CHAPTER XIII.

DOLLY WRITES A LETTER.

It may be questioned whether that particular member of the Mortomley family, who made ducks and drakes of the Dassell ancestral acres, felt anything like the grief at losing his patrimony which Archibald Mortomley endured when he stepped across the threshold of Homewood with the conviction strong upon him that he should return there no more.

Everything in this world is comparative. To lords temporal and spiritual, and to honourable gentlemen of the House of Commons, and to millionaires east of Temple Bar, that clinging of the Irish peasant to his mud cabin and couple of acres of bog, would seem a most ridiculous piece of foolery were it not for the bullets with which Patrick contrives to make such a tragedy out of his comical surroundings. Nevertheless, eviction means as much misery to the shiftless Hibernian as his cup is well capable of holding.

This is a fact, I think, we are all rather too apt to lose sight of when considering the extent of our neighbour's misfortunes.

Because the house is not grand, or the furniture nice, or the wife beautiful, or the children winning to our imaginations, we are apt to think the man's loss has been light to him.

Whereas his modest home set about with gods of his own making and creating, may have been more desirable in his eyes than Chatsworth itself, and he may mourn over his dead with a grief less palpable, it is true, because the work-a-day world is intolerant of grief among the poor and lowly, but as real as that our Sovereign Lady feels for her husband, or as that wherein the sweet singer of Israel indulged when the messenger came swiftly and told him though not in words, "Absalom is slain."

To a business man especially the world is in this respect hard and unsympathetic.

Because we do not understand his trade, and should not care for it if we did, we fancy he has regarded his mills, his works, his factory as we look upon such erections. And yet the place where he has made his money, or lost it, has been most part of his world to him; as much his world as camps to the soldier, courts to the diplomatist, ball-rooms to the beauty, Africa to Livingstone.

A man cannot continue year after year to exercise any calling, if it be even the culture of watercresses, and not centre a large portion of his interest in it, and to a man like Mortomley it was a simple impossibility for his laboratory, his home, his works, his men, his colours to become matters of indifference to him.

There had been a time when it would have well-nigh broken his heart to leave Homewood and all its associations behind, but there were bitter memories now superadded to the sweet recollections of the olden time, memories which, throughout all the future, he should never be able to recall save with a galling sense of pain.

The old Homewood was dead to him, and in its place there was a new Homewood, the thought of which could never cross his mind save with a sense of shame and degradation.

It had been bad enough for the sheriffs' officers to hold the place in temporary possession, but when Mr. Swanland sent in his man Mortomley felt all hope had departed out of his life. If he was ever to do any good for himself and those belonging to him again, he must first go to some quiet place where he should have a chance of getting strong once more, and then having given up Homewood and everything belonging to him, compulsorily it might be, but still most thoroughly, commence life anew, commence at the very foot of the business ladder, and strive to work his way upward to success.

To both husband and wife the sensation of driving for their own mere ease and comfort through the suburbs of London was strange as though they had been labouring upon the pecuniary treadmill all the years of their life. Money anxieties had so long been present with them at bed and at board, that they found it difficult to realise the fact that they were free from these fetters.

By comparison beggary seemed heaven to the misery of their late existence; and Mortomley, weak as he was, seemed benefited by the change, whilst Dolly, all the time she had a strange feeling upon her of having started on a pilgrimage without the faintest idea of what her ultimate destination might prove, still experienced a sense of relief as mile after mile lengthened itself out between her and Homewood.

Had Mrs. Mortomley and her husband been royal guests, Mrs. Werner could not have paid them more devoted attention than was the case.

In a great airy bedchamber a fire blazed cheerfully, and on a sofa drawn close up to the hearth she insisted on Mortomley taking his ease, where no one could intrude to disturb him.

In the same room she and Dolly had their afternoon cup of tea, and then Dolly and her hostess repaired to Mrs. Werner's dressing-room, and sat chatting there until it was time for one of them to dress for dinner, to which a select party had been invited.

Mrs. Mortomley declined to join that party, but sat idly in a great arm-chair, watching the progress of her friend's toilette, and thinking that Leonora grew handsomer as she grew older.

