What did Herbert Dare promise himself, in thus leading Anna into this imprudence? Herbert promised himself nothing—beyond the passing gratification of the hour. Herbert had never been one to give any care to the future, for himself or for any one else; and he was not likely to begin to do it at present. As to seeking Anna for his wife, such a thought had never crossed his mind. In the first place, at the rate the Dares—Herbert and his brothers—were going on, a wife for any of them seemed amongst the impossibilities. Unless, indeed, she made the bargain beforehand to live upon air; there was no chance of their having anything else to live upon. But, had Herbert been in a position, pecuniarily considered, to marry ten wives, Anna Lynn would not have been one of them. Agreeable as it might be to him to linger with Anna, he considered her far beneath himself; and pride, with Herbert, was always in the ascendant. Herbert had been introduced to Anna Lynn at Mrs. Ashley's, and that threw a sort of prestige around her. She was also enshrined in the respectable Quaker body of the town. But for these facts, for being who she was, Herbert might have been less scrupulous in his behaviour towards her. He would not—it may be as well to say he dared not—be otherwise than considerate towards Anna Lynn; but, on the other hand, he would not have considered her worthy to become his wife. On the part of Samuel Lynn, he would far rather have seen his child in her coffin, than the wife of Herbert Dare. The young Dares did not bear a good name in Helstonleigh.
In this most uncertain and unsatisfactory state of things, what on earth—as Dobbs had said to Anna—did Herbert want with her at all? Far, far better that he had allowed Anna to fall in with the sensible advice of William Halliburton—"Do not meet him again." It was a sad pity; and it is very probable that Herbert Dare regretted it afterwards, in the grievous misery it entailed. Misery to both; and without positive ill conduct on the part of either.
But that time has not yet come, and we are only at the stage of Samuel Lynn's absence and Patience's broken leg. Anna had taken to stealing out again; and her wits were at work to concoct a plausible excuse for her absences to Hester Dell, that no tales might be carried to Patience.
"Hester, Patience is a fidget. Thee must see that. She would like me to keep at my work all day, all day, evening too, and never have a breath of fresh air! She'd like me to shut myself up in this parlour, as she has now to be shut up in her room; never to be in the garden in the lovely twilight; never to run and look at the pretty lambs in the field; never to go next door, and say 'How dost thee?' to Jane Halliburton! It's a shame, Hester!"
"Well, I think it would be, if it were true," responded Hester, a simple woman in mind and language, who loved Anna almost as well as did Patience. "But dost thee not think thee art mistaken, child? Patience seems anxious that thee should go out. She says I am to take thee."
"I dare say!" responded Anna; "and leave her all alone! How would she come downstairs with her broken leg, if any one knocked at the door? She's a dreadful fidget, Hester. She'd like to watch me as a cat watches a mouse. Look at last night! It's all on account of these shirts. She thinks I shan't get them done. I shall."
"Why, dear, I think thee wilt," returned Hester, casting her eyes on the work. "Thee art getting on with them."
"I am getting on nicely. I have done all the stitching, and nearly the plain part of the bodies; I shall soon be at the gathers. What did she say to thee last night?"
"She said, 'Go to the parlour, Hester, and See whether Anna does not want a light.' And I came and could not find thee. And then she said thee wast always running into the next door, troubling them, and she would not have it done. Thee came in just at the time, and she scolded thee."
"Yes, she did," resentfully spoke Anna. "I tell thee, Hester, she's the worst fidget breathing. I give thee my word, Hester, that I had not been inside the Halliburtons' door. I had been in this garden and in the field. I had been close at work all day——"
"Not quite all day, dear," interrupted Hester, willing to smooth matters to the child as far as she was able. "Thee hadst thy friend Mary Ashley here to call in the morning, and thee hadst Sarah Dixon in the afternoon."
"Well, I had been at work a good part of the day," corrected Anna, "and I wanted some fresh air after it. Where's the crime?"
"Crime, dear! It's only natural. If I had not my errands to go upon, and so take the air that way, I should like myself to run to the field, when my work was done."
"So would any one else, except Patience," retorted Anna. "Hester, look thee. When she asks after me again, thee hast no need to tell her, should I have run out. It only fidgets her, and she is not well enough to be fidgeted. Thee tell her I am at my sewing. But Ican'tbe sewing for ever, Hester; I must have a few minutes' holiday from it now and then. Patience might have cause to grumble if I ran away and left it in the day."
"Well, dear, I think it is only reasonable," slowly answered Hester, considering the matter over. "I'll not tell her thee art in the garden again; for she must be kept tranquil, friend Parry says."
"She was just as bad when I was a little girl, Hester," concluded Anna. "She wouldn't let me run in the garden alone then, for fear I should eat the gooseberries. But it is not the gooseberry season now."
"All quite true and reasonable," thought Hester Dell.
And so the young lady contrived to enjoy a fair share of evening liberty. Not but that she would have done with more, had she known how to get it. And as the weeks went on, and the cold weather of early spring merged into summer days, more genial nights, she and Herbert Dare grew bold in their immunity from discovery, and scarcely an evening passed but they might have been seen, had any one been on the watch, in Farmer Atterly's field. Anna had reached the point of taking his arm now; and there they would pace under cover of the hedge, Herbert talking, and Anna dreaming that she was in Eden.
Herbert Dare sat enjoying the beauty of the April evening in the garden of Pomeranian Knoll. He was hoisted on the back of a garden bench, and balanced himself astride it, the tip of one toe resting on the seat, the other foot dangling. The month was drawing to its close, and the beams of the setting sun streamed athwart Herbert's face. It might be supposed that he had seated himself there to bask in the soft, still air and lovely sunset. In point of fact, he hardly knew whether the sun was rising or setting—whether the evening was fair or foul—so buried was he in deep thought and perplexing care.
The particular care which was troubling Herbert Dare, was one which has, at some time or other, troubled the peace of a great many of us. It was pecuniary embarrassment. Herbert had been in it for a long time; had, in fact, been sinking into it deeper and deeper. He had managed to ward it off hitherto in some way or other; but the time to do that much longer was going by. He was not given to forethought, it has been previously mentioned; but he could not conceal from himself that unpleasantness would ensue, and that speedily, unless something could be done. What was that something to be? He did not know; he could not imagine. His father protested that he had not the means to help him; and Herbert believed that Mr. Dare spoke the truth. Not that Mr. Dare knew of the extent of the embarrassment. Had he done so, it would have come to the same thing, so far as his help went. His sons, as he said, had drained him to the utmost.
Anthony passed the end of the walk. Whether he saw Herbert or not, certain it was, that he turned away from his direction. Herbert lifted his eyes, an angry light in them. He lifted his voice also, angry too.
"Here, you! Don't go skulking off because you see me sitting here. I want you."
Anthony was taken to. It is more than probable that hewasskulking off, and that hehadseen Herbert, for he did not particularly care then to come into contact with his brother. Anthony was in embarrassment on his own score; was ill at ease from more reasons than one; and when the mind is troubled, sharp words do not tend to soothe it. Little else than sharp words had been exchanged latterly between Anthony and Herbert Dare.
