Black William
In Silk Attire: A Novel
CHAPTER XXIV.
A LAST WORD
Every one knows Noel Paton's 'Dante and Beatrice' – the picture of the two lovers caught together in a supreme moment of passion – their faces irradiated with the magical halo of a glowing twilight. His, tender, entreating, wistful, worshipful; hers, full of the unconscious sweetness and superb repose of a rare and exalted beauty. His eyes are upturned to hers; but hers dwell vaguely on the western glow of colour. And there is in the picture more than one thing which suggests the strange dissociation and the sadness, as well as the intercommunion and fellowship, of the closest love.
Why, asks the impatient reader, should not a romance be always full of this glow, and colour, and passion? The warm light that touches the oval outline of a tender woman's face is a beautiful thing, and even the sadness of love is beautiful: why should not a romance be full of these supreme elements? Why should not the romancist cut out the long prose passages of a man's life, and give us only those wonderful moments in which being glows with a sort of transformation?
The obvious reason is, that a romance written in such an exalted key would be insufferably unreal and monotonous: even in the 'Venetianisches Grondellied,' full of pure melody as it is, one finds jarring chords, which are only introduced to heighten the keen delight of the harmony which is to follow. Add to this the difficulty of setting down in words any tolerable representation of one of those passionate joyous moments of love-delight which are the familiar theme of the musician and the painter.
That moment, however, in which Will Anerley met Annie Brunel's eyes, and took her hand, and sat down beside her, was one of these. For many past days and weeks his life had been so unbearably dull, stagnant, prosaic, that the mere glad fact of this meeting drove from his mind all consideration of consequences. He looked in her eyes – the beautiful eyes that could not conceal their pleasure – and forgot everything else. For a time, neither of them spoke – the delight of being near to each other was enough; and when they began to recall themselves to the necessity of making some excuse to each other for having broken a solemn promise, they were driving along Piccadilly; and, away down in the darkness, they could see the luminous string of orange points that encircle the Green Park.
"I only returned to London to-day," he said, and there was a smile on his face, for he half-pitied his own weakness; "and I could not help going to see you. That was how I kept my promise. But you are not very angry?"
"No," she said, looking down.
There was no smile upon her face. The events of the last few weeks had been for her too tragic to admit of humorous lights.
"You ought not to have come," she said the next minute, hurriedly. "You ought to have stayed away. You yourself spoke of what might happen; and the surprise and the pain of seeing you – I had no thought of your being there – and I was sufficiently miserable at the time not to need any other thing to disturb me – and now – and now you are here, and you and I are the friends we have been – "
The passionate earnestness of this speech, to say nothing of its words, surprised and astounded him: why should she have reason to be disturbed?
"Why should we not be friends?" he said.
She looked at him, with her big, tender, frank eyes, with a strange expression.
"You force me to speak. Because we cannot continue friends," she said, in a voice which was almost harsh in its distinctness. "After what you said to me, you have no right to see me. I cannot forget your warning; and I know where you ought to be this evening – not here, but down in St. Mary-Kirby."
"That is true enough," said Will, gloomily. "I couldn't have gone down to St. Mary-Kirby to-night: but, as you say, I have no business to be near you – none whatever. I should not have gone to the theatre; I ought to have stayed at home, and spent the time in thinking of you – why shouldn't I say it, now that you have been so frank with me? You and I know each other pretty well, do we not? There is no reason, surely, why we may not regard each other as friends, whatever may happen. And why should I not tell you that I fear to go down to St. Mary-Kirby, and meet that poor Dove who has given me her heart?"
She said nothing: what could she say? It was not for her to blame him.
"And when I went to the theatre, I said, 'It is the last time!' I could not help going. I did not intend to meet you when you came out."
"You did not?" she said.
There was, despite herself, a touch of disappointment in her tone. The strange joyous light that had passed over her face on seeing him was the result of a sudden thought that he loved her so well that he was forced to come to her.
"No," he answered, "I did not intend to meet you; but the sudden pleasure of seeing you was so great that I had not the heart to refuse to come into the cab. And, now you know my secret, you may blame me as you please. I suppose I am weaker than other men; but I did not err wilfully. And now the thing is done, it is Dove whom I most consider. How can I go to her with a lie in every word, and look, and action? Or how could I tell her the truth? Whichever way one turns, there is nothing but sadness and misery."
And still there was no word from the young girl opposite.
