Luckily, perhaps, for his determination to forget, a variety of causes
combined to give Paul Macleod breathing space before he had, as it
were, to take up the burden of his engagement with Alice Woodward. To
begin with, he had to pay a visit on the way south, and the delights
of really good partridge shooting are of a distinctly soothing nature.
There is something fat and calm and comfortable about the stubbles
and turnip fields which makes one think kindly of county magistrates
and quarter sessions, of growing stout, and laying down bins of port
wine. A very different affair this from cresting the brow of a
heather-covered hill, with a wild wind from the west scattering the
coveys like bunches of brown feathers, while the next brae rises
purple before you, and another--and another--and another! Up and up,
with a strain and an effort, yet with the pulse of life beating its
strongest.
Then, when the North mail finally set him down at Euston, the
Woodwards had gone to Brighton; and there was that going on in the
artistic little house in Brutonstreet, which would have made it unkind
for him to leave town and follow them, even if his own inclination had
not been to stay and see what the days brought forth. For Blasius was
ill, dangerously ill, and Lord George was a piteous sight as he
wandered aimlessly down to the Foreign Office, and, after a vain
effort to remain at work, wandered home again with the eager question
on his lips, "Is there any change?"
But there was none. The child, after the manner of his sturdy kind,
took the disease as hardly as it could be taken, and then fought
against it as gamely. So the little life hung in the balance, till
there came a day when the pretence of the Foreign Office was set
aside, and Lord George sate in the nursery with his little son in his
arms, an unconscious burden in the red flannel dressing-gown, which
somehow seemed connected with so much of Blazes' short life. Blanche,
almost worn out, stood by the open window holding Paul's hand--Paul,
who was always so sympathetic, so kindly when one was in trouble. So
they waited to see whether the child would choose life or death; while
outside the people were picking their way gingerly through the mingled
sunshine and shade of a thunder shower. It was so silent that you
could hear the clock on the stairs ticking above the faint patter on
the window-pane, almost hear the splash of the slow tear-drop which
trickled down Lord George's cheek, and fell on Blazes' closed hand.
And then, suddenly, a pair of languid eyes opened, and the little
voice, mellow still, despite its weakness, said quietly:
"Ith's waining. Blazeth wants a wumberwella."
In the days following, if Blazes had wanted the moon, Lord George
would have entered into diplomatic relations with the man in it,
regarding a cession of territory; but the child, according to the
doctors, wanted sea air more than anything else. So, naturally enough,
they all migrated to Brighton, and, though he did not realise it, the
general sense of relief and contentment pervading the whole party did
much to make Paul Macleod feel the shackles bearable. Then Mrs.
Woodward and Alice were at one of the big hotels, the Temples were in
lodgings, while he, himself, had rooms at a golfing club, to which he
belonged; an arrangement which gave everyone a certain freedom.
Finally, as Paul discovered on the very first day, Alice showed much
more to advantage on the parade, or riding over the downs, or putting
on the green, than she had ever done at Gleneira.
"Oh, yes!" she said gaily, "I am a regular cockney at heart. I love
the pavements, and I hate uncivilised ways. I know when Blanche told
me she had to see the sheep cut up at Gleneira, I made a mental note
that I wouldn't. I couldn't, for I hate the sight of raw meat."
"You bear the butchers' shops with tolerable equanimity," returned her
lover, who hardly liked her constant allusions to Highland barbarism;
"as a matter of fact, raw meat intrudes itself more on your notice in
town than it ever does in the country."
"Perhaps; but then the sheep with the flowery pattern down their backs
don't look like sheep, and as for the beef, why, you can't connect the
joints with any part of the animal. At least, I can't, and I don't
believe you can, either. Now what part of the beast is an aitchbone?"
Paul set the question aside by proposing a canter, and by the time
that was over he was quite ready to be sentimental; for Alice looked
well on horseback in a sort of willowy, graceful fashion, which made
the pastime seem superabundantly feminine.
Still, the subject had a knack of cropping up again and again; and
once, when she had excused herself for some aspersion by saying,
good-naturedly, that it was a mere matter of association, and that she
was of the cat kind, liking those things to which she was accustomed,
he had taken her up short by saying she would have to get accustomed
to Gleneira.
"Shall I?" she asked. "Somehow, I don't think we shall live there very
much. It is nice enough for six weeks' shooting; but, even then, the
damp spotted some of my dresses."
