“Robert!” called Fleetwood, from the other side of the room, where he was engaged in a lively argument with Mr. Warkworth. “Robert, come and bear me out! Robert! ”
“Yes, in a moment!” Mr. Beaumaris returned. He detained Bertram a moment longer. “Don’t fail!” he said. “I shall expect to see you on Thursday.”
He judged it to be impossible to say more, for there were people all round them, and it was plain that the boy’s pride would not brook a suggestion that his gaming-debts should be consigned to the flames.
But he was still frowning when he reached his house, some time later. Ulysses, gambolling and squirming before him, found that his welcome was not receiving acknowledgement, and barked at him. Mr. Beaumaris bent, and patted him absentmindedly. “Hush! I am not in the mood for these transports!” he said. “I was right when I told you that you were not destined to be the worst of my responsibilities, was I not? I think I ought to have set the boy’s mind at ease: one never knows, with boys of that age—and I didn’t like the look in his face. All to pieces, I have little doubt. At the same time, I’ll be damned if I’ll go out again at this hour of the night. A night’s reflection won’t hurt him.”
He picked up the branch of candles that stood upon the hall-table, and carried it into his study, and to his desk by the window. Seeing him sit down, and open the ink-standish, Ulysses indicated his sentiments by yawning loudly. “Don’t let me keep you up!” said Mr. Beaumaris, dipping a pen in the standish, and drawing a sheet of paper towards himself.
Ulysses cast himself on the floor with a flop, gave one or two whines, bethought him of a task left undone, and began zealously to clean his forepaws.
Mr. Beaumaris wrote a few rapid lines, dusted his sheet, shook off the sand, and was just about to fold the missive, when he paused. Ulysses looked up hopefully. “Yes, in a minute,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “If he has quite outrun the constable—” He laid clown the paper, drew out a fat pocket-book from his inner pocket, and extracted from it a bill for a hundred pounds. This he folded up in his letter, sealed the whole with a wafer, and directed it. Then he rose, and to Ulysses’ relief indicated that he was now ready to go to bed. Ulysses, who slept every night on the mat outside his door, and regularly, as a matter of form, challenged Painswick’s right to enter that sacred apartment each morning, scampered ahead of him up the stairs. Mr. Beaumaris found his valet awaiting him, his expression a nice mixture of wounded sensibility, devotion to duty, and long-suffering. He gave the sealed letter into his hand. “See that that is delivered to a Mr. Anstey, at the Red Lion, somewhere in the City, tomorrow morning,” he said curtly. “In person!” he added.
XIV
Not for three days did any news of the disaster which had overtaken Bertram reach his sister. She had written to beg him to meet her by the Bath Gate in the Green Park, and had sent the letter by the Penny Post. When he neither appeared at the rendezvous, nor replied to her letter, she began to be seriously alarmed, and was trying to think of a way of visiting the Red Lion without her godmother’s knowledge when Mr. Scunthorpe sent up his card, at three o’clock one afternoon. She desired the butler to show him into the drawing-room, and went down immediately from her bedchamber to receive him.
It did not at once strike her that he was looking preternaturally solemn; she was too eager to learn tidings of Bertram, and went impetuously towards him with her hand held out, exclaiming: “I am so very glad you have called to see me, sir! I have been so much worried about my brother! Have you news of him? Oh, do not tell me he is ill?”