Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 1/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.

The young man whom Elizabeth had brushed by walked straight into Mr. Joshua Twisden's room, after hanging up his hat in the outer office.

"Was not that Miss Shaw who passed me on the stairs?" he asked, as he entered.

"Yes," said Mr. Twisden, leaning back in his chair. He had arranged that, as his nephew was out of the way, he would not mention the visit he had received at present, but now———

"About her marriage?" pursued George Daintree.

"The engagement is broken off."

"Broken off?"

"Yes; and I am heartily glad of it."

"Why was it broken off. Do you know?"

The old solicitor, leaning on his elbows, tapped the points of his fingers together with diplomatic finesse.

"I suppose because Miss Shaw found she did not care enough for the man."

His nephew eyed him keenly. "Why should she have come herself to tell you this—and alone? Couldn't her uncle have written to say it was all off?"

Joshua Twisden had implicit confidence in his nephew's tact and discretion. How much of the interview with Miss Shaw was it expedient he should reveal? Of course, the secret of her wild scheme—a scheme he believed she would never carry out—he was bound to keep. But her flight from Farley, and the rupture with her uncle and aunt, were facts which George might learn at any moment. Perhaps it might be better to give him some inkling of the truth, so far as he knew it. The truth, as he suspected it, was another matter. He was not wholly ignorant of Mrs. William Shaw's proclivities, and he had a general conception of Colonel Wybrowe's character.

He pursed up his mouth, and kept on tapping the points of his fingers gently together, as he stared out of the open window at the grimy face of the old-fashioned houses opposite. He could not see the fair, florid young man's face, who was watching him closely, because George's back was against the window-shutter, and the sunlight did no more than touch the edges of his auburn hair.

"William Shaw does not yet know of his niece's decision," said Mr. Twisden, slowly, after a long pause; "nor of her coming here. She has left his house. So much I may tell you. Into the cause of all this it is not my business to inquire. I am not her guardian. I can only say that I am glad, at any cost, that her marriage with Colonel Wybrowe is at an end—and for ever."

Clever George pondered. What did he mean by at any cost? But George knew his uncle too well to probe further.

"Probably she found out that he wanted to marry her for her money," he said.

"Just so. And I have an idea that she will not easily be caught again. She will want to be very sure that the man loves her and not her money-bags, before she accepts him."

"Very wise. 'A burnt child dreads the fire,'" laughed the young man. "I suppose Mr. Shaw will write to you about it?"

"He will probably come and see me. But the matter is at an end—definitely at an end. Do you dine with me to-night?"

"Certainly, if you like it. What did the doctor say to your leg to-day?"

"That I was much better, and that he hoped, in a few days, I might stand the jolting of a cab, and go backwards and forwards to my own house. The confinement to these three rooms in this weather is a trial. I shall be the better for Hampstead air again."

"When you do get home, you must take a little holiday, and not come here every day; but let me do more of your work."

"No, my dear boy, you must take a holiday yourself as soon as I can get about. It must be uncommonly dull for you here with me; and you have been very good. I don't know what I should have done without you."

"Oh, I'll get a holiday by-and-by. As long as I am of use to you here, I am quite contented to remain," returned his nephew.

They dined together at eight, and neither Miss Shaw nor her affairs were alluded to throughout the evening. At ten o'clock, after a game of piquet with his uncle, George bade him good night, and strolled into the "Holborn" for half an hour. The songs he heard did not transport him with merriment, but, after a while, he drew out a note-book, and made some rapid sketches of two or three of the performers—suggestions, drawn with few and vigorous touches, and showing a rare aptitude for seizing character rather than a delicate perception of beauty. After that he strolled home to his lodging, in Jermyn Street; and the refrain of his thoughts was—"at any cost." What did it mean? He should not rest satisfied till he had discovered. The subject of Elizabeth Shaw and her exceptional position had interested the young man ever since the day he first saw her in his uncle's office, and had learnt so much concerning her and her father. There was something about the girl's appearance that fascinated him, though he had never spoken to her. He had been struck at once by her free, erect carriage, her fine dark eyes, a certain unconventionality of demeanour, so little resembling that of the middle-class young ladies whom he knew. Also, to be quite frank, the knowledge that she was a great heiress was a potent and distinct attraction to a man of George's astuteness, ambition, and invincible perseverance. Like most of us, he was a tangled skein of good and evil; but the white threads were uppermost. His good temper was patent to all. His self-sacrifice in ministering to his uncle's comfort was known to Joshua Twisden's many friends. His kind actions to humbler men, his diligence, his exactitude, were fruitful subjects for eulogy when George Daintree's name was mentioned. Half a life-time of intimacy might have failed—unless the occasion served—to detect the convolutions of dark thread which it will be our business to disentangle. Temptation, however, at this moment had not come to him, and speculation did not keep him awake, when he turned into bed, and buried his rosy face in the pillow, the picture of healthy oblivion and placid strength.

