But the remembrance of that thoughtless run through the darkening
woods seemed incredible--to the girl, at least--when next morning her
companion in it came down, as in duty bound, to inquire after the
result of her wetting, for he was palpably conventional and
commonplace. Partly because Lady George accompanied him, eager to
renew her protestations of gratitude, and partly because it was his
way whenever he had made any special departure from the ordinary line
of conduct, which he laid down for himself. This evident artificiality
had the effect of producing the same sort of unreality in Marjory, so
that the only straightforward part of the interview came from Lord
George, who, with an odd little quake in his voice, thanked her for
the fact that Blazes was at the present moment rehearsing the scene in
the nursery.
"You should see the little beggar," he said. "'Pon my word he doesn't
seem to have missed a single detail. Has Sam to the life, and we have
been obliged to forbid Alice's screams; they were heard all over the
house."
"And what does he say was his own part in the business?" asked
Marjory. "All I remember is a face--very like yours, Lord George--with
great wide eyes, while Eve and Adam were hiding theirs."
Lord George gave another odd little sound between a laugh and a sob.
"He says he sate still and swore, like Uncle Paul!"
"I'm afraid I did, Miss Carmichael," confessed the culprit, with a
flash of the old manner; "but really, the tangle that young idiot had
got things into, and stramash----" He turned to the window with a
frown, and looked out. "You are the heroine of the hour, I see," he
added cynically. "There is the Manse machine, with your two devoted
admirers in it, come to congratulate you. Blanche, if you have induced
Miss Carmichael to dine with us to-night--our last night--we had
better quit the court. By the way, Mrs. Vane desired me to say, Miss
Carmichael, that she did not intend to leave Gleneira without seeing
you again; so, as she is not well enough to come to the Lodge, you may
be induced to take pity on her."
The covert implication that some such inducement was necessary to
overcome her reluctance, stung the girl's pride, without her
recognising the cause of it, and she accepted the invitation
hurriedly, telling herself she was glad it was the last, and that
after to-morrow she could return to the old peaceful days. The thought
made her turn with a quick expansion of face and manner to the two old
men who advanced to meet them, as she accompanied Lady George to the
garden-gate. Two old men almost tremulous with pride and delight.
"_Tanto fortior tanto felicior!_" cried the little Father, his fresh,
round face beaming with sheer content.
"So, so, young lady! we have heard the story," put in the minister,
full of courtly bows, in which those suggestions of a shapely calf had
a fair field. "True is it that _Fortis cadere, cedere non potest_. Ah,
Lady George! I have to express my great thankfulness that a dreadful
bereavement has been spared you, under Providence, by our dear young
friend's courage; or, rather, by her wisdom, since, without the quick
thought, the former would have been useless. In this case, to
paraphrase the saying, _tam Minerva quam Marte_, as even a soldier
must allow."
"You will not find me backward, sir, in acknowledging either Miss
Carmichael's wisdom or her courage," replied Paul, thus challenged;
but his tone had that suggestion of a hidden meaning in it, to which
Lady George objected, and rightly, as bad form; so she covered it by a
remark upon the beauty of a boy, who stood holding open the gate.
"He is a little like that crayon portrait of you when you were a boy,
Paul," she added cheerfully.
"He is old Peggy's grandson," replied Marjory, "and as he has been
left to Dr. Kennedy's care, I am to look after him. He will be my
first pupil."
"Then the likeness will soon disappear," said Paul, in a low voice, as
he passed out.
"Perhaps he will be not the worse of that," retorted Marjory, in the
same tone.
"I don't know. Men who are brought up by women are generally prigs."
"And women who have been brought up by men?" she asked sharply, not
thinking of herself or her past.
"Are brave," he said quietly.
Brave! So he thought that of her. The one word was worth all the rest.
