Mrs. Vane being one of those heaven-sent pivots or jewels, without
which the wheels of society are apt to come to a standstill, it was
only natural that her sudden collapse, joined to the general
depression which invariably follows on a country house entertainment,
should have reduced the inmates of Gleneira to a condition of blank
discontent. To tell truth, a large proportion of them had reasonable
cause for a vague uneasiness, if not for actual discomfort, though
Lady George wrinkled her high, white forehead in tragic perplexity
over some of the resulting phenomena.
"Of course," she said at lunch, "I was quite prepared that the cook
should give warning. They always do when they have worked hard, and,
really, the supper left nothing to be desired; besides, it is an empty
form when we are all going away next week. But why the housemaid
should want a new set of brushes _to-day_, when she knows I have to
send to Glasgow for them; and why Ean, the boy--such a good-looking
boy, too--who cleans the boots, should demand an immediate rise in
wages, I cannot think."
"What's enough for one ain't enough for two," broke in Eve from her
sago pudding, with an indescribable twang and a semi-sentimental air.
"Mary's going to marry him; he asked her in the boot hole when the
piper was playing the 'Blue Bells of Scotland' in the kitching. The
thought of her 'ighland laddie bein' gone was too much for her
feelinks, so she accepted him, and he gave her a kiss."
"Eve!" cried her mother, in horrified accents, "don't say such
things."
"But it's true, ducksie mummie," retorted the young lady, unabashed.
"Mary said so. We heard her telling nurse, didn't we, Adam?"
"Yes, we did, Evie; and nursie said----"
"Paul!" cried Lady George, in desperation, "you might give the
children some of that trifle before you; it won't hurt them once in a
way. And I really think it was too bad of the Hookers to bring the
piper to the ball, after my making such a point of his not coming to
the play. I call it most unneighbourly."
"My dear Blanche," protested Paul, "what is the use of being a rich
Highland proprietor if you don't have a piper, and what is the use of
having a piper if he mayn't play at functions? You agree with me,
don't you, Miss Woodward?"
Alice, looking dainty in the elaborate simplicity of a Paris
_batiste_, agreed with a smile, as she had learnt to do as a matter of
course whenever he chose to make these little appeals for sympathy,
with their underlying suggestion of a common future. He was really
very handsome and charming; everything a girl could desire in a
husband.
"It is all very well for you to talk of functions," continued his
sister, in aggrieved tones, "but the question is, what is a function?
Marriages, of course, and, I suppose, funerals; but that reminds me.
We really must have that projected picnic to the old burying-ground
this week. I want Mr. Woodward to see it, and he was talking of London
this morning."
The end of the sentence was prompted by that desire of the hostess to
see her team of guests working fairly together for their own good,
which Lady George felt to be a part of her duty, and the guest thus
challenged had not opened his mouth since he sate down, except to fill
it with cold beef and pickles, which he swallowed gloomily, like a man
who, having missed his connection, is trying to while away the time
before the next train in the refreshment room.
"You are very kind," he said, in sepulchral tones, "but the
method in which Her Majesty's mails are delivered--or rather not
delivered, in this place, renders it necessary that I should
return at once. Just before lunch I received a letter which, I give
you my honour, had been mislaid in the post-bag--a most important
letter--a--a most---- However, as I was to have told you after lunch,
I--I feel it my duty--but, of course, this--er--will not make any
change in--in plans."
He glanced comprehensively at his daughter, and Paul Macleod, seated
at the bottom of the table, felt as if the guard had come into the
refreshment room and said, "Time up, gentleman!" The closing scene of
the comedy was close at hand, and though he was quite prepared for it,
he still objected to the _force majeure_ which compelled him to go
through with it; just as he objected to that other restraint which the
knowledge of his absurd feeling for Marjory brought with it. The whole
position irritated him to the last degree, and in one and the same
breath he told himself that he wished the business were over, and that
it had never begun. And yet, when he and Alice, in strolling round the
garden together, found themselves among the orange blossoms, he grew
quite sentimental. The heavy perfume and, artificial atmosphere seemed
to suit the growth of his physical content. Then, courteous by nature
to all women, he had already felt that this girl had a stronger claim
on his consideration than others, and this feeling produced just that
calm, continual attention which suited her lack of sentiment. There
was nothing in it to disturb her placidity or shake the quiet
conviction that in deciding on Gleneira and its owner she was
distinctly doing her duty by everybody, herself included. For Jack had
apparently acquiesced in her decision; at least, he wrote quite
cheerfully from Riga. So she listened contentedly to the covert
lovemaking which long experience had made so easy to Paul Macleod,
provided his companion had a decent share of good looks. In fact, one
of his chief causes of irritation in regard to Marjory was that he
never had the slightest desire to flirt with her.
