In Silk Attire: A Novel
- -
- 100%
- +
"You don't know my father," said Will.
They had not to wait for the evening papers. By twelve o'clock the news was current in the city. Miall & Welling had sent out their circular: the bank had suspended payment.
This was the cause of Will's missing the train. When he took his seat in the next train going down, it was with a feeling that now ill-fortune had done its worst, and there was nothing more to encounter. He thought of that wild scene of last night by the banks of the river, – of the strange, sad, unfathomable look of the young actress's eyes, – of their bitter parting, and the tender words she spoke as he left. Then he looked forward to meeting Dove with a cold fear at his heart: and he was almost glad that the more immediate and terrible business he had on hand would distract his attention.
He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round to the brow of the hill. Before him lay the well-known valley, still and silent under the yellow autumn sunlight; and down there by the river he saw a tall spare man – accompanied by another man and a couple of dogs – whose figure he easily recognised. He walked in that direction, crossing the low-lying meadows and the river, and rounding a bit of coppice which skirted a turnip-field.
As he turned the corner, a covey of birds rose just in front of him, with a prodigious whirr of wings.
"Mark!" he called, instinctively, though he was quite unaware of the proximity of anybody with a gun.
The next second there was a double report; two of the birds came tumbling down, scattering their feathers in the air, and there was a muttered admonition to the pointer. A few steps further brought him into view of Mr. Anerley and old Thwaites, both of whom were marking down the remaining birds of the covey, as the low, swift, sailing flight seemed to near the ground.
"Why did you come round that way?" said Mr. Anerley when he saw his son. "I might have shot you."
"I shouldn't have minded, sir," said Will. "I'm getting used to it."
"You have your arm in a sling yet? I thought it was all right."
"The doctor pulls long faces over it. I fancy the man in the Black Forest bungled it."
"If the Black Foresters don't know how to cure men shot by mistake, they ought to," said Mr. Anerley, with a thoroughly English contempt for any kind of shooting but his own. "Such a set of sparrow-shooting shoemakers I never saw. I suppose I needn't offer you my gun?"
"No, thank you. I'll walk down the turnips with you, on my way to the house."
There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary bird got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, however, on the firm-set lips of the tall, keen-faced, grey-haired sportsman. He quietly put another cartridge into the barrel and walked on, occasionally growling at the dog, which was continually making false points. Almost at the end of the turnips the dog made a very decided point.
"Ware lark! gr-r-r-r!" cried old Thwaites; and at the same instant a fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of shot. The dog had really been on the scent of the partridges.
Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly pleased.
"If that had not been old Thwaites," muttered Will, "I should have said it was an old fool."
So Will walked on to Chesnut Bank. He had not the heart to tear the old man away from his favourite sport in order to give him this bad news. After dinner, he now thought, would be time enough; and he himself seemed to have gained a respite until then.
But if he was in the meanwhile relieved from the necessity of bearing the evil tidings to his father, there remained his meeting with Dove, which he had for long looked forward to with a half-conscious fear. As he drew near the house, he began to think this the greater trial of the two.
Dove, still sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on the gravelled pathway leading down through the garden. The music almost dropped from her hands as she listened intently for a moment – then a flush of joyous colour stole over her face. But, all the same, she opened the book again, and sate obstinately looking at pages which she did not see.
"Dove," said Will, tapping at the French window, "open and let me in."
No answer – Dove still intently regarding the music.
So he had to go on to the hall-door, ring the bell, and enter the drawing-room from the passage.
"Oh, you are come back again!" said Dove, with mimic surprise, and with admirably simulated carelessness.
She held out her hand to him. She fancied he would be dreadfully astonished and perturbed by this cold reception – that they would have a nice little quarrel, and an explanation, and all the divine joys of making-up, before Mrs. Anerley could come down from the apple-closet, in which she had been engaged since breakfast-time. But, on the contrary, Will was neither surprised nor disturbed. He looked quite grave, perhaps a little sad, and took her hand, saying kindly —
"Yes, back again. I hope you have been well while I was away, Dove; and that you amused yourself."
