"And as I simply can't be 'done for' in that way, I flee for my life. Now do say a good word for me, father,"—and, to the general's unspeakable amazement, the next moment a little friendly figure was nestling against him, holding on to his coat, and looking up into his face.
The sensation this gave General Boldero was more than novel, it was extraordinary. He was a tolerably old man, he had been twice married, and had always lived surrounded by the gentler sex, but it is safe to say he had never been nestled against in his life. He looked down, he looked up, and then he looked down again.
"Deuced pretty little rogue!" he muttered.
"They think Mr. Custance doesn't know one of us from another, and that it is the most presumptuous cheek on my part to imagine he has ever given me a thought," proceeded Leonore, still intent upon her task; "they think he is far, far above all sublunary affairs——"
"Rubbish. He is no more above them than I am. I don't say Custance isn't well enough, and I have a—a sort of regard for him. But you have the sense to see what your sisters have not——"
"That one simply can't be mulcted at every turn." She had heard "mulcted" on his own lips on more than one occasion; it should serve as a weapon to shield Sue now. Sue, still mute and motionless, cringed behind, but Leo had an intuition that she breathed relief.
"That's it; that's it exactly," cried the general, delighted, and again he appended a mental comment: "Deuced clever little rat!" "Well, I'm glad to find there is some explanation of what really sounded a most outrageous statement;" he turned to depart, now in excellent humour. "I must say, however, that you would do well to see that the dining-room door is shut when next you are amusing yourself with that kind of tomfoolery. Any of the servants coming along had only to step inside and listen behind the screen, and there would have been a fine tittle-tattle among them—aye, and it wouldn't have stopped there. It would have been all through the village that Miss Boldero——"
"Oh, dear, how funny!" laughed Leo. She had felt Sue's fingers clutch her dress behind. She stepped with her father's step, as he moved to pass, and made a face at him.
"There—there—you absurd monkey!" but the monkey was pushed aside with a gentle hand, and marching off with all the honours of the field in his own esteem, the general never once looked at Sue.
Throughout the foregoing scene Leonore had evinced a quickness of perception and a delicacy beyond what might have been expected from one so young and volatile,—but directly she was alone a revulsion of feeling took place.
Sue had tottered from the dining-room without so much as a glance towards herself. That was nothing. She understood, and did not in the least resent it—since any recognition of her protecting agency would have openly acknowledged what the hapless spinster might still hope was only vaguely guessed at; but it was the thing itself, the incredible, incomprehensible thing which staggered, and, it must be owned, in a sense revolted her.
She flew out of doors. There only, out of sight and hearing, could her bewildered senses realise what had passed, and grasp its full significance. There only dared she give way to the spasms of passionate amazement and incredulity which found vent in reiterated ejaculations of Sue's name.
Sue?Sue?SUE? She found herself crying it over and over again, and each time with a fresh intonation.
Sue? It was impossible—it was unnatural—it was horrible. Sue? She stamped her foot, and sent a pebble flying down the path.
Sue—poor old Sue—dear old Sue—"Old" Sue, whichever way you took it, how could she, howcouldshe?
In Leo's eyes, Sue, verging on middle age, had never been young; earliest reminiscences pictured her the same composed and tranquil creature, with the same detachment from life as regarded herself, the same contented absorption in the concerns of others, that was present now to the eyes of all.
No one ever thought of Sue in connection with love or matrimony; not even in years gone by; not even when Leo was a child.
True, she had her own niche in the family and household, and it was by no means an unimportant one—but it was high upon a shelf as regarded affairs of the heart.
Her dress, her habits, her punctilio in small matters—all that she did or said marked her the typical old maid, and had done so for years out of mind—so that the present revelation was worse than shocking, it was cruel.
For the best part of an hour the storm raged. She found herself repeating her father's words "preposterous!"—"outrageous!"—and endorsing them with throbs of scorn and anger. The sister she loved, the woman she venerated was lowered in her eyes. She was pained, as well as shocked....
But presently there ensued a change. After all, what had poor Sue done? Certainly she had at no time given the faintest outward indication of her folly, till powerless to help herself; she had endured what must have been a painful ordeal beforehand with fortitude, and there must have been many similar occasions when calmness and self-restraint were needed, and had never failed.
Was it not rather wonderful of Sue? The weakness was there, but she had had strength to hide it. Maud and Sybil knew nothing of it; no one knew; least of all the man himself.
And apparently Sue was content to have it so,—here was another marvel; she loved and asked for nothing in return. She could go quietly on week after week, month after month, hugging her secret,—yet its power was such that Leo herself trembled to recall the hour that so nearly laid it bare. It was terrible to see Sue blanch and blench; to watch the fluttering of her lace jabot as her bosom heaved beneath. She trembled as she had never trembled at any emotions of her own.
She perceived that love was a strange, unknown force of which she, happily wooed, happily wedded, and sorrowfully widowed, nevertheless knew nothing. She had loved her husband—indeed she had loved him; he had been uniformly kind and pleasant and indulgent towards her, and she had honestly reciprocated his attachment,—but sometimes, sometimes she had wondered? She had heard, she had read of—more: she had never felt it.
And vague fancies had been put aside as disloyal; reasoned away as disturbing elements of a very real if sober felicity. She was married; and it was wrong and wicked to imagine how things might have been if she had never seen Godfrey, and was going about free and unfettered like other girls?
She did not, of course she did not, wish to be free, and was ashamed to find the thought obtruding itself; but there had been moments—and these recurred to her now.
How strange it must be to feel as—as Sue did, for instance? To start at the sound of a footstep, to thrill at a voice; to be wrapt in a golden haze—oh, she knew all that could be told about that curious, fantastic, elusive mystery, which was yet a sealed book as regarded herself.
And was it not a little hard that it should be so? Had something been missed out of her nature? Was she really formed without warmth, ardour, sensibility? A smile played upon her lips.
Was she then not inviting? Was there nothing desirable, attractive, alluring—nothing to create in another the feeling which might have awakened her own slumbering soul?
It might be so, and yet——
Again her thoughts reverted to Sue; to the staid, gaunt elderly Sue,—and with a new and sharp sensation. Sue had not waited to be sought; Sue could give without asking to receive—she envied Sue from the bottom of her soul.
To her own small public Leo, before her widowhood, had always appeared the gayest of the gay. It was herrôleto be jocund and amusing, and no one took her seriously. But there was another side to her character which she had always been at pains to conceal, partly because it would have met with but scant sympathy from others, partly because she was afraid of it herself,—and of late she had been more and more conscious of the existence of this undercurrent of thought and feeling.
Even had there been no cause for sadness, she would frequently have felt sad. The influences of Nature moved her. Certain sights and sounds oppressed her. From her dreams she often woke in tears.
