While the Big House was going on its way from cellar to attic, as if
it had been within the sound of Bow Bells instead of in a remote
Highland glen, Marjory for the first time in her life felt time heavy
on her hands; a thing not to be tolerated for an instant by a young
person of her views and prospects. She told herself that if this was
the result of her holiday, the sooner she set to work and forgot that
pleasant, idle time the better. For it had been pleasant, and Paul
Macleod had been kind. But what of that? His ways were not her
ways--his thoughts were not her thoughts; and then suddenly would come
the memory of that short instant on Isle Shuna when they had stood
hand in hand watching the Green Ray. Or was that only another result
of idleness?--that she should be growing fanciful. Paul himself had
denied seeing it, and after all, despite his kindness, he was the last
person to have sympathy with her ideals; yet such sympathy was the
only thing which could make her care for him or his society. She told
herself all this, over and over again, until she believed it; for
Marjory had not yet learnt to differentiate her head from her heart.
Many women never learn the art, and though some, no doubt, find the
difficulty lies in discovering their heads, a far greater number stop
short at a calm affection in the catalogue of their emotions.
Still, for some reason or another, as yet inexplicable to the girl
herself, the melodious carol of a blackbird singing his heart out in a
cherry tree sent a pain to her own. It seemed to fill the world with
unrest, even though the house lay still as the grave; for Mrs. Cameron
and the lassies were away at the milking. She covered her ears to shut
out the sound and bent closer to her book, until suddenly she found
herself blindfolded by a pair of strong, slender, supple hands--hands
that could not be mistaken for an instant.
"Tom!" she cried. "Oh, Tom! is it you?"
"Tom it is," said a voice with a pleasant intonation scarcely foreign,
and yet assuredly not wholly English. "_E' bene!_ Mademoiselle
Grands-serieux! So this is the way you hold high holiday?"
He pointed to the open book, then, as she clung delighted to his arm,
put on an air of simulated disgust, perhaps to conceal the keen joy
which her welcome afforded him.
"Conic sections again, and I wandering round 'permiskus' calling for
some of my relations to kill the fatted calf!"
"The prodigal didn't come 'permiskus.' He wired ahead and they saw him
from afar."
"Then he didn't get an unexpected holiday, come express from Paris to
Oban, and then walk thirty miles over the hills because he had missed
the mail cart and was a fool----"
"But why a fool?"
"Why? Because the bosom of my family was absorbed in conic sections!
And if that reason won't do, you really must wait until I have had
some veal--for to tell truth I'm ravenous--mostly for drinks!"
He watched her as she flew off, singing as she went like any blackbird
out of sheer lightness of heart, and asked himself if this were not
enough? If he were bound to wait for something more? For Dr. Tom
Kennedy was not a man to require much time for such thoughts,
especially when he had been thinking of Marjory and his welcome all
that trudge of thirty miles over bog and heather. But the answer came
slowly, for he was quite as much in the dark on the vexed question of
Love and Marriage as most people, and the little Blind Boy with the
bow and arrows was as yet a part of his Pantheon. And yet there was
temptation enough to set mere romance aside, when, after anticipating
his every want, and fussing over him after the manner of a hen with a
solitary chicken, Marjory drew a low stool beside his chair, and, with
her elbows resting on her knees and her radiant face supported on her
hands, looked over him, as it were, in sheer content.
"You don't know how nice it is to have you back," she said, suddenly
stretching out one hand to him--a favourite gesture of hers when
eager. He took it in both of his, bent over it, and kissed it.
"'Tis worth the parting, child, to come back--to this."
She laughed merrily. "You have such pretty manners, Tom! I expect you
learnt them from grandpapa the Marquis and the _haute noblesse_. And
then in Paris, I suppose----"
His heart contracted, but he interrupted her gaily. "I decline to be
scheduled in that fashion. My manners are my own, thank Heaven! in
spite of Galton on heredity. Oh! Marjory, my dear! what a relief it is
to get away from it all--from the eternal hunt for something that
escapes you--from the first chapter of Genesis to the Book of
Revelation; and now that I come to think of it, there is something new
about you--what is it?"
She shook her head hastily. "Nothing. You said that last time, I
believe--people always look different. You have got greyer."
He rubbed his close-cropped head disconsolately. "Have I?--well, I
can't help it. I'm getting old."
