"I said 'delightful'—I didn't say responsive'. The truth was, it wasIwho had to be responsive.Shemade the advances—if they could be called advances. And that isn't what I call having things upon a sound basis."
With which piece of wisdom the two separated, for though Lady Butts told herself that herprotégéwas simply suffering from reaction, and that the reaction would pass, she felt that no more was to be gained by pursuing the subject at present.
When, however, the Bolderos declined her invitation for Thursday, and were not at home to the bearer of her note—(although George vowed he saw faces peeping from a window, and placed himself within view for a good many minutes thereafter)—her ladyship understood the meaning of the "business phrase," and owned that it had been correctly applied.
She made no further effort, and the whole trivial episode came to an end—but it had had its effect upon Leonore.
"Hollo there! Where are you off to?"—Dr. Craig hailed his young assistant who was just setting forth from the surgery door; "I want you, Tommy."
Tommy stood still. He had thought the doctor out for the day, and had not heard the wheels of the returning gig. Otherwise—well, perhaps otherwise, he would have been busy within doors, not starting out into the sunshine of a brilliant June morning.
"Where are you off to?"—repeated his interrogator, and this time an answer to the question was necessary.
"I was going to the Abbey, sir." An observant person might have noted that the young man would have preferred not to say it, and a very observant person might also have seen that he shifted the parcel in his hand, and moved his feet uneasily.
Dr. Craig however either saw nothing or affected to do so. "To the Abbey? Who's ill there?" he said, quickly. "Anything sudden?"
"No, sir. Mrs. Stubbs——"
"Mrs. Stubbs? What's wrong with her? I saw her on the road yesterday."
"She called here, but you were out. There's nothing much the matter, but she wanted a tonic. I—I forgot to mention it."
"And you forgot something else, mister. No tonics go out from here that I don't prescribe. Here, give me that bottle. What's this? Trash. If Mrs. Stubbs wants a tonic——"
"She merely mentioned that she was not feeling quite the thing, sir; and I—it was my suggestion——"
"A damned impudent suggestion. Now look here, young man, there must be no more of such suggestions, or you and I must part. You taking it upon yourself to prescribe for my patients! Bless my soul!"—but the delinquent was a favourite, and suddenly a humorous twinkle appeared beneath the frowning eyebrows. "You poor devil, what mischief is this? Hey? You blush like a girl? Come in here," pushing him gently back through the open door—"come in, and I'll prescribe foryou, Mr. Thomas Andrews. I had an inkling something of this sort was going on, and—and I'm not blaming you, my boy. But it'syouthat needs the tonic, not that little widow-witch up yonder. Aye, you may turn red and white and glower at me—I know what I'm talking about. I've seen what she's after, the artful hussy,—and please God, I'll circumvent her."
"Sir—sir!"
"Haud your wheesht, Tommy. Ye're but a bairn and an ignorant fule-bairn at that:"—the broad Scotch accent lent itself readily to a wonderful mingling of compassion and contempt; "hark to me,—what? You're trembling?"—for the youth's lanky frame quivered beneath the weight of his hand. "Lord, has it gone as far as that?" muttered the speaker, under his breath.
Then he let go the young man's shoulder, and turned and shut the door carefully. "Sit ye down: sit, I tell ye. You are going to hear the truth, and you'llhaveto hear it. What? You think I've no eyes nor ears nor sense, becauseyouhave none—except for her? Tommy,—" he paused and drew a breath, a long, deep breath—"Tommy, my man, I've that to say to you to-day I've never said to mortal man, nor woman before. Will ye listen—but listen ye must, only—only I would as soon ye heard it kindly, for your own sake. Tommy, Iknow what it's like."
Tommy started, lifted his eyes, and let them fall again.
"Aye, I know;"—the big, shaggy head nodded slowly, and the words dropped one by one from the full, protruding lips. "The world's a dream while it lasts.... You walk among shadows, withoutshe'sthere.... There's no sleep at night,—there's only thinking, and tossing, and sweating—and heugh! the next hour strikes!... And one day it's heaven, and the next hell.... And it ends——"
There was a long silence.
"It was twenty years ago," said the doctor, simply. "Tommy lad, would you—would you care to hear about it? You shall." He covered his eyes with his hand and had begun to speak ere he removed it. "I was about your age, but I was still at college; I left late. It was a custom in Edinburgh for the professors to ask us students once a year to an evening party; and although some of us did not care over much for that kind of entertainment, we could not have refused if we would. I remember I was annoyed at having to buy a dress suit, when my invitation came; I thought it waste of money, and money was scarce in those days. Tommy, I've got that suit now....
"You know that I am as happily married as a man can be;" the speaker started afresh. "No husband ever had a better, a dearer, or a fonder wife—but she has never thought of inquiring into the secret of that locked drawer upstairs,—and though I shall tell it her some day, I haven't yet. It sticks in my throat, and I have put off and put off—but, anyhow, you shall hear.... I went to the party I was telling you about, and—andshewas there. A colonel's daughter, and no great lady—as I was at the pains to find out afterwards. Her family was not much better than my own, and upon that I built my hopes—for we think much of family in Scotland. But hopes? I don't know that they could be called 'hopes'. I was stunned, bewildered. She was the loveliest creature I had ever seen, and Tommy"—he leaned forward, his hands clasping the chair arms on either side—"many women as I've seen since, I have never yet seen her like.... Such eyes, such a brow, such a dazzling fair skin—the curved oval of her cheek—huts! I maunder.... She was amused by my adoration, Tommy; I don't know that it even flattered her, she was so accustomed to it—and I fear, I fear she felt no pity.... At any rate I was permitted to come to the house—for I fought and struggled till I obtained an entrance,—and even what I saw there did not open my eyes. I was doing well at college, you see; oh, I had better speak out, I did a deal better than everyoudid, my lad, and carried off honours which at that time seemed high enough to promise anything. I saw myself at the head of my profession, with money, position, perhaps a title—and thought if she would only wait? Had she shown, were it ever so cruelly, her real sentiments, I might have groaned beneath the knife, but the wound would have healed swiftly, as wounds do at that age—but she kept me dangling on through long months of torture, worn to skin and bone,"—he broke off abruptly, paced the room, and stood for a moment at the window with his back turned, then resumed:—
"When my sick jealousy became too apparent, she applied an opiate. A few kind words or looks, an enchanting smile, and the poor, infatuated fool was as mad as ever. We used to walk in Princes Street Gardens—I can smell the spring flowers there now."
Another pause.
"You can guess the rest, I suppose?" With an effort the speaker heaved himself upright, and a grimmer expression overcast his features. "It was all a delusion—all. There never had been anything on her side—never. Oh, she was sorry,sosorry, but really she could not blame herself. My boy, I was made to feel I was the dirt of the earth beneath her feet.... Heigho! I got over it, Tommy—in time. Not for a long, long time; not till years had come and gone." Another pause. "Those years are what I would fain save you from," said Dr. Craig, slowly.
