When Paul Macleod left Mrs. Vane's drawing-room that afternoon she
told herself that she could, for once, afford to sit with folded hands
and let the world go its own way for a time. Everything seemed working
for her, so there was no need for her to work for herself. The
question of those letters could very well wait for a time. For all she
knew to the contrary, the lawyers might have similar proof of little
Paul's legitimacy; if they had not, why they ought to have. Unless,
indeed, that marriage certificate had nothing to do with the boy at
all. That in itself was conceivable with such a woman as Jeanie Duncan
must have been. Anyhow, for the present, the child was in comfortable
circumstances, since Dr. Kennedy had taken him in charge, and, as
Marjory mentioned in her letter, he was to come to London and become a
scholar at her school. The first thing was to see this foolish,
ridiculous engagement broken off, and then if the big Paul were wise,
and realised that both love and money were at his command, it might be
possible to tell him the truth. But under no other circumstances,
since none could console him as she could for the loss of Gleneira.
Therefore, for the sake of everybody concerned, the best thing that
could happen was that she should be Paul's wife. A great tenderness
showed in her face at the very thought. "Poor Paul," she said half
aloud; "he would be quite happy with me, quite content, and I, oh!
surely I deserve something after all these years? I am getting tired
of doing everything for people I do not care about, as I have done all
my life long."
And it was true. In all the trivial details of life she was as
thoroughly unselfish a woman as ever stepped, ready at a moment's
notice to weary herself out for the sake of making the world more
pleasant to others.
So those letters should remain locked up, perhaps for ever. In sober
truth she could scarcely imagine herself using them. Their
melodramatic force was so unlike the gentle spiriting by which she
usually effected her object; and though she could never recall the
night of poor old Peggy's death without a shudder, her sound common
sense told her that after all in advising the old woman not to open
the lawyer's letter, she had done so in ignorance. She had acted, as
she thought, for the best, and everybody was liable to make mistakes.
So much for the one party to the interview; the other, once the spell
of Mrs. Vane's personality was removed, felt vaguely that matters were
becoming uncomfortable. It had never occurred to him before that _he_
ran the chance of being jilted, and the bare idea filled him with
indignation; and yet he saw the justice of Mrs. Vane's remarks. He was
not a good match for a girl who wished for nothing better than to
remain in that state of social comfort to which it had pleased
Providence to call her. But, if this were so, it would be better to
save his dignity by broaching the possibility himself. Anything was
better than being dismissed like a footman. He was never long in
deciding a question of this sort, yet, quick as he was, he found
himself not a moment too soon, for when he walked round to see Mr.
Woodward next morning, before that gentleman went down to office, he
found him in the act of writing a note asking him to call.
"The fact is, Macleod," said the elder man, a little nervously, "I
wanted to continue our talk about your engagement to my daughter."
Paul flushed up, but took the bull by the horns without a moment's
hesitation.
"I came for that purpose, sir. It has occurred to me that I have
somewhat overlooked Miss Woodward's side of the question, and I shall
be infinitely obliged if you would treat me with perfect frankness in
regard to what you, no doubt, know better than I."
The dignity of this speech soothed him, and he awaited the reply with
tolerable equanimity.
"Very straightforward--very straightforward on your part, Macleod,"
said the man of business, approvingly. "One can scarcely be too
careful in regard--er--in regard to such contracts; and your remark
makes me regret more than ever--my--my duty. For you really have been
all that is--all our fancy painted you, I may say. But that does not
alter the fact that I am now a comparatively poor man. Of course, I
may, I very probably shall, recoup. At the same time it is not the
sort of security for--for--marriage settlements and trustees; you
understand me, of course. Now, what we have to face is this: Do you
think my daughter is suited to be the wife of a poor man--even a
possibly poor man? I don't. And, then, would she be content if she had
to live most of the year at Gleneira, away from society and--and
telegraph posts--I mean posts and telegraphs? It's a pretty
place, Macleod, and an interesting place--with--with a sort
of--er--_respectability_ about it, but it is a devilish bit out of the
way."
"Perhaps; but I would do my best to make your daughter forget that,"
said Paul, gloomily; the sense of being weighed in the balance and
found wanting--he, Paul Macleod, whom so many women had fancied--was
exquisitely painful.