Dove was alarmed; he had not even offered to kiss her.
"What is the matter with you, Will?" she said, with a vague fear in her pretty violet eyes.
"Why, nothing much."
"Is it I, then? Are you vexed with me, that you should be so cold with me after being away so long a time?"
There she stood, with her eyes downcast, a troubled look on her face, and both her hands pulling to pieces a little engraving she held.
"Why should I be vexed with you, Dove?" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. He dared not kiss her: there dwelt on his lips yet the memory of that sad leave-taking of the night before.
"Then why are you and I standing here like strangers?" she said, stamping her little foot.
She could not tell how things had all gone wrong; but they had gone wrong; and the meeting she had looked forward to with such pleasurable anticipation was an embarrassing failure.
At this moment Mrs. Anerley entered, and the girl saw her receive the kiss which had been denied to herself.
"You are not looking well, Will," said the observant mother. "Is your arm healing rightly?"
"Oh, yes, well enough."
"You are fatigued, then? Let me bring you some sherry."
She left the room, and then Dove – looking hesitatingly for a moment – ran forward to him, and buried her face in his bosom, and burst into tears.
"It was all my fault, dear," she sobbed. "I wanted to be angry with you, for not coming down by the first train – and – and I thought you would pet me, and make it up, you know – and I even forgot to ask about your arm; but it wasn't, dear, because I didn't think of it – "
"There, it's all right," he said. "I didn't notice you were vexed with me, or I should have made friends with you at once. There, now, you're only ruffling all your pretty hair, and such a delicate little collar you've got!"
"Oh!" she said, with smiles breaking through her tears, "you don't know what I have been making for you."
"Tell me."
"Twenty times I was near telling you in my letters; but I stopped. I tried to get it done, to give it you to-day, but I couldn't; and – and perhaps it was that made me vexed with you."
"Very likely," said Will, who thoroughly understood the charming byways of Dove's logic.
"It is a worsted waistcoat," she said, in a solemn whisper, "all knitted by myself. And I've put in some of my hair, so that you never could see it unless I showed it to you. They say that to give any one some of your hair is so unlucky – that it always means parting; but I couldn't help putting in just a little."
"To represent a little parting – from Saturday to Monday, for example."
"Are you going up to town again to-morrow?" she said, with fresh alarm.
"The doctor says I ought; but we shall see when to-morrow comes."
So peace was established between them. It was only as an afterthought she remembered that he had never once kissed her.
During dinner, Will was almost silent. They supposed he was tired with the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and Dove had left the room, he knew the time was come.
"I have bad news for you, father," he said.
"Out with it, then," said Mr. Anerley. "Everybody in the house is well in health; anything else does not much matter."
"Miall & Welling are down."
The old man put back his wineglass on the table.
"Miall & Welling's bank is down?" he said, slowly.
"Yes."
"Are you sure of it?"
"There is their circular."
He read the paper carefully, and laid it down.
"They say," said Will, "that their affairs are in a terrible plight – quite hopeless."
"That means that I have not a farthing of money beyond what is in the house."
He remained silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed on the table before him. Then he said —
"Very well. There are four of us. If we two men cannot support ourselves and these two women, should not every one have a right to laugh at us?"
"But that you, at your age – "
"My age? I am in the prime of life. Indeed, it is time I did something to show that I could have earned my own bread all along."
"I'm glad you look at it in that way," said Will, rather sadly. "Here am I, unable to earn a penny until my arm gets better. You know nothing specially of any business – "
"It is not too late to learn, my lad. There are plenty of things to which I could turn my hand. Imagine what a capital keeper I should be; and how I should overawe the trembling Cockneys invited down to a grand battue into giving me monstrous tips! Now let us look at the thing in another light."
He straightened himself up, as if throwing some weight off his shoulders. Then he relapsed into his old manner, and there was a sort of sad smile on his face.
"Edmond About," he said, "declares that all men are producers, and have therefore a right to the property they possess, except robbers, beggars, and gamblers. Doubtless the money I possessed was very valuable to the people to whom I lent it, and they paid me for putting its working powers at their disposal. You understand?"