He had been encouraged to proceed by the respectful attention of the motionless form beside him. A deep sigh, or an inarticulate murmur on the young man's part alone showed that he was following what was said, and that it struck home,—but he remained rigid, and there might even have been something of stubbornness in the set of his shoulders. What if after all he refused to learn the lesson thus sternly and withal tenderly taught? "Maybe I've wasted my breath," mentally queried the other, frowning and biting his lip. Already he was repenting himself of the confidence wrung out of him, when all in a moment the scene changed.
"My lad—my lad," he cried, for Tommy had flung himself across the table, sobbing as though his heart would break.
"So, so? I should have spoken before," muttered the doctor, half-aloud. "It's the old story of shutting the door on the empty stable.—Tommy?"
But Tommy only quivered and shrank, as again a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. "Be a man," exhorted a gruff voice overhead. ("To be soft now would be damnation. It's the hammer he needs.") "Take it like a man—not like a whimpering bairn,"—and the speaker's grip tightened. "What? What d'ye say? Let you be? What for then did I bare my soul to you just now—do you thinkthatcost me nothing? Up! Fight with it. Master it." Then more gently: "Would you have me ashamed of you, Tommy?"
"I—I—I'm ashamed of nothing," gasped the unfortunate youth, suddenly assuming a bravado he was far from feeling. "What have I to be ashamed of? I have never done anything, nor said anything——"
"Nor—thought—anything?"
Tommy's head fell upon his breast.
"Where were you going when I stopped you?" proceeded his mentor, sternly. "You know the road, I'm thinking. And it can't beallon one side. She may have led you on, but——"
"Not a word against her." Tommy started up, inflamed. "Say what you will of me; strike at me as you will; sneer and scoff——"
"Hoots!" said the doctor, shortly. This melodramatic attitude annoyed him.
"Aye, it's just 'hoots!'" he repeated, bringing his big, red face close to the pale and frenzied one before him, "and lucky for you it is. I'm not going to take offence, my man—and that's the long and the short of it. I know you've been bamboozled—Iknowit,"—bearing down interruption; "and you're still—all I've said goes for nothing, I suppose?" he broke off sharply.
Tommy, who had tried to speak, also stopped, and the two glared at each other.
But it was the younger who gave way first. "It does not go for nothing, Dr. Craig, and perhaps I ought to feel grateful to you, sir, and all that, for taking such a—a kind interest——"
"Go on," said the doctor sardonically. "'A kind interest'—aweel?"
"But you don't, you can't know. You judge every case by your own. Because you were hardly treated, you think every woman deceitful. And yet, Leonore——"
"Leonore?"
"I do not call her that to her face, sir; I do not indeed."
"For which the Lord be praised—though it is but a small mercy. Did not I say it was inthought, my lad—but have it out, Tommy—such thoughts are best let out, like ill birds. Keeping them pent, they breed. Loose, they may fly away. How long has this been going on?" Suddenly the speaker's tone changed, becoming peremptory and commonplace.
Tommy murmured inaudibly.
"Speak out," thundered Dr. Craig, losing patience, "speak out, sir, and be damned to you. How long?"
"We met first on the last day of March."
"How? When? Where?"
"Accidentally. In the village. In the post-office. Till that day I had never——"
"No matter about that. What happened at this precious meeting? Answer me truly, Tommy, for——" he paused, and once more the angry tone softened. "You have neither father nor mother, and I've got to see you through this brash. The truth Imust have, so out with it."
"She spoke to me," owned Tommy, reluctantly. "She knew who I was, and asked if I would take a message to Mrs. Craig?"
"Well?"
"Afterwards she was not sure that she had got the message correctly—it was from Miss Boldero, I believe,—and—and——"
"And you had to walk back with her to the Abbey and get it?"
Now this was precisely what had happened, but the dry tone with its covert mockery, stung.
"Certainly I had. I don't know why you should speak to me so, Dr. Craig? I did what every man in my case would have done. And Mrs. Stubbs——"
"That's better. 'Mrs. Stubbs.' Never let me hear 'Leonore' again."
"Dash it, I can manage my own affairs, sir. I—I don't need either your advice or interference. You take advantage of your position, and of—of a moment's weakness on my part. Please to let me alone in future." White, infuriated, and shaking like a reed, the wretched lad struggled desperately for manhood, and his companion was secretly relieved by the outburst.
Here was something to lay hold of at last; some good, honest, fighting blood roused; real anger melted as he assumed its mask.
"Very well—very well. Neither advice nor interference shall you have, if it comes to that, young sir; but there is such a thing as authority. You are in my house, and in my employment, and I'll be hanged if I stand by and see you ruined. Unless you give me your word that you will hold no more communication with this woman, I shall go straight to Boldero Abbey, and speak to her—mark you—toher, myself."
"You?—To her?—You?"
"And if she will not hearken to me, I shall address myself to her father."
"To her father?"—in a soundless whisper.
"That's what I shall do. You can take your choice. Hollo!" For he saw what was going to happen, and pushed a chair beneath the nerveless limbs just in time. "Here! take a taste of this"—the doctor hurriedly poured from a small phial of brandy in his pocket, "take it,—or I'll pour it down your throat, silly loon. We'll not quarrel yet, you and I. And we'll talk no more at present; when we are bothreasonableagain, and can discuss this business doucely and decently, as between man and man, we will. Meantime just bide here a bit, and think it over. And, Tommy, ahem——?"
Tommy's moist hand stole out feebly, tremulously.
"You'll never let on to anybody about—about yon wee story of mine?"
"Poor lad—poor lad," said the doctor, going out presently wiping his eyes. "He's safe now. But, Lord, what a time I've had of it! And one false step—one straining of the line and it would have snapped like silk. Aye, aye; I played my fish on a single gut, and," triumphantly, "landed him! Landed him, by Jupiter!"
It was strictly true that chance had discovered to Leonore the existence of her village admirer, who otherwise most certainly would never have come within the sphere of her observation. But each was waiting to despatch a telegram, and something had gone wrong with the wires. It was nothing too serious to be remedied and that speedily, they were assured, and if they could wait a few minutes, all would be well. But the few minutes expanded into a quarter-of-an-hour, and then—perhaps it was she or perhaps it was he, or perhaps it was both at once who were electrified by the all-potent touch of opportunity.
On Leonore's part, here was a comely youth,—and she had seen the comely youth in Dr. Craig's gig, and guessed at once who he might be. Three months had passed since the collapse of Lady Butts' well-meant little scheme, and no one had stepped into the cast-off shoes of her philosophical nephew—and Leonore had been bored, sadly bored. True, Val was there, but since his perfunctory declaration, Val had lost his savour. Up till then, Leo had not been sufficiently certain of his real sentiments to make his company uninteresting, and had decided to probe them by way of experiment—but the excitement of the interview had fizzled out, and his honesty did him no service in the eyes of his charmer. She would now bring him straight in to where her sisters were assembled, if met outside—and as he was always happy and at home among them, he had not the wit to perceive that things had changed.
Consequently the coast was clear for George Butts, and he had his ephemeral hour; and then?—then there rose above the dull, tame level of the horizon a new object.
