AN UNFORTUNATE INTERVIEW
"Scorn is more grievous than the pains of death;
Reproach more piercing than the pointed sword."
Howe.
AN autumn morning, grey and dreary; storms of hail lash against the
window panes; the wind howls round the houses and shrieks down the
chimneys. And Audrey stands looking out of the window with dazed eyes,
wondering if the events of the past two days are just a series of
nightmares from which she will wake, or whether they are hard, sad
facts.
Only two days ago, her father and she were in this very room, Mr. Hume
apparently in his usual health. Now she was fatherless, and he lay
upstairs a still, silent form.
He had wished her good-night, and retired to his room. The next
morning, he did not respond to her call. And when she had gone in, she
found him breathing heavily, but quite unconscious. The doctor came in
at once. He told her it was some sort of stroke.
All that day and the following night she had watched by his bedside.
And then in the early hours, his eyes slowly opened, and he recognised
her. She had to bend her head to hear his dying words:
"Mr. Blunt knows—Vernon—tell you—about—about—your future."
That was all. A little sigh, and eternity received the spirit of
Audrey's father.
A rush of tears came to her eyes now as she remembered afresh that
his last thought had been of her. Only two days; yet two years would
seem short to gather in their embrace all the agony, suspense, and the
tumult of thoughts that had passed through the girl's heart and soul.
She seemed stupefied and benumbed, and when someone addressed her by
name, she turned and stared for a moment into Mr. Blunt's rugged face
with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"I am sorry to intrude, my dear young lady, but there are things that
must be done. May I act for you?"
"Do anything—everything—but leave me alone. What does anything matter
now? My world has stopped." She looked at him in a dazed fashion as she
spoke.
He cleared his throat, then produced an envelope from his pocket and
held it out to her.
"It is early to talk over business matters, but I promised your father
to give this to you directly—er—um—he was called away. I will leave it
with you. And as your father asked me to act as executor to his will in
union with this Dr. Vernon, there will be no difficulty in my relieving
you of a great deal of sad work."
He bowed himself out of the room, and Audrey, with trembling hands,
broke the seal of the letter addressed to herself in her father's
handwriting.
It was as follows:—
"MY DEAR AUDREY,
"I have asked Mr. Blunt to give you this after my death. It may be many
years before it will be necessary for him to do so, but I do not think
it will be. Though we have been a long-lived race, I am less strong
than those who have gone before me. I am not so utterly indifferent to
your future as you consider me, and I have at last made what I feel to
be a thoroughly satisfactory arrangement with my friend Everard Vernon
concerning you.
"He will tell you what this arrangement is. But I wish you to deliver
personally into his hands the enclosure which I have written, and
abide by his counsel as to the steps you take about your future. And I
should like you to go to him without delay; Mr. Blunt will give you his
address. I feel relieved from all anxiety about you.
"Your affectionate—
"FATHER."
Audrey read and reread this strange letter with puzzled bewilderment.
It seemed like a voice from the dead, and in her present state of mind,
only one sentence impressed itself upon her:
"I am not so utterly indifferent to your future as you consider me."
Tears sprang to her eyes; the first she had shed since her father's
death.
"Oh," she moaned, "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to upbraid him! I
was so hasty, so unkind, so full of myself, so impatient, and now he is
gone—so quickly and silently! How awful it is! I can never bring him
back. It is too late to ask his forgiveness! He has gone! How can I
bear it?"
She thrust the letter into her pocket. At that juncture she could
not take in its contents. She had a morbid feeling that her craving
for change in her life had brought about her father's death. Yet her
practical common sense saved her from giving away to this grief for
long.
And when later in the day, Pauline came round to comfort her, she found
her calm and self-controlled, arranging with Mr. Blunt all the sad
details that a death always brings. But when she saw her friend, she
held out her hands to her with agony in her eyes.
"My wicked wish has been granted, Pauline, and my life has been turned
topsy-turvy. I wished for freedom and independence, and I have got it,
and I would cut off my right hand to have father sitting in his chair
as usual, and the old life back again!"
"You poor child! Do you think God alters His plans for us to suit every
passing wish of ours? Why, Audrey, look up and trust."
"I don't think I can. I am so miserable, and so bewildered. Do you
know that we have not a relation living to come to his funeral, except
Bernard?—And I expect he is dead, and I am the last of our family. I
haven't a soul belonging to me now."
"But you have friends," said Pauline softly.
And Audrey turned her face towards her with a smile flashing through
her tears.
"Yes, I have. I always feel I have you—a strong tower of refuge. But
it's father, my dear father, who is always in my thoughts. Where is
he now, Pauline? We have never opened our hearts to each other, but
do you know that he read my mother's pocket Bible regularly every
morning? He never would have it moved from his dressing-table. He was
not an irreligious man—I do believe. I can't help thinking that he has
joined her. But it seems such sudden, awful silence. Oh! I must not
stay talking to you. I have a lot to do. There's our dreadful little
dressmaker waiting for me."
Pauline went, but her short visit did Audrey good. And as her time was
much occupied for the next few days, she spent no more of it in useless
repining and regret.
