In Silk Attire Part 37

"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 a.s.suming 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 Schonstein'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.