COLONEL KINGSWARD had been flattered, he had been pleased. He had felt
himself for a moment one of the exceptional men in whom women find an
irresistible attraction, and then he had been put down and dismissed
with the calmest decision, with a peremptoriness which nobody in his
life had ever used to him. All these sweetnesses, and then to be, as it
were, huddled out of doors the moment he said a word which was not
satisfactory to that imperial person! He could not get it out of his
mind during the evening nor all the night through, during which it
occurred to him whenever he woke, as a prevailing thought does. And he
had been right, too. To send for men, any kind of men, artists whom she
herself described as having so much freedom in their ways, and have
interviews with them, was a thing to which he had a good right to
object. That is, her friend had a right to object to it--her friend who
took the deepest interest in her and all that she was doing. That it was
for Charlie’s advantage made really no difference. This gave a beautiful
and admirable motive, but then all her motives were beautiful and
admirable, and it must be necessary in some cases to defend her against
the movements of her own good heart. Evidently she did not sufficiently
think of what the world would say, nor, indeed, of what was essentially
right; for that a woman of her attractions, still young, living
independently in rooms of her own, should receive artists
indiscriminately, nay, send for them, admit them to sit perhaps for an
hour with her, with no chaperon or companion, was a thing that could not
be borne. This annoyance almost drove Charlie out of Colonel Kingsward’s
head. He felt that when he went to her next day he must, with all the
precautions possible, speak his mind upon this subject. A woman with
such attractions, really a young woman, alone; nobody could have more
need of guarding against evil tongues. And artists were proverbially an
unregulated, free-and-easy race, with long hair and defective linen, not
men to be privileged with access under any circumstances to such a
woman. Unquestionably he must deliver his soul on that subject for her
own sake.
He thought about it all the morning, how to do it best. It relieved his
mind about Charlie. Charlie! Charlie was only a young fellow after all,
taking his own way, as they all did, never thinking of the anxiety he
gave his family. And no doubt he would turn up of his own accord when he
was tired of it. That she should depart from the traditions which
naturally are the safeguards of ladies for the sake of a silly boy, who
took so little trouble about the peace of mind of his family, was
monstrous. It was a thing which he could not permit to be.
When he went into his private room at his office, Colonel Kingsward
found a card upon his table which increased the uneasiness in his mind,
though he could not have told why. He took it up with great surprise
and anger. “Mr. Aubrey Leigh.” He supposed it must have been a card left
long ago, when Aubrey Leigh was Bee’s suitor, and had come repeatedly,
endeavouring to shake her father’s determination. He looked at it
contemptuously, and then pitched it into the fire.
What a strange perversity there is in these inanimate things! It seemed
as if some malicious imp must have replaced that card there on that very
morning to disturb him.
Colonel Kingsward did not remember how it was that the name, the sacred
name, of Miss Lance was associated with that of Aubrey Leigh. He had
been much surprised, as well as angry, at the manner in which Bee
repeated that name, when she heard it first, with a vindictive jealousy
(these words came instinctively to his mind) which was not
comprehensible. He had refused indignantly to allow that she had ever
heard the name before. Nevertheless, her cry awakened a vague
association in his mind. Something or other, he could not recollect
what, of connection, of suggestion, was in the sound. He threw Aubrey’s
card into the fire, and endeavoured to dismiss all thought on the
subject. But it was a difficult thing to do. It is to be feared that
during those morning hours the work which Colonel Kingsward usually
executed with so much exactitude, never permitting, as he himself
stated, private matters--even such as the death of his wife or the
disappearance of his son--to interfere with it, was carried through with
many interruptions and pauses for thought, and at the earliest possible
moment was laid aside for that other engagement which had nothing to do
either with the office or the Service, though it was, he flattered
himself, a duty, and one of the most lofty kind.
To save a noble creature, if possible, from the over generosity of her
own heart; to convince her that such proceedings were inappropriate,
inconsistent with her dignity, as well as apt to give occasion for the
adversary to blaspheme--this was the mission which inspired him. If he
thought of a natural turning towards himself, the friend of friends, in
respect to whom the precautions he enforced were unnecessary, in
consequence of these remonstrances, he kept it carefully in the
background of his thoughts. It was a duty. This beautiful, noble woman,
all frankness and candour, had taken the part of an angel in
endeavouring to help him in his trouble. Could he permit her to sully
even the tip of a wing of that generous effort. Certainly not! On the
contrary, it became doubly his duty to protect her in every way.
This time Miss Lance was in her drawing-room, seated in one of the pair
of chairs which were arranged for intimate conversation. She did not
rise, but held out her hand to him, with a soft impulse towards the
other--in which Colonel Kingsward accordingly seated himself, with a
solemnity upon his brow which she had no difficulty in interpreting,
quick-witted as she was. She did not loose a shade upon that forehead, a
note of additional gravity in his voice. She knew as well as he did the
duty which he had come to perform. And she was a woman--not only
quick-witted and full of a definite aim, but one who took real pleasure
in her own dexterity, and played her _rôle_ with genuine enjoyment. She
allowed him to open the conversation with much dignified earnestness,
and even to begin, “My dear Miss Lance,” his countenance charged with
warning before she cut the ground from under his feet in the lightest,
yet most complete way.
“I know you are going to say something very serious when you adopt that
tone, so please let me discharge my mind first. Mrs. Revel kindly came
to me after you left yesterday, and she has made every inquiry--indeed,
as she compelled me to go back with her to dinner, I saw for myself----”
“Mrs. Revel?” said the Colonel.
