IT was not with any intention, but solely to deliver himself from the
dilemma in which he found himself--the inconceivable error he had made,
imagining that it was necessary to censure, however gently, and warn
against too much freedom of action, a woman so absolutely above
reproach, and so full of ladylike dignity as Miss Lance--that Colonel
Kingsward had named the name of Betty, his little daughter, just arrived
in that immaculate stronghold of the correct and respectable Portman
Square. He was a little uneasy about it when he thought of it
afterwards. He was not sure that he desired even Betty to be aware of
his intimacy with Miss Lance. He felt that her youthful presence would
change, in some degree, the character of his relations with the
enchantress who was stealing his wits away. The kind of conversation
that had arisen so naturally between them, the sentiment, the
confidences, the singular strain of mutual understanding which he felt,
with mingled pride and bashfulness--bashfulness sat strangely upon the
much-experienced Colonel, yet such was his feeling--to exist between
Laura and himself, must inevitably sustain certain modifications under
the sharp eyes of the child. She would not understand that subtle but
strong link of friendship. He would require to be more distant, to treat
his exquisite friend more like an ordinary acquaintance while under the
inspection of Betty, even though he was perfectly assured that Betty
knew nothing about such matters. And what, then, would Laura say?
Confident as she was in her own perfect honour and candour, would she
understand the subdued manner, the more formal address which would be
necessary in the presence of the child? It was true that she understood
everything without a word said; but then her own entire innocence of
any motive but those of heavenly kindness and friendship might induce
her to laugh at his precautions. Was it, perhaps, because he felt his
motives to be not unmingled that the Colonel felt this? Anyhow, the
introduction of Betty, whom he had snatched at in his haste to save him
from the consequences of his own folly, would be a trouble to the
intercourse which, as it was, was so consolatory and so sweet.
It must be added that Miss Lance, before he left her, had been very
consolatory to him on the subject of Charlie, which, though always lying
at the bottom of his thoughts, had begun in the midst of these new
developments to weigh upon him less, perhaps, than it was natural it
should have done. She had suggested that Charlie had friends in
Scotland, that he had most probably gone there to avoid for a time his
father’s wrath, that in all probability he was enjoying himself, and
very well cared for, putting off from day to day the necessity of
writing.
“He never was, I suppose, much of a correspondent?” she said.
“No,” Colonel Kingsward had replied, doubtfully; for indeed there never
had been anything at all to call correspondence between him and his son.
Charlie had written to his mother, occasionally to his sisters, but to
his father, save when he wanted money, scarcely at all.
“Then this is what has happened,” said Laura; “he has gone off to be as
far out of the way as possible. He is fishing in Loch Tay--or he is
playing golf somewhere--you know his habits.”
“And so it seems do you,” said the Colonel, a little jealous of his son.
“Oh, you know how a boy chatters of everything he does and likes.”
Colonel Kingsward nodded his head gloomily. He did not know how boys
chattered--no boy had ever chattered to him; but he accepted with a
moderate satisfaction the fact that she, Laura, from whom he felt that
he himself could have no secret, had taken, and did take, the trouble of
turning the heart even--of a boy--outside in.
“Depend upon it,” said Miss Lance, “that is where he has gone, and he
has not meant to make you anxious. Perhaps he thinks you have never
discovered that he had left Oxford, and he has meant to write day by
day. Don’t you know how one does that? It is a little difficult to
begin, and one says, ‘To-morrow,’ and then ‘To-morrow’; and the time
flies on. Dear Colonel Kingsward, you will find that all this time he is
quite happy on Loch Tay.” She held out her hand to emphasise these
words, and the Colonel, though all unaccustomed to such signs of
enthusiasm, kissed that hand which held out comfort to him. It was a
beautiful hand, so soft, like velvet, so yielding and flexible in his,
and yet so firm in its delicate pressure. He went away with his head
slightly turned, and the blood coursing through his veins. But when he
thought of little Betty he dropped down, down into a blank of decorum
and commonplace. Before Betty he certainly could not kiss any lady’s
hand. He would have to shake hands with Laura as he did with old Mrs.
Lyon in Portman Square, who, indeed, was a much older friend. This
thought gave him a little feeling of contrariety and uneasiness in the
contemplation of his promise to take his little girl to George Street,
Hanover Square.
And next morning when he went into his office, Colonel Kingsward’s
annoyance and indignation could not be expressed when he found once more
upon his writing-table, placed in a conspicuous position so that he
could not overlook it, the card of Mr. Aubrey Leigh. Who had fished it
out of the waste paper basket and placed it there? He rang his bell
hastily to overwhelm his attendant with angry reproof. He could not have
told, himself, why it made him so angry to see that card. It looked like
some vulgar interference with his most private affairs.
“Where did you find this card?” he said, angrily, “and why is it
replaced here? I threw it into the fire--or somewhere, yesterday--and
here it is again as if the man had called to-day.”
“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday.”
“What?” cried Colonel Kingsward, in a voice like a trumpet; but the man
stood his ground.
“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday. He has called two or three
times; once when you were in the country. He seemed very anxious to see
you. I said two o’clock for a general thing, but you have been leaving
the office earlier for a day or two.”
