CHAPTER XXX.
THE COUNT HESITATES
When Will returned to the hotel, he found his father waiting up for him, alone. He was too much overcome by the terrible scene he had just witnessed to make any but the barest apology for his discourtesy, and even that his father interrupted as unnecessary.
"I left the theatre early," he said gloomily. "Dove was feverish and unwell. I think she must have caught cold when coming up with us in the morning. When I got her here, her cheeks were flushed and hot, and I saw that she was restless and languid by turns – in short, very feverish."
"Did you send for a doctor?"
"Oh, no; there was nothing one could speak to him about. To-morrow morning, if these symptoms are not gone, it might be advisable to consult some one."
They sate up very late that night discussing their future plans. There were but two alternatives before them. It was considered possible that with a few thousand pounds Mr. Anerley could meet present liabilities, and wait over for the time at which it was hoped the affairs of the bank would, through the realisation of certain securities, be in a fair way of recovery. If, on the other hand, this present money was not forthcoming, the only course for Mr. Anerley was to remove from St. Mary-Kirby to London, and try to find some means of subsistence in the great city.
"There is only Hubbard, of all my old acquaintances, in a position to help me," said Mr. Anerley; "and he is the last whom I should like to ask for any such favour."
"I think you are inclined to misjudge the Count, sir," said Will; "and in this case you ought at least to see what he has to say before impeaching his good feeling. After all, you will find a good many men with as much money as the Count, and as little to spend it on, quite as unwilling to oblige an old friend as you half expect him to be."
After a good deal of argument, it was arranged that Mr. Anerley should see the Count on the following morning. Will forced him to this decision by a long description of what would fall upon the St. Mary-Kirby household in the event of his refusal.
"What is your pride compared with their wretchedness?" he said.
"My boy," he replied, "I have no pride, except when I have a good gun in my hand and a good dog working bravely in front of me. Further, do you know so little of your own family as to think that poverty, the nightmare of novelists, would be so appalling to them?"
"Not to them, perhaps; but to you, looking at them."
And that was true of the Chesnut Bank household. Misfortune was as bitter to them as to any other family; only it was for one another that they grieved. They had been educated into a great unselfishness through the constant kindly and half-mocking counsel of the head of the house; but that unselfishness only embittered misfortune. They did not brood over their individual mishaps, but they exaggerated the possible effects of misfortune on each other, and shared this imaginary misery. Mr. Anerley was not much put out by the knowledge that henceforth he would scarcely have the wherewithal to keep himself decently clothed; but it was only when he thought of Dove being deprived of her port-wine, and of Mrs. Anerley being cabined up in London lodgings (though these two were as careless of these matters as he about his matters), that he vowed he would go and see Count Schönstein, and beg him for this present assistance.
"As for Dove, poor girl!" he said to Will, "you know what riches she prizes. You know what she craves for. A look from one she loves is riches to her; you can make her as wealthy as an empress by being kind to her."
"I'm sure no one ever could be unkind to her," said Will.
But the visit to Count Schönstein was postponed next morning; for Dove was worse than on the previous night, and was fain to remain in bed. Of course a physician was called in. He had a long talk with Mr. Anerley, afterwards; and perhaps it was his manner, more than anything he actually said, that disquieted Dove's guardian. What he actually did say was that the young girl was evidently very delicate; that on her tender constitution this slight febrile attack might lead to graver consequences; and that she must at once have careful, womanly nursing and country air. Per se, her ailment was not of a serious character.
Mrs. Anerley was at once telegraphed for. Under the circumstances, they did not care to remove Dove to St. Mary-Kirby, with the chance of her having to return a few days afterwards to London.
"And if I had any misgivings about asking the Count to lend me the money," said Mr. Anerley, "I have none now. If country air is necessary to Dove's health, country air she shall have, somehow or other."
"If we cannot manage that, sir," said Will, "we had better go and bury ourselves for a couple of imbeciles."
So it was on the next morning that Mr. Anerley went to Count Schönstein's house in Bayswater. He went early, and found that the Count had just breakfasted. He was shown up to the drawing-room.