When she was fully arrayed in all the grand apparel in which it rejoiced Mr. Werner's heart to see her decked, Dolly put her arms round her neck and kissed and bade her good-night.

"For I shall not see you again till the morning, dear," she said. "If I want anything I will ask your maid to get it for me. No; I shall not be hungry, or thirsty, or anything, except thankful to remember we have made a wise move at last and left Homewood."

"Very well, Dolly," answered Mrs. Werner, humouring her fancy. "You shall be called in good time to-morrow, so as not to be hurried; and if you want to write any letters you will find everything you want in my little room," saying which she pushed aside a curtain and passed into an apartment scarcely larger than a closet, but fitted up with dainty furniture, pretty inlaid cabinets, and a few water-colour drawings.

"No one ever comes in here except myself," said Mrs. Werner, "and you will be quite uninterrupted. See here is note-paper and there are envelopes. And--"

"Thank you," interrupted Dolly, "but I shall not want to write any letters again for ever," and with one more good-night and one more lingering look at the stately figure, which in the pier-glass she had mentally balanced against her own, Dolly opened the door which gave egress on to the landing, and stepped swiftly and lightly along the passage leading to the apartment where she had left her husband.

On the thick carpet the sound of her tread fell noiseless, and failed to disturb the sound sleep into which Mortomley had sunk. When before had she seen him slumber so quietly? Dolly sat down before the fire, and still full of thankfulness for the deliverance from Homewood and its thousand and one petty annoyances, tried to look out over the future and shape her plans.

After she had been thus occupied for about half an hour, she suddenly recollected she had not left with Esther an address which should find her at Brighton, and vexed at an omission which might cause even a night's anxiety to a girl who had been so faithful to her, she stole quietly out of the room, intending not merely to send a note to Esther, but also a few lines to Rupert and a letter to Miss Gerace, whose epistles probably had been intercepted by Mr. Swanland.

In the apartment of which Mrs. Werner had made her free, the gas was lighted. Dolly turned it up a little, and after searching for a pen to suit her, began her correspondence.

For some time she wrote on without interruption. She finished her short note to Esther; she scribbled a few hasty words to "My dear little girl," and was half way through her rambling epistle to Miss Gerace, when her attention was distracted by the sound of a door shut violently, and by hearing Mr. Werner pronounce her husband's name in a tone of the keenest annoyance.

"Mortomley!" he exclaimed. "Damn Mortomley!" which, though perhaps not an unusual form of expression, fell cruelly on Dolly's ear.

With the pen still in her fingers, she rose from her chair while he went on.

"I would rather have lost five hundred pounds than that you should have brought either of them here. A man in business cannot afford to be Quixotic, and I cannot afford to be mixed up with Mortomley or his affairs. They must not stay here, that is flat, and they must not go to Brighton. Make what excuse you like, only get them out of the house."

"I presume you do not mean to-night," said Mrs. Werner, in a voice Dolly could have scarcely recognized as belonging to her friend.

"Hang it, Leonora," he retorted, "you need not look at me like that. I suppose I am master in my own house, and have a right to say who shall and who shall not visit here."

"A perfect right," she replied. "I merely asked a question, and I wait for your answer. Am I to turn _my friend_ and her husband out of _your_ house to-night?"

"I suppose not. I suppose they must stay," he said; "but, good Heavens, Leonora, what could you have been thinking of to bring a bankrupt and his penniless wife here! And I involved as I am with that infernal Chemical Company, and Forde full of the notion that as Mrs. Mortomley's money is condemned, at any rate, he can get her to sign some antedated paper, securing the bulk of her husband's so called debt to him. Upon my soul it is enough to drive a fellow mad. I tell you I will not be mixed up with the affairs of people too foolish or stupid to take care of themselves.

"Forde will get them into some mess they will not readily extricate themselves from; Mortomley either wants sufficient moral pluck or physical energy to face the difficulty, and yet you bring them here!"

"They shall not trouble you after to-night," she answered.

"They had better not," exclaimed Mr. Werner, infuriated by her tone.

"And still you used to speak of Mr. Mortomley as your friend," remarked his wife.

