CHAPTER XII.SILVER.
These words had scarcely passed Rowton’s lips before he abruptly turned and saw a little man crossing the lawn to meet him.
“Scrivener! by all that is unpleasant,” he muttered under his breath. He turned to Nancy who, very white and frightened, stood by his side.
“Go into the house now,” he said; “go up to your room and unpack your things, or sit by the fire in the library and enjoy a right good read of one of the many novels which are scattered about. I want to speak to that man who is coming across the lawn.”
“Who is he, Adrian?”
“A devil,” said Adrian. “Go away; he is not to see you.”
She turned abruptly at his words. His tone completed the trembling at her heart; she tottered rather than walked into the house; she was full of fear and misery.
Rowton, without even glancing after her, went to meet his unwelcome guest.
“Now, what has brought you here?” he asked.
“Ah! I expected you would take that sort of air when you returned to your property,” said Scrivener. “The whole thing was a mistake, and I told Long John so. And so that young lady is the angel of your life?”
“I forbid you to mention her name. What is your business here to-day?”
“To bring you a message,” said Scrivener, favouring Rowton with a long and steady glance. “You have had your five weeks; the end of your tether is therefore reached; you belong to us now, and we have something for you to do.”
“I doubt not that you have,” said Rowton.
“Yes, there is some important business waiting for you. Can you return with me to town this afternoon?”
Rowton looked both disturbed and annoyed.
“Does Long John want me so soon?” he asked.
“He wants you to-night. We have an important meeting at our club to-night, and it is absolutely necessary that you should be present.”
Rowton stood quite still, a frown between his thick brows. Presently it cleared away.
“I am at your service,” he said.
Scrivener was evidently relieved at this sudden acquiescence.
“That is a good thing,” he said. “I was commissioned to bring you with or against your will. When you submit to the inevitable you make things far easier for us. I’ll get straight back to Pitstow Station and take the next train to town. The meeting is appointed for eleven o’clock to-night—you’ll be sure to be there? You won’t play us false?”
“No, I shall come up to town by your train. Go, Scrivener, I don’t want people to see you about.”
“As you please,” said the man; “but I expectfolks round here will have to get accustomed to me. I am thinking of taking lodgings in the neighbourhood.”
“You are not?”
“Yes, I am. The air is wonderfully bracing, and I have been feeling rather pulled down lately. Well, good-day, I am sorry, sir, you have not got a job for me on the premises.”
These last remarks were made in a servile tone, and for the benefit of an under-gardener who was seen approaching.
Rowton nodded. Scrivener turned on his heel and disappeared.
“Come here,” said Rowton to the gardener. He walked with him across the lawn, gave him some directions with regard to the moving of several plants, and then sauntered slowly into the house.
He went into the library, where he hoped to find Nance. She was there; she had seated herself in a chair in front of a great fire; a book lay open on her lap, but she was not reading; with the tears undried on her cheeks, she was fast asleep. She looked weary, almost ethereal, in her sleep. Rowton looked at her fair face with a great pang at his heart.
“Poor lily flower,” he murmured; “she looks as unfit as girl could look to stand the storms of this troublesome world, and what storms she may have to encounter with her lot linked to mine, Heaven only knows. But there, perhaps I wrong her, there is, I sometimes think, muscle as well as weakness under all that delicate womanly charm. Poor little girl! shall I go away without telling her, or shall I tell her? No,I won’t shirk the nasty things which I undertook when I married one like her—she must bear her burden—Heaven knows I want to make it light to her. Yes, I’ll tell her.”
He went up to Nancy, knelt by her side, put his arms round her, and gently transferred her head from the sofa cushions to his breast. The movement, light as it was, awakened her. She opened her eyes, saw him looking down at her, and smiled at first dreamily and happily.
“Where am I?” she asked. “I thought I was back at San Remo—I remember now, I am at home, and you are with me.”
“I am glad you have had a sleep, Nance,” said her husband in a matter-of-fact voice. “Now I have something to say which is not quite pleasant.”
“What is that?” she asked.
She started up and pushed her hair from her brow.
“I remember everything now,” she repeated; “the garden which I am not to see, and the poor afflicted lady, and the dreadful man who walked across the grass.”
“The man has gone, dearest. I trust you may not be troubled with him again—in any case he has nothing whatever to do with you.”
“Then what unpleasant thing have you to tell me, Adrian?”
“Only that I must leave thee, sweetheart.”
“Leave me, leave me?” she asked, her face turning very white.
“But not for long.” Rowton bent forward and kissed her lips. “Only for a few hours at the worst. Thatman brought me a message which makes it imperative for me to go to town to-night. In fact, I am leaving almost immediately—I shall take the very next train from Pitstow. If my business is happily concluded I shall be back in time to go to church with you to-morrow, if not——”
“Why do you say ‘if not’?” she asked. “Is there any fear?”
“No, none really. Of course there is a possibility that I may not return in time for church—in that case, you will go with Murray; be sure you go, Nance, whether I am with you or not. Now I have not a moment to spare.”
Rowton walked across the room and rang the bell. When the servant appeared he gave orders that his dog-cart was to be brought round in a quarter of an hour. He then prepared to leave the room.
“Let me come with you and help you to pack,” said Nancy.
“To be sure, little woman, come along,” he said.