"You are getting plenty of new ones at any rate," retorted Paul, for
the room was littered with _chiffons_.
She raised her pretty eyebrows. "Oh, these are only patterns. I always
send for them when I'm away from town. It is almost as good as
shopping. But I don't mean to buy much now. I shall wait for the
winter sales. They are such fun, and I like getting my money's
worth--though, of course, father gives me as much as I want. Still, a
bargain is a bargain, isn't it?"
Paul acquiesced, but the conversation rankled in his mind. To begin
with, it gave him an insight into a certain _bourgeoise_ strain in the
young lady's nature, and though he told himself that nothing else was
to be expected from Mr. Woodward's daughter--who derived her chief
charm from the fact that her father _had_ made bargains and got his
money's worth--that did not make its presence any more desirable. And
then he could not escape the reflection that _he_ was a bargain, and
that the whole family into which he was marrying would make a point of
having their money's worth.
He would have realised this still more clearly if he could have seen
one of the daily letters which Mrs. Woodward, with praiseworthy
regularity, wrote to her lord and master in London, for it is a sort
of shibboleth of the married state that those in it should write to
each other every day whether they have anything to say or not.
"Alice," she wrote, "is so sensible and seems quite content. At one
time I feared a slight entanglement with Jack, but Lady George has
been most kind and taken her to all the best places, which is, of
course, what we have a right to expect. By the way, there is an Irish
member here--O'Flanagin, or something like that--and he declares the
Land League will spread to the West Highlands. So you must be sure and
tie up the money securely, as it does not seem quite a safe
investment."
Mr. Woodward, on receiving this missive, swore audibly, asserting that
the devil might take him if he knew of any investment which could be
called safe in the present unsettled state of the markets! For his
visit to Gleneira, where, as he angrily put it, telegrams came
occasionally and the post never--had somehow been the beginning of one
of those streaks of real ill-luck which defy the speculator. The
result being that Mr. Woodward generally left his office in the city
poorer by some thousands than he had entered it in the morning, and
though he knew his own fortune to be beyond the risk of actual
poverty, it altered his outlook upon life, and threatened his credit
as a successful financier.
Nor did it threaten his alone; there were uncomfortable rumours of
disaster in the air, which, in course of time, came to Lady George's
ears.
"I do hope Mr. Woodward is not mixed up in it," she said to Paul, as
she sate working bilious-looking sunflowers on a faded bit of stuff
for the Highland bazaar; "but he was a little _distrait_ when he came
down last Sunday, and he didn't eat any dinner to speak of--we dined
with them, you remember."
"Perhaps I gave him too good a lunch at the club," replied her
brother, jocosely; "besides, he wouldn't let a few losses spoil his
appetite. He is well secured, and then he could always fall back on
his share in the soap-boiling business."
"I was not thinking of him, Paul, I was thinking of you. You could not
boil soap."
The fact was indubitable, and though her brother laughed, he felt
vaguely that there were two sides to a bargain, and when his sister
began on the subject again, he met her hints with a frown.
"I am perfectly aware," he said, "that Patagonians are dangerous, and
Mr. Woodward knows it as well as I do."
"But he was nicked--that is how that city man I met at dinner last
night put it--he was nicked in Atalantas also."
"If you had asked me, Blanche, instead of inquiring from strangers, as
you seem to have done," interrupted her brother, with great heat, "I
could have told you he was nicked, as you choose to call it,
heavily--very heavily. He has been unlucky of late. He admits it."
"Good heavens, Paul! what are you going to do?"
"Nothing. He is quite capable of managing his own affairs."
"Don't pretend to be stupid, Paul! I mean your engagement."
"What has business to do with that?" he asked, quickly taking the high
hand; but Lady George was his match there.
"Everything, unless you have fallen in love with her."
Home thrusts of this sort are, however, unwise, since they rouse the
meanest antagonist to resistance.
"Have it so if you will. I am quite ready to admit that love has
nothing to do with business. Honour has. I am engaged to Miss
Woodward, and that is enough for me."
Lady George shrugged her shoulders. There was a manly dogmatism about
his manner which was simply unbearable.
"My dear boy," she said, "if a man begins to talk about honour it is
time for a woman to beat a retreat. Since you have such strict notions
on the subject, I presume you have explained to Mr. Woodward the exact
state of affairs at Gleneira? The estate overburdened, and not a penny
of ready money to be had except by sale."
