy.
“To be sure, little woman, come along,” he said.
He took her hand and they went upstairs together. They passed through the
beautiful bedroom into Rowton’s dressing-room. He thrust a few things
into his Gladstone bag, then turned and took his wife in his arms.
“How much I must love you,” he said, “when I feel it horrible even to
part for a few hours.”
“Can I not come with you?” she asked suddenly; “why should not I go to
London with you this afternoon?”
“No, darling, it is best not. I shall have to leave you at times,
sweetheart, and we must both get accustomed to the thing. Now I must say
farewell. I’ll soon be back. Adieu, darling, adieu.”
Rowton ran downstairs, and Nancy watched him from the window of the
dressing-room as he drove rapidly away.
He arrived at Pitstow Station a moment before the train was starting.
He saw Scrivener pacing up and down the platform, but neither man, by
word or glance, recognised the other. Rowton travelled first-class to
town—Scrivener third. In due course they arrived at King’s Cross, when
both men again went their several ways. Rowton drove to a small hotel in
the neighbourhood of the Strand. It was a comfortable, cleanly place,
but very unpretending and plain. He ordered something to eat and then
went out into the Strand. He amused himself buying one or two trifles for
Nancy. He then went to his club, the Shelton, where he smoked a cigar,
and chatted with two or three men, who were all delighted to see him
again. He invited several of his friends to stay at Rowton Heights, and
altogether was much cheered by his time at the club.
“Lucky for you, Rowton, to be back in the old place once more,” said
Charlie Danvers, a gay young Guardsman. Rowton had been at school with
him.
“Wish I could clear off all my mortgages, and come in for my own,” said
another man, whose name was Halliburton.
“I have heard a lot of your diggings, Rowton,” said a third; “the best
place in the county; shall be delighted to accept your invitation. What
time did you say?”
“I’ll write and fix a date,” said Rowton after a pause. “My wife and I
mean to give a ball, but we must wait a little until the county magnates
have time to call. I’ll want as many of you good fellows as will honour
me to come down for the great occasion. I mean to do something with the
hunting next season, but it is rather late to think much of that this
year. The ball, however, is a different matter. You’ll all come for the
ball, won’t you?”
Three or four promised, and Rowton made notes in his engagement book.
It was about ten o’clock when he left the club. He hailed a hansom then,
and drove straight back to the quiet little hotel off the Strand. When he
got there he went upstairs, changed his hat for a round one of somewhat
shabby make, put on a light overcoat and came down again.
“Going out, sir?” said the landlord, who was standing in the hall.
“Yes, for a bit,” said Rowton.
The man noticed the change of dress and made no remark—many of his guests
were out all night; he supplied them with latchkeys, and never sat up for
them.
“A latchkey, sir?” he said now to Rowton.
“Thanks,” replied the owner of Rowton Heights in a nonchalant tone. He
slipped the key into his pocket, and the next moment found himself again
in the Strand.
He took another hansom and told the man to drive him as far as the
Chelsea Embankment. It took about half an hour to get there. He got out
just by the Embankment, paid the driver his fare and walked slowly
on, bearing straight to his right all the time. By-and-by he found
himself, still almost within sight of the Embankment, but in a low part
of Chelsea. He went down several by-streets, being remarked by those
who glanced at him by reason of his height and a certain uprightness
of carriage which, try as he would, he could never get rid of. It was
Saturday night, near midnight, and the place was all alive—barrows in
the streets, hawkers everywhere, people buying and selling, children
screaming, women arguing and gesticulating, good, hard-worked housewives
hurrying home with well-laden baskets, drunken men staggering across
the streets. Rowton passed quickly through their midst. The place smelt
horribly. The air was heavy with the odours of stale fish and rotting
vegetables.
“Contrasts,” muttered the man to himself. “Rowton Heights last night,
Nance in her silver-grey dress, the old ancestral home—all the ‘noblesse
oblige’ of long descent surrounding me and tingling in my veins!
To-night, the slums, and I no stranger in them!”
He muttered an oath which scarcely reached his lips, but filled his heart
with intolerable bitterness. He left the glaring street with all its
light and noise, and turned abruptly down a dark passage. The next moment
he had knocked with his knuckles in a peculiar way on a certain door.
The door was cautiously opened by a girl in a dirty dress with a towzled
fringe reaching to her eyebrows.
“Who is there?” she asked.
“Silver,” was the reply.
“Oh! Silver, thank Heaven you have come,” she answered.
“Hush! don’t speak so loud,” said Rowton in a low voice. “How are you,
Sophy—pain in the back any better?”
“No, sir, I suffers awful still,” answered the poor slavey. “Glad you are
back, sir; don’t think I can stay much longer.”
“Oh! yes, you can—here is a sovereign to put in your pocket.”
“Bless you, sir, bless you, Silver,” the girl murmured as she stifled
back a sob. She slipped the coin into her mouth for greater safety, and
abruptly turned to walk upstairs.
“Are they in the old rooms?” asked Rowton.
“Yes, sir, ten of ’em strong.”
“Then you need not come. I can find my own way.”
He bounded past her three steps at a time, opened a door without knocking
and found himself in a long low room, which was now reeking with tobacco
smoke and the fumes of whisky. Several men were stationed about the
room, some sitting, some standing, some were smoking short pipes, some
indulging in cigars, some were doing neither. There was a certain
expectancy about all their faces, and when they saw Rowton it was more
than evident that this expectancy was realised. They welcomed him with
cheers; said, “Hullo, Silver, glad to see _you_ back,” and motioned him
forward into their midst.