And now that the first fury as regarded Sue had spent itself, this causeless dejection of spirit took its place. She was no longer bitter against Sue; she would have liked to take her sister to her heart and comfort her. She would have liked—oh, how she would have liked—to confide to her, to some one, to any one the dim confused tumult of half-formed regrets and yearnings—"Oh, I have lost something that I never had!"—she cried aloud.
But who so bold and merry as this elfin Leo an hour afterwards?
"I have brought Mr. Custance in to tea, father. Oh, father, I want you; I have heaps of things to ask you about. I'm always forgetting them, because you are so seldom in at tea. I met Mr. Custance marching off in another direction," continued Leo, looking round, "but I just marched him up here instead,"—and she awaited applause.
It was a masterstroke, and so Sybil pronounced it afterwards. "No one but you would have dared, you audacious imp," she shook the strategist by the shoulder. "After that rumpus!"
"It was rather a shame dragging the poor innocent man into the rumpus, and Sue was really hurt," quoth Leo, with a guileless air. "There was nothing for it but to make use of herpermission, and not only 'see the rector' but haul him along."
She had told herself that nothing would so effectually do away with any fear of self-betrayal on Sue's part, as this easy introduction of a guest never less expected and perhaps never more welcome. She had waylaid the well-known figure from whom she had formerly fled, and her end was attained.
But the general was not to be allowed to interfere with it, and he heard himself forthwith accosted. "Father, I wish you'd tell me; I was out in the woods just now, and a bird was singing——"
"Very wonderful, I'm sure. A bird usually sings in a garret, or a cellar, of course."
"Don't you laugh at me, father; you know about birds, and I don't; and I really do want you to tell me why one should sing, and the others not, at this time of year?"
"Tell you that?Ican't. They're made so." But the general did not speak as gruffly as usual, and emboldened, she proceeded.
"Well, but what bird is it that sings—sings just as if it were summer?"
"A robin, of course, you ignorant little thing. Given a bit of sunshine, a robin will sing all the year round."
"Oh," said Leo, profoundly attentive, "all the year round, will he? Why, I wonder?"
"If you come to 'whys' you may 'why' for ever. Why does a swallow build on a housetop and a lark in a meadow? Why does a stork stand on one leg——"
"Oh, and I saw a heron to-day," cried she vivaciously. "Now where did that heron come from?"
"From Lord St. Emeraud's heronry. They often fly over here in the winter."
"What for, father?"
"Bless my soul, Leo, how can I tell you what for? What's all this sudden interest in natural history about? Get a book and read it up,"—and he was turning away, but this was just what he was not to do.
"Can't you sit down and talk to me a little?" quoth Leo, plaintively; "I don't care for those kind of books much. And you could tell me a lot I want to know; about seabirds, for instance. I never can understand how some can swim and some can't. And then there are the birds that go away in the autumn——"
"Stop—stop!"
"And there are the other kinds of birds——"
"Of course there are. What's all this hullabaloo about birds for?" He was half disposed to be pugnacious, but even a fighting-cock could hardly have quarrelled with Leonore in this vein. She was so unconscious of giving offence, so friendly and sociable, had such a little smiling way of her own, that even General Boldero was won upon, and, indeed, had never looked so little disagreeable in his life.
Here was a chatterbox certainly, and he had all the dislike of a suspicious, stupid man for chatterboxes. He despised them—with an inkling that they despised him. When he did talk, he wished to lead the talk,—and such was the feeling he inspired in the neighbourhood, that he was gladly allowed to do so. No one cared to put him into ill-humour, since he was only tolerable when bland; furthermore, he was not worth argument and opposition.
Hence it was a new thing to be appealed to for information, and though not qualified to give it, he was the last to suppose as much. About the subject in question he knew just what he could not help knowing, and what Leo herself knew a great deal better,—but her object was attained, and the "hullabaloo" protested against, chained him to her side.
The tea-table was now spread, and he glanced towards it, but quick as lightning she struck in.
"Do let us bring our tea here, father. Just you and me. The others can amuse Mr. Custance, he can't need us too."
"Eh?" said the astonished general. Some one wanted to talk to him, and to him alone? He hardly knew what to do with so flattering an invitation.
But as he was obviously expected to respond to it, he followed to the tea-table, and for a minute awaited his turn in patience. Then, as Leo, having helped herself, returned to the sofa and he was still unattended to, he began to frown.
"Pray, Miss Boldero, am I to have no tea? Take care, what you are about." For, strange to say, he had been unperceived, and Sue, flurried by the sudden demand, and in haste to meet it, contrived to catch the handle of the cream jug in her wide lace sleeve, with the result that her father's caution came too late; the jug overturned, and cream flowed apace.
Had it been milk it would have spread faster and farther, but even as it was, there was a mess displeasing to the eye, and the offender in her endeavours to remedy it, made matters worse. The wet lace swished hither and thither.
"Ugh!" cried the general, retreating with a glance at his trousers. "Ring the bell—no, here"—and he produced a clean pocket-handkerchief, and unfolded it.
"Well done, father!" piped a clear voice at his side, and a small hand whipped the handkerchief from him, and deftly used it.
"It's you, is it?" quoth the general, actually laughing.
Do what he would, he could not escape from Leo that day. Here she was back at his elbow, and he was not even allowed to hector Sue for her awkwardness and abuse her sleeves, he was withdrawn so swiftly from the scene of action.
"We'll have this little table between us," quoth Leo, planting it handy for him, "and we'll enjoy ourselves, and they can talk to their rector,"—with gleeful assumption of having secured a superior attraction.
"He is just their sort, but he isn't mine,"—and she peeped slily from under her eyelashes.
"You mischievous puss!" But as she patted the sofa, and he finally sat down, General Boldero felt in a curious way young, and attracted against his will.
Could it really be his own daughter who was thus exerting herself for his entertainment, and his alone? Hitherto, he had never given Leo a thought in the way of desiring her company, and certainly would not have done so now, if let alone,—but since he was not let alone, but was plied with a perfect cross-fire of questions, comments, and what not, while all the time the speaker gave him the whole of her attention, and the full play of her saucy eyes, he was bound to own himself amused.
He was so well amused that he never once glanced towards the rest of the party, nor would Leo do so, lest he should follow suit.
She was, however, nimble-witted, and could contrive for her own purposes. She could stoop to pick up a fallen glove: she could search the carpet for something else which was not there. By these means she learnt that there was no longer a quartet assembled in a central part of the room; that Maud and Sybil had resumed occupations in distant corners, leaving the visitor to Sue; and that Sue—she longed to look at Sue, but refrained.
Sue sat on in her large armchair, with her back to the light. Her companion's hand rested on the back of the chair.
Seen from Leo's standpoint, the bent shoulders and thin neck were aggressively apparent against the light—for a pale winter sunset lit up the sky without, and the two figures were silhouetted sharply—but Sue? what did Sue see?
Apparently what satisfied her, what transformed the world around her.