And as she went up the path again with Father Macdonald on her right
hand and Mr. Wilson on her left, all their fine phrases seemed
forgotten in that simple acknowledgment. She would remember that
always, even when the old peaceful days came back, as they would on
the morrow. There was only the dinner at the Big House between her and
that desirable consummation; but that was an ordeal without Tom, who
was at home anywhere.
To tell truth, it would have been an ordeal to one less reluctant than
Marjory; for a general air of uncertainty, like that of amateur
theatricals when the prompter is best man, pervaded the party. Mrs.
Woodward called her host by his Christian name with a manifest effort
of memory, and when Sam ventured on a like familiarity with Blanche,
her face betrayed her real feelings. Indeed, she took a private
opportunity of confiding to Lord George her relief that it was only a
one-night part, as she could not stand it much longer.
"Yet you condemn poor Paul to a life-long connection with that young
bounder. Upon my soul! you women are queer creatures;" and the
perversity of the feminine nature appeared to absorb him for the rest
of the evening. Even Mrs. Vane, who ventured down to dinner for the
first time, could make nothing of the ghastly function, so she retired
immediately afterwards on plea of being tired, chiefly because she
wished to have an opportunity of seeing Marjory alone, which she
secured by bidding her in a whisper be sure and come to her room after
she had said good-bye to everyone else.
Her departure reduced the drawing-room to flat despair.
"It is the sadness of farewell," remarked Miss Smith, part of whose
contract was that she was to remain to the last and see nothing was
forgotten; not even a decent show of sentiment.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," murmured the Major under his
moustache. He was the most cheerful of the party, since his flirtation
had resulted in another week's grouse shooting with his charmer's
father.
"Mr. St. Clare has written such a sweet thing called 'Good-bye,'"
continued the Moth, appealing to the Poet. "He might recite it to
cheer us up."
"I wonder how many poets there are who haven't written a piece on that
subject," put in Paul, hastily, as Mr. St. Clare gave a preliminary
cough, "and yet it will supply tons of agony to generations still
unborn."
"There are forty songs of that name," remarked Alice, practically. "I
wanted one for a friend, and the music man told me so."
Then the remembrance of that friend, a certain young fellow with a
pleasant baritone voice, busy over tallow at Riga, gave her quite a
pang of regret.
"Mostly trash, too," assented the Major; "Tosti's is the best, but
even there one is all battered to pieces before the end."
"That is true," put in Marjory, eagerly. "You see, the poet begins by
fine-drawing the agony, the composer follows suit, and the singer
carries out the distortion. So in the third verse there is nothing for
it but to 'kill the coo.'"
"I haven't heard 'Auld Robin Gray' for twenty years," murmured Lord
George. "No one sings anything but German nowadays. German or comic
operas."
"Miss Carmichael sings Scotch songs; I've heard her," said Paul from
the skein of silk he was holding for Alice Woodward.
"Oh, do!" cried the Moth. "Something touching."
"Somethin' to cheer us up, you mean," put in Sam; "somethin' with a
chorus, you know."
"Something old-fashioned," protested Lord George.
"Something appropriate to the occasion," suggested his wife.
"Something Miss Carmichael approves of," came from the skein of silk.
The girl stood by the piano for an instant, looking at them all with a
touch of fine scorn in her face.
"I will do my best," she said at last, with a laugh. The next instant,
with a crash of chords, her clear, fresh, young voice rang through the
room in that gayest and saddest of songs:--
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine;
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me you knew,
My love,
No more of me you knew."
Paul's hands turning the skeins paused, his eyes were on the girl's
face as, with a mixture of recklessness and regret, she went on--
"The morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain,
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again!
He turned his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
Said 'Adieu for evermore,
My love,
And adieu for evermore.'"
"What a heartless, unromantic, roving wretch!" remarked Lady George,
in the pause which followed the refrain. "I hope he was jilted after
all by the heiress; there generally is an heiress in these cases."
Then, becoming aware of the possible indiscretion of her words, she
looked at her brother hurriedly.
