Dollis Brooke

Front matter

BY CARTEE HAERISON §j,flKkrit REMINGTON & CO PUBLISHERS HENRIETTA STREET COVENT GARDEN 1890 [All rights reserved] CONTENTS. CHAP. pAGE I. At the Kingdom ... ... ... 1 II. In pari delicto... ... ... ... 21 III. The Downward Road 36 IV. Despair 52 V. The Still Sm.all Voice 69 VI. After Many Years 94 VII. News from the Dead 109 VIII. Temptation 129 IX. Moonlight and Rabbits 138 X. Flight 148 XL A Cruel Blow 152 XII. She has Gone ... ... ... ... 170 XIII. The Stage by Day 183 XIV. Her First Appearance ... ... 211 XV. A Fruitless Search 226 XVI. A Clue 240 XVII. The Matinee 249 XVIII. Suspense 264 XIX. Found at Last ... ... ... 275 XX. In other Climes

Chapter I. At The Kingdom

It is a dull November night, the streets are dirty, tbe rain is falling, not heavily, but with that persistent drizzle which speaks volumes for its continuance. Pedestrians in the Strand are hurrying along to their destinations, avoiding as best they may splashes from quickly-passing hansoms. Some going east, some west, the human stream flows on. Each is anxious to get under shelter this wretched night ; the well-to-do wend dinnerwards, the poor and outcast to some shelter if it may be, but shelter or no shelter, dinner or no dinner, they pass on ; to loiter is impossible. It B is just one of those nights to which, un fortunately, Londoners are too accustomed, when one must move ; silent, motionless endurance is too awful. A very different scene is found if we enter Italiano's. Reader, do you know Italiano's ?

If you are a Londoner you probably do. You will find it on the right hand side going towards Charing Cross. A restaurant — small and unpretentious look ingfrom the street — with narrow folding: doors which close with a bang behind you when you enter; a bar on the right, gay with many-coloured glasses, and where, if you feel " chippy" in a morning, you may obtain the latest tonic, the newest corpse reviver, the last new thing as a " pick-me up." Beyond, through the curtains, is a snug little dining-room, which is never empty ; patronized for lunch, dinner, aud late suppers, the owner, a dark-eyed, dark haired Southerner, should have a good time of it. It is here, on this dull, miserable night, we find at a table at the extreme end, three young men dining. Met together for a particular purpose, indeed by invitation, we make their acquaintance just as dessert is laid on the table, and they are discussing further arrangements for the evening over their nuts and wine.

How comfortable and sociable this is, so different from the mud and slush outside. It might well be another world ; the misery and wretchedness, removed only a few feet from them, might be miles away, so much is it forgotten. Not one of them thinks of it all, no thought of others less fortu nate than themselves crosses their miuds. They have had a good dinner, and at such a time one is apt to forget the outside world. I remember just such an occasion, when, un bidden, the thought came: "There are many poor devils around us who would be only too thankful for one-half of the good things we have enjoyed ;" and then a jest or laugh of a companion put aside the reflection, and I consoled myself by saying to myself — not thinking — " No doubt it is their faults they haven't." Under the influence of good food, good wine, and pleasant companionship, we are very prone to pat ourselves on the back, and pity, or it may be deride, the struggles and troubles of others.

But this is a special occasion, when the want of consideration for others may, perhaps, be excused. George Arbuthnot, one of the trio, a barrister, is to be married shortly, and he has invited these men, old friends, school chums, in fact, to dine with him, on one of the few remaining nights of his bachelor hood. He, the host, is one of those men so frequently met with in modern life — a junior barrister at the Chancery Bar, making his way by degrees, with a small, but sufficient fortune to make him feel fairly comfortable. Ambitious, clever, and plodding, he is sure to make his mark in the future, and in the meantime has nothing in particular to complain of in the way Dame Fortune has treated him ; for the rest, he is a well-bred English gentleman, fairly good-looking, and well able to hold his own in whatever position he may be placed.

Alfred Constable, who faces his host, is of quite a different stamp ; not so amiable, not so gentle, and certainly not so easily pleased. In face and form he is nearly perfect, his dark eyes, his wavy hair, his clear-cut features and somewhat blase expression, mark him out for approval to nine out of ten who see him. Tt may be the tenth declares that the set lips and somewhat heavy jaw are proofs of hauteur and temper; possibly so, but still he is a great favourite with a few chosen spirits, and with them he is always the same — sharp in retort, somewhat cynical it may be, but eminently a man to fly to for practical advice in the time of need. He is studying medicine, but being the lucky possessor of some £500 a year he does not seem particularly anxious to pass his examinations. His parents died whilst he was still a boy, and lacking the father's guiding hand, he has rather gone the pace for the last three years.

