CHAPTER VII.

STARTLING NEWS.

It is ten o'clock in the morning, and Mr. Merivale, senior partner of Merivale, Waymark, & Co., bankers, is seated at the table in his own private room, meditating an attack upon the formidable pile of letters which lies before him. He is looking pale and depressed on this, the morning after his children's party, and is saying to himself that if only Waymark were back, he really would take a few days' rest. He is just about to open one of the letters when a tap comes to the door, and the head and confidential clerk, Mr. Hobson, enters the room. He starts back, however, as Mr. Merivale raises his head from the still unopened letter in his hand, and muttering to himself "God bless my soul!" hurries to the mantel-piece, where a glass jug of cold water stands, and quickly pouring out a glassful he takes it to his principal, saying, "You look a little faint and tired this morning, sir; will you drink some water, and then I will ring for the sherry? Dear, dear, how very pale you are, to be sure!" and the kind old man bustles over to the bell, which he pulls vigorously. Then hastening to the door, and at the same time keeping one eye on Mr. Merivale, he opens it, and pouncing on a young clerk who is leisurely strolling down the passage with his hands in his pockets, gives him a sharp peremptory order, which astonishes that young gentleman not a little.

On turning back into the room the old man is immensely relieved to see a little colour once more in the face of Mr. Merivale; but he will not allow him to speak as yet, and the housekeeper at the bank entering at this moment with the sherry, he seizes the decanter from the tray, and pours out a glass. Then Hobson stands by his elbow, waiting patiently until the short gasps of breath become longer and more regular, and the spasm, which had frightened him very considerably, has passed off. Then he quietly insists on Mr. Merivale taking the sherry, and in a few minutes has the satisfaction of seeing him sit upright in his chair, apparently himself again, though with a face still pale and drawn-looking.

"Thanks, Hobson, thanks!" he says, passing his hand over his forehead. "Don't look so anxious, old friend; I have had these little attacks once or twice before, but I assure you it is nothing serious. My wife was telling me only a day or two since that I ought to have advice; but I know just what the doctor would say--'General debility and want of tone,' &c. &c., and then he would suggest rest, and change of air and scene, and all the rest of it, which you know, as well as I do, I cannot get while Waymark is away. Take some sherry, Hobson, and do sit down."

"Ay, that's just where it is," replies the old man slowly. "This is really what I came to speak to you about, sir. Is it your wish that I should attend to this matter of Clayton & Co."

"Yes, by all means, Hobson. I shall be really grateful if you will take it all off my shoulders; and, of course, if there is any little thing you want to talk over, why, you will know where to find me if I am not here."

"Just so, just so," replies the old man, getting up. "And now, sir, if you will take my advice you will go straight home and rest for the remainder of the day. You trust me, sir, to see that all's right, and if anything particular should take place during the day, I might perhaps step round in the evening. Now, shall I send for a cab for you?--the brougham has gone off long ago, of course."

A cab being procured, Mr. Merivale gets into his overcoat, and, accompanied by Mr. Hobson, goes down the steps of the bank. As the cab drives away, the old man, who is still watching it, shakes his head, and says mournfully to himself, "No, no, I don't like it at all. I have never seen such pallor but once before, and then-- Oh, a telegram--answer prepaid, eh? All right! I'm coming;" and the old man goes back to his desk with a heavy heart, and opening the yellow envelope returns to the business of the day.

* * * * * * * *

Miss Denison and her pupils are all seated round the school-room fire, in various stages of fatigue and sleepiness. There has been a sociable high-tea at seven o'clock instead of the usual late dinner, at which all the family, from Mr. Merivale down to Bobby, have been present.

Conversation is being carried on in rather a desultory sort of fashion, the only variety being Dick's persistence in asking riddles, which are invariably proved to have no answers.

Discussion waxes warm presently on the subject of that beautiful poem on the letter H, often attributed to Lord Byron, but written by Catherine Fanshawe. Dick protests loudly that it is Shelley's, while Honor and Doris are equally sure it is Byron's.