There was no sign of life from Farley Manor all next day, but early in the succeeding one a telegram arrived from William Shaw, followed a few hours later by the appearance of the harassed gentleman himself. His wife had done her uttermost to prevent his going to London; but there were limits even to her influence and powers of persuasion.

He had found her alone, and in tears, when he had returned from Birmingham the previous evening. Her task of explanation had been difficult—could not be wholly satisfactory. Elizabeth was said to be "violent and self-willed." She had quarrelled first with "poor Colonel Wybrowe" (who, of course, had departed before William Shaw's return), afterwards with her aunt, and had left her guardian's house surreptitiously with her maid in the early morning.

"It is quite useless—worse than useless—to follow her," Mrs. Shaw added. "It will only make her more obstinate. Of course she is safe—she is much too clever to get into trouble—and Mr. Twisden will let you know where she is. If she will live apart, you can't force her to return here; and I must confess, after her conduct, I should not like her to return. I do not think you should ask me to receive her."

All which was specious, yet failed to carry conviction to the thick but honest head of William Shaw that it was not his duty to track the misguided girl committed to his care, and try to bring her to reason. Mrs. Shaw failed, for the first time since her marriage, in making her husband see with her eyes, or at least in producing such paralysis of the mental optic nerve as enabled her to lead him where she saw fit.

"She's my ward, Molly," he kept repeating. "You see, that's where it is. I shouldn't be doing my duty by Anthony's child if I let her go off like this, without trying to stop her."

Alarmed guilt prompted the suggestion that Elizabeth was not quite right in her head. But then astuteness pointed out that this would be the most potent argument in determining William to follow his fugitive niece. And at length, having tried tears and supplication in vain, Mrs. Shaw saw herself compelled to allow her husband to depart, which she did with nervous apprehension and irritability. She had seldom—very seldom—in her life been left alone. And now she was absolutely alone, unable to confide in any one, even her pliant spouse failing her in this moment of peril. Truly her state of mind was not enviable.

George Daintree was alone in the outer office when his uncle's visitor appeared that afternoon. He had read Shaw's telegram, and had taken the precaution to send the junior clerk out on an errand shortly before the hour at which he knew Shaw might be expected. When the country gentleman entered, whose face George had never seen otherwise than rubicund and expressionless, and which now looked careworn and flabby, he rose, and the two men shook hands.

"Your uncle is disengaged?"

"Yes; he is there, and expecting you."

With that he showed William Shaw into the inner room, and, while appearing to shut the door, left a crack of it open. The old solicitor grasped his visitor's hand without rising, and, pointing to a chair opposite to him, began at once.

"I knew you would come. I felt sure I should see you, to talk over this deplorable business, Shaw."

"First of all, Twisden, where is she? That's the first question I want to ask."

"I do not know exactly; and when I do learn it, that is what I am pledged not to reveal."

"Not to reveal to me, her guardian? God damn it! That is rather too much! I———"

"Hear me to an end, Shaw. Your niece is in a very excited state. I really believe it is far better to let her have her own way for a time, until she is calmed down. Of course, this won't last—it can't last. If you put detectives on her track, no doubt you can find her. But of what use would that be? You can't force her to go back to you; you wouldn't if you could. I had it all out with her here, and she only told me her plans on condition that I would not reveal them."

"But why am I not to be told?" cried William, returning to the charge with the helpless irascibility of a man incapable of taking in more than one idea. "I am her guardian, and her only living relation. Why am I to be kept in the dark? It's monstrous!"

"You see," began again the old solicitor, cautiously, "she has quarrelled with your wife; and she has taken a horror of Colonel Wybrowe, who she says only wanted to marry her for her money."

"Why should she think that?" cut in the perplexed gentleman. "I'm sure she is a good-looking girl, and quick enough with her tongue, and rides well. Why should she choose to think———"

"Never mind why; she does think it. She thinks her money has brought her into trouble. She wants to get rid of it."

"To get rid of it!"

"Of the reputation of being an heiress; that is what I mean. She has left your house in a passion, and she dreads your pursuing her. I am not defending the course she has taken; but, being what she is, I am persuaded that nothing will induce her at present to return to Farley. If you run her to earth, you will probably make the breach lasting, which might only be temporary between you. Is it worth while? Is it not better to let me act for you in this matter, since she is disposed to trust me?"