What! He was beneath her? She would never have looked at him, still less spoken to him? Oh, my dear incredulous sir, or madam, how much or how little do you who pronounce thus know of human nature? Have you ever felt what it is to have an eye, blue or grey or what not, a mute, appealing, impassioned eye, flashing into yours its secret?—and have you cared to reckon coldly its owner's claims to your notice? You bearded widower, with your family of big girls and boys, what about that little lodging-house keeper at the sea-side, who welcomes your most trivial order reverentially, who hardly ever speaks, but gives you one long look as she leaves the room? The humble soul has no idea of betraying herself, and as for you—you are resolved that if you marry again, it shall be well and prudently—but you can't forget that look.
And you, great lady of the manor, what takes you so often to the hot, stuffy, little village school-house, where the master, with awe upon his brow, in silence hands you copy-books and samplers? He hardly emits a syllable, but his soul flames beneath those weary eyelids—poor wretch, poor wretch!
Leonore having uttered a few commonplaces to a companion delayed like herself, chanced to glance directly at him. To her he was virtually a stranger, and, to do her justice, she would have talked to any stranger, obeying the sociable instincts which she alone of her family possessed—but to find a pair of fine, dark, luminous orbs fastened eagerly, almost ravenously, upon hers was?—her first emotion was one of great surprise.
It was weeks since young Andrews had secretly elected her to be the lady of his dreams—(when and where he had first beheld her, it boots not here to say)—but he had been content to adore from afar, and had never thrust himself upon her notice,—so that all the concentrated fire of brooding, hopeless passion was not only visible, but almost offensive—and yet it was not quite offensive.
Theladywithin her stiffened, but thewoman? At least she need not be uncivil; to be haughty and supercilious, as Maud would have been under like circumstances, went against the grain; she could keep the young man at a distance without hurting his feelings; she—essayed a remark.
Afterwards she laughed to think how that remark was leaped at; how it was turned and twisted and stammered over. For very pity of his hopeless confusion she had to rejoin kindly, and again the words were caught out of her lips, and so on, and so on—and still the postmistress was invisible behind the scenes.
Eventually, as we know, Leonore accepted an escort back to the Abbey when the two errands were accomplished, and a message extracted from her sister threw a properly respectable air over the whole proceeding.
Had things ended there, Dr. Humphrey Craig would not have returned home unexpectedly on the present occasion. But he had heard whispers and caught glimpses—he saw a gossip nudge her neighbour and look up a bye-street; and looking himself, recognised two figures whose backs were turned. Not a word said he; but he watched young Andrews narrowly that evening, and the next, and on the third day he spoke.
He spoke, and the bubble burst.
Ignorant of any cause for the non-delivery of her prescribed tonic which she had arranged to receive herself at one of the park lodges—since General Boldero was not to be annoyed by the suspicion of ill-health, and would infallibly make a fuss if medicines were handed in at the front door—Leonore, after waiting some time in vain, returned home and said nothing about the matter;—but she started a little when she heard a voice in the doorway a few hours later, and found that it proceeded from Dr. Humphrey Craig.
He had not yet rung the bell; and took the liberty of a privileged old friend to hail her instead of doing so.
"Mrs. Stubbs? It was you I wanted to see. If no one's about, I'll step inside for a minute. Eh? It's all right, is it? I've something here for you; but I might have a word first, perhaps?"
She drew him into an empty room.
"This is not a professional visit," nodded he; "you haven't called me in, and there will be no note of it in my tablets,—but I understand from my young man that you are feeling a wee bit run down,—don't be frightened, we'll soon put you to rights—and I thought I'd look in. How's the appetite?"
Presently it was the sleep—then the spirits, the walking powers;—she was completely put through her facings, her tongue looked at, her pulse felt,—and at length the doctor sat back in his chair. "I have known you from a child, Miss Leonore, ahem—Mrs. Stubbs. Your family has honoured me with its friendship for fifteen years now, and as a friend," with emphasis, "I'm going to lay down the law on this matter. If you'd prefer me to speak to Miss Sue, I will."
"Oh, no—no."
"I thought not," said the doctor, smiling a little grimly. "But if it should become necessary, I shall do it all the same. You must get away from this place. Your father must be made to let you go. Only for a bit, of course,—but that bit I do insist upon. You've been shut up here, fretting, and brooding, for a matter of nearly two years——"
"Indeed, indeed I am quite well."
"You tell Tommy Andrews you're not. Trust me, my dear young lady, you wouldn't have told Tommy anything if you had been. It was, ahem—a foolish thing to do, to consult a raw young apprentice."
"I—I didn't like to trouble you."
"Trouble me? Bless my soul, what am I for? If you hadn't been a wee thing off colour you would never have had such a ridiculous notion. However, I take it, your father—aye, I see—and you thought if you could quietly get a few bottles of physic, and no questions asked, it would set all to rights. Well, now," proceeded he, on receiving a mute assent, "I've got a tonic here worth a score of that rubbish Andrews was for giving you. But you need something more than that. I've forbidden that lad of mine, forbidden himabsolutelyto have you for a patient in future; he's a good lad, but he had mistaken his place, Miss Leonore—Mrs. Stubbs. You understand me? Yes, I thought you would. He will not trouble you any more. While for you, it's not physic you want most, it's a thorough change of life and scene. You must get away—I say, youmust. Now," rising, "will you manage this, or shall I? It must be done soon, mind."
Voices were heard outside at the moment, and Leonore swiftly turned and opened the door.
"Come in, Sue, come in and find me out. I've been trying to get doctored,"—and she ran on glibly—but directly the conference was over, shamefaced and crestfallen she flew to be alone.
"He saw; oh, how horrible, how detestable! How could I stoop to it?" For hours she rang the changes on this theme.
And the very next day, Sue, alarmed and repentant, herself conveyed her young sister up to London.
A friend who did not obtrude himself upon the departing travellers, but spied from the background, rubbed his hands as the train moved off.
Then as the big Boldero omnibus turned empty homewards, Dr. Craig stood still for a moment in thought, consulted his watch, and finally walked briskly up the street to his own door.
"What is it?" demanded a voice from an upper window; "forgotten anything, Humpty?"—and the attentive wife prepared to fly down.
"No, no; stay where you are." Humpty waved her back. "I have some work to do at home this morning," and he stepped into the surgery, where on this occasion his young assistant was dutifully busy.
"Hey, I'm going to send you for a run, Tommy; you can finish here when you come in. Take your bicycle, and go to Mrs. Brooks—you know the house? You don't? Well, you know Ashford Mill? It's near by. Any one will tell you the road. Call, and say I'm not coming till to-morrow if all's going on well. Of course, if I'm wanted, I can look in—let's see—some time this evening. But I don't expect I shall be wanted. And Tommy——"
"Yes, sir?"
"You needn't hurry back. Take your time, and get a breath of good air over the downs."
"Thank you, sir,"—but the dejected countenance did not brighten, and the rejoinder was mechanical. A few days before what a prospect would have opened at the above words, now it mattered not to Tommy Andrews what he did nor where he went. He continued to pound away with his back turned.
"Come, be off!" said Dr. Craig, good-naturely. "I came back on purpose to set you free. By the way—ahem!—you need not be afraid of meeting any one; you won't be tempted to break your word—not that you would, of course,—but, well, I thought I'd just mention it—the ladies are off to London."
