# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
DESPAIR
For some little time after Mr. Bartenstein's departure Millicent sat alone in the library feeling as if all the world had grown dark. The events of the morning had followed one upon the other so quickly that she could scarcely realize their significance; she felt stunned, not only mentally, but physically, as if she had just been through a serious accident. She had risen that morning feeling herself the happiest girl in the world, and had gone forth to meet her lover with a heart as light as the June winds that played about her. She had come back from their meeting happier than ever, and had felt strongly tempted, when the old butler opened the door to her, to catch him round the waist and dance him across the hall. And then had fallen this awful blow, like some great black cloud suddenly blotting out the sun.
She could not yet believe it. Ruin, dishonour, perhaps for her father—poverty for them all—and for herself a dreadful alternative. If Mr. Bartenstein could have seen into Millicent ​Oxenham's heart just then he would have known what it is to be soundly hated. She had always disliked him; now she thought of him with a hatred which was all the deeper because it was foreign to her nature, affectionate and sunny as it was, to hate anything. She clenched her hands as she thought of him—probably because, in her tom-boy days, now far off, Jack Lauderdale had taught her something about boxing.
"Beast!" she said to herself, between set teeth. "How I should like to thrash him! And it may be that he is at the bottom of all this trouble. Oh, if my poor father had never known him or brought him here!"
Then, feeling how impotent poor women are, however adept they may be in hunting and riding and driving and certain other things, she shed a few quiet tears and was very unhappy, as indeed she had good reason to be, considering that her day-dreams had suddenly been torn to shreds and her palace of shining things pulled down about her ears. But Millicent was not the sort to waste time in wailing and weeping, and ere long she had dried her eyes and informed herself that this was not the time for nonsense, but for a display of higher qualities. And feeling that she was doing the wisest thing open to her, she dispatched a telegram to Lieutenant Lauderdale, in which she asked him to come to her half an hour earlier than they had first arranged upon. After which she forced herself to assume her usual manner and went to attend her invalid mother.
​But in spite of all the girl's attempts to be cheerful and to hope for the best, and to put faith in whatever counsel her lover might give her, she was in a state of terrible despair, especially when Lady Oxenham had gone to sleep in the afternoon and she had no one to talk to. She wished someone would call; then she fervently hoped that no one would; she was restless and uneasy and could settle to nothing. And as the time drew near for her father's return from the City her agitation became so great that she was thankful there was no one there to notice it.
It was Sir Nicholas Oxenham's custom to leave his office at half past four every afternoon, and, not being a man who cared much for frequenting clubs, to drive straight home, where he usually amused himself in his library with his books, prints or coins, until it was time to dress for dinner. Tea was always ready for him in the library, and Millicent made a strict point of being there when he came in, to attend to any little want which he might have. She was there on this particular afternoon long before he came, fidgeting about and wretched with anxiety.
"He said—that beast—that Father would know at four o'clock, and that then he would go to him," she murmured. "That may make him late. And the news—the bad news may have made him ill. If he's not here at half past five, I shall telephone to the office."
But at five o'clock, just as if nothing had happened, she heard her father's voice in the hall, ​and in another minute he came in, looking much as usual, except that he seemed tired and walked rather slowly.
"Are you very tired today, Father?" she asked, when she had kissed him and put him into his favourite chair.
"Well, my dear, I am a little more tired than usual," replied Sir Nicholas. "I have had rather a trying time of it this afternoon. I have asked Basset to bring me a little brandy-and-water—I will drink it before you give me my tea."
She watched him narrowly, as he sat sipping at his glass, when Basset had left the room, and it suddenly struck her with a pang that he was aging faster than seemed reasonable. He was a handsome old man, tall and slender of figure, with a clean-shaven, intellectual face, a strong chin and an aquiline nose—his daughter had always been proud of him, just as he was something more than proud of her. She noticed now, looking more narrowly at him than she had done for some time, that his hair was not only getting thinner, but that it was changing rapidly from grey to white; she noticed, too, that there were fresh lines about his eyes and his mouth. And once more Mr. Bartenstein's sinister words made her heart heavy as lead.
She Nicholas drank his brandy-and-water, and presently took the cup of tea which his daughter handed him. He had a liking for certain sorts of sandwiches, and she had taken ​care to see that they were in readiness for him, but he merely made a pretence of eating, and set down his cup with a gesture which indicated that he did not care for a second. He sat for a moment or two silently staring in front of him; then he raised his head and beckoned his daughter to him with a faint smile.
"Come here, dear," he said. "I have something to tell you."
Millicent knelt by his side—her favourite position when he wanted to talk confidentially to her—and put her hands in his.
