LEFT ALONE.
"No," said Dove, blocking up the doorway with her slight little figure,
as the waggonette was driven round, "neither of you stirs a step until
you tell me where you are going."
Will's last injunction to his father had been, "Don't let the women
know." So the women did not know; and on this Monday morning both men
were stealthily slipping away up to London when the heroic little Dove
caught them in the act.
"We are going to London, my dear," said Mr. Anerley.
"On business," said Will.
"Yes, on business!" said Dove, pouting. "I know what it is. You go
into somebody's office in the forenoon and talk a little; and then both
of you go away and play billiards; then you dine at Will's club or at a
hotel, and then you go to the theatre."
"Will has been telling tales," said Mr. Anerley.
"And to-day of all days," continued the implacable Dove, "when you know
very well, papa, and you needn't try to deny it, that you promised to
help me in getting down the last of the walnuts. No; neither of you
shall stir this day; so you may as well send back the waggonette."
"My dear, the most important business----" said Mr. Anerley, gravely.
"I don't care," said Dove. "If you two people are going up to amuse
yourselves in London, you must take me. Else stay at home."
"But how can you go?" said Will. "We have now barely time to catch the
train."
"Go by the ten-o'clock train," said Dove, resolutely, "and I shall be
dressed by then. Or the walnuts, if you like."
"Of the two evils, I prefer to take you," said Will. "So run and get
your things ready; and we shall take you to the theatre to-night."
"My boy," said his father, when she was gone, "look at the additional
expense----"
"In for a penny, in for a pound, father," said Will. "I shall allow my
finances to suffer for the stall-tickets; and you, having just been
ruined, ought to be in a position to give us a very nice dinner. People
won't believe you have lost your money unless you double your
expenditure and scatter money about as freely as dust."
"You both look as if I had thrust myself on you!" said Dove,
reproachfully, as they all got into the waggonette and drove off. "But
I forgive you, as you're going to take me to the theatre. Shall I tell
you which, Will? Take me to see Miss Brunel, won't you?"
She looked into his face for a moment; but there was evidently no covert
intention in her words.
From Charing Cross Station they drove to the Langham Hotel. Dove said
she was not afraid to spend an hour or so (under the shelter of a thick
veil) in looking at the Regent-street and Oxford-street shops, while the
gentlemen were gone into the city. At the expiry of that time she was
to return to the hotel and wait for them. They then took a Hansom and
drove to Mr. Anerley's solicitor.
"And there," said Mr. Anerley, on the way, "as if we were not
sufficiently penniless, Hubbard's brougham and a pair of his horses are
coming over to-morrow."
"Did you buy them?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"For Dove. I was afraid of her driving in an open vehicle during the
winter, as she has been rather delicate all the time you were away. I
had calculated on selling the waggonette and Oscar; and now I have the
whole lot on my hands."
"How much have you promised him for them?"
"200*l*. I hope he'll let me withdraw from the bargain."
"He won't. I know the Count very well," said the young man. "He is a
good fellow in his way, but he wants credit for his goodness. He'll
stick to this bargain, because he thinks it advantageous to himself; and
_then_ he will, with the greatest freedom, lend you the 200*l.*, or a
larger sum, if you require it. Nor will he lend you the money at
interest; but he will let you know what interest he would have received
had he lent it to somebody else."
"Perhaps so. But how to pay him the 200*l.*?"
"Tell him, if he does not take back his brougham and horses, you will
become bankrupt, and only pay him tenpence in the pound."
Mr. Anerley's solicitor--a stout, cheerful little man--did his very best
to look sorrowful, and would probably have shed tears, had he been able,
to give effect to his condolences. Any more material consolation he had
none. There was no doubt about it: Miall & Welling had wholly
collapsed. Ultimately the lawyer suggested that things might pull
together again; but in the meantime shareholders were likely to suffer.
"They do hint queer things about the directors," he continued, "and if
what I hear whispered be true, I'd have some of them put in the stocks
until they told what they had done with the money. I'd make 'em
disgorge it, sir. Why, sir, men settling their forty or fifty thousand
a year on their wives out of money belonging to all sorts of people who
have worked for it, who have nothing else to live on, who are likely to
starve----"
"My dear sir," said Mr. Anerley, calmly, "you don't look at the matter
in its proper light. You don't see the use of such men. You don't
reflect that the tendency to excess of reproduction in animals is
wholesomely checked by the ravages of other animals. But who is to do
that for men, except men? There is, you see, a necessity for human
tigers, to prey on their species, kill the weakly members, and improve
the race by limiting its numbers and narrowing the conditions of
existence."