When the funeral was over, she went back to her empty home, and began
for the first time to think of her future. She took out her father's
letter and reread it many times, and then she held consultation with
Pauline.
"I am bound to carry out his wishes," she said slowly.
"Dr. Vernon is an old friend of father's, a clergyman, I believe he
is—D.D., I suppose, as he calls himself a doctor. You see, Pauline,
it is as I supposed. I am a pauper. Father insured his life for one
thousand pounds. That will bring me in about forty pounds a year. Can I
live on that? Will it keep me from starvation?"
"It is better than nothing. But, Audrey dear—forgive me for asking—but
I thought you told me your father was putting by for you? He said
something of the sort to me once."
Audrey smiled.
"Poor father! He would put by one month, and draw it out the next.
There was exactly twenty pounds balance at his bank when he died."
"Well, of course, you must go to this Dr. Vernon. Your father wrote
that it will be a thoroughly satisfactory arrangement for you. He must
have known. Dr. Vernon is one of your father's executors, is he not?"
"Yes, but Mr. Blunt is the acting one. I wish it had been anyone but
he; his sisters are so curious. And I do dislike them so! Yet they have
done me a good turn. A married Miss Blunt, who is home from Australia
with her husband, wants to come down near them, and they say they think
her husband would like to take this house off my hands at once. If I
could let it, that would bring me in a little ready money. I don't feel
a bit frightened at present about my future. I am young and strong; I
have backbone, I know, and there must be some way in which I can add to
my income. And this Dr. Vernon may have concocted a plan with my father
about getting me employment. I don't know, but I am going to 'trust and
not be afraid.' I think I have prayed more this last week, Pauline,
than I have ever done in my life."
"I am so glad, because that means that you will be helped. I am certain
of it. But is it your intention to stay with this Dr. Vernon? Is he a
very old man? Has he a family? Do tell me what you know about him."
"I know nothing—absolutely nothing—except that he lives in Sussex,
about two hours' journey from London. No, I shall go and see him and
return here, I suppose. I must take him father's enclosure; and the
sooner I go, the better."
She started two days after she had held this conversation, and when she
was actually in the train, her naturally buoyant spirits rose to the
occasion. She took herself to task for her heartless elation at the
novelty and change of her position.
"If father were alive, how I should enjoy this! Going into an
unknown country—passing through London. What a sense of freedom
and emancipation it gives one! But how can I enjoy it under the
circumstances? I ought to be bowed down with grief and woe. But
I'm not! I'll be honest with myself. The thorough change in my
circumstances is the only comfort I have. It is all most mysterious
and interesting—this visit to a stranger—and the unknown plan about my
future."
She looked out of her train with bright eyes and a hopeful heart.
Every fresh sweep of country was delightful to her: the large stations
attracted her more than the small. Audrey was very fond of her
fellow-creatures, and she loved to note the variety of passengers by
the way. But when she arrived in London, the rush and crush around her
almost frightened her.
"This is being in the stream with a vengeance!" she muttered to
herself. "I wonder what Honor thought of it when she came up? I little
knew how soon I would follow her!"
She got a cab, and drove across to Victoria. And the drive itself was a
wonderful one to her.
Her heart throbbed with excitement.
"This is London. I have seen it at last. How I wish I could live in the
midst of it! Perhaps I may some day. I feel I have Dick Whittington
blood in my veins."
The journey of two hours to her destination sobered her a little. She
took out her father's letter, which was much worn by constant reading,
and for the hundredth time she began to conjecture about the contents
of the enclosure she was taking to Dr. Vernon. It was getting dusk when
she left the train. The station was a quiet one, and when she asked
the way to Horsborough, she was told it was a good two miles away. At
first, she thought of walking. Then a porter suggested her getting a
conveyance from an inn close by, and to this, she agreed.
"Is Horsborough a village?" she asked the driver. "I suppose Dr. Vernon
is the rector or vicar, is he not?"
"Bless you, no, miss! Horsborough be the name of the young gentlemen's
college. It be quite half a mile from the town and that be called
Bulton."
Audrey began to feel a little uncomfortable. She had imagined Dr.
Vernon as an elderly clergyman in a quiet country village. She did not
like to show the driver her ignorance of her friend's surroundings, so
for the rest of the drive she sat in silence. They drove along wooded
roads, then climbed a long hill, and turned in at some imposing iron
gates, and up a broad drive to a block of buildings, now shrouded in
dusky mist, but with rows of twinkling lights brightening the gloom.
When Audrey was landed before a massive stone porch, she stood for a
moment irresolute before she raised the brass knocker of the oak door.
"Shall I wait?" the driver inquired, eyeing Audrey's small brown bag.
A few moments ago Audrey would have said "No," but now sudden fear
assailed her.
"Yes," she said briefly. "Wait; I may not be long."
And, leaving her bag in the trap, she knocked and rang with no
uncertain hand.
A manservant appeared, and led her through a broad, brightly lighted
hall. Once he turned.
"It is Dr. Vernon you wish to see?"
