A SURPRISE.
There was no letter from Sheila in the morning; and Lavender, so soon as
the post had come and gone, went up to Ingram's room and woke him. "I
am sorry to disturb you, Ingram," he said, "but I am going to Lewis. I
shall catch the train to Glasgow at ten."
"And what do you want to get to Lewis for?" said Ingram, starting up.
"Do you think Sheila would go straight back to her own people with all
this humiliation upon her? And supposing she is not there, how do you
propose to meet old Mackenzie?"
"I am not afraid of meeting any man," said Lavender: "I want to know
where Sheila is. And if I see Mackenzie, I can only tell him frankly
everything that has happened. He is not likely to say anything of me
half as bad as what I think of myself."
"Now listen," said Ingram, sitting up in bed, with his brown beard and
grayish hair in a considerably disheveled condition: "Sheila may have
gone home, but it isn't likely. If she has not, your taking the story up
there and spreading it abroad would prepare a great deal of pain for her
when she might go back at some future time. But suppose you want to make
sure that she has not gone to her father's house. She could not have got
down to Glasgow sooner than this morning by last night's train, you
know. It is to-morrow morning, not this morning, that the Stornoway
steamer starts; and she would be certain to go direct to it at the
Glasgow Broomielaw, and go round the Mull of Cantyre, instead of
catching it up at Oban, because she knows the people in the boat, and
she and Mairi would be among friends. If you really want to know whether
she has gone north, perhaps you could do no better than run down to
Glasgow to-day, and have a look at the boat that starts to-morrow
morning. I would go with you myself, but I can't escape the office
to-day."
Lavender agreed to do this, and was about to go. But before he bade his
friend good-bye he lingered for a second or two in a hesitating way, and
then he said, "Ingram, you were speaking the other night of your going
up to Borva. If you should go--"
"Of course I sha'n't go," said the other promptly. "How could I face
Mackenzie when he began to ask me about Sheila? No, I cannot go to Borva
while this affair remains in its present condition; and, indeed,
Lavender, I mean to stop in London till I see you out of your trouble
somehow."
"You are heaping coals of fire on my head."
"Oh, don't look at it that way. If I can be of any help to you, I shall
expect, this time, to have a return for it."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you when we get to know something of Sheila's intentions."
And so Frank Lavender found himself once more, as in the old times, in
the Euston Station, with the Scotch mail ready to start, and all manner
of folks bustling about with that unnecessary activity which betokens
the excitement of a holiday. What a strange holiday was his! He got into
a smoking-carriage in order to be alone, and he looked out on the people
who were bidding their friends good-bye. Some of them were not very
pretty, many of them were ordinary, insignificant, commonplace-looking
folks, but it was clear that they had those about them who loved them
and thought much of them. There was one man whom, in other
circumstances, Lavender would have dismissed with contempt as an
excellent specimen of the unmitigated cad. He wore a white waistcoat,
purple gloves and a green sailor's knot with a diamond in it, and there
was a cheery, vacuous, smiling expression on his round face as he
industriously smoked a cheroot and made small jokes to the friends who
had come to see him off. One of them was a young woman, not very good
looking perhaps, who did not join in the general hilarity; and it
occurred to Lavender that the jovial man with the cheroot was perhaps
cracking his little jokes to keep up her spirits. At all events, he
called her "my good lass" from time to time, and patted her on the
shoulder, and was very kind to her. And when the guard came up and bade
everybody get in, the man kissed the girl and shook hands with her and
bade her good-bye; and then she, moved by some sudden impulse, caught
his face in both her hands and kissed him once on each cheek. It was a
ridiculous scene. People who wear green ties with diamond pins care
nothing for decorum. And yet Lavender, when he averted his eyes from
this parting, could not help recalling what Ingram had been saying the
night before, and wondered whether this outrageous person, with his
abominable decorations and his genial grin, might not be more fortunate
than many a great statesman or warrior or monarch.
He turned round to find the cad beside him; and presently the man, with
an abounding good-nature, began to converse with him, and explained that
it was 'igh 'oliday with him, for that he had got a pass to travel
first-class as far as Carlisle. He hoped they would have a jolly time of
it together. He explained the object of his journey in the frankest
possible fashion, made a kindly little joke upon the hardship of parting
with one's sweetheart, said that a faint heart never won fair lady, and
that it was no good crying over spilt milk. She would be all right, and
precious glad to see him when he came back in three weeks' time, and he
meant to bring her a present that would be good for sore eyes.