"How often am I to tell you a business man can have no friends except those capable of advancing his interests, and bankruptcy cuts all ties of that sort. If Mortomley had been possessed of sufficient common sense to secure his flighty wife's fortune, there might have been some faint hope for him; but as matters stand there is none. If her friends do not come forward, they will have to apply to the parish within six months, and serve them right too."

Dolly gathered up her letters and laid down her pen, and stole from the room.

She had heard enough--she had heard how they stood--where lay their danger--what they had to guard against; and she stood for a moment in the passage leading to the apartments Mrs. Werner had selected for them, with her hand pressed tightly over her heart, trying to realize that she had listened to Mr. Werner's words in her waking moments instead of in a dream.

And then next moment came the question, "When were they to go."

They could not remain another hour in Mr. Werner's house, that was certain. She could not take her husband back to Homewood, that seemed more impossible still. She doubted, though her experience was small, whether any hotel-keeper would beam with smiles at sight of a sick man accompanied by his wife and destitute of luggage.

Dolly sat down on the mat outside the bedroom door to think it all over.

They must go somewhere, and at once, where should it be?

She sat there plucking the wool out of the mat in her restless imaginings, while her head grew hot and her eyes heavy with weary self-communing; she heard Mr. and Mrs. Werner go down stairs; she heard the stir and bustle of arriving guests; she listened to the buzz of talking and the light rippling of laughter, as one drifting out to sea in a rudderless boat might listen to the voices and the merriment of those safe on a shore fading away in the distance; she heard the rustle of the ladies' dresses as they passed in to dinner, and then it came to her like an inspiration--where she should go.

"I will do it. I will," she said almost audibly, and she turned the handle of the door gently, and crossing the room caught up her hat and shawl, and then closing the door behind her, went carefully down stairs, surveying the country she had to pass through over the bannisters.

Strange waiters were about and she passed through them unobserved, and sped off to the nearest cab-stand.

There she hired a vehicle, which she left waiting her return some half-dozen yards from Mr. Werner's house.

The door was fortunately open to admit of some guests invited to "come in the evening," and she entered with them and, unnoticed save by Mr. Werner's butler, crossed the hall and ran up stairs.

Arrived at her husband's side she touched him gently.

"Are you rested dear, at all? It is time for us to be going."

"Going!" he repeated, between sleeping and waking, "are we not at home?"

"No love, at Mr. Werner's."

He raised himself a little and looked at her.

"I think I have been asleep," he said. "Oh! now I remember, but I thought we were to stay here all night. It was arranged that we were, was it not?"

"Yes, dear, but I find it is not convenient for us to do so. Visitors have come, and we ought not to intrude under the circumstances. There is a cab at the door. Can you walk with my arm or shall I ring for assistance?"

He rose, still looking dazed and bewildered, and she put her arm round his body and he placed his arm round her neck; it was thus he had with weak and uncertain steps often paced his room at Homewood.

Trembling over the descent of each stair, she got him at length to the bottom of the last flight, and then beckoning one of the waiters, she asked him to help her husband to the door, while she herself searched for his top-coat and hat.

Whilst she was so engaged the butler appeared,

"Why, ma'am," he said, "you are surely never going back to Homewood to-night?"

"I find we must go," she answered; "I had forgotten something. I have left a note for Mrs. Werner upstairs, but do not tell her we have left until all the company have left. She--she--might be uneasy. I have borrowed a rug, tell her I will return it in a few days; and help Mr. Mortomley to the cab. Thank you, good night, Williams," and she put half-a-crown in his hand.

Poor Dolly! and half-crowns were not plentiful, and likely to be less so.

The driver touched his horse, and the hansom was out of sight in a minute.

"I wonder what _that_ means," thought Mr. Williams. "For certain the governor was in a rare taking when he heard they were here."

But all the "takings" in which Mr. Werner had ever been were as nothing compared with that which overwhelmed Mrs. Werner when she heard of Dolly's departure.