“You are very impertinent to say anything of the kind, or to give anyone
information of my private movements; see that it never occurs again. And
as for this gentleman,” he held up his card for a moment, looked at it
contemptuously and then pitched it once more into the fireplace, “be so
good as to understand that I will not see him, whether he comes at two
or at any other hour.”
“Am I to tell him so, sir?” said the man, annoyed.
“Of course you are to tell him so; and mind you don’t bring me any
message or explanation. I will not see him--that is enough; now you can
go.”
“Shall I---- say you’re too busy, Colonel, or just going out, or
engaged----?”
“No!” shouted Colonel Kingsward, with a force of breath which blew the
attendant away like a strong wind. The Colonel returned to his work and
his correspondence with an irritation and annoyance which even to
himself seemed beyond the occasion. Bee’s old lover, he supposed, had
taken courage to make another attempt; but nothing would induce him to
change his former decision. He would not hear a word, not a word! A kind
of panic mingled in his hasty impulse of rage. He would not so much as
see the fellow--give him any opportunity of renewing---- Was it his suit
to Bee? Was it something else indefinite behind? Colonel Kingsward did
not very well know, but he was determined on one thing--not to allow the
presence of this intruder, not to hear a word that he had to say.
And then about Betty--that was annoying too, but he had promised to do
it, and to break his word to Laura was a thing he could not do.
Laura--Miss Laura, if she pleased, though that is not a usual mode of
address--but not Lance--how right she was! The name of Lance did not
suit her at all, and yet how just and sweet all the same. Her mother had
made a mésalliance, but there was no pettiness about her. She held by
her father, though she was aware of his inferiority. And then he thought
of her as she shook her head gently, and smiled at his awkward
stumbling suggestion that the accident of the name was not irremediable.
“At my age,”--what was her age? The most delightful, the most
fascinating of ages, whatever it was. Not the silly girlhood of Bee and
Betty, but something far more entrancing, far more charming. These
thoughts interfered greatly with his correspondence, and made the mass
of foreign newspapers, and the military intelligence from all over the
world, which it was his business to look over, appear very dull,
uninteresting and confused. He rose hastily after a while, and took his
hat and sallied forth to Portman Square, where he was expected to
luncheon. He was relieved, on the whole, to be thus legitimately out of
the way in case that fellow should have the audacity to call again.
“I want you to come out with me, Betty,” he said, after that meal, which
was very solemn, serious and prolonged, but very dull and not
appetising. “I want to take you to see a friend--”
“Oh, papa! we are going to---- Mrs. Lyon was going to take me to see
Mr. Revel’s picture before he sends it in.”
“To-morrow will do, my dear, equally well, if your papa wants you to go
anywhere.”
“Mr. Revel’s picture? He is precisely a friend of the friend I am going
to take you to see.” For a moment Colonel Kingsward wavered thinking how
much more agreeable it would be to have his interview with Laura
undisturbed by the presence of this little chit with her sharp eyes. But
he was a soldier and faithful to his consignee. “If it will do as well
to-morrow, and will not derange Mrs. Lyon’s plans, I should like you to
come now.”
“Run and get ready, Betty,” cried the old lady, to whom obedience was a
great quality, “and there will still be time to go there, if you are not
very long, when you come back.”
The Colonel felt as if his foot was upon more solid ground; not that any
doubt of Laura had ever been in his mind--but yet---- He had not
suspected the existence of any link between her and Portman Square.
“Mr. Revel is a very good painter, I suppose?” he said.
“A great painter, we all think; and beginning to be really acknowledged
in the art world,” said the old lady, who liked it to be known that she
knew a great deal about pictures, and was herself considered to have
some authority in that interesting sphere.
“And--hasn’t he a wife? I think I heard someone talking of his wife.”
“Yes, a dear little woman!” cried Mrs. Lyon. “Her Tuesdays are the most
pleasant parties. We always go when we are able. Ah! here is Betty, like
a little rose. Now, acknowledge you are proud to have a little thing
like that, Colonel, to walk with you through the park on a fine day like
this?”
Colonel Kingsward looked at Betty. She was a pretty little blooming
creature. He did not regard her with any enthusiasm, and yet she was a
creditable creature enough to belong to one. He gave a little nod of
approving indifference. Betty was very much admired at Portman
Square--from Gerald, who kept up an artillery of glances across the big
table, to the old butler, who called her attention specially to any
dish that was nicer than usual, and carried meringues to her twice, she
was the object of everybody’s regards. Her father did not, naturally,
look at her from the same point of view, but he was sufficiently pleased
with her appearance. He was pleased, too, exhilarated, he could scarcely
tell why, by the fact that Mrs. Lyon knew the painter’s wife and spoke
of her as a “dear little woman,” the very words Laura had used. Did he
require any guarantee that Laura herself was of the same order, knew the
same sort of people as his other friends? Had such a question been put
to him, the Colonel would have knocked the man down who made it, as in
days when duelling was possible he would have called him out---- But
yet--at all events it gave him much satisfaction that the British matron
in the shape of Mrs. Lyon spoke no otherwise of the lady whom for one
terrible moment of delusion he had intended to warn against intercourse,
too little guarded, with such equivocal men as artists. He shuddered
when he thought of that extraordinary aberration.
