TIDINGS
There was a garden to that house. Jim Vernon and Dorothy Gilbert were
walking side by side down one of the paths. Sir Derwent Dewsnap had
gone over to Newcaster, to perform that operation; and Mr Plashett had
gone with him, in order that he might be close at hand, and ready for
any eventuality. It was an hour which seemed big with fate to Dorothy;
and the youth would whistle. She bore with the sound till it could be
borne no longer. Had he been an observant youth he would have seen
what she was suffering; but observation of that kind was not his
strongest point. So at last she was constrained to drop him a hint.
"I should be so much obliged if you wouldn't make that noise."
"Noise? What noise?"
"I suppose you call it whistling."
"Suppose I call it whistling? It is whistling, isn't it?"
"Then, if it is, please don't. If you only knew how I keep thinking of
what that man is doing."
"What man?"
"Sir Derwent Dewsnap."
"Isn't he a freak? My hat, I shouldn't care to have him cut chunks off
me; it gave me the creeps only to hear him chatter."
"If his hand were to slip; if anything were to happen; if he were to
make the least mistake; life would be all over for me; and I'm only
just beginning to understand what it means."
"Tuppence!"
She looked at him in righteous indignation.
"Pray what do you mean by saying that?"
"That's about the value of the remark you made; if it's worth as much.
It won't make one farthing's worth of difference to you if Dewsnap
cuts him into six good-sized pieces. Why should it?"
"You don't understand."
"That's where you're wrong--you don't understand; I do. The only
person it might affect is Arnecliffe--and I wouldn't mind getting
three months myself if I had a chance of doing what he did."
"I am sorry to hear you talk like this."
"You're not--really? Why, robbing a bank is nothing compared to what
Emmett did. He stole a nice, clean, simple little girl; all because of
her money--and, all because of her money, he tried to jockey her into
marrying him--and all he got for it was a crack on the head with a
bottle. If he chooses to croak in consequence that's his fault, nobody
else's. Don't you see that yourself?"
"I certainly do not see what you pretend to."
"I say, are you liverish?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Then, take my tip, and don't feign a vice if you haven't got it.
Strikes me that you take yourself, and every other jolly thing, too
seriously. You mayn't guess it, but I'm betting that in about five
years' time you'll be looking back at this episode as if it were a
regular rare old spree. People do have so few real adventures
nowadays. Look at me! I haven't had one in the whole of my life--and
you've had one already!--a tip-topper, too! It's an asset--mind you,
it's an asset; something you can put in the bank and draw upon. Why, I
consider that little tiddley-bit, when you were behind the curtain,
and saw the whole jolly show, was worth no end."
"It only proves that you haven't the least idea what you're talking
about."
"That remark only proves that you don't know where you are. Why,
you're only--I don't know what your age is."
"Never mind my age."
"Well, there can't be much of it to mind. I believe Frances is older
than you, and she's only a kid."
"Mr Vernon----"
"You needn't call me Mr Vernon; you can call me Jim."
"Thank you; I prefer to call you Mr Vernon."
"Very well, Miss Gilbert. I was about to observe, when you interrupted
me, that, already, at your age, you're set up with a stock of A1
stories which will last you the rest of your life; you'll only be able
to appreciate what that means when you arrive at years of discretion.
When you've married--if you ever do marry; and a girl with your money
is pretty nearly sure to find someone who'll have her--you'll be able
to tell your grandchildren----"
"My grandchildren!"
"Or someone else's, it makes no odds--you'll be able to tell them tale
after tale, and they'll love you for it; children always love
grandmothers who tell them stories; and yours needn't be lies either,
because they're such first-class ones in themselves that they'll need
no embroidering. What an advantage that will be in your declining
years you've no conception, or you'd be more truly grateful for what
has lately happened to you than at present you are."
"I think you're the most ridiculous person I ever met; and the rudest.
Are all boys like you?"
"Boys? Well! You're younger that I am."
"I shouldn't have thought it possible that anyone could be that."
"My dear Miss Gilbert, in knowledge of the world, compared to you, I'm
a grandfather. You ought to treat me with respect."
"Ought I? Do the other boys with whom you associate?"
"Miss Gilbert, you misunderstand the situation. I am at the
university; and so are most of the men of my acquaintance."
"Is that so? I didn't know they took them so young."
He looked at her as if he could have said a great deal; but he said
nothing--he drew a long breath instead. Presently he began again to
whistle. She bore it in silence for a second or two; then she asked
innocently:
"Do all the other boys you know make a noise like that, and call it
whistling?"