She heard of that sooner than Dolly intended; for Messrs. Forde and Kleinwort, having driven down in the evening to see what pressure could be put upon Mrs. Mortomley to induce her to do what ought in Mr. Forde's formula "to have been done long before, make the St. Vedast Wharf people secure," came straight onto Mr. Werner's house in quest of the missing lady.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley have gone, sir," explained the butler, who knew the manager as an occasional guest at his master's table.

"Gone, nonsense!" repeated Mr. Forde, pushing his way into the hall, and looking askance at the signs of feasting pervading the Werner establishment with an expression which said plainly,

'Just like all the rest of them. He can give parties while I am standing on the edge of a precipice. He has no thought for _me_.'

"I assure you, sir," answered the man, "Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley left here more than an hour ago. I assisted Mr. Mortomley into the cab myself."

"Then I must see Mr. Werner," said Mr. Forde determinedly.

"I am afraid--that he is engaged. We have company to-night, sir."

Mr. Forde turned as if he would have annihilated the speaker.

"He will see me," he shouted; "tell him I am here." And he strode into the so-called library, the door of which stood open, followed by Kleinwort, who, perhaps because he felt ashamed, perhaps because he was cold, looked curiously small and down-hearted.

After all, as he confided subsequently to Mr. Werner, it was none so pleasant being dragged across country and through town like a dog on the chain by even a companion charming as Forde.

"Shall I take your hat," inquired Williams, whose ideas of propriety were outraged by the sight of Mr. Forde seated in Mr. Werner's own chair in that sacred and solemn chamber, his hat on, his fingers beating the devil's own tattoo on the table.

"No," he growled, and the man retreated, catching sight as he went of a significant shrug of Mr. Kleinwort's shoulders.

Almost instantly Mr. Werner appeared. The butler opened the door for him to enter and forgot to shut it again.

"I want to see Mortomley," began Mr. Forde, without preface of any kind; "if he is well enough to travel, he is well enough to face his creditors."

"I will send and tell him you are here," answered Mr. Werner.

"No, I will go to him without any first message being delivered," said the other with an angry sneer.

"Pardon me," interposed Mr. Werner, "but you will do no such thing. It is not with any good-will of mine that Mr. Mortomley is my guest, but since he is my guest he shall not be treated by you or anybody else like a criminal. If he choose to see you he can do so, if he do not choose you shall not see him."

"Do you dare say that to me?" asked Mr. Forde.

"Yes," was the reply, "and if you speak in that tone to me, I shall say a good deal more which you may not like to hear."

"Now--now--now--Werner," interposed Kleinwort, "you are always so much in too great haste. He meant it not. He would not order about in your house for ten thousand worlds."

"He had better not," Mr. Werner said, cutting short the thread of Mr. Kleinwort's eloquence, for he was indignant at being taken from his guests, and furious at the fact of Mortomley having taken shelter under his roof, and being instantly hunted there by Mr. Forde. "Williams," he continued going to the door, and addressing his butler, who was bustling about the hall,

"Let Mr. Mortomley know Mr. Forde is here, and desires a few minutes' conversation with him. Now, gentlemen, _I_ must bid you good-night. Williams will bring you wine or brandy if you only tell him which you prefer."

"Beg pardon, sir," interposed Williams at this juncture, "but--"

"Did you not hear me tell you to let Mr. Mortomley know Mr. Forde wishes to see him?" said Mr. Werner, emphasising each word with painful distinctness.

"Yes, sir, but Mr. Mortomley is gone."

"Gone!" repeated Mr. Werner, while Mr. Forde remarked audibly, "I do not believe a word of it."

And Kleinwort, pulling his companion's sleeve, entreated him piteously, "To be impulsive not so much."

"Yes, sir, went away with Mrs. Mortomley in a cab an hour and a half ago."

"Where did he go to?" asked Mr. Werner.

"Don't know, sir. No orders were given to the cabman in my presence or hearing."

Mr. Werner stood silent for an instant, then he said, turning to Williams,

"Ask your mistress to come down here. Say I will not detain her a moment." And while the man went to do his bidding, he walked up and down the room evidently as ill at ease as his visitors.

Into the room Mrs. Werner walked stately and beautiful, her rich dress rustling over the carpet, jewels sparkling on her snowy neck, amid her dark hair, and on her white arms.

