EVIL TIDINGS.
Very early did Dove get up that cool September morning. Away down the
valley there lay a faintly yellow haze, which made one feel that the sun
was behind it, and would soon drink it up. In the meantime the grass
was wet. A birch-tree that almost touched her bedroom window had its
drooping branches of shivering leaves glistening with moisture. The
willows along the riverside were almost hid. The withered and red
chestnut-leaves which floated on the pond had a cold autumn look about
them. Then old Thwaites, the keeper, appeared, with a pointer and a
curly black retriever; and when the old man went into the meadow, to
knock down some walnuts from the trees, his breath was visible in the
damp thick atmosphere. She saw these things vaguely; she only knew with
certainty that the sunlight and Will were coming.
A hundred times she made up her mind as to the mood in which she ought
to receive him. Indeed, for weeks back she had done nothing but
mentally rehearse that meeting; and every scene that she described to
herself was immediately afterwards abandoned.
She was hurt, she knew; and in her secret heart she longed to---- No!
he had been very neglectful about letters, and she would---- But in the
meantime it was important, whatever _role_ she might assume, that she
should look as pretty as possible.
This was all her immediate care--a care that had awoke her an hour too
soon. But if she had changed her mind about the manner in which she
should receive him, how much more about the costume which was to add
effect to the scene? Every detail--every little ornament, and bit of
ribbon, and dexterous fold--she studied, and altered, and studied and
altered again, until she was very nearly losing temper, and wishing that
people had been born to look their best without the necessity of
clothing themselves.
Perhaps one might be allowed to make a remark about those ladies who,
dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine that the less they clothe
themselves the better they look. It is merely a question of the
relative artistic value of certain surfaces. And, as a general rule, it
may be accepted that the natural complexion of women's shoulders is
inferior in fineness of hue and texture to the same extent of white
satin or dove-coloured silk.
Downstairs she went. Mr. Anerley was engaged in turning in the edge of
his cartridges, and had succeeded in vigorously scratching the marble
mantelpiece with the machine he was using.
"Good morning, papa."
She was very much embarrassed, she did not know why. She hoped he would
not look at her; but he did, and kissed her, and returned to his work.
"Dear me!" he said, "that I, an old man, should have received such a
compliment! A young lady getting up at a prodigiously early hour, and
dressing herself in her very smartest way, in order to come down and
make my breakfast!"
"Shall I pour out your coffee now, papa?" she said, with a great blush.
"Yes, you may, my dear. But don't put anchovy into it instead of cream.
I make the suggestion because I see you are a little disturbed. It is
the early rising; or the chill of the autumn; or the remembrance of last
Sunday's sermon, I daresay."
She did not speak a word, but placed the coffee at his end of the table,
and returned to her seat. When he had finished his cartridge-making, he
sate down, and, as a preliminary to breakfast, swallowed a mouthful of
the coffee. The next moment there was an exclamation of horror--he ran
to the sideboard, seized a bottle of hock that had been left from
yesterday's dinner, hurriedly filled a coffee-cup with the wine, and
drank off the contents--his face all the while in contortions. Dove sat
silent and wilful, with a smile on her lips, and a hot flush on her
cheeks. She would neither look at him nor speak to him.
"Cayenne pepper!" he gasped, taking another gulp of the cold Rhine wine.
She only played with her teaspoon.
"You might have killed me, you malicious creature!" he cried, amid
intervals of coughing. "Cayenne! Well, don't suppose that _you_ would
have got much out of my life-insurance!"
At this she rose and walked to the door--proud, spiteful, half laughing,
and half crying.
"You had no business to tease me," she said.
"Come here, Dove," he said, taking her by the arm and leading her back;
"do you know what the effect of cayenne is on the human throat?"
"I don't care."
"I say you might have killed me."
"I don't care."
"Now, if I were a young man, I should probably be proud of such a mark
of your favour, but----"
"It served you right. I can't bear people to talk to me like that, and
you always do it, papa--you know you do."
"But, as I am an old man, I mean to have my revenge. Firstly, there
shall be no dogcart or other vehicle leave this house this day for
Horton Station. Secondly, should any guest arrive, he will be asked to
follow me over to the East Meadows, where I shall be shooting. Thirdly,
should that guest dine with us, he will be confined to the dining-room
during the entire evening, and any persons waiting in the drawing-room
may play 'The Coulin,' or such music as they prefer, for their own
benefit. Fourthly----"
"Fourthly, none of these things will happen," said Dove, with a touch of
contempt in her tone.
And Dove was right. For she herself was driven in the dogcart over to
Horton Station, and she took care to make the man start half an hour
before the proper time. The station-master, then and now one of the
civillest of men, endeavoured to relieve the tedium of waiting by
chatting to her; but she only half listened to him, and talked nonsense
in reply.