"I really can't discuss the subject with you, Blanche. Women never
understand a man's code of honour on these points; and they never
understand business."
She crushed down an obvious retort in favour of peace, for she was
genuinely alarmed. So much so, that the moment she returned to town
she went to see Mrs. Vane, thinking it more than likely that Paul
might have confided something to her. She was just the sort of little
woman in whom men did confide, and Paul was perfectly silly about her,
though, of course, she was a very charming little woman.
Now, Mrs. Vane had heard the rumours of Mr. Woodward's losses before,
and heard them with a glad heart, since the possibility of having to
use those letters which were locked up in her dressing-case weighed
upon her. But she had not heard them from Paul; had not seen him, in
fact, as she had only returned from the country two days before, and
had since been ill with fever.
Nevertheless, the very next afternoon, in obedience to a little note
left at his club, Paul walked into her flower-decked drawing-room and
gave an exclamation of surprise and concern at the white face and
figure on the sofa.
"You have been ill," he said quickly; "why didn't you let me know
before?"
"Only a go of fever; and I've danced all night long--some of the
dances with you, Paul--when I had a worse bout, and no one found me
out. Let me make you a cup of tea."
"Please not. I'll take one. Yes! I remember; that was our regimental
ball, and there were so few ladies; you never spared yourself, Violet,
never knew how to take care of yourself."
"Perhaps not. I must pay someone to do it, I suppose, like other old
women; for all my friends are deserting me. Two married last month,
and I hear from Mrs. Woodward that your wedding-day is fixed."
"I was not aware of it," he replied, with a frown; "but if it were, I
fail to see why I should desert--my friends."
Mrs. Vane laughed. "My dear Paul! you are something of a man of the
world; did you ever know of anyone like you keeping up a friendship
with anybody like me after his marriage? I mean out of the pages of a
French novel. Certainly not; and I am quite resigned to the prospect.
I suffered the blow in a minor degree when you left India. Besides, I
should not anyhow see much of you if you lived at Gleneira; and you
will have to do so, won't you, till Mr. Woodward recovers himself?"
Paul stirred his tea moodily. "So you have heard, too," he said
distastefully.
"Everybody has heard, of course. Such things are a godsend at this
time of the year. Lady Dorset was quite pathetic over your bad luck
yesterday, but I told her no one would think the _worse_ of you or
Miss Woodward if you were to think _better_ of it, since poverty--even
comparative poverty--would suit neither of you."
The spirited pose of her head, as she spoke, the bold challenge of her
tone, were admirable.
"You said that! Would you have me break my word because my promised
wife had a few pounds less than I expected?"
She laughed again. "How lofty you are, Paul! You caught that trick
from Marjory Carmichael. By the way, I heard from her to-day--she
comes up to town soon."
"So I believe." His heart gave a throb at the sound of her name, but
he would not confess it, even to himself. "Excuse me if I hark back to
the other subject. I should like to hear what you have to say on it.
Women have such curious notions of honour, at least, Blanche----"
"So Lady George has been taking you to task, has she? That was very
unwise of her. For my part I have no opinion. I never liked the
engagement, as you know; I like it still less now, when, if tales be
true, Mr. Woodward will not be able to make his daughter so handsome
an allowance as--as you expected. But they may not be true."
"There is no reason why I should not tell you that they are true. The
allowance will be about a quarter of what was intended. Mr. Woodward
spoke to me to-day about it, hinting that it might make a difference;
but, of course, I cut him short."
"Of course." There was a fine smile for an instant on her face ere she
went on. "Still, he was right, it does make a difference."
"Undoubtedly it makes a difference," echoed Paul, testily. "No one
knows that better than I do. But that is no reason why I should back
out of my word. We shall have to vegetate at Gleneira, I suppose, or
live in a villa somewhere----"
"My poor Paul, how funny you are!" she interrupted, taking up a letter
which had been lying beside her, and giving it a little flourish.
"That is just what you could have done--with someone else! So you will
do for a girl you do not love, what you would not do for one--but it
is really too funny! One half of you being unable to exist without
love, the other without money, you cut the Gordian knot by
experimenting on life without either! Now, I should have tried to
secure both--you might have managed that, I think." She paused a
moment, and then went on. "As it is, my friend is not unwilling to
play the hero, to a limited extent, because it soothes him and makes
him feel less mercenary. Ah! my dear Paul, I understand. Only, might
it not be more heroic and less mercenary to give Miss Woodward a
chance of something more to her taste than a villa somewhere?--plus,
of course, the heroic husband! She may not like heroics; some of us
don't. You must be prepared for that."