"Nonsense! And I won't have you say you are glad to get away from
work--from the best work in the world! How can you tire of the only
thing worth anything, and of the search for truth?"
"Because I'm forty-three--more than double your age. By the way, there
was a man I know who married a girl of sixteen when he was thirty-two.
And when he saw it down on the register it struck him all of a heap
that when she was forty he would be eighty. Matrimony, apparently,
isn't good for arithmetic--nor for the matter of that, arithmetic for
matrimony!"
"What silly stories you have, Tom," laughed the girl, "and in other
ways you really are so sensible."
He rose suddenly and went to the window--a small, slight man, with a
keen brown face--and then, as if in excuse for the move, he picked a
spray or two of white jasmine and stuck them in his buttonhole. Then
he turned to her with a smile. "I should have been a deal more
sensible if people hadn't taught me things when I was young. Original
sin isn't in it with education. Come, Marjory! let us go and find my
cousin--or there will be a row in the house."
"I like that!" retorted the girl, taking possession of his arm; "as if
anyone in the place dare say a word against you. Why, she told Dr.
Macrea the other day that she didn't intend to die till she could have
you to attend her!" Whereat they both laughed.
But, in truth, there was much laughter and general good-will at the
Lodge that evening, when Dr. Kennedy insisted on Mrs. Cameron bringing
her knitting to the garden bench, while he and Marjory and Will
strolled about among the flowers, or stood talking here and there as
the fancy took them.
"Why do you always wear jasmine, Tom?" asked the girl, idly bending to
catch a closer whiff of the buttonhole. "I suppose _she_ used to give
it to you."
"What she?"
"The one _she_ of a man's life, of course."
"Fabulous creature! If they come at all, they come in crowds. Yes! now
I think of it, I fancy you are right. I was twelve, and she a
distracting young flirt of six. Her name was Pauline. I remember it,
because she was the last!----"
"Oh, Tom! how can you!"
"Fact; for twenty years after that the responsibilities of searching
for truth prevented my thinking of fictions."
"And after that?"
"My dear Marjory, no history is ever written up to date. Even in your
beloved school-primers the last years of Her Gracious Majesty's reign
are glozed over by generalities. You see it is never safe to hazard an
opinion till events have proved it to be right. And then decent
reserve over the immediate past saves a lot of worry. I should hate to
confess that I had told a lie yesterday, though I might own up
placidly to one seven years ago. Yes! seven years should be close time
for confession. A man renews his vile body in that period, and can
take credit for having changed his morals also."
"But it is more than seven years since you were thirty-two."
"You have a head for arithmetic, my dear, not for--the other thing;
and it is possible that I am still only in the second volume of my
fiction."
"You mean in love. What a delightfully funny idea!"
"Mrs. Cameron!" cried the doctor, "do you see anything comic in the
spectacle of Methuselah wishing to get married; for I don't. I think
it is melancholy in the extreme."
In truth he did think so, for though, when he was away, his own
sentimentality seemed sufficient for them both, the first look at
Marjory's face always told him that, if the received theories were
true, there was something yet to come before he had any right--in a
way any desire--to ask Marjory to be his wife. If they were true!
There lay the problem which he found so much difficulty in solving.
Like most men of his profession, he was almost over familiar with the
material side of the question, and, being naturally of delicate fibre,
an instinctive revolt made him exaggerate the part which romance was
to play in the purification of passion. To marry when you loved each
other was one thing; for one to love, and both to remain friends, was
another! And between these two ideals he hesitated; for Dr. Kennedy's
power lay not so much in strength as in a certain fineness of
perception and delicacy of touch. And yet at times a doubt
lingered--the doubt which had made him fall foul of the things he had
been taught in his youth. But even through this there ran a vein of
protest against the lack of colour which a more prosaic, more
material, and yet less animal view of the relations which ought to
exist between a man and woman would involve. For he was sentimental to
a degree, and told himself that the very fact of his age made it more
than ever necessary that his wife should be inspired to do her duty by
something more than mere affection. That is to say, once more, if
current theories were true! He came back to this point again and
again, unable to settle it to his own satisfaction, and finding his
chief comfort in the fact that Marjory had, hitherto, never shown the
least sign of loving anyone. If that were to continue in the future,
he could imagine the doubts and difficulties disappearing altogether;
but for this time was required, time for her to understand her own
nature. His knowledge, his experience of life, the position in which
he stood towards her, all combined to make him hyper-sensitive lest in
any way he should wrong her innocence and ignorance. Besides, he
himself would have been bitterly dissatisfied with the position. That
was the solid truth, which went further than anything else in making
him stand aloof; though, no doubt, he would have denied the fact
strenuously, since to men of his stamp a sentimental grief is better
than no sentiment at all. Yet the grief sate on him lightly because of
its very sentimentality, and because--though this again he would
strenuously have denied--in his heart of hearts he felt that it was
largely of his own making, and that one part of his nature was
satisfied and to spare. In these days, when the happiness of the
individual is both aim and end, it is curious to see how persistently
one form of happiness is ignored; the happiness which indubitably
comes from doing what you would _not_ wish to do, unless you conceived
it to be your duty. And yet the very people who deny the possibility
of this content are the first to point out that, when all is said and
done, a man can only do what he wishes to do.