He took her hand and they went upstairs together. They passed through the beautiful bedroom into Rowton’s dressing-room. He thrust a few things into his Gladstone bag, then turned and took his wife in his arms.
“How much I must love you,” he said, “when I feel it horrible even to part for a few hours.”
“Can I not come with you?” she asked suddenly; “why should not I go to London with you this afternoon?”
“No, darling, it is best not. I shall have to leave youat times, sweetheart, and we must both get accustomed to the thing. Now I must say farewell. I’ll soon be back. Adieu, darling, adieu.”
Rowton ran downstairs, and Nancy watched him from the window of the dressing-room as he drove rapidly away.
He arrived at Pitstow Station a moment before the train was starting. He saw Scrivener pacing up and down the platform, but neither man, by word or glance, recognised the other. Rowton travelled first-class to town—Scrivener third. In due course they arrived at King’s Cross, when both men again went their several ways. Rowton drove to a small hotel in the neighbourhood of the Strand. It was a comfortable, cleanly place, but very unpretending and plain. He ordered something to eat and then went out into the Strand. He amused himself buying one or two trifles for Nancy. He then went to his club, the Shelton, where he smoked a cigar, and chatted with two or three men, who were all delighted to see him again. He invited several of his friends to stay at Rowton Heights, and altogether was much cheered by his time at the club.
“Lucky for you, Rowton, to be back in the old place once more,” said Charlie Danvers, a gay young Guardsman. Rowton had been at school with him.
“Wish I could clear off all my mortgages, and come in for my own,” said another man, whose name was Halliburton.
“I have heard a lot of your diggings, Rowton,” said a third; “the best place in the county; shall be delighted to accept your invitation. What time did you say?”
“I’ll write and fix a date,” said Rowton after a pause. “My wife and I mean to give a ball, but we must wait a little until the county magnates have time to call. I’ll want as many of you good fellows as will honour me to come down for the great occasion. I mean to do something with the hunting next season, but it is rather late to think much of that this year. The ball, however, is a different matter. You’ll all come for the ball, won’t you?”
Three or four promised, and Rowton made notes in his engagement book.
It was about ten o’clock when he left the club. He hailed a hansom then, and drove straight back to the quiet little hotel off the Strand. When he got there he went upstairs, changed his hat for a round one of somewhat shabby make, put on a light overcoat and came down again.
“Going out, sir?” said the landlord, who was standing in the hall.
“Yes, for a bit,” said Rowton.
The man noticed the change of dress and made no remark—many of his guests were out all night; he supplied them with latchkeys, and never sat up for them.
“A latchkey, sir?” he said now to Rowton.
“Thanks,” replied the owner of Rowton Heights in a nonchalant tone. He slipped the key into his pocket, and the next moment found himself again in the Strand.
He took another hansom and told the man to drive him as far as the Chelsea Embankment. It took about half an hour to get there. He got out just by theEmbankment, paid the driver his fare and walked slowly on, bearing straight to his right all the time. By-and-by he found himself, still almost within sight of the Embankment, but in a low part of Chelsea. He went down several by-streets, being remarked by those who glanced at him by reason of his height and a certain uprightness of carriage which, try as he would, he could never get rid of. It was Saturday night, near midnight, and the place was all alive—barrows in the streets, hawkers everywhere, people buying and selling, children screaming, women arguing and gesticulating, good, hard-worked housewives hurrying home with well-laden baskets, drunken men staggering across the streets. Rowton passed quickly through their midst. The place smelt horribly. The air was heavy with the odours of stale fish and rotting vegetables.
“Contrasts,” muttered the man to himself. “Rowton Heights last night, Nance in her silver-grey dress, the old ancestral home—all the ‘noblesse oblige’ of long descent surrounding me and tingling in my veins! To-night, the slums, and I no stranger in them!”
He muttered an oath which scarcely reached his lips, but filled his heart with intolerable bitterness. He left the glaring street with all its light and noise, and turned abruptly down a dark passage. The next moment he had knocked with his knuckles in a peculiar way on a certain door. The door was cautiously opened by a girl in a dirty dress with a towzled fringe reaching to her eyebrows.
“Who is there?” she asked.
“Silver,” was the reply.
“Oh! Silver, thank Heaven you have come,” she answered.
“Hush! don’t speak so loud,” said Rowton in a low voice. “How are you, Sophy—pain in the back any better?”
“No, sir, I suffers awful still,” answered the poor slavey. “Glad you are back, sir; don’t think I can stay much longer.”
“Oh! yes, you can—here is a sovereign to put in your pocket.”
“Bless you, sir, bless you, Silver,” the girl murmured as she stifled back a sob. She slipped the coin into her mouth for greater safety, and abruptly turned to walk upstairs.
“Are they in the old rooms?” asked Rowton.
“Yes, sir, ten of ’em strong.”
“Then you need not come. I can find my own way.”
He bounded past her three steps at a time, opened a door without knocking and found himself in a long low room, which was now reeking with tobacco smoke and the fumes of whisky. Several men were stationed about the room, some sitting, some standing, some were smoking short pipes, some indulging in cigars, some were doing neither. There was a certain expectancy about all their faces, and when they saw Rowton it was more than evident that this expectancy was realised. They welcomed him with cheers; said, “Hullo, Silver, glad to seeyouback,” and motioned him forward into their midst.