In Silk Attire. A novel

Front matter

vol. in. §. gjirel. BT WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "LOVE OR MARRIAGE?" IN THREE VOLUMES. vol. in. LONDON : TINSLEY BROIHEES, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 1869. [All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved,] LONDON : SAVILI, EDWABDS AND CO., PK1NTEBS, CHANDOS STEBET, COVENT GABDEN. CONTENTS or THE THIRD VOLUME. CHAP. PAGE I. EVIL TIDINGS 1 II. THE count's CHANCE 31 III. DOUBTFUL 39 IV. MOTHEE CHRISTMAS'S STORY .... .70 V. LEFT ALONE 94 VI. THE COUNT EXPLAINS 121 VII. THE DECISION 136 VIII. CONFESSION 149 IX. THE BAIT IS TAKEN 166 X. THE NEW GOVERNESS 182 XI. ANOTHER BLUNDER ... 191 XII. AN OLD ADMIRER 216 XIII. POSSESSION 234 XIV. ORMOND PLACE 255 XV. THE " COULIN "

Chapter I. Evil Tidings

T7ERY early did Dove get up that cool September morning. Away down the vabey there lay a faintly-yebow haze, which made one feel that the sun was behind it and would soon drink it up. In the mean time the grass was wet. A birch tree that almost touched ber bedroom window bad its drooping branches of shivering leaves glistening with moisture. The wibows along the river-side were almost hid. The withered and red chesnut leaves which floated on the pond had a cold autumn vol. in. look about them. Then old Tbwaites, the keeper, appeared, witb a pointer and a curly black retriever ; and wben the old man went into tbe 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 ber mind as to the mood in which she ought to receive bim. Indeed, for weeks back she had done nothing but mentally rehearse that meeting ; and every scene that she described to herself was immediately after wards abandoned. She was hurt, sbe 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 role she might assume, that she should look as pretty as possible. This was ab her immediate care — a care that had awoke her an hour too soon. But if she had changed her mind about the manner in wbich she should receive him, how much more about tbe 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 abowed to make a parenthetical remark about those ladies who, dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine tbat the less they clothe themselves the better they look. It is merely a question of the relative artistic value of certain surfaces. 1— a 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 car tridges, 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 be did, and kissed her, and returned to bis work.

" Dear me," be 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 bttle disturbed. It is the early rising ; or the chiU of tbe autumn ; or the remembrance of last Sunday's sermon, I dare say." She did not speak a word, but placed the coffee at his end of tbe table, and returned to her seat. When he had finished his cartridge-making he sate down, and, as a preliminary to breakfast, swallowed a mouth ful of the coffee. The next moment there was an exclamation of horror — he ran to the sideboard, seized a bottle of hock that bad 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 ber lips, and a hot flush on her cheeks. She would neither look at him nor speak to bim. " Cayenne pepper !" he gasped, taking another gulp of the cold Rhine wine. She only played with her teaspoon. " You might have killed me, you ma licious creature !" he cried, amid intervals of coughing. " Cayenne ! Well, don't suppose that you would have got much out of my bfe msurance !" At this she rose and walked to the door, proud, spiteful, half laughing and half crying. " You bad no business to tease me," she said. " Come here, Dove," be said, taking ber by the arm and leading her back ; "do you know what the effect of cayenne is on tbe 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 dog-cart or other vehicle leave this bouse this day for Horton station. Secondly, should any guest arrive, he will be asked to fobow me over to the East Meadows, where I shall be shooting. Thirdly, should that guest dine witb us, be 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 tbey prefer, for their own benefit. Fourthly " " Fourthly, none of these things will happen," said Dove, with a touch of con tempt in her tone. And Dove was right. For she herself was driven in the dog-cart over to Horton station, and sbe took care to make the man start half-an-hour before the proper time.