It was no temporary ill-feeling, vexed to-day, pleased to-morrow, which had grown up between them; the ill-will had existed a long time. Herbert believed that his brother had injured him, had wilfully played him false, and his heart bitterly resented it. That Anthony was in fault at the beginning was undoubted. He had drawn Herbert unsuspiciously—unsuspiciously on Herbert's part, you understand—into some mess with regard to bills. Anthony was fond of "bills;" Herbert, more wise in that respect, had never meddled with them: his opinion coincided with his father's: they were edged tools, which cut both ways. "Eschew bills if you want to die upon your own bed," was a saying of Mr. Dare's, frequently uttered for the benefit of his sons. Good advice, no doubt. Mr. Dare, as a lawyer, ought to know. Herbert had held by the advice; Anthony never had; and the time came when Anthony took care that his brother should not.
In a period of deep embarrassment for Anthony, he had persuaded Herbert to sign two bills for him, their aggregate amount being large; assuring him, in the most earnest and apparently truthful manner, that the money to meet them, when due, was already provided. Herbert, in his good nature, fell into the snare. It turned out not only that the bills were not met at all, but Anthony had so contrived it that Herbert should be responsible, not he himself. Herbert regarded it as a shameful piece of treachery, and never ceased to reproach his brother. Anthony, who was of a sullen, morose temper, resented the reproach; and they did not lead together the happiest of lives. The bills were not settled yet; indeed, they formed part of Herbert's most pressing embarrassments. This was one cause of the ill-feeling between them, and there were others, of a different nature. Anthony and Herbert Dare had never been cordial with each other, even in childhood.
Anthony, called by Herbert, advanced. "Who wants to skulk away?" asked he. "Are you judging me by yourself?"
"I hope not," returned Herbert, in tones of the most withering contempt and scorn. "Listen to me. I've told you five hundred times that I'll have some settlement, and if you don't come to it amicably, I'll force you to it. Do you hear, you? I'llforceyou to it."
"Try it," retorted Anthony, with a mocking laugh; and he coolly walked away.
Walked away, leaving Herbert in a towering rage. He felt inclined to follow him; to knock him down. Had Anthony only met the affair in a proper spirit, it had been different. Had he said, "Herbert, I am uncommonly vexed—I'll see what can be done," or words to that effect, half the sting in his brother's mind would have been removed; but, to taunt Herbert with having to pay—as he sometimes did—was almost unbearable. Had Herbert been of Anthony's temper, he would have proved that it was quite unbearable.
But Herbert's temper was roused now. It was the toss of a die whether he followed Anthony and struck him down, or whether he did not. The die was cast by the appearance of Signora Varsini; and Anthony, for that evening, escaped.
It was not very gallant of Herbert to remain where he was, in the presence of the governess, astride upon the garden bench. Herbert was feeling angry in no ordinary degree, and this may have been his excuse. She came up, apparently in anger also. Her brow was frowning, her compressed mouth drawn in until its lips were hidden.
There is good advice in the old song or saying: "It is well to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new." As good advice as that of Mr. Dare's, relative to the bills. Herbert might have sung it in character. He should have made things square with the Signora Varsini, before entering too extensively on his friendship with Anna Lynn.
Not that the governess could be supposed to occupy any position in the mind or heart of Herbert Dare, exceptasgoverness; governess to his sisters. Herbert would probably have said so, had you asked him. Whatshemight have said, is a different matter. She looks angry enough to say anything just now. The fact appeared to be—so far as any one not personally interested in the matter could be supposed to gather it—that Herbert had latterly given offence to the governess, by not going to the school-room for what he called his Italian lessons. Of course he could not be in two places at once; and if his leisure hour after dinner was spent in Atterly's field, it was impossible that he could be in the school-room, learning Italian with the governess. But she resented it as a slight. She was of an exacting nature; probably of a jealous nature; and she regarded it as a personal slight, and resented it bitterly. She had been rather abrupt in speech and manner to Herbert, in consequence; and that,heresented. But, being naturally of an easy temper, Herbert was no friend to unnecessary disputes. He tried what he could towards soothing the young lady; and, finding he effected no good in that way, he adopted the other alternative—he shunned her. The governess perceived this, and worked herself up into a state of semi-fury.
She came down upon him in full sail. The moment Herbert saw her, he remembered having given her a half-promise the previous day to pay her a visit that evening. "Now for it," thought he to himself.
"Why you keep me waiting like this?" began she, when she was close to him.
"Have I kept you waiting?" civilly returned Herbert. "I am very sorry. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have a good deal of worry upon me, and I'm fit for nobody's company but my own to-night. You might not have thanked me for my visit, had I come."
"That is my own look-out," replied the governess. "When a gentleman makes a promise to me, I expect him to keep it. I go up to the school-room, and I wait, I wait, I wait! Ah, my poor patience, how I wait! I have that copy of Tasso, that you said you would like to see. Will you come?"
Herbert thought he was in for it. He glanced at the setting sun—at least, at the spot where the sun had gone down, for it had sunk below the horizon, leaving only crimson streaks in the grey sky to tell of what had been. Twilight was rapidly coming on, when he would depart to pay his usual evening visit: there was no time, he decided, for Tasso and the governess.
"I'll come another evening," said he. "I have an engagement, and I must go out to keep it."
A stony hardness settled on mademoiselle's face. "What engagement?" she imperatively demanded.
It might be thought that Herbert would have been justified in civilly declining to satisfy her curiosity. What was it to her? Apparently he thought otherwise. Possibly he was afraid of an outbreak.
"What engagement! Oh—I am going to play a pool at billiards with Lord Hawkesley. He is in Helstonleigh again."
"And that is what you go for, every evening—to play billiards with Lord Hawkesley?" she resumed, her eyes glistening ominously.
"Of course it is, mademoiselle. With Hawkesley or other fellows."
"A lie!" curtly responded mademoiselle.
"I say," cried Herbert, laughing good-humouredly: "do you call that orthodox language?"
"It nothing to you what I call it," she cried, clipping her words in her vehemence, as she would do when excited. "It not with Milord Hawkesley, not to billiards that you go! I know it is not."
"Then I tell you that I often play billiards," cried Herbert. "On my honour I do."
"May-be, may-be," answered she, very rapidly. "But it not to billiards that you go every evening. Every evening!—every evening! Not an evening now, but you go out, you go out! I bought Tasso—do you know that IboughtTasso?—that I have bought it with my money, that you may have the pleasure of hearing me read it, as you said—as you call it? Should I spend the money, had I thought you would not come when I had it—would not care to hear it read?"
Had she been in a more amiable mood, Herbert would have told her that she was a simpleton for spending her money; he would have told her that Tasso, read in the original, would have been to him unintelligible as Sanscrit. He had a faint remembrance of saying to mademoiselle that he should like to read Tasso, in answer to a remark that Tasso was her favourite of the Italian poets: but he had only made the observation carelessly, without seriously meaning anything. And she had been so foolish as to go and buy it!