For Leo, rising at last, as all rose, and drawing near with a curiosity which had also in it a great and passionate envy, beheld upon her sister's face the look which she sought, the look which she was never to forget. Again her heart cried out, and would not be silenced: "I have lost something that I never had!"
We will now pass over a period of deadly dulness and unvarying monotony at Boldero Abbey.
Such periods were normal there to all but Leonore. Her sisters frittered away the hours in small pursuits which led to nothing, (if we except a certain kindly care of the poor on the estate, whose interests Sue at least found of importance)—otherwise they existed, and that is all that could be said for them.
But Leonore? Well, of course she had no alternative but to tread the path prescribed for her; and the bright spring days were followed by the longer ones of summer, and again by the crisp, dewy mornings and melting twilights of early autumn, without any incident or event taking place to mark one week from another.
Such a life was foreign to all the instincts of our little girl's nature. She was quick, alert, impetuous. She was keenly alive in every fibre of her being. She effervesced with vitality. Added to which there was a strange sense of growth pulsing through every vein.
And of this all outward token had to be repressed beneath the iron hand of convention. To the outward eye there was only a forlorn little black figure stealing meekly out of view, to seek, it might be supposed, the shades of solitude for pensive, retrospective meditation, or discharging with docility such offices of charity as were presumed to be proper and becoming to her widowhood,—but for the rest, no one really knew or cared what Leo did with herself.
She was much alone—they supposed she liked to be alone. On that one day to which she grew to look back upon astheday—the day on which Sue's heart stood revealed—it had indeed for a moment appeared as if the bonds which held her in their grip must break, and give birth to a new era—but the episode ended disappointingly. It was not an upheaval, it was a mere crack on the surface—and the crack gradually closed again.
"I told you that father would not always be so amenable," said Sybil one day, not perhaps altogether ill-pleased to see her sister's face fall, and her cheek flush beneath a chilling response. "It is no use taking it to heart, child. You do better with him than any of the rest of us do, and that ought to content you."
And again it was: "Sue? What should I know about Sue? She goes her own way, and we go ours,"—the tone conveying, "and you must go yours," as plainly as though the words had been spoken.
But Leo had no "way" to go. She had no object on which to bend her eyes. She had no end in view when she rose in the morning, no food for reflection at night. She drifted. Her poor little face took a wan, comfortless look,—and to herself she would wonder how, when she first returned to the home of her childhood, she could have felt so different, so foolishly hopeful and cheerful? All sorts of possibilities had seemed to lie before her then, how could they? She often sat for hours in the woods staring vacantly around, and thinking, thinking.
Had there been any human being in the big, dreary house to whom she could have poured out all the workings of a young, imprisoned soul beating against its bars, any one at this crisis to feel for and sympathise with the hapless child, any kind arm thrown around her, or hand in hers, things might have been different,—but as it was, alone she had to battle with all the subtle imaginings, the dim, confused perceptions, the fancies, the visions which haunted her.
Incredible as it may appear, she looked back upon her married life much as an emancipated schoolgirl regards the busy, merry past, all-sufficing at the time, but outgrown and left behind.
Leo never doubted that she had been happy,—but the thought that were it possible for her one day to wake up and find that all she had gone through of late was but a bad dream, brought no sense of longing, no passionate thrill of desire. Instead, she shrank—yes, she shrank and hung her head, wondering if any one else so placed ever felt the same? How was it?—why was it?
And anon she knew. It was the look on Sue's face.
In lighter vein, Leonore took to beautifying her person. As Mrs. Stubbs she had contented herself and annoyed her maid, a conscientious creature, by fulfilling its bare requirements. She had hurried through dressing-time, and been impatient of details. Anne's slow method of handling her hair was a constant worry; and now that Anne no longer existed for her, it must be owned that there was, or, to be correct, there had been up to the present, acurly powpresented to the family on many occasions, which was hardly consistent with the dignity General Boldero sought to preserve.
But it chanced one day that a girl came to the house whose hair, of colour and texture similar to Leonore's own, was beautifully arranged and generally admired. It literally shone in the sun.
And as luck would have it, our heroine was caught at her worst that same afternoon; and conscious of frowsy locks tumbling about her ears, her vanity was mortified. She appeared at dinner with a fairly correct imitation of the visitor's coiffure, and every single member of the family had something to say about it: Sue's gentle, "You have such pretty hair, dear Leo," being the finishing touch.
Thenceforth the pretty hair was brushed and brushed; and finding it still continued somewhat dry, Leo made almost her first purchase in the neighbouring town. She procured a wash—only a simple, vegetable concoction, but it answered the purpose—and there were great results.
Next, a manicure box which was among her possessions, but had lain about unused after it ceased to be a novelty, was brought into play. To confess the truth, Leo's hands were not her strong point, but hands and fingers can look better or worse according to the care bestowed on them, and there was now at least nothing to be ashamed of when she put on her rings. She began to wear her rings regularly.
And searching about for something else to do, she unearthed some weird implements, the sight of which made her laugh. With what zest she had once thrown herself into the new game of physical culture which all her friends were playing, and what fun she had thought it—for a time! Her supple joints had enabled her to accomplish feats beyond the reach of most, and she had attended drilling-classes and fencing-classes, and gained glory at both. She now fixed up a hook or two in her room, and found she could still do this and that, though she had lost the knack of the more difficult. To regain these, ropes and pulleys were worked vigorously,—and being once started, invention was called to aid, and there were all sorts of varied performances. Finally she volunteered to become a teacher; but though Maud and Sybil condescended so far as to look on, and even make a few half-hearted efforts, they were soon discouraged. They were not clumsy, but they were stiff; their bones were set; beside them Leo seemed to be made of elastic.
These trifles were, as we have said, the solace of our little girl's happier moods—at least they did something towards whiling away the uneventful days,—but perhaps they might almost have been better left undone, since the more healthful and beautiful she became, the more the leaven of rebellious discontent worked within.
It seemed a shame that she should be so strong and well and winsome, and there be nothing and no one to win. It was an injustice, a waste. And was it to go on for ever? Was she to go on through a long, long life—life stretches very far ahead at twenty-one—crawling on her hands and knees, when she could have stepped out so boldly, head in air?
That was the question which chiefly presented itself to Leonore's mind, as the first long year of her widowhood drew towards its close. She had never once stirred from Boldero Abbey,—for it was by no means a part of the general's programme to send her where she might meet with either friends or strangers to whom the true state of the case might leak out—and he sharply negatived a suggestion on Sue's part.
"Nonsense. Leo was never better in her life. You have only to look at her. And it would not be decent for her to be going about as the rest of you do."
Money had been wrung from him for annual trips to London and the sea, but he had never grudged it more than now, and he had not himself moved a foot.
"I am certainly not going to pay for what I disapprove;" he set his lips grimly. "And I not only disapprove, but I forbid Leo to go prancing out into the world."