"In that case he married and lived happily ever afterwards; at least,
that is what I should have done in his case. And I don't think he was
so heartless, after all. He told the truth. It isn't as if he had
sneaked away without saying good-bye."
Marjory rose from the piano with a little shrug of her shoulders.
"I must say good-night, at any rate, Lady George, and sneak up to see
Mrs. Vane; for it is getting late, and you have all to be up so
early."
Paul, standing at the door holding it open for her to pass through,
was the last of the group to whom she had to give the conventional
farewell.
"Good-bye," she said, feeling above her real regret a relief that this
was the end.
"_Auf-wieder-sehn_," he replied. That was what Tom had said. As she
ran upstairs to Mrs. Vane's room she was telling herself passionately
that she did not want to see Captain Macleod again--that she would
rather he went out of her life altogether, and cease to make her
wonder at his changeful moods.
"_Entrez_," said the soft voice to her knock, and the next moment she
felt herself in an atmosphere in which she had never been before. The
semi-darkness of the pink-shaded light, the littered dressing-table,
the soft perfume, the thousand and one evidences of an almost sensuous
ease were to her absolutely novel. And the small figure, nestling in
the armchair, so dainty in its laces and little velvet-shod feet. All
that meant something she had never grasped before, something which
attracted and yet repelled her.
"How pretty it is," she said, in sudden impulse, as her fingers
stroked one of the soft folds almost caressingly. Mrs. Vane's hand
went out swiftly, and drew hers closer.
"Don't, child! That does for me, not for you. So this is good-bye. You
are not sorry?" Her eyes scanned the girl's closely, and then she
smiled. "If you are, you will get over it soon. That is the best of
work. I often wish I had some--to make me forget myself."
"But you do work--you work harder than anyone I know, in a way. Why,
to-night we were quite dull; so dull without you! Everyone missed you;
and yet----"
"And yet? out with it, little one!"
"I was wondering if it was worth it?"
"Yes! if you have a craze to be admired, as I have. But I didn't ask
you to come here in order to talk about myself. You would not
understand me if I did. Pray Heaven you never may. So you have said
good-bye to them all, and you are not sorry! That is well. Now, let me
wish you good luck, and give you a word of advice."
"Twenty, if you like."
"Make the most of that luck--and _Alphonse_."
"You mean Dr. Kennedy?" asked the girl, stiffly.
"Dr. Kennedy. There are not many like him in this world."
"I doubt if there are any. At least, I have not met them," she
replied, with a quick flush of impatience.
"I am glad to hear you say that. Good-bye, my dear, and forget us all
as soon as you can."
"I shall remember your kindness--for you have been kind--all of you.
Good-bye."
When the door had closed, Mrs. Vane leant back in her chair with a
sigh of relief. That was over then, and, so far as she could judge,
without harm to the girl. And now--now she could face the other
problem. Perhaps there need be no harm there, either, but she must
think--she must think. So in the softness, and the dimness, and the
luxury, her face grew more anxious, more weary, until the memory of
Marjory's words came back to her.
Was it worth it all? Whether it was worth it or not did not matter;
the plotting and planning had become a second nature to her--she must
think--she must think!
And Marjory, passing out into the calm cool of the night, gave a sigh
of relief also. It was over; that strange life, so different from the
future one which lay before her. Was she sorry? Yes! a little. No one
could know Paul Macleod and not feel a regret at the thought of his
future. Yet she was glad it was over despite that queer sort of numb
pain at her heart at the thought of his unfailing kindness to her. And
now she would never see him again, never---- A red star showed low
down behind a turn in the rhododendrons, and a moment after Paul's
voice said easily, as he threw away his cigar:
"You have not been long."
So it was not over! That was her first thought, and then came a quick
flutter at her heart. Over! was not it rather just beginning for
this--_this_ was new. Her pride rose in arms against it instantly.
"I did not expect--" she began almost haughtily.
"Did you not? That was rather foolish of you. You expected me to let
you walk home alone; but I think I know my duties; as a host, at any
rate."