“Didn’t you know he was married? Oh, yes, to a great friend of mine, a
dear little woman. It is in their house I meet my artists, whom I told
you of. Tuesday is her night, and they were all there. I was able to
make my investigations without any betrayal. But I am very, very sorry
to say, dear Colonel Kingsward, equally without any effect.”
“Without any effect,” Colonel Kingsward repeated, confused. He was not
so quick-witted as she was, and it took him some time to make his way
through these mazes. Revel, the painter, was a name, indeed, that he had
heard vaguely, but his wife, so suddenly introduced, and her “night,”
and the people described as my artists, wound him in webs of
bewilderment through which it was very difficult to guide his steps. It
became apparent to him, however, after a moment, that whatever those
things might mean, the ground had been cut from under his feet. “Does
Mrs. Revel know?” he added after a moment, in his bewilderment.
“Know--our poor dear boy? Oh, yes; I took him there--in my foolish
desire to do the best I could for him, and thinking that to see other
circles outside of his own was good for a young man. I couldn’t take him
the round of the studios, you know--could I? But I took him to the
Revels. She is a charming little woman, a woman whom I am very fond of,
and--more extraordinary still, don’t you think, Colonel Kingsward?--who
is fond of me.”
The Colonel was not up to the mark in this emergency. He did not give
the little compliment which is expected after such a speech. He sat
dumb, a dull, middle-aged blush rising over his face. He had no longer
anything to say; instead of the serious, even impassioned remonstrance
which he was about to address to her, he could only murmur a faint
assent, a question without meaning. And in place of the generous,
imprudent creature, following her own hasty impulses, disregarding the
opinion of the world, whom he had expected to find, here was female
dignity in person, regulated by all the nicest laws of propriety. He was
struck dumb--the ground was cut from beneath his feet.
“This is only an interruption on my part. You were going to say
something to me? And something serious? I prize so much everything you
say that I must not lose it. Pray say it now, dear Colonel Kingsward.
Have I done something you don’t like? I am ready to accept even
blame--though you know what women are in that way, always standing out
that they are right--from you.”
Colonel Kingsward looked at her, helpless, still without a word to say.
There was surely a laughing demon in her eyes which saw through and
through him and knew the trouble in his mind; but her face was serious,
appealing, a little raised towards him, waiting for his words as if her
fate hung upon them. The colour rose over his middle-aged countenance to
the very hair which was beginning to show traces of white over his high
forehead.
“Blame!” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “I hope you don’t
think me quite a fool.”
“What,” she cried, picking him up as it were on the end of her lance,
holding him out to the scorn--if not of the world, yet of himself. “Do
you think so little of a woman, Colonel Kingsward, that you would not
take the trouble to find fault with her? Ah! Don’t be so hard! You would
not be a fool if you did that--you should find that I would take it with
gratitude, accept it, be guided by it. Believe me, I am worthy, if you
think me in the wrong, to be told so--I am, indeed I am!”
Were these tears in her fine eyes? She made them look as if they were,
and filled him with a compunction and a shame of his own superficial
judgment impossible to put into words.
“I--think you wrong!” he said, stammering and faltering. “I would as
soon think that--heaven was wrong. I--blame you! Dear Miss Laura, how,
how can you imagine such a thing? I should be a miserable idiot indeed
if----”
“Come,” she said, “I begin to think you didn’t mean--now that you have
called me by my name.”
“I beg you a thousand pardons. I--I--It was a slip of the tongue. It
was--from the signature to your letters--which is somehow so like
you----”
“Yes,” she said. “It pleases me very much that you should think so--more
like me than Lance. Lance! What a name! My mother made a mésalliance. I
don’t give up my father, poor dear, though he has saddled me with such a
family--but Laura is me, whereas Lance is only--an accident.”
“An accident that may be removed,” he said, involuntarily. It was a
thing that might be said to any unmarried woman, a conventional sort of
half compliment, which custom would have permitted him to put in even
stronger terms--but to her! When he had said it horror seized his soul.
“No,” she said, gently shaking her head. “No. At my age one does not
recover from an accident like that; one must bear the scar all one’s
days. And you really had nothing to find fault with me about?”
“How monstrous!” he cried, “to entertain such a thought.” Then, for he
was really uneasy in his sense of guilt, he plunged into a new snare.
“My little daughter, Betty,” he said, “is coming to town to-day to visit
some friends in Portman Square. I wonder if I might bring her to see
you.”
“Your daughter!” cried Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a thing I did
not venture to ask--the very first desire of my heart. Your daughter! I
would go anywhere to see her. If you will be so nice, so sweet, so kind
as to bring her, Colonel Kingsward!”
“I shall, indeed, to-morrow. It will do her good to see you. At her
susceptible age the very sight of such a woman as you--”
“No compliments,” she cried, “if I am not to be blamed I must not be
praised either--and I deserve it much less. Is she the eldest?” There
was a gleam under her half-dropped eyelids which the Colonel was vaguely
aware of but did not understand.
“The second,” he said. “My eldest girl is Bee, in many respects a
stronger character than her sister, but on the other hand--”
“I know,” said Miss Lance, “a little wilful, fond of her own way and her
own opinion. Oh, that is a good fault in a girl! When they are a little
chastened they turn out the finest women. But I understand what a man
must feel for this little sweet thing who has not begun to have a will
of her own.”
It was not perhaps a very perfect characterisation of Betty, but still
it flattered him to see how she entered into his thoughts. “I think you
understand everything,” he said.