And still it rained!
"Paul, this is awful," mourned poor Lady George, on the eighth
morning. "The post hasn't come at all for two days, and it is
positively heartrending to see poor Mr. Woodward trying to read
Monday's share-list for the third time. Then the beef hasn't come
either, and their maid won't eat any other meat. Hot roast twice a
day, and cold for lunch. All the servants have given warning, and I
don't believe the Woodwards will stand it."
"Let them give warning, too," broke in her brother, hotly; then seeing
his sister's face, went on after his wont, consolingly. "Don't bother,
please, I'm not worth it. Besides, if Miss Woodward is going to do me
the honour of marrying Gleneira, it is as well that she should learn
to stand a little damp."
"A little damp! Besides, she will have time to learn afterwards--women
always do after they are married--till then, they really have a right
to be amused. Can't you suggest something to cheer us up? I'm at my
wits' end. Even the book-box has gone astray, and it is so hard to
make conversation when you don't see the society papers."
"Shall I black my face or stand on my head and sing a comic song? I've
done both in my salad days."
"Oh, don't be unkind, Paul, when I have taken so much trouble!"
"You have, indeed," he echoed, walking to the window moodily, feeling
at once irritated and annoyed. Personally he would have found no
difficulty in amusing himself with Marjory, whom he had not seen for a
week, so close at hand. And suddenly the thought of someone else who
had had the knack of making time pass pleasantly occurred to him.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Blanche, I'll wire to Mrs. Vane to come
at once. I expected to hear two days ago if she was to be with us this
week or next; but she would come anywhere to do a kindness, and she
would keep us alive--rain or no rain."
"It would be too late," returned his sister, dejectedly. "To do any
good she should be here to-day. I will not be responsible for another
hour--another minute of this detestable climate." She spoke quite
tragically, but her brother was staring out of the window with all his
eyes.
"By all that's impossible! Yes, it is. Hooray, Blanche! There she is."
"Who! What!"
"Violet! Violet Vane in Macniven's machine. How on earth----" He was
out of the door full of excitement, followed by his sister, who was
heard giving tragic orders for hot baths and blankets.
"She must be half drowned," said Mrs. Woodward, hastening from her
room at the sound of wheels to join the little circle crowding round
the window to watch the arrival. "She will go to bed at once, of
course."
"And have something warm," said one voice.
"More likely inflammation of the lungs. I remember----" suggested
another.
"Bronchitis, at least--poor thing--poor thing----" put in a third.
To which Cassandra chorus came the sound of a musical laugh and a
perfect ripple of chatter, as Paul, with a new cheerfulness in his
face, ushered in the daintiest little figure, which, as he held the
door open, looked back at him to finish the recital of her adventures
with words, "It was such fun."
"My dear Mrs. Vane," cried Lady George, "you must be dead!"
"Only with laughing, I assure you. I am not a bit wet, thanks. I got
them to lend me a tarpaulin jacket and a sou'-wester. But Captain
Macleod tells me I was not expected--I am so sorry, but really I did
write."
"The post is shamefully irregular," put in Mr. Woodward, majestically;
"it did not come yesterday, and I have no doubt it will not come
to-day."
"But it has! I brought it. Peter Macniven--that was my
driver--proposed I should give it a lift, and Donald Post said it
would save time if I took out the Gleneira letters myself. So I did.
They are in my bag downstairs, Paul--quite a large bundle for Mr.
Woodward; and all the picture papers, and a packet of chocolates from
Fuller's. And, oh! by the way, Lady George, there was a basket of beef
and a box of books lying for you at the Oban pier, so I took the
liberty of bringing them along."
"My dear--my dear Mrs. Vane!"
Lady George positively could say no more. Here was a guest, indeed. It
was as if a glint of sunshine had come into the house; so that after a
time the young man with a big head, whom Lady George had invited
because he could recite poetry to the young ladies, and who had for
the last few days been elaborating a sonnet on suicide, went hurriedly
out of the room to commit to paper the opening lines of a lyric, "To a
sea breeze sweeping away a storm." It was the same with everyone in
the house, and even the maids bustled to get her room in order, and
the butler, after laying an extra place at the dinner-table, remarked
in the housekeeper's room that now, perhaps, the dining-room would
have conversation that was worth listening to.
Only Paul, remembering her ways of old, and that, spirits or no
spirits, the long journey must have fatigued one who was past the
first untiringness of youth, urged her to rest; but with a little
familiar nod of comprehension she set the very idea aside with scorn.