Meanwhile Mrs. Vane remained in her room by Dr. Kennedy's orders, who,
to tell truth, was rather surprised to find how severe a shock her
nervous system had sustained. When, in consequence of a little note
saying that if he would so far forego his holiday as to take her for a
patient, she would far rather see an old friend than a strange doctor,
he had gone over to see her, he had found her far worse than he had
expected. The truth being that she was in a fever of excitement to
know whether he suspected anything, and to hear all the particulars of
this strange bequest to poor old Peggy. If she had only known what the
long blue envelope had contained, she would not have advised the delay
in opening it, which had led to the poor old soul dying a pauper's
death, dying with bitter thoughts in her heart of the world she was
leaving. Mrs. Vane would have liked to tell so much to the doctor as a
sort of salve to her conscience, but she did not dare to do this.
There was a certain packet of letters locked away in her dressing-case
which forbade her risking the least inquiry. Yet she could not refrain
from asking if any other papers had been found which--which threw any
light----
Dr. Kennedy, noting the nervous intertwining of her fingers, made a
mental note of bromide for the prescription he intended writing, and
then set himself quietly to tell her all he knew, just as if he were
exhibiting another sedative. The somewhat romantic aspects of the case
had evidently excited her imagination, and it would do her good to
talk over it soberly.
"Then there were no other papers, after all," she said, with a sigh of
relief. "You seemed surprised at the time, I remember, but now you are
satisfied."
"I must be--no one could have taken them, and I certainly did not drop
anything from my pocket when I went to fetch help, for I have been
over the ground this morning. Besides, she only gave me two
things--the envelope and something else. I certainly thought it was a
bundle of letters, but I must have been mistaken."
"But there was no entry in the register, was there, which would
account for old Peggy's anxiety that you should have it?" persisted
Mrs. Vane, with a little hurry in her breath.
"None. Except that she had something on her mind always, I feel sure,
regarding that unfortunate daughter of hers. She never behaved
naturally to little Paul; and now, of course, it is doubtful if he
will get the money. I must see the lawyers about it as I go through
Edinburgh. If old Peggy had only lived to make a will----"
Mrs. Vane rose from her pillow and looked him full in the face, with a
startled expression.
"You mean she would have had the power to leave it to him."
"Yes, apparently she would have, to judge by the will. You had better
lie down again, Mrs. Vane! So--quite flat, please."
He chose out the smelling salts unerringly, as if he knew all
about such things, from the bevy of silver-topped bottles on the
dressing-table, and when he saw her colour returning, went back with
the same certainty, apparently, of finding sal volatile or red
lavender.
"Chloral!" he said, turning to her quickly as he smelt at a bottle.
"You mustn't take that, Mrs. Vane. I forbid it, and I expect you to
obey orders."
A touch of her own airy, charming wilfulness showed on her face as she
looked at him while he stood dropping something into a glass for her
to take. "I won't--not while you are here."
"Nor when I am gone, I hope. It isn't worth it--Pauline."
She gave him an odd look, then buried her face in the pillow and began
to sob. Inarticulate, hysterical sobbing about Pauline--or was it
Paul? Dr. Kennedy could not be sure.
"She is utterly upset; a case of complete nervous prostration," he
said, as he was leaving, in answer to Captain Macleod's eager
inquiries. "I don't wonder, for she works herself to death to make
things pleasant for everybody. Don't let them worry her by going to
sit with her, and that sort of thing. She is best alone. Or, if you
could spare ten minutes or so this afternoon--I've told her to get up
for a little change--she would like it, I know. She is very fond of
you."