Wherefore Leo saw her sisters come and go, and remained stationary. But she could not be what she was, and not throw out a hint of what was for ever in her mind when at long last the year was over. It was only a little anxious word, and no one guessed how often it had hung upon the speaker's lips before it was out, nor how she wished it back directly itwasout. For it was met by a silence that stilled the very beating of her heart.
Then, "I do not quite understand," said Sue, gently as ever, "what is that you wish, Leo?" But Leo, who had hoped to be met half-way, perceived the coldness underneath.
"I only wanted to know how long this was to go on, Sue. I mean—I mean, how long I am to—to be unlike other people, and—and——" the rest faded away.
Half an hour afterwards the young widow went out by herself very quietly, and using a side entrance. She did not wish to meet anybody.
All along she had suspected the worst, but now that the bolt had actually fallen, she felt numb; there was a kind of weakness in her limbs; she trembled as she stole along the walk. For things had been made very plain, and the vague shadows of the future had taken form and shape. The future? There was to be no future for her. She ought not to be thinking about a future—the present and the past only were hers. And though of course her outward appearance could be suitably altered, and there might be, as time passed, some relaxations and abrogations of rigid etiquette, no actual, positive change in her lot was to be looked for.
As a matter of fact, General Boldero had impressed thus much upon Sue, having perceived on this occasion more than she did. He saw that Leo was restive, he also saw that she was developing. He was not going to have her throw herself away a second time, but he was content to wait, and he was vaguely afraid that she would not be so. Wherefore she must be kept under lock and key.
The situation is now perhaps plain before our readers.
"Hollo?" said a voice on one side of a woodland stile.
"Hollo?" responded another opposite. "It's you?" continued Leo, stepping across, and giving Valentine Purcell her hand. "So you've come back, Val? What ages you have been away! I have missed you dreadfully."
"Not you. I don't believe it." Val beamed all over. "I say, have you though? You look uncommonly fit;" and he eyed her with a certain dubious admiration. If she were laughing at him, he was not going to be taken in, as he had been on several previous occasions.
"To be sure I'm fit, why shouldn't I be fit? I lead, oh, such a healthy life," retorted she, with mocking emphasis. "I eat, and I sleep, and I'm out all day. I do nothing but health from morning to night. Well?"
"Did you really miss me, Leo?"
"Humph!" said Leo, beginning to walk on.
"Did you know I had come back?" pursued he. "Did you think I should be here about this time? Did you——"
"Think you'd bother me with a lot of silly questions?" Leo whose first greeting had been simple and natural, assumed a pettish, artificial air. "Can't you think of anything more amusing to say than, 'Did you, did you, did you?'"
"Ha—ha—ha!"
"And then to laugh idiotically!"
"I don't believe you missed me a bit, Leo."
"Neither do I, now I come to think of it. I forget when you went."
"Two months ago to-day. Don't you remember? Don't you——"
"And now it will be, 'Don't you—don't you—don't you?' Why should I remember? What is it to me that I should remember?"
"Anyhow you said you had missed me."
She had said it, and he had heard it, and stuck to the point like a leech. It mattered not that he had come very near to quarrelling with Leo before going off on his annual round of shooting visits; that she had been capricious and disdainful, and had once gone so far as to tell him that he bored her—(which no one had ever openly told Val before)—he had forgotten all that; and though during his absence he had also forgotten a good deal besides, and found other girls pretty and attractive, no sooner was he back at home than the needle of his mental compass flew round to its old point. He must needs hurry over to the Abbey, and take the field-path in which he had so often walked and talked with Leonore.
He had never made love to her; his grandmother had told him not. Delighted as the old lady was with the turn events were taking, she had the wit to see that undue haste might ruin all, and enjoined caution with fervour. "Be friends, but no more—at present, Val."
Furthermore, it was at Mrs. Purcell's instigation that the shooting visits were prolonged beyond their usual limits on the present occasion.
She got painters into the house, and made them an excuse for bidding Valentine keep away if he could;—and her manner of placing the position before him piqued his vanity, as she knew it would. "If you have no more invitations, return, and I will make a shift to house you somewhere," she wrote;—but of course a popular young man is never short of invitations; and the autumn so wearily dragged through by Leonore, was full of gaiety and variety for her friend.
He had a great time, a glorious time,—and was longing to tell the tale of it to sympathetic ears, when he set forth from his own doorstep on the present mild October afternoon; he heard himself dilating and explaining, introducing names which would lead to inquiries, carelessly referring to charming girls—oh, he foresaw a delightful hour, whether it were in the Abbey drawing-room, or better still with his favourite auditor in a woodland solitude—and now?
Now somehow, he did not care to begin. Was Leo in one of her moods? If so it was no use thinking of anything else; he knew by experience what those moods were. Could he bring her round? Sometimes he could, sometimes not.
Was she really pleased to see him back, or—? He could not endure that "or?"
In short, the whole magnificent house of cards wherewith our young man had so pleased himself an hour before, showed now a flimsy shanty not worth a moment's preservation; and stripped of all importance, reduced to insignificance, afraid of his own voice, he slunk along by Leonore's side.
"Why don't you speak?"—she flung at him at last.
"You—you are so strange!" He faltered, then tried to rally. "What's the matter, Leo? Something is, I'm sure. You might tell me. You know I'm always sorry when you are, and——"
"What makes you think I am?" But she spoke more gently, and emboldened, he proceeded:—
"You did look pleased at first, but directly I spoke, you seemed to fly off at a tangent. I suppose I said something rotten, I often do—but you might have known I didn't mean it."
"It was not what yousaid." She paused.
"What was it then?"
"You look—every one looks—so happy and content—so bursting with prosperity, so supremely filled with—oh, can't you see, can't you see, that I'm alone and miserable, and different? When you pretended to admire me just now——"
"Pretended? I didn't pretend!" indignantly.
"You said I looked 'uncommonly fit'."
"So you did,—so you do."
"And who cares? What's the good of it? If it signified a jot to any single human being how I looked——"
"Leo!you know I care!"
She had done it, she had provoked it. If she had taken a chisel in her hand and dug out the admission by bodily force, she could not have been more directly responsible than she now was—and yet she stopped short startled.
It was but for a moment however. "You?" she cried, "you could hardly say less than that, considering it was such a direct fish for a compliment,—no,—no, Val; do be quiet and let me speak,—what I mean is that really,really, you know, I am most awfully down in my luck, and I don't see the slightest prospect of anything better. I had hoped that somehow a way would open——"
"It would, if you would marry me."
"Marry you? Nonsense!"
"Good gracious, Leo!Nonsense?"
"Of course. Can't you see I'm in earnest, and talk rationally for once?"
"Hang it all, am I not talking rationally, as rationally as ever I did in my life?"