"That's very nice as a theory, Mr. Anerley; but it wouldn't console me
for losing the money that you have lost."
"Because you don't believe in it. Tell me now, how is a penniless man,
without a trade, but with some knowledge of the multiplication-table, to
gain a living in London?"
"There are too many trying to solve the problem, Mr. Anerley," said the
lawyer.
"You say there is a chance of the bank retrieving itself in a certain
time?"
"Yes. I have shown you how the money has been sunk. But in time----"
"Until then, those who are in a position like myself must contrive to
exist somehow?"
"That's it."
"Unfortunately, I never settled, as you know, a farthing on my wife; and
as for my life-insurance, they illogically and unreasonably exclude
suicide from their list of casualties. Your ordinary suicide does not
compass his own death any more doggedly than the man who persists in
living in an undrained house, or in drinking brandy until his brain
gives way, or in lighting his pipe in a coal-mine. However, that's
neither here nor there. You have been my lawyer, Mr. Green, for a great
many years, and you have given me some good advice. But at the most
critical moment, I find you without a scrap. Still I bear you no malice;
for I don't owe you any money."
"It isn't very easy, sir, to tell a gentleman how to recover his
fortune," said Mr. Green, with a smile--glad that his client was taking
matters so coolly.
"I was a gentleman three days ago," said Mr. Anerley. "Now I am a man,
very anxious to live, and not seeing my way clearly towards that end."
"Come, sir," said Will, "Mr. Green is anxious to live too; and we are
taking up his time."
"But really, Mr. Anerley," said the lawyer, "I should like to know what
your views are?"
"Ah, you want to know what I propose to do. I am not good at blacking
boots; I am indifferent at cookery. Gardening--well, no. I should like
to be head-keeper to a duke; or, if they start any more of these fancy
stage-coaches between London and the seaside, I can drive pretty well."
"You are joking," said the other, dubiously.
"A man with empty pockets never jokes, unless he hopes to fill them. At
present--well, good day to you--you will let me know if you hear of
anything to my advantage."
No sooner were they outside, than Will earnestly remonstrated with his
father.
"You should not suddenly lose your pride, sir."
"I never had any, my boy. If I had, it is time I should lose it."
"And why need you talk of taking a situation? If you can only tide over
a little time, Miall & Welling will come all right."
"My lad, the bladders that help you to float in that little time are
rather expensive."
"I have a few pounds----"
"And you will lend me them. Good. What we must do now is this. Get
your landlord to give us a couple of bedrooms in the house, and we can
all use your sitting-room. Then we shall be together; and the first
opportunity I have offered me of earning money, in whatever employment,
I will accept it."
"If I were not disabled, sir, by this confounded arm, you would not need
to do anything of the kind."
"Tuts! Every man for himself, and all of us for poor Dove, who, at
present, will be moping up in that great room, terrified by the
attentions of the waiters."
How they passed the day does not matter to us. In the evening they went
to the theatre, and chose, at Will's instigation, the dress-circle
instead of the stalls. He hoped that he might escape being seen.
He had scarcely cast his eye over the bill handed to him by the
box-keeper, when he discovered that Annie Brunel's name was not there at
all.
"Dove," he said, "here's a disappointment for you. Miss Featherstone
plays 'Rosalind' to-night, not Miss Brunel."
"Doesn't she appear at all to-night?" said Dove, with a crestfallen
face.
"Apparently not. Will you go to some other theatre?"
"No," said Dove, decidedly. "I want to see 'Rosalind,' whoever is
'Rosalind.' Don't you, papa?"
"My dear, I want to see anything that you want to see; and I'm sure to
be pleased if you laugh."
"It isn't a laughing part, and you know that quite well, you tedious old
thing!" said Dove.
Will went and saw Mr. Melton, from whom he learned little beyond the
fact that Annie Brunel did not intend to act any more in his theatre.
"She is not unwell?"
"I believe not."
"Has she given up the stage altogether?"
"I fancy so. You'd better ask Count Schoenstein: he seems to know all
about it," said Mr. Melton, with a peculiar smile.
"Why should _he_ know all about it?" asked Will, rather angrily: but
Melton only shrugged his shoulders.