The gentle raillery of her tone had a touch of seriousness in it which
seemed to throw a new light on his view of the subject.
"You mean that it is likely----"
"Yes. I think it extremely likely that the Woodwards would rather
break it off."
"But why?" he asked, angrily rising to pace the room; "my prospects
have not changed."
"'They twain shall be one flesh,'" quoted Mrs. Vane, lightly. "And do
you really think so much of your heroism, that--unaided by love,
remember--you will fancy it will compensate Alice Woodward, who
loves the pavement, for the damp and dulness of Gleneira? I remember,
Paul"--her voice grew a trifle unsteady--"having to decide a similar
question, once. To decide whether I could compensate the man I loved
for something--well, for something which was not more dear to him than
civilisation is to this young lady, and, though I loved him, I knew I
could not."
"And--and were you right?" he asked with a sudden interest.
"Of course I was right. He recovered the loss of me rapidly, and yet I
am not unattractive--what is more, I am generally considered good
company, which I defy anyone to be if he careers up and down the room
like a Polar bear. Please sit down and let me make you a nice cup of
tea. The last, I am sure, must have been horrid. You don't know how to
take care of yourself a bit, Paul, but _you_ are lucky. _You_ will get
plenty of people to pay for the privilege of doing so."
He told himself that she talked a great deal of nonsense at times, but
that she did it, as she did everything else, with infinite verve and
grace. Blanche, who had not said half as much, had made him angry; and
here he was seated beside Violet's sofa, enjoying his tea, and feeling
that sense of _bien être_ which he always felt in her company.
Yet even she might have failed in producing this for once, if he could
have overheard a conversation which was going on over another cup of
tea in Queen's Gardens, where Mrs. Woodward, with a real frown on her
usually placid face, was listening to her husband's account of his
interview with Paul that morning.
"Very honourable, no doubt, but exceedingly unsatisfactory," she
remarked, with asperity. "I must say that I think you failed."
"Did you wish me to give the man his _congé_, my dear?" interrupted
her spouse, irritably. "If so, you should have told me so distinctly,
but if it comes to that I can write and dismiss him."
"You have such a crude way of putting things, James, and though I
don't presume to understand business affairs I must own it seems
inexplicable how these difficulties have come about. And Alice is so
accustomed to civilisation, and Jack is coming back from Riga next
week, so it does seem to me a flying in the face of Providence."
Mr. Woodward looked at her in impatient amaze. "Good heavens! Maria,
what do you mean? Who or what is flying in the face of Providence?"
"Everyone! Everything! It seems as if he had been away on purpose, so
that there should be no fuss. And they have always been so fond of
each other. Alice would be miserable if she had to think about money;
so why should she be sacrificed to Captain Macleod's notions of
honour----"
"My dear!----"
"Yes, James! Sacrificed! You say you told him plainly the state of the
case, and he----"
"Behaved as a gentleman would. Expressed sorrow at my losses, but gave
me to understand that it would make no difference to him."
"And to Alice? He never gave a thought to her, I suppose; but you men
are all alike--selfish to the core."
"Really, my dear," protested Mr. Woodward, roused by this general
attack.
"Well, _you_ are selfish. Are you not sitting there calmly proposing
to sacrifice Alice to an adventurer--a principled adventurer if you
like, though that is a miserable attempt to--what was it you used to
call guaranteed stock?"
"A disastrous attempt to combine safety and speculation," suggested
her husband, meekly.
"Just so! and this is a disastrous attempt to combine common sense and
romance. But I will not have Alice sacrificed. I will speak to the man
myself."
"You shall do nothing of the sort, my dear. If necessary, I can do it;
but there is no hurry."
"It must be settled before next week, unless you want a fuss; I tell
you that."
"It shall be settled; but I must talk to Alice first. It is surely
possible she may be in love with the man?"
Mrs. Woodward shook her head wisely.
"But why, in heaven's name, Maria? He is handsome--gentlemanly--well
born. Why should she not love him?"
"Because she is in love with Jack."
"God bless my soul!"