"The—the ladies, sir?"
"The Boldero ladies. Two of them, at least,—Miss Sue and Mrs. Stubbs. I was at the station just now, and saw them go, with a pile of luggage that meant a longish stay. My boy, this ought not to be ill news to you," continued the speaker, changing his tone of assumed indifference for one of quiet sincerity; "it's only the natural ending of what ought never to have begun; and you will live to be glad it came so soon, and so conclusively. Take your time upon the road, Tommy. There's nothing to bring you in before dinner."
And at dinner Humpty was in his most genial mood. He was not as a rule genial at the midday repast, to which as often as not he hurried in late, only to hurry out again as soon as he had consumed abstractedly the portion set aside for him; but on the present occasion he subsided into his armchair at the foot of the table with a leisurely, tranquil air that spoke of a mind at ease for the time being.
He enjoyed his roast chicken and green peas. He had himself cut the asparagus and cut it bountifully. Mary was bidden to observe how asparagus ought to be cut—a couple of inches, not more, below the surface of the earth; and it should never be allowed to grow too high; the flavour was lost when it had been long above ground; furthermore, it should be carried straight from the bed to the pot—but here Mary laughed outright.
"What are you laughing at?" demanded he.
"You, who never give your food a chance! Tommy knows,"—and the careful housewife continued to laugh, looking at Tommy, "he has to put down your plate to the fire five days out of six."
"No, no, Mary."
"And often you could not tell me what's on it if I asked! And ifwedid not look after your digestion——"
"Well, well; I know what's good, when I have time to think about it. And since you are so keen on my digestion, have you a mind to give Tommy and me a treat?" nodding at her—"make us some coffee!"
"And we'll take it out-of-doors," continued the doctor, rising and throwing his napkin aside. "Under the trees yonder. Bring your pipe, Tommy; you and I don't often enjoy a lazy hour, but a man must break his rule sometimes. Come along,"—and he led the way.
Of course Tommy saw, and at first Tommy was inclined to resent. So he was to be treated like a child, a child who has had his toy taken from him and is to be comforted with other things? He had been allowed to go out in the sunshine—(on a bogus errand, he suspected; certainly Mrs. Brooks had not expected a medical visit that morning)—and now his inner man was being consoled and pampered, and the raw wound which still bled from the knife so unsparingly applied the day before, was to be blandly ignored. He felt both hurt and angry.
But the roast chicken was very good, and so was the currant tart with cream—and he had covered many miles on an empty stomach, and was young, and as a rule, ravenous. For the life of him he could not help clearing his plate.
And next he found himself responding with alacrity to the suggestion of coffee in the cool shade without, for the atmosphere of the little dining-room had grown somewhat warm and odorous, pervaded by hot dishes—while even a prospectivetête-à-têtewith his host was not altogether distasteful, since he was to be permitted to smoke.
And though he told himself he would not for worlds have Leonore's name enter into the conversation, in reality he was listening for it, waiting for it.
He had to wait however.
"It's a queer life, that of a country doctor;" the elder man laid down his pipe musingly. "A queer life—but it has its compensations. There's much to be given up, much to be done without,—there's struggle and hardship to begin with—strain and anxiety always,—but taken as a whole, it yields a satisfaction—Tommy, I often think there's no life on earth meets with such clear recompense for the outlay, be the outlay what it may."
"Yes, sir; I suppose so, sir;" absently.
"Human nature craves appreciation," the speaker slackened his big-limbed frame afresh, and puffed luxuriously, "to be watched for and welcomed and—and appreciated—there is no other word for it—wherever one goes,issomething, who can deny it? One may never rise to eminence, one may be humble and obscure, as the world has it, all one's days, and yet——" again he paused.
"Yes, sir?" But at the second "Yes, sir," Dr. Craig roused himself.
"You aren't following me, Tommy. You think you knew all this before, and it sounds like a dull droning in your ears. Isn't it so, my boy?"
"I'm afraid I'm very poor company, sir. But you—you know what makes me so."
"And you would like to talk about it, and find every other subject uninteresting? Maybe you're right. What is it then?Her, I suppose?" And a faint smile, not unkindly, accompanied the last words.
"I do want you to believe that she is not to blame. I can't get over it, your saying what you did. You seemed to infer that I had been befooled and——"
"If you had, you are not the first—but let that pass. I own I cannot understand how otherwise you could have presumed to think at all about a lady so high above your head."
"I did presume, sir."
"And——?"
"And I think I showed it, sir."
"Wilfully?"
"No, unconsciously. But it wasmyfault—not hers."
"And you acquit her, absolutely?"
Tommy was silent, colouring.
"You would like to acquit her, and you hoped I should do so, without the need of more? You have a chivalrous soul, and you may thank God for it, young man; it is a great possession. Respecting Leonore Stubbs, I may be too hard upon her——"
"Indeed, sir, indeed——"
"Imaybe, but time alone will show. When she first came back here, a poor bit widow-creature, more child than woman, it would have touched a heart of stone to see her and what's more, I saw they were not going the right way to work with her. She was put into a sort of strait-jacket. She was made to appear just what the Bolderos thought she ought to appear. They made no account of the sort of lassie she really was. I saw, for I was often at the house that winter. And I think Leonore was glad to be ill sometimes—(she caught colds and chills that year)—just for the sake of having something to think about, and even old me to talk to. But of late—I don't know—I seem to fancy she's altered. She breaks loose. Her face has a kind of reckless look. And it struck me she'd been angered and fretted till she was ripe for mischief. Did she—did she let you make love to her, Tommy?"
"Never, sir. There was never a word of the kind between us. I told you so before."
"Aye; words aren't always needed. You and she were walking in a maze, and a maze neither of you had the wit to look beyond. Heaven knows where you would have found yourselves—or, rather, whereyouwould have found yourself—if I had not brought you up sharp. But don't imagine I think the worse of you for it, Tommy; and don't you go and fret and gloom by yourself. The thing's done and can't be undone, and I'll not deny I'm sorry it is so. Still—" he rubbed his chin thoughtfully,—"perhaps you have learnt something you would have learnt no other way, and for the rest, my advice is—forget. Forget as fast as you can, for," a grim smile, "of one thing you may take your oath, Tommy Andrews, however quick you may be, the little lady who's gone to London to-day will be quicker still."
And of course Leonore was. There is no need to indicate the precise moment at which the figure of her humble village admirer faded clean out of sight after having hovered reproachfully over a few brief penitential musings, but certain it is that it vanished, to return no more.
London in the season was a revelation to our heroine. Hitherto her sole experience of it was confined to passing through, and that mainly at other periods of the year,—since it was an article of faith with her husband that one big town was as good as another, and he had all he wanted of town life at home.
So that all was new, strange, wonderful, glorious—and at first she was utterly dazzled. True, a modern girl would have laughed in her sleeve could she have heard Leo's idea of the gay world. She would have said this unsophisticated creature went nowhere and knew nothing. She would have marvelled—perhaps as much as Leo would have marvelled at her.