"Will you come this evening and hear it begun?" she continued, breaking the pause, and speaking rather more graciously.
"Upon my word of honour, Bianca, I can't to-night," he answered, feeling himself, between the two—the engagement made, and the engagement sought to be made—somewhat embarrassed. "I will come another evening; you may depend upon me."
"You say to me yesterday that you would come this evening; that I might depend upon you. Much you care!"
"But I could not help myself. An engagement arose, and I was obliged to fall in with it. I was, indeed. I'll hear Tasso another evening."
"You will not break your paltry engagement at billiards to keep your word to a lady! C'est bien!"
"It—it is not altogether that," replied Herbert, getting out of the reproach in the best way he could. "I have some business as well."
She fastened her glistening eyes upon him. There was an expression in them which Herbert neither understood nor liked. "C'est très bien!" she slowly repeated. "I know where you are going, and for what!"
A smile—at her assumed knowledge, and what it was worth—flitted over Herbert Dare's face. "You are very wise," said he.
"Take care of yourself, mon ami! C'est tout ce que je vous dis."
"Now, mademoiselle, what is the matter, that you should look and speak in that manner?" he asked, still in the same good-humoured tone, as if he would fain pass the affair away in a joke. "I'm sure I have enough bother upon me, without your adding to it."
"What is your bother?"
"Never mind: it would give you no pleasure to know it. It is caused by Anthony—and be hanged to him!"
"Anthony is worth ten of you!" fiercely responded mademoiselle.
"Every one to his own liking," carelessly remarked Herbert. "It's well for me that all the world does not think as you do, mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle looked as though she would like to beat him. "So!" she foamed, drawing back her bloodless lips; "now that your turn is served, Bianca Varsini may just be sent to the enfer! Garde-toi, mon camarade!"
"Garde your voice," replied Herbert. "The cows yonder will think it's a tempest. I wish my turnwasserved, in more ways than one. What particular turn do you mean? If it's buying Tasso, I'll purchase it from you at double price."
He could not help giving her a little chaff. It was what he would have called it: chaff. Exacting people fretted his generally easy temper, and he was beginning to fear that she would detain him until it was too late to see Anna.
But, on the latter score, he was set at rest. With a few words, spoken in Italian, she nodded her head angrily at him, and turned away. Fierce words, in spite of their low tone, Herbert was sure they were, but he could not catch one of them. Had he caught them all, it would have come to the same, so far as his understanding went. Excellent as Signora Varsini's method of teaching Italian may have been, her lessons had not as yet been very efficient for Herbert Dare.
She crossed her hands before her, and went down the walk, taking the path to the house. Proceeding straight up to the school-room, she met Cyril on the stairs. He had apparently been dressing himself for the evening, and was going out to spend it. The governess caught him abruptly, pulled him inside the school-room, and closed the door.
"I say, mademoiselle, what's that for?" asked Cyril, believing, by the fierce look of the young lady, that she was about to take some summary vengeance upon him.
"Cyril! you tell me. Where is it that Herbert goes to of an evening? Every evening—every evening?"
Cyril stared excessively. "What does it concern you to know where he goes, mademoiselle?" returned he.
"I want to know for my own reasons, and that's enough for you, Monsieur Cyril. Where does he go?"
"He goes out," responded Cyril.
The governess stamped her foot petulantly. "I could tell you that he goes out. I ask you where it is that he goes?"
"How should I know?" was Cyril's answer. "It's not my business."
"Don'tyou know?" demanded mademoiselle.
"No, that I don't," heartily spoke Cyril. "Do you suppose I watch him, mademoiselle? He'd pretty soon pitch into me, if he caught me at that game. I dare say he goes to billiards."
The suggestion excited the ire of the governess. "He has been telling you to say so!" she said, menace in every tone of her voice, every gesture of her lifted hand.
Cyril opened his eyes to their utmost width. He could not understand why the governess should be asking him this, or why Herbert's movements should concern her. "I know nothing at all about it," he answered; and, so far, he spoke the truth. "I don't know that Herbert goes anywhere in particular of an evening. If he does, he would not tell me."
She laid her hand heavily on his shoulder; she brought her face—terrible in its livid earnestness—almost into contact with his. "Ecoutez, mon ami," she whispered to the amazed Cyril. "If you are going to play this game with me, I will play one with you. Who wore the cloak to that boucherie, and got the money?—who ripped out the écossais side afterwards, leaving it all mangled and open? Think you, I don't know? Ah, ha! Monsieur Cyril, you cannot play the farce with me!"
Cyril's face turned ghastly, drops of sweat broke out over his forehead. "Hush!" he cried, looking round in the instinct of terror, lest listeners should be at hand.
"Yes; you say, 'Hush!'" she resumed. "I will hush if you don't make me speak. I have hushed ever since. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll hush always."
"Mademoiselle Varsini!" he cried, his manner too painfully earnest for her to doubt now that he spoke the truth: "I declare that I know nothing of Herbert's movements. I don't know where he goes or what he does. When I told you I supposed he went to billiards, I said what I thought might be the case. He may go to fifty places of an evening, for all I can tell. Tell me what it is you want found out, and I will try and do it."
Cyril was not one to play the spy on his brother; in fact, as he had just classically observed to the young lady, Herbert would have "pitched into" him, had he found him attempting it. And serve him right! But Cyril saw that he was in her power; and that made all the difference. He would now have tracked Herbert to the ends of the earth at her bidding.
But she did not bid him. Quite the contrary. She took her hand from Cyril's shoulder, opened the door, and said she did not want him any longer. "It is no matter," cried she; "I wanted to learn something about Monsieur Herbert, for a reason; but if you do not know it, let it pass. It is no matter."
Cyril departed; first of all lifting his cowardly face. It looked a coward's then. "You'll keep counsel, mademoiselle?"
"Yes. When people don't offend me, I don't offend them."
She stood at the door after he had gone down, half in, half out of the room, apparently in deep thought. Presently footsteps were heard coming up, and she retreated and closed the door.
They were those of Herbert. He went on to his room, remained there a few minutes, and then came out again. Mademoiselle had the door ajar as he descended. Her quick eye detected that he had been giving a few finishing touches to his toilette—brushing his hair, pulling down his wristbands, and various other little odds and ends of dandyism.
"And you do that to play billiards!" nodded she, inwardly, as she looked after him. "I'll see, monsieur."
Upstairs with a soft step, went she, to her own chamber. She reached from her box a long and loose dark-green cloak, similar to those worn by the women of France and Flanders, and a black silk quilted bonnet. It was her travelling attire, and she put it on now. Then she locked her chamber door behind her, and slipped down into the dining-room, with as soft a step as she had gone up.