So that when, on the next morning, Dr. Kennedy, who had listened to
the tale of what had been going on and what was going on in the Big
House with a certain foreboding, came to Marjory and urged her to
accompany him on a visit there in the afternoon, he did so with the
distinct intention of feeling the self-complacency of duty performed.
And Marjory, in her turn, thus brought face to face with the very
reasonable proposition, found it hard to make an excuse that did not
rouse her own indignation by being over serious. After all, why should
she not comply with Captain Macleod's urgent invitations? There was
nothing to be afraid of. Nevertheless, when she appeared, clothed in
white raiment with her best gloves on, she had so solemn and sedate an
air that the doctor felt aghast at his own act.
"Don't look so like Iphigenia, my dear," he said; "or let us give it
up."
"Certainly not. If it's the right thing to do, it has got to be done;
but I do feel like a sacrificial lamb. You don't, of course; but then
you are accustomed to society, a great deal of society, and I'm not.
Do you know, Tom, I have scarcely ever seen more than three or four
people of my own rank together in my life, and I positively don't know
any girls."
"Time you did," he replied stoutly.
"But I doubt if I have any manners," she protested.
He had, at any rate; and new as the experience of the large party
gathered in the big drawing-room was to her, she found immediate
confidence in the perception that her companion would stand the test
of any society; indeed, as she sate talking to Alice Woodward, she
could not help noticing with a certain amused pride Lady George's
frigid politeness give way to interested endeavours to find out who
this most unusually well-bred specimen of a country doctor could be;
for Paul was not there to aid his sister's ignorance.
But by and bye Mrs. Vane came in and made her way straight to Marjory
with pretty little words of welcome, yet with the Anglo-Indian lady's
reminiscent interest at the sight of a real live man at afternoon tea.
"Who is he?" she asked; "did he come with you?"
"He is my guardian--Dr. Kennedy."
"Kennedy! not the famous Dr. Kennedy--Tom Kennedy of Paris?" And
before Marjory could get beyond the first syllable of acquiescence,
Mrs. Vane had crossed the room and was standing opposite Lady George.
"I would ask you to introduce me to Dr. Kennedy," she said, "but it
would be of no use, for while he has made a name for himself since I
knew him, I have lost mine. So I will only ask him if he remembers the
jasmine bush at the Château Saumarez?"
There was an instant's bewilderment, and then Tommy Kennedy, who had
risen at her first word, took a step forward and both his hands went
out gladly.
"Pauline!"
"Just so--and you are Alphonse! What a small place the world is after
all! To think of finding you at Gleneira. Lady George, you were
talking of theatricals this morning, and the idea fell through because
no one--not even your brother--would do the _jeune premier_ with me.
He is found! Dr. Kennedy is one of the best amateur actors in Paris."
"The past tense, if you please, my dear lady," protested the doctor.
"Consider my grey hairs."
"That is a remark which should not have been made, for we are
contemporaries. He was my first--no! one of my first loves, Lady
George. We used to give each other sweeties over the garden wall when
his grandmother, the Marquise de Brisson, was not looking; but the
jasmine bush, Alphonse, was at your uncle's, Prince Rosignacs's. Why!
you have a bit in your buttonhole now, and I----" She pointed to the
spray fastened into the laces of her tea-gown.