"Perhaps you're a married man, sir, and got past all them games?" said
the cad cheerily.
"Yes, I am married," said Lavender coldly.
"And you're going farther than Carlisle, you say, sir? I'll be sworn the
good lady is up somewhere in that direction, and she won't be
disappointed when she sees you--oh no! Scotch, sir?"
"I am not Scotch," said Lavender curtly.
"And she?"
Should he have to throw the man out of the window? "Yes."
"The Scotch are a strange race--very," said the genial person, producing
a brandy flask. "They drink a trifle, don't they? and yet they keep
their wits about them if you've dealings with them. A very strange race
of people, in my opinion--very. Know the story of the master who
fancied his man was drunk? 'Donald, you're trunk,' says he. 'It's a tam
lee,' says Donald. 'Donald, ye ken ye're trunk,' says the master. 'Ah
ken ah wish to Kott ah was!' says Donald. Good story, ain't it, sir?"
Lavender had heard the remarkable old joke a hundred times, but just at
this moment there was something odd in this vulgar person suddenly
imitating, and imitating very well, the Highland accent. Had he been
away up in the North? or had he merely heard the story related by one
who had been? Lavender dared not ask, however, for fear of prolonging a
conversation in which he had no wish to join. Indeed, to get rid of the
man, he shoved a whole bundle of the morning papers into his hands.
"What's your opinion of politics at present, sir?" observed his friend
in an off-hand way.
"I haven't any," said Lavender, compelled to take back one of the
newspapers and open it.
"I think, myself, they're in a bad state: that's my opinion. There ain't
a man among 'em who knows how to keep down those people: that's my
opinion, sir. What do you think?"
"Oh, I think so too," said Lavender. "You'll find a good article in that
paper on University Tests."
The cheery person looked rather blank. "I would like to hear your
opinion about 'em, sir," he said. "It ain't much good reading only one
side of a question, but when you can talk about it and discuss it,
now--"
"I am sorry I can't oblige you," said Lavender, goaded into making some
desperate effort to release himself. "I am suffering from relaxed throat
at present. My doctor has warned me against talking too much."
"I beg your pardon, sir. You don't seem very well: perhaps the throat
comes with a little feverishness, you see--a cold, in fact. Now if I was
you I'd try tannin lozenges for the throat. They're uncommon good for
the throat; and a little quinine for the general system--that would put
you as right as a fiver. I tried it myself when I was down in 'Ampshire
last year. And you wouldn't find a drop of this brandy a bad thing,
either, if you don't mind rowing in the same boat as myself."
Lavender declined the proffered flask and subsided behind a newspaper.
His fellow-traveler lit another cheroot, took up Bradshaw and settled
himself in a corner.
Had Sheila come up this very line some dozen hours before? Lavender
asked himself as he looked out on the hills and valleys and woods of
Buckinghamshire. Had the throbbing of the engine and the rattle of the
wheels kept the piteous eyes awake all through the dark night, until the
pale dawn showed the girl a wild vision of northern hills and moors,
telling her she was getting near to her own country? Not thus had Sheila
proposed to herself to return home on the first holiday-time that should
occur to them both. He began to think of his present journey as it might
have been in other circumstances. Would she have remembered any of those
pretty villages which she saw one early morning long ago when they were
bathed in sunshine and scarcely awake to the new day? Would she be
impatient at the delays at the stations, and anxious to hurry on to
Westmoreland and Dumfries, to Glasgow, and Oban, and Skye, and then from
Stornoway across the island to the little inn at Garra-na-hina? Here, as
he looked out of the window, the first indication of the wilder country
became visible in the distant Berkshire hills. Close at hand the country
lay green and bright under a brilliant sun, but over there in the east
some heavy clouds darkened the landscape, and the far hills seemed to be
placed amid a gloomy stretch of moorland. Would not Sheila have been
thrilled by this glimpse of the coming North? She would have fancied
that greater mountains lay far behind these rounded slopes hidden in
mist. She would have imagined that no human habitations were near those
rising plains of sombre hue, where the red-deer and the fox ought to
dwell. And in her delight at getting away from the fancied brightness
of the South, would she not have been exceptionally grateful and
affectionate toward himself, and striven to please him with her tender
ways?