Passing out at the open window, she kept tolerably under cover of the trees, and gained the road. It was quite dusk then, but she recognized Herbert before her, walking with a quick step. She put on a quick step also, keeping a safe distance between herself and him. He went through the town, to the London road, and turned into Atterly's field. The governess turned into it after him.
There she stopped under the hedge, to reconnoitre. A few minutes, and she could distinguish that he was joined by some young girl, whom he met with every token of respect and confidence. A strange cry went forth on the evening air.
Herbert Dare was startled. "What noise was that?" he exclaimed.
Anna had heard nothing. "It must have been one of the lambs in the field, Herbert."
"It was more like a human voice in pain," observed Herbert. But they heard no more.
They began their usual walk—a few paces backward and forward, beneath the most sheltered part of the hedge, Anna taking his arm. Mademoiselle could see, as well as the darkness allowed her; but she could not hear. Her face, peeping out of the shadowy bonnet, was not unlike the face of a tiger.
She crawled away. She had noticed as she turned into the field an iron gate that led into the garden, which the hedge skirted. She crept round to it, found it locked, and mounted it. It had spikes on the top, but the signora would not have cared just then had she found herself impaled. She got safe over it, and then considered how to reach the spot where they stood without their hearing her.
Would she be baffled?Shebe baffled! No. She stooped down, unlaced her boots, and stole softly on in her stockings. And there she was! almost as close to them as they were to each other.
Where had the signora heard those gentle, timid tones before? A lovely girl, looking little more than a child, in her modest Quaker dress, rose to her mind's eye. She had seen her with Miss Ashley. She—the signora—knelt down upon the earth, the better to catch what was said.
"Listeners never hear any good of themselves." It is a proverb too often exemplified, as the signora could have told that night. Herbert Dare was accounting for his late appearance, which he laid to the charge of the governess. He gave a description of the interview she had volunteered him in the garden at home—more ludicrous, perhaps, than true, but certainly not complimentary to the signora. Anna laughed; and the lady on the other side gathered that this was not the first time she had formed a topic of merriment between them. You should have seen her face.Pour plaisir, as she herself might have said.
She stayed out the interview. When it was over, and Herbert Dare had departed, she put on her boots and mounted the gate again; but she was not so agile this time, and a spike entered her wrist. Binding her handkerchief round it, to arrest the blood, she returned to Pomeranian Knoll.
Five hundred questions were showered upon her when she entered the drawing-room, looking calm and impassible as ever. Not a tress of her elaborate braids of hair was out of place; not a fold awry in her dress. Much wonder had been excited by her failing to appear at tea; Minny had drummed a waltz on her chamber door, but mademoiselle would not open it, and would not speak.
"I cannot speak when I am lying down with thosevilaineheadaches," remarked mademoiselle.
"Have you a headache, mademoiselle?" asked Mrs. Dare. "Will you have a cup of tea brought up?"
Mademoiselle declined the tea. She was not thirsty.
"What have you done to your wrist, mademoiselle?" called out Herbert, who was stretched on a sofa, at the far end of the room.
"My wrist? Oh, I scratched it."
"How did you manage that?"
"Ah, bah! it's nothing," responded mademoiselle.
It is grievous, when ill-feeling arises between brothers, that that ill-feeling should be cherished instead of being subdued. But such was the case with Anthony and Herbert Dare. By the time the sunny month of May came in, matters had grown to such a height between them, that Mr. Dare found himself compelled to interfere. It was beginning to make things in the house uncomfortable. They would meet at meals, and not only abstain from speaking to each other, but take every possible opportunity of showing mutual and marked discourtesy. No positive outbreak between them had as yet taken place in the presence of the family: but it was only smouldering, and might be daily looked for.
Mr. Dare, so far as the original cause went, blamed his eldest son. Undoubtedly Anthony had been solely in fault. It was a dishonourable, ungenerous, unmanly act, to draw his brother into trouble, and to do it plausibly and deceitfully. At thepresentstage of the affair, Mr. Dare saw occasion to blame Herbert more than Anthony. "It is you who keep up the ball, Herbert," he said to him. "If you would suffer the matter to die away, Anthony would do so." "Of course he would," Herbert replied. "He has served his turn, and would be glad that it should end there."
It was in vain that Mr. Dare talked to them. A dozen times did he recommend them to "shake hands and make it up." Neither appeared inclined to take the advice. Anthony was sullen. He would have been content to let the affair drop quietly into oblivion: perhaps, as Herbert said, had been glad that it should so drop; but, make the slightest move towards it, he would not. Herbert openly said thathe'dnot shake hands. If Anthony wanted ever to shake hands with him again, let him pay up.
Therelay the grievance; "paying up." The bills, not paid, were a terrible thorn in the side of Herbert Dare. He was responsible, and he knew not one hour from another but he might be arrested on them. To soothe matters between his sons, Mr. Dare would willingly have taken the charge of payment upon himself, but he had positively not the money to do it with. In point of fact, Mr. Dare was growing seriously embarrassed on his own score. He had had a great deal of trouble with his sons, with Anthony in particular, and he had grown sick and tired of helping them out of pecuniary difficulties. Still, he would have relieved Herbert of this one nightmare, had it been in his power. Herbert had been deluded into it, without any advantage to himself; therefore Mr. Dare had the will, could he have managed it, to help him out. He told Herbert that he would see what he could do after a while. The promise did not relieve Herbert of present fears; neither did it restore peace between the malcontents. Had Herbert been relieved of that particular embarrassment, others would have remained to him; but that fact did not in the least lessen his soreness, as to the point in question.
It was an intensely hot day; far hotter than is usual at the season; and the afternoon sun streamed full on the windows of Pomeranian Knoll, suggesting thoughts of July, instead of May. A gay party—at any rate, a party dressed in gay attire—were crossing the hall to enter a carriage that waited at the door. Mr. Dare, Mrs. Dare, and Adelaide. Mrs. Dare had always been given to gay attire, and her daughters had inherited her taste. They were going to dine at a friend's house, a few miles' distance from Helstonleigh. The invitation was for seven o'clock. It was now striking six, the dinner-hour at Mr. Dare's.
Minny, looking half melted, had perched herself upon the end of the balustrades to watch the departure.
"You'll fall, child," said Mr. Dare.
Minny laughed, and said there was no danger of her falling. She wondered what her father would think if he saw her sometimes at her gymnastics on the balustrades, taking a sweeping slide from the top to the bottom. She generally contrived that he should not see her; or mademoiselle either. Mademoiselle had caught sight of the performance once, and had given her a whole French fable to learn by way of punishment.
"Are we to have strawberries for dinner, mamma?" asked Minny.
"You will have what I have thought proper to order," replied Mrs. Dare rather sharply. She was feeling hot and cross. Something had put her out while dressing.
"I think you might wait for strawberries until they are ripe in our own garden; not buy them regardless of cost," interposed Mr. Dare, speaking for the general benefit, but not to any one in particular.
Minny dropped the subject. "Your dress is turned up, Adelaide," said she.