"Yes."
"I was, in that sense, a producer, and had a right to the money on which I lived. M. About tells me that I had. But, in spite of that, I was always bothered by an uneasy conviction that the ancestor of mine who brought the money into the family could not have made it by his own hands. Indeed, I am convinced that my rich progenitor – who, let us say, came over with William – was nothing else than a prodigious thief, who either stole money in the shape of taxes, or the means of making money in the shape of land, from the people who then owned it. I therefore, you see, have no right to the possession of money acquired by robbery."
"You only discover that when the money is gone," said Will, accustomed to his father's philosophic and easy way of taking things.
"Not at all. I have for some time back been proud to class myself amongst the richest and oldest families of England, in regard to the moral shadiness of our right to live on the produce of gigantic thievery. You see – "
"I see, sir, that the moment you lose your money, you become a philosophic Radical."
"Ah, well," said Mr. Anerley, sending a sigh after his vanished riches, "I don't think the misfortune has touched us much, when we can transfer it into the region of first principles. Perhaps I had better go up to town with you to-morrow, and see what practical issues it must lead to."
"And in the meantime," said Will, "don't tell either of the women."
CHAPTER XXVI
THE COUNT'S CHANCE
"Where is Mr. Melton?" asked the Count.
"Up in the 'flies,' sir, I believe," said the prompter. "Shall I send for him?"
"No, I shall go up to him," said the Count.
It was on the evening of the day on which he had told Will of Miall & Welling's downfall. After having ascertained the truth of the report, he had gone to spend the remainder of the day at his club, in talking, reading, and dining; and when he did think of going round to the theatre, he found that the piece in which Annie Brunel played would be over, and she gone home. This was as he wished.
So he made his way up the well-worn wooden steps until he reached the "flies," where he found Mr. Melton, seated on the drum which rolled up the drop-scene, in earnest talk with a carpenter. On seeing the Count, the man walked away, and Mr. Melton rose.
"Welcome back to England!" said the manager, rather nervously. "I have been most anxious to see you."
"Ah," said the Count.
"Indeed, the strangest thing has happened – completely floored me – never heard the like," continued Mr. Melton, hurriedly. "Have you seen Miss Brunel?"
"No," said the Count.
"Not since you returned?"
"No."
"You are not acquainted with her resolution?"
"No."
"Then let me tell you what happened not half an hour ago in this very theatre. You see that scenery? It's all new. The dresses are new – new music, new decorations, a new theatre, and – d – n it all! – it's enough to make a man mad!"
"But what is it?" asked the Count of the abnormally excited manager.
"A few minutes ago Miss Brunel comes to me and says, 'Mr. Melton, a word with you.'
"'Certainly,' said I.
"Then she turned a little pale; and had that curious look in her eyes that she used to wear on the stage, you know; and said, clearly, 'I am not going to act any more.'
"When I had recovered breath, I said:
"'Pardon me, Miss Brunel; you must. Look at the expense I have been put to in getting up this revival – '
"And then she grew excited, as if she were half-mad, and implored me not to compel her to fulfil her engagement. She said her acting was a failure; that everybody knew it was a failure; that she had an invincible repugnance to going on the stage again; and that nothing would tempt her to begin a new piece, either with me or with anybody else. I can assure you, Count Schönstein, now that I think over it, there never was a finer scene in any play than she acted then – with her despair, and her appeals, and her determination. I thought at first she was bewitched; and then I declare she was so nearly on the point of bewitching me, that I was almost agreeing to everything she asked, only – "
"Only what?"
"Only I remembered that the theatre was not only my own affair, and that I had no business to compromise its interests by – you understand?"
"Quite right – quite right," said the Count, hastily. "And then – ?"
"Then she left."
"But what – what is the reason of her wishing to leave the stage?"
"I don't know."
"Had she heard any – any news, for example?"
"I don't know."
"Why, Melton, what a fellow you are!" cried the Count, peevishly. "I'm sure you could easily have found out, if you cared, what she meant by it."