Now at twenty-five he feels bored at many of the amusements of other men of his age. Septimus Denton is an every-day young man, the seventh child of an old-fashioned schoolmaster, who had given him a curious name. In full it was Septimus Ultimus Denton. For, as the old man had said, "That really must be the last;" but fate willed otherwise, and when an eighth had appeared, and years had rolled on, Septimus declared his name was a standing disgrace to his father's judgment, and so the second name had been gradually dropped, until now he is known by his first name only, and indeed almost forgets he has another. He is a clerk in a bank, slowly — as he thinks very slowly — progressing. "And so, Arbuthnot," Constable says, " this is really one of your few remaining nights of freedom. Soon you will be the model husband who 'always comes home to his tea.' No more suppers at Scott's or Rule's with a fair friend, whose ' ma' would like to come also, and prefers stout to fizz ; whilst the so-called daughter says she will have ' boy,' and hectors the waiter and talks slang.

No more late nights at the club, when the play runs high. No more little jaunts to Epsom and Ascot. No more — " " Shut up ! " says Arbuthnot ; " how do you know what I shall do ? Your knowledge of the supper business seems fairly complete, though ! You must have had some ex perience in that line." " Perhaps," puts in Constable simply. " But I tell you," pursues Arbuthnot, "I care not for these things. I prefer the quiet hum-drum life which I hope is before me. The home comforts, the cheerful fireside, the order and regularity, the peace and quietude — " " What about the baby teething ? " inter rupts Constable. "And the school bills?" says Denton, thinking how far his slender resources would go in that direction. " That's nothing to do with it," says Arbuthnot ; " besides — " " Great Scott !

" exclaims Constable, purposely misunderstanding him. " Septimus, he thinks nothing of babies teething and school bills ! By-the-bye, Septimus, you will please to observe that when you are west of the Griffin you are not to swear the good old City oaths you are doubtless accustomed to. Here we swear by our great men. Scott, you know, was a novel-writing fellow ; but whether it is he, or the cod-liver oil man, we swear by, I am not quite sure. Of course, Arbuthnot, here, swears by the law and the profits." " Thanks, awfully." "But really, George," continues Constable, "if ever a man had an excuse for matri mony you have. I have known the future Mrs. Arbuthnot for some time, and I am sure a truer, sweeter woman never lived. I am, as you know, a great admirer of Miss Tinsley. I wish you and her every good fortune.

Come, let us drink her health." This rite is duly performed, and then George Arbuthnot, who evidently wants to convert Constable, proceeds — " You know, Alfred, it is the proper thing to get married and settle down. You, perhaps, think it is such an awful plunge to ask the momentous question and tremble for the answer, but I assure you it comes somehow before you know — " " That's just it," Constable interrupts, laughingly; "now let us sketch the steps down which the average young man tumbles headlong. He meets his future rib, say, at a dance. He dances with her, four valses instead of one; I mean if she allow him. He praises her dancing : ' Best dance to night, I assure you,' says he. Step number one. He meets her again at a pic-nic up the river ; his folly increases. He keeps by her side all the day, removes imaginary brambles from her path, pesters her to eat and drink more than is good for her.

You see how stupid he grows, he is probably laying the seeds of future dyspepsia ; and on the return, it may be in the deepening twilight, says things which in his sober moments would never cross his mind. I mean absolutely idiotic flattery. Perhaps he asks for a flower, a something, kisses it raptur ously, and parts with many hopes that they may meet again soon. Step number two. And then the story rushes on with the speed of a cataract, he takes the last flight with a header. He meets her at home, busied in a lady-like way about some trifling household duty. She looks so interesting, and withal so pretty, in her neat white pinafore, that he says something sweet. A smile and a slight blush reward him. That something said is repeated more pointedly. Again a blush, a shy, upward glance from the blue eyes which he swears are true.

It may be he says nothing, but boldly kisses her ; or he may speak — it does not matter which. The deed is done, and our friend is hooked and in due time safely landed. But ask him how it happened, and I bet you ten to one he cannot tell you. Probably he will say no one was more surprised than he when it was all over. A difficult matter to get engaged ! Nonsense ! the difficulty is to keep clear nowadays." " Well," laughed Septimus, " tell us how you have kept clear ; you seem to know the symptoms thoroughly." " I will, for your future guidance — play each scene with a different girl. It is most risky when each knows the other's part. There is safety in numbers." " I suppose, Constable, you are incor rigible," said Arbuthnot. " Take care that you do not get into worse trouble with woman. You may do far worse than marry her.