Adelaide looked languidly behind her, and a maid, who had followed them down, advanced and put right the refractory dress: a handsome dress of pink silk, glistening with its own richness. At that moment Anthony entered the hall. He had just come home to dinner, and looked in a very bad humour.
"How late you'll be!" he cried.
"Not at all. We shall drive there in an hour."
They swept out at the door, Mrs. Dare and Adelaide. Mr. Dare was about to follow them when a sudden thought appeared to strike him, and he turned back and addressed Anthony.
"You young men take care that you don't get quarrelling with each other. Do you hear, Anthony?"
"I hear," ungraciously replied Anthony, not turning to speak, but continuing his way up to his dressing-room. He probably regarded the injunction with contempt, for it was too much in Anthony Dare's nature so to regard all advice, of whatever kind. Nevertheless it had been well that he had given heed to it. It had been well that that last word to his father had been one of affection!
Dinner was served. Anthony, in the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Dare, took the head. Rosa, with a show of great parade and ceremony, assumed the seat opposite to him and said she should be mistress. Minny responded that Rosa was not going to be mistress over her, and the governess desired Miss Rosa not to talk so loudly. Rather derogatory checks, these, to the dignity of a "mistress."
Herbert was not at table. Irregular as the young Dares were in many of their habits, they were generally home to dinner. Minny wondered aloud where Herbert was. Anthony replied that he was "skulking."
"Skulking!" echoed Minny.
"Yes, skulking," angrily repeated Anthony. "He left the office at three o'clock, and has never been near it since. And the governor left at four!" he added, in a tone that seemed to say he considered that also a grievance.
"Where did Herbert go to?" asked Rosa.
"I don't know," responded Anthony. "I only know that I had a double share of work to do."
Anthony Dare was no friend to work. And having had to do a little more than he would have done had Herbert remained at his post, had considerably aggravated his temper.
"Why should Monsieur Herbert go away and leave you his work to do?" inquired the governess, lifting her eyes from her plate to Anthony.
"I shall take care to ask him why," returned Anthony.
"It is not fair that he should," continued mademoiselle. "I would not have done it for him, Monsieur Anthony."
"Neither should I, had I not been obliged," said Anthony, not in the least relaxing from his ill-humour, either in looks or tone. "It was work that had to be done before post-time, and one of our clerks is away on business to-day."
Dinner proceeded to its close. Joseph hesitated, unwilling to remove the cloth. "Is it to be left for Mr. Herbert?" he asked.
"No!" imperiously answered Anthony. "If he cannot come in for dinner, dinner shall not be kept for him."
"Cook is keeping the things by the fire, sir."
"Then tell her to save herself the trouble."
So the cloth was removed, and dessert put on. To Minny's inexpressible disappointment it turned out that there were no strawberries. This putherinto an ill-humour, and she left the table and the room, declaring she would not touch anything else. Mademoiselle Varsini called her back, and ordered her to her seat; she would not permit so great a breach of discipline. Cyril and George, who were not under mademoiselle's control, gulped down a glass of wine, and hastened out to keep an engagement. It was a very innocent one; a cricket match had been organized for the evening, by some of the old college boys; and Cyril and George were amongst the players. It has never been mentioned that Mr. Ashley, in his strict sense of justice, had allowed Cyril the privilege of spending his evenings at home five nights in the week, as he did to William Halliburton.
The rest remained at table. Minny, per force; Rosa, to take an unlimited quantity of oranges; Mademoiselle Varsini, because it was the custom to remain. But mademoiselle soon rose and withdrew with her pupils; Anthony was not showing himself a particularly sociable companion. He had not touched any dessert; but seemed to be drinking a good deal of wine.
As they were going out of the room, Herbert bustled in. "Now then, take care!" cried he, for Minny, paying little attention to her movements, had gone full tilt at him.
"Oh! Herbert, can't you see?" cried she, dolefully rubbing her head. "What made you so late? Dinner's gone away."
"It can be brought in again," replied Herbert carelessly. "Comme il est chaud! n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"
This last was addressed to the governess. Rosa screamed with laughter at his bad French, and mademoiselle smiled. "You get on in French as you do in Italian, Monsieur Herbert," cried she. "And that is what you call—backward."
Herbert laughed good-humouredly. He did not know what particular mistake he had made; truth to say, he did not care. They withdrew, and he rang the bell for his dinner.
"Mind, Herbert," cried Minny, putting in her head again at the door, "papa said you were not to quarrel."
Better, perhaps, that she had not said it! Who can tell?
The brothers remained alone. Anthony sullen, and, as yet, silent. He appeared to have emptied the port wine decanter, and to be beginning upon the sherry! Herbert strolled past him; supreme indifference in his manner—some might have said contempt—and stood just outside the window, whistling.
You have not forgotten that this dining-room window opened to the ground. The apartment was long and somewhat narrow, the window large and high, and opening in the centre, after the manner of a French one. The door was at one end of the room; the window at the other.
Anthony was in too quarrelsome a mood to remain silent long. He began the skirmish by demanding what Herbert meant by absenting himself from the office for the afternoon, and where he had been to. His resentful tones, his authoritative words, were not calculated to win a very civil answer.
They did not win one from Herbert.Histones were resentful, too; his words were coolly aggravating. Anthony was not his master; when he was, he might, perhaps, answer him. Such was their purport.
A hot interchange of words ensued. Nothing more. Anthony remained at the table; Herbert, half in, half out of the window, leaned against its frame. When Joseph returned to put things in readiness for Herbert's dinner, they had subsided into quietness. It was only a lull in the storm.
Joseph placed the dessert nearer Anthony's end of the table, and laid the cloth across the other end. Herbert came into the room. "What a time you are with dinner, Joseph!" cried he. "One would think it was being cooked over again."
"Cook's warming it, sir."
"Warming it!" echoed Herbert. "Why couldn't she keep it warm? She might be sure I should be home to dinner."
"She was keeping it warm, sir; but Mr. Anthony ordered it to be put away."
Now, the man had really no intention of making mischief when he said this: that it might cause ill-feeling between the brothers never crossed his mind. He was only anxious that he and the cook should stand free from blame; for the young Dares, when displeased with the servants, were not in the habit of sparing them. Herbert turned to Anthony.
"What business have you to interfere with my dinner? Or with anything else that concerns me?"
"I choose to make it my business," insolently retorted Anthony.
At this juncture Joseph left the room. He had laid the cloth, and had nothing more to stay for. Better perhaps that he had remained! Surely they would not have proceeded to extremities, the brothers, before their servant! In a short time, sounds, as if both were in a terrible state of fury, resounded through the house from the dining-room. The sounds did not reach the kitchen, which was partially detached from the house; but the young ladies heard them, and came running out of the drawing-room.
The governess was in the school-room. The noise penetrated even there. She also came forth, and saw her two pupils extended over the balustrades, listening. At any other time mademoiselle would have reproved them: now she crept down and leaned over in company.
"What can be the matter?" whispered she.