It was true. He did know them. There could not be two opinions as to
his considerate courtesy to all. She admitted the fact to herself
gladly, telling herself that it was quite natural he should see her
home, though the possibility of his doing so had not occurred to her.
Hitherto, of course, Tom had been with her; to-night she was alone. It
was the usual thing; yet not usual, surely, that they should be
walking fast through the darkness without a word, just as if they had
quarrelled. What was there to quarrel about? Nothing. Not his
engagement certainly, though he might think so if she kept silent on a
fact which no one had attempted to conceal. Hitherto she had had no
opportunity of alluding to it, but now there was no excuse. The merest
acquaintance would be expected to take such an opportunity of wishing
him good luck, unless--unless some personal motive prevented it. And
there was none. How could there be? since Paul was surely welcome to
do as he liked.
Yet, for a time, the crunch of the gravel beneath their feet as they
walked on in silence was the only sound upon the cool night air. But
the glimmering white of the Lodge gate nerved her to the effort.
"I want to congratulate you, Captain Macleod," she began, when he
interrupted her quickly.
"Hush! If there cannot be truth, don't let there be falsehood between
us."
It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen, piercing her ignorance. She
stopped short, her pulses bounding to that strange new thrill in his
voice which seemed to make her forget her surprise, her indignation.
She had to steady her own tones ere she could reply.
"There has been no falsehood on my part."
"Has there not? Then there shall be none on mine. Marjory! I love you!
Nay! you shall listen----" His outstretched arm barred her quick
movement of disdain. "I shall not keep you long, but you must hear the
truth. I've loved you from the beginning--I love you now--I feel as if
I should love you always----"
She stood there as if she had been turned to stone, listening,
listening, like a child to some fairy tale; and in the darkness a look
that had never been there before crept to her clear eyes, and a quiver
to her mouth.
"Yes! I love you; not only as most men count love, so that the
touch of your hand thrills me, and the thought of your kisses is as
heaven---- Don't shrink from the truth--you must face it sometime--why
not now? It is so, and God knows it is no new thing to me. But this is
new--that you are my soul--if I have one--Marjory! Marjory! Why have
you made me feel like this?--why would you never see me as I really
am?--why would you always believe me better than I was?"
His passionate questioning seemed to pass her by. She stood silent
till, in the darkness, he seized her hands and drew her closer to him,
peering into her face as if to read the answer there.
"For pity's sake don't look so kind, so sweet," he burst out
vehemently, for even in the faint starlight he could see something of
her eyes. "Tell me how vile I am--then I could go--then I could leave
you! Listen to me, Marjory--" his voice grew calmer, and a sort of
bitter entreaty came to its passionate anger--"I know quite well--I am
certain that my only chance of living what you hold to be a worthy
life lies with you, and yet I have renounced it--I do renounce it
without a shadow of remorse. Is not that enough? You are my better
self, my one hope of redemption, yet still I say, Adieu, my love,
adieu, for evermore!"
And then the half-seen softness of her face seemed to madden him.
"Before God you _shall_ see me as I am. You _shall_ understand."
His arms clasped her close, his reckless, passionate kiss was on her
lips, and then----
Then he stood as it were before the tribunal which he had
invoked--that tribunal of perfect knowledge, of blinding truth, in
which alone lies the terror of judgment.
"Marjory!" The whisper could scarcely be heard. "Marjory! is it true?
My God! is it true that you love me?" He still held her, but with a
touch which had changed utterly, and his tone was almost pitiful in
its appeal. "Marjory! why--why did I not know? Why did you hide
yourself from me?"
"I did not know myself," she answered, and her voice had a
ring of pain in it; "how could I know? But it would have made no
difference--no difference to you."
The keenest reproach could not have hit him so hard as this
instinctive defence of her own ignorance, her own innocence; it
pierced the armour of his worldliness and went straight to that part
of his nature which, even at his worst, held fast to life in a sort of
veiled self-contempt.