Remember an honest man regrets a wrong done to a woman all his life. And besides, a man easily falls into a pit laid by a scheming woman." " Oh, pooh ! " says Constable, and laugh ingly ridicules the notion of his not being able to take care of himself. Light words, lightly spoken ; how he called them to mind in after years ! " Well," says George, somewhat wearily, for he is tired of the subject, " what shall we do with ourselves ? Let us go some where for an hour. Where shall it be, Denton?" " I vote for the Kingdom," says he, thinking, as many City clerks do, that this noted Music Hall represents the very essence of dissipation. The bill is paid, coats are donned, and the three proceed in a hansom through the rain and mud to Leicester Square. The horse is drawn up on his haunches sharp, under the gas-lit entrance to the Kingdom, and our three acquaintances enter.

Up the marble steps, gay with drooping palms and glittering lights, to the promenade. The house is well-filled, it is now nearly eleven o'clock, and ladies of the demi monde are strolling about in dozens, resplendent in silks and satins. Men in evening dress smoke, chat, and discuss without reserve the beauties or otherwise of the passing houris. The waiters hurry about, the popping of corks is incessant, for it is essentially a thirsty place. The shop boy and City clerk brush unceremoniously through the throng against the high born gentlemen, for here are all sorts and conditions of men. There is a constant never-ending stream of humanity passing and repassing between the chairs and small tables at the back, and the seats in front. Many a fair, sweet young English face is here, many a one brought up with a loving mother's care.

Many a " flower of the flock." Many a one, who, with other chances of life, under other circumstances, would have remained the pride of her people, the joy of her parents' hearts. But, alas ! something has gone wrong, and here they are to-night, fair and winsome to look upon, but so hard, so calculating, and so utterly lost to shame. Hear one of them speak ! The voice has in most cases already acquired the hard metallic ring so well known ; its tones once sympathetic and melodious are now harsh and unfeeling. She talks slang. Her walk even has its distinguishing feature ; the movement of the shoulders, the oscillation of the skirts is so pronounced. Faucy these faces in a few years' time — a very few it may be — the simple beauty gone, the general effect dependent upon rouge, dye, and powder, the voice more harsh and strident than ever.

Every womanly gentleness fled — the woman herself conscious that her best days are over, attempting to allure her prey by blandishments so evidently put on that they only deceive the veriest tyro. But who amongst the merry crowd con siders this to-night ? Enough for the day is the evil thereof. And the laughter and clatter continue as they have done in times past, and will, I assume, in times to come, without thought of the morrow. Denton, with his fresh country-looking boyish face, has scarcely passed through the doors before a lady, glorious in a light-blue silk, whose hair is yellow and whose eye brows and lashes are dark, stops pointedly in front of him, and exclaims, with affected joy — " Why, Charley ! how are you ? I haven't seen you for an age ! And how are the good people at Mudland-cum-Slocum ?

And what are you doing here to-night ? I'll tell ! " this with a sly wink. " I don't know Mudland, and I think you have made a mistake," says Septimus, severely, for he knows Constable is amused, and he does not care to be taken for a country cousin. " Well, never mind, you might stand me a drink." "No," says Septimus, shortly, and passes on. " Won't you give us a cab fare, duckey ? " and the fair, if somewhat passee beauty laughs at his discomfiture. " Septimus, my dear boy," says Constable, satirically, " you really must get rid of that dreadful appearance of exuberant health. You see even these fair and high-born ladies suppose your life is spent amongst the turnips." But Septimus is rather sulky ; he had sug gested the Kingdom quite with the air of a man about town, and to be so unceremoniously snubbed is somewhat galling.

He walks forward to the railings in front to look upon the stage, where a young woman, dressed in the airiest of costumes, is in what, for want of a better term, must pass as a song, asking the audience " why is the world so gay to-day." This is evidently quite beyond them, for she finishes her song without any response, and after a breakdown, more remarkable for agility than elegance, finally disappears amidst applause from the gallery. „ Poor Septimus is evidently marked out for conquest this evening, for as he is leaning over the rails, a pretty, bonny girl, comes to his side, and whilst she pensively regards the footlights, manages to drop her fan with a clatter at his feet. Natural politeness requires that he should pick it up and hand it to her. He is rewarded with a smile, at once grateful and encouraging.

But he does not rise to the fly, aud so this pushing young person addresses him most sweetly — " Did not I meet you at the Thompsons last summer ? " " Which Thompsons ? " asks Septimus, off his guard. " At Highgate." " I don't know any Thompsons at High gate," answers Septimus, wishing he had not suggested the Kingdom. " Oh ! I am sorry. I must have made some mistake. But you need not be so stuck up. I shan't bite. I say, old man," pleadingly, " I am thirsty." Well ! there seems to be no other way out of it, and he and this little harpy sit down at one of the small tables, and he orders the requisite. Certainly he is somewhat astonished at her taste, for she pronounces for brandy and curacoa. And then she gives him certain informa tion as to her family and herself of a nature not usually told to strangers at a first interview.

