Miss or Mrs Page 3

  “And you feel flattered by it, of course?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. I feel a little frightened at it, I can tell you.”

  “Frightened? Did you notice him this morning?”

  “I? When?”

  “When your father was telling that story about the man overboard.”

  “No. What did he do? Tell me, Launce.”

  “I’ll tell you directly. How did it all end last night? Did your father make any sort of promise?”

  “You know Richard’s way; Richard left him no other choice. Papa had to promise before he was allowed to go to bed.”

  “To let Turlington marry you?”

  “Yes; the week after my next birthday.”

  “The week after next Christmas-day?”

  “Yes. Papa is to speak to me as soon as we are at home again, and my married life is to begin with the New Year.”

  “Are you in earnest, Natalie? Do you really mean to say it has gone as far as that?”

  “They have settled everything. The splendid establishment we are to set up, the great income we are to have. I heard papa tell Richard that half his fortune should go to me on my wedding-day. It was sickening to hear how much they made of Money, and how little they thought of Love. What am I to do, Launce?”

  “That’s easily answered, my darling. In the first place, you are to make up your mind not to marry Richard Turlington—”

  “Do talk reasonably. You know I have done all I could. I have told papa that I can think of Richard as a friend, but not as a husband. He only laughs at me, and says, ‘Wait a little, and you will alter your opinion, my dear.’ You see Richard is everything to him; Richard has always managed his affairs, and has saved him from losing by bad speculations; Richard has known me from the time when I was a child; Richard has a splendid business, and quantities of money. Papa can’t even imagine that I can resist Richard. I have tried my aunt; I have told her he is too old for me. All she says is, ‘Look at your father; he was much older than your mother, and what a happy marriage theirs was.’ Even if I said in so many words, ‘I won’t marry Richard,’ what good would it do to us? Papa is the best and dearest old man in the world; but oh, he is so fond of money! He believes in nothing else. He would be furious—yes, kind as he is, he would be furious—if I even hinted that I was fond of you. Any man who proposed to marry me—if he couldn’t match the fortune that I should bring him by a fortune of his own—would be a lunatic in papa’s eyes. He wouldn’t think it necessary to answer him; he would ring the bell, and have him shown out of the house. I am exaggerating nothing, Launce; you know I am speaking the truth. There is no hope in the future—that I can see—for either of us.

  “Have you done, Natalie? I have something to say on my side if you have.”

  “What is it?”

  “If things go on as they are going on now, shall I tell you how it will end? It will end in your being Turlington’s wife.”

  “Never!”

  “So you say now; but you don’t know what may happen between this and Christmas-day. Natalie, there is only one way of making sure that you will never marry Richard. Marry me.”

  “Without papa’s consent?”

  “Without saying a word to anybody till it’s done.”

  “Oh, Launce! Launce!”

  “My darling, every word you have said proves there is no other way. Think of it, Natalie, think of it.”

  There was a pause. Natalie dropped her needle and thread, and hid her face in her hands. “If my poor mother was only alive,” she said; “if I only had an elder sister to advise me, and to take my part.”

  She was evidently hesitating. Launce took a man’s advantage of her indecision. He pressed her without mercy.

  “Do you love me?” he whispered, with his lips close to her ear.

  “You know I do, dearly.”

  “Put it out of Richa rd’s power to part us, Natalie.”

  “Part us? We are cousins: we have known each other since we were both children. Even if he proposed parting us, papa wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Mark my words, he will propose it. As for your father, Richard has only to lift his finger and your father obeys him. My love, the happiness of both our lives is at stake. “He wound his arm round her, and gently drew her head back on his bosom ” Other girls have done it, darling,” he pleaded, “why shouldn’t you?”

  The effort to answer him was too much for her. She gave it up. A low sigh fluttered through her lips. She nestled closer to him, and faintly closed her eyes. The next instant she started up, trembling from head to foot, and looked at the skylight. Richard Turlington’s voice was suddenly audible on deck exactly above them.

  “Graybrooke, I want to say a word to you about Launcelot Linzie.”

  Natalie’s first impulse was to fly to the door. Hearing Launce’s name on Richard’s lips, she checked herself. Something in Richard’s tone roused in her the curiosity which suspends fear. She waited, with her hand in Launce’s hand.

  “If you remember,” the brassy voice went on, “I doubted the wisdom of taking him with us on this cruise. You didn’t agree with me, and, at your express request, I gave way. I did wrong. Launcelot Linzie is a very presuming young man.”

  Sir Joseph’s answer was accompanied by Sir Joseph’s mellow laugh.

  “My dear Richard! Surely you are a little hard on Launce?”

  “You are not an observant man, Graybrooke. I am. I see signs of his presuming with all of us, and especially with Natalie. I don’t like the manner in which he speaks to her and looks at her. He is unduly familiar; he is insolently confidential. There must be a stop put to it. In my position, my feelings ought to be regarded. I request you to check the intimacy when we get on shore.”

  Sir Joseph’s next words were spoken more seriously. He expressed his surprise.

  “My dear Richard, they are cousins, they have been playmates from childhood. How can you think of attaching the slightest importance to anything that is said or done by poor Launce?”