It was not a cheerful journey, this lonely trip to the North. Lavender
got to Glasgow that night, and next morning he went down, long before
any passengers could have thought of arriving, to the Clansman. He did
not go near the big steamer, for he was known to the captain and the
steward, but he hung about the quays, watching each person who went on
board. Sheila certainly was not among the passengers by the Clansman.
But she might have gone to Greenock and waited for the steamer there.
Accordingly, after the Clansman had started on her voyage, he went into
a neighboring hotel and had some breakfast, after which he crossed the
bridge to the station and took rail for Greenock, where he arrived some
time before the Clansman made her appearance. He went down to the quay.
It was yet early morning, and a cool fresh breeze was blowing in across
the broad waters of the Frith, where the sunlight was shining on the
white sails of the yachts and on the dipping and screaming sea gulls.
Far away beyond the pale blue mountains opposite lay the wonderful
network of sea-loch and island through which one had to pass to get to
the distant Lewis. How gladly at this moment would he have stepped on
board the steamer with Sheila, and put out on that gleaming plain of
sea, knowing that by and by they would sail into Stornoway harbor and
find the wagonette there! They would not hasten the voyage. She had
never been round the Mull of Cantyre, and so he would sit by her side
and show her the wild tides meeting there, and the long jets of white
foam shooting up the great wall of rock. He would show her the pale
coast of Ireland; and then they would see Islay, of which she had many a
ballad and story. They would go through the narrow sound that is
overlooked by the gloomy mountains of Jura. They would see the distant
islands where the chief of Colonsay is still mourned for on the still
evenings by the hapless mermaiden, who sings her wild song across the
sea. They would keep wide of the dangerous currents of Corryvreckan, and
by and by they would sail into the harbor of Oban, the beautiful
sea-town where Sheila first got a notion of the greatness of the world
lying outside of her native island.
What if she were to come down now from this busy little seaport, which
lay under a pale blue smoke, and come out upon this pier to meet the
free sunlight and the fresh sea-air blowing all about? Surely at a great
distance he could recognize the proud, light step, and the proud, sad
face. Would she speak to him, or go past him, with firm lips and piteous
eyes, to wait for the great steamer that was now coming along out of the
eastern mist? Lavender glanced vaguely around the quays and the
thoroughfares leading to them, but there was no one like Sheila there.
In the distance he could hear the throbbing of the Clansman's engines as
the big steamer came on through the white plain. The sun was warmer now
on the bright waters of the Frith, and the distant haze over the pale
blue mountains beyond had grown more luminous. Small boats went by, and
here and there a yachtsman, scarlet-capped and in white costume, was
taking a leisurely breakfast on his deck. The sea-gulls circled about,
or dipped down on the waters, or chased each other with screams and
cries. Then the Clansman sailed into the quay, and there was a flinging
of ropes and general hurry and bustle, while people came crowding round
the gangways, calling out to each other in every variety of dialect and
accent.
Sheila was not there. He lingered about, and patiently waited for the
starting of the steamer, not knowing how long she ordinarily remained at
Greenock. He was in no hurry, indeed, for after the vessel had gone he
found himself with a whole day before him, and with no fixed notion as
to how it could be passed.
In other circumstances he would have been in no difficulty as to the
spending of a bright forenoon and afternoon by the side of the sea. Or
he could have run through to Edinburgh and called on some artist-friends
there. Or he could have crossed the Frith and had a day's ramble among
the mountains. But now that he was satisfied that Sheila had not gone
home all his fancies and hopes went back to London. She was in London.
And while he was glad that she had not gone straight to her own people
with a revelation of her wrongs, he scarcely dared speculate on what
adventures and experiences might have befallen those two girls turned
out into a great city of which they were about equally ignorant.
The day passed somehow, and at night he was on his way to London. Next
morning he went down to Whitehall and saw Ingram.
"Sheila has not gone back to the Highlands, so far as I can make out,"
he said.
"So much the better," was the answer.