How she is a clergyman's daughter, how if it were not for the wicked ness of a cousin she would not be here to-night, and how she now lives in rooms near Regent's Park, and, displaying a latch key, says, gaily, " such pleasant rooms, I'm sure you would like them." But Septimus fights shy, and she, seeing she is wasting time, somewhat vexedly strolls away, telling him he is not half such a jolly chap as she expected. In the meantime, male and female singers, contortionists, acrobats, instantaneous artists and others appear in rapid succession upon the stage. They receive varying applause from different parts of the house ; a clever breakdown stirs the enthusiasm of the gallery from end to end, whilst the stalls are indifferent ; but a double entendre, especially a smart one, takes immediately in the lower part of the house and falls flat in the upper.

Constable is weary of it all ; he is leaning idly against a pillar thinking he had better go and have a quiet cigar before turning in. He has been through it all so often : the same old business, the same old jokes dressed up in slightly different guise. How tiresome it all is ! He can remember quite well when he too found it interesting and attractive; when the "Vital Spark," the "Sisters Zero," and the " Great Lion Comique " were mighty people in his eyes ; when the catches and choruses of comic songs were things to be remembered, and when not to have seen the last new thing at the "Pav.," or the " Troc," was a heinous sin, and not to be admitted on any account. He has long since passed all that, and now looks upon an evening at a music hall as a trial of patience and temper rather to be avoided.

To get up any degree of enthusiasm over it, as he sees hundreds doing, is impossible. c But his interest is suddenly aroused, and his attention ri vetted, by a strikingly hand some woman who has just opened the door of a private box, and who, wrapped in a costly sealskin, passes before him. As she does so their eyes meet. " Dollis Brooke ! " says he, in intense surprise. " Hush ! not so loud, Alfred ; don't call out my name like that. I don't want all the world to hear it." " Sorry, I am sure, Dolly ; but I was so surprised to see you here of all people. What does it mean ? " " Oh ! I've left home," says she, flushing slightly ; " but I can't tell you here." " Come round to my rooms. We can be there directly in a hansom. Is anyone with you ? " " No," she answered hurriedly, for this unexpected meeting, bringing back so sud denly the old days, has somewhat flurried her.

" Come quickly." Aud so to a hansom, into which the watchful commissionaire puts them, carefully guarding her dress from the wheel. As he does so he mentally exclaims, " I've seen 'im before, but not 'er. See 'er regular now, I s'pose." He puts too many couples into hansoms to feel any surprise. For a bachelor Constable seems to under stand the art of being comfortable thoroughly. These rooms of his in the Adelphi Terrace look very cosy after the mud and rain out side. Facing the river, overlooking the gardens, a splendid view is obtained of the grand old stream which looks so perfect when a bright warm sun glints and glitters on the passing waters, but which is so cold and forbidding on a night like this. Many handsome water-colours and etchings — for which he has a passion — grace the walls.

The fire burns brightly, casting a genial, fitful glow around, and as they eater his man is just arranging spirits aud glasses on the table, for some experience has taught him such things are in frequent request in bachelors' quarters. And now Dollis is comfortably ensconced in a largre arm-chair before the fire. She is herself again, and talks freely. Alfred notes first that she is richly dressed. From the diamonds in her sunny hair to her dainty bottines, all speak eloquently of money. The bracelet on her shapely arm did not cost a trifle. And next she is altered — at first he thinks improved — in appearance. She is more lovely than ever. True, she has lost that charming simplicity, that look of rural diffidence he remembers, but she has gained a certain ease of manner, a confidence in herself which was wanting eighteen months ago.

She would then have felt and looked strange dressed like this, but now she is used to it all. Who said fine feathers do not make fine birds ? Don't they ! Here is a case in point — a caterpillar developed into a gorgeous butterfly. " And so, Alfred," she says, laughingly, and yet a little nervously, " you were sur prised to see me this evening ? " " Rather," he answers, sententiously; " but tell me what it all means. I know nothing. When last I saw you at Bakewell I certainly did not expect to meet you next at the King dom." "Well, after you left, Lord Peverill paid me great attention. I saw him every day, and often met him in the moonlight, when — when — " (a catch in the throat came here) " when father and mother were fast asleep. At last, one day — three weeks it must have been after you left — he told me he must return to London.