"That's not saying much. You needn't be affronted, it's an honour for you to have me talk to you like this."
"Is it though? I don't see it—I think you are beastly unfair. I do think that." And he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose by way of protest. "Just now you were whimpering because you had no one to care for you,—and I believe you said it just to get me to sayIdid." Suddenly—"It was a shabby trick, Leo; and then to shut me up like that, when I only meant to do my best for you!"
"Be quiet, be quiet." Despite a twinge of conscience, Leo held her own stoutly. "No one but you would ever have thought of such a thing."
"That's all you know about it. My grandmother did. There!"
"You spoke to her, I suppose?"
"Not I.Sheputmeup to it. Honour bright, she did. I daresay I should have thought of it for myself," continued Val, quickly, "but I hadn't, till she did. She was always praising you, and saying how pretty you were, and what a bad business your marriage was. I mean—I mean——"
"Don't get flustered, Val. You know we have agreed always to be straight with each other. I can quite understand Mrs. Purcell's not approving my marriage."
"But she was awfully sorry for you, you know when;" he nodded significantly; "and she told me to make friends and try and cheer you up, and then——"
"Then?"
"A fellow couldn't help seeing what she was thinking of. She had it in her mind all the time. You trust me. I'm just about as cute as you make 'em when it comes to my gran. I know what she's driving at. All about your being so sweet, and that. She never used to call you sweet; now, did she? And I remember how she used to be down on you for being so untidy and having your hair all about your ears; and she called it red then—but it's auburn now." He chuckled self-appreciatively, and she laughed outright; but this sobered him.
"Don't you go and laugh at me, Leo."
"I'm not laughing at you—now. Go on; tell me more; what else did your gran say?"
"She said—but you won't let it out?"
"No—no."
"She said it would be an awfully good thing for me if I could hitch up with—no, she didn't say that. At least," he reflected, "I don't think it was aboutyoushe said that."
"There's some one else, then?"
"Oh, bless you, yes. There are heaps of girls,—butIdon't care for any of them," said Val, loftily. "Some of those I met at houses when I was away were awfully nice, though; they were, really."
"I daresay. What do you want with me, then?"
"Why, I've always been fond of you, Leo. You know I have. And I don't think you should call it 'nonsense'." Suddenly he reverted to his grievance: "It makes a fool of a fellow to—to treat a proposal in that sort of way."
"It wasn't a real proposal, Val. You just said it for something to say."
"I didn't. What an idea! I told gran this morning—she was asking who I'd met and all that—and I just told her straight, that none of them could hold a candle to you." He paused and continued: "Though there were some dashers among them too; and I daresay some men would have said Nelly Brackenbury was better looking——"
"So Nelly Brackenbury was the one?"
"Rather. Simply splendid. She would have made two of you, Leo."
"Maud's style, perhaps?"
"Aye, Maud's style; that's what I said. I told them I knew a girl who could give her points, at my own place."
"But to Maud you would say you had met a girl who could giveherpoints!"
"Say that to Maud? No, thank you; I'm never rude to Maud."
"Only to me?"
"Well, of course. You told me to be; and if it comes to that, you were dashed rude to me yourself just now. And I was doing my level best for you; I was feeling most awfully sorry for you; I never supposed you were only trying it on with me." He paused and swung his stick. "It was all gammon then, about your being lonely and that?" He stood still and looked at her.
Leo was silent.
"It wasn't very nice of you to take me in, and lead me on, if you meant all the time to round on me in the end," said Val, in a voice that made her still more uncomfortable. "I didn't think you were that sort, Leo."
An inaudible murmur, Leo's head turned the other way.
"You can't say you didn't," persisted Val. "You were almost crying; and so then I thought, 'Hang it all, I may as well now as any time,' meaning to—to be kind and cheer you up."
She could not help it; after one violent effort, Leo fell upon the bank, and rocked to and fro with merriment:—"Oh, Val!—oh, Val!"
But presently she put out her hand, and caught and held his; and she sat up and looked into his face with such brimming, dancing, and withal affectionate eyes, that albeit somewhat puzzled and astonished, he smiled back. "I suppose it was rather funny, but I supposed that was the way to do."
"But you see I wasn't prepared, Val!"
"Well, I tell you I hadn't thought of it myself."
"Wait a minute, till I can speak," Leo wiped her eyes, and patted the moss beside her. "Sit down—it's dry on this stone—and we'll have it out. You think it was all a sham, a mere bid for pity, what I said just now? It wasn't. But, Val, I can't exactly tell you what it was. It just had to come out, it had been kept in so long. I'm better now. Youhavecheered me up, only—" again laughter stirred within—"only you might have done it cheaper. You needn't have——"
"Gone such a mucker over it?" suggested he.
Yes, that was what she meant. His sympathy, his indulgent understanding of her troubles, above all, his renewal of good-fellowship was enough; she did not require his heart and hand, and with tact insinuated that he might retain them.
"You know you don't want to marry, Val."
"I've got to, though," said he.
"Why have you got to? Can't you go on as you are?"
"Gran says not. When she dies——"
"I see, you would be alone. But then, she may live long enough."
"That's what I say. There's no hurry. I've often said that, but gran gets nervous, and she always does like to boss, you know."
"It's a good thing it was me you spoke to," said Leo, jumping up, after a time. "You might have got caught, whereas now no one need ever know. Come along"—and she stepped forward.
"I'm not to tell gran, then?" Already he was under a new thumb.
"Certainly not," promptly. "Old people are old, and we are young—and if we don't want to marry, they shan't make us. Just wait a moment,"—and with a sudden change of tone Leo sprang aside, as though the subject were disposed of and another in its place.
A barberry tree laden with berries had come to view, and while he stood still upon the path, she began snapping off the bending branches. On her return, however, he was regarding her shyly with something of a new interest.
"I never said I did not want to marry you, Leo."
Leo's lips twitched. "There's no need tosaythings, Val. You don't."
"You bustle a fellow so, he doesn't know what he's about. I think you might give a fellow a chance."
"That's just what I'm doing. Giving you a chance to know your own mind—not your grandmother's."
"I like you awfully, you know."
"So do I like you. That's where we stand. We are not going to bother about marrying. Why, Val—take care, don't push me into that puddle. What ever should you and I do if we were solemnly tied up to each other, and had no one to meet, and talk with, and quarrel with? As it is, you are my only relief from the deadly life I lead at home. And if it comes out that we have been talking like this, there will be an end of it all—yes, there will,—so you are warned, and it would be very cruel of you——"
"Cruel?"
"It would be cruel to take from me my only comfort."
"I wouldn't be cruel to you for the world, Leo."
It was all pleasant enough; it was even exciting in its way; and Leo, at her wits' end for any variety, thirsting for emotions, sensations, pleasure, pain, comedy, tragedy—found the passing hour all too short.