Thereby, to say sooth, starting fair with him by arousing once more
that tender admiration for pluck which, despite asseverations to the
contrary, most men have for courage and fire in a woman. Paul Macleod,
at any rate, felt it keenly when she came, plumaged like some delicate
butterfly, into the drawing-room before dinner, causing Mr. Woodward
to put down the share-list without a sigh, and Sam, who had been
laying down the law loudly, to become bashfully silent. And then when,
in consequence of her being the Honourable Mrs. Vane by virtue of a
most dishonourable husband, Paul took her down to dinner, how
different that dinner was! He recognised it gratefully; recognised the
readiness of her smile, the art which her bright eyes had of making
people believe in themselves and feel that they, too, had something to
say worth the saying. The art, in short, of the hostess, which Lady
George, with all her cleverness, had not; for the simple reason that
she thought too much about the effect she was producing. And Violet
Vane's worst enemies might call her artificial, but they could never
have called her self-conscious or selfish. While, as for the
artificiality, a woman must needs be that who is deadly weary, and who
has given herself bright eyes and a ready tongue by means of chloric
ether. Violet had to slip away for another dose ere she could face
what to her was the dreariest, deadliest hour of the day--the time
when the ladies wait patiently for the men to come up from the wine
and the cigars; for she was frankly, unblushingly, a man's woman, and
would confess as much to anyone with a smile. And wherefore not? She
had lived among them all her life. She had no babies to discuss, had
no experience of English housekeeping, and felt no sympathy with
woman's rights or wrongs; for the simple reason that she herself had
never felt the least disqualification of sex. She was _bonne camarade_
in every fibre of her mind and body; yet withal a thorough little
lady.
"Paul, my friend," she said, as he made his way straight to her sofa,
where, with wide, bright eyes, she had been taking sights for future
steering, "you can have five minutes by the clock, and then monsieur
will be on duty again. Will he not? Yes! no doubt five minutes is
short; it will not suffice to tell me all you have to tell, will it?
But I would rather leave it for to-morrow. For I am tired, Paul, so
tired, and I don't want to be cross."
Something in her voice touched him. "Of course, you are tired. I know
that. But when was our dear lady ever cross?"
The old familiar title, given in the remote Indian station to the
dainty little woman who had made life so pleasant to so many, came to
his lips naturally, and the scent of the jasmine she wore carried him
back to the days when it had seemed an integral part of consciousness;
since life was divided into delirium-haunted forgetfulness and
confused awakenings to the familiar perfume. And those are things a
man never forgets. She laughed, though the words sent a throb to her
heart.
"Cross?" she echoed; "I am always cross when people are dull. And you
are dull to-night, Paul. Why?"
Those bright eyes were full of meaning, and he hesitated over the
remark that he had been waiting for the sunshine of her presence. She
laughed again, this time with an odd little ring in it. "My dear Paul,
you should not need sunshine nowadays." There was no mistaking her
intent, and he winced visibly.
"I always said you had antennae, Violet," he replied, with a flush;
"but how on earth have you found that out already?"
She paused for a moment, and a mad desire to quote a proverb about
thieves came over her. So it was true, then! True, and she--she was
too late! She set her teeth firmly over her own pain. "Does it
generally need such great acumen to discover when Paul Macleod is in
love, _mon ami?_"
The sarcasm struck home, and he rose, feeling the position untenable.
"Come and sing," he said; "it is years since I heard you."
She shook her head. "It will not do, Paul; not even though it is five
years six months seventeen days and a few hours or so since we sang
'La ci darem' together. The five minutes is not up yet, so sit down,
please, and tell me who these people are whom you want to amuse. Or,
stay! I will catalogue them, and then you can correct my mistakes.
Your sister? How handsome she is, yet not in the least like you. Lord
George? A perfect angel, with a twinkle in his eye. He is to be my
best friend. Your Miss Woodward? Alice is a pretty name, Paul; and her
hair shall be of what colour it shall please God. Am I right,
Benedict? Papa Woodward? Have a care, Paul! he studies the share-list
too much; so have it in Government securities. Mamma Woodward? What
her daughter will be at that age; it is such an advantage to a man,
Paul, to see exactly what his future will be. Master Woodward? No! I
will leave you to describe him."
