Produced by Al Haines.
IN SILK ATTIRE.
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF "A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "THREE FEATHERS," ETC.
SEVENTH EDITION.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1879.
[_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._]
"And ye shall walk in silk attire
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair."
"O, wha wad buy a silken gown
Wi' a puir broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller crown
Gin frae my love I part?"
CONTENTS.
I. OVER, AND SAFE
II. THE LOOK BACK
III. THE MARCHIONESS
IV. THE ACTRESS
V. ST. MARY-KIRBY
VI. CHESNUT BANK
VII. BALNACLUITH PLACE
VIII. JULIET
IX. THE COUNT'S BROTHER
X. MISS BRUNEL AT HOME
XI. IN THE PARK
XII. GOOD-BYE
XIII. "MIT DEINEN SCHOeNEN AUGEN"
XIV. THE OUTCAST
XV. SCHOeN-ROHTRAUT
XVI. SCHOeNSTEIN
XVII. THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF
XVIII. ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE
XIX. FLIGHT
XX. HOMEWARDS
XXI. IN ENGLAND
XXII. ROSALIND
XXIII. HOME AGAIN
XXIV. A LAST WORD
XXV. EVIL TIDINGS
XXVI. THE COUNT'S CHANCE
XXVII. DOUBTFUL
XXVIII. MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY
XXIX. LEFT ALONE
XXX. THE COUNT HESITATES
XXXI. THE DECISION
XXXII. CONFESSION
XXXIII. THE BAIT IS TAKEN
XXXIV. THE NEW GOVERNESS
XXXV. ANOTHER BLUNDER
XXXVI. AN OLD ADMIRER
XXXVII. POSSESSION
XXXVIII. ORMOND PLACE
XXXIX. "THE COULIN"
IN SILK ATTIRE.
CHAPTER I.
OVER, AND SAFE.
"I am gathering myself together for a great leap, Jack."
"Don't look so sad about it, then. Take it as you would one of your
Berkshire fences, Harry, with a firm seat and a cool hand."
"If I only knew what was on the other side, Jack--that bothers me."
"By the way, did you hear of the dinner at old Thornhill's on Tuesday?
I declare everybody was drunk but the dogs; and they were turned out at
night to find their way home by themselves. The Squire got very, very
bad--port and brandy alternately--tumbled twice off his horse before he
got out of the gate; and then, half an hour after, when the rest of us
rode home, we found him sitting in the middle of the road, in the dark,
trying to ward off the dogs that had gathered round him and were for
licking his face, while he hiccuped to them 'G--go away, my good
people--g--go away--I've really nothing for you; 'pon my soul, I've
forgot my p--purse.' But what's the matter, Harry? You haven't heard a
word of my story; and you're looking as glum as a parson."
"Jack, I'm going to marry."
"Don't be a fool."
"I am, though. It's all over with me, Jack. I told you I was gathering
myself together for a great leap."
"Who is it, Harry?"
"Annie Napier."
There was an interval of dead silence. Mr. John Palk was too prudent a
man to hazard a hasty witticism, knowing as he did the somewhat fiery
temperament of Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley.
"Do you mean that, Harry?"
"I do."
"You're in luck, then, lad. But what a host of rivals you'll have
blaspheming you! Why, all London is at Miss Napier's feet. Lord
Sotheby and I went to see her last night--the people in the pit were
half crazy about her. And when we went round to Millington House for
some supper, Sotheby swore he'd give his soul to the devil for a hundred
years to get an introduction to Annie--I beg your pardon, to Miss
Napier."
"Fellows like Sotheby are rather free in offering their soul to the
devil," said Lord Knottingley, with a sneer, "perhaps because it is the
thing of least value they have about them; or because they know the
devil will have it for nothing by-and-by."
"If you marry Miss Napier, Harry, you'll be killed in a month. I tell
you, man, London won't stand it. Why, they say that the Duke of
Nor----"
Knottingley started to his feet--his face scarlet, his eyes hot and
angry.
"By God, I will drive a sword through the man who breathes that lie in
my hearing!"
"Don't scowl at me, Harry. I don't believe it."
"Do I care a straw who believes it? But we needn't waste angry words,
Jack. I have known Annie Napier for years; and our family has been
rather celebrated for its jealousy. If I, an Ormond, marry that girl,
people may conclude that there will be no longer a market for their
scandalous wares. And mind you, Jack--don't you talk of it to any
living soul; for I haven't even asked her yet; but she, or nobody, will
be my wife."