It was a large and handsome apartment, showily and somewhat tawdrily furnished. A woman's hand was evidently wanted in the place. The pale lavender walls, with their stripes of delicately-painted panelling, were scratched and smudged here and there; the chintz coverings of the couches and chairs were ragged and uneven; and the gauzy drapery of the chandeliers and mirrors was about as thick with dust as the ornate books which lay uncovered on the tables. There were a hundred other little points which a woman's eye would have detected, but which, on the duller masculine perception, only produced a vague feeling of uncomfortable disorder and want of cleanliness.
The Count entered in a gorgeously embroidered dressing-gown, above the collar of which a black satin neckerchief was tied round his neck in a series of oily folds.
"Good morning, Anerley," he said, in his grandest manner – so grand, indeed, that his visitor was profoundly surprised. Indeed, the Count very rarely attempted seignorial airs with his Chesnut Bank neighbour.
It is unnecessary to repeat the details of a very unpleasant interview. Mr. Anerley explained his position; the Count, while not actually refusing to lend him the money, took occasion to betray his resentment against Will. The upshot of it was that Mr. Anerley, with some dignity, refused the help which the Count had scarcely offered, and walked out of the house.
He was a little angry, doubtless, and there was a contemptuous curl on his lips as he strode down the street; but these feelings soon subsided into a gentler sadness, as he thought of Dove and the chances of her getting country air.
He looked up at the large houses on both sides of him, and thought how the owners of these houses had only to decide between one sheltered seaside village and another, between this gentle climate and that gentler one, for pleasure's sake; while he, with the health of his darling in the balance, was tied down to the thick and clammy atmosphere of the streets. And then he thought of how many a tramp, footsore and sickeningly hungry, must have looked up at Chesnut Bank, and wondered why God had given all His good things – sweet food, and grateful wine, and warm clothing, and pleasant society, and comfortable sleep – to the occupant of that pleasant-looking place. It was now his turn to be envious; but it was for Dove alone that he coveted a portion of their wealth.
CHAPTER XXXI.
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 Schönstein 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 Schönstein, 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 liveunless 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.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CONFESSION
By the time that Mrs. Anerley arrived, Dove was sufficiently well to suffer removal from the hotel; and as there was now no help for it, the whole family removed to those rooms which Will had engaged for them from his landlord. The position of affairs had now to be disclosed; and with all the cheerfulness and mutual consolation they could muster, the prospect seemed doleful enough. Every one seemed to be chiefly concerned for Dove, and Dove was the least concerned of all. She put her arm round Mr. Anerley's neck, as he bent over the couch on which she lay, and whispered to him —
"You have lost all your shooting, poor papa."
"Yes."
"But then you have me. I'm as good as the biggest partridge you ever saw, am I not?"
"I think you are, darling."
"And you have lost all your fishing, poor papa."
"Yes, that too."
"But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do?"
Which was followed by the usual caress.
"And you won't have such lots of wine; but you know, papa, how angry you used to be when people did not appreciate what you thought was good."
"And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after dinner on Sunday?" said he.
"You'll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we're all sitting at the table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, and everybody is thinking about the nice Sundays down in the country, you know, there will be a little rustling, and a little murmur of music in the air – somewhere near the roof; and all at once two bottles of wine will be hung round your neck by the fairies – for it's only you who care about it, you know – and everybody will laugh at you. That is the punishment for thinking about port-wine. Do I want port-wine? You're an old cheat, papa, and try to make me believe I am ill that you may have your port-wine on Sunday. But I am not, and I won't have any extravagance."
He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of cheerfulness on her sweet face, and made some abominable vow about selling his mother's marriage-ring before Dove should want her port-wine.
Dove was really so well, however, when Mrs. Anerley came, that the anxious and tender mamma was almost at a loss how to expend the care and sympathy with which she had charged herself. It was at this juncture that Will proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Anerley should go and see Annie Brunel, and give her what comfort and assistance lay in their power. And no sooner were the circumstances of the girl's position mentioned, than both at once, and gladly, consented.