"I have not even the resource of blaming destiny," he continued. "I must blame my own blindness. Only you, looking at these things in your friendly and kindly way, will not blame me further for having indulged myself a last time in going to see you to-night. You will never have to complain again – never; and, indeed, I went to-night in a manner to bid you good-bye – so you won't be hard on me – "
He was surprised to see, by the gleam of the lamp they passed, that the girl was covertly sobbing, and that the large soft eyes were full of tears. At the same moment, however, the cabman pulled up at the corner of the little square in which Annie Brunel lived; and so they both got out. When Will turned from paying the cabman, she had walked on a bit in advance, and had not entered the square. He overtook her, and offered her his arm. The night was fine and still; a large lambent planet lay like a golden bell-flower in the soft purple before them, and a large harvest-moon, bronzed and discoloured, glimmered through the tall elms on the other side of the way, as it slowly rose up from the horizon.
"I have something to say to you," he heard the soft low voice say, "which I had hoped never to have said. It is better it should be said."
"If you have cause to blame me, or if you wish to prevent my seeing you again, by upbraiding me for having spoken honestly to you, I beg of you to say nothing that way. It is not needed. You will run no danger whatever of being annoyed again. I blame myself more than you can; and since we must part, let us part friends, with a kindly recollection of each other – "
"Don't speak like that!" she said, imploringly, with another convulsive sob, "or you will break my heart. Is it not enough that – that – oh! I cannot, cannot tell you, and yet I must tell you!"
"What have you to tell me?" he said, with a cold feeling creeping over him. He began to suspect what her emotion meant; and he shrank from the suggestion, as from some great evil he had himself committed.
"You will think me shameless; I cannot help it. You say this is our last meeting; and I cannot bear to have you go away from me with the thought that you have to suffer alone. You think I ought to give you my sympathy, because I am your friend, and you will not be happy. But – but I will suffer too; and I am a woman – and alone – and whom have I to look to – ?"
He stopped her, and looked down into her face.
"Annie, is this true?" he said, sadly and gravely.
He got no answer beyond the sight of her streaming eyes and quivering lips.
"Then are we the two wretchedest of God's creatures," he said.
"Ah, don't say that," she murmured, venturing to look up at him through her tears. "Should we not be glad to know that we can think kindly of each other, without shame? Unhappy, yes! – but surely not the very wretchedest of all. And you won't misunderstand me? You won't think, afterwards, that it was because I was an actress that I confessed this to you – ?"
Even in such a moment a touch of Bohemianism! – a fear that her mother's profession should suffer by her weakness.
"Dearest!" he said, tenderly – "for you are, God help me! my very, very dearest – we now know each other too well to have to make excuses for our confidence in each other."
They walked on now quite silently; there was too much for both of them to think about to admit of speech. As they walked southward, down the long and sombre thoroughfares, the large moon on their left slowly rose, and still rose, at every minute losing its ruddy hues, and gaining in clear, full light. They knew not whither they were going. There was no passer-by to stare at them; they were alone in the world, with the solitary houses, and the great moon.
"You have not told me a minute too soon," he said, suddenly, with a strange exultation in his tone.
"What do you mean?"
"You and I, Annie, love each other. If the future is to be taken from us, let us recompense ourselves now. When you walk back to your house to-night and the door closes, you and I see each other no more. To-morrow, and all the to-morrows after that, we are only strangers. But for the next half-hour – my dearest, my dearest! show me your face, and let me see what your eyes say! – why should we not forget all these coming days, and live that half-hour for ourselves? It is but a little time; the sweetness of it will be a memory to us. Let us be lovers, Annie! – only for this little time we shall be together, my dearest! Let us try to imagine that you and I are to be married to-morrow – that all the coming years we are to be together – that now we have nothing to do but to yield ourselves up to our love – "
"I am afraid," she said, in a low voice, trembling.
"Why afraid, then?"
"That afterwards the recollection will be too bitter."
"Darling, nothing that you can imagine is likely to be more bitter than what you and I must bear. Just now, we have a little time our own; let us forget what is to come, and – "
"Whisper, then," she said.
He bent down his head to her, and she came close to his ear:
"Will, I love you, and if I could I would be your wife to-morrow."
"And you will kiss me, too," he said.
He felt a slight, warm touch on his lips; and when he raised his head his face was quite white, and his eyes were wild.