"Papa told them not to quarrel!" was all the answer, uttered by Minny.
It was a terrible quarrel—there was little doubt of that; no child's play. Passionate bursts of fury rose incessantly, now from one, now from the other, now from both. Hot recrimination; words that were not suited to unaccustomed ears—or to any ears, for the matter of that—rose high and loud. The governess turned pale, and Minny burst into tears.
"Some one ought to go into the room," said Rosa. "Minny, you go! Tell them to be quiet."
"I am afraid," replied Minny.
"So am I."
A fearful sound: an explosion louder than all the rest. A noise as if some heavy weight had been thrown down. Had it come to blows? Minny shrieked, and at the same moment Joseph was seen coming along with a tray, Herbert's dinner upon it.
His presence seemed to bring with it a sense of courage, and Rosa and Minny flew down followed by the governess. Herbert had been knocked down by Anthony. He was gathering himself up when Joseph opened the door. Gathering himself up in a tempest of passion, his white face a livid fury, as he caught hold of a knife from the table and rushed upon Anthony.
But Joseph was too quick for him. The man dashed his tray on the table, seized Herbert, and turned the uplifted knife downwards. "For Heaven's sake, sir, recollect yourself!" said he.
Recollect himself then? No. Persons, who put themselves into that mad state of passion, cannot "recollect" themselves. Joseph kept his hold, and the dining-room resounded with shrieks and sobs. They proceeded from Rosa and Minny. They pulled their brothers by the coats, they implored, they entreated. The women servants came flying from the kitchen, and the Italian governess asked the two gentlemen in French whether they were not ashamed of themselves.
Perhaps they were. At any rate the quarrel was, for the time, ended. Herbert flung the knife upon the table and turned his white face upon his brother.
"Take care of yourself, though!" cried he, in marked tones: "I swear you shall have it yet."
They pulled Anthony out of the room, Rosa and Minny; or it is difficult to say what rejoinder he might have made, or how violently the quarrel might have been renewed. It was certain that he had taken more wine than was good for him; and that, generally speaking, did not improve the temper of Anthony Dare. Mademoiselle Varsini walked by his side, talking volubly in French. Whether she was sympathizing or scolding, Anthony did not know. Not particularly bright at understanding French at the best of times, even when spoken slowly, he could not, in his present excitement, catch the meaning of a single word. Entering the drawing-room, he threw himself upon the sofa, intending to smooth down his ruffled plumage by taking a nap.
Herbert meanwhile had remained in the dining-room, smoothing downhisruffled plumage. Joseph and the cook were bending over thedébrison the carpet. When Joseph dashed down his tray on the table, a dish of potatoes had bounded off; both dish and potatoes thereby coming to grief. Herbert sat down and made an excellent dinner. He was not of a sullen temper; and, unlike Anthony, the affair once over he was soon himself again. Should they come into contact again directly, there was no saying how it would end or what might ensue. His dinner over, he went by-and-by to the drawing-room. Joseph had just entered, and was arousing Anthony from the sleep he had dropped into. "One of the waiters from the Star-and-Garter has come, sir. He says Lord Hawkesley has sent him to say that the gentlemen are waiting for you."
"I can't go, tell him," responded Anthony, speaking as he looked, thoroughly out of sorts. "I am not going out to-night. Here! Joseph!" for the man was turning away with the message.
"Sir?"
"Take these, and bring me my slippers."
"These" were his boots, which he, not very politely, kicked off in the ladies' presence, and sent flying after Joseph. The man stooped to pick them up and was carrying them away.
"Here!—what a hurry you are in!" began Anthony again. "Take lights up to my chamber, and the brandy, and some cold water. I shall make myself comfortable there for the night. This room's unbearable, with its present company."
The last was a shaft levelled at Herbert. He did not retort, for a wonder. In fact, Anthony afforded little time for it. Before the words had well left his lips, he had left the room. Herbert began to whistle; its very tone insolent.
It appeared almost certain that the unpleasantness was not yet over; and Rosa audibly wished her papa was at home. Joseph carried to Anthony's room what he required, and then brought the tea to the drawing-room. Herbert said he should take tea with them. It was rather unusual for him to do so; it was very unusual for Anthony not to go out. Their sisters felt sure that they were only staying in to renew hostilities; and again Rosa almost passionately wished for the presence of her father.
It was dusk by the time tea was over. Herbert rose to leave the room. "Where are you going?" cried mademoiselle sharply after him.
"That's my business," he replied, not in too conciliatory a tone. Perhaps he thought the question proceeded from one of his sisters, for he was outside the door when it reached him.
"He is going into Anthony's room!" cried Rosa, turning pale, as they heard him run upstairs. "Oh, mademoiselle! what can be done? I think I'll call Joseph."
"Hush!" cried mademoiselle. "Wait you here. I will go and see."
She stole out of the room and up the stairs, intending to reconnoitre. But she had no time to do so. Herbert was coming down again, and she could only slip inside the school-room door, and peep out. He had evidently been upstairs for his cloak, for he was putting it on as he descended.
"The cloak on a hot night like this!" said mademoiselle mentally. "He must want to disguise himself!"
She stopped to listen. Joseph had come up the stairs, bringing something to Anthony, and Herbert arrested him, speaking in low tones.
"Don't make any mistake to-night about the dining-room window, Joseph. I can't think how you could have been so stupid last night!"
"Sir, I assure you I left it undone, as usual," replied Joseph. "It must have been master who fastened it."
"Well, take care that it does not occur again," said Herbert. "I expect to be in between ten and eleven; but I may be later, and I don't want to ring you up again."
Herbert went swiftly downstairs and out, choosing to depart by the way, as it appeared, that he intended to enter—the dining-room window. Joseph proceeded to Anthony's chamber: and the governess returned to her frightened pupils in the drawing-room.
"A la bonne heure!" she said to them. "Monsieur Herbert has gone out, and I heard him say to Joseph that he had gone for the evening."
"Then it's all safe!" cried Minny. And she began dancing round the room. "Mademoiselle, how pale you look!"
Mademoiselle had sat down in her place before the tea-tray, and was leaning her cheek upon her hand. She was certainly looking unusually pale. "Enough to make me!" she said, in answer to Minny. "If there were to be this disturbance often in the house, I would not stop in it for double myappointements. It has given me one of thosevilaineheadaches, and I think I shall go to bed. You will not be afraid to stay up alone, mesdemoiselles?"
"There is nothing to be afraid of now," promptly answered Rosa, who had far rather be without her governess's company than with it. "Don't sit up for us, mademoiselle."
"Then I will go at once," said mademoiselle. And she wished them good night, and retired to her chamber.
It was a lovely evening. One of those warm, still evenings that May sometimes brings us, when gnats hum in the air, and the trees are at rest. The day had been intensely hot: the evening was little less so, and Anna Lynn leaned over the gate of their garden, striving to catch what of freshness there might be in the coming night. The garish day was fading into moonlight; the distant Malvern hills grew fainter and fainter on the view; the little lambs in the field—growing into great lambs now, some of them—had long lain down to rest; and the Thursday evening bells came chiming pleasantly on the ear from Helstonleigh.