The station-master, then and now one of the civibest 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 tbe 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, sbe saw the signals changed, and presently there was a far-off noise wbich 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 for gotten — bave been witnessed there ; but the gentle drawing-room comedies with wbich lovers amuse themselves do not harmonize witb tbe rough and ready acces sories 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 handker chief waved. She did not know wbich of the dub, dark, and heavy carriages might not have him inside ; but she was sure he could not escape her at the station. The train stopped, tbe guard bustled about, the people descended from tbe car riages, the porters looked out for luggage and sixpences. With a half-realized fear — a dread of some vague evil — Dove glanced quickly along the people, then more nar rowly ; finaby 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 sbe had been planning the whole scene, sbe bad dreamt of tbe meeting, bad thought of it during the drowsy hush of the Sunday morning sermon, had looked forward to it as the crowning compensation for tbe micro scopic troubles of ber daby bfe. There was not even a letter to say tbat he was in Eng land ; perhaps he was still in France. So she went home, vexed, and disap pointed, 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 tbe 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 bad found it necessary to call upon a doctor.

From bim he learned, firstly, that the original dressing of the wounds in his arm bad 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 vio lence quite recently," said the doctor. " Web, 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 wbich a man in your condition had better forego," said the other, quietly. " The best thing you can do is to go home and get to bed, give your arm perfect rest, and I will cab 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 Mon day. If you bad seen the leg I had in Turkey! — without any doctor but a ser vant 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 tbe condition in wbich your arm is now. If you think it wiU get web 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 teb me then." He got into a cab and drove back to bis chambers.

Tbe man had already taken his portmanteau downstairs, when Count Schonstein's brougham drove up, and the Count jumped out. " Where are you going ?" " To St. Mary-Kirby." "Not now. Come inside. I have some thing to tell you." r They stepped inside : never before bad Will observed the Count to be so dis turbed. " MiaU and Webing," he said, hurriedly, " I have just heard — not ten minutes ago — bave cobapsed — the announcement will be made to-day — tbe directors were in the place tib twelve last night. It wiU be tbe most fearful crash, they say ; for the bank has lately been making tbe wildest efforts to save itself " " I thought MiaU and Welling's was as safe as tbe Bank of England," said Will — just a trifle pale. Every farthing of his father's money was in this bank, wbich had never even been suspected in tbe most general crises.

" It may be only a rumour," continued tbe Count. " But you may as well wait, to see if tbe evening papers have anything about it." " It will be a pretty story to carry down with me to Kent," said Wib. " 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 wib be a terrible blow to bim — a man who has lived a quiet and easy life, witb a bttle hunting, and shooting, and so on. I shouldn't won der if it entirely upset him and did some harm " " You don't know my father," said WiU. They had not to wait for the evening pa pers. By twelve o'clock the news was cur rent in the city. Miall and Welling had sent out their circular : the bank had sus pended payment.

This was the cause of Will's missing the train. When he took his seat in the next train going down, it was witb a feeling that now LT-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, unfathom able look of the young actress's eyes, — of their bitter parting, and the tender words she spoke as he left. Then he looked for ward to meeting Dove witb 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 at tention. He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round to the brow of tbe hub. Before him lay the well-known valley, still and silent under the yellow autumn sunlight ; and down there by the river he saw a tab, 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 witb a gun. Tbe next second there was a double report ; two of the birds came tumbling down, scat tering 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, saibng flight seemed to near the ground. " Wby did you come round that way ?" said Mr. Anerley when he saw his son. " I might have shot you."

VOL. III. " I shouldn't have minded, sir," said Wib. " 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 tbe Black Foresters don't know how to cure men shot by mistake, tbey ought to," said Mr. Anerley, witb a thoroughly English contempt for any kind of shooting but his own. " Such a set of sparrow-shooting shoemakers I never saw. I suppose 1 needn't offer you my gun ?" "No, thank you. I'll walk down tbe turnips with you, on my way to the bouse." There was little left in tbe turnips, how ever. A sobtary bird got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, however, on tbe 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 Tbwaites, and at the same instant a fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of shot. Tbe dog had really been on tbe scent of the par tridges. Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly pleased. "If that had not been old Tbwaites," muttered Wib, " I should have said it was an old fool." So Wbl walked on to Chesnut Bank. He had not the heart to tear the old man away from his favourite sport in order to give bim this bad news. After dinner, be 2—a now thought, would be time enough ; and he himself seemed to bave 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 be drew near the bouse, be began to think this the greater trial of the two. Dove, stib sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on the gravebed pathway leading down through tbe garden. Tbe music almost dropped from her bands as sbe listened intently for a moment — then a flush of joyous colour stole over her face. But, all the same, she opened tbe book again, and sate obstinately looking at pages which she did not see. " Dove," said Wib, 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 tbe drawing-room from the passage.