This was not the real thing, but it was something. There were moments when even as a lover Val was not absurd, and one beautiful moment in particular when he made her ashamed. He accused her of leading him on, and her conscience echoed the reproach.
But all too soon he was pacified; betraying how ephemeral was the mortification, and how easily healed the wound—and thereafter she played with him at will.
Cat and mouse play, perhaps, and the mouse had no chance from the first, but—Leo did not sigh when once more alone, and her wild spirits all that evening rather displeased everybody.
In coquetry as in other matters, the old saying about the natural and the acquired taste holds good. Leonore, having once tasted blood, was not to be kept from it; exasperation and despair were thrown to the winds in the triumph of her first victory, and the ease with which she had brought Valentine Purcell to book turned her head. Its consequence was immediate.
"That's the jolliest little widow I have seen for ages," pronounced Mr. George Augustus Butts, after seeing the Boldero ladies to their carriage at the close of a prolonged call at his uncle's house. "It's all right, Aunt Laura. If she's on, I am. Mrs. Stubbs may become Mrs. Butts—why the very names seem to melt into each other, ha—ha—ha!"
"Really, George!" But George's aunt, who was very little older than himself, laughed sympathetically. It was she who had summoned him to the spot; she who had instructed him in the why and wherefore of the visit; and had the two been alone, she would not even have exclaimed, "Really, George!"
But Lady Butts had a daughter, and Gwendoline was listening with the curious ears of thirteen.
"Gwenny will think you mean that," continued her ladyship, with a warning intonation. "She takes your little jokesau serieux, you know."
"Jokes?" But he perceived his mentor was in earnest, and mentally confounded Gwenny for a nuisance. What business had that long-legged, staring, pigtailed brat in her mother's drawing-room?
She had as a fact been brought in to make a third to match the three visitors; but having fulfilled her end, and escorted Sybil Boldero in one direction while Leonore was piloted by her cousin in another, round the gardens—(Sue and her hostess meanwhile sitting in state within)—Gwen's mission was over, and the point was to get rid of her.
It is not so easy, however, to get rid of a spoilt child. Gwen admired George Butts very much indeed. She hung about him whenever he came to the house, believed in him whenever he spoke, and had secret ideas of marrying him as soon as she should be grown up. She was now bursting with jealousy and curiosity, and meant to hold her ground by hook or by crook.
"Hadn't you ever met Leonore before, Cousin George?"
The elders exchanged glances.
"No," said Cousin George, bluntly. (Damn it all, was he to be cross-questioned next?)
"You seemed to like her. How you and she did talk! And you got away from us altogether," proceeded Gwenny, stabbing her own wound as a greenhorn will. "I suppose you think her very pretty?"
"If I do, do you think I should tell you, Tailywags?" He tossed the thick plait of her hair up and down in returning good-humour. After all, he might as well hear if she had anything amusing to say.
"I believe it is only because she wears black," continued Gwenny, watching to see how this was taken. "Black, with a little white stuff about the throat,isso becoming, and Leo doesn't look a bit like a widow now."
"So you noticed that, you observant imp? I say, Aunt Laura, when did this young person of yours become such a prodigy? Perhaps she will tell me what the—the lady under discussion does look like, eh?"—lighting a cigarette,—for free and easy manners prevailed in the Butt mansion, and every one did as they chose there.
"Just like any other girl," responded Gwen, readily. "And—and I don't think she ought, either."
"Oh, just like any other girl. And, pray, why don't you think she ought?"
"Because she's not; she's a married woman. She was married ever so long ago, when I was little."
"Of course you're awfully big now. And so Mrs. Stubbs—Heavens, what a name!—even though she has lost her husband, is to go on for ever being 'a married woman' in your eyes, is she?"
But here Gwen's mother interposed, having had enough, and burning for more confidential intercourse.
"Of course Gwenny is right, George. But—but you don't quite understand, darling," to her. "And Cousin George is only teasing. Suppose you run away to Miss Whitmore now, and see what she has been about all this time? She will wonder what has become of you."
"Oh, she won't, she's writing letters. She always writes letters when you send for me, and she had——"
"Tell her, love, that the post goes out at——"
"She knows when the post goes out. She knows better than any one else in the house, for she has told me lots of times."
"Go, now, Gwenny. Go, my dear, when I tell you."
"You'll have a handful to deal with when that young lady comes out," observed George, bringing his eyes back from the door as it slowly closed upon the reluctant figure. "Gwen's too clever by half for you, Aunt Laura; and, I say, we must both keep our eyes skinned if we are to carry through this affair. She's half suspicious as it is."
"It was your own fault, George. How could you be so foolish as to blurt out what you did before her?"
"Good Lord, I never gave her a thought. However, I'll be more careful in future. Well, now, now she's gone, what do you say? How did it go off? How did I do? Do you think—eh?"
"I did not exaggerate, did I, George?"
"Exaggerate? You did not come up to the mark. She's a ripper. And I suppose the tin's all right? There's no mistake aboutthat? Because—well, I needn't tell you how things are with me."
"I know—of course. And of course I'd never have asked you to come and meet Leonore Stubbs unless I knew she had been left well off."
"'Well off,' only? I thought you said——"
"Very well off, then. All the neighbourhood rang with the Bolderos' big marriage, and it was big in no other sense. The poor little thing was barely grown up and had been nowhere and seen nobody,—and when the husband died she was received back at the Abbey with open arms."
"It's a wonder she hasn't been snapped up before."
"The Bolderos have taken care of that. They have immured her like a nun. This is positively the first call she has made here."
"She's awfully pretty." He sighed contentedly.
"And she seemed to get on with you?"
"Famously. Flirty little thing."
"Of course there will be others after her, George. You must lose no time."
"I haven't time to lose, my good aunt. Poor devils in Stock Exchange offices can't call their souls their own. I must get back next week. Luckily I only had a week in August, or I should not have been here now."
"You poor, ill-used individual! Do you mean that you must actually and positively return to your slavery at the risk of losing what would emancipate you from it forever? It can't be, George. It simply must not be. Your uncle must make up some excuse——"
"My uncle Thomas is a great man on his native heath, no doubt, Aunt Laura—but he hardly carries the same weight on the Stock Exchange. No, I must go when the day comes. When Duty calls Love must obey. And it's no use casting away the substance for the shadow. And—and I could think of a dozen other wise sayingsà propos, but it all comes to this, I've got eight days clear—I'm wound up now like an eight-day clock—and can make my running steadily till these are out. Then, if——"
"You could come down again?"
"If it were worth it, yes."
He smoked thoughtfully and proceeded. "It does seem a chance, and I'm awfully grateful to you and all that for providing it. But supposing the widow is not to be caught, and who's to tell? She knows her own value, you bet—I should be up a tree if I had had a row with the Koellners. I don't want to fall between two stools, you know."