Paul winced again. "You are very clever, Violet--suppose you pass on
to the others----"
"I told you I was evil-tempered. Then there is the young man who
wrote a sonnet to somebody's eyebrow--probably mine--between the soup
and fish. Two young ladies colourless--your sister is clever, too,
Paul--and a couple of men to match. Finally the Moth."
"Who?"
"Miss Jones, or is she Miss Smith? I met her in Devonshire with
another school friend. She was Watteau then--cream and roses. I met
her, too, on a yacht--anchors and lanyards. And here, like Lady
George, she is _moyen-âge_."
"But why the Moth?"
"Because she takes her colour from what she preys upon; and she frets
my garment! That is all, except the lady who bicycles and thinks
Gleneira too hilly, and the man who takes photographs."
"My dear Violet!" laughed Paul; "you are a witch."
"Pardon me! I am an ass--all ears. And Bertie, Palmer, and Gordon come
next week. I'm glad of that; one can't make bricks without mud. Straw
requires the baser clay."
"Straw! that is hardly complimentary to your sex!"
"Pardon me again! the highest duty of a woman is to please man, and he
is proverbially tickled by a straw. So now for the neighbours."
"None."
Violet Vane's eyebrows went up in derision. "There is no Sahara in
Lorneshire, and you have been here for three weeks--or is it a month?"
"To be accurate, a month and four days."
"Dear me! what a long time it takes to put up curtains."
"Very. I am sure those five minutes are over, Violet. Won't you come
and sing for us?"
"How--how dreadfully dull you must have been, Paul!"
"Dreadfully. Blanche! will you try and persuade Mrs. Vane to sing to
us--she is obdurate with me."
Lady George, delighted at her brother's virtue in seeking to break up
a _tête-a-tête_, was urgent in her appeals, and Mrs. Vane passed to
the piano, airily.
"There is music here," cried Lord George, officiously producing a book
from the canterbury. Mrs. Vane took it with a gracious smile.
"Bach! Corelli! This is yours, I suppose, Miss Woodward?"
"No! I don't play," replied Alice, and Mrs. Vane turned instantly to
the flyleaf.
"There are no songs in that book," remarked Paul, black as thunder,
laying his hands on the volume. "Not that it matters--for Mrs. Vane
used not to need music----"
"Nor does she now," retorted the little lady, laughing, as she sate
down, saying as she did so, in an undertone, "Does Marjory Carmichael
play Bach well, Paul? I hope so; he is dreadful when murdered."
The reply, if reply there came, was lost in her sudden burst into one
of those French _chansons_ in which laughter and tears are so closely
interwoven that the mixture is apt to confuse the insular
understanding. Her singing was, like herself, bright, gracious,
fluent, with the rare perfection of training which conceals art.
"She reminds me of Piccolomini," said Mr. Woodward, in pompous
delight, feeling himself the better for the remark, after the fashion
of men who are no longer afraid of being considered old. "A most
charming little person altogether. Who is she?"
"The widow of an Honourable--a Colonel--one of the Wentworths, I
suppose," replied Lady George, yielding to the reflected glory of a
successful guest. "She was very kind to Paul when he was ill in India,
and we are all very fond of her. A most desirable friend for him to
have."
"Most desirable!" echoed Mr. Woodward; and Blanche felt that she had
been wise, since no one could tell how Paul would behave with a woman
of that sort. She might have felt still more doubtful if she had seen
the desirable friend after she reached the seclusion of her own room,
sitting dry-eyed and haggard before the looking-glass, as if to read
the ravages of time in each faintly-growing wrinkle.
"I have been a fool!" she said, half aloud, as she rose; "but it may
not be too late. I thought at first he was in love with that girl; but
it is not she. Oh, why! Why didn't I tell him I was rich now, instead
of waiting like a romantic idiot to see if he could still care for me?
Care for me! As if any man wouldn't care for a woman such as I, if she
chose to let him care. Well! I must sleep now; I can't afford to look
older than I am." So she opened her dressing-case, took out a bottle
of chloral, measured herself out a full dose, and half an hour
afterwards was sleeping peacefully, like a child.