  There was a good-humored contempt in Sir Joseph’s reference to “poor Launce” which jarred on his daughter. He might almost have been alluding to some harmless domestic animal. Natalie’s color deepened. Her hand pressed Launce’s hand gently.

  Turlington still persisted.

  “I must once more request—seriously request—that you will check this growing intimacy. I don’t object to your asking him to the house when you ask other friends. I only wish you (and expect you) to stop his ‘dropping in,’ as it is called, any hour of the day or evening when he may have nothing to do. Is that understood between us?”

  “If you make a point of it, Richard, of course it’s understood between us.”

  Launce looked at Natalie, as weak Sir Joseph consented in those words.

  “What did I tell you?” he whispered.

  Natalie hung her head in silence. There was a pause in the conversation on deck. The two gentlemen walked away slowly toward the forward part of the vessel.

  Launce pursued his advantage.

  “Your father leaves us no alternative,” he said. “The door will be closed against me as soon as we get on shore. If I lose you, Natalie, I don’t care what becomes of me. My profession may go to the devil. I have nothing left worth living for.”

  “Hush! hush! don’t talk in that way!”

  Launce tried the soothing influence of persuasion once more.

  “Hundreds and hundreds of people in our situation have married privately—and have been forgiven afterward,” he went on. “I won’t ask you to do anything in a hurry. I will be guided entirely by your wishes. All I want to quiet my mind is to know that you are mine. Do, do, do make me feel sure that Richard Turlington can’t take you away from me.”

  “Don’t press me, Launce.” She dropped on the locker. “See!” she said. “It makes me tremble only to think of it!”

  “Who are you afraid of, darling? Not your father, surely?”

  “Poor papa! I wonder whethe
r he would be hard on me for the first time in his life?” She stopped; her moistening eyes looked up imploringly in Launce’s face. “Don’t press me!” she repeated faintly. “You know it’s wrong. We should have to confess it— and then what would happen?” She paused again. Her eyes wandered nervously to the deck. Her voice dropped to its lowest tones. “Think of Richard!” she said, and shuddered at the terrors which that name conjured up. Before it was possible to say a quieting word to her, she was again on her feet. Richard’s name had suddenly recalled to her memory Launce’s mysterious allusion, at the outset of the interview, to the owner of the yacht. “What was that you said about Richard just now?” she asked. “You saw something (or heard something) strange while papa was telling his story. What was it?”

  “I noticed Richard’s face, Natalie, when your father told us that the man overboard was not one of the pilot-boat’s crew. He turned ghastly pale. He looked guilty—”

  “Guilty? Of what?”

  “He was present—I am certain of it—when the sailor was thrown into the sea. For all I know, he may have been the man who did it.”

  Natalie started back in horror.

  “Oh, Launce! Launce! that is too bad. You may not like Richard— you may treat Richard as your enemy. But to say such a horrible thing of him as that— It’s not generous. It’s not like you.”

  “If you had seen him, you would have said it too. I mean to make inquiries—in your father’s interests as well as in ours. My brother knows one of the Commissioners of Police, and my brother can get it done for me. Turlington has not always been in the Levant trade—I know that already.”

  “For shame, Launce! for shame!”

  The footsteps on deck were audible coming back. Natalie sprang to the door leading into the cabin. Launce stopped her, as she laid her hand on the lock. The footsteps went straight on toward the stern of the vessel. Launce clasped both arms round her. Natalie gave way.

  “Don’t drive me to despair!” he said. “This is my last opportunity. I don’t ask you to say at once that you will marry me, I only ask you to think of it. My darling! my angel! will you think of it?”

  As he put the question, they might have heard (if they had not been too completely engrossed in each other to listen) the footsteps returning—one pair of footsteps only this time. Natalie’s prolonged absence had begun to surprise her aunt, and had roused a certain vague distrust in Richard’s mind. He walked back again along the deck by himself. He looked absently in the main cabin as he passed it. The store-room skylight came next. In his present frame of mind, would he look absently into the store-room too?

  “Let me go!” said Natalie.

  Launce only answered, “Say yes,” and held her as if he would never let her go again.

  At the same moment Miss Lavinia’s voice rose shrill from the deck calling for Natalie. There was but one way of getting free from him. She said, “I’ll think of it.” Upon that, he kissed her and let her go.

  The door had barely closed on her when the lowering face of Richard Turlington appeared on a level with the side of the skylight, looking down into the store-room at Launce.

  “Halloo!” he called out roughly. “What are you doing in the steward’s room?”

  Launce took up a box of matches on the dresser. “I’m getting a light,” he answered readily.

  “I allow nobody below, forward of the main cabin, without my leave. The steward has permitted a breach of discipline on board my vessel. The steward will leave my service.”

  “The steward is not to blame.”

  “I am the judge of that. Not you.”

  Launce opened his lips to reply. An outbreak between the two men appeared to be inevitable, when the sailing-master of the yacht joined his employer on deck, and directed Turlington’s attention to a question which is never to be trifled with at sea, the question of wind and tide.