He returned to his place by Dove's side; but the peculiar meaning of
that smile--or rather the possible meaning of it--vexed and irritated
him so that he could not remain there. He professed himself tired of
having seen the piece so often; and said he would go out for a walk, to
cure himself of a headache he had, and return before the play was over.
So he went out into the cool night-air, and wandered carelessly on along
the dark streets, bearing vaguely westward. He was thinking of many
things, and scarcely knew that he rambled along Piccadilly, and still
westward, until he found himself in the neighbourhood of Kensington.
Then he stopped; and when he recognised the place in which he stood, he
laughed slightly and bitterly.
"Down here, of course. I had persuaded myself I had no wish to go to
the theatre beyond that of taking Dove there, and that I was not
disappointed when I found she did not play. Well, my feet are honester
than my head."
He took out his watch. He had walked down so quickly that there were
nearly two hours before he had to return to the theatre. Then he said
to himself that, as he had nothing to do, he might as well walk down and
take a look at the house which he knew so well. Perhaps it was the last
time he might look on it, and know that she was inside.
So he walked in that direction, taking little heed of the objects around
him. People passed and repassed along the pavement; they were to him
vague and meaningless shadows, occasionally lit up by the glare of a
shop-window or a lamp. Here and there he noticed some tall building, or
other object, which recalled old scenes and old times; and, indeed, he
walked on in a kind of dream, in which the past was as clearly around
him as the present.
At the corner of the street leading down to the smaller street, or
square, in which Annie Brunel lived, there was a chemist's shop, with
large windows looking both ways. Also at the corner of the pavement was
a lamp, which shed its clear orange light suddenly on the faces of the
men and women who passed.
He paused there for a moment, uncertain whether to turn or venture on,
when a figure came out of the shop which--without his recognising either
the dress or the face--startled him, and made him involuntarily withdraw
a step. It was the form, perhaps, or the motion, that told him who it
was; at all events he knew that she herself was there, within a few
yards of him. He did not know what to do. There was a vague desire in
his heart to throw to the wind all considerations--his promise, his duty
to one very dear to him; but he only looked apprehensively at her. It
was all over in a second, in half a second. She caught sight of him,
shrank back a little, uncertain, trembling, and then appeared as if she
were about to pass on. But the great yearning in both their hearts
suddenly became master of the situation; for, at the same moment,
apparently moved by the same impulse, they advanced to each other, he
caught her hands in his, and there was between them only one intense
look of supreme and unutterable joy.
Such a look it is given to most men to receive once or twice--seldom
oftener--in their lives. It is never to be forgotten. When a strong
revulsion of feeling, from despondency and despair to the keen delight
of meeting again, draws away from a girl's eyes that coy veil of maiden
bashfulness that generally half-shrouds their light, when the spirit
shines full and frank there, no disguise being longer possible, and it
seems as if the beautiful eyes had speech in them--but how is it
possible to describe such a moment in cold and brittle words? The
remembrance of one such meeting colours a man's life. You know that
when you have lain and dreamed of enjoying companionship with one
hopelessly separated from you--of seeing glad eyes you can never see
again, and hearing sweet talk that you can never again hear--you rise
with a confused sense of happiness, as if the morning air were full of
tender thrills; you still hear the voice, and you seem to be walking by
the side of the sea, and there is sunshine and the sound of waves
abroad. That dizzy remembrance, in itself a perplexing, despairing joy,
is something like the thought of such a moment and such a look as that I
speak of, when one glances backward, after long years, and wonders how
near heaven earth has been.
When she went towards him, and looked up into his face, and when they
walked away together, there was no thought of speech between them.
Silence being so full of an indescribable joy, why should they break it?
It was enough that they were near each other--that, for the present,
there was no wide and mournful space between them, full of dim longings
and bitter regrets. To-morrow was afar off, and did not concern them.
"Did you come to see me?" she said at last, very timidly.
"No."
Another interval of supreme silence, and then he said--
"Have you got quite reconciled yet? I was afraid of seeing you--of
meeting you; but now it seems as if it were a very harmless pleasure.
Do you remember the last terrible night?"
"There is no use talking of that," she said; "and yet we ought not to
meet each other--except--you know----"
"As friends, of course," he said, with a smile. "Well, Annie, we shan't
he enemies; but I do think, myself, it were rather more prudent, you
understand, that we should not see each other--for a long time, at
least. Now, tell me, why are you not at the theatre?"