"How late he is to-night!" murmured Anna. "If he does not come soon, I shall not be able to stay out."
Even as the words passed her lips, a faint movement might be distinguished in the obscurity of the night, telling of the advent of Herbert Dare. Anna looked round to see that the windows were clear from prying eyes, and went forth to meet him.
He had halted at the usual place, under cover of the hedge. The hedge of sweetbriar, skirting that side garden into which Signora Varsini had made good herentrée, in the gratification of her curiosity. A shaded walk and a quiet one: very little fear there, of overlookers.
"Herbert, thee art late!" cried Anna.
"A good thing I was able to come at all," responded Herbert, taking Anna's arm within his own. "I thought at one time I must have remained at home, to chastise my brother Anthony."
"Chastise thy brother Anthony!" repeated Anna in astonishment.
Herbert, for the first time, told her of the unpleasantness that existed between his brother and himself. He did not mention the precise cause; but simply said Anthony had behaved ill to him, and drawn down upon him trouble and vexation. Anna was all sympathy. Had Herbert told her the offence had lain on his side, not on Anthony's, her entire sympathy had still been his. She deemed Herbert everything that was good and great and worthy. Anthony—what little she knew of him—she did not like.
"Herbert, maybe he will be striking thee in secret, when thee art unprepared."
"Let him!" carelessly replied Herbert. "I can strike again. I am stronger than he is. I know one thing: either he or I must leave my father's house and take lodgings; we can't remain in it together."
"It would be he to leave, would it not, Herbert? Thy father would not be so unjust as to turn thee out for thy brother's fault."
"I don't know about that," said Herbert. "I expect it is I who would have to go. Anthony is the eldest, and my mother's favourite."
Anna lifted her hand, in her innocent surprise. Anthony the favourite by the side of Herbert? She could not understand how so great an anomaly could exist.
Interested in the topic, the time slipped on. During a moment of silence, when they had halted in their walk, they heard what was called the ten o'clock bell strike out from Helstonleigh: a bell that boomed out over the city every night for ten minutes before ten o'clock. The sound startled Anna. She had indeed overstayed her time.
"One moment, Anna!" cried Herbert, as she was preparing to fly off. "There can't be any such hurry. Hester will not be going to bed yet, on a hot night like this. I wanted you to return me that book, if you have done with it. It is not mine, and I have been asked for it."
Truth to say, Anna would be glad to return it. The book was Moore's "Lalla Rookh," and Anna had been upon thorns all the time she had been reading it, lest by some unlucky mishap it might reach the eyes of Patience.Shethought it everything that was beautiful; she had read pages of it over and over again; they wore for her a strange enchantment; but she had a shrewd suspicion that neither book nor reading would be approved by Patience.
"I'll bring it out to thee at once, Herbert, if I can," she hastily said. "If not, I will give it thee to-morrow evening."
"Not so fast, young lady," said Herbert, laughing, and detaining her. "You may not come back again. I'll wish you good night now."
"Nay, please thee let me go! What will Hester say to me?"
Scarcely giving a moment to the adieu, Anna sped with swift feet to the garden gate. But the moment she was within the barrier, and had turned the key, she began—little dissembler that she was!—to step on slowly, in a careless,nonchalantmanner, looking up at the sky, turning her head to the trees, in no more hurry apparently than if bedtime were three hours off. She had seen Hester Dell standing at the house door.
"Child," said Hester gravely, "thee shouldst not stay out so late as this."
"It is so warm a night, Hester!"
"But thee shouldst not be beyond the premises. Patience would not like it. It is past thy bedtime, too. Patience's sleeping-draught has not come," she added, turning to another subject.
"Her sleeping-draught not come!" repeated Anna in surprise.
"It has not. I have been expecting the boy to knock every minute, or I should have come to see after thee. Friend Parry may have forgotten it."
"Why, of course he must have forgotten it," said Anna, inwardly promising the boy a sixpence for his forgetfulness. "The medicine always comes in the morning. Will Patience sleep without it?"
"I fear me not. What dost thee think? Suppose I were to run for it?"
"Yes, do, Hester."
They went in, Hester closing the back door and locking it. She put on her shawl and bonnet, and was going out at the front door when the clock struck ten.
"It is ten o'clock, child," she said to Anna. "Thee go to bed. Thee needst not sit up. I'll take the latch-key with me and let myself in."
"Oh, Hester! I don't want to go to bed yet," returned Anna fretfully. "It is like a summer's evening."
"But thee hadst better, child," urged Hester. "Patience has been angry with me once or twice, saying I suffer thee to sit up late. A pretty budget she will be telling thy father on his return! Thee go to bed. Thy candle is ready here on the slab. Good night."
Hester departed, shutting fast the door, and carrying with her the latch-key. Anna, fully convinced that friend Parry's forgetfulness, or the boy's, must have been designed as a special favour to herself, went softly into the best parlour to take the book out of her pretty work-table.
But the room was dark, and Anna could not find her keys. She believed she had left her keys on the top of this very work-table; but feel as she would she could not place her hands upon them. With a word of impatience, lest, with all her hurry, Herbert Dare should be gone before she could return to him with the book, she went to the kitchen, lighted the chamber candle spoken of by Hester as placed ready for her use, and carried it into the parlour.
Her keys were found on the mantel-piece. She unlocked the drawer, took from it the book, blew out the candle, and ran through the garden to the field.
Another minute, and Herbert would have left. He was turning away. In truth, he had not in the least expected to see Anna back again. "Then you have been able to come!" he exclaimed, in his surprise.
"Hester is gone out," explained Anna. "Friend Parry has forgotten to send Patience's medicine, and Hester has gone for it. Herbert, thee only think! But for Hester's expecting Parry's boy to knock at the door, she would have come out here searching for me! She said she would. I must never forget the time again. There's the book, and thank thee. I am sorry and yet glad to give it thee back."
"Is that not a paradox?" asked Herbert, with a smile. "I do not know why you should be either sorry or glad: to be both seems inexplicable."
"I am sorry to lose it: it is the most charming book I have read, and but for Patience I should like to have kept it for ever," returned Anna with enthusiasm. "But I always felt afraid of Hester's finding it and carrying it up to Patience. Patience would be angry; and she might tell my father. That is why I am glad to give it back to thee."
"Why did you not lock it up?" asked Herbert.
"I did lock it up. I locked it in my work-table drawer. But I forget to put my keys in my pocket; I leave them about anywhere. I should have been out with it sooner, but that I could not find the keys."
Anna was in no momentary hurry to run in now. Hester was safe for full twenty minutes to come, therefore her haste need not be so great. She knew that it was past her bedtime, and that Patience would be wondering (unless by great good-fortune Patience should have dropped asleep) why she did not go in to wish her good night. But these reflections Anna conveniently ignored, in the charm of remaining longer to talk about the book. She told Herbert that she had been copying the engravings, but she must put the drawings in some safe place before Patience was about again. "Tell me the time, please," she suddenly said, bringing her chatter to a standstill.