"You are right; it would have made no difference, no difference to
such as I am." Then in the darkness he was at her feet kissing the hem
of her garment.
"Adieu, my love; adieu for evermore!"
The next instant the sound of his retreating footsteps broke the
stillness, and she was alone.
Alone, with a smile upon her face--a smile of infinite tenderness for
his manhood and for her own new-found womanhood, which tingled in each
vein and seemed to fill the whole world with the cry, "He loves me! he
loves me!"
So this was Love. This unreasoning joy, this absorbing desire to hap
and to hold, to let all else slip by and be forgotten as nothing
worth; to live for oneself alone--oneself, since he and she were
one--one only!
Yes; she loved him like that. And he? The memory of his voice, the
clasp of his hand, the touch of his lips came back to her in a rush,
dazing and bewildering her utterly, so that she stretched her arms
into the night and whispered into the darkness: "Paul, come back! you
must come back and tell me what it means. Paul! Paul!"
But he was gone; and then the pity of it, the shame that he had left
her came home to her, not for herself, but for him, and with a little
short, sharp cry, such as will come with sudden physical pain, she
turned on her way tearless, composed, half stunned by her own emotion.
When she had undressed she blew out the candle, and, kneeling by the
window, pressed her forehead against the cool glass while she gazed
unseeingly into the night.
So this was Love!--the Love which the poets called divine--the Love to
which she had looked forward all her life. What did it mean? What was
it, this feeling which had come to her unbidden, unrecognised? For now
with opened eyes she understood that it had been there almost from the
beginning; that it had been the cause of all her moods and his. The
curious attraction and repulsion, the unrest, the desire to influence
him. Ought she to have known this sooner? Perhaps; and yet, how could
she when neither her own nature or her education had given her a hint
of this thing? The Love she had dreamed of had been a thing of the
mind, of conscious choice, and this was not. No! best to tell the
truth--it was not!
As she knelt there, alone in her ignorance, not so much of evil as of
the realities of life, she could yet see that this unreasoning
attraction--though with her it could not but be indissolubly mixed up
with something higher, something nobler than itself; something which
craved a like nobility in its object--was yet in its very essence of
the earth earthy.
Without that something what was it?
She was clear sighted was this girl, whose reasoning powers had been
trained to be truthful; so she did not attempt to deny that Paul
Macleod was not her ideal of what a man should be. That her whole soul
went out in one desire that he should be so, and in a tender longing
to help him, to comfort and console him, did not alter the fact. That
desire, that longing, was apart from this bewildering emotion which
filled the world with the cry, "He loves me! He loves me!" She loved
him as he was; not as he ought to be.
As he was! And then her eyes seemed to come back from the darkness and
find a light as she remembered those words of his: "It is not only as
if I loved you as men count love."
Then he, too, understood--he, too, was torn in twain. A sense of
companionship seemed to come to her; she rose from her knees and crept
to bed. And as she lay awake the slow tears fell on her pillow. So
this was Love! this bitter pain, this keener joy; but underneath his
stress of passion, and her fainter reflection of it, lay something
which might bring peace if he would let it, and the thought of this
made her whisper softly:--
"Paul, I love you. Come back to me, Paul, and we will forget our
love."
But up at the Big House he was cursing his own folly in yielding to
the temptation of seeing Marjory home. Yet what had come over him? He,
who for the most part behaved with some regard to gentlemanly
instincts. What had he done? The memory of it, seen by the light of
his knowledge of evil, filled him with shame. Well! that finished it.
When she had time to think she would never forgive him. She would
understand, and that look would fade from her face--that look
which---- But she was right! Even if he had seen it before, it would
have made no difference; he would have gone on his way all the same.
Why had he ever seen it to give him needless pain, and be a miserable
memory? The only thing was to forget it--to forget, not the love which
thrilled him--that, Heaven knows, could be easily forgotten--but that
other! Yes! he must forget it. That was the only thing to be done now.