In Silk Attire: A Novel

"There is no use talking of that," she said; "and yet we ought not to meet each other – except – you know – "

"As friends, of course," he said, with a smile. "Well, Annie, we shan't he enemies; but I do think, myself, it were rather more prudent, you understand, that we should not see each other – for a long time, at least. Now, tell me, why are you not at the theatre?"

"I have given up the theatre."

"You do not mean to act any more?"

"No."

There suddenly recurred to him Mr. Melton's significant smile; and dead silence fell upon him. If there could be anything in the notion that the Count —

Clearly, it was no business of his whether she married the Count or no. Nay, if it were possible that her marriage with the Count should blot out certain memories, he ought to have been rejoiced at it. And yet a great dread fell upon him when he thought of this thing; and he felt as though the trusting little hand which was laid upon his arm had no business there, and was an alien touch.

"But," he said, in rather an embarrassed way, "if you have given up the theatre, it must have been for some reason – "

"For the reason that I could not bear it a moment longer."

"And now – "

"Now I am free."

"Yes, of course, free; but still – what do you propose to do?"

"I don't know yet. I have been looking at some advertisements – "

"Have you actually no plan whatever before you?" he said, with surprise – and yet the surprise was not painful.

"None."

"Why," he said, "we have all of us got into a nice condition, just as in a play. I shouldn't wonder if the next act found the whole of us in a garret, in the dead of winter, of course."

"What do you mean?"

"My father has lost all his money, and doesn't know where to turn to keep his household alive. I – "

Here he stopped.

"Ah," she said, "and you find yourself unable to help them because of your arm."

"That will soon be better," he said, cheerfully, "and we will try not to starve. But you – what are you going to do? You do not know people in London; and you do not know the terrible struggle that lies in wait for any unaided girl trying to make a living."

"So the Count says."

"Oh, you have told the Count?"

"Yes."

"What did he suggest?"

"He thinks I ought to marry him," she said, frankly.

"You marry him?"

"Yes. That was the only way, I daresay, in which he thought he could be of service to me. He really is so very kind, and thoughtful, and unselfish."

"And you answered – ?"

He uttered these words with an air of forced carelessness. He wished her to understand that he would be rather glad if she thought well of the proposal. For a moment she looked at him, questioningly, as if to ask whether there was honest advice in that tone, and then she said, slowly —

"I said neither yes nor no. At the moment I did not know what to think. I – I knew that he would be kind to me, and that – he knew – that I liked him pretty well – as an acquaintance – "

"And you have not decided whether you ought to make the Count happy or no?"

The false cheerfulness of his voice did not deceive her.

"Yes, I have decided," she said, in a low voice.

"And you will – ?"

"Why not be frank with me?" she said, passionately, and turning to him with imploring eyes. "Why speak like that? – would you not despise me if I married that man? – would I not despise myself? You see I talk to you frankly, for you are my friend: I could not marry him – I dare not think of my being his wife. I shall never be his wife – I shall never be any man's wife."

"Annie, be reasonable – "

"Perhaps it is not to you I should say that, and yet I know it. I am ashamed of myself when I think that I let him go away with the thought that I mightaccept his offer. But then I had not decided – I did not see it properly, not until I looked in your face to-night."

"It seems that I must always come between you and happiness."

"Do you call that happiness? But I must go back, now; poor Lady Jane is rather worse to-day, and I was at the chemist's, with a prescription from the doctor, when I met you. I hope we have not done wrong in speaking to each other."

So they went back, and he bade her farewell tenderly, and yet not so sadly as at their former parting.

It seemed to him, as he passed away from the door, that he heard a faint sharp cry from inside the house. He took no notice of it, however. He was already some distance off when he heard swift footsteps behind him, and then the maidservant of the house, breathless and wild-eyed, caught him by the arm.

"Oh, sir, please come back; Mrs. Christmas is dead, sir! and the young missis is in such a dreadful state!"

He at once hurried back, and found that the terrible intelligence was too true. Annie Brunel seemed almost to have lost her senses, – so bitterly did she reproach herself for having neglected the bedside of her old friend.

"She was well enough, ma'am, when you went out," the servant maintained, consoling her mistress, "and there was nothing you could have done. I was in the room, and she asked for those letters as always lies in that drawer, ma'am; and when I took them over to her, she tried to put up her hand, and then she sank back, and in a minute it was all over. What could you have done, ma'am? She couldn't ha' spoken a word to you."

But the girl was inconsolable, and it was past midnight when Will left her, having wholly failed in his efforts to soothe the bitterness of her grief and desolation.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE COUNT HESITATES

When Will returned to the hotel, he found his father waiting up for him, alone. He was too much overcome by the terrible scene he had just witnessed to make any but the barest apology for his discourtesy, and even that his father interrupted as unnecessary.

"I left the theatre early," he said gloomily. "Dove was feverish and unwell. I think she must have caught cold when coming up with us in the morning. When I got her here, her cheeks were flushed and hot, and I saw that she was restless and languid by turns – in short, very feverish."