Herbert took out his watch, and held its face towards the moon. "It is twelve minutes past ten."
"Then I must be going in," said Anna. "She could be back in twenty minutes, and she must not find me out again."
Herbert turned with her, and walked to the gate; pacing slowly, both of them, and talking still. He turned in at the gate with her, and Anna made no demur. No fear of his being seen. Patience was as safe in bed as if she had been chained there, and Hester could not be back quite yet. Arrived at the door, closed as Anna had left it, Herbert put out his hand. "I suppose I must bid you a final good night now, Anna," he said in low tones.
"That thee must. I have to come down the garden again to lock the gate after thee. And Hester may not be more than three or four minutes longer. Good night to thee, Herbert."
"Let me see that it is all safe for you, against you do go in," said Herbert, laying his hand on the handle of the door to open it.
To open it? Nay: he could not open it. The handle resisted his efforts. "Did you lock it, Anna?"
Anna smiled at what she thought his awkwardness. "Thee art turning it the wrong way, Herbert. See!"
He withdrew his hand to give place to hers, and she turned the handle softly and gently the contrary way; that is, she essayed to turn it. But it would not turn for her, any more than it had turned for Herbert Dare. A sick feeling of terror rushed over Anna, as a conviction of the truth grew upon her. Hester Dell had returned, and she was locked out!
In good truth, it was no less a calamity. Hester Dell had not gone far from the door on her errand, when she met the doctor's boy with his basket, hastening up with the medicine. "I was just coming after it," said Hester to him. "Whatever brings thee so late?"
"Mr. Parry was called out this morning before he had time to make it up, and he has only just come home," was the boy's reply.
"Better late than never," he somewhat saucily added.
"Well, so it is," acquiesced Hester, who rarely gave anything but a meek retort. And she turned back home, letting herself in with the latch-key. The house appeared precisely as she had left it, except that Anna's candle had disappeared from the mahogany slab in the passage. "That's right! the child's gone to bed," soliloquised she.
She proceeded to go to bed herself. The Quaker's was an early household. All Hester had to do now, was to give Patience her sleeping-draught. "Let me see," continued Hester, still in soliloquy, "I think I did lock the back door."
To make sure, she tried the key and found it was not locked. Rather wondering, for she certainly thought shehadlocked it, but dismissing the subject the next minute from her thoughts, she locked it now and took the key out. Then she continued her way up to Patience. Patience, lying there lonely and dull with her night-light, turned her eyes on Hester.
"Did thee think we had forgotten thee, Patience? Parry has been out all day, the boy says, and the physic is but this minute come."
"Where's Anna?" inquired Patience.
"She is gone to bed."
"Why did she not come to me as usual?"
"Did she not come?" asked Hester.
"I have seen nothing of her all the evening."
"Maybe she thought thee'd be dozing," observed Hester, bringing forward the sleeping-draught which she had been pouring into a wine-glass. She said no more. Her private opinion was that Anna had purposely abstained from the visit lest she should receive a scolding for going to bed late, her usual hour being half-past nine. Neither did Patience say any more. She was feeling that Anna might be a little less ungrateful. She took the draught, and Hester went to bed.
And poor Anna? To describe her dismay, her consternation, would be a useless attempt. The doors were fast—the windows were fast also. Herbert Dare essayed to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She sat down on the step of the back door and cried bitterly: all her apprehension being for the terrible scolding she should have from Patience, were it found out; the worse than scolding if Patience told her father.
To give Herbert Dare his due, he felt truly vexed at the dilemma for Anna's sake. Could he have let her in by getting down a chimney himself, or in any other impromptu way, and so opened the door for her, he would have done it. "Don't cry, Anna," he entreated, "don't cry! I'll take care of you. Nothing shall harm you. I'll not go away."
The more he talked, the more she cried. Very like a little child. Had Herbert Dare known how to break the glass without noise he would have taken out a pane in the kitchen window, and so reached the fastening and opened it. Anna, in worse terror than ever, begged him not to attempt it. It would be sure to arouse Hester.
"But you'll be so cold, child, staying here all night!" he urged. "You are shivering now."
Anna was shivering: shivering with vexation and fear. Herbert thought it would be better that he should boldly knock up Hester; and he suggested it: nay, he pressed it. But the proposal sounded more alarming to Anna than any that had gone before it. It seemed that there was nothing to be done.
How long she sat there, crying and shivering and refusing to be comforted or to hear reason, she could not tell. Half the night, it seemed. But Anna, you must remember, was counting time by her own state of mind, not by the clock. Suddenly a bright thought, as a ray of light, flashed into her brain.
"There's the pantry window," she cried, arresting her tears. "How could I ever have forgotten it? There is no glass, and thee art strong enough to push in the wire."
This pantry window Herbert Dare had known nothing about. It was at the side of the house, thickly surrounded by shrubs; a square window frame, protected by wire. He fought his way to it amidst the shrubs; but to get in proved a work of time and difficulty. The window was at some height from the ground, the wire was strong. Anna sat on the door-step, never stirring, leaving him to get in if he could, her tears falling, and terrific visions of Patience's anger chasing each other through her mind. And the night went on.
"Anna!"
She could have shouted forth a cry of delight as she leaped up. He had entered, had found his way to the kitchen window, had gently raised it, and was softly calling to her. Some little difficulty still, but with Herbert's assistance she was safely landed, a great tear in her dress the only damage. He had managed to obtain a light by means of some fusees in his pocket, and had lighted a candle. Anna sat down on a chair, her face radiant through her tears. "How shall I ever thank thee?"
He was looking at his fingers with a half-serious, half-mocking expression of dismay. The wire had torn them in many places, and they were bleeding. "I could have got in quicker had I forced the wire out in the middle," he observed, "but that would have told tales. I pushed it away from the side, and have pushed it back again into its place as well as I could. Perhaps it may escape notice."
"How shall I ever thank thee?" was all Anna could repeat in her gratitude.
"Now you know what you must do, Anna," said he. "I am going to jump out through the window, and be off home. You must shut it and fasten it after me: I'd shut it myself, after I'm out, but that these stains on my fingers would be transferred to the frame. And when you leave the kitchen, remember to turn the key of the door outside. I found it turned. Do you understand? And now farewell, my little locked-out princess. Don't say I have not worked wonders for you, as the good spirits do in the fairy tales."
She caught his hand in her glad delight. She looked at him with a face full of gratitude. Herbert Dare bent down and took a kiss from the up-turned face. Perhaps he thought he had fairly earned the reward. Then he proceeded to swing himself through the window, feeling delighted that he had been able to free Anna from her dilemma.
Before Helstonleigh arose next morning, a startling report was circulating through the city, the very air teeming with it. A report that Anthony Dare had been killed in the night by his brother Herbert.