He looked at her again, but he attempted no reply; he continued to
whistle. Presently Frances came towards them, down one of the side
paths. Dorothy waited for her; Jim strolled on, whistling as he went.
When she came to Dorothy, Frances glanced at his back, as he went
whistling on.
"Has Jim been entertaining you?"
"Very much--more even than he meant."
"Isn't he droll?"
"Extremely--I never thought anyone could have been so droll."
Frances surveyed her friend with doubt in her eye.
"Have you and he been having a discussion?"
"I don't know that it can be called a discussion; he's so droll.
Frances, are all boys like Jim?"
Frances looked round as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers; then
said, in lowered tones, as if she were delivering herself of an
announcement of the most mysterious and amazing significance:
"Dorothy, I'm beginning to think that they are."
"How odd! and at the convent we used to think that they were such
heroes."
"I'm inclined to think that they assume more heroic proportions when
they're at a distance."
"But when do they cease to be boys?"
"I'm commencing to wonder. None of Jim's friends are as old as that."
"Your cousin's not a boy."
Frances glanced at Dorothy; but Dorothy happened at that moment to be
looking in an entirely different direction, so their glances didn't
meet.
"You mean Strathmoira? No, he's a dear."
"What do you mean by 'he's a dear'?"
"Well--hasn't he been a dear to you?"
"If you mean that he's been kind, no one could have been kinder. What
would have happened to me if it hadn't been for him I dare not think.
I don't know how I ever shall repay him."
"Oh, you'll find it easy, with all that money. Fancy your being a
millionairess after all!"
"I'm not a millionairess."
"You've got heaps and heaps of money--because Mr Arnecliffe as good as
told me so; and as he really and truly is your guardian he ought to
know."
"I suppose your cousin's very rich."
"Lord Strathmoira, my dear, is my mother's cousin; not mine. He's not
poor; but then earls, my dear, are not like common people. You need
such a deal of money if you want to play the part properly, if you are
an earl; and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he could do with more.
Is Mr Arnecliffe rich?"
"I haven't a notion."
"There's been a story in his life."
"How do you know?"
"I can see it in his face."
"Oh! How can you see it in his face?"
"Dorothy?"
"Yes."
"How are you going to repay him?"
"He doesn't want repaying."
"Doesn't he?"
"He's not that kind."
"Isn't he? He seems to have done a good deal for your family."
"Oh yes; a good deal."
"I wonder how old he is. He must be pretty old if he was your mother's
friend. His hair is turning grey."
"He doesn't seem old to me. I like hair--that shade."
There was silence for some seconds; then Frances said:
"Do you know, Dorothy, I've come to the conclusion that you're going
to be a beautiful woman."
"Frances! How can you be so absurd? Please don't be silly!"
"And do you know, at the convent I never even guessed you were going
to be pretty. It never dawned on me till that morning when I saw you
standing on our lawn. Then I said to myself: 'I do believe that girl's
going to be beautiful'; and now I'm sure of it."
"If I'm going to be--I notice you use the future tense--pray what are
you now?"
"Oh, I'm pretty; I know exactly what I am; I've no delusions. I once
heard mother say to an aunt of mine--she didn't know I heard, but I
did--'Frances is the sort of girl to make a good man happy'--and
that's exactly what I am: prettiness of my kind runs in the family;
Jim's a pretty boy. But you--yours is going to be the kind of beauty
men rave about; and I don't call it fair."
"I never imagined you could be so ridiculous. What don't you call
fair?"
"That a girl should have both beauty and gold. One or the other, but
not both. Think of the quantities of quite respectable girls who have
neither. Why, I myself know heaps--plain and penniless. Dorothy, it's
tragic for a girl to be like that; you mayn't know it, but it is.
Fortune ought to share out her gifts with a more equal hand: she
shouldn't give one person so much more than her proper share."
"I'm not in a mood for jesting. Your brother said I was a simple
girl."
"He did! How dare he! That Jim!"
"But I assure you I'm not quite simple enough to credit the kind of
stuff you're talking. I didn't know you thought I was a positive
imbecile."
"Very well. Would you like me to ask Strathmoira what he thinks of
your appearance?"
"Frances! How dare you! Do you mean to say that it was because he
thought---- I won't say it."