Mr. Woodward blew his nose elaborately. "Just so; of course, of
course! Very right and proper; very much so, indeed; only, my dear
Macleod, marriage, after all, is a speculation, and I don't like to
see my girl putting her capital into a concern which hasn't even a
good prospectus. How many shareholders would even my name produce, if
all we could say of a new railway was that, though the chances
were dead against traffic, we would do our best to ensure it? Of
course--er--if you were violently attached to each other one might
allow something for the--er--the good-will of the business. Under
those circumstances, I am led to believe--though I know nothing about
it myself--that young people are content to live--er--on a
ridiculously small income. My own impression is, however, that Alice
is not that sort of girl; but, of course, I may be mistaken."
"In that case," put in Paul, loftily, "it would be best to refer to
Alice herself."
"Exactly what we--I mean--er--decidedly. You two can settle it for
yourselves. Her mother and I have no wish to interfere unnecessarily.
That, I think you will own, is fair dealing, though, of course, as a
business man I have felt it my duty to warn her against risking what
is virtually her all in a concern which, to put it briefly, has an
unpromising prospectus. And, if you will allow me, I will give you the
same advice."
There was a pompous warmth in his shake of the hand, but as he
accompanied his visitor to the door his tone changed to a confidential
whisper:
"You see it isn't as if it were a limited liability, but the Lord only
knows how many children you might have."
Paul, as he made his way to the little boudoir where Alice frittered
away so much of her time over _chiffons_ and picture papers, felt that
he was being pursued by a Nemesis of his own creating. He had entered
into this engagement by the light of reason, in obedience to the
dictates of sound common sense, and it seemed likely that he would be
driven from it by the same means. He found her, for a wonder, busy
with needle and thread, and though the subject of it was only the
stitching of tinsel round some remarkably large velvet leaves pasted
on satin, it gave her a more solid air than she usually had. That, and
a brighter flush upon her cheek, told him that he was expected, and
forewarned him of her decision. Indeed, he felt that words were really
unnecessary, and that he might just as well have turned round and gone
downstairs again, leaving her white fingers busy with the gold thread.
But there was a certain strain of savagery in Paul Macleod, as there
is in most men when their dignity is touched, and he resolved to go
through with it.
"I have just seen your father," he began, "and now I have come to
you."
She might have been excused for turning a little pale and letting her
work drop, for his tone was not reassuring. He saw her dread of a
scene, and gave a faint laugh.
"There is no need to be afraid, Alice. I have never made myself
disagreeable to you yet, and I am not likely to begin now, when I have
come to ask you plainly whether you could be happy with me? Could
you?"
She clasped and unclasped her hands quite nervously. "I am ready to
try--if you like--if you think I ought to."
"That has nothing to do with it. Put me out of the question, please.
Of course, it is always painful for a man to know that a woman does
not care for him sufficiently----"
"It is not that," she broke in hurriedly. "I would not have promised
if I had not liked you--it is the dulness, and the poverty. I have
never been accustomed to it, and I might not be contented, and then
how could I be a good wife if I were not happy? It is not as if there
would be distractions, but there would be none, and I don't like the
country as some girls do--Marjory Carmichael, for instance."
He looked at her sharply, but her eyes met his without any hidden
meaning in them.
"She would not be dull, but I should, and then how could I cheer you
up? For you need cheering at Gleneira--you know you do."
The truth irritated him. "From which I infer that you would rather be
free. Well! you have only to take me or leave me," he said curtly.
She caught in her breath, and, as usual, the display of temper made
her piteous. "Don't be angry, Paul! There is nothing to be angry
about. If you wish it, I will try; but we can always be friends, and
if it is wiser to part, then it is wiser."
"That is for you to decide. I am at your orders." He stood there
looking very handsome, and she gave a sigh of indecision, though a
certain resentment at being, as it were, thrust into the breach, came
to her aid.
"Do you think it wiser?" he repeated.
"How can I tell? All I want to do is my duty, and I am afraid----"
"If you are afraid, that is enough," he said, losing patience.
"Good-bye, Alice; if you had decided otherwise I would have tried to
be a good husband to you."