She walked about the station, stared up the long perspective of
narrowing lines, then walked in again to the small waiting-room, and
wondered why the people about did not bestir themselves to receive the
coming train. Then, with a flutter of the heart, she saw the signals
changed, and presently there was a far-off noise which told of Will's
approach: for he had written from Paris to say, that unless they got
other notice from him, he would be down by this particular train.
A railway-station is not the proper place for a piece of acting. Scenes
of the most tender and tragic kind--never to be forgotten--have been
witnessed there; but the gentle drawing-room comedies with which lovers
amuse themselves do not harmonize with the rough-and-ready accessories
of a railway line. Dove resolved to leave her proper reception of Will
until they should be in the house together; at present it was to be
nothing but a hurried delicious kissing, scrambling after luggage, and
swift getting home.
There was no head thrust out from one of the approaching carriages--no
handkerchief waved. She did not know which of the dull, dark, and heavy
carriages might not have him inside; but she was sure he could not
escape her at the station.
The train stopped, the guard bustled about, the people descended from
the carriages, the porters looked out for luggage and sixpences. With a
half-realised fear--a dread of some vague evil--Dove glanced quickly
along the people, then more narrowly; finally she turned to the
carriages. The doors were again shut; the guard blew his whistle, and
leisurely stepped into his box; and the train moved slowly out of the
station. There was no Will Anerley there.
Sick at heart she turned away, it was a cruel disappointment. For weeks
she had been planning the whole scene; she had dreamt of the meeting,
had thought of it during the drowsy hush of the Sunday-morning sermon,
had looked forward to it as the crowning compensation for the
microscopic troubles of her daily life. There was not even a letter to
say that he was in England; perhaps he was still in France.
So she went home, vexed, and disappointed, and sad. Mr. Anerley was out
shooting; Mrs. Anerley soothingly said that doubtless Will would be down
by a later train; and then Dove went away into a corner of the
drawing-room, and plunged herself into a volume of old music, turning
over the leaves and supping a surfeit of sad memories.
Before going to the train that morning, Will had found it necessary to
call upon a doctor. From him he learned, firstly, that the original
dressing of the wounds in his arm had been far from satisfactory; and
secondly, that owing to some disturbant cause renewed inflammation had
set in. Indeed, the doctor gave him to understand that only prompt
attention and great care could prevent the wounds assuming a very
serious aspect.
"Your arm must have suffered some violence quite recently," said the
doctor.
"Well, last night," said Will, "I knocked a man down with my left arm,
and very likely I instinctively twitched up the right to guard myself."
"These are little amusements which a man in your condition had better
forego," said the other, quietly. "The best thing you can do is go home
and get to bed, give your arm perfect rest, and I will call in the
afternoon and see what is to be done."
"I can't do that," said Will, "I'm going down to the country."
"You will do so at your peril."
"All the same, I must go. Nothing is likely to happen between to-day
and Monday. If you had seen the leg I had in Turkey!--without any
doctor but a servant who could not even infuse our tea--constant
rain--walking every day--our tent letting in water at night----"
"I don't know about your leg in Turkey," said the doctor, tartly; "but I
see the condition in which your arm is now. If you think it will get
well by exposing it to rain, well and good----"
"Can you do anything to it _now_?"
"No, unless you give the limb perfect rest."
"Very well. If it gets very bad, I shall come up to town to-morrow. If
not, I shall visit you on Monday, and do everything you tell me then."
He got into a cab and drove back to his chambers. The man had already
taken his portmanteau downstairs, when Count Schoenstein's brougham
drove up, and the Count jumped out.
"Where are you going?"
"To St. Mary-Kirby."
"Not now. Come inside; I have something to tell you."
They stepped inside: never before had Will observed the Count to be so
disturbed.
"Miall & Welling," he said, hurriedly, "I have just heard--not ten
minutes ago--have collapsed--the announcement will be made to-day--the
directors were in the place till twelve last night. It will be the most
fearful crash, they say; for the bank has lately been making the wildest
efforts to save itself----"
"I thought Miall & Welling's was as safe as the Bank of England," said
Will--just a trifle pale.
Every farthing of his father's money was in this bank, which had never
even been suspected in the most general crises.
"It may be only a rumour," continued the Count. "But you may as well
wait, to see if the evening papers have anything about it."
"It will be a pretty story to carry down with me to Kent," said Will.
"That's what I was thinking of," said the Count, kindly--indeed he was
not wholly a selfish man; "and I thought I might go down with you, if
you liked, and try to help your father over the first shock. It will be
a terrible blow to him--a man who has lived a quiet and easy life, with
a little hunting, and shooting, and so on. I shouldn't wonder if it
entirely upset him and did some harm----"
"You don't know my father," said Will.