Leo did more than marvel, she was secretly shocked and disgusted on several occasions, but with the fidelity of the young to the young she said nothing to Sue. Sue thought the houses she took her young sister to all that was prudent and respectable. Some of them were rather great houses—the Bolderos, when they did seek society, moved on a high plane, and the very fact that they seldom sought it, told in their favour.
The sisters were not overwhelmed with invitations, but they had enough to gratify the elder and delight the younger. Leo did not dance; indeed, she did not know how, so the one ball to which she was bidden was declined, but the two went to a fair amount of dinner-parties, not of the most lively order, but pictorial and majestic. They were invited to opera boxes—generally on the grand tier. Leo was on the box seat of a coach occasionally. As for teas, they overran every afternoon, and concerts, bazaars, charity entertainments, Hurlingham and Ranelagh filled up the interstices.
It was in short a giddy round, and perhaps as good a cure for the sort of complaint from which our poor little girl was suffering as could have been devised.
It swept her off her feet—and in another sense swept her on to her feet.
She learned in curious ways a good deal.
Her shell was broken, and albeit the outer air was none of the purest, it served its purpose of blowing away the cobwebs that had so long encircled her outlook.
July, however, was passing, and soon, all too soon, fairy-land would vanish in a myriad of shattered sparklets, and then?
"I suppose we could not go to Cowes, Sue?" A very tempting invitation for the Cowes week had come, and there had been hints of further house-parties, and shooting-parties,—but of these latter Leo knew at once that she must not think. For Cowes, however, she would make a push. "It is so near, and we could go home as easily from there as from here,"—she murmured, wistfully. "And the Beverleys are very nice people, Sue."
"Oh, very; but—I don't know. I am afraid it would hardly do to suggest it. You see father has already been asked twice to let us stay on, and, dear Leo, he has beenverygood about it. Even Aunt Charlotte was surprised."
"It was Aunt Charlotte who did the trick though;" Leo wagged her head wisely. "Her sending him a card for her reception was a masterpiece. I almost wonder he didn't come up for it. Well, what about Cowes?"
"We will think it over, dear."
"I could go by myself, you know."
"No," said Sue, decidedly.
Her orders were that Leo was to go nowhere by herself, and she had more than once eaten humble pie in consequence—for her sister's sake hanging on to her skirts, a neglected and undesired appendage by the rest of the party.
Leo alone would be mindful of her, pleasant towards her. Leo was certainly growing more affectionate and considerate than of old—but Leo must not go to Cowes alone.
"I will try what I can do," said Sue, after a pause, during which she absently broke open another envelope in her hand. "I will read what Maud says of how they are getting on at home. I see she has returned from her visit to the Fosters, so perhaps——" An exclamation, quite a violent exclamation for the prim Miss Boldero, followed. Then she looked up, her face, we should like to say scarlet, or crimson, but truth compels the statement that Sue's flushes were of a deeper tint, not quite purple, but that way. Even her brow was now suffused by this tint. "Oh, Leo!"
But Leo was absorbed in a letter of her own.
"This is really—Leo—listen, Leo!"
"Well?" said Leo, absently. "Here's another idea for Cowes. However, your news first."
"Yes, indeed. You will say so when you hear it. Maud——"
"She's not coming here, is she?"—quickly.
"Maud writes to announce that she is engaged to be married."
"Good gracious!" The effect was electrical. Leo bounded from her seat and almost tore the sheet from her sister's hands. "Let me see—let me see," then reading aloud: "Major Foster—Mr. Foster's younger brother—home from India—left the army—father pleased (that's a good thing!)—and coming here next week!—Oh, Sue!—--Stop, there's more," cried Leo, recovering, for the "Oh, Sue!" had been emitted with dolorous mental reference to the Cowes scheme, now obviously knocked on the head. "What's this over the page?" and she turned it in Sue's fingers; "only the man's name—Paul. She doesn't say very much, does she? I thought people usually put in something about——"
"What?" said Sue, smiling.
"About being happy, and that. Or at least about the man himself—not merely who he is, and who his people are."
"She will tell us all when we meet. Maud is not much of a writer, and she is the last person to—to speak of her feelings; but I do not doubt she is happy," quoth Sue, radiantly. "Dear Maud! To think that she on her quiet visit—and at the Fosters, the last people one would have expected—and father pleased——"
"Oh, it's fine," cried Leo, kissing her, "it really is fine. If she had only waited till after the Cowes week it would have been perfect. Anyhow, we'll hie back, you and I, with something to look forward to. We shan't leave all the sweets behind, now that Maud has done the civil by us with her 'Paul'. I did hate the thought of going home before," she was running on, when something stopped her, something that sent a little cold shiver down her back. It was—yes, it was—the look. The look on Sue's face.
For quite a long while now she had lost sight of the goal once set before her eyes by this. Imagination had ceased to be fired by its memory. The three impulsive dashes made in its direction had been so utterly futile that she could only recall the first with mirth, the second with contempt, the last with shame. Val Purcell was now happily restored to his former position of friend and playmate; George Butts?—she had come across Mr. Butts in London and found him in hot pursuit of another lady; and though the thought of poor Tommy Andrews with his weak, imploring mouth and burning eyes could still evoke a twinge, it was but a passing twinge.
Tommy had certainly been found out, and Tommy's master was not a person to find out in vain. Dr. Craig had effected what no one else dared attempt, namely, her own escape from thraldom—and she did not see her co-delinquent let off, albeit after another fashion.
No, she had nothing more to fear from that quarter; and in the rush and novelty of the past few weeks, bygone follies, big and little, active and passive, dwindled to the vanishing point. If only Sue, dear, good, unconscious Sue, would not recall them!
Families in which the daughters marry early and in due succession, can have but little idea of the huge, volcanic shock an engagement means in a house like Boldero Abbey.
True, it had once before gone through a like experience, but the present happy occasion was intensified by a variety of causes.
It was satisfactory, altogether satisfactory. Like good wine it needed not the bush which General Boldero had strewed so plentifully over Godfrey Stubbs's antecedents and surroundings. His future son-in-law was well-born and well-bred, and his having lately succeeded to a considerable fortune was also well known. Accordingly—we are obliged to add "accordingly"—it was in good taste to say nothing about it.
But he could show, and he did show, enough to raise a smile wherever he went. However demure his air when receiving congratulations, he could insert here and there a phrase, adroitly conceived beforehand, the point of which could not be missed—and he was rampant at home.
There he might freely puff and blow, and turn his little world upside down. Nothing, not the veriest trifles of every-day life escaped his touch; and had it not been that the sympathies of all were with him, that there was not an antagonistic member of the family or household, he would have been found unbearable.
But the change, the stir, the commotion, the heavy posts, and constant ringing of the door-bell were delightful to everybody. There was occupation for everybody. They ran against each other with busy, pre-occupied faces. They hurried, when formerly time was of no account. The writing-tables were bargained for, and Maud, all-important, retained one solely for her own use,—while the two who had fancied they would have so much to tell of their London escapade, found it so completely superseded by the new excitement, that they dismissed it from their own minds.
In short the whole atmosphere quivered with the sensation: "Who would have thought it?—who would have believed it?—" to which there was but one response: "We cannot make enough of it".