"What do _you_ say, Miss Denny?" asked Doris raising herself on to her elbow and looking up from her place on the hearth-rug. "You know everything, so surely you can settle the question."

"I was not aware that I am such a walking encyclopædia as you seem to imagine," replies Miss Denison laughing, and shaking out a skein of wool preparatory to placing it on Molly's hands; "and, to tell you the truth, Doris, my own personal experience is that the more one learns, the more one finds there is to learn. At the present moment I cannot recollect the author of that enigma, but my impression is that you are both wrong, though I could not say so for certain. Now, who can recite it without a mistake? If someone can, very likely I shall call to mind the name of the author. But first ring the bell, Dick; Daisy and Bobby must go to bed."

"A capital idea!" cries Dick, referring to the suggestion about the poem, "and I'll give anyone who says it through without a single hitch a whole packet of butterscotch. There!"

"I don't believe you have got the money to buy it," says Molly crushingly; "for I heard you only this morning bewailing the fact that you had only three halfpence left in the wide world."

"You can get penny packets," mutters Dick; but he is promptly suppressed, for Honor in a clear melodious voice is already beginning--

"'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man in his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him at death. It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth. Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the heart, and though deaf to the ear, 'Twill make it acutely and instantly hear. But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower-- Oh, breathe on it softly--it dies in an hour.'"

A burst of applause greets Honor as she steps down from the footstool upon which Molly has previously handed her with much ceremony. No one, however, seems any nearer settling the author than before.

"Most annoying, to be sure," says Miss Denison, tapping the fender impatiently with her foot; "I do dislike to be baffled like this. I'll tell you what, we will send down and ask your father to let us have both Byron and Shelley from the study. After all I think it _must_ be one of those two--anyway, we will search until we _do_ find it. Now, who will be my ambassador?"

All start up at the same moment, each signifying his or her willingness to undertake the commission. But Miss Denison singles out Doris, as being most accustomed to putting in an appearance downstairs at that time of the evening, and Doris accordingly leaves the room with a look of calm superiority at the others. The interval is spent in hot argument as before, and Dick is just offering Molly a bet consisting of a new book of travels against her recently purchased tennis racquet when the door opens, and Doris with a white, scared face re-enters the room.

"_Doris!_" exclaim all the voices in a breath, "what is the matter?"

The girl comes slowly towards the table, and resting one hand upon it she pushes back her ruffled fair hair with the other.

"I--I hardly know--" she gasps, "but something is wrong. I don't know what--only old Mr. Hobson is shut up with father in the study, and mother said I must not go in. Then father came rushing into the room and asked mother for his keys which he had left on the dining-table, and oh, it was his face that frightened me so--it was so white, and drawn, and old-looking!" and with a smothered sob Doris's head falls on the shoulder of the kind governess, who has risen and is standing with her arm round her pupil's waist.

"Courage, dear!" she whispers, gently stroking the bowed head. "This trouble, whatever it is, may not be so serious after all. Come, dry your eyes and wait here with the others whilst I go down to your mother and see if there is anything I can do;" and Miss Denison leaves the little group, with the exception of Doris, who is still crying quietly, standing staring at each other in blank dismay.

Before many minutes have elapsed Miss Denison returns, and though her face looks grave and anxious, she makes an effort to speak cheerfully.

"Your father has had some bad news in connection with his business, girls; but I do not know yet to what extent. We must all hope for the best, therefore, until we know more; and in the meantime, every one must do his and her best not to increase the trouble by showing grief which, after all, may prove to be quite uncalled for. It is already after nine, so Molly and Dick had better go to bed. I want you, Doris, to go down to your mother. You will find her in the drawing-room; and your father wants you to go to him in the study, Honor. I heard the hall door shut just now, so I expect Mr. Hobson has gone: he was just leaving as I came up. Now, dears, I will run up and say just a word to nurse, and then I will go down again to your mother. Honor, you will know where to find me. Your father may want to send some telegrams, and I may be able to help you."

When Doris enters the drawing-room she looks with a little surprise at her mother, who with closed eyes, handkerchief pressed to her delicate nose, and smelling-salts well within reach, is now gracefully reclining on the sofa.