"What am I to do? She must be in London, and who knows what may befall
her?"
"I cannot tell you what you should do. Of course you would like to know
where she is; and I fancy she would have no objection herself to letting
you know that she was all right, so long as she knew that you would not
go near her. I don't think she has taken so decided a step merely for
the purpose of being coaxed back again: that is not Sheila's way."
"I won't go near her," he said. "I only want to know that she is safe
and well. I will do whatever she likes, but I must know where she is,
and that she has come to no harm."
"Well," said Ingram slowly, "I was talking the matter over with Mrs.
Lorraine last night--"
"Does _she_ know?" said Lavender, wincing somewhat.
"Certainly," Ingram answered. "I did not tell her. I had promised to go
up there about something quite different, when she immediately began to
tell me the news. Of course it was impossible to conceal such a thing.
Don't all the servants about know?"
"I don't care who knows," said Lavender moodily. "What does Mrs.
Lorraine say about this affair?"
"Mrs. Lorraine says that it serves you right," said Ingram bluntly.
"Thank her very much! I like candor, especially in a fair-weather
friend."
"Mrs. Lorraine is a better friend to you than you imagine," Ingram said,
taking no notice of the sneer. "When she thought that your going to
their house continually was annoying Sheila, she tried to put a stop to
it for Sheila's sake. And now, at this very moment, she is doing her
very best to find out where Sheila is; and if she succeeds she means to
go and plead your cause with the girl."
"I will not have her do anything of the kind," said Lavender fiercely.
"I will plead my own cause with Sheila. I will have forgiveness from
Sheila herself alone--not brought to me by any intermeddling woman."
"You needn't call names," said Ingram coolly. "But I confess I think you
are right; and I told Mrs. Lorraine that was what you would doubtless
say. In any case, she can do no harm in trying to find out where Sheila
is."
"And how does she propose to succeed? Pollaky, the 'Agony' column,
placards, or a bellman? I tell you, Ingram, I won't have that woman
meddle in my affairs--coming forward as a Sister of Mercy to heal the
wounded, bestowing mock compassion, and laughing all the time."
"Lavender, you are beside yourself. That woman is one of the most
good-natured, shrewd, clever and amiable women I have ever met. What has
enraged you?"
"Bah! She has got hold of you too, has she? I tell you she is a rank
impostor."
"An impostor!" said Ingram slowly. "I have heard a good many people
called impostors. Did it ever occur to you that the blame of the
imposture might possibly lie with the person imposed on? I have heard of
people falling into the delusion that a certain modest and
simple-minded man was a great politician or a great wit, although he had
never claimed to be anything of the kind; and then, when they found out
that in truth he was just what he had pretended to be, they called out
against him as an impostor. I have heard, too, of young gentlemen
accusing women of imposture whose only crime was that they did not
possess qualities which they had never pretended to possess, but which
the young gentlemen fancied they ought to possess. Mrs. Lorraine may be
an impostor to you. I think she is a thoroughly good woman, and I know
she is a very delightful companion. And if you want to know how she
means to find Sheila out, I can tell you. She thinks that Sheila would
probably go to a hotel, but that afterward she would try to find
lodgings with some of the people whom she had got to know through her
giving them assistance. Mrs. Lorraine would like to ask your servants
about the women who used to come for this help. Then, she thinks, Sheila
would probably get some one of these humble friends to call for her
letters, for she would like to hear from her father, and she would not
care to tell him that she had left your house. There is a great deal of
supposition in all this, but Mrs. Lorraine is a shrewd woman, and I
would trust her instinct in such matters a long way. She is quite sure
that Sheila would be too proud to tell her father, and very much averse,
also, to inflicting so severe a blow on him."
"But surely," Lavender said hastily, "if Sheila wishes to conceal this
affair for a time, she must believe it to be only temporary? She cannot
propose to make the separation final?"
"That I don't know anything about. I would advise you to go and see Mrs.
Lorraine."
"I won't go and see Mrs. Lorraine."
"Now, this is unreasonable, Lavender. You begin to fancy that Sheila had
some sort of dislike to Mrs. Lorraine, founded on ignorance, and
straightway you think it is your duty to go and hate the woman. Whatever
you may think of her, she is willing to do you a service."
"Will you go, Ingram, and take her to those servants?"