"It's not very pleasant telling," he began. "My little girl must bear it bravely. But you are brave, Millie—there's nothing of the weak woman in you, thank God!"
"I hope not, Father," she answered. "And whatever it is that you have to tell me, I hope it's nothing that will give you pain."
"I'm afraid it's something that will give us all pain," he said. "That is, if it really happens."
If it really happens! Then, so far, the worst had not happened! She felt a sudden lightening of heart, a great sense of relief. But she made no remark, and waited for her father to continue.
"I have always made a point, Millie," Sir Nicholas presently continued, "of never talking about my business affairs at home; I get quite plenty of them at the office," he added, with a grim smile. "I like to forget them when I leave there."
​Millicent pressed his hands and nodded her head.
"But you may have noticed lately that I have been very much worried when I came home," he went on. "And perhaps a little irritable. The fact is, I have had serious losses this year—very serious losses. That affair of the loan to the Government of Montalbia was—almost irreparable. And there have been others. In fact, it became necessary to effect a great coup in order to put matters straight—desperate ills require desperate remedies, you know. Well, today—this afternoon—I found that my desperate remedy had failed."
"And what does that mean, Father?" she asked.
"It means that, unless my last resort is good, I am ruined," he said slowly, but without emotion. "Ruined!"
"What is that last resort?" she asked, well knowing what the answer would be.
"Bartenstein," he answered slowly. "Bartenstein. I saw him this afternoon after I knew what had happened, and I explained matters to him, though, of course, he had a pretty good idea of how things stood, because he and I have had so many dealings together. He was by no means averse to doing what I asked, but he said it must depend on the success of a transaction of his own, which will be completed one way or the other tomorrow at noon. He will give me an answer at one o'clock. Well, I have had so many days ​and nights of suspense that a few more hours will not make much difference."
Millicent was silent for a time. So, after all, everything depended upon her! It was hard, it was cruel—what evil fortune was it that had ordained this thing?
"Father," she said at last, "what does it exactly mean if—if Mr. Bartenstein doesn't come to your rescue? Does it mean that we should be absolutely without means—quite poor?"
Sir Nicholas laughed a little bitterly, and stroked his daughter's hair.
"No, child, no!" he answered. "Not quite that, Millie. But we should be poor in comparison.
"Only in comparison!" she exclaimed eagerly.
"Ah, but you don't know yet what it is to be poor in comparison, child," he said. "You have been brought up in luxury," and he looked around him at his richly furnished and well-stocked library and sighed.
"We shouldn't be—paupers?" she said.
Sir Nicholas laughed again.
"Well, scarcely!" he replied. "No—I've carefully reckoned everything, and if the worst comes to the worst, I can meet all my obligations, and have enough left to bring in five or six hundred a year. And then there's your mother's jointure of five hundred. No—we shouldn't be quite paupers."
"A thousand a year!" exclaimed Millicent ​eagerly. "Why, Father, there are lots of people who live on that, aren't there?"
"There are lots of people who live on half of it, and lots more who live on a quarter of it, and lots and lots more who live on a tenth of it," said Sir Nicholas grimly. "And there are still lots left who have to live, whether they like it or not, on one-twentieth of it."
"Then, Father, if a thousand a year is certain," she said, "why go to Mr. Bartenstein? Why not give up business and devote yourself to your books for—for the rest of your time? You've worked hard enough."
Sir Nicholas stroked his hair again.
"I am afraid you don't quite understand, dear," he said. "If the worst comes to the worst, the books will have to go. So will the pictures. So will the old china and the coins. We shall have to leave this for a small house—a house in the suburbs. Ugh! No—a thousand a year doesn't go far, Millie. You can't keep horses or carriages on that, or give dinner-parties, even quiet ones. And besides, after my career, I don't want to retire defeated. Remember, I am only sixty-two, and with my knowledge I can put matters right again in a year or two— perhaps less. When they are, then I will retire.
"No—I must see what Bartenstein has to say tomorrow. It seems a little strange that he could not give me an answer this afternoon, because I should have thought that he could have put his hand on a million at any time. But one never ​knows how money is tied up," he added reflectively. "I only hope his own transaction will end satisfactorily tomorrow morning. In that case I shall be all right—if not, I shall be all wrong."
He gave his daughter a squeeze of the hand, smiled a little sadly, and rose from his chair.
"Now, I'll go and see Mother," he said. "Don't let her see there's anything wrong, Millie. After all, I've got faith in Bartenstein. So don't worry unduly—I only wanted you to be prepared. By the by, isn't young Lauderdale dining tonight?"
"Yes, Father," she answered.
"That's right," he said. "He'll liven us up."
Then he left the room, and Millicent was more miserable and despairing than ever.