" Oh, you are come back again !" said Dove, with mimic surprise, and with admi rably simulated carelessness. Sbe held out her hand to him. She fan cied he would be dreadfully astonished and perturbed by this cold reception — that they would have a nice little quarrel, and an explanation, and ab tbe 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, Wbl was neither surprised nor disturbed. He looked quite grave, perhaps a bttle 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 ?" sbe 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, witb her eyes downcast, a troubled look on her face, and both her hands pubing to pieces a little engraving she held. " Why should I be vexed witb you, Dove ?" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. He dared not kiss her : there dwelt on his lips yet tbe memory of tbat sad leave-taking of the night before. " Then wby are you and I standing here like strangers ?" sbe said, stamping her bttle foot. She could not tell bow things had ab gone wrong ; but they had gone wrong ; and the meeting she had looked forward to with such pleasurable anticipation was an embar rassing fabure. At this moment Mrs. Anerley entered, and the girl saw ber receive tbe kiss wbich had been denied to herself.

" You are not looking well, Wib," said the observant mother. " Is your arm heal ing 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 ber face in bis bosom, and burst into tears. " It was ab my fault, dear," she sobbed. " I wanted to be angry with you for not coming down by tbe 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 ab your pretty hair, and such a delicate bttle collar you've got !"

" Ob !" sbe 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, " ab 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, Wbl was almost sbent. They supposed he was tired witb the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and Dove had left the room, he knew tbe time was come "I have bad news for you, father," he said. "Out with it, then," said Mr. Anerley. " Everybody in the house is weU in health ; anything else does not much matter." " Miab and Webing are down." The old man put back his wine-glass on the table. "MiaU and 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 bim. Then he said — " Very web. There are four of us. If we two men cannot support ourselves and these two women, should not every one bave 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 aU along." " I'm glad you look at it in that way," said Wib, rather sadly. " Here am I, un able 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 bis shoulders. Then he relapsed into his old manner, and there was a sort of sad smile on his face. " Edmond About," be said, " declares tbat ab men are producers, and have, therefore, a right to the property tbey possess, except robbers, beggars, and gamblers. Doubtless the money I possessed was very valuable to the people to whom I lent it, and tbey paid me for putting its working powers at tbeir disposal. You understand ?" "Yes." " I was, in that sense, a producer, and had a right to the money on which I lived. M. About tebs 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 bis own hands.

Indeed, I am convinced that my rich progenitor — who, let us say, came over with Wibiam — 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 bve on the produce of gigantic thievery. You see " "I see, sir, that the moment you lose your money, you become a philosophic Radical." "Ah, web," 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 witb you to-morrow and see what practical issues it must lead to." " And in the meantime," said WiU, " don't tell either of tbe women."

Chapter II. The Count's Chance

"TT7HEEE is Mr. Melton?" asked the Count. " Up in the ' flies,' sb, 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 wliich be had told Will of Miall and Wel ling's downfal. After having ascertained the truth of the report, he had gone to spend the remainder of the day at his club, bi talking, reading, and dining ; and when he did think of going round to the theatre, he found that the piece in which Annie Brunei 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 tbe "flies," where be 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 Brunei ?" " No," said the Count. " Not since you returned ?" "No." THE COUNT'S CHANCE. 33 " You are not acquainted with her reso lution?" "No." "Then let me teb you what happened not half-an-hour ago in this very theatre. You see that scenery ? It's all new. Tbe 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 Brunei 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, 3 VOL. "'Pardon me, Miss Brunei, 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 ; tbat sbe had an invincible repugnance to going on the stage again, and tbat nothing would tempt her to begin a new piece, either with me or with anybody else. I can assure you, Count Schonstein, now that I think over it, there never was a finer scene in any play than she acted then — with her despair, and her ap peals, and her determination. I thought at first she was bewitched ; and then I declare she was so nearly on the point of bewitch ing me that I was almost agreeing to everything she asked, only " "Only what?" THE COUNT'S CHANCE. 35 " Only I remembered that the theatre was not wholly my own affair, and that I had no business to compromise its interests by — you understand ?"