"I tell you I was quite dumfoundered – "
"And she said nothing about any news – or her prospects – or a change – ?"
"Nothing. From what she said, I gathered that she had come to dislike acting, and that she was convinced her future career would be wretched, both for herself and the house. You have never asked me about the theatre at all. The first two or three nights the curiosity of people to see her in the new part gave us some good business; but now the papers have changed their tune, and the public – "
Mr. Melton shrugged his shoulders; but Count Schönstein was paying no attention to him.
"If she has discovered the secret," he was reasoning with himself, "she would be in no such desperate hurry to leave the stage. If she has not, now is the time for me."
"Melton," he said, "what would be a reasonable forfeit if she broke her engagement?"
"I don't know. I should say 200*l*. She said she could not offer me compensation in money, and that's why she begged so hard of me for the favour. God knows, if I could afford it, and were my own master, I should not make the poor creature keep to her engagement. Look at the money she used to put into the treasury every week."
"Very good. Come downstairs to your room; I want to transact some business with you."
When they had gone down to the stage and passed through the wings to Mr. Melton's private room, both men sate down in front of a table on which were writing materials.
"Take a sheet of paper, like a good fellow," said the Count, "and write to my dictation."
Melton took the pen in his hand, and the Count continued —
"My dear Miss Brunel, – In consideration of your past services, and of the great success attending– should that be attendant, Melton? —upon your previous labours in this theatre, I beg to offer you entire liberty to break your present engagement, at whatever time you please. – Yours sincerely, Charles Melton."
"And what do you propose to do with that, Count?" said Melton, with a smile.
"I propose to give you this bit of paper for it," said the Count.
He handed the manager an I.O.U. for 200*l.*; and then carefully folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DOUBTFUL
Without taking off either bonnet or cloak, Annie Brunel, on reaching home that night, went at once to Mrs. Christmas's room, and flung herself down on the edge of the bed where the poor old woman lay, ailing and languid.
"Oh, mother, mother," cried the girl, "I can never go to the theatre any more!"
She buried her face in the bed-clothes, and only stretched out her hand for sympathy. The old woman tried to put her arm round the girl's neck, but relinquished the attempt with a sigh.
"What is to become of us, Miss Annie?"
"I don't know – I don't know," she said, almost wildly, "and why should I care any longer?"
"What new trouble is this that has fallen on us?" said Mrs. Christmas, faintly. "Why do you speak like that?"
"Because I don't know what to say, mother – because I would rather die than go to the theatre again – and he says I must. I cannot go – I cannot go – and there is no one to help me!"
The old woman turned her eyes – and they looked large in the shrivelled and weakly face – on her companion.
"Annie, you won't tell me what is the matter. Why should you hate the stage? Hasn't it been kind to you? Wasn't it kind to your mother – for many a long year, when she and you depended on it for your lives? The stage is a kind home for many a poor creature whom the world has cast out – and you, Miss Annie, who have been in a theatre all your life, what has taken you now? The newspapers?"
The girl only shook her head.
"Because the business isn't good?"
No answer.
"Has Mr. Melton been saying anything – ?"
"I tell you, mother," said the girl, passionately, "that I will not go upon the stage, because I hate it! And I hate the people – I hate them for staring at me, and making me ashamed of myself. I hate them because they are rich, and happy, and full of their own concerns – indeed, mother, I can't tell you – I only know that I will never go on the stage again, let them do what they like. Oh, to feel their eyes on me, and to know that I am only there for their amusement, and to know that I cannot compel them to – to anything but sit and compassionately admire my dress, and my efforts to please them. I can't bear it, Lady Jane – I can't bear it."
And here she broke out into a fit of hysterical sobbing.
"My poor dear, when I should be strong and ready to comfort you, here I am weaker and more helpless than yourself. But don't go back to the theatre, sweetheart, until your taste for it returns – "
"It will never return. I hate the thought of it."
"But it may. And in the meantime haven't we over 40*l.* in the house of good savings?"