"But why not come with us?" said his mother.
"I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only too grateful if you go to see her. She does not know how to manage a funeral. Then she is alone; you will be able to speak to her better than I, and in any case I must remain with Dove."
So they went, and when they were gone, Dove asked him to come and seat himself beside her couch. She put out her little white hand to him, and he noticed that her eyes were singularly large and clear. They were fixed upon him with the old tender sadness, and he was forced to think of the time when heaven itself seemed open to him in those beautiful, transparent depths. But why should they be sad? He remembered the old delight of them, the mystery of them, the kindness of them; and perhaps he thought that in a little time he would be able to awaken the old light in them, and rejoice in the gladness, and be honestly, wholly in love with his future wife.
"Why didn't you go with them?" she asked.
"And leave you alone?"
He could have wished that those eyes were less frank and less penetrating.
"Sometimes I fancy, Will, that you think me a great baby, and that there is no use explaining things to me, and that I am only to be petted and treated like a child. And so you have always petted me, like the rest, and I liked it very well, as you know. But if I am to be your wife, Will, you mustn't treat me as a child any more."
"Would you like to be old and wise and motherly, Dove? How must I treat you? You know you are only a poor little child, my dearest; but then, when we marry, you will suddenly grow very old."
There was no glad pleasure and hope in his voice, and doubtless she caught the tone of his speech, for the large eyes were absent and troubled.
"You are not frank with me, Will," she said, in a low voice. "You won't explain the difference there has been in you ever since you came back from Germany. Ah, such a difference!" she added, with a sigh, and her eyes were withdrawn from his face. "Perhaps I only imagine it, but everything seems altered. We are not to each other what we used to be: you are kinder than ever, I think, and you want to be what you were; but something has come between us, Will."
Every word she uttered lacerated his heart, for how could he look upon the patient, kind, sweet face, and tell a lie? – and how dared he tell the truth?
"Come closer, Will. Bend your head down, and I'll whisper something to you. It is this: Ever since you came back from Germany I have been wretched, without knowing why. Many a time I was going to tell you; then you always looked as if you were not as much my friend as you used to be, and I dared not do it. You have not been frank with me, and I have seen it often and often as I have watched you, and my heart used to lie cold and still like lead. And oh, Will, do you know what I've been thinking? – I've been thinking that you don't love me any more!"
She turned away her agonised face from him, and a slight shudder ran through her frame.
"Dove, listen to me – "
"And if it is true, Will," she said, with trembling lips, her face still being turned from him – "if it is true, don't tell me that it is, Will; how could I bear to hear you say that? I should only wish to die at once, and be out of everybody's way – out of your way too, Will, if I am in the way. I never expected to talk like this to you – never, never; for I used to think – down there in St. Mary-Kirby, you know – that you could never do anything but love me, and that we should always go on the same wherever we were. But things are all changed, Will. It was never the same after you left the last time, and since you have come back, they have changed more and more. And now up here in London, it seems as if all the old life were broken away, and we two had only been dreaming down there. And I have been sick at heart, and wretched; and when I found myself ill the other day, I wished I might die."
He had destroyed that beautiful world; and he knew it, although there was no chorus of spirits to sing to him —
"Weh! weh!
Du hast sie zerstört,
Die schöne Welt!
Mit mächtiger Faust;
Sie stürzt, sie zerfallt!
* * * * *
Prächtiger
Baue sie wieder
In deinem Busen baue sie auf!
Neuen Lebenslauf
Beginne,
Wit hellem Sinne
Und neue Lieder
Tönen darauf!"
Was it possible for him to build it up again, and restore the old love and the old confidence? It was not until this heartbroken wail was wrung from the poor girl that he fully saw the desolation that had fallen upon them. Bitterly he accused himself of all that had happened, and vainly he looked about for some brief solace he might now offer her.
"You don't say anything," she murmured, "because you have been always kind to me, and you do not wish to pain me. But I know it is true, Will, whether you speak or not. Everything is changed now – everything; and – and I've heard, Will, that when one is heartbroken, one dies."