“Who is it, papa, we are going to see?” said Betty’s little voice by his
side.
“It is a lady--who has taken a great interest in your brother.”
“Oh, papa, that I should not have asked that the first thing! Have you
any news?”
“Nothing that I can call news, but I think I may say I have reason to
believe that Charlie has gone up to the north to the Mackinnons. That
does not excuse him for having left us in this anxiety; but the idea,
which did not occur to me till yesterday, has relieved my mind.”
“To the Mackinnons!” said Betty, doubtfully, “but then I heard----” She
stopped herself suddenly, and added after a moment, “How strange, papa,
if he is there, that none of them should have written.”
“It is strange; but perhaps when you think of all things, not so very
strange. He probably has not explained the circumstances to them, and
they will think that he has written; they would not feel it
necessary--why should they?--to let us know of his arrival. That, as a
matter of course, they would expect him to have done. I don’t think, on
the whole, it is at all strange; on his part inexcusable, but not to be
expected from them.”
“But, papa!” cried Betty.
“What is it?” he said, almost crossly. “I don’t mind saying,” he added,
“that even for him there may be excuses--if such folly can ever be
excused. He never writes to me in a general way, and it would not be a
pleasant letter to write; and no doubt he has put it off from day to
day, intending always to do it to-morrow--and every day would naturally
make it more difficult.” Thus he went on repeating unconsciously all the
suggestions that had been made to him. “Remember, Betty,” he said, “as
soon as you see that you have done anything wrong, always make a clean
breast of it at once; the longer you put it off the more difficult you
will find it to do.”
“Yes, papa,” said little Betty, with great doubt in her tone. She did
not know what to think, for she had in her blotting book at Portman
Square a letter lately received from one of these same Mackinnons in
which not a word was said of Charlie. Why should not Helen have
mentioned him had he been there? And yet, if papa thought so, and if it
relieved his mind to think so, what was Betty to set up a different
opinion? Her mind was still full of this thought when she found herself
following her father up the narrow stairs into the little drawing-room.
There she was met by a lady, who rose and came forward to her, holding
out two beautiful hands. “Such hands!” Betty said afterwards. Her own
were plump, reddish articles, small enough and not badly shaped, but
scarcely free from the scars and smirches of gardening, wild-flower
collecting, pony saddling, all the unnecessary pieces of work that a
country girl’s, like a country boy’s, are employed for. She had at the
moment a hopeless passion for white hands. And these drew her close,
while the beautiful face stooped over her and gave her a soft lingering
kiss. Was it a beautiful face? At least it was very, very handsome--fine
features, fine eyes, an imposing benignity, like a grand duchess at the
very least.
“So this is little Betty,” the lady said, to whom she was presented by
that title, “just out of last century, with her grandmother’s name, and
the newest version of her grandmother’s hat. How pretty! Oh, it is your
hat, you know, not you, that I am admiring. Like a little rose!”
Betty had no prejudices aroused in her mind by this lady’s name, for
Colonel Kingsward did not think it necessary to pronounce it. He said,
“My little Betty,” introducing the girl, but he did not think it needful
to make any explanations to her. And she thus fell, all unprotected,
under the charm. Laura talked to her for full five minutes without
taking any notice of the Colonel, and drew from her all she wanted to
see, and the places to which she was going, making a complete conquest
of the little girl. It was only when Colonel Kingsward’s patience was
quite exhausted, and he was about to jump up and propose somewhat
sullenly to leave his daughter with her new friend, that Miss Lance
turned to him suddenly with an exclamation of pleasure.
“Did you hear, Colonel Kingsward? She was going to see Arthur Revel’s
picture this afternoon. And so was I! Will you come too? He is a great
friend of mine, as I told you, and he knew dear Charlie, and, of course,
he would be proud and delighted to see you. Shall we take Betty back to
Portman Square to pick up her carriage and her old lady, and will you go
humbly on foot with me? We shall meet them, and Mrs. Revel shall give us
tea.”
“Oh, papa, do!” Betty cried.
It was not perhaps what he would have liked best, but he yielded with a
very good grace. He had not, perhaps, been so proud of little Betty by
his side as the Lyons had expected, but Laura by his side was a
different matter. He could not help remarking how people looked at her
as they went along, and his mind was full of pride in the handsome,
commanding figure, almost as tall as himself, and walking like a queen.
Yet it made his head turn round a little when he saw Miss Lance seated
by Mrs. Lyon’s side in the studio, talking intimately to her of the
whole Kingsward family, while Betty clung to her new friend as if she
had known her all her life. Old Mrs. Lyon was still more startled, and
her head went round too. “What a handsome woman!” she said, in Colonel
Kingsward’s ear. “What a delightful woman! Who is she?”
“Miss Lance,” he said, rather stupidly, feeling how little information
these words conveyed. Miss Lance? Who was Miss Lance? If he had said
Laura it might have been a different matter.