  The yacht was then in the Bristol Channel, at the entrance to Bideford Bay. The breeze, fast freshening, was also fast changing the direction from which it blew. The favorable tide had barely three hours more to run.

  “The wind’s shifting, sir,” said the sailing-master. “I’m afraid we shan’t get round the point this tide, unless we lay her off on the other tack.”

  Turlington shook his head.

  “There are letters waiting for me at Bideford,” he said. “We have lost two days in the calm. I must send ashore to the post-office, whether we lose the tide or not.”

  The vessel held on her course. Off the port of Bideford, the boat was sent ashore to the post-office, the yacht standing off and on, waiting the appearance of the letters. In the shortest time in which it was possible to bring them on board the letters were in Turlington’s hands.

  The men were hauling the boat up to the davits, the yacht was already heading off from the land, when Turlington startled everybody by one peremptory word—“Stop!”

  He had thrust all his letters but one into the pocket of his sailing jacket, without reading them. The one letter which he had opened he held in his closed hand. Rage was in his staring eyes, consternation was on his pale lips.

  “Lower the boat!” he shouted; “I must get to London tonight.” He stopped Sir Joseph, approaching him with opened mouth. “There’s no time for questions and answers. I must get back.” He swung himself over the side of the yacht, and addressed the sailing-master from the boat. “Save the tide if you can; if you can’t, put them ashore tomorrow at Minehead or Watchet—wherever they like.” He beckoned to Sir Joseph to lean over the bulwark, and hear something he had to say in private. “Remember what I told you about Launcelot Linzie!” he whispered fiercely. His parting look was for Natalie. He spoke to her with a strong constraint on himself, as gently as he could. “Don’t be alarmed; I shall see you in London.” He seated himself in the boat and took the tiller. The last words they heard him say were words urging the men at the oars to lose no time. He was invariably brutal with the men. “Pull, you lazy beggars!” he exclaimed, with an oath. “Pull for your lives!”

  THIRD SCENE.

  The Money Market.

  Let us be serious.—Business!

  The new scene plunges us head foremost into the affairs of the Levant trading-house of Pizzituti, Turlington & Branca. What on earth do we know about the Levant Trade? Courage! If we have ever known what it is to want money we are perfectly familiar with the subject at starting. The Levant Trade does occasionally get into difficulties.—Turlington wanted money.

  The letter which had been handed to him on board the yacht was from his third partner, Mr. Branca, and was thus expressed:

  “A crisis in the trade. All right, so far—except our business with the small foreign firms. Bills to meet from those quarters, (say) forty thousand pounds—and, I fear, no remittances to cover them. Particulars stated in another letter addressed to you at Post-office, Ilfracombe. I am quite broken down with anxiety, and confined to my bed. Pizzituti is still detained at Smyrna. Come back at once.”

  The same evening Turlington was at his office in Austin Friars, investigating the state of affairs, with his head clerk to help him.

  Stated briefly, the business of the firm was of the widely miscellaneous sort. They plied a brisk trade in a vast variety of commodities. Nothing came amiss to them, from Manchester cotton manufactures to Smyrna figs. They had branch houses at Alexandria and Odessa, and correspondents here, there, and everywhere, along the shores of the Mediterranean, and in the ports of the East. These correspondents were the persons alluded to in Mr. Branca’s letter as “small foreign firms;” and they had produced the serious financial crisis in the affairs of the great house in Austin Friars, which had hurried Turlington up to London.

  Every one of these minor firms claimed and received the privilege of drawing bills on Pizzituti, Turlington & Branca for amounts varying from four to six thousand pounds—on no better security than a verbal understanding that the money to pay the bills should be forwarded before they fell due. Competition, it is needless
to say, was at the bottom of this insanely reckless system of trading. The native firms laid it down as a rule that they would decline to transact business with any house in the trade which refused to grant them their privilege. In the ease of Turlington’s house, the foreign merchants had drawn their bills on him for sums large in the aggregate, if not large in themselves; had long since turned those bills into cash in their own markets, for their own necessities; and had now left the money which their paper represented to be paid by their London correspondents as it fell due. In some instances, they had sent nothing but promises and excuses. In others, they had forwarded drafts on firms which had failed already, or which were about to fail, in the crisis. After first exhausting his resources in ready money, Mr. Branca had provided for the more pressing necessities by pledging the credit of the house, so far as he could pledge it without exciting suspicion of the truth. This done, there were actually left, between that time and Christmas, liabilities to be met to the extent of forty thousand pounds, without a farthing in hand to pay that formidable debt.

  After working through the night, this was the conclusion at which Richard Turlington arrived, when the rising sun looked in at him through the windows of his private room.

  The whole force of the blow had fallen on him. The share of his partners in the business was of the most trifling nature. The capital was his, the risk was his. Personally and privately, he had to find the money, or to confront the one other alternative— ruin.

  How was the money to be found?

  With his position in the City, he had only to go to the famous money-lending and discounting house of Bulpit Brothers—reported to “turn over” millions in their business every year—and to supply himself at once with the necessary funds. Forty thousand pounds was a trifling transaction to Bulpit Brothers.