"Why, we are to be married to-morrow!" he said. "It will be about eleven when I reach the church, and I shall walk up and down between the empty pews until you come. I see the whole thing now – you walking in at the door with your friends, your dear eyes a little frightened, looking at me as if you wanted me to take you away at once from among the people. Then we shall be off, dearest, sharp and fast, up to your house; you will hurry to change your things, and then, with a good-bye to everybody, we are off – we two, you and I, Annie, away anywhere, so that we may be alone together. And I wish to God, Annie, that you and I were lying down there beneath that water, dead and drowned!"
They had come to the river – the broad smooth river, with the wonderful breadths of soft light upon it, and the dark olive-green shadows of the sombre wharves and buildings on the other side.
"Will, Will, you frighten me so!" she said, clinging to his arm.
"You needn't be frightened," he said, sadly. "I am only telling you what might happen. Can't you see all these things when you try to see them? For many a night past – ever since the evening we spent overlooking the Rhine – I have seen that marriage-scene before my eyes, and it is always you who are there. You remember that evening when you sate up in the balcony, among the vine-leaves, with the moon hanging up over the river? There's a German song I once heard that warns you never to go near the Rhine, because life is too sweet there; and we have been there, and have received the curse of this discontent and undying regret."
Then he broke out into a bitter laugh.
"We were to be lovers; and this is pretty lovers' talk."
"You really do frighten me, Will," she said. "I never saw you look so before. Oh, my dear, don't be so very, very sad and despairing, for I have nothing to comfort you with – not even one poor word; and it seems so wretched that we two should not be able to comfort each other."
He was fighting with the bonds of circumstance; and his impotence embittered him. The spectacle of these two wretched creatures – despairing, rebellious, and driven almost beyond the bounds of reason by their perplexity – walking along the side of the still and peaceful stream, was one to have awakened the compassion, or at least the sympathetic merriment, of the most careless of the gods. What a beautiful night it was! The deep olive shadows of the moonlight hid away the ragged and tawdry buildings that overhung the river; and the flood of yellow-tinged light touched only here and there on the edge of a bank or the stem of a tree, and then fell gently on the broad bosom of the stream. The gas-lamps of the nearest bridge glimmered palely in that white light; but deep in the shadows along the river, the lamps burned strong and red, and sent long quivering lines of fire down into the dark water beneath. Farther up the stream lay broad swathes of moonlight, vague and indeterminate as the grey continents visible in the world of silver overhead. In all this universe of peace, and quiet, and harmony, there seemed to be only these two beings restless – embittered, and hopeless.
"Let us go home," he said, with an effort. "I can do nothing but frighten you, and myself too. I tell you there are other things pass before my eyes as well as the marriage-scene, and I don't want to see any more of them. It will be time enough to think of what may happen when it does happen."
"And whatever happens, Will, shall we not at least know that we sometimes – occasionally – think tenderly of each other?"
"So you wish us to be lovers still!" he said. "The delusion is too difficult to keep up. Have you reflected that when once I am married, neither of us may think of each other at all?"
"Will! Will! don't talk like that! You speak as if somebody had cruelly injured you, and you were angry and revengeful. Nobody has done it. It is only our misfortune. It cannot be helped. If I am not to think of you – and I shall pray God to help me to forget you – so much the better."
"My poor darling!" he said, "I am so selfish that I think less of what your future may be than of my own. You dare not confide your secret to any one; and I, who know it, must not see you nor try to comfort you. Is not the very confidence that prompted you to tell me, a proof that we are – that we might have been happy as husband and wife?"
"Husband and wife," she repeated, musingly, as they once more drew near home. "You will be a husband, but I shall never be a wife."
"And yet, so long as you and I live," he said, quite calmly, "you will have my whole love. It cannot be otherwise: we need not seek to conceal it. Whatever happens, and wherever we may be, my love goes with you."
"And if mine," she whispered, "could go with you, and watch over you, and teach your heart to do right, it would lead your love back to the poor girl whom you are going to marry, and make her happy."
At parting he kissed her tenderly, almost solemnly. Then she quickly undid from her neck a little brooch, and put it in his hand with these words:
"Give that to her, with my love, and with yours."
CHAPTER XXV.
