THE DECISION.
Dark as was the night on which Will and Annie Brunel had wandered along
the lonely pavements of Kensington, they had not escaped observation.
On whatever errand he was bent, Count Schoenstein happened to be down in
that neighbourhood on this night; and while these two were so much
engaged in mutual confidences as scarcely to take notice of any
passer-by, the Count had perceived them, and determined to watch them.
This he did during the whole of the time they remained outside. What he
gathered from his observations was not much. At another time he would
have paid little attention to their walking together for an hour or two;
but that at this very time, when she was supposed to be considering
whether she would become the Count's wife, she should be strolling about
at night with one who was evidently on very intimate terms with
her--this awakened the Count's suspicions and wrath. But the more he
watched, the more he was puzzled. They did not bear the demeanour of
lovers; yet what they said was evidently of deep interest to them both.
There was no self-satisfied joy in their faces--rather an anxious and
tender sadness; and yet they seemed to find satisfaction in this
converse, and were evidently in no hurry to return to the house.
Once Miss Brunel had returned to the house, the Count relinquished
further watch. He therefore did not witness Will's recall. But he had
seen enough greatly to disquiet him; and as he went homeward, he
resolved to have a clear understanding with Miss Brunel on the following
morning. He believed he had granted her sufficient time to make up her
mind; and, undoubtedly, when he came to put the question point-blank, he
found that her mind was made up.
Briefly, she gave him to understand that she never could, and that she
never would, be his wife. Perhaps she announced her determination all
the more curtly, in that her sorrow for the loss of Mrs. Christmas
seemed to render the Count's demand at such a moment an insult.
The poor Count was in a dreadful way. In this crisis he quite forgot
all about the reasons which had first induced him to cultivate Annie
Brunel's society, and honestly felt that if her present decision were
persevered in, life was of no further use or good to him.
"I am sorry," she said, "I have given you pain. But you asked me to
speak plainly, and I have done so."
"You have so astonished me--your tone when we last saw each other at
least gave me the right to anticipate----"
"There I have to beg for your forgiveness. I was very wrong. I did not
know my own mind--I could come to no decision."
"May I venture to ask what enabled you to come to a decision?"
"I would rather not answer the question," she replied, coldly.
"Will you tell me if your mind was made up yesterday morning?" he asked,
insidiously.
"It was not. But pray, Count Schoenstein, don't say anything more about
this at present. Consider the position I am in just now----"
"I only wish to have a few words from you for my further guidance, Miss
Brunel," he said. "You came to this decision last night. Last night
you saw Mr. Anerley. Have I not a right to ask you if he had anything
to do with it?"
"You have no such right," she said, indignantly.
"Then I take your refusal to mean that he had. Are you aware that he is
engaged to be married? Do you know that he is a beggar, and his father
also? Do you know----?"
"I hope I may be allowed to be free from insult in my own house," she
said, as she rose and--with a wonderful dignity, and pride, and grace
that abashed and awed him--walked out of the room.
A dim sort of compunction seized him, and he would willingly have
followed her, and begged her to pardon what he had said. Then he, too,
felt a little hurt, remembering that he was a Count, and she an actress.
Finally, he quietly withdrew, found a servant at the door waiting to let
him out, and departed from the house with a heavy heart.
"A woman's 'no' generally means 'yes,'" he said to himself,
disconsolately trying to extract comfort from the old proverb.
He would not despair. Perhaps the time had been inopportune. Perhaps
he should have postponed the crisis when he learned of Mrs. Christmas's
death. Then he reflected, that he had been so intent on his own purpose
as to forget to offer the most ordinary condolences.
"That is it," he said. "She is offended by my having spoken at such a
time."
The Count was a shifty man, and invariably found hope in the mere fact
of having something to do. There was yet opportunity to retrieve his
blunder. So he drove to the office of Cayley & Hubbard, and found his
meek brother sitting in his room.
"I never come to see you except when I am in trouble," said the Count,
with a grim smile.
"I am always glad to see you, Frederick. What is your trouble now?"
