"But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count Schonstein out of pique, and so be wretched? But there is no other person whom I could marry."
"Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head down, and whisper. _Is there no other person whom you love?_"
The girl"s head was so close down to the pillow that the blush on her face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audible voice-
"_There is, mother._"
"I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves you, does he not?"
"He does, Lady Jane. That is the misery of it."
"You think he is not rich enough? He has his way to make? Or perhaps his friends?"
"You are speaking of--?"
"Mr. Anerley."
"But all your conjectures are wrong, mother-all quite wrong. Indeed, I cannot explain it to you. I only know, mother, that I am very unhappy."
"And you mean to marry Count Schonstein to revenge yourself--?"
"I did not say I would marry Count Schonstein," said the girl, fretfully, "and I have nothing to revenge. I am very sorry, Lady Jane, to think of the sad troubles you have had, and you are very good to warn me; but I have not quarrelled with anybody, and I am not asked to wait in order to marry anybody, and--"
Here she raised herself up, and the old bitter hard look came to the sad and gentle face.
"--And if I should marry Count Schonstein, I shall disappoint no one, and break no promise. Before I marry Count Schonstein, he shall know what he may expect from me. I can give him my esteem, and confidence, and a certain amount of liking; and many people have lived comfortably on less. And you, mother, should be the last to say anything against an arrangement which would give you comfort, and relieve your mind from anxiety--"
"And you have lived so long with me," said old Mother Christmas, reproachfully, "and you don"t know yet that sooner than let my comfort bring you to harm, Annie, or tempt you to a false step, I would twenty times rather beg my bread?"
"Forgive me, mother!" said the girl, impetuously, "but I don"t know what I"ve been saying. Everything seems wrong, and cruel, and if I forget that you have been a mother to me, it is-it is because-I am-so miserable that--"
And here the two women had a hearty cry together, which smoothed down their troubles for the present, and drew them closer to each other.
CHAPTER XXIX.
LEFT ALONE.
"No," said Dove, blocking up the doorway with her slight little figure, as the waggonette was driven round, "neither of you stirs a step until you tell me where you are going."
Will"s last injunction to his father had been, "Don"t let the women know." So the women did not know; and on this Monday morning both men were stealthily slipping away up to London when the heroic little Dove caught them in the act.
"We are going to London, my dear," said Mr. Anerley.
"On business," said Will.
"Yes, on business!" said Dove, pouting. "I know what it is. You go into somebody"s office in the forenoon and talk a little; and then both of you go away and play billiards; then you dine at Will"s club or at a hotel, and then you go to the theatre."
"Will has been telling tales," said Mr. Anerley.
"And to-day of all days," continued the implacable Dove, "when you know very well, papa, and you needn"t try to deny it, that you promised to help me in getting down the last of the walnuts. No; neither of you shall stir this day; so you may as well send back the waggonette."
"My dear, the most important business--" said Mr. Anerley, gravely.
"I don"t care," said Dove. "If you two people are going up to amuse yourselves in London, you must take me. Else stay at home."
"But how can you go?" said Will. "We have now barely time to catch the train."
"Go by the ten-o"clock train," said Dove, resolutely, "and I shall be dressed by then. Or the walnuts, if you like."
"Of the two evils, I prefer to take you," said Will. "So run and get your things ready; and we shall take you to the theatre to-night."
"My boy," said his father, when she was gone, "look at the additional expense--"
"In for a penny, in for a pound, father," said Will. "I shall allow my finances to suffer for the stall-tickets; and you, having just been ruined, ought to be in a position to give us a very nice dinner. People won"t believe you have lost your money unless you double your expenditure and scatter money about as freely as dust."
"You both look as if I had thrust myself on you!" said Dove, reproachfully, as they all got into the waggonette and drove off. "But I forgive you, as you"re going to take me to the theatre. Shall I tell you which, Will? Take me to see Miss Brunel, won"t you?"
She looked into his face for a moment; but there was evidently no covert intention in her words.
From Charing Cross Station they drove to the Langham Hotel. Dove said she was not afraid to spend an hour or so (under the shelter of a thick veil) in looking at the Regent-street and Oxford-street shops, while the gentlemen were gone into the city. At the expiry of that time she was to return to the hotel and wait for them. They then took a Hansom and drove to Mr. Anerley"s solicitor.
"And there," said Mr. Anerley, on the way, "as if we were not sufficiently penniless, Hubbard"s brougham and a pair of his horses are coming over to-morrow."
"Did you buy them?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"For Dove. I was afraid of her driving in an open vehicle during the winter, as she has been rather delicate all the time you were away. I had calculated on selling the waggonette and Oscar; and now I have the whole lot on my hands."
"How much have you promised him for them?"
"200*l*. I hope he"ll let me withdraw from the bargain."
"He won"t. I know the Count very well," said the young man. "He is a good fellow in his way, but he wants credit for his goodness. He"ll stick to this bargain, because he thinks it advantageous to himself; and _then_ he will, with the greatest freedom, lend you the 200*l.*, or a larger sum, if you require it. Nor will he lend you the money at interest; but he will let you know what interest he would have received had he lent it to somebody else."
"Perhaps so. But how to pay him the 200*l.*?"
"Tell him, if he does not take back his brougham and horses, you will become bankrupt, and only pay him tenpence in the pound."
Mr. Anerley"s solicitor-a stout, cheerful little man-did his very best to look sorrowful, and would probably have shed tears, had he been able, to give effect to his condolences. Any more material consolation he had none. There was no doubt about it: Miall & Welling had wholly collapsed. Ultimately the lawyer suggested that things might pull together again; but in the meantime shareholders were likely to suffer.
"They do hint queer things about the directors," he continued, "and if what I hear whispered be true, I"d have some of them put in the stocks until they told what they had done with the money. I"d make "em disgorge it, sir. Why, sir, men settling their forty or fifty thousand a year on their wives out of money belonging to all sorts of people who have worked for it, who have nothing else to live on, who are likely to starve--"