"Yes."
In another moment, she was ushered into a spacious, comfortable study
lined with books, and with a large writing-table drawn across a bow
window. There was a cheerful fire burning.
Suddenly Audrey began to laugh.
"I declare it is every bit like a doctor's consulting-room! I wonder if
he is a clergyman, after all? I am getting quite nervous. I do wish he
would appear!"
In another moment, the door was very briskly opened, and Dr. Vernon
stood before her.
Audrey drew her breath in very sharply as she rose from her seat and
held out her hand.
This was no elderly clergyman. A tall, broad-shouldered man who seemed
to make the room small by his presence; one whose massive forehead and
finely cut, intellectual face betokened power of brain as well as of
body. Keen, dark eyes, with thick eyebrows, so clean-shaven that the
determined curves in lips and chin were plainly discernible, dark hair
streaked slightly with grey, but crisply curling at the edges. As he
stood before her in the firelight, Audrey saw all this in a lightning
flash, and she saw, too, that this was a man to be feared as well as
liked.
"You know who I am?" she said. "Mr. Blunt has written to you, I
believe."
For a moment he looked at her uncomprehendingly, but when she mentioned
her name, he said, with a slight smile that seemed to transfigure his
face:
"Yes, of course—you are the daughter of my old friend. Mr. Blunt said
you might be coming to see me, but I did not expect you to-day."
"I asked him to mention the day," said Audrey a little stiffly.
"Ah, well, perhaps he did. I am a busy man, Miss Hume, and have a very
large correspondence. Do sit down. My sister is out at present. Can I
offer you some tea?"
He rang the bell without waiting for an answer, gave the order for tea,
and then looked expectantly at Audrey.
She wasted no time in coming to the point.
"I have brought you an enclosure from my father which he wished me to
deliver to you personally."
He took it from her, saying:
"I can only say again, as I wrote, that I sympathise very much with you
in your loss. I can never forget what I owe to your father. I have told
him so, many times, and your loss is to a great extent mine—"
Then there was silence. Audrey sat back in her chair and waited,
feeling a tightening of her heart-strings as she watched him open the
envelope and begin to read her dead father's epistle. But she was
utterly unprepared for the effect it had upon the doctor.
A dull red mounted to his cheeks, even to his forehead. His eyes
flashed, the very veins in his forehead seemed to swell out like
whipcords, and then sharp and stinging came the words:
"Utterly preposterous! The man must have been mad!"
Audrey rose from her chair.
The passion of the moment overcame all Dr. Vernon's usual
self-restraint. He dashed the letter to the ground, and turned
furiously to Audrey:
"I decline the honour. That is my reply to that astonishing and
impertinent letter. Your father's mind must have been failing. Fathers
do not generally sell their daughters in this time of refinement and
civilisation."
It was Audrey's turn to flush now. She stooped and picked the letter
up, indignant at such discourteous language.
"As I am utterly unaware of the contents of this letter, I must read it
to understand you," she said.
But the words swam before her eyes. She doubted if she saw aright:
"DEAR VERNON,
"When you get this I shall be gone, and my daughter left pretty well
penniless. I have tried to save, but have been unsuccessful. She
sometimes upbraids me because I have not fitted her to earn her living.
I tell her she must marry, that will be her salvation. I have not
corresponded much with you, but Blunt tells me you are still unmarried.
I have several letters in which you assure me that you wish to prove
your gratitude to me for the past. I did not do much, and won't refer
to it, except to say this. If you wish to do me a favour, marry my
daughter, and I'll venture to say you won't regret it.
"I am sending her with this for you to see her. She is a handsome girl,
and a good one, and will make any man a capable wife. Her future will
be assured if you will grant this request of mine. And remember that it
is a dead man who claims this favour from you.—Yours,—
"ARTHUR HUME."
The storm of anger that rushed through Audrey's soul blotted out for
the moment the humiliation of her position. She had been so utterly
unprepared for such a scene, so entirely innocent of what kind of a
missive she was presenting.
And her anger was not directed against the author of the outrage, but
against the man who dared to let her see his detestation of such an
outrage, and who dared to speak of her dead father in such bitter,
scathing terms.
When she spoke, her lips were white with passion, her grey eyes like
burning coals of fire.
"You need not waste your energy in such denunciation, for I assure you
I am not a party to this—extraordinary proposition. It is a greater
insult to me than it is to you. And I would hardly be likely to wish
to expose myself to such a reception as you have given me. I have
carried out my father's wish, and that is where the matter ends. You
will never see or hear of me again. Nothing will induce me to have any
communication with you in future. We have been strangers up to now; we
shall continue to be so, though I shall not soon forget your insolence
in showing such temper before one who is entirely innocent of offence
towards you!"
She dashed the crumpled letter into the fire, and made a hurried and
undignified exit, almost knocking over the servant who met her in the
doorway with the tea-tray in his hands. She sped along the hall, and
in another moment was driving back to the station, feeling nothing and
realising nothing but one tumult of bitter anger and hatred against the
man whom she had been to see.