They had not to wait for the evening papers. By twelve o'clock the news
was current in the city. Miall & Welling had sent out their circular:
the bank had suspended payment.
This was the cause of Will's missing the train. When he took his seat in
the next train going down, it was with a feeling that now ill-fortune
had done its worst, and there was nothing more to encounter. He thought
of that wild scene of last night by the banks of the river,--of the
strange, sad, unfathomable look of the young actress's eyes,--of their
bitter parting, and the tender words she spoke as he left. Then he
looked forward to meeting Dove with a cold fear at his heart: and he was
almost glad that the more immediate and terrible business he had on hand
would distract his attention.
He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round to the brow of
the hill. Before him lay the well-known valley, still and silent under
the yellow autumn sunlight; and down there by the river he saw a tall
spare man--accompanied by another man and a couple of dogs--whose figure
he easily recognised. He walked in that direction, crossing the
low-lying meadows and the river, and rounding a bit of coppice which
skirted a turnip-field.
As he turned the corner, a covey of birds rose just in front of him,
with a prodigious whirr of wings.
"Mark!" he called, instinctively, though he was quite unaware of the
proximity of anybody with a gun.
The next second there was a double report; two of the birds came
tumbling down, scattering their feathers in the air, and there was a
muttered admonition to the pointer. A few steps further brought him
into view of Mr. Anerley and old Thwaites, both of whom were marking
down the remaining birds of the covey, as the low, swift, sailing flight
seemed to near the ground.
"Why did you come round that way?" said Mr. Anerley when he saw his son.
"I might have shot you."
"I shouldn't have minded, sir," said Will. "I'm getting used to it."
"You have your arm in a sling yet? I thought it was all right."
"The doctor pulls long faces over it. I fancy the man in the Black
Forest bungled it."
"If the Black Foresters don't know how to cure men shot by mistake, they
ought to," said Mr. Anerley, with a thoroughly English contempt for any
kind of shooting but his own. "Such a set of sparrow-shooting
shoemakers I never saw. I suppose I needn't offer you my gun?"
"No, thank you. I'll walk down the turnips with you, on my way to the
house."
There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary bird got up,
almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over very cleverly.
There was no smile of triumph, however, on the firm-set lips of the
tall, keen-faced, grey-haired sportsman. He quietly put another
cartridge into the barrel and walked on, occasionally growling at the
dog, which was continually making false points. Almost at the end of
the turnips the dog made a very decided point.
"Ware lark! gr-r-r-r!" cried old Thwaites; and at the same instant a
fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of shot. The dog
had really been on the scent of the partridges.
Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly pleased.
"If that had not been old Thwaites," muttered Will, "I should have said
it was an old fool."
So Will walked on to Chesnut Bank. He had not the heart to tear the old
man away from his favourite sport in order to give him this bad news.
After dinner, he now thought, would be time enough; and he himself
seemed to have gained a respite until then.
But if he was in the meanwhile relieved from the necessity of bearing
the evil tidings to his father, there remained his meeting with Dove,
which he had for long looked forward to with a half-conscious fear. As
he drew near the house, he began to think this the greater trial of the
two.
Dove, still sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on the
gravelled pathway leading down through the garden. The music almost
dropped from her hands as she listened intently for a moment--then a
flush of joyous colour stole over her face. But, all the same, she
opened the book again, and sate obstinately looking at pages which she
did not see.
"Dove," said Will, tapping at the French window, "open and let me in."
No answer--Dove still intently regarding the music.
So he had to go on to the hall-door, ring the bell, and enter the
drawing-room from the passage.
"Oh, you are come back again!" said Dove, with mimic surprise, and with
admirably simulated carelessness.
She held out her hand to him. She fancied he would be dreadfully
astonished and perturbed by this cold reception--that they would have a
nice little quarrel, and an explanation, and all the divine joys of
making-up, before Mrs. Anerley could come down from the apple-closet, in
which she had been engaged since breakfast-time. But, on the contrary,
Will was neither surprised nor disturbed. He looked quite grave,
perhaps a little sad, and took her hand, saying kindly--
"Yes, back again. I hope you have been well while I was away, Dove; and
that you amused yourself."
Dove was alarmed; he had not even offered to kiss her.
"What is the matter with you, Will?" she said, with a vague fear in her
pretty violet eyes.
"Why, nothing much."
"Is it I, then? Are you vexed with me, that you should be so cold with
me after being away so long a time?"
There she stood, with her eyes downcast, a troubled look on her face,
and both her hands pulling to pieces a little engraving she held.
"Why should I be vexed with you, Dove?" he said, putting his hand on her
shoulder. He dared not kiss her: there dwelt on his lips yet the memory
of that sad leave-taking of the night before.
"Then why are you and I standing here like strangers?" she said,
stamping her little foot.