A faint flush came to her cheek. "And I would have tried to be a good
wife; but----"
"Well?"
"Don't you think that with you trying to be a good husband
and I trying to be a good wife, life would have been a little
dreary--sometimes?"
The curse of home truths seemed in the air, and Paul felt he had no
answer ready, and yet he liked her the better for the first touch of
sarcasm he had ever heard from her lips. It reminded him of Mrs. Vane.
As he shook hands with her, the servant entering announced Mr. John
Woodward, and Paul, going downstairs, met a big, florid young man
coming up with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and a parcel tied with
gold thread in his hands. It was a box of Paris chocolates which Jack
had purchased on his way from Riga. The two scowled at each other as
they passed, after the manner of Englishmen who have never been
introduced, and Paul, as he put on his hat, felt a sudden insane
desire to go up again, and tell Alice that he had changed his mind.
And yet, as he walked aimlessly through the Park, and so northward
into the streets beyond, the certainty that life had been changed in
the twinkling of an eye came slowly to him, and as it did he scarcely
knew whither to turn for a little solid self-esteem. Of late he had
been nurturing his own magnanimity, and, as Mrs. Vane had told him to
his face, the fact that Alice Woodward's fortune was for the time
diminished, and in the future uncertain, had not been without its
consolation. It prevented him from feeling that people knew, to a
fraction, what price he had put upon himself. And now, though he was,
as it were, a "genuine reduction," he had been rejected! Rejected! the
thought was intolerable. Even the memory of Marjory, and the look in
her eyes which he had seen that last night, brought him cold comfort,
for he told himself that, even if he had wished to do so, he could
never go to her and say he had been jilted; yet he would not tell her
a lie.
But he did not want to seek consolation from Marjory; after all, it
had only been the old story of a passing fancy fostered by romantic
surroundings. Since he had left Gleneira he had scarcely thought of
her, and for himself would have been quite content to fulfil his
engagement. Therein, to tell truth, lay the whole sting of the
position.
So he wandered on until he found himself in Regent's Park, and then,
with that idle distaste to some decisive action which a return
clubwards would necessitate, in the Zoölogical Gardens. It was years
since he had been there of a morning without a band and a crowd. Years
since he had brought papers of nuts and biscuits, and given them to
the bears. But now he was free--yes! that was one comfort! he was free
to do as he liked, so he watched the Polar bear--which made him smile
at the recollection of Mrs. Vane's sally--and found a certain dreamy
pleasure in strolling round by the antelopes and recognising beasts
the like of which he had shot in strange climes. There is always some
satisfaction to be got from bygone prowess in sport, and, as he
finally found himself leaning over the railings of a tank where a pair
of dippers were bobbing about, he had in a measure forgotten the
present in the past.
So, as he watched the birds indifferently, a sleek round head slid
suddenly, oilily from the water, and a pair of wistful brown eyes
looked into his.
The card affixed to the railings only bore the legend:
"_Phoca vitulina_;
or, Common Seal."
Yet no magician's wand could have been more powerful in
transformation--say, rather translation--than the sight of the
creature so designated was to Paul Macleod. In the twinkling of an eye
the London haze--that condensed essence of millions of men, women, and
children, struggling confusedly for breath--had passed from him, and
he was in a new heaven and a new earth. A boat was rocking idly on the
summer sea, the blue clouds were sailing overhead, the world, its ways
and works, were beyond the rampart of encircling hills, while a girl,
with clear bright eyes, leant against the rudder.
"Why didn't you shoot, Captain Macleod?" He could hear the odd little
tremor in her voice, as she gave the challenge, and feel the dim
surprise of his own answer: "I never thought of it!"
Then, with a rush, the one side of his nature challenged the other.
Why--why had he done these things? Why had he given up paradise? Had
he not been happy? In very truth, had he even thought of the world and
its ways, of himself and his instincts, when he was beside her? Yet,
what a return had he not made to this girl who had taught him to
forget these things. Had he not in a way taught her to know them? Had
he not roused in her something, blameless enough, God knows! in its
way, beautiful enough, though of the earth earthy, compared to that
other strange comradeship, in which there seemed no possibility of
passion, no sense of sex. In truth, he had taught her to love him as
women and men will love to the end of all things. Taught her, and left
her to face it alone--as he had left Jeanie Duncan long years ago.