"You needn't. And I don't mean to say that it was because he saw you
were going to be beautiful that he showed himself a friend in need, in
the first instance. He's the sort of person who would help a lame dog
over a stile, no matter how ugly it was. But, having helped you over,
he, so to speak, walked across the field with you because--well,
because he did think so; and I haven't the slightest doubt that he
would be willing to walk round this garden now because he thinks so
more than ever. I've heard mother say that Strathmoira is a
connoisseur where a woman's concerned. If you'd had freckles and a red
nose he'd never have bought you a hat to shade them. My dear Dorothy,
it's not the slightest use your being annoyed with me because you're
going to be lovely. It's not my fault. For all I've had to do with it
you might have been a quite ordinary-looking girl. Still, one is bound
to admit that, from the merely ornamental point of view, a lovely girl
is more interesting than the other sort; and I've a vague suspicion
that some men are of that opinion to quite an appreciable extent. I
believe you're like your mother."
"Frances! What makes you think so? Mr Arnecliffe says I'm like my
father."
"Yes, I daresay; possibly you are. A child may resemble both its
parents. Anyhow, I believe you're like your mother."
"But what makes you think it?"
"Well, for one thing I can see it in Mr Arnecliffe's eyes."
"Frances! What a provoking person you are! How can you possibly see a
thing like that in--in anybody's eyes?"
"Perhaps you can't; I can."
"How can you?"
"I've a theory, which amounts to conviction, that Mr Arnecliffe
regarded your mother as if she were a goddess, and that he adored her;
so, when you happen to be within his line of vision, I can see from
the look which comes in his eyes that he thinks you're like her.
"Frances!"
It seemed that that was all Miss Gilbert could say. She stood still;
her cheeks crimsoned; for some cause she seemed to have all at once
grown tremulous. Miss Vernon went glibly on, as if she saw nothing
unusual in her friend's demeanour:
"Of course I may be wrong; I'm not always right; but as I understand,
from one or two observations which Mr Arnecliffe has let drop, that
your mother was something quite superior to look at, I thought you
might care to know that I believe you're like her. You might ask Mr
Arnecliffe; I daresay he'd tell you if you did. Here is Mr Arnecliffe;
you'll have a chance of asking him at once. And Strathmoira! I
shouldn't be surprised if a message has come from Newcaster."
The Earl of Strathmoira and Mr Arnecliffe were walking together down
the centre path which led from the house. The two girls stood still to
await their coming. The crimson had gone from Dorothy's cheeks as
suddenly as it had come--embarrassment had given place to anxiety.
"If--if it's bad news!" she said.
"If I were in your position I don't know what I should call bad news."
"Frances! I--I wish you wouldn't talk like that!"
"But I don't. If he's dead it'll be no loss, the world will be well
rid of such a creature; and if he's not dead, it's just as well that
he should keep on living, in order that he may be punished as he
deserves."
There was no mistaking, from Lord Strathmoira's manner as he came up,
what was the nature of the tidings which he brought.
"Dewsnap's done it!" he exclaimed. "He's snatched that unhallowed
scoundrel from the grave. The operation's been successful beyond his
most sanguine expectations. Five minutes after it was over the patient
turned round, and, looking at him, was heard to mutter: 'Who the devil
are you?'--which sounds as if George Emmett were himself again.
Dewsnap says that there's no reason, if the most elementary
precautions are taken, why, so far as that tap on the head is
concerned, George Emmett shouldn't live for ever. So the tragedy's a
comedy after all." He was looking at Dorothy, but her glances were all
for Arnecliffe; who, on his part, seemed to have eyes for nothing and
no one but her. When they began to move she fell in, as of course, at
Arnecliffe's side; presently, when they came to a bypath, they turned
into it together; while Miss Vernon and Strathmoira went straight on.
When they had gone a little way his lordship smiled, as if in the
enjoyment of some private jest, and he said: "I congratulate you,
Frances, on the taste you have shown in choosing your friend; she is
one of whose friendship anyone, under any circumstances, might be
proud."
Miss Vernon's tone, as she replied, was demure:
"Thank you very much."
After an interval he continued:
"You're not to tell your mother, and you're not to tell her or anyone;
I daresay you'll laugh, but I don't mind telling you that I'd ideas
about her myself. They came to me when I saw her standing bareheaded
in the morning sunshine, outside my caravan door--from nowhere, there
and then. But this fellow's put them out of joint. It seems to me that
theirs is a case of Kismet."
They had gone several more steps when she put to him a question which
seemed to have very little to do with what he had just been saying:
"You are a good man--aren't you?"
"I don't know why you ask; have you any particular reason for
supposing that I am worse than the crowd?"
"No; none at all. Only--I was wondering if it wasn't possible that you
might find another girl who could be--trusted to make a good man
happy."
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Coward Behind the Curtain, by Richard Marsh