EVIL TIDINGS
Very early did Dove get up that cool September morning. Away down the valley there lay a faintly yellow haze, which made one feel that the sun was behind it, and would soon drink it up. In the meantime the grass was wet. A birch-tree that almost touched her bedroom window had its drooping branches of shivering leaves glistening with moisture. The willows along the riverside were almost hid. The withered and red chestnut-leaves which floated on the pond had a cold autumn look about them. Then old Thwaites, the keeper, appeared, with a pointer and a curly black retriever; and when the old man went into the meadow, to knock down some walnuts from the trees, his breath was visible in the damp thick atmosphere. She saw these things vaguely; she only knew with certainty that the sunlight and Will were coming.
A hundred times she made up her mind as to the mood in which she ought to receive him. Indeed, for weeks back she had done nothing but mentally rehearse that meeting; and every scene that she described to herself was immediately afterwards abandoned.
She was hurt, she knew; and in her secret heart she longed to – No! he had been very neglectful about letters, and she would – But in the meantime it was important, whatever rôle she might assume, that she should look as pretty as possible.
This was all her immediate care – a care that had awoke her an hour too soon. But if she had changed her mind about the manner in which she should receive him, how much more about the costume which was to add effect to the scene? Every detail – every little ornament, and bit of ribbon, and dexterous fold – she studied, and altered, and studied and altered again, until she was very nearly losing temper, and wishing that people had been born to look their best without the necessity of clothing themselves.
Perhaps one might be allowed to make a remark about those ladies who, dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine that the less they clothe themselves the better they look. It is merely a question of the relative artistic value of certain surfaces. And, as a general rule, it may be accepted that the natural complexion of women's shoulders is inferior in fineness of hue and texture to the same extent of white satin or dove-coloured silk.
Downstairs she went. Mr. Anerley was engaged in turning in the edge of his cartridges, and had succeeded in vigorously scratching the marble mantelpiece with the machine he was using.
"Good morning, papa."
She was very much embarrassed, she did not know why. She hoped he would not look at her; but he did, and kissed her, and returned to his work.
"Dear me!" he said, "that I, an old man, should have received such a compliment! A young lady getting up at a prodigiously early hour, and dressing herself in her very smartest way, in order to come down and make my breakfast!"
"Shall I pour out your coffee now, papa?" she said, with a great blush.
"Yes, you may, my dear. But don't put anchovy into it instead of cream. I make the suggestion because I see you are a little disturbed. It is the early rising; or the chill of the autumn; or the remembrance of last Sunday's sermon, I daresay."
She did not speak a word, but placed the coffee at his end of the table, and returned to her seat. When he had finished his cartridge-making, he sate down, and, as a preliminary to breakfast, swallowed a mouthful of the coffee. The next moment there was an exclamation of horror – he ran to the sideboard, seized a bottle of hock that had been left from yesterday's dinner, hurriedly filled a coffee-cup with the wine, and drank off the contents – his face all the while in contortions. Dove sat silent and wilful, with a smile on her lips, and a hot flush on her cheeks. She would neither look at him nor speak to him.
"Cayenne pepper!" he gasped, taking another gulp of the cold Rhine wine.
She only played with her teaspoon.
"You might have killed me, you malicious creature!" he cried, amid intervals of coughing. "Cayenne! Well, don't suppose that you would have got much out of my life-insurance!"
At this she rose and walked to the door – proud, spiteful, half laughing, and half crying.
"You had no business to tease me," she said.
"Come here, Dove," he said, taking her by the arm and leading her back; "do you know what the effect of cayenne is on the human throat?"
"I don't care."
"I say you might have killed me."
"I don't care."
"Now, if I were a young man, I should probably be proud of such a mark of your favour, but – "
"It served you right. I can't bear people to talk to me like that, and you always do it, papa – you know you do."
"But, as I am an old man, I mean to have my revenge. Firstly, there shall be no dogcart or other vehicle leave this house this day for Horton Station. Secondly, should any guest arrive, he will be asked to follow me over to the East Meadows, where I shall be shooting. Thirdly, should that guest dine with us, he will be confined to the dining-room during the entire evening, and any persons waiting in the drawing-room may play 'The Coulin,' or such music as they prefer, for their own benefit. Fourthly – "
"Fourthly, none of these things will happen," said Dove, with a touch of contempt in her tone.
And Dove was right. For she herself was driven in the dogcart over to Horton Station, and she took care to make the man start half an hour before the proper time. The station-master, then and now one of the civillest of men, endeavoured to relieve the tedium of waiting by chatting to her; but she only half listened to him, and talked nonsense in reply.