"Certainly I will, if you commission me to do so," said Ingram readily.
"I suppose they all know?"
"They do."
"And every one else?"
"I should think few of your friends would remain in ignorance of it."
"Ah, well," said Lavender, "if only I could get Sheila to overlook what
is past, this once, I should not trouble my dear friends and
acquaintances for their sympathy and condolence. By the time I saw them
again I fancy they would have forgotten our names."
There was no doubt of the fact that the news of Sheila's flight from her
husband's house had traveled very speedily round the circle of
Lavender's friends, and doubtless in due time it reached the ears of his
aunt. At all events, Mrs. Lavender sent a message to Ingram, asking him
to come and see her. When he went he found the little, dry, hard-eyed
woman in a terrible passion. She had forgotten all about Marcus Aurelius
and the composure of a philosopher, and the effect of anger on the
nervous system. She was bolstered up in bed, for she had had another bad
fit, but she was brisk enough in her manner and fierce enough in her
language.
"Mr. Ingram," she said the moment he had entered, "do you consider my
nephew a beast?"
"I don't," he said.
"I do," she retorted.
"Then you are quite mistaken, Mrs. Lavender. Probably you have heard
some exaggerated story of all this business. He has been very
inconsiderate and thoughtless, certainly, but I don't believe he quite
knew how sensitive his wife was; and he is very repentant now, and I
know he will keep his promises."
"You would apologize for the devil," said the little old woman frowning.
"I would try to give him his due, at all events," said Ingram with a
laugh. "I know Frank Lavender very well--I have known him for years--and
I know there is good stuff in him, which may be developed in proper
circumstances. After all, what is there more common than for a married
man to neglect his wife? He only did unconsciously and thoughtlessly
what heaps of men do deliberately."
"You are making me angry," said Mrs. Lavender in a severe voice.
"I don't think it fair to expect men to be demigods," Ingram said
carelessly. "I never met any demigods myself: they don't live in my
neighborhood. Perhaps if I had had some experience of a batch of them, I
should be more censorious of other people. If you set up Frank for a
Bayard, is it his fault or yours?"
"I am not going to be talked out of my common sense, and me on my
death-bed," said the old lady impatiently, and yet with some secret hope
that Ingram would go on talking and amuse her. "I won't have you say he
is anything but a stupid and ungrateful boy, who married a wife far too
good for him. He is worse than that--he is much worse than that; but as
this may be my death-bed, I will keep a civil tongue in my head."
"I thought you didn't like his wife very much?" said Ingram.
"I am not bound to like her because I think badly of him, am I? She was
not a bad sort of girl, after all--temper a little stiff, perhaps; but
she was honest. It did one's eyes good to look at her bright face. Yes,
she was a good sort of creature in her way. But when she ran off from
him, why didn't she come to me?"
"Perhaps you never encouraged her."
"Encouragement! Where ought a married woman go to but to her husband's
relatives? If she cannot stay with him, let her take the next best
substitute. It was her duty to come to me."
"If Sheila had fancied it to be her duty, she would have come here at
any cost."
"What do you mean, Mr. Ingram?" said Mrs. Lavender severely.
"Well, supposing she didn't like you--" he was beginning to say
cautiously, when she sharply interrupted him:
"She didn't like me, eh?"
"I said nothing of the kind. I was about to say that if she had thought
it her duty to come here, she would have come in any circumstances."
"She might have done worse. A young woman risks a great deal in running
away from her husband's home. People will talk. Who is to make people
believe just the version of the story that the husband or wife would
prefer?"
"And what does Sheila care," said Ingram with a hot flush in his face,
"for the belief of a lot of idle gossips and slanderers?"
"My dear Mr. Ingram," said the old lady, "you are not a woman, and you
don't know the bother one has to look after one's reputation. But that
is a question not likely to interest you. Let us talk of something else.
Do you know why I wanted you to come and see me to-day?"
"I am sure I don't."
"I mean to leave you all my money."
He stared. She did not appear to be joking. Was it possible that her
rage against her nephew had carried her to this extreme resolve?
"Oh!" he stammered, "but I won't have it, Mrs. Lavender."