It ended in this, that he was to present himself at Boldero Abbey on the following day, armed with an excuse; and that, as things developed, further counsel as to further progression should be taken.
It was left to Sir Thomas to cast a damper over their hopes. He was not told about them, but he would have been a simpleton indeed if he had not seen for himself—neither his wife nor nephew being wary conspirators,—and directly he was alone with the former, he spoke out with conjugal frankness.
"You think yourself mighty clever? Look out. You have old Boldero to deal with."
"But, my dear, Leonore is quite independent of her father."
"A child like that is never independent. The more money she has, the sharper he will look after it."
"If she chooses to marry again——"
"Now look here, Laura, if Godfrey Stubbs' widow chooses to marry again, she may marry anybody.Anybody, d'ye take me? Is it likely she'd take George? Who's George? What's George? An eighth son, and nothing at that. Not even clever or good-looking."
"Oh, heisgood-looking."
"Hanged if he is. Anyhow he's not a half nor a quarter as good-looking as Valentine Purcell. And what's more, though he is my nephew, he is not so much of a gentleman as poor Val is."
Lady Butts, however, stood to her guns.
"What girl in her senses would marry that creature?"
"Creature? Humph! Val isn't over sensible, and he has no backing,—but in his own way he's quite a nice fellow, and has a wonderful appearance when he's dressed. I don't want to see any one look better than Val Purcell turned out for a meet."
"He's just a big boy, and no one thinks of him as anything else."
"One person does—or at any rate, pretends she does. You may take your oath old granny yonder has an eye on your pretty widow; and the Purcells are too close to the Bolderos not to have a dozen opportunities of meeting, for one that you and your precious George have. I wouldn't mind laying odds upon the rival candidate."
Of this conversation we may be sure no echo ever reached other ears, and indeed Lady Butts soon forgot its tenor herself, in her exuberation over George's report of his next step. He returned from the Abbey treading on air. Even the general had been civil—though it transpired at the last moment that the young man had been mistaken for his eldest brother—"but he couldn't go back on me then," chuckled the narrator, "though I'm bound to say he looked a bit blank. He doesn't yet know there are eight of us, and Heaven forfend his looking us up in Debrett!"
"Did you get any invitation?"
"Rather. To luncheon to-morrow. Beastly things, luncheons,—but I couldn't cadge for anything else. What I did was to say I should be walking past, and ask if I could do anything for anybody in the town?"
"My dear George! You don't propose walking all the way to——"
"Of course I don't; but I propose being prevented by the superior attractions of Boldero Abbey."
"Oh, I see." She laughed and considered. There were many things she wanted to ask, but to ask was to suggest, and suggestions were horribly dangerous.
For instance, about the Purcells? Sir Thomas had made her uneasy by his praise of Val Purcell's looks, praise which her own heart endorsed—and George, whose knowledge of the world was extensive, had all along been slow to believe in his own chances of success. He knew what it meant in London to be an eighth son. It was only her repeated assurances of the Boldero's problematic ignorance on this head and her encouragement on every other, which had brought him up to the scratch at all. Thus hints which might have spurred on another man, would quite possibly daunt one alive to his disadvantages and inclined to magnify them. She reverted to Leonore, and he was willing to talk about Leonore to any extent.
But on thinking it over afterwards, she could not see that he had in reality very much to say. The little widow had looked as charming as before, but she had not been so talkative. He thought she was shy before her family; once only, when out of their sight for a few minutes, she had brisked up and chattered as at their first meeting; and she certainly did look pleased when on saying "Good-bye," he had added, "till morrow"; but otherwise—the fact was there had been no opportunity for anything else.
The luncheon party however proved more productive. Let us see how this came about.
"I really can't see what that man is coming for again to-day," observed Leonore, plaintively, the next morning. "People at luncheon are a bother,Ithink."
"You're not often bothered by them," drily returned Maud; "it is months and months since such a thing happened. If we lived in a more habitable neighbourhood we should think nothing of it."
"Glad we don't then;" Leo pouted like a sullen child. "It means changing one's frock, and——"
"There's no need of that—foryou.Youare all right. One black thing is the same as another."
This was what Leo wanted to find out. She had a pretty new coat and skirt, eminently satisfactory to herself, but about which there had been some demur when it first arrived. It was devoid of crape, and had a neat, coquettish air. Sue thought it hardly decent.
"But what am I to do?" queried her sister. "I did so want something to wear in wet weather. Even when it is only damp and misty—and you know it nearly always is damp and misty about here in the autumn—crape gets limp and wretched looking. However, I'll send this back if you wish, Sue?"
Upon which Sue had relented—as Leo knew she would. "Of course if you keep it for walking about in the woods, and do not go where you are seen, there might be no harm. Or perhaps it might be trimmed——"
"No, no; it couldnotbe trimmed," said Leo, hastily. Trimmed? Disgusting! The very thought of a plain tailor-made coat which was so simple and workmanlike, yet so unspeakably chic in its simplicity, being mauled by a village dress-maker was terrible.
"I must either wear it as it is, or not at all," she exclaimed with decision; "but I would not wear it to vex you, dear," and the sharpness softened; "only I can't afford to buy another," murmured Leo,—and of course she was allowed to wear it.
Accordingly just as the door bell rang, down stepped a very smart little figure indeed, yet wearing a demure, unconscious air that would have deceived a Solon.
"Why, Leo! My dear!"
"Men never know," said Leo, calmly, "and that other old rag wasn't fit to be seen. It's torn at the back, and I gave it Bessie to mend."
"But, dear, you promised,—and supposing Lady Butts——"
"She's not there. I looked from my window."
"I understood this was to be kept for out-of-doors," murmured Sue, uneasily, "and somehow, Leo, you look altogether,"—but the door opened, and no more could be said.
Feeling that she had got off cheap on the whole, Leo did nothing further to merit reprobation, and beyond placing herself well within Mr. George Butts' line of vision, took no pains to attract his notice.
But she was aware that hefelther, that more than once a general observation was designed chiefly if not entirely for her, and that she had but to open her lips for him to be silent. Girls always know when this is the case.
And scarcely had the party risen from the table, and the sisters retired, ere an astonishing thing happened.
We all know there are days of happenings; days charged with vitality and eventfulness; when nothing surprises and nothing seems out of the way,—it seemed quite a commonplace occurrence on the present occasion, when a motor car, full to the brim, whirled to the Abbey door.
At another time such a sight would have sent a thrill of excitement through the whole house; as it was, Sue moved quietly forward to greet a bevy of ladies, and Leo inwardly blessed her coat and skirt.
"We are on tour, and ought to have been here an hour ago, my dear people," cried a gay voice, belonging to General Boldero's only sister, who though several years older than he, seemed, and to all intents and purposes was, at least as much younger. She then presented her friends, and continued: "We took a wrong turning, or should have hit off your luncheon hour, Sue; but you will still have pity on our famished state, I'm sure,——" and the speaker put up her glasses, and inspected the circle.