"We are such old friends," put in Paul, quickly. "And she has sate up
with _me_ often enough, God knows. I shouldn't be alive but for her.
Of course, I will go."
"Talk of old times, then. It will make her forget the present, and
that will be good for her."
So Paul went up with the afternoon tea tray and a bunch of jasmine,
which he had been down to the garden to gather, and talked about old
times in his softest voice, while Mrs. Vane sate and listened in the
big chair by the window. And she cheered up so much under the
treatment, that he sent the maid down for another plate of bread and
butter.
It was very pleasant, but whether, as the unconscious suggester of the
entertainment had said, it was good for her, was another matter,
though, in a way, it relieved her nervous strain by making her more
certain of what she was going to do. Of one thing there could be no
doubt--the man who sate and talked to her, who forestalled her every
want, must not suffer. Paul must be saved, somehow, and so, for the
present, no one must know of that marriage certificate hidden in her
dressing-case, which would, if it were genuine, give Gleneira to Peggy
Duncan's grandson. Perhaps, after all, he would get his father's
money, and if so, a hundred thousand pounds would be enough for
anyone. Why should he rob Paul--her handsome, kindly Paul--of his
birthright? Of course, in one way that would make matters smooth for
her, since his engagement would certainly come to an end if he ceased
to be a Highland proprietor. The Woodwards would, in that case, never
hear of its being fulfilled. But it would give him such pain, and she
was not selfish enough to gain her own pleasure at such a price, if it
could be avoided. She was Paul's friend, his true friend, and she
would take the responsibility of concealing this thing for the
present; for ever, if need be. And then she gave up thinking, and took
to dreaming of what life would be if they two lived at Gleneira. They
would not be dull; men were never dull with her. He had not been dull
that afternoon when they had sate and talked. Ah! how pleasant it had
been, and surely to gain such content, both for him and for her, it
was allowable to conceal those letters for a time--only for a time?
And while they were talking upstairs, Lady George had been
entertaining a solitary visitor in the drawing-room, the rest of the
party having gone out to take luncheon to the shooters on the hill.
This was the Reverend James Gillespie--who had come with a strict
attention to those trivialities of etiquette, which the Bishop had
often assured him should be a distinguishing mark of those set up to
teach the people--to inquire for the ladies after their fatigues. Now,
Lady George _was_ fatigued, hence, indeed, the fact that she had
remained at home; and there is no doubt that she said, "Bother the
man!" when first informed that the Reverend James was in the
drawing-room. Then the love of posing came to her rescue. Here she
was, alone, wearied out, unable to go forth and enjoy herself. What an
opportunity for patient unselfishness! Besides, it was tea-time; she
could have the children down and provoke that ardent admiration of her
system which the Reverend James extended to everything at Gleneira.
"Tell nurse to let Miss Eve and Master Adam have tea with me," she
said, as she swept downstairs. "I expect Master Blasius has not been a
good boy; in fact, I am sure he hasn't, but he can have jam in the
nursery. He will like that just as well."
Unfortunately, it is never safe for a grown-up to predicate the
thoughts of a child. Perhaps, because something may strike the opening
mind as novel, or desirable, which the mature one has tried and found
wanting. Be that as it may, ten minutes after Adam and Eve had left
the nursery spick and span, hand-in-hand, Blazes was captured for the
fifth time on his way down the stairs in that curious succession of
bumps and slides, which was his favourite method of progression. And
the look of determination on his round, broad, good-natured face was
not in the least shaken by nurse's vehement upbraidings.
"There ain't no use talkin' to 'im when he's like that," she said,
aside to Mary; "and he ain't a bit cross or naughty--look at 'im
smilin' be'ind my back--but my tea I must 'ave in peace an' quiet. So
into bed 'e goes, tucked up without 'is nighty, an' a bit of sugar to
suck. The joke of it'll keep 'im quiet a bit."
Apparently, it did, for he lay in the night nursery chuckling to
himself, that "Blazeths wath a pore 'ickle beggar boy wif no thoes or
'tockings, an' no thirt to hith back," until nurse, sympathising with
the sentimental Mary, forgot to be vigilant.