"Oh, the old affair. She has left the theatre, as you know; she has
lost that old woman; she is quite alone and penniless; and, this
morning, when I offered to make her my wife, she said no."
"What were her reasons?"
"A woman never has any. But I think I vexed her in making the proposal
when the corpse was lying in the next room. It was rather rum, wasn't
it? And then she had been crying, and very likely did not wish to be
disturbed. However, I don't despair. No. Look at her position. She
_can't live_ unless she accepts assistance from me."
"Unless----"
Mr. John Hubbard did not complete the sentence, but his face twitched
more nervously than ever.
"Who _could_ tell her?" asked the Count, angrily.
"She may get assistance from those other people----"
"The Anerleys?" replied the Count, with a splendid laugh. "Why, man,
every penny of old Anerley's money is with Miall & Welling. Safe
keeping there, eh? Bless you, she has no alternative--except this, that
she's sure to run off and disappear suddenly in some wild attempt at
becoming a governess. I know she means something that way."
"And then you'll lose sight of her," said the thin-faced brother,
peering into the slip of grey sky visible through the small and dusty
window.
What _his_ thoughts were at this moment he revealed to his wife at
night.
"My dear," he said, in dulcet tones, "I am afraid my brother is a very
selfish man, and wants to get this poor girl's money. If she were to
become friends with us, we might guard her against him. Indeed, it might
only be fair to tell her what money awaits her, whenever she chooses to
take it; and perhaps, you know, Jane, she might give a little present to
the children, out of gratitude, you know."
"A few thousand pounds would be nothing to her, John," said the wife,
thinking of her darling boys.
"And Fred's money he's sure to keep to himself. He seems to have no idea
that his family have claims upon him."
However, to return to the Count, he then proceeded to unfold to his
brother the plan he had conceived for the entrapping of this
golden-crested wren which was so likely to fly away:
"All the little money she may have saved will be swallowed up in the
funeral expenses. After that--what? Music-lessons, or French, or
something. Very good. I know she has been already watching the
advertisements in the _Times_. Now what I want you to do is
this--publish an advertisement which will attract her attention, and
secure her as a governess."
The two men had thought of the same thing, at the same moment, each for
his own purpose. But John Hubbard suddenly began to fear that he would
be made a cat's-paw of by his more favoured brother.
"The name, Frederick, might suggest to her----"
"I don't think she knows my personal name," said the Count, coldly.
"Besides, you would not advertise as Cayley & Hubbard, which might
remind her of _one_ resource open to her, and you would not advertise as
my brother, which would frighten her away. Let Jane advertise--she will
do it better than either of us; and if it is necessary to get rid of
your present governess, you can give her some small _solatium_, which I
will repay you."
This was the advertisement which was finally concocted between them--
"_Wanted, a Governess. Must be thoroughly proficient in music and
French. One who could assist in arranging private theatricals
preferred. Apply,_" _&c., &c._
It was submitted by Mr. John Hubbard to the inspection of his wife; and
the mild, fat, pretty little woman approved of it:
"That is how I fancy we might get acquainted with her, my dear; and you
know Frederick dare not come near the house at first, or she would be
frightened away at once. Then, you know, we could be very kind to her,
and make her grateful. She ought to be grateful, considering her
position."
Jane acquiesced, but was not hopeful. She had heard her husband
frequently speak of the strange things he encountered in his
professional career; but she had never herself seen any of them. She
did not believe, therefore, that any portion of a romance could be
enacted in her prosaic house.
"It would be very nice," she said to her husband, "if it all came right;
and we were to be friends with such a rich lady, and if she would only
give the children something to make them independent of their uncle
Frederick. I'm not fond of money for its own sake; but for the
children, my dear----"
"Yes, the children are to be considered," said John, wondering whether
his pretty, placid, good-natured little wife believed that he believed
that she believed what she said.
"I am sure a lady so well-born will be a charming companion," said Mrs.
John, "whether she has been an actress or not."
"And we must change the sherry," said her husband.