“Not yet,” he said firmly. “I’m not ready yet.”
Henry Irving had revived
The Bells.
This play about the Polish Jew who committed murder and was afterwards haunted by the bells of the sleigh in which his victim had been travelling was a favorite of Bart’s. So he suggested that they attend one of the first performances. She never turned down these requests because she enjoyed getting out.
He picked her up in his carriage and on the way to the theatre told her, “Vera’s mother is in the hospital. Her heart. I don’t think she’ll last the week.”
“She must be very old.”
“Well over eighty,” he said grimly. “No one will miss her but Vera. I had Donald go to the hospital tonight with his mother.”
“You should have cancelled the evening at the theatre if you felt you should be there,” she said.
“Not I,” he said angrily. “I’m not a hypocrite. That old woman has been my enemy since the day I married Vera. I can’t pretend liking her because she’s dying.”
Becky suggested, “Perhaps it will be better after she’s gone. Vera may be easier to live with, not having her mother to dominate her.”
“No hope for her now,” he said darkly. “She is cast in her mother’s mold for all time. It will be like the evil old woman living on.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Have you heard from Anne?” he asked.
“Yes. I finally had a letter. She’s having a wonderful time.”
“Met any young men?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “The only young man she mentioned in her letter was Donald and she’s been writing him three times a week.”
“I know,” Bart growled. “Confound it, what is that old saying about absence making the heart fonder? I think that is what is happening.”
“I still have hopes,” she said.
They reached the theatre and Bart told the driver of the carriage when to return. The bright gas lights of the theatre district and the milling, excited crowds on the street always thrilled Becky and made her forget her cares. Hansom cabs forged their way through the busy streets with difficulty and let out their elegant passengers in front of the various theatres.
Bart guided her towards the Lyceum. She smiled up at him and was shocked by the lines on his handsome face and the look of pain which had become almost a mask.
“Is your arthritis bad tonight?” she asked.
“I will forget about it when the play is on,” he promised. “I always do.”
She worried. “Perhaps we should not go out to supper afterwards. You’d best go straight home.”
“No,” he said. “Having supper is part of the evening. I’m not an invalid yet.”
She argued with him no more. He had made up his mind and was adamant. Irving gave his usual magnificent performance and she secretly glanced at Bart and saw the interested look on his face; she knew he was getting his usual enjoyment from the play.
But during the last act she suddenly felt the pressure of his arm against hers. She turned quickly and was shocked to see that he had fallen asleep and was slouched against her, breathing deeply. She felt sure it was only sleep and not a sudden illness, but she was worried about him.
Then there was a round of applause as the company took their curtain calls. Bart at once came awake and sat up as if nothing had happened. He joined in the applause and rose to his feet and shouted “Bravo!” when Irving appeared alone to take a final bow. She was relieved to know that he was all right but deeply concerned about his health.
They had supper at the Strand, but he seemed listless. She was sure that once again he almost fell asleep at the table. She was glad when they were able to leave and get in the carriage to be driven home.
She linked her arm in his and said, “You are working too hard.”
He stared ahead of him at the shadows of the gloomy interior of the carriage. “It is the pain,” he said. “And the struggle. They’re all opposed to me!”
“Why don’t you give up?”
“I never have!”
“The time may have come,” she said. “I’m afraid for your health. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t think I can face life alone.”
“You’re still lovely,” he said. “And not that old. Someone will come along.”
“No” she said, her throat tight with emotion.
“Come now, be sensible,” he said. “I’m by no means dead yet. Nor do I intend to be soon.”
The next morning she learned of the death of Vera’s mother. She sent a wreath of flowers and a letter of sympathy, but she did not attend the funeral. She missed seeing both Bart and Donald for a few days. But in the interim she did receive a letter from Anne full of exciting news.
“Dearest Mother,” Anne had written. “I have had the most amazing experience. At a party given by the school I met a count! And he’s young and attractive! He is paying me court, and I must say I’m enjoying it! I feel guilty about Donald, but I have decided to be honest and tell him all about it. After all, it is a flirtation. Nothing serious!”
The letter had gone on to tell of the Count André Lemont taking her to a famous restaurant for dinner, and on a later afternoon having her meet his mother for afternoon tea. Becky read the letter over several times with happy tears in her eyes. It sounded promising.
Then Donald reappeared and called on her in the late afternoon, as was his usual custom. He seemed edgy and not at all in a happy frame of mind.
He asked her, “Has Anne written you?”
She nodded. “You mean about the Count? Yes.”
“Blast the Count!” he said with anger.
“You mustn’t blame her. She’s young and attractive. Having beaux is part of every girl’s right.”
“What about me?”
“I’ve already told you to seek out some nice girls and pay the same attention to them. Flirting is good for young people of both genders.”
Donald frowned. “She had the nerve to write me and tell me all about it!”
“She’s merely being honest. And why not? You’re not married or engaged!”
“I feel we have an understanding.”
“Thank goodness she doesn’t seem to share your views,” Becky said. “Be sensible and keep yourself busy with some other girl. I’d be willing to venture that Anne will tire of this Count in a week or two.”
He brightened. “You think so?”
“I hope so,” she said. “I don’t want her serious about him, any more than I wish her to be serious about you.”
“You want her to be a heartless flirt!”
“I think every girl should try it for a little. I did!”
The young man looked astounded. “You are the most faithful of women. You and father have been true to each other for many years.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m getting to be an old woman. We change with the years.”
“You’re not old,” he teased her. “You’re terribly beautiful, and if I weren’t in love with Anne I’d try to steal you from my father!”
“Donald!” she protested, but with a smile.
He kissed her and left.
It was later in the evening when Bart arrived. And because there was a chill in the air she had a good log fire blazing in the fireplace and saw that Bart sat before it.