"But—but what does she want do? Why the deuce does she run away because she has had a row with Wybrowe and my wife? She could go and live at her own place, or or anything, with some old woman, don't ye know? But to go off like this! What am I to say to the neighbours? I don't know."

"You can say she is gone to friends."

"She can't stay with friends for ever! And why is she to treat me like this, who've looked upon her almost as my own child since Anthony died? And me and my wife, I'm sure, have been as kind to her as anything. It's deuced ungrateful, Twisden—that's what it is."

"I don't think she is ungrateful, Shaw; but she is queer—decidedly queer. Women are queer, you know, sometimes—the fancies they take, and the tantrums they get into. Any way, I believe the best course to pursue in this case is—when I feel perfectly assured that she is safe, and in good hands—to leave her alone."

William Shaw wiped his brow and fidgeted in his chair. He was not quite sure what was the next objection that he ought to advance; he was sure he ought to advance some and the solicitor did not help him.

"It's all very fine to talk about leaving her alone; but what is she going to do about money? If I don't know where she is, how———"

"She means to live for the next two years in retirement, for which the five hundred pounds placed annually to her credit is ample. When she comes of age we shall see what she is disposed to do. Long before that, I believe, she will think better of her foolish scheme. For the present she has her cheque-book, and will continue to draw her allowance as heretofore. The only precaution against her being swindled out of any large sum, which it is well we should take, is to warn the bank not to honour any cheque of hers beyond the balance on the income paid annually to her separate account. She is young, and generous, and ignorant of the world. She may also be credulous; I should not be surprised if she were. But, thus protected, she cannot come to much harm as regards money."

"And is everything to go on at Whiteburn—the farm and all that—just as before?"

"Of course. The estate will be managed exactly as heretobefore."

"And what am I to say to the tenants and neighbours?" he sighed, returning to his original idea.

"You must let them understand that she got tired of the quiet life at Farley; that she wanted to see something more of the world; that she is paying visits to various friends. It is not true, of course; but we can't help that. Later, you can tell people that she is gone abroad—that she is travelling. That, I am sure, is near enough to the truth to satisfy a Jesuit," the old lawyer added, with a smile. "And really, my dear Shaw, we are in that position that we can't be too particular. I have thought a great deal over it. The thing is to avoid a scandal, and I see no way out of it but this."

"Well," conceded William, with a sigh, as he wiped his brow again, "neither do I; for my wife says, after Bessie treating her like this, she wouldn't like to take her back; so there's bound to be a row that way. If I only knew where she was, I wouldn't so much mind; but I don't feel as if I was doing my duty by the girl to let her go off and hide herself like this, without—without doing anything—eh?"

"I expect to know exactly where she is in the course of a day or two; at present I do not. I shall then communicate with you, and, on condition that you promise to leave her alone, I think I may promise that she shall write to you. I hope you will see the wisdom of subscribing to this. We have a difficult subject to deal with; one that requires great tact in handling."

William Shaw threw up his hands, and let them drop on his fat knees, with a gesture of discouragement.

"I suppose I must leave it to you, Twisden. I tried to do my best by Anthony's child, and this is what it comes to! I must say it is deuced hard on me and my wife, who was as kind to the girl———"

"Well, well, Shaw, we won't talk about that. Think how much harder it would be if this marriage, which you encouraged, had taken place, and that your niece came to you and said, 'My life is ruined, my future destroyed. I hate and despise the man whom you persuaded me to marry.' Now she is free—free to make other ties, and to be eventually, I hope, a happy woman. That is the main thing. This tantrum of hers will pass off. It will come all right in time, if you will not be in a hurry. At present her only idea is to cut herself adrift, and to live where it is never suspected that she has a large fortune."

"Well," sighed his visitor heavily once more, as he rose from his chair, "I suppose there is nothing else to be done."

"Have her maid's box packed and sent here when you return home. I will see that she gets it. That is all."

They shook hands, and after a few more unimportant words, Shaw departed. In the outer office George Daintree was at his desk, apparently absorbed in accounts, but he sprang up with a genial smile to open the door for his uncle's client.

Two days later Joshua Twisden was taken to Hampstead, and a certain amount of authority was given to George to interview persons who called on the days that his uncle was absent. Should anything of importance require Mr. Twisden's decision, George was to drive up in the evening to Hampstead. At all events, he would spend Sunday there (it was then Friday), and Mr, Twisden hoped early in the following week to be allowed to return to his daily work. He said to George at parting—

"Miss Shaw's maid will call here for her box, probably, in a day or two. If she has anything to say to me, send her up to Hampstead at once."