"But you'll have to have it," said the little old woman severely. "You
are a poor man. You could make good use of my money--better than a
charity board that would starve the poor with a penny out of each
shilling, and spend the other elevenpence in treating their friends to
flower-shows and dinners. Do you think I mean to leave my money to such
people? You shall have it. I think you would look very well driving a
mail-phaeton in the Park; and I suppose you would give up your pipes and
your philosophy and your bachelor walks into the country. You would
marry, of course: every man is bound to make a fool of himself that way
as soon as he gets enough money to do it with. But perhaps you might
come across a clever and sensible woman, who would look after you and
give you your own way while having her own. Only don't marry a fool.
Whatever you do, don't marry a fool, or all your philosophers won't make
the house bearable to you."
"I am not likely to marry anybody, Mrs. Lavender," said Ingram
carelessly.
"Is there no woman you know whom you would care to marry?"
"Oh," he said, "there is one woman--yes--who seems to me about
everything that a man could wish, but the notion of my marrying her is
absurd. If I had known in time, don't you see, that I should ever think
of such a thing, I should have begun years ago to dye my hair. I can't
begin now. Gray hair inspires reverence, I believe, but it is a bad
thing to go courting with."
"You must not talk foolishly," said the little old lady with a frown.
"Do you think a sensible woman wants to marry a boy who will torment her
with his folly and his empty head and his running after a dozen
different women? Gray hair! If you think gray hair is a bad thing to go
courting with, I will give you something better. I will put something in
your hand that will make the young lady forget your gray hair. Oh, of
course you will say that she cannot be tempted, that she despises money.
If so, so much the better; but I have known more women than you, and my
hair is grayer than yours, and you will find that a little money won't
stand in the way of your being accepted."
He had made some gesture of protest, not against her speaking of his
possible marriage, which scarcely interested him, so remote was the
possibility, but against her returning to this other proposal. And when
he saw the old woman really meant to do this thing, he found it
necessary to declare himself explicitly on the point. "Oh, don't
imagine, Mrs. Lavender," he said, "that I have any wild horror of money,
or that I suppose anybody else would have. I should like to have five
times or ten times as much as you seem generously disposed to give me.
But here is the point, you see. I am a vain person. I am very proud of
my own opinion of myself; and if I acceded to what you propose--if I
took your money--I suppose I should be driving about in that fine
phaeton you speak of. That is very good: I like driving, and I should be
pleased with the appearance of the trap and the horses. But what do you
fancy I should think of myself--what would be my opinion of my own
nobleness and generosity and humanity--if I saw Sheila Mackenzie walking
by on the pavement, without any carriage to drive in, perhaps without a
notion as to where she was going to get her dinner? I should be a great
hero to myself then, shouldn't I?"
"Oh, Sheila again!" said the old woman in a tone of vexation. "I can't
imagine what there is in that girl to make men rave so about her. That
Jew-boy is become a thorough nuisance: you would fancy she had just
stepped down out of the clouds to present him with a gold harp, and that
he couldn't look up to her face. And you are just as bad. You are worse,
for you don't blow it off in steam. Well, there need be no difficulty. I
meant to leave the girl in your charge. You take the money and look
after her: I know she won't starve. Take it in trust for her, if you
like."
"But that is a fearful responsibility, Mrs. Lavender," he said in
dismay. "She is a married woman. Her husband is the proper person--"
"I tell you I won't give him a farthing!" she said with a sudden
sharpness that startled him--"not a farthing! If he wants money, let him
work for it, as other people do; and then, when he has done that, if he
is to have any of my money, he must be beholden for it to his wife and
to you."
"Do you think that Sheila would accept anything that she would not
immediately hand over to him?"
"Then he must come first to you."
"I have no wish to inflict humiliation on any one," said Ingram stiffly.
"I don't wish to play the part of a little Providence and mete out
punishment in that way. I might have to begin with myself."
"Now, don't be foolish," said the old lady with a menacing composure.
"I give you fair warning: the next fit will do for me. If you don't
care to take my money, and keep it in trust for this girl you profess to
care so much about, I will leave it to found an institution. And I have
a good idea for an institution, mind you. I mean to teach people what
they should eat and drink, and the various effects of food on various
constitutions."
"It is an important subject," Ingram admitted.
