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"A Dead Reckoning" in CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. (Sept 14. 1889.)
https://books.google.com/books?id=jCYZAAAAYAAJ
(Princeton University)
CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR POPULAR LITERATURE
_Science and Arts_
1889
W. & R. CHAMBERS
LONDON & EDINBURGH
CONTENTS.
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.
A DEAD RECKONING.
A STORY IN NINETEEN CHAPTERS.
By T. W. SPEIGHT,
Author of The Mysteries of Heron Dyke, By Devious Ways, &c.
CHAPTER I.
"Aunty, dear, do you know what day this is?"
"If the almanac may be believed, it is the 24th of April."
"Six months ago to-day, Gerald and I were married. I feel as if I had
been married for years."
"How dreadful to feel that you are growing old so quickly! I hope all
married people don't feel like that."
"You misunderstand me, Aunt Jane. I have been so happy since that
evening last year when Gerald whispered something to me in the
summer-house, that all my life before I knew him seems as unreal as a
dream."
"Such short courtships are positively dreadful. Now, when I was
engaged to Captain Singleton"----
A third lady, who had been lounging on a sofa and making-believe to be
intent on a novel, gave a loud sneeze and sat bolt upright. She had
heard Captain Singleton's name introduced so often of late, that she
might be excused for not caring to hear it mentioned again--at least
for a little while.
The first speaker, Clara Brooke, was a charming brunette of
twenty-two, with sparkling black eyes, a pure olive complexion, and a
manner that was at once vivacious and tender. Miss Primby, the second
speaker, was a fresh-coloured, well-preserved spinster of---- But no;
Miss Primby's age was a secret, which she guarded as a dragon might
guard its young, and we have no right to divulge it. She had one of
the best hearts in the world, and one of the weakest heads. Everybody
smiled at her little foibles, yet everybody liked her. Just now she
was busy over some species of delicate embroidery, in which she was an
adept. Lady Fanny Dwyer, the third lady, whose inopportune sneeze had
for a moment so disconcerted Miss Primby, was a very pretty,
worldly-wise, self-possessed young matron, who in age was some six
months older than Mrs. Brooke. She and Clara had been bosom friends in
their school-days; and notwithstanding the many differences in their
characters and dispositions, their liking for each other was still as
fresh and unselfish as ever it had been.
The ladies were sitting in a pleasant morning-room at Beechley Towers,
Mr. Gerald Brooke's country-house, situated about fourteen miles from
London. The room opened on to a veranda by means of long windows,
which were wide open this balmy April afternoon. Beyond the veranda
was a terrace, from which two flights of broad shallow steps led down
to a flower-garden. Outside that lay a well-wooded park, with a wide
sweep of sunny champaign enfolding the whole.
Clara Brooke had scarcely heard her aunt's last remark. She was seated
at a davenport, turning over some old letters. On the wall in front of
her hung a portrait of her husband, painted on ivory. "'My own darling
Clara,'" she read to herself from one of the letters; "'it seems an
age since I saw you last, and it will seem like an age till I shall
have the happiness of seeing you again.' What sweet, sweet letters he
used to write to me! What other girl ever had such letters written to
her?" She pressed the paper she had been reading to her lips, then
refolded it, and put it away and took up another.
"Ah, my dear," remarked Lady Fanny, turning to her friend, "as you
remarked just now, you have only been a wife for six short months, and
of course everything with you is still _couleur de rose_. But when you
have been married as long as Algy and I have, when the commonplace and
the prosaic begin to assert themselves, as they do in everything and
everywhere, whether you like it or not, then I am sure you will agree
that the scheme of married life my husband and I have planned for
ourselves has really a good deal to recommend it to all sensible
people."
Miss Primby pricked up her ears. "You excite my curiosity, dear Lady
Fanny," she said. "I hope you won't refuse to gratify it."
"Why should I?" asked Lady Fan with her merry laugh. "We want
converts, Algy and I; and who knows, my dear Miss Primby, but that
some day--eh? Well, this is our _modus vivendi_--I believe that's the
correct term, but won't be sure. About eighteen months ago--we had
then been married a little over a year--Algy and I came to the
conclusion that married people ought not to be too constantly together
if they wish to keep on good terms with each other. Algy's contention
is that half the quarrels and scandals which come out in the
newspapers are simply the result of people seeing so much of each
other that at last they are impelled by some feeling they can't resist
to have what he calls 'a jolly row,' just to vary the monotony of
existence. And then, as he says, one 'row' is sure to lead to another,
and so on. When once the match is applied, no one can tell where the
conflagration will stop. Now, although ours was a love-match, if ever
there was one, we had not run together in harness very long before we
made the discovery that in many things our likes and dislikes were
opposed. For instance, next to me, I believe Algy loves his yacht;
whereas I detest yachting: it seems to me a most stupid way of
passing one's time. On the other hand, I delight in going from one
country-house to another and visiting each of my friends in turn;
while Algy, dear fellow, is always awfully bored in general society,
especially wherever a number of our sex happen to be congregated.