"_Ce soir ma robe en est tout embaumée_."
"_Respires-en moi l'adorant souvenir_," quoted Dr. Kennedy, looking at
the lapel of his coat tenderly; and Marjory, standing a little apart,
a mute spectator of the scene, felt a sudden sense of loneliness. He,
too, was at home in this idle, careless life, and she was the only one
who was out of it. It came upon her by surprise, for though she had
known and been proud of the fact that her guardian belonged by virtue
of his mother's birth to the best of French society, she had had no
actual experience of him in the part of a man of the world. But he was
that, and of a good world, too, she recognised frankly as she sate
listening to the now animated conversation about people she had never
heard of, things she had never seen, and at the same time trying to be
agreeable to the girls who, dutiously, had taken her in hand. She felt
that it was a duty, and a sort of indifferent resentment possessed
her, even when Lady George hoped she would accompany Dr. Kennedy, who
had kindly promised to dine with them next day and talk over the now
possible theatricals. Yet, rather to his surprise, she accepted
without even a look at his face, and made quite a polite little speech
about hoping to see more of the girls; and so, with a certain
independent grace, passed out into the hall, leaving him detained for
a moment by some last remark. She could hear Mrs. Vane's light laugh,
his voice, and then another laugh, as she stood waiting beside the
deferential butler, and all involuntarily her lip curled.
"Miss Carmichael! How glad I am!" It was Paul, newly in from
the moor, looking his best, as a handsome man does, in his rough
shooting-clothes. He had a tuft of white heather and stag-horn moss in
one hand, and with a sudden impulse he held it out gaily to her.
"Tit-for-tat! you welcomed me here--though I never thanked you for so
doing, did I? It is my turn now."
He had meant the offering for Violet Vane or Alice Woodward, whichever
he met first, but now it seemed as if fate had sent it for Marjory and
for no one else. He felt as if it were so, he looked as if it were so,
and for the first time in her life Marjory felt an odd little thrill
run through her veins.
"Thank you," she said soberly. "Yes! I did give it to you; so now we
are quits--I mean," she corrected hastily, "that--that we are on the
same footing."
There was quite a tremor in her voice, too, as, seeing Dr. Kennedy
beside her, she turned to him quickly. "This is Captain Macleod,
Tom;--he has been very kind to me."
In nine cases out of ten Paul Macleod on being introduced to a man
belonging to a girl in Marjory's position, and, as it were, having a
claim on her, would have been studiously, frigidly courteous, and no
more; and so might have once and for all chilled Marjory's sudden
confidence and relief in finding an old friend in her new environment;
but it is difficult for an emotional man to be cold, when a sudden
glow of content makes him feel absurdly happy. Consequently he went
out of his way to be frank and kindly in expressing his pleasure at
making the acquaintance of one of whom Miss Carmichael had so often
spoken.
"In terms of reprobation, no doubt," replied Dr. Kennedy, lightly; "a
guardian is a disagreeable appendage, though I try to be as little of
a nuisance as I can."
"So do I," retorted Paul, with a smile; "but Miss Carmichael is so
dreadfully hard to please."
As Dr. Kennedy's keen brown eyes took in the figure before him, he
told himself that the girl must be hard indeed to please if she could
find fault with it.
"That is the handsomest man I've seen for a long time," he said as
they walked home. "What is he like inside?"
Marjory paused with her head on one side, considering. "Oh! nice in a
way--the way of the world, I suppose, and I thought him nicer than
ever to-day; being in his own house agrees with him. Oh, Tom! how I
wish you hadn't accepted that invitation to dinner!"
Yet when she returned from the Big House, she had a little flush on
her cheek, and when Dr. Kennedy challenged her to tell truth in answer
to Mrs. Cameron's inquiry as to how she got on, she answered with a
laugh and a nod: "Why not--it was rather interesting; quite an
evolutionary process. Before I went I was protoplasmic--all in a
jelly. Then at dinner we were all amoebic--digestive apparatus and
nothing else. Afterwards, with the ladies, I felt like a worm, or a
fish out of water. Then I wanted to have wings like a bird and fly
away, but I couldn't, for the quadrumana appeared from the
dining-room, and we all became apes!"
"What is the lassie talking about?" put in Mrs. Cameron, with a toss
of her head. "Can you no answer a straight question wi' a straight
answer? What then, I say, what then?"