John Palk went home to order supper for a little party of card-players
who were to meet at his house that night; and Harry Ormond had promised
to call in during the evening--that is, the card-playing evening, which
began when the men got home from the theatre.
Knottingley was himself at the theatre that evening. From his box he
sent round the following note to the lady who, at that time, held London
captive with the fascination of her genius and her personal loveliness:
"DEAREST ANNIE,--I shall await your coming home. I have something
particular to say to my little sister. H."
He was alone in the box; and he sate there, alternately entranced by the
sweet tones of the voice he loved, and enraged by the thought that all
this houseful of people were sharing a satisfaction which by right
belonged to him alone. When they applauded--as they did often and
vehemently, for Miss Napier was the idol of the time--he scowled at them
as though they were insulting the woman whom he hoped to make his wife.
He resented their rude staring as an indignity visited upon himself; and
when, at the end of the act, they turned and talked to each other about
the great actress, his family passion drew dark meanings from their
smiles and whispered conversations, and his heart burned within him. A
night at the theatre was not a pleasure to Harry Ormond. He left so
maddened by love and jealousy that he became a joke to his
companions--behind his back, be it understood, for he had a quick temper
and a sure eye with which the wits did not care to trifle. He was not a
man to be provoked or thwarted lightly; and in this period of
contrariety, disquietude, and gusty passion, which falls, in some
measure or other, to the lot of most young men, a discreet avoidance of
irritating topics was the course which wisdom dictated to Lord
Knottingley's friends. Not that he was a sullen boor or bravo, eager to
tread on any man's corns, and kill him for swearing. He was naturally
light-hearted, fickle, generous; impulsive in every mood of affection or
dislike; and at this time, when these uncomfortable love-measles were
strong upon him, he as often quarrelled with himself as with his
neighbours. He was sensitive and proud; he was naturally jealous; his
sweetheart, worse luck, was an actress; and it was a time, as some of us
can remember, when scandal was cultivated as an art. It is not to be
wondered at, therefore, that Harry Ormond suffered all the tortures,
while enjoying few of the amenities of love.
That night he was sitting in Miss Napier's house, alone and moody. He
had an uneasy feeling that the strength of his passion was forcing him
to a step from which his calmer reason might otherwise have caused him
to shrink. He had not sufficient self-criticism to know that his
impulsiveness, under these circumstances, might hereafter beget all the
mutual miseries of inconstancy; and yet there were vague forebodings in
his mind. He crossed the room, which was very prettily furnished and
brilliantly lit, and leaning his arms on the mantelpiece, proceeded to
study a small and daintily-executed miniature which hung against the
wall. Was he trying to trace in these calm and beautiful features his
own destiny? or was he wondering how his passion might alter the future
of her whom he loved so much? or was he bitterly thinking that this
portrait, like the original, was but a thing at which all men might gaze
as well as he?
At that moment the door was opened, and there entered the actress
herself, flushed with the evening's triumph, and smiling a happy welcome
to her friend. That first glimpse of her young and happy face settled
the matter--there was no more doubt, no more regret, possible. And as
it was not in the nature of the man to prepare his utterances, or use
any discretion in choosing them, he at once went forward, took her hands
in his, and looking into her face with a sad earnestness, uttered his
complaint and prayer.
"Annie, I cannot bear your going upon the stage any longer. It is a
monstrous thing--a degradation--I cannot bear it. Listen to me, Annie,
for your own dear sake; and tell me you will never go back to the
theatre any more. You are my little sister, are you not? and you will
do what is best for yourself and me, my dearest? How can I bear to hear
the women talk of you--how can I bear to see the men stare at you?--and
such men and such women, Annie! You do not know what they say and think
of actresses--but not of you, Annie! I did not mean that--and so I
beseech you, darling, to do what I ask you; will you not?"
Her eyes fell.
"And what would you have me do _afterwards_?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Be my wife, Annie; there, I have told you! Look in my face, my dearest.
You know I have loved you always; trust me now!"
"Trust you!" she said, looking up with sweet wet eyes; "you know I trust
you, Harry. Whom should I trust but you?"