Meanwhile, Adam, in his green plush Vandyck suit, and Eve in a smock
to match, were seated, with decorously still tan legs, at the
tea-table, eating thin bread-and-butter daintily.
"It is most gratifying," the Reverend James was remarking, in his most
professional manner, "to--to see such good children as yours, Lady
George. It is a lesson in the art of education."
"It is most gratifying to hear one's parish priest say so, Mr.
Gillespie," she replied, with meek dignity; "but, as you know, I make
it a study. I devote myself to them. I feel that one cannot too soon
recognise the sanctity, the individuality of the soul, the human
rights which these little ones share equally with us. Equally, did I
say? Nay, in fuller measure, since they are nearer Heaven than we
are--since they are pure and innocent, with better rights than ours to
happiness."
The Reverend James cleared his throat. There was a flavour of
unorthodoxy about the latter part of these remarks which, in the
present position of spiritual authority to which Lady George had
exalted him, he could scarcely pass over.
"It is a fallen humanity we must not forget, my dear lady," he began;
"these children----"
Lady George's maternal pride flashed up; besides she was beginning to
get a little tired of the Reverend James.
"I see very few signs of fallen humanity about mine," she interrupted.
"But, my dear lady, you must remember also that your children have
privileges--they are baptized and regenerate--they are not in a state
of nature--Good Heavens, my dear lady! what is the matter?"
The Gorgon's stony stare was genial in comparison with poor Blanche's
look of petrification.
"Blasius!" she cried, starting to her feet, "go away! go away at
once."
But Blasius had no such intention. He advanced with a confidential nod
to his mother, a perfect picture of sturdy, healthy, naked babyhood;
beautiful in its curves and dimples.
"Blazeth's a pore 'ickle beggar boy wif no thoes or 'tockings
or---- Oh, mummie! that tickles awful!"
The mellow chant ended abruptly, for Lady George had dashed at him
with an Algerian antimacassar, and now held him in her arms, trying
hard to be grave. She might have succeeded but for the Reverend
James's face of bland concern. That finished her, and she gave up the
struggle in a peal of laughter, in which her companion tried to join
feebly.
"Bring Master Blasius' flannel dressing-gown, please," she said, when
nurse, full of explanations and excuses, flew in in a flurry; "that
and the antimacassar will keep him warm, and he can have his tea with
me."
This incident, however, made it quite impossible for her to continue
the rôle she had been playing before. How could she? with Blasius
huddled up on her lap, eating bread and jam between his attempts to
count his bare toes; an arithmetical problem which he insisted on
solving, despite her efforts with the antimacassar. Not that the
necessity for change mattered, since she had a variety of other parts
to fall back upon, and so, being slightly bored by the Reverend
James's failure to respond, and evident disposition to remain
the spiritual director, she assumed that of Great Lady and
Helper-in-General to her world. In which character, she gave it as her
opinion that all parish clergymen should be married--if only in order
to make them understand children, and grasp the true bearings of the
education question.
Whereat he blushed violently, and five minutes afterwards had confided
his hopes regarding Marjory to his hostess's sympathising ears.
Nothing could be more suitable, she told him; in fact, the idea had
occurred to her before, and she had no doubt that he would bring his
suit to a successful issue. Only, as a woman of the world who had seen
more of life than he had, she would advise a little boldness, a trifle
more self-assertion. His position, she said, was really an excellent
one on the whole, and she need hardly say that both she and her
brother would welcome Mrs. Gillespie as one of themselves.
So, with a complete reversal of their mutual positions, they parted,
and the Reverend James as he walked home, full of blushes and budding
hopes, told himself that since Lady George agreed with the Bishop it
was time he bestirred himself. The picnic at the old burying-ground
would afford him an excellent opportunity of proposing, and if he made
up his mind definitely on that point, it would make him less nervous.
So when he reached home he went to the calendar of the daily lesson,
which hung by his bed, and ticked off the five days remaining to him,
just as schoolboys tick off their holidays. Five days--and then--yes!
then he would ask Marjory to marry him.