She walked about the station, stared up the long perspective of narrowing lines, then walked in again to the small waiting-room, and wondered why the people about did not bestir themselves to receive the coming train. Then, with a flutter of the heart, she saw the signals changed, and presently there was a far-off noise which told of Will's approach: for he had written from Paris to say, that unless they got other notice from him, he would be down by this particular train.
A railway-station is not the proper place for a piece of acting. Scenes of the most tender and tragic kind – never to be forgotten – have been witnessed there; but the gentle drawing-room comedies with which lovers amuse themselves do not harmonize with the rough-and-ready accessories of a railway line. Dove resolved to leave her proper reception of Will until they should be in the house together; at present it was to be nothing but a hurried delicious kissing, scrambling after luggage, and swift getting home.
There was no head thrust out from one of the approaching carriages – no handkerchief waved. She did not know which of the dull, dark, and heavy carriages might not have him inside; but she was sure he could not escape her at the station.
The train stopped, the guard bustled about, the people descended from the carriages, the porters looked out for luggage and sixpences. With a half-realised fear – a dread of some vague evil – Dove glanced quickly along the people, then more narrowly; finally she turned to the carriages. The doors were again shut; the guard blew his whistle, and leisurely stepped into his box; and the train moved slowly out of the station. There was no Will Anerley there.
Sick at heart she turned away, it was a cruel disappointment. For weeks she had been planning the whole scene; she had dreamt of the meeting, had thought of it during the drowsy hush of the Sunday-morning sermon, had looked forward to it as the crowning compensation for the microscopic troubles of her daily life. There was not even a letter to say that he was in England; perhaps he was still in France.
So she went home, vexed, and disappointed, and sad. Mr. Anerley was out shooting; Mrs. Anerley soothingly said that doubtless Will would be down by a later train; and then Dove went away into a corner of the drawing-room, and plunged herself into a volume of old music, turning over the leaves and supping a surfeit of sad memories.
Before going to the train that morning, Will had found it necessary to call upon a doctor. From him he learned, firstly, that the original dressing of the wounds in his arm had been far from satisfactory; and secondly, that owing to some disturbant cause renewed inflammation had set in. Indeed, the doctor gave him to understand that only prompt attention and great care could prevent the wounds assuming a very serious aspect.
"Your arm must have suffered some violence quite recently," said the doctor.
"Well, last night," said Will, "I knocked a man down with my left arm, and very likely I instinctively twitched up the right to guard myself."
"These are little amusements which a man in your condition had better forego," said the other, quietly. "The best thing you can do is go home and get to bed, give your arm perfect rest, and I will call in the afternoon and see what is to be done."
"I can't do that," said Will, "I'm going down to the country."
"You will do so at your peril."
"All the same, I must go. Nothing is likely to happen between to-day and Monday. If you had seen the leg I had in Turkey! – without any doctor but a servant who could not even infuse our tea – constant rain – walking every day – our tent letting in water at night – "
"I don't know about your leg in Turkey," said the doctor, tartly; "but I see the condition in which your arm is now. If you think it will get well by exposing it to rain, well and good – "
"Can you do anything to it now?"
"No, unless you give the limb perfect rest."
"Very well. If it gets very bad, I shall come up to town to-morrow. If not, I shall visit you on Monday, and do everything you tell me then."
He got into a cab and drove back to his chambers. The man had already taken his portmanteau downstairs, when Count Schönstein's brougham drove up, and the Count jumped out.
"Where are you going?"
"To St. Mary-Kirby."
"Not now. Come inside; I have something to tell you."
They stepped inside: never before had Will observed the Count to be so disturbed.
"Miall & Welling," he said, hurriedly, "I have just heard – not ten minutes ago – have collapsed – the announcement will be made to-day – the directors were in the place till twelve last night. It will be the most fearful crash, they say; for the bank has lately been making the wildest efforts to save itself – "
"I thought Miall & Welling's was as safe as the Bank of England," said Will – just a trifle pale.
Every farthing of his father's money was in this bank, which had never even been suspected in the most general crises.
"It may be only a rumour," continued the Count. "But you may as well wait, to see if the evening papers have anything about it."
"It will be a pretty story to carry down with me to Kent," said Will.
"That's what I was thinking of," said the Count, kindly – indeed he was not wholly a selfish man; "and I thought I might go down with you, if you liked, and try to help your father over the first shock. It will be a terrible blow to him – a man who has lived a quiet and easy life, with a little hunting, and shooting, and so on. I shouldn't wonder if it entirely upset him and did some harm – "
"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.