"Yes! what then, Marjory?" asked Tom Kennedy, quickly; he knew the
answer, and yet he wanted to hear it from her lips, because it would
satisfy him that so far he had been right.
"And then--why then I suppose I became a girl--at any rate I enjoyed
it. They were all so kind, and Mrs. Vane--I suppose in your world,
Tom, there are heaps of women like that?"
"Not many so charming," he answered heartily. In truth it had been
very pleasant meeting her again after so many years; for a man, even
when he is in love, or supposes himself to be in love, with one woman,
is never proof against the pleasure of being made much of by another.
And Dr. Kennedy, with a quaint simplicity and wisdom, was perfectly
aware of his own reputation as one of the boldest adventurers in new
fields of discovery, and told himself that people made much of him for
their own sake, and because he carried his restless energy with him
into society as well as into his work. For energy is, as a rule, a
godsend to _fin-de-siècle_ men and women. So the conceit of it slipped
off him like water from a duck's back, leaving him free to take his
world as he found it.
But Marjory felt once more the little chill of regret for the things
she had not known in his life.
"There is one thing I forget to ask you," she said quickly. "Your name
is not Alphonse, is it?"
"No! But she thought Tom unromantic, and so I promised to change my
name if she changed hers."
"Men don't generally do as much as that," grumbled Will. "So they are
going to have theatricals, are they? That means that all the horses
will be dead lame, and the laird will be wanting more."
"How on earth do you make that out?" asked Dr. Kennedy.
"Women," said Will, laconically. "Something will always be wanted in a
hurry, the telegraph station is ten miles off, and women seem to think
a horse can change its legs when it comes home."
There was some truth in his remark during the next ten days. Gleneira
House lived in a continual bustle which gave no time for thought,
save, perhaps, to Mrs. Vane, who, busy as she was, found time to
congratulate herself so far on the success of her plans; for Marjory
and Paul had perforce to meet constantly, and more than once something
occurred to encourage her belief that there was material for mischief
ready to her hand if it was needed.
But other material came to light also, or so it seemed to her cynical
experience; and the clue to it came one day when she and Marjory, who
had grown keen, as was only natural, over the novelty of amusement,
were searching through an old portfolio of Paul's sketches for hints
likely to be of use for a drop scene.
It was nothing more than the portrait of a girl with a bunch of red
rowans held up to her cheek.
"That is very well done, Paul," said Mrs. Vane, holding it up for him
to see, as he stood a little way off. "Who was the beautiful model?"
He came over to her hastily. "Oh! no one you know; and it isn't really
worth looking at. A wretched caricature--I did not know it was there."
Something in his voice roused the amused malice which always lurked
behind Mrs. Vane's treatment of Paul's foibles.
"I disagree with you; look, Miss Carmichael! Don't you think that
quite the best thing we have seen of Captain Macleod's doing?"
"It is a lovely face," said the girl, "and it reminds me of someone----"
Then she looked up in sudden interest. "Surely it is Paul--little
Paul, I mean, Peggy Duncan's grandson; perhaps----" She stopped
abruptly, remembering the big Paul's confession, and blushed, she
scarcely knew why. Then, feeling vexed with herself for doing so, put
down the sketch, and taking up another, made some trivial remark about
its being very pretty. But Mrs. Vane had not done with the sketch.
"That Highland type of face----" she began.
"There is no need to theorise over the likeness in this case,"
interrupted Paul, seeing through her, as he nearly always did. "It was
little Paul's mother; and as I think I told you once, Miss Carmichael,
the most beautiful woman I ever saw. That is why I call it a
caricature, Mrs. Vane."
The anger in his voice was not to be mistaken, and Marjory, as he
moved away to resume his _tête-a-tête_ with Alice Woodward, was left
with an uncomfortable feeling that she had somehow betrayed a secret,
though her common, sense resented the imputation. But Mrs. Vane looked
after his retreating figure with one of her fine smiles. So the memory
of this particular most-beautiful-woman-in-the-world--there must have
been a good many of them in Paul Macleod's life--was not pleasant to
him. Wherefore? The question came quite idly, and passed from her mind
without an answer. Marjory, on the other hand, took hers--as to
whether she was to blame or not--seriously to heart. So much so, that
when she had speech with Paul alone, which occurred naturally enough
when he brought her a cup of tea, as she sate stitching away for dear
life at some ridiculous theatrical property near the window, so as to
get the full advantage of the waning light, she reverted to the
subject at once.