She started at sight of the two visitors, but quickly recovering herself, gave her hand frigidly to each in succession.

"Ah! but, madam, we have no need to ask if your health be admirable," Kleinwort was beginning, when Mr. Werner interrupted his ecstacy with ruthless abruptness.

"Leonora," he said, "these gentlemen want to know where Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley have gone. If it is no secret, pray inform them."

"They are here," she instantly replied.

"No, they are not; they left in a cab an hour ago or more. Can you imagine where they have gone?"

"I cannot imagine that they have left," she answered. "You must be mistaken."

"If you please, ma'am," here interrupted Williams, who had remained standing at the door after Mrs. Werner's entrance, with an apologetic grasp upon the handle, "Mrs. Mortomley left a note for you. She told me not to mention this till all the company had left, but I suppose, under present circumstances, it is correct for me to do so."

"I will go for it," Mrs. Werner said, with a little gasp, but Mr. Werner prevented her intention. "Let your maid do so."

There ensued an awkward pause, during which Mr. Kleinwort, with much _empressement_, handed Mrs. Werner a chair.

"No, thank you," she remarked, and the pause continued, and the depth and gloom of the silence increased minute by minute.

At length the maid, having found the note, brought it into the room.

"Give it to me," exclaimed Mr. Forde, trying to snatch it off the salver, but Mrs. Werner's face warned him of the impropriety he had committed.

"The note is intended for me, Mr. Forde, I think," she said quietly, and opened the envelope after a courteous "Pray excuse me."

As she read her face darkened.

"Where are they, where have they gone?" demanded Mr. Forde eagerly.

Mrs. Werner lifted her eyes and looked at him slowly and absently, as if she had forgotten his existence.

"I do not know," she answered. "Mrs. Mortomley does not say, and I have not an idea unless they have returned to Homewood. Mrs. Mortomley unfortunately understood Mr. Werner objected to my having invited her and her husband here, and she hastened to leave a house where their presence was unwelcome."

Having unburdened herself of which statement, Mrs. Werner gathered up her ample skirt, and with a distant bow to both gentlemen left the room.

Mr. Werner went after her.

"Leonora," he said as she ascended the staircase, but she never answered him. "Leonora," he repeated, but still she made no more sign than if she had been deaf.

Then following rapidly, he stood beside her on the landing.

"Leonora," he entreated, laying his hand on her arm with a pleading gentleness difficult to associate with Henry Werner.

She stood quite still and looked at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before through all their married life, which God pity any man who ever sees it in the face of his wife, in the face of the mother of his children.

"Do not speak to me about them to-night," she said. "Hereafter perhaps, but not now," and her voice was changed and hard as Dolly had heard it.

"Will you give me her note?" he asked.

"Yes, it is your right," and she gave him the paper she held crushed in her hand, a paper on which Dolly had traced mad words in wonderful hieroglyphics.

After his guests had all departed, when the house was silent and quiet and lonely, and he was quite by himself, Henry Werner smoothed out that crumpled manuscript and read the sentences Dolly had written in her haste.

There was much she had better have left unwritten, as there is in all such effusions, much that was feminine and foolish, and passionate and exaggerated. But it ended with two sentences which burned themselves on Mr. Werner's brain.

"If it were not for your sake, darling, I would wish that the man you have had the misfortune to marry might be beggared and ruined to-morrow--beggared, more completely ruined, more utterly even than we have been.

"As it is, I shall never forgive him--never for ever--never.

"DOLLY."

With a shiver Mr. Werner folded up Dolly's epistle and placed it in his pocket-book. Then he did a most unwonted thing for him; indeed, I might say unprecedented,--he poured out nearly a glass of brandy and drank it off.

"After all," he thought, "there is more in having a wife who is fond of her husband than most fellows think. That little woman is as brave over her sick husband as a hen about a brood of young chickens. I wonder if she has taken him back to Homewood; or rather I do not wonder, for I know she would sooner do anything than that."

And in this idea he was perfectly correct; Dolly had found a shelter for her sick husband, but not at Homewood.