"If you do not wish to break my heart, Dove, don't talk like that," he said, beside himself with despair and remorse. "See, give me your hand, and I'll tell you all about it. Turn your eyes to me, dearest. We are a little changed, I know; but what does it matter? So soon as ever we can, we shall marry, Dove; and then the old confidence will come back again. I have been away so much from you that we have lost our old familiarity; but when we are married, you know – "
Then she turned, and the beautiful violet eyes were once more reading his face.
"You wish us to be married, Will?"
"My darling, I do," he said eagerly, honestly, joyously – for in the mere thought that thereby he might make some reparation there lay peace and assurance for the future. "I wish that we could be married to-morrow morning."
She pressed his hand and lay back on the cushion with a sigh. There was a pale, wan pleasure in her face, and a satisfied languor in her eyes.
"I think I shall make a very good wife," she said, a little while after, with the old smile on her face. "But I shall have to be petted, and cared for, and spoiled, just as before. I don't think I should wish to be treated differently if I knew you were frank with me, and explained your griefs to me, and so on. I wished, darling, to be older, and out of this spoiling, because I thought you considered me such a baby – "
"You will be no longer a baby when you are married. Think of yourself as a married woman, Dove – the importance you will have, the dignity you will assume. Think of yourself presiding over your own tea-table – think of yourself choosing a house down near Hastings, and making wonderful arrangements with the milkman, and the butcher; and getting into a terrible rage when they forget your orders, and blaming all their negligence on me."
"My dear, I don't think I shall have anything to do with butchers and milkmen."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think you will ever have any money to pay them with."
"So long as I have only one arm with which to work for you, Dove, you must learn to live on little; but still – "
"I shall not want much, shall I, if I have you beside me to make me forget that I am hungry? But it all looks like a dream, just like what is past. Are they both dreams, dearest? Were those real times down in the old house, when you and I used to sit together, or walk out together, over the common, you know, and over the bridge by the mill-head, and away over the meadows down by that strip of wood, and so on, and so on, until we came to the river again, and the road, and Balnacluith House, and the deer-park? How pleasant it was, in the summer evenings; but that seems so long ago!"
"How sad you have been these last few days, Dove!"
"Because I have been thinking, Will. And all that seems a dream, and all that is coming seems a dream, and there is nothing real but just now, and then I find you and me estranged from each other. Ah, yes, Will; you are very kind in speaking of our marriage; but we are not now what we were once."
"Dove," he said, with a desperate effort, "I cannot bear this any longer. If you go on moping like this, you will kill yourself. It is better you should know all the truth at once – you will listen, dearest, and forgive me, and help me to make the best we can of the future."
There was a quick sparkle of joy in her eyes.
"Oh, Will, Will, are you going to tell me all now?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Then you needn't speak a word – not a word – for I know you love me, after all. Perhaps not altogether; but quite enough to satisfy me, Will, and I am so glad – so glad!"
She burst into tears, and hid her face from him.
He scarcely knew whether grief or joy was the cause of this emotion; but in a minute or two she said —
"I am going to whisper something to you. You fell in love with Miss Brunel when you were over in Germany, and you found it out when it was too late, and you did not know what to do. Your kindness brought you back to me, though your thoughts were with her. Is it not all true I have been telling you? And I was afraid it would be so always, and that you and I were parted for ever; for you hid the secret from me, and dared not tell me. But the moment I saw in your eyes that you were going to tell me, I knew some of the old love must be there – some of our old confidence; and now – now – oh, my darling, I can trust you with my life, and my heart, and all the love I can offer you!"
"You have spoken the truth, Dove," he said, and he knew that her rare womanly instinct had not lied to her, "and you have made me happier than I have been for many a day. You do not blame me much for what is past and gone? And you see that after all the old love may come back between us; and you will help me to bring it back, and keep it safe."
"And I will be a true wife to you, Will."
She fixed her eyes gravely and earnestly upon him. Then she lifted his hand to her lips, and – bethinking herself, perhaps, of some quaint foreign custom of which she may have heard – she kissed it, in token of meek submission and wifely self-surrender.