He relaxed in the easy chair and smiled. “That feels so good.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Donald was in to see me.” And she told him all about it.
He heard her through the account and then asked, “Do you think Anne might be serious about this titled Frenchman?”
“If he’s a suitable man, I hope she is,” Becky said. “But I’d first like to meet him and know something about him before I give my approval.”
“At least it’s a healthy sign that she and Donald might drift apart.”
“Not if he can help it,” she said.
“He’s stubborn,” Bart said. “One day he may have to know the truth if he persists in wanting to marry Anne. We can spare her, but one of them will have to be told.”
She gave Bart a frightened look. “He would never understand. He would hate us!”
“Do we have any choice?” Bart asked grimly.
A week later Becky received another letter from Paris. Trembling a little with excitement, she opened it and sat down to read her daughter’s latest account of life in Paris. It began ordinarily enough with Anne’s description of a visit to a famous restaurant and her belief that the French truly did outdo the British when it came to good food.
This was followed by her difficulties in getting some proper dress materials for her Paris dressmaker, and a request that Becky find some suitable silver buttons the size of a penny to send to her. She also mentioned that she was becoming quite proficient in speaking French, though Susan had a better grasp of the writing of it.
But it was at the very end of the letter that she revealed her most important news, she said, “Dear, mama, I find myself in a predicament, the like of which I have never known before. My charming André has actually made me an offer of marriage! I can be Countess Lemont if I wish and live near Paris on a beautiful estate. He is anxious to meet you and discuss this with you. I have not given him any real encouragement, though I do like him. But there is Donald. So you see, you must help me!”
Becky sat back with a sigh of relief, the letter still in her lap. So the miracle she had prayed for was at last happening. There was someone else to rival Donald and marry her daughter. She could tell by the letter, in spite of its cautious tone, that Anne was more than a little in love with this young Frenchman. And that was very good!
She could only try to encourage the romance without seeming to be interfering too much. Bart would be as relieved as she was. Of course, when Donald heard the news, he would be upset but he would get over it. With all this in mind she decided she should write a reply letter at once.
Seated at the tiny desk in her bedroom she began a letter to Anne, saying, “My darling Anne, I shall go to that little button shop on Gray Street tomorrow and try and find the silver buttons you’ve requested. Your restaurant experiences sound fascinating and make me hungry, even at this distance. I have always felt British food lacking in some departments.
“The last paragraph of your letter is, naturally, the one which offers me the most excitement. I think your romance with André most appropriate and delightful. And it would seem he is serious in his intentions. I think you should judge him on his own merits and not feel you have to compare him with Donald. You know that Donald has an advantage, in that you and he grew up together. But that very thing makes him a more dubious choice for a life mate. Think about this. I will be happy to meet and talk with your Count. Let me know when you’d like me to join you in Paris for a week or two, and I shall make all the arrangements.”
When she’d finished the letter she read it over and it seemed all right. She sealed it. and addressed it and placed it on her desk to take out and mail. Bart generally came by to see her on Wednesday nights, and she hoped that he would come this week so she could share the good news with him.
She was on her way to discuss dinner with the cook when the doorbell rang. She answered it herself and discovered a troubled elderly man in a black stovepipe hat and long black coat standing on the steps.
“Yes?” she said.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” the man said respectfully. “ I’m Mr. Bart’s coachman.”
She smiled. “Of course. I recognize you now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said nervously. “Mr. Donald sent me to fetch you. His father has met with a bad accident, and he is at the Charing Cross Hospital.”
“Bart met with an accident?” she asked tautly.
“Yes, ma’am, Mr. Woods is in the hospital in bad shape.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t rightly tell you,” the old man said. “I only know you’re supposed to come to the hospital at once.”
“I shall,” she said. “Wait until I get my coat and hat and speak to my cook.”
The drive through the busy London streets to the hospital was an ordeal for her. She kept imagining the worst sort of things. Perhaps Bart had been personally inspecting one of the ships under construction in the yard and had fallen.
Donald was waiting for her in the hospital entrance. He kissed her and said, “I knew you would come.”
“What happened?” she asked, with a questioning look.
His handsome young face was grim. “It’s very strange, to be truthful, my father isn’t being all that helpful.”
“Did he fall?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Donald grimaced. “I find it hard to believe. Father left the office alone. Before he could reach his carriage, he was intercepted by a burly man in a black coat and a broad-brimmed black hat such as people on the Continent wear. According to the coachman, who was the only eye witness of the happenings, this man spoke angrily to father. My father raised a hand, as if to strike him. Then, without warning the stranger attacked my father and gave him a most terrible beating about the face and head.”
“Horrible!” she gasped.
“Incredible,” Donald agreed. “The coachman tried to stop the fight but was himself thrown to the ground. My father fought back as well as he could, but with his arthritis he was no match for this fellow. Eventually he was knocked down also. Then the stranger strode away and escaped before anyone could charge him with the attack!”
“It has to be the act of some madman!” she said in fury.
“I agree,” Donald said worriedly. “Otherwise, there is no explanation for it. At least I can’t think of any.”
Becky said, “Perhaps in the old days it could have happened. Your father made many enemies when he was a strikebreaker. You must have heard him talk about those times.”
“He prefers not to dwell on them.”
“There was much violence then,” she said. “Both on his part and on the part of those who opposed him.”
The young man frowned. “Nothing like that goes on now. We have a union shop and they are extremely loyal.”
“But was this someone outside the firm who made the attack on Bart?”
“It had to be,” the young man frowned.
“How is he?”
“Badly shaken up. His face is cut and bruised. I had him brought here, because I feared he might have body or head injuries.”
“He’s resilent,” she said.
Donald took her arm and nodded “He needs to be to survive this.”