The man himself, however, had yet to be seen.
"Yes, it is very unfortunate," observed Miss Boldero, in answer to neighbourly inquiries; "Major Foster has been obliged to put off coming again. He has had another touch of fever—his long residence in hot climates has left him subject to these, and though it is nothing to be anxious about, he has to be careful. We expect him next week."
A photograph was presented in lieu of the original, and no one had anything to say against the photograph. It represented an unmistakable soldier, even if he had not been in uniform. The face was clear-cut and clean-shaven, and some might have thought it had rather a melancholy expression—but such expressions in photographs are common, and not always truthful. Leo, for one, openly admired her sister's lover.
"I do detest a smirk," she cried, gaily; "I am so glad Paul's man did not make him smirk. Were you with him when this was taken, Maud?"
No, it had been taken in London on Paul's way through; he had promised copies to his regiment, and Maud had assisted him to send these out.
Was he sorry to leave the service? She thought he was, a little.
"So you had to—to cheer him up?" rejoined Leo, inwardly laughing over the remembrance of poor Val and his perfunctory proposal. "I daresay it does cheer up people to marry them. Your knight of the lugubrious countenance——ahem!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Maud, coldly.
"Heigho! I came near a cropper that time," muttered Leo, to herself.
When she was alone she took up the photograph again and looked at it. She could have wished for Maud's sake that she was to be united to a more lively-looking individual. The eyes, she could almost swear, were sad eyes. The mouth had a droop about it.
"It would not matter if it were Sybil or me," reflected she, within herself; "but no one can ever get a word out of Maud unless she pleases, and how is she going to bucket along a solemn spouse?... She seems content with him, and awfully proud of the whole affair—but I always fancied she would end with a jolly, jovial sort of creature, who would not care two straws whether she sulked or not. Now, something in this face,"—she scanned it thoughtfully—"leads me to think that Paulwouldcare. He has a tired look—as if there were a weight upon him. Good heavens!" quickly, "Maud isn't the person to remove a weight; she's a regular old featherbed herself, when there's nothing to stir her up. She was all right at the Fosters, no doubt, with this going on, and everybody tootling round her; but if they only knew—ifheonly knew what she can be like at home!...
"I don't mean to be nasty;" repentance presently made itself felt; "and it may only be that Maud and I don't hit it off; that when I'm in a merry mood, she isn't, andvice versa—still," she shook her head sagaciously, "I'm not sure—not quite sure. It is more noticeable than it used to be. Even father gets snubbed and has to put up with it. Both Sue and Syb utterly succumb.... To think that Maud should be the one—though of course it is her looks—and besides, she herself let slip that the Fosters had got her there on purpose. Paul had come home at a loose end, desperately in need of a wife, and a home, and all the rest of it. The whole thing is clear—the only mystery,—pooh! there's no mystery....
"But it was luck for Maud," she mused on, "and I must say she appreciates her luck, and means to get the uttermost farthing out of it. How she revels in the idea of a grand wedding! And of course she will be a lovely bride—but I wonder—I hope——" once more her hand strayed towards the photograph, and she gazed at it long and searchingly, "I do hope she will make this poor man happy."
Leo, however, had the wit to keep such speculations to herself. She was only too conscious that she had not managed her own affairs so well as to give her any claim to pry into those of others, and told herself she was a little fool to keep on looking into Paul Foster's face and thinking of him as a poor man.
Directly she saw the real face, it would certainly tell a different tale. Maud breathed satisfaction over her lover's letters; obviously she had no doubts of her empire over him, and even while graciously accepting the encomiums passed by her belongings on her choice, let it be seen that she by no means considered all the good fortune to be on her side.
"Paul is deeply religious;" she announced once.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the general;—indeed there was a universal start, for even Sue, the good, kind Sue, could hardly be regarded as deeply religious. Every eye was bent on Maud.
"Indeed he is," proceeded she, calmly. "He made quite a mark in his regiment, and received no end of testimonials, the Fosters told me. They did not speak of it before him, but Caroline warned me—I mean told me—privately."
"Took an interest in the schools and that sort of thing, eh? Quite right, very proper;" General Boldero made an effort to recover himself. "In my day it was quite the thing for the commanding officer to back up the chaplain; but—hum, ha——that'swhat you mean, I suppose? You are not going to foist a parsonical gentleman upon us, young lady?" Despite the jocular tone, there was a gleam of anxiety.
"I am merely stating a fact," said Maud, stolidly.
"And I am sure we ought to be very glad," murmured Sue in her humble, peacemaking accents—but even she looked disconcerted.
"We can have Custance to meet Paul at dinner, if that will satisfy him," was the general's next; he had had a few minutes for reflection, and after rapidly weighing the pros and cons of the new development, decided to swallow it with a good grace. "Will that satisfy him, or will he want the curates too?"
"You may laugh if you choose, but it is as well you should know;" Maud drew up her neck, and retorted stiffly. "Paul has been about the world, and doesn't expect to find people all cut to the same pattern,—only I imagineIshall have to conform to his ideas after we are married, and he has set his heart on getting a house with a private chapel attached."
This was better; the general breathed again. A house with a private chapel? That meant a big house, a stately house, a house he would be proud to go to and refer to. "Oh well, a man must have his fads," quoth he, cheerfully; "and though we have got along well enough at Boldero Abbey without a private chapel, still if one had been here before my day, I don't know, 'pon my word, I don't know that I should have done away with it."
But the above conversation sent Leonore to look again at the photograph.
She was nervous, curiously nervous on behalf of this unknown Paul, of whom every day produced fresh impressions.
As time passed, he assumed a form she had not been prepared for,—and the first joyous flurry having worn off, she felt or fancied that he had in reality been no more fathomed by her sister than she by him.
It will be seen by this that Leonore had herself rapidly altered of late. She had taken to looking below the surface of things. She pondered and prophesied within herself. She perceived the drift of casual observations, and following in thought the byways of life, divined to what they might lead. In fine, her own blunders and mishaps had implanted seeds for reflection, and while less unhappy, she was infinitely more serious than before.
And for Paul Foster's appearance on the scene she grew every day more impatient.
Perhaps she was altogether mistaken about him, and the being of her imagination would prove so unlike the reality that doubts and misgivings would fly to the winds, made ridiculous by a very ordinary individual, devoid of all the mystery, all the glamour cast over him in day-dreams?
If so, of course she would be glad; it would be the best possible thing to happen; and yet? "I shall have to get rid of this Paul from my thoughts somehow," she decided. "He worries me. If he would only come and be done with it!"
It was evident that Maud attached a certainéclatto her lover's piety; she recurred to the subject more than once.
"It is all very well for father to make light of it, but I do hope he understands that it is no joke with Paul. Paul is very sensible, and never thrusts his opinions on other people, but no one ever thinks of laughing at them to him."
"It is only father's way," began Sue, distressed; but her sister continued, unheeding. When Maud had a thing to say she was not to be defrauded of saying it, and she had now got the ear of the house in the shape of two other attentive listeners.