"Is it not? What is the use of giving people laborious information about
the idle fancies of generations that lived ages before they were born,
while you are letting them poison their system, and lay up for
themselves a fearfully painful old age, by the continuous use of
unsuitable food? That book you gave me, Mr. Ingram, is a wonderful book,
but it gives you little consolation if you know another fit is coming
on. And what is the good of knowing about Epictetus and Zeno and the
rest if you've got rheumatism? Now, I mean to have classes to teach
people what they should eat and drink; and I'll do it if you won't
assume the guardianship of my nephew's wife."
"But this is the wildest notion I ever heard of," Ingram protested
again. "How can I take charge of her? If Sheila herself had shown any
disposition to place herself under your care, it might have been
different."
"Oh, it would have been different!" cried the old lady with a shrill
laugh. "It would have been different! And what did you say about her
sense of duty to her husband's relatives? Did you say anything about
that?"
"Well--" Ingram was about to say, being lost in amazement at the odd
glee of this withered old creature.
"Where do you think a young wife should go if she runs off from her
husband's house?" cried Mrs. Lavender, apparently much amused by his
perplexity. "Where can she best escape calumny? Poor man! I won't
frighten you or disturb you any longer. Ring the bell, will you? I want
Paterson."
Ingram rang.
"Paterson," said Mrs. Lavender when the tall and grave woman appeared,
"ask Mrs. Lavender if she can come here for a few minutes."
Ingram looked at the old woman to see if she had gone mad, and then,
somehow, he instinctively turned to the door. He fancied he knew that
quick, light step. And then, before he well knew how, Sheila had come
forward to him with her hands outstretched and with something like a
smile on her pale face. She looked at him for a second, she tried to
speak to him, but there was a dangerous quivering of the lips; and then
she suddenly burst into tears, and let go his hands and turned away. In
that brief moment he had seen what havoc had been wrought within the
past two or three days. There were the same proud and handsome features,
but they were pale and worn, and there was a piteous and weary look in
the eyes that told of the trouble and heartrending of sleepless nights.
"Sheila," he said, following her and taking her hand, "does any one know
of your being here?"
"No," she said, still holding her head aside and downcast--"no one. And
I do not wish any one to know. I am going away."
"Where?"
"Don't you ask too much, Mr. Ingram," said the old lady from amid her
cushions and curtains. "Give her that ammonia--the stopper only. Now,
sit down, child, and dry your eyes. You need not be ashamed to show Mr.
Ingram that you knew where you ought to come to when you left your
husband's house. And if you won't stop here, of course I can't compel
you, though Mr. Ingram will tell you you might do worse."
"Sheila, why do you wish to go away? Do you mean to go back to the
Lewis?"
"Oh no, no!" she said, almost shuddering.
"Where do you wish to go?"
"Anywhere--it does not matter. But I cannot remain here. I should meet
with--with many people I used to know. Mrs. Lavender, she is kind enough
to say she will get me some place for Mairi and me: that is all as yet
that is settled."
"Is Mairi with you?"
"Yes: I will go and bring her to you. It is not any one in London she
will want to see as much as you."
Sheila left the room, and by and by came back, leading the young
Highland girl by the hand. Mairi was greatly embarrassed, scarcely
knowing whether she should show any gladness at meeting this old friend
amid so much trouble. But when Ingram shook hands with her, and after
she had blushed and looked shy and said, "And are you ferry well, sir?"
she managed somehow to lift her eyes to his face; and then she said
suddenly, "And it is a good day, this day, for Miss Sheila, that you
will come to see her, Mr. Ingram, for she will hef a friend now."
"Yon silly girl," said Mrs. Lavender sharply, "why will you say 'Miss
Sheila?' Don't you know she is a married woman?"
Mairi glanced in a nervous and timid manner toward the bed. She was
evidently afraid of the little shriveled old woman with the staring
black eyes and the harsh voice.
"Mairi hasn't forgotten her old habits, that is all," said Ingram,
patting her good-naturedly on the head.
And then he sat down again, and it seemed so strange to him to see these
two together again, and to hear the odd inflection of Mairi's voice,
that he almost forgot that he had made a great discovery in learning of
Sheila's whereabouts, and wholly forgot that he had just been offered,
and had just refused, a fortune.