"And you say----"
"I say I will do anything for you, Harry, except that--anything except
that," she said, with a white, downcast face and trembling lips. "You
have been too good to me, Harry; you have given me too much of your love
and your kindness, for me to let you do such a thing. It is for your
sake only I refuse. You remember when you said you would always be a
brother to me; and I was thankful within my heart to hear you say that;
and after having been my dear brother and my friend for all this time,
do you think I would make such a poor return for all your love as to let
you marry--an actress? I will leave the stage, if it will please you; I
will lie down in my grave, if it will please you, and be happy enough if
I knew you wished it. I will do anything for you, Harry; but not
that--not that!"
Wherewith he caught her in his arms, and kissed her--passionately,
despairingly.
"My angel, my dearest, are you mad, to talk in that way? Do you not see
that the great favour would fall upon me only? Is there a woman in all
England to be compared with you, my queen, my darling? What matters
your being an actress to me? It is you, not the actress, whom I beg for
a wife; and if you would see in what way I should ask you for so great a
blessing--here at your feet I kneel, you an empress, and I your slave."
And so he knelt down before her, and took her hand and looked up into
her eyes. That may have been the fashion in which lovers spoke in those
days, or it may be that the strong passion of the young man thrilled him
into using stage language. But there could be no doubt about the
absolute sincerity of the words; and the girl, with a sort of sad,
wistful pleasure in her face, heard his urgent prayer.
"See, Annie, am I low enough? For God's sake do not mock me by saying
you cannot be my wife because you are an actress. You are to me the
noblest and tenderest of women, and there is nothing I hope for but your
love. What do you say, Annie? Will you not speak a word to me?"
She stooped down and gently kissed away the tears from his cheeks.
"I am ashamed of your goodness, dear," she said, in her low, intense
voice, "and I wish you had not asked me. But oh! Harry, Harry, how can
I hide that I love you with my whole heart!"
She placed her hand on his soft brown hair--that hand which half London
would have died to have kissed--and looked for a moment into his
love-stricken eyes. In that brief moment the compact was sealed between
them, and they were thenceforth husband and wife. She uttered a few
words--rather indistinctly, to be sure--of farewell; and then she
lightly kissed his forehead and left the room.
He rose, bewildered, pale, and full of an indescribable happiness; and
then he went downstairs, and out into the open air. There was a light
in her bedroom as he turned and looked up; and he said:
"I leave my heart in her dear keeping, for good or ill."
Shortly afterwards he made his appearance in Mr. John Palk's rooms; and
by that time there was nothing on his face but a happy, audacious trust
in the future; an expression which immediately struck one of his friends
who was seated at one of the small tables.
"Knottingley, come here," said this gentleman. "I see you bring good
luck in your face. Back me!"
"I will. A hundred guineas on Lord Wriothesly's next hand!"
"Done with you, Harry," said Mr. John Palk, to whom a hundred guineas
was an acceptable sum, now that he had managed, by aid of ace, king, and
queen (with occasional help from a racing favourite) to scatter one of
the finest estates possessed by any private gentleman in England.
As it happened, too, Lord Wriothesly and his partner won; and Mr. Palk
made a little grimace. At a sign from Ormond, he followed the young
marquis into a corner, where their conversation could not be overheard.
"You'll have to take paper, Harry," said Palk.
"What do you mean?"
"The hundred guineas----"
"Confound your hundred guineas! Sit down, and listen to me. I am an
expatriated man."
"How?" said Mr. Palk, quietly taking a chair.
"Miss Napier is going to be my wife; and I know she will never have the
courage to confront my friends--rather, I should say, I shall never
allow her to sue in any way for recognition from them. You see? Then I
shouldn't like to have my wife brought face to face with people who have
paid to see her; and so--and so, Jack, I am going to give up England."
"You are paying a long price for wedded happiness, Harry."
"There I differ with you, Jack. But never mind. I want you to help me
in getting up a quiet little wedding down in Berks; for I know she will
never consent to meeting my relatives and all the riff-raff of my
acquaintances----"
"Thank you, Harry."
"And I am sure she will be glad to leave the stage at once, if that is
possible."
"What a pace you have! You're at the end of everything when other
people are thinking of the beginning. But, in good faith, Harry, you
are to be congratulated; and you may rely on my services and secrecy to
the last."
And to Harry Ormond, when he went outside that night, it seemed as if
all the air around him were full of music.