"What I mean is that father always seems to think that it is only clergymen who really care about religion. He looks upon it as their trade,—oh, he does, Sue—and he would be the first to be down on them if they neglected their trade,—but as for other people, particularly other men's caring—and Pauldoescare, that's the unfortunate part of it."
"Why unfortunate, dear Maud?" said Sue, gently.
"Oh, I only mean lest he and father should clash," explained Maud with perfect coolness. "I am not speaking of my own feelings.Idon't mind." After a pause she subjoined: "You might give father a hint, Sue."
"And what about asking Mr. Custance to dinner?" struck in Sybil, who had hearkened to the above uneasily, yet with a different sort of uneasiness from that which made poor Sue breathe an unconscious sigh. "It might create a good impression. Well?"
"It wouldn't take Paul in for a moment," said Maud. "Still," she hesitated and looked over her shoulder as she was leaving the room, "a third person might be of use on the first evening after dinner. Just as you like about that," and she passed out with the air of a queen. She felt every inch a queen in those days.
"So it wouldn't take Paul in for a moment?" The words raised a new question in Leonore's mind. If Paul where his deeper feelings were concerned were thus acute and clear-sighted, how came it that he was so blind otherwise? Ah, there she was at it again! Back to her old dilemma—to the bogie which had just been torn in tatters during a merry feminine conclave, in which wedding preparations and wedding clothes had formed the chief objects of discussion.
It was so obvious that no one else had anyarrière penséeas regarded the bridegroom elect, that she had suppressed her own successfully for the time being, and entered eagerly into all the details which even Maud condescended to be sociable over.
Maud had been quite sociable and pleasant over everything that morning. She had read bits of Paul's letter aloud; she had permitted herself to be bantered, even rather mischievously bantered, by Leo; and altogether was so approachable and communicative, that the reference to her lover's religious views and her desire that these should be respected, fell out naturally. Why then should Leo be perplexed anew?
By the time Paul actually arrived, she told herself she was sick to death of him, and everything about him....
And before the first interview was over she was jeering at herself for her fussiness. The man was well enough, but he fell from his pedestal the moment he approached. No, he was not like his presentment. Maud had declared it did not do him justice—Leo thought differently. She ran him up and down with her eye, and though she conceded his stature and general outline to be correctly rendered, there was a disappointing lack of effect; he had not the air of a hero; he had not the lofty, melancholy bearing and inscrutable countenance which was to set him apart from his fellows, a mark for furtive looks and whispers. His brow was not worn and furrowed. His smile was not forced and fleeting.
Obviously he was a bashful man, unused to finding himself the centre of attraction, and almost painfully desirous of acquitting himself well when needs must. When spoken to by a fresh voice, he jerked himself in the speaker's direction with an almost perceptible start, and flushed beneath his tan like a boy.
The position, it must be owned, was trying; Leonore had protested against it beforehand. But her father and Maud were against her, ruling that all should be assembled and the arrival made an affair of state—in fact neither would have missed it for the world.
"But Paul?" Leo had ventured doubtfully.
"You may leave Paul to me," said Maud.
It appeared that Paul had brought a dog, and to Leo it was excruciatingly funny to see General Boldero with this dog. He would have Lion brought in—he from whose path all the animals belonging to the lower stratum of household society fled by instinct—and his efforts to coax the big, gentle creature from beneath his master's chair were continuous. Whenever conversation flagged, Lion was admired and petted. Finally he made a joke. Leo and Lion? Ha, ha, ha! Upon which Paul raised his eyes which were mainly bent upon the ground, and Leo saw them fully for the first time. They were dark grey and very soft. They had an infinite amount of expression, and although she certainly could not call them sad at the moment, she felt that they might once have been so and might be so again.
But she was not anxious to speak to Paul, and every one else was. By Maud, as was natural, he was chiefly appropriated, but he listened to every remark that was made, and without opening his lips took as it were a leading part in the conversation.
General Boldero was eager to describe his shooting; he had planned how to put its best side forward, and, while deprecating its merits as superlative, to leave no doubt as to its being superior to that of his neighbours.
He hoped Paul would not expect too much; on the other hand, such as it was, and it was not—hum, ha—to be exactly despised, it had been carefully saved up for him.
"You are very good, sir," said Paul, gratefully.
"I was coming home from church last Sunday morning," continued the general—and stopped, apparently to pick up his stick which slipped, but in reality to let the words sink in—"we walk across the fields from church, it cuts off a mile—and I marked a covey of sixteen. That's not a bad covey, is it?"
"It is so long since I shot in England, sir, that I am afraid I hardly know a large covey from a small one."
"You have been tracking bigger game. I envy you that. But we poor stay-at-homes must be content with what we can get. Valentine Purcell—that's a young neighbour of ours—walked home from church with me on Sunday, and he was astonished at the size of our coveys. We are to shoot his, later on in the week."
Having thus twice brought in that he had been at church, though the tenor of his speech was partridge-shooting, the general felt that he had acquitted himself to admiration, and cast a glance of triumph at Maud. Maud had been apprehensive of his manners forsooth? He hoped he knew better than to tread on any one's toes; and a man who could afford to give his daughter a handsome establishment and was on the look-out for a house with a private chapel attached, had every right to his consideration.
He had decreed that no official mention should be made of the family party having been augmented at dinner.
"It's the custom in French houses for the abbé to appear without invitation when he pleases. A very good custom; I wish it prevailed in England," he alleged unblushingly. "As it doesn't, it is not our fault if Custance only comes when he's asked; and I should certainly—Paul would certainly, eh, Maud?—You needn't look stupid, my dear," with a sudden touch of irritation. "You know very well what I mean."
And as she did and the rest did likewise, it was left to himself to say easily as the party broke up: "We have only our good rector to meet you to-night; he is quitel'ami intimehere, as I am sure you will agree with me the clergyman of the parish ought to be. Squire and parson hand in hand, eh?"
"And now I think I have settled that," quoth General Boldero to himself.
He had shot both his bolts; and though for a moment dismayed by the reflection that he had no more in reserve, there was consolation in the hope that no more would be required of him. Paul was evidently a gentlemanly fellow who would avoid unpleasant subjects.
The general opinion of Paul, though it took a different form, was equally favourable.
No sooner had the lovers disappeared in orthodox fashion, than encomiums broke out all round. They compared him with people they knew; he was like one man but taller—he reminded them of another but he was handsomer. Perhaps he was not strictly handsome, but certainly he was distinguished looking. If his nose were not a little on one side, it would be a good nose. Sue had not noticed that it was on one side; she thought it a very good nose as it was. Sue was even more enthusiastic than Sybil. Sybil lamented the absence of a moustache. Let a mouth be ever so good, a moustache was an improvement,—whereat her father stroked his own and agreed with her.
In the midst of it all, Leonore slipped aside, and passed into the next room where the photograph was. She was going to convince herself of its being unlike, absolutely unlike, the original. She was going to discover, point by point, wherein lay the contrast, and abandon for ever the old Paul, thus replaced by the new.
The old Paul looked at her, and she started.
For the new Paul had looked, just once, for a single passing minute, the same.
A formal dinner-party was of course necessary to introduce Major Foster to the neighbourhood, and it took place a week after his arrival.
