When they had done everything that could be done for him at that time,
Sprats and Saxonstowe left Lucian in Paris and returned together to
London. He appeared to have no particular desire that they should remain
with him, nor any dread of being alone. Sprats had seen to the
furnishing of his rooms and to the transportation of his most cherished
books and pictures; he was left surrounded with comfort and luxury, and
he assured his friends that he wanted for nothing. He intended to devote
himself to intense study, and if he wanted a little society, well, he
already had a considerable acquaintance amongst authors and artists in
Paris, and could make use of it if need were. But he spoke of himself as
of an anchorite; it was plain to see that he believed that the _joie de
vivre_ existed for him no longer. It was also plain that something in
him wished to be clear of the old life and the old associations. He took
an affectionate farewell of Sprats and of Saxonstowe at the Gare du
Nord, whither he accompanied them on their departure, but Sprats was
keenly aware of the fact that there was that in him which was longing to
see the last of them. They were links of a chain that bound him to a
life with which he wished to have no further connection. When they said
good-bye, Sprats knew that she was turning down a page that closed a
long chapter of her own life.
She faced the problem bravely and with clear-headedness. She saw now
that much of what she had taken to be real fact had been but a dream.
Lucian had awakened the mother-instinct in her by his very helplessness,
but nothing in him had ever roused the new feeling which had grown in
her every day since Saxonstowe had told her of his love. She had made
the mistake of taking interest and affection for love, and now that she
had found it out she was contented and uneasy, happy and miserable,
pleased and furious, all at once. She wanted to run away from Saxonstowe
to the very ends of the earth, but she also cherished a secret desire to
sit at his feet and be his slave, and would rather have torn her tongue
out than tell him of it.
While they were father-and-mother-ing Lucian in Paris, Saxonstowe had
remained solid and grim as one of the Old Guard, doing nothing but his
duty. Sprats had watched him with keen observation, and had admired his
stern determination and the earnest way in which he did everything. He
had taken hold of Lucian as a big brother might take a little one, and
had been gentle and firm, kindly and tactful, all at once. She had often
longed to throw her arms round him and kiss him for his good-boy
qualities, but he had sunk the lover in the friend with unmistakable
purpose, and she was afraid of him. She began to catch herself looking
at him out of her eye-corners when he was not looking at her, and she
hated herself. Once when he came suddenly into a room, she blushed so
furiously that she could have cried with vexation, and it was all the
more aggravating, she said, because she had just happened to be thinking
of him. Travelling back together, she was very subdued and essentially
feminine. Her manner invited confidence, but Saxonstowe was stiff as a
ramrod and cold as an icicle. He put her into a hansom at Charing Cross,
and bade her good-bye as if she had been a mere acquaintance.
But he came to her the next afternoon, and she knew from his face that
he was in an urgent and a masterful mood. She recognised that she would
have to capitulate, and had a happy moment in assuring herself that she
would make her own terms. Saxonstowe wasted no time. He might have been
a smart young man calling to collect the water-rate.
‘The night that we went to Paris together,’ he said, ‘you made an
observation which you thought I understood. I didn’t understand it, and
now I want to know what you meant.’
‘What I said. That we were going--you and I--together,’ she answered.
‘But what _did_ that mean?’
‘Together,’ she said, ‘together means--well, of course, it
means--together.’
Saxonstowe put his hands on her shoulders; she immediately began to
study the pattern of the hearthrug at their feet.
‘Will you marry me, Millicent?’ he said.
She nodded her head, but her eyes still remained fixed on his toes.
‘Answer me,’ he commanded.
‘Yes,’ she said, and lifted her eyes to his.
A moment later she disengaged herself from his arms and began to laugh.
‘I was going to extract such a lot of conditions,’ she said. ‘Somehow I
don’t care about them now. But will you tell me just what is going to
happen?’
‘You knew, I suppose, that I should have already mapped everything out.
Well, so I have. We shall be married at once, in the quietest possible
fashion, and then we are going round the world in our own way. It is to
be your holiday after all these years of work.’
She nodded, with perfect acquiescence in his plans.
‘At once?’ she said questioningly.
‘A week from to-day,’ he said.
The notion of such precipitancy brought the blood into her face.
‘I suppose I ought to say that I can’t possibly be ready in a week,’ she
said, ‘but it so happens that I can. A week to-day, then.’
Mr. Chilverstone came up from Simonstower to marry them. It was a very
quiet wedding in a quiet church. Lady Firmanence, however, was there,
and before the bride and bridegroom left to catch a transatlantic liner
for New York she expressed a decided opinion that the fourth Viscount
Saxonstowe had inherited more than his share of the good sense and wise
perception for which their family had always been justly famous.