When she woke the sun was streaming in at the open window--for she was
one of those to whom the close atmosphere of English houses is
unendurable--and she curled herself round comfortably in her bed to
consider the new aspect of affairs before rising to face them. In a
way she was to be pitied, for in sending Paul Macleod to Kashmir, in
order to buy a silk carpet, she had really touched the highest point
of self-abnegation of which she was capable. She had done it to save
him; for what? For this colourless girl who would never understand his
odd mixture of sentimentality and worldliness? No! not for that. Even
as a friend she could not stand by and see him ruin his prospects of
happiness in that fashion. Had she not hesitated herself in those old
days, when, by simply leaving a man who disgraced her every hour and
moment of his life, she could, after a brief period, no doubt of
horrible humiliation, have married Paul herself? She had hesitated
because of his future, for nothing else; and was she to stand by and
see him ruin it for no just cause, since she was wealthy enough now
for all his wants? There was a sufficiency of high moral tone in this
view of the question to serve her purpose, which she strengthened by
telling herself that if she had found Paul properly devoted to his
heiress, she would once more have sacrificed herself. All is fair,
says the proverb, in love and war; but Mrs. Vane felt much was fair
because it was not love, and came down to breakfast determined to see
what could be done. For Paul's sake first, of course, and then?--for
the present Mrs. Vane decided to leave that alone.
Despite the sunshine, the menkind came down slackly, grumbling at a
real shooting day being just "nippet awa by the Sawbath." Obedient,
nevertheless, to the order for church parade at the schoolhouse,
which, being of modest dimensions, overflowed after a time into the
road, where the latest comers contented themselves with sitting on the
turf-capped dyke beneath the chestnut tree, where they could just hear
the swell of the responses, and join in the hymns if they chose. Mrs.
Vane, standing during the _Venite_ beside Paul, could see these
outdoor worshippers, and rather envied them, being at heart a thorough
little Bohemian. Yet the interior interested her quick brain also, and
she watched Lady George with furtive amusement, as the course of
service brought to that lady a dim suspicion that she had lost her
place. For, despite Mr. Gillespie's suggestion of a second and English
"diet" for the visitors, Blanche had preferred to bring them to the
Gaelic; moved thereto by a vague feeling that it gave, as it were, a
_cachet_ to the laird of Gleneira, with whose importance she was
anxious to impress the Woodwards. The effect, however, was somewhat
disastrous, since Alice looked shocked and surprised, Sam laughed, and
Mrs. Woodward, after a frantic effort to follow the Psalms, gave up
the struggle. Mr. Woodward had--Blanche felt fortunately--remained at
home, for he was of the stern, uncompromising section of British
laymen who only attend service on high days, and have, in consequence,
strong opinions as to the necessity of the Athanasian Creed to the
stability of the English Church. Paul, tall and listless, looked so
persistently towards one dark corner, that at last Mrs. Vane's
watchful eyes, following his, discovered an attraction in the girl
playing the harmonium. And then it struck her that the voluntary had
been a bit of Corelli! Yet that was not the sort of face to make Paul
stare, as he undoubtedly was staring. She looked up at him quickly,
and with a real shock recognised something in his expression which she
had not expected, something which roused her to a sudden flame. It was
almost a relief when Donald Post, stealing in on tiptoe noisily,
caused a general stir, followed by an all-pervading smell of
sealing-wax from the other dark corner, which showed that Mr. McColl
was sealing up the bag; Lady George's face the while being an
unsuccessful attempt to combine horror and unconsciousness, while her
husband's, much to her annoyance, openly reflected the children's
unabashed interest. It was a greater relief still, when the sermon
came to an end, the letters were handed round, and, with joyful barks,
the collies rushed out, followed by the quality. All but Mrs. Vane,
who stood listening to a fugue of Bach's with a little fine smile on
her face. Inaction was over, and she must survey this new difficulty
without delay.
"Don't wait," she said to Paul, lightly; "I love Bach, and Miss
Carmichael plays charmingly."
He said a bad word under his breath as he passed out, and yet for the
life of him he could not be angry with her. She saw through him, of
course; right through to the very worst part of him, and yet she was
his friend. When he joined the gathering outside Lady George was
already shaking hands benignly with all and sundry, whispering between
whiles to Mrs. Woodward that it was a Highland custom, and so much
more conducive to proper relations between landlord and tenant than
the English standoffishness. In fact, she was in her element, in a new
part of great capabilities. Paul, on the other hand, merely nodded and
smiled; but his great personal beauty, his reputation as a soldier and
a sportsman, went further towards popularity among both the men and
the women than all his sister's condescension. And still the Bach
fugue went on, being, in truth, susceptible of many repeats and _da
capos_, while Marjory, over the music desk, gave annoyed glances at
the dainty little figure at the door. During the past week of Paul's
absence, the charm of his personality had faded, leaving behind it the
memory that he was hardly of her world; that even if he had been, he
was hardly the sort of man with whom she could have sympathy. And yet,
with the sight of him, had come back the old excuses, the old
conviction that he slandered himself. It did not make her feel any the
more kindly towards the world which held him back from his better
self; towards women, for instance, like this one at the door.