I believe I cried — at any rate, I know I did something silly — and he begged and prayed me to come with him. He put his arms round me, and swore he loved me, promised me diamonds and ser vants and a carriage of my own, and I — well," petulantly, "can't you understand?" After a painful pause Constable said, simply — "Yes, I understand, Dolly." And then the girl fights down her recollections ; she becomes flippant and gay, chaffs him about his abstraction, and hopes he is not going: to read her a lecture, suggests that he should smoke, and that she would not object to joining him in a whisky and soda. She tells him — now the ice is broken she talks unreservedly — that Lord Peverill is up the Nile, that he left two months ago, that she has a villa in Alpha Road, St. John's Wood, and a dear little victoria ; that she has been very quiet since he left, and been nowhere, but that to-night she was so tired of doing nothing, she had taken a box at the Kingdom, where Lord Peverill had once taken her, and was about to return home when he had met her.

" And now, Alfred," she pursues, " we can have many pleasant little jaunts together. Peverill won't mind ; he is a friend of yours." (He rather winced at this.) " Time will not hang so heavily on my hands now. You will come and see me, won't you ?" What can be do ? He says — " Yes, certainly." And then, as it is past midnight, he puts her in a hansom, gives cabby the address, who cannot quite understand why he does not go also, and returns to his rooms. There he communes with himself. " What must those fellows have thought of me ? I never said good-night, or gave them any hint I was off. By Jove ! how well she looked ! What lovely hair and eyes the girl has ! And don't she know it ! The little coquette, sitting in that big chair with legs crossed, purposely to show that well-turned ankle in its silken hose," and he smiles, as he says to himself, "They are all the same.

The King is dead — or up the Nile, same thing — live the King. I thought last year, when we were fishing there at Bakewell, that he was much taken with the girl. George ! how different she looks from the village belle of those days ! And how easily she calls me Alfred ! Well, I suppose we were fairly familiar. I know I called her Dolly after I once heard her name. I do pity her father, though — that proud, handsome old yeoman, whose family had been upon the land in com fortable prosperity for generations — and the strict, religious mother ! Well, I have in my time met many ' clergymen's daughters,' but this is genuine. Why does Peverill leave such a prize as this behind him ? What a fool he must be ! Suppose he should find the lamb he left behind him a stray sheep, he has only himself to thank for it.

And so she has gone to the Kingdom to-night for the first time since he left ! Not the last time, I'll bet ! No ; once taste the forbidden fruit of freedom, they are not to be trusted after. And, of course, she lives in the Grove of the Evangelist — they all do. What an owl the man must be to leave her there, the centre of temptations. And how unconcernedly she asked me to call — if I do ? Well, I will, anyhow."

A pretty drawing-room in Alpha Road, St. John's Wood. The fire burns briskly, casting its grateful flashes on the brass dogs on either side. A shaded lamp on the table throws a subdued light around. Dollis is at the piano singing in a sweet melodious voice some simple ballad. Perhaps she does not display any great mastery of technique, the execution may be faulty, but the voice is tuneful and the style sympathetic. To hear her sing and play one could not think she was a woman the world would call shameless — a woman living on a man's bounty, who had left her home, and could not return to it. A woman who has thrown in her lot with a Strange fast world of which she knows IN PARI DELI C TO. 25 nothing — a world sure to be cruel and hard when the time comes ; but that she does not realize at present.

She is, of course, an erring woman, one who will be judged harshly by women, but yet who should receive much pity — more pity than blame. Constable is lounging in a large, roomy chair before the fire, listening in lazy enjoy ment to the music, and watching the blue smoke curl upwards from his cigar. The manners of an ordinary drawing-room are not to be expected here, and he is evidently quite at home. He had accepted the invitation given by Dollis the night she was in his rooms, and had dined with her at the appointed hour. Always liking him, she had then thrown aside all reserve, all prudence even. She had told her inner thoughts, had made him her confidential adviser and friend — how she did not like Lord Peverill; he was so hard and cold nowadays, so different from what he used to be; and how she would gladly free herself from the connection if only she could do so.

But what was she to do ? To return home was impossible, and where to turn for advice or assistance she did not know. She had been tempted by the glitter and flash of the promises held out to her, and how utterly unsatisfying the realities had proved. And yet she did not really want to give all this up ; the stings of poverty had not yet touched her ; she was still in the heyday of fancied freedom — still tasting the sweets without the bitters. Only there was an undefined something wanting, she hardly knew herself what. All this, and more to the same effect, had she told to Constable on that night when they had dined together. The transition from friend to lover is, I take it, fairly easy, if only the opportunity presents itself, and if the other side en courages the change. And so it has fallen out here.