"You will wear your best white silk, I suppose, Leo," said Sue, beforehand.
"No," said Leo, sharply.
"Won't you, dear? But we are all going to dress up a little, and you look so well in white."
"I—never mind, I am not going to wear it."
"What shall you wear?"
"Something—anything."
"But, Leo——"
"Whatdoesit matter? Why should you care? You never used to worry about my clothes;" perceiving however that Sue looked hurt, Leo laughed—not quite naturally. "Don't you see, stupid old darling, that white silk—well, it makes a bride, andIam not the bride."
"But you wore it in London."
"One wears in London what one never wears out of it." There was finality in the tone, but Sue persevered; she had not the art of letting well alone.
"Your only other is the grey voile."
"Well, it would do well enough," impatiently. "It's in rags, but it will do. You ought to be flattered, as it was your present."
"But it really is rather the worse for wear, Leo; and the white silk——"
Leo ran out of the room, and presently she was seen tearing down the avenue at breakneck speed, and did not look round, though hailed loudly from the terrace, as she swept out of sight.
"So tiresome!" exclaimed Maud, joining her eldest sister within; "I had been hunting everywhere for Leo; she promised to show Harrison the new way of doing the hair, and Harrison is ready now. It was Leo herself who said it would suit me."
"She must have forgotten," said Sue; "but I daresay she has only gone for a little run, and will be back directly. You know she often does run out in the twilight."
"It was very inconsiderate, I think. She had the whole afternoon to go out in, and then to take the only time when she could have been of use!"
Sue was silent, feeling both for the offender and the offended. Maud certainly had a grievance, for Leo's good offices had been volunteered not besought, and further Leo was aware that Harrison, good soul, was a despot of the worst type.
All the Boldero servants were despots—all the heads of departments at least; they had the strength of long-continued, undisputed rule—and Harrison, who had begun by being a little schoolroom maid, taken on the recommendation of the late vicar, while yet Sue was young and her sisters children, now governed them with a rod of iron. It was only in consideration of Maud's present attitude that the present concession regarding her hair had been made, and it was felt to be so magnanimous that she was positively aghast at Leo's delinquency.
"It is only six o'clock now," adventured Sue, soothingly. "Could you not——?"
"How can I? If you mean send after her? No one knows where she is by this time. I called and called, but she never looked round. You might have reminded her, Sue."
"I should, if I had thought of it myself. But though she was here just now, we were talking of other things."
"What other things? Everything else is settled. The dinner-table really looks very nice," in mollified accents; "Watts has done the flowers beautifully, and Grier has condescended to have out all the plate. Well, I must go and break it to Harrison, I suppose—but if she is in a temper, she won't wait, even if I suggest it."
"I don't think I should suggest it," said Sue. She had an instinct that waiting would be of no use, and it proved to be a correct instinct.
The lower rooms were deserted when Leo hurried in; and lamps were being lit, while a faint pale moon became momentarily more clear in the dusk without. Servants were drawing down blinds and shutting shutters. Leo half expected to find the garden-door bolted, but it was not so,—and she scurried along the corridor, and prepared to mount the staircase, when her heart gave a sudden jump. There was some one in her path. Paul was on the next landing, looking from the great staircase window, with his back turned.
He was contemplating the scene without, which was certainly beautiful enough to command admiration—but Leo fancied that he was also sunk in thought. The pose of his motionless form suggested that he had not merely stopped to look out in passing, but had come to a halt at that spot and withdrawn into himself.
She put her foot on the next step and hesitated—but he did not look round. Obviously the slight noise of her entrance had fallen on deaf ears, or been held of no consequence, as were the other openings and shutting of doors in the distance,—and that being the case, there was no absolute need to intrude.
She stole back into the shadows beneath.
Finally by a circuitous route she reached her own room unseen.
"I say, Maud does look splendid, doesn't she?"
It was Val Purcell who voiced the general sentiment, and as he did so he turned from Leonore to whom he had addressed himself, to gaze down the table afresh at her resplendent sister.
Despite the contretemps of the hair, Maud was looking her best—suited by her dress, her ornaments, and the unusual animation which coloured her cheeks, and sparkled in her eyes. Hitherto her looks, though universally admitted, had failed to elicit warmth on the part of any present—since, truth to tell, she was not a favourite. She was too cold and too grand. She never forgot that she was a Boldero, and took care that no one else should. Even honest Val, as we know, did not choose to be booked too surely as her admirer.
But that point being now settled, and the party having been assembled in the lady's honour, he was free to add his mite.
"Splendid!" he repeated, settling down again with unction. "I always did say Maud was a ripper when she chose. I hope her johnnie appreciates his luck. Between you and me, Leo," sinking his voice for her private ear, "I wonder how he dared? I wonder how he ever got it out? Maud can be so awfully nasty—Oh, I say! I don't mean that, you know."
"Then you shouldn't say it," said Leo, shortly. Maud's star was high in the heavens, while her own—where was it? nowhere. She had no star; her little glowworm light was out, and all was darkness—yet she was loyal, even with Val. "Every one is not such a craven as you, Val; and apparently Major Foster——" she paused.
"He appears to have tackled her right enough. I only wonder how he screwed himself up to the point? Bet you he had a good pint of champagne first."
"I daresay," said Leo, absently.
"Now don't you round on me for that, Leo. I know you when you speak like that. You mean to nab me the next minute."
"I shan't nab you this time. I know nothing about Major Foster's proclivities, and can't be answerable for them."
"He never drinks anything but water when he's out shooting, but he wasn't likely to face Maud upon water, was he?"
"I tell you I don't know. Ask him yourself."
"Ask him myself? That's a good one. Ask him myself? Ha—ha—ha. Well, whatever he took, it did the trick, and she looks as proud as a cat with a tin tail,—but between you and me, Leo——"
"Oh, don't have any more 'between you and me's,' Val——" But the next moment Leo demanded inconsequently: "What is it you want to say? Say it."
"He's an uncommonly nice fellow, and all that,—but——"
"But—well, but——?" impatiently.
"I should have thought he was more your sort than Maud's, that's all."
"My sort!" She was white to the lips, and there was a sudden heaving of her bosom. "My—my sort?"
"I'll tell you what I mean. We had a long day together yesterday—no, it was the day before. There wasn't much doing, the birds were shy and scattered, and I took Foster into our church, as he seemed to want to see it. I told him I generally went to yours for the sake of the walk, but—anyhow he seemed to hanker after going inside, and it is an awfully nice, rum, little old place, you know; lots of people come to see it. Oh, they come from long distances. Foster was delighted; I couldn't tear him away. He poked and poked about, and at last he said to me: 'This is the sort of thing I've dreamed about. An English village church, with its old worn pillars and arches——' and he raved on a bit. I said I liked it too; of course I did; I had known it all my life, and he said 'Ah?' and was quite interested. And then—I don't know how it was—it just seemed as if we were in the thick of it all of a sudden—he was talking about his ideas of marriage and that. You never heard anything so queer! But it was very nice, you know. I didn't mind it a bit, only I thought to myself, 'Do you jolly well imagine you are going to catch old Maud going in with those highflown ideas? Because ifyoudo,Idon't.'"