"I have given up the theatre."
"You do not mean to act any more?"
"No."
There suddenly recurred to him Mr. Melton's significant smile; and dead
silence fell upon him. If there could be anything in the notion that the
Count----
Clearly, it was no business of his whether she married the Count or no.
Nay, if it were possible that her marriage with the Count should blot
out certain memories, he ought to have been rejoiced at it. And yet a
great dread fell upon him when he thought of this thing; and he felt as
though the trusting little hand which was laid upon his arm had no
business there, and was an alien touch.
"But," he said, in rather an embarrassed way, "if you have given up the
theatre, it must have been for some reason----"
"For the reason that I could not bear it a moment longer."
"And now----"
"Now I am free."
"Yes, of course, free; but still--what do you propose to do?"
"I don't know yet. I have been looking at some advertisements----"
"Have you actually no plan whatever before you?" he said, with
surprise--and yet the surprise was not painful.
"_None._"
"Why," he said, "we have all of us got into a nice condition, just as in
a play. I shouldn't wonder if the next act found the whole of us in a
garret, in the dead of winter, of course."
"What do you mean?"
"My father has lost all his money, and doesn't know where to turn to
keep his household alive. I----"
Here he stopped.
"Ah," she said, "and you find yourself unable to help them because of
your arm."
"That will soon be better," he said, cheerfully, "and we will try not to
starve. But you--what are you going to do? You do not know people in
London; and you do not know the terrible struggle that lies in wait for
any unaided girl trying to make a living."
"So the Count says."
"Oh, you have told the Count?"
"Yes."
"What did he suggest?"
"He thinks I ought to marry him," she said, frankly.
"_You_ marry _him_?"
"Yes. That was the only way, I daresay, in which he thought he could be
of service to me. He really is so very kind, and thoughtful, and
unselfish."
"And you answered----?"
He uttered these words with an air of forced carelessness. He wished
her to understand that he would be rather glad if she thought well of
the proposal. For a moment she looked at him, questioningly, as if to
ask whether there was honest advice in that tone, and then she said,
slowly--
"I said neither yes nor no. At the moment I did not know what to think.
I--I knew that he would be kind to me, and that--he knew--that I liked
him pretty well--as an acquaintance----"
"And you have not decided whether you ought to make the Count happy or
no?"
The false cheerfulness of his voice did not deceive her.
"Yes, I have decided," she said, in a low voice.
"And you will----?"
"Why not be frank with me?" she said, passionately, and turning to him
with imploring eyes. "Why speak like that?--would you not despise me if
I married that man?--would I not despise myself? You see I talk to you
frankly, for you are my friend: I could not marry him--I dare not think
of my being his _wife_. I shall never be his wife--I shall never be any
man's wife."
"Annie, be reasonable----"
"Perhaps it is not to you I should say that, and yet I know it. I am
ashamed of myself when I think that I let him go away with the thought
that I _might_ accept his offer. But then I had not decided--I did not
see it properly, not until I looked in your face to-night."
"It seems that I must always come between you and happiness."
"Do you call that happiness? But I must go back, now; poor Lady Jane is
rather worse to-day, and I was at the chemist's, with a prescription
from the doctor, when I met you. I hope we have not done wrong in
speaking to each other."
So they went back, and he bade her farewell tenderly, and yet not so
sadly as at their former parting.
It seemed to him, as he passed away from the door, that he heard a faint
sharp cry from inside the house. He took no notice of it, however. He
was already some distance off when he heard swift footsteps behind him,
and then the maidservant of the house, breathless and wild-eyed, caught
him by the arm.
"Oh, sir, please come back; Mrs. Christmas is dead, sir! and the young
missis is in such a dreadful state!"
He at once hurried back, and found that the terrible intelligence was
too true. Annie Brunel seemed almost to have lost her senses,--so
bitterly did she reproach herself for having neglected the bedside of
her old friend.
"She was well enough, ma'am, when you went out," the servant maintained,
consoling her mistress, "and there was nothing you could have done. I
was in the room, and she asked for those letters as always lies in that
drawer, ma'am; and when I took them over to her, she tried to put up her
hand, and then she sank back, and in a minute it was all over. What
could you have done, ma'am? She couldn't ha' spoken a word to you."
But the girl was inconsolable, and it was past midnight when Will left
her, having wholly failed in his efforts to soothe the bitterness of her
grief and desolation.