Advancing further into the room she says softly, "Miss Denny sent me to you, mother, and she is coming down again herself after she has spoken to nurse. Honor is with father in the study."

"Yes, very well," says Mrs. Merivale languidly. "And now lower the lamps, Doris; and oh! do move about quietly. Now bring a chair and come and sit here, close to the sofa. I suppose you have heard the wretched news that old Mr. Hobson has brought to-night? It seems that your father's partner has embezzled immense sums from the bank, and when he heard of the probability of something occurring which would expose the whole thing, he quietly decamped, taking care to get a sufficiently good start to do away with any chance of his capture." Mrs. Merivale pauses a moment to give a vicious little pull to the sofa cushion, then she goes on impatiently, "I don't suppose it would have gone on to such an extent in any other case; but your father is the most unsuspecting man that ever breathed. He would allow himself to be cheated by anyone, under his very nose. I always disliked that man, and I told your father so; but of course I might just as well talk to the chairs and tables for all the attention there is paid to anything I say. Oh, good gracious! here is that dreadful dog! _Do_, for goodness' sake, take the creature away!"

Doris is just in time to catch up Vic as she bounds on to the sofa with a view to settling herself for a comfortable nap on the end of Mrs. Merivale's dress. Being put on the floor and told to lie down, she does so under protest, and with a "whoofa" of indignation. But presently discrying an attraction in the shape of a misguided fly, that with reckless confidence has emerged from some safe nook and is flying feebly towards one of the lamps, she starts up, and making snap after snap, careers madly after it round the room. Suddenly catching sight of her own stumpy tail, however, which in the excitement of the hunt bids fair to wag its owner's body off its legs, she pulls up suddenly, then whirls round and round, teetotum fashion, in pursuit of the offending object. Mrs. Merivale is in a state of frenzy.

"Doris!" she exclaims angrily, "do catch the dog and put it out of the room. I call it downright cruel of you to encourage it as you do. But there, I must say you are all alike in that respect; no one ever considers _me_! Even in this tiresome upset (and I am sure I don't clearly understand _what_ it is or _why_ it is) your father's one thought seems to be 'the children,' and what will be done about this, that, and the other concerning them."

"O _mother_! I'm sure you do father an injustice in saying that!" cries Doris indignantly. "You _must_ know that you are always his first thought in everything."

"Well, I don't know. And what," continues Mrs. Merivale, giving another little impatient pull to the sofa cushion--"what am I to understand when your father talks of ruin? I suppose we shall have to give up one of the carriages, perhaps; though which I don't know. It will be _too_ dreadful to think of stifling in a brougham during the day, and yet if we kept the victoria, how in the world could I go out at night?"

A brief pause, in which Doris reads for about the twentieth time the advertisement which is staring her in the face from the back of a periodical which lies uncut upon the table.

Then Mrs. Merivale sighs rather than says, "I suppose too we shall have to do with a servant or two less. I do really think"--a bright idea suddenly striking her--"that you could very well do without a maid in the school-room now; and perhaps we could manage with only one housemaid, though I should dread proposing such a thing to Louisa, and of course I could not think of letting _her_ go. It is equally impossible too that I could spare Lane, after having her with me such a number of years. I don't really see what else I can do. We need not give so many dinner-parties, perhaps; a light supper costs less than a dinner, and one need not be so particular about the wines. You, Doris, will have to come out at one of the county balls, instead of being presented in London; and Honor will have to take painting lessons from some cheaper master than Signor Visetti. I daresay, after all, we would only have been paying for his name." Another short pause, and then "I suppose if things are really so serious as your father makes them out to be, Dick, poor boy, will have to make up his mind to give up Oxford in the future. Oh, thank goodness, here is Miss Denison! Now, Doris, you can go; and do hurry Lane with that cup of tea she is getting--and, Doris," as the girl, only too glad to escape, nears the door, "_pray_ shut that dog up; and if it cannot be quiet _in_ the house, let it go to the stables. It is what most other dogs have to do."