"Don't," he interrupted hurriedly, almost before she had begun.
"Please don't; I would so much rather you said nothing more about it."
"But I don't understand."
"Thank heaven you don't," he replied.
"Why should you say that?" she cried reproachfully. "I cannot see why
I should not, if I can. I am not a fool----"
"Marjory!" interrupted Dr. Kennedy, coming forward, "little Paul
Duncan has just come round from the Lodge with a message that his
grannie wants to see you. We might go round that way; it is getting
late as it is."
"There's no hurry," put in Paul. "I will tell them to give the boy a
piece, and he can wait till Miss Carmichael has finished giving me
absolution."
"That is the wrong way about, surely?" she said.
"It is the usual way between a man and a woman," replied Paul, "and
will be to the end of the chapter, I'm afraid."
Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Vane, who had come out into the hall with
some parting instructions to Marjory, stood looking down with the
others at little Paul Duncan, who, weary of waiting, had cuddled
himself round on the doorstep and fallen into the heavy sleep of
childhood. "He looks very delicate," said Violet, kindly stooping over
him as he lay with one hand tucked into the back of his neck in rather
an unusual posture; and then suddenly she looked up at the big Paul,
for the trick had taken her back to the old days when she had watched
his sleep with jealous care, lest her patient should be disturbed; and
how often had she not wondered why he chose so uncomfortable a
position?
Impossible! and yet there was a likeness. The name, too, and his
evident dislike to the mention of the boy's mother! It must mean
something--what? The thought left her pale, so that Paul, turning back
with her when those two had gone, noticed it, telling her that she was
overworking herself.
"Of course I am overworking," she retorted, with a strange mixture of
self-pity, blame, and fierce resentment. "I always do. Is it my fault
if I do things quicker than other people? Is it my fault if I see
things more clearly? You think I am always managing, managing; and so
I am. How can I help it when, everything keeps coming into my mind,
and no one thinks or cares?"
"My dear Violet! You have been overworking, indeed. You must take it
easier, or we shall be having you laid up----"
"And then what would Paul Macleod do?" she went on, with a reckless
laugh. "No! I won't make myself so disagreeable as all that--if I can
help it, Paul; but how can one help being disagreeable at times when
one is wise--wise and old? Oh, Paul, how old I am!"
"I don't see it," he answered, with an amused smile.
"You! you never see anything," she began; then suddenly returned to
her own light, half-jesting manner. "No! that is not true; you see
most things, but you are too young to understand me. Dreadfully young
for your age, Paul, so it is lucky there are so many of us to look
after you."
When she went upstairs to dress for dinner she sate down before the
looking-glass and stared at herself with a sort of repugnance. Yes!
she was old, hatefully old, in mind, in knowledge of the world, in
experience. That thought which had flashed through her brain at the
sight of little Paul lying asleep on the doorstep was not a nice
thought. Yet could she help its flashing? and, if there was anything
in the thought, might not the knowledge strengthen her hand in the
coming fight? For a fortnight's daily experience of Alice Woodward's
calm attractions had raised Mrs. Vane's opposition to her marriage
with Paul to virtuous horror. No true friend, she told herself, would
hesitate to throw every difficulty in the way of so disastrous a
connection. At the same time she felt almost afraid to reach out after
this new weapon, lest it might prove too heavy for those delicate
hands of hers, accustomed for the most part to leading reins. It was
one thing to goad and guide people into the right path, another to
split open their heads with a sledgehammer. Though how this could be
such a lethal weapon she could not see, since she knew enough of Paul
Macleod to doubt if he would have had the hardihood to mention Jeanie
Duncan to Marjory if there had been anything between them in the past.
And yet? So she stood before possibilities, shivering on the brink,
and finally telling herself there would be time enough to think of
such things if less heroic measures failed. It was a mistake to touch
pitch needlessly; at the same time it was as well to make sure there
was pitch in the pot. So the next day saw her, on some airy pretence
of getting old Peggy to knit stockings, sitting beside the old pauper
and bringing to bear on her ailments and wrongs all the gay
cheerfulness and sympathy which Paul declared always put him in a good
humour.