She could not tell how things had all gone wrong; but they had gone
wrong; and the meeting she had looked forward to with such pleasurable
anticipation was an embarrassing failure.
At this moment Mrs. Anerley entered, and the girl saw her receive the
kiss which had been denied to herself.
"You are not looking well, Will," said the observant mother. "Is your
arm healing rightly?"
"Oh, yes, well enough."
"You are fatigued, then? Let me bring you some sherry."
She left the room, and then Dove--looking hesitatingly for a moment--ran
forward to him, and buried her face in his bosom, and burst into tears.
"It was all my fault, dear," she sobbed. "I wanted to be angry with
you, for not coming down by the first train--and--and I thought you
would pet me, and make it up, you know--and I even forgot to ask about
your arm; but it wasn't, dear, because I didn't think of it----"
"There, it's all right," he said. "I didn't notice you were vexed with
me, or I should have made friends with you at once. There, now, you're
only ruffling all your pretty hair, and such a delicate little collar
you've got!"
"Oh!" she said, with smiles breaking through her tears, "you don't know
what I have been making for you."
"Tell me."
"Twenty times I was near telling you in my letters; but I stopped. I
tried to get it done, to give it you to-day, but I couldn't; and--and
perhaps it was that made me vexed with you."
"Very likely," said Will, who thoroughly understood the charming byways
of Dove's logic.
"It is a worsted waistcoat," she said, in a solemn whisper, "all knitted
by myself. And I've put in some of my hair, so that you never could see
it unless I showed it to you. They say that to give any one some of
your hair is so unlucky--that it always means parting; but I couldn't
help putting in just a little."
"To represent a little parting--from Saturday to Monday, for example."
"Are you going up to town again to-morrow?" she said, with fresh alarm.
"The doctor says I ought; but we shall see when to-morrow comes."
So peace was established between them. It was only as an afterthought
she remembered that he had never once kissed her.
During dinner, Will was almost silent. They supposed he was tired with
the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and Dove had left the room, he knew
the time was come.
"I have bad news for you, father," he said.
"Out with it, then," said Mr. Anerley. "Everybody in the house is well
in health; anything else does not much matter."
"Miall & Welling are down."
The old man put back his wineglass on the table.
"Miall & Welling's bank is down?" he said, slowly.
"Yes."
"Are you sure of it?"
"There is their circular."
He read the paper carefully, and laid it down.
"They say," said Will, "that their affairs are in a terrible
plight--quite hopeless."
"That means that I have not a farthing of money beyond what is in the
house."
He remained silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed on the table
before him. Then he said--
"Very well. There are four of us. If we two men cannot support
ourselves and these two women, should not every one have a right to
laugh at us?"
"But that you, at your age----"
"My age? I am in the prime of life. Indeed, it is time I did something
to show that I could have earned my own bread all along."
"I'm glad you look at it in that way," said Will, rather sadly. "Here
am I, unable to earn a penny until my arm gets better. You know nothing
specially of any business----"
"It is not too late to learn, my lad. There are plenty of things to
which I could turn my hand. Imagine what a capital keeper I should be;
and how I should overawe the trembling Cockneys invited down to a grand
battue into giving me monstrous tips! Now let us look at the thing in
another light."
He straightened himself up, as if throwing some weight off his
shoulders. Then he relapsed into his old manner, and there was a sort
of sad smile on his face.
"Edmond About," he said, "declares that all men are producers, and have
therefore a right to the property they possess, except robbers, beggars,
and gamblers. Doubtless the money I possessed was very valuable to the
people to whom I lent it, and they paid me for putting its working
powers at their disposal. You understand?"
"Yes."
"I was, in that sense, a producer, and had a right to the money on which
I lived. M. About tells me that I had. But, in spite of that, I was
always bothered by an uneasy conviction that the ancestor of mine who
brought the money into the family could not have made it by his own
hands. Indeed, I am convinced that my rich progenitor--who, let us say,
came over with William--was nothing else than a prodigious thief, who
either stole money in the shape of taxes, or the means of making money
in the shape of land, from the people who then owned it. I therefore,
you see, have no right to the possession of money acquired by robbery."
"You only discover that when the money is gone," said Will, accustomed
to his father's philosophic and easy way of taking things.
"Not at all. I have for some time back been proud to class myself
amongst the richest and oldest families of England, in regard to the
moral shadiness of our right to live on the produce of gigantic
thievery. You see----"
"I see, sir, that the moment you lose your money, you become a
philosophic Radical."
"Ah, well," said Mr. Anerley, sending a sigh after his vanished riches,
"I don't think the misfortune has touched us much, when we can transfer
it into the region of first principles. Perhaps I had better go up to
town with you to-morrow, and see what practical issues it must lead to."
"And in the meantime," said Will, "don't tell either of the women."