"Are you not coming, Violet? The others have gone on."
Paul's voice had a note of warning in it, but she never heeded his
thunderings like others did, and in that lay the secret of her power
over him.
"I am waiting for you to introduce me to Miss Carmichael," she said
calmly; "then we can walk home together. I want to ask her where she
learned to play Bach."
A transparent prevarication, but one it was impossible to set aside;
nor, to tell truth, did Paul wish to set it aside. The temptation
presented to him by this little Eve in a Paris costume, was far too
welcome for that; so welcome that the very excess of his own fierce
desire to yield to it made him silent, while Mrs. Vane set herself
deliberately to pierce through the girl's shield of stiff politeness.
Not a difficult task with one so quick to respond to the least touch
of sympathy; besides, Mrs. Vane in her girlhood had lived in the great
world of music, among people who were to Marjory as prophets and
kings. So she was soon deep in eager inquiry, and positively felt
impatient as, when they were passing old Peggy's cottage, little Paul
started up from the brackens with a quick message that his grannie
would like to see Miss Marjory, if she could spare time.
"What a pretty little fellow," remarked Mrs. Vane. "Is Paul a common
name about here? or is it a compliment to the laird?" She asked the
question carelessly, and was genuinely surprised at the look it
brought to the elder Paul's face.
"It is certainly not out of compliment to me, so I presume it is a
common name--since you gave no other alternative." This was a manifest
loss of temper on his part, not to be justified so far as she could
see; therefore, in her opinion, a thing to be decently covered at the
time, however much it might mean when considered. So she remarked
that, common or not, it was a name she liked. And then she said
good-bye charmingly, warning Miss Carmichael that she must expect to
be disturbed for more Bach; and so drifted on daintily.
"She is quite delightful, your Miss Carmichael," she began,
negligently, after a pause.
Paul, who, after a handshake with Marjory, had rejoined her, looking
better pleased with himself, decided on adopting her mood.
"Very; though I fail to see why you should use the possessive pronoun.
She would not thank you, believe me."
"Because you discovered her, that is all. She is charming. Like
Brynhild, brave and bold."
"Cruel and cold."
"Nonsense. Men like you, my friend, of the earth earthy, are alarmed
by the glistening circle of fire. Few have the courage to leap it and
wake the heart within. Gudrun, duly decked in diamonds and given away
by her father in St. George's, Hanover-square, is more in your line.
Better so, for Sigurd is a double-faced scoundrel, and Brynhild's
heart is too good to break." Her voice grew serious, a little bitter
smile came to her face; for Violet had a heart of her own.
"I quite agree with you."
The jest was gone both from his mind and hers, and she changed the
subject adroitly, certain of one thing, that here was a weapon ready
to her hand. Love _versus_ Greed-of-Gold! Really, that method of
putting it sounded quite pretty. And then suddenly a fierce pang of
jealousy shot through her as she thought of the look she had caught
unawares on Paul's face. Alice Woodward would never rouse such a look
as that--never! Would it not be better to leave things as they were?
But, then, why should they not be turned to something better? If,
somehow, they could be manipulated so as to disgust him both with mere
money and mere affection, it would be better for all concerned. For
him, above all, since he could neither live without love or money; and
she could give him both.
As they talked commonplaces during the remainder of the walk, Paul
felt more contented than he had done for a week, even while he was
asking himself captiously why this should be so. To see the girl you
like, and say not a single word to her ear alone, to shake hands with
her and feel no desire to prolong the touch, to look in her face and
see nothing that was not clear and cold in her eyes, was not, could
not, be comforting. Clearly his feeling for her was not to be classed
as a passion. And yet how glad he had been to see her. How contented
he had been to walk beside her, and what a sense of _bien-être_ her
presence gave him. And it was distinctly satisfactory to find it so
little disturbing. Then, recognising the fact that he was becoming
absent in the effort to remember the exact look on her face as she
shook hands with him, he set the thought of her from him angrily. He
would not be the sport of a mere sentimental fancy, unworthy of a man
who had the courage to face his own manhood.