The unbidden remembrance brought a new shame with it for that old
offence, even while it intensified the sudden remorse he felt for the
present one; since Jeanie, in all her sweet maidenhood, had never
seemed so hedged about from evil as this Brynhild, whose very
womanhood had been hidden beneath her glittering armour of mail. That
he should have thought these things showed the strain of romance, the
touch of mysticism, which was in him by right of his race, and though,
as ever, he chafed against these things, he could not escape from
them, or from the self-contempt which took possession of him. Ever
since the night when he had said good-bye, as he had boasted, to the
best part of him, there had been something to prevent his realising
the extent of his degradation. First, the relief of certainty,
bringing with it a very real content; then, the anxiety for the child,
bringing out all the kindliness of his nature--finally, the knowledge
that he was not, after all, so mercenary. But now he was defenceless
against his own worldliness, against the memory of his wanton insult
to Marjory--for it was an insult, nothing less.
As he wandered moodily back into the town, back to face his world and
its comments, it seemed to him as if there were not a rag anywhere
wherewith to cover his wounded self-esteem. One thing he could do: he
could go down and ask Marjory to marry him. He owed her so much. She
would refuse him, of course, since she was not the sort to care for
other folks' rejections; and he knew, by long experience, how keenly
such love as he had seen in her eyes resented neglect, how quick it
was in changing to repulsion if the pride were outraged.
Yes! he would go down to Gleneira and regain some of his belief in
himself by giving Marjory her revenge. Then he would go abroad and
shoot lions, or do something of that sort. Everyone would know he had
been jilted, so he might as well play the part to the bitter end, and
behave as a man ought to behave who has had a disappointment.
Meanwhile he might as well go and see Violet, and congratulate her on
her acumen. He might even go so far as to tell her that, taking her
words to heart, he was about to propose poverty to the girl he loved,
as he had proposed it to the girl he had not loved. She, of course,
not knowing of that wanton insult, would not understand how idle a
proposition it would be; but she liked to be thought clever--liked to
be at the bottom of everything.
So he was not exactly in an amiable or easily managed mood as he
followed the servant upstairs at Mrs. Vane's house. And, as luck would
have it, he came at a time when she herself was too disturbed to have
the cool head and steady nerve necessary to steer him into the haven
where she would have him. Yet it was a trifling thing which had upset
her: merely the certainty that little Paul Duncan would not get a
penny of his grandmother's money. There it was in black and white, set
down in the wills and bequests column of the _Illustrated London
News_. Now, the difference between keeping a boy with a hundred
thousand pounds from possibly inheriting some acres of heavily
mortgaged bog and heather, and keeping a nameless, penniless waif from
a name and some hundreds a year was palpable. She was no hardened
criminal, and for the first time she found herself really facing the
question: "Am I to do this thing, or am I not to do it?"
Should she put those letters in the fire and say no more about them,
or should she tell the truth?
Though she knew its contents almost by heart, she took the slender
packet out once more and looked doubtfully at the marriage
certificate.
"Captain Macleod," said the servant at the door, for Paul was a
privileged visitor, with the _entrée_ at all times to Mrs. Vane's
little sitting-room. She had barely time to thrust the paper under a
book ere he was beside her.
"How you startled me!" she said, with a nervous laugh, as she took his
hand. "I did not expect you to-day; you were here yesterday."
"I came to inquire for your fever," he replied a trifle coldly. "You
have it again, I see--and feel. You should be in bed as it is."
He wheeled the armchair to the fire, brought a cushion from the sofa,
and waited, holding it in his hand to settle it comfortably for her as
she sate down.
She gave an odd little sort of choke.
"What a coddle you are, Paul! There is nothing really the matter with
me. I grow old, that is all; I grow old." It was not a good beginning
for an interview in which she would need all her self-control, all her
common sense; and had the letter been within reach at that moment it
would have received scant justice at her hands, for nothing in the
wide world seemed worth consideration save this man with his kind ways
and soft voice. He, at any rate, must not suffer.