"That is nothing to what I must undertake to give Mr. Melton if I break my engagement. But I don't mind that much, Lady Jane – I don't mind anything except going back there, and you must never ask me to go back. Say that you won't! We shall get along somehow – "
"My darling, how can you imagine I would seek to send you back?"
Annie Brunel did not sleep much that night; but by the morning she had recovered all her wonted courage and self-composure. Indeed, it was with a new and singular sense of freedom and cheerfulness that she rose to find the world before her, her own path through it as yet uncertain and full of risks. But she was now mistress of herself; she went to bid Mrs. Christmas good morning with a blithe air, and then, as every Englishwoman does under such circumstances, she sent for the Times.
She had no definite impression about her capabilities for earning her living out of the dramatic profession; but she expected to find all the requisite suggestions in the Times. Here was column after column of proffered employment; surely one little bit might be allotted to her. So she sate down hopefully before the big sheet, and proceeded to put a well-defined cross opposite each advertisement which she imagined offered her a fair chance.
While she was thus engaged, Count Schönstein's brougham was announced; and a few minutes thereafter, the Count, having sent up his card, was permitted to enter the room.
Outwardly his appearance was elaborate, and he wore a single deep crimson rose in the lapel of his tightly-buttoned frock-coat. His eyes, however, were a little anxious. And it was soon apparent that he had for the present relinquished his grand manner.
"I am delighted to see you looking so well," he said, "and I hope Mrs. Christmas is also the better for her holiday – "
"Poor Lady Jane is very ill," said Miss Brunel, "though she will scarcely admit it."
"Have I disturbed your political studies?" he asked, looking at the open newspaper.
"I have been reading the advertisements of situations," she said, frankly.
"Not, I hope," he remarked, "with any reference to what I heard from Mr. Melton last night about your retiring from the stage?"
"Indeed, it is from no other cause," she said, cheerfully. "I have resolved not to play any more; but we cannot live without my doing something – "
"In the meantime," said the Count, drawing a letter from his pocket, "I have much pleasure in handing you this note from Mr. Melton. You will find that it releases you from your present engagement, whenever you choose to avail yourself of the power."
The young girl's face was lit up with a sudden glow of happiness and gratitude.
"How can I ever thank him for this great kindness?" she said, – "so unexpected, so generous! Indeed, I must go and see him and thank him personally; it is the greatest kindness I have received for years."
The Count was a little puzzled.
"You understand, Miss Brunel, that – that paper, you see, was not quite Mr. Melton's notion until – "
"Until you asked him? Then I am indebted to you for many kindnesses, but for this more than all. I feel as if you had given me a pair of wings. How shall I ever thank you sufficiently – ?"
"By becoming my wife."
He had nearly uttered the words; but he did not. He felt that his mission that morning was too serious to be risked without the most cautious introduction. Besides, she was in far too good spirits to have such a suggestion made to her. He felt instinctively that, in her present mood, she would certainly laugh at him – the most frightful catastrophe that can happen to a man under the circumstances. And Count Schönstein had sufficient acquaintance with actresses to know, that while they have the most astonishing capacity for emotion, if their sympathies be properly excited, there are no people who, in cold blood, can so accurately detect the ridiculous in a man's exterior. An actress in love forgets everything but her love; an actress not in love has the cruellest eye for the oddities or defects of figure and costume.
At the present moment, Count Schönstein felt sure that if he spoke of love, and marriage, and so forth, Miss Brunel would be looking at the rose in his button-hole, or scanning his stiff necktie and collar, or the unblushing corpulence of his waist. In his heart he wished he had no rose in his button-hole.
It would be very easy to make fun of this poor Count (and he was aware of the fact himself) as he stood there, irresolute, diffident, anxious. But there was something almost pathetic as well as comic in his position. Consider how many vague aspirations were now concentrated upon this visit. Consider how he had thought about it as he had dressed himself many a morning, as he had gone to bed many a night; how, with a strange sort of loyalty, he had striven to exalt his motives and persuade himself that he was quite disinterested; how the dull pursuit of his life, position and influence, had been tinged with a glow of sentiment and romance by meeting this young girl.