Thus, it has come to pass that at the present moment he is somewhere
in the Mediterranean, while I--well, _je suis ici_. Algy and I never
give ourselves time to grow tired of each other; and when we meet
after being apart for a month or two, our meetings are 'real nice,' as
my friend Miss Peckover from New York would say."
Miss Primby shook her head. "I am afraid, dear Lady Fanny, that your
opinions on such matters are very heterodox, and I can only say that I
hope Clara will never see fit to adopt them."
"Not much fear of that, Aunt Jane," answered the young wife. "Fancy
Gerald and me being separated for a month or six weeks at a time! But
it is quite out of the question to fancy anything so absurd."
Lady Fan laughed. "Wait, my dear, wait," was all she said as she
turned again to her novel.
Clara Brooke shook her head; she was in nowise convinced.
"Gracious goodness! whatever can that be?" ejaculated Miss Primby with
a start.
"Only Gerald and the Baron Von Rosenberg practising at the
pistol-range. It is an amusement both of them are fond of."
"An amusement do you call it! I wish they would practise their
amusements farther from the house, then.--Heaven preserve us! there
they go again. No wonder I have broken my needle."
"It's nothing, Aunt Jane, when you are used to it," responded her
niece with a smile.
"Used to it, indeed! I should never get used to it as long as I lived.
I have no doubt this is another of the objectionable practices your
husband picked up while he was living in foreign parts."
"Seeing that Gerald was brought up in Poland, and that he lived in
that country and in Russia from the time he was five years old till he
was close on twenty (I think I have told you before that his
grandmother was a Polish lady of rank), I have no doubt it was while
he was living in those foreign parts, as you call them, that he learnt
to be so fond of pistol-practice."
At this moment there came the sound of two pistol-shots in quick
succession. Miss Primby started to her feet. "My dear Clara," she
exclaimed, "if you don't want my poor nerves to be shattered for life,
you won't object to my going to my own room. With plenty of cotton
wool in my ears, and my Indian shawl wrapped round my head, I may
perhaps---- Dear, dear! now my thimble's gone."
"Why, there's your thimble, aunt, on your finger."
"So it is--so it is, dear. That shows the state of my poor nerves."
"Will you not stay and say good-bye to the Baron?"
"No, my dear; I would rather not. You must make my excuses. Of course,
you could not fail to notice how the Baron ogled me at luncheon. He
puts me _so_ much in mind of poor dear Major Pondicherry. But I never
cared greatly for foreigners; besides, he will smell horribly of
gunpowder when he comes in.--There again! Not another moment will I
stay."
Clara Brooke's face rippled over with suppressed laughter as Miss
Primby left the room. Then she turned to her letters again, and
tied them up with ribbon. "I have heard that some people burn their
love-letters when they get married," she mused. "What strange beings
they must be! Nothing in the world would induce me to burn mine. Sweet
silent messengers of love, what happy secrets lie hidden in your
leaves!" She pressed the letters to her lips, put them away inside the
davenport, and locked them up.
Just as she had done this, the pompous tones of Bunce, who filled the
joint positions of majordomo and butler at the Towers, became plainly
audible. Apparently he was standing outside the side-door and
addressing his remarks to someone on the terrace. "Now, the sooner you
take your hook the better," the two ladies heard him say. "We don't
want none of your kidney here. This ain't no place for mountebanks--I
should think not indeed!" Mr. Bunce in his ire had evidently forgotten
the proximity of his mistress.
Clara crossed to one of the windows, and looking out saw, some little
distance away, two strange figures slowly crossing the terrace. One
was that of a man whose costume of a street tumbler was partly hidden
by the long shabby overcoat he wore over it, which was closely
buttoned to the chin. Over one shoulder a drum was slung, and in his
left hand he carried a set of Pandean pipes. The second figure was
that of a boy some eight or nine years old, who had hold of the man's
right hand. Under one arm he carried a small roll of faded carpet. In
point of dress he was a miniature copy of the elder mountebank, minus
the overcoat. His throat was swathed in a dingy white muffler, while
his profusion of yellow curls were kept from straying by a fillet
round his forehead embroidered with silvered beads.
"Poor creatures," said Clara to herself. "Bunce had no business to
speak to them as he did. How dejected they look, and the child seems
quite footsore."
At this juncture the man happening to turn his head, caught sight of
her. She at once beckoned him to approach.
The mountebank's face lighted up and all signs of dejection vanished
in a moment. He had some kind of old cap on his head. This he now
removed, and bowed profoundly twice. It was a bow that might have
graced a drawing-room. Then he and the boy crossed the terrace towards
Mrs. Brooke.
