by Ellen Wood
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 put her into 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. His tones 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 down his ruffled plumage. Joseph and the cook were bending over the débris on 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 my appointements. It has given me one of those vilaine headaches, 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.
PART THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
ANNA LYNN’S DILEMMA.
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 her entrée, 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 A
nthony!” 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. She thought 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.