"Only yourselves, I see; and only you girls. Is your father not at home to-day?"
"He is still in the dining-room, but——"
"In the dining-room? How lucky! We are not as late as we thought. Pray, dear Sue, take us there at once. You know I told you I should drop in unbeknownst some day," proceeded the voluble lady, slipping her hand within her niece's arm, and gently urging her towards the door, "so you probably were on the look out? No? Oh, but I said I should come."
"In the summer, Aunt Charlotte."
"Summer? But it is far pleasanter now. No dust, and the inns not half so crowded. Well, William, here we are,"—and the amazed William, who was peacefully sipping his coffee and smoking his cigar, and thinking that after all even an eighth son who was nephew of a rich and powerful neighbour was worth a luncheon and not bad company after it, found himself startled out of his chair by an invasion as unexpected as it was inopportune.
But he was somewhat afraid of his sister, of her fashion and smartness—above all of hersang froid. There was no saying what she might say or do.
Moreover he had a sneaking desire to show off before her. He was really pleased to be found entertaining, if so be he must be found at all. Altogether, after the first shock, he rose to the occasion creditably.
And now there rose on the horizon George Butts' lucky star. He had vacated his place at table in favour of the newcomers, and was hesitating as to whether after all he must not affect to pursue the walk which had been given out as theraison-d'êtreof his being where he was, when he caught Leonore's eye. Leonore, little minx, had all her wits about her. In five minutes the pair were stealing forth from a side door, and were quickly out of sight of the house.
"I put him on his way," she remarked, subsequently; "you were all so taken up with Aunt Charlotte's people that poor Mr. Butts was utterly neglected, and could not get any one even to say 'Good-bye' to him. So I killed two birds with one stone. Turned him civilly out of doors, and kept myself in my objectionable get-up out of the reach of Aunt Charlotte's scathing tongue. Do you know, I really believe she hardly saw me. I am sure she did not take me in at all."
"She inquired where you had gone, Leo?"
"Did she? The old cat—I beg her pardon. But what business was it of hers where I had gone? Father," continued Leo, reverting to a trick whose value was tried and true, "you looked so dumfoundered, poor father, and were so completely taken possession of by—by an octopus,"—she paused to see how this was taken, and at his smile proceeded,—"that said I to myself: 'You're not wanted here, neither is friend George; you are bothde trop: be off with you, and it will clear the field'. That was all right, wasn't it?"
"Hum—I suppose so. I never saw you go."
"The octopus had you fast. She adores her William—when she does not forget all about him."
The general grinned appreciatively. "She certainly does not favour us with much of her company; we're not fine enough for her. It was at your marriage, I believe, she was here last. Sue," turning to her, "wasn't it at Leo's marriage your Aunt Charlotte was here last?"
Sue believed so—gravely. Leo experienced a qualm, despite herself, and threw out a little flag of conciliation.
"What did you say when she asked about me, Sue?"
"What could I say? You ought not to have gone, Leonore."
"And you might have known that for yourself," appended Maud. "You really ought not to need so much looking after. Walking about alone with a young man!"
"I did not—we did not—walk far. I took him through the park to the side gate——"
A general exclamation.
"Do wait," continued Leo, quickly. "At the gate we fell in with Mr. Custance,—" involuntarily her eye rested on Sue, and Sue was silenced on the instant,—"so then I knew we were all right. We headed him off coming here, for which I knew you would be grateful. He would not have assimilated with Aunt Charlotte's lot." She paused for assent, and perceiving the shot told, proceeded with confidence: "So we took the dear rector along with us—we could do nothing else,—and when I came back, they went on together. I thought it was rather masterly, myself."
"Why, aye, Custance would have been a fish out of water," allowed the general, nodding approval; "though to be sure the clergyman of the parish is always a respectable visitor. But what of young Butts? I hope he did not think it rather cavalier being shipped off in that fashion?"
"You see I was quite civil to him, father. I saw him looking at his watch as if in a hurry to be off; so I suggested making his apologies to you; and we were standing near the door, so it made no disturbance; and my hat was in the hall, and Iwasso glad to get out into the open air—there was no harm in it, was there, Sue?"
No wonder the recipient of so much diplomacy went home radiant. He really—really he,—dashed if he didn't think he had a chance. If he could only work it up—he hummed and hawed and considered. At length: "I'll tell you what, Aunt Laura, it's no use shilly-shallying when there's so little time. If you can bring about one other meeting——"
"I have thought of that, George, and have secured the Merivale girls for golf-croquet on Thursday."
"Bravo! you don't let the grass grow under your feet. Thursday? That's the last day I have here, but I suppose—no, you could not have done anything sooner."
"And I thought you might ride over to-morrow, with my note?"
"I say! That would look a bit pointed, wouldn't it?"
"Perhaps. But since Leonore was so nice to you to-day——"
"Oh, she was. Still——" he hesitated.
"What is it, George?—" a trifle impatiently.
"It's so beastly hard to tell. She's a dear little thing, and if she had been any one else, I should say she was—was——" and he laughed foolishly.
"Épris?"
"Look here, Aunt Laura, I'm not a fool, and it seems almost uncanny, don't you know?"
"Your being in such luck?"
"A girl like that! If she were ugly and poor——"
"There's no accounting for tastes," quoth Lady Butts, gaily. "Mr. Stubbs—Leonore's first husband—was nothing in particular."
"So you think she might take a 'nothing in particular' for her second? But remember she's in a different position now. She has only to lift up her little finger——"
"Apparently she has lifted it," Lady Butts laughed and patted his arm. "Do try and infuse some spirit into your faint heart, George. You have had the most wonderful encouragement——"
"It's justthatwhich frightens me. I—I don't like the look of it. When a prospectus looks too rosy, we shy at it at Koellners. There's a screw loose somewhere."
"But just now you were all up in the air about Leonore?"
He was silent.
"Could she have done more than she did, George?"
"Less would have put things upon a sounder basis." He shook his head gloomily.
"A sounder basis? I don't know what you mean, I don't understand those business phrases," cried his aunt, with very natural vexation; "what in the world has 'a sounder basis' to do with Leonore Stubbs?"
"I'll tell you;" he roused himself, "I go about the world a good deal, and I know girls—a little. I know this, that it isn't usual for them to make the running so freely on their own account when they are—are—in earnest. When they are in search of scalps, it's different."
"Scalps? Oh, I see; I know. But surely Leonore——"
"She went for me—yes; but she was as cool as a cucumber. Do you know, once or twice to-day I felt not exactly nervous, but that way—but she? Not a bit of her. She was all froth and foam,——"
"You are quite poetic, but you don't explain the 'sounder basis'?"
"Hang it all, aunt, I can't think that girl means anything."
"And yet when you came in just now, you told me she was so delightful and responsive."