"Fan, I want you; come here," said Clara to her friend.
Lady Fanny rose languidly and crossed to the window.
What struck both the ladies first of all, as the vagrants drew near,
was the remarkable beauty of the child. His face at the first glance
seemed an almost perfect oval; his complexion, naturally fair and
transparent, was now somewhat embrowned by exposure to the sun and
wind. He had large eyes of the deepest and tenderest blue, shaded by
long golden lashes; while his lips formed a delicate curve such as
many a so-called professional beauty might have envied.
"He looks more like a girl than a boy," whispered Lady Fan.
"He looks more like a cherub than either," responded Clara, who was
somewhat impulsive both in her likes and dislikes. "It is a face that
Millais would love to paint."
The appearance of the man was a great contrast to that of the child,
and a casual observer would have said that there was no single point
of resemblance between the two. Apparently the former was about forty
to forty-five years of age. He had a sallow complexion and a thin
aquiline nose; his black locks were long and tangled; while into his
quick-glancing black eyes, which appeared to see half-a-dozen things
at once, there would leap at times a strange fierce gleam, which
seemed to indicate that although the volcano below might give forth
few or no signs, its hidden fires were smouldering still. Only when
his eyes rested on the boy they would soften and fill with a sort of
wistful tenderness; and at such moments the whole expression of his
face would change.
"I am extremely sorry," said Mrs. Brooke, "that my servant should have
spoken to you just now in the way he did. He had no right to do so,
and I shall certainly ask my husband to reprimand him."
"It was nothings, madame, nothings at all," responded the mountebank
with a little bow and a smile and a deprecatory motion of his hands.
"We are often spoken to like that--Henri and I--we think nothings of
it."
"Still, I cannot help feeling greatly annoyed.--Is this pretty boy
your son?"
"_Oui_, madame."
"His mother"----
"Alas, madame, she is dead. She die six long years ago. She was
English, like madame. Henri has the eyes of _ma pauvre_ Marie; and his
hair, too, is the same colour as hers."
Although the man spoke with a pronounced foreign accent, his English
was fluent, and he rarely seemed at a loss for a word to express his
meaning.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Brooke. "This is a hard life to bring him up
to. Surely some other way might be found"---- Then she paused.
The mountebank's white teeth showed themselves in a smile. "Ah no,
madame; pardon, but it is not a hard life by no means. Henri likes it,
and I like it. In the winter we join some _cirque_, and then Henri has
lessons every day. He is clevare, very clevare--everybody say so. One
day Henri will be a great artiste. The world--_tout le monde_--will
hear of him. It is I who say it--_moi_." He touched his chest proudly
with the tips of his fingers as he ceased speaking. "Would mesdames
like to behold?"---- he said a moment later as he brought his drum into
position and raised the pipes to his lips.
"Thank you, monsieur; not to-day," answered Clara gravely as she
stepped back into the room and rang the bell.
Monsieur looked disappointed. Henri, however, looked anything but
disappointed when, two minutes later, the beautiful lady, from whose
face he could scarcely take his eyes, heaped his little hands with
cakes and fruit till they could hold no more.
"Tell me your name, my pretty one," said Mrs. Brooke, as she stooped
and helped him to secure his treasures.
"Henri Picot, madame."
"And have you any pockets, Henri?"
"_Oui_, madame."
A pocket was duly indicated, and into its recesses a certain coin of
the realm presently found its way.
Before either Picot or the boy had time to give utterance to a word of
thanks, a servant entered the room, and addressing Lady Fan, said: "If
you please, my lady, the carriage is waiting; and Miss Primby desires
me to tell you that she is ready."
"Good gracious, Clara," said Lady Fan, "I had forgotten all about my
promise to accompany your aunt in her call on Mrs. Riversdale. I wish
to goodness you could go with us. I dread the ordeal."
"And leave the Baron Von Rosenberg without a word of apology! What
would become of my reputation as a hostess? Gerald and he will be here
in a few minutes, I don't doubt; and if you like to wait till he is
gone"----
"That would never do," interrupted her friend. "You know what a fidget
your aunt is when she is kept waiting. You had better come and keep
her in good-humour while I am getting my things on.--By-the-bye, where
can our singular friends have vanished to?"
Clara looked round. Picot and the boy had disappeared. Neither of the
ladies had seen the start the mountebank gave at the mention of Von
Rosenberg's name, nor how strangely the expression of his face
changed. Clutching the boy by one wrist, he whispered: "It is time to
go. Venez, mon p'tit--vite, vite! The ladies want us no more."
"The man was French, and he seems to have taken the proverbial leave
of his countrymen," said Lady Fan with a laugh.
Mrs. Brooke was a little surprised, but said nothing. The two ladies
left the room together.