WHITE HEATHER
“I believe I must be losing my youth, Janet,” Lady Marjorie said half
seriously. “This is the third grey hair I have found this week.”
She took up a silver-mounted hand-glass from the dressing-table and
surveyed herself critically. The suspicion of a wrinkle lined her
forehead; but her mouth was still as mobile, and her eyes as bright as
ever they had been. The old servant carefully removed the offending
hair, and went on arranging her mistress’s tresses. She had nursed Lady
Marjorie as a baby, as well as Lady Marjorie’s boy, and knew the Bexley
family almost as well as her own.
“Losing your youth indeed!” she exclaimed, inserting the last hairpin in
its place. “Why, you are not nearly thirty yet, my lady, and as
young-looking as can be.”
“Am I?” The young widow smiled. “I feel young, it is true; but I am
twenty-eight to-day, Janet, and it will soon be ten years since my
wedding-day. It doesn’t seem like ten years, does it, since we drove up
to that great cold church in Mayfair? Do you remember how nervous I
was, and how I shivered? But I was so young--only just out of the
schoolroom; and poor Mr. Stonor was thirty; he seemed dreadfully old to
me then. Do you remember, too, how my sister Olive pitied me for having
to stand before the altar with a man with mutton-chop whiskers? Poor
Denis! he retained those mutton-chop whiskers to the last.”
She glanced at a photograph which stood on her escritoire. Judging by
his portrait, Mr. Stonor could scarcely have been the kind of man to
attract the fancy of a young and pretty girl; but he had been considered
a suitable match for Lady Marjorie, and her parents had hurried on the
marriage almost before she had even realized the fact of her engagement.
Janet nodded. “Ay, I remember as well as can be,” she answered, shaking
out the folds of a shimmering evening dress. “Didn’t I deck you out for
the wedding myself, my lady? I shall never forget the bother I had with
that French mam’selle who wanted to make you look like a doll.” She hung
up the gown in a wardrobe, and continued significantly, “Maybe I shall
have to dress your ladyship once again for a wedding? Pardon me if it’s
a liberty I’m taking, but----” She hesitated.
“Well?” said her mistress, trying not to look conscious. “What do you
mean?”
“Mr. Karne----?”
Lady Marjorie paused in the act of clasping a bracelet on her wrist; and
looked up at her old nurse with an enigmatical expression, half pleased,
half shy, on her bright face.
“What of Mr. Karne, nursie?” she queried softly.
“Ay, my lady, what need to ask? Do you think I haven’t noticed the
love-light in your eyes when you’ve spoken of him, or when he’s been
anywhere near; or the little bit of white heather I’ve found under your
pillow, which he has given you the night before? Folks say the Highlands
is the place for romance, and I’m close on believing it. Anyway, I shall
be mightily mistaken if there’s not a wedding before long!”
But the mistress shook her head, whilst a look as of pain came into her
eyes.
“No, Janet,” she said quietly. “You are mistaken. Mr. Karne and I are
very good friends, but he pays no more attention to me than he would to
any other woman who happened to be his hostess.”
“Yet he gave you the white heather, my lady?”
“Yes, he gave me the white heather; but what of that? He did not tell me
to put it behind my pillow--that was just a silly fancy of mine. We
women are such fools, Janet. We have such an inordinate craving for
love, that we magnify the slightest attention of any man for whom we
possess regard, until we vainly imagine that we are really loved by him.
That is what I’ve been doing--giving way to imagination. I’ve been
indulging in the romantic day-dreams of a girl of seventeen.”
A sharp rat-tat at the door made her pause. Janet opened it to admit
Bobbie, a sturdy lad of eight years with curly hair and large blue eyes.
Without waiting for permission, he rushed into the boudoir to offer his
birthday wishes, and hugged his mother until she was obliged to plead
for mercy.
“How awf’lly late you are this morning, mother!” he said, when she had
accepted his congratulations as well as his little present. “I thought
you were never coming down. We’ve had breakfast ages ago; and Uncle
Bexley and the others, all except Mr. Karne, are already out on the
moors.”
“How is it Mr. Karne has not gone?” Lady Marjorie asked wonderingly; for
Herbert was an enthusiastic sportsman.
“I don’t know. He is having a smoke in the lounge. P’raps he’s waiting
to give you your present. I mustn’t tell you what it is--it’s a
surprise, you know,--but I’m sure you will like it awf’lly. Uncle says
it’s a very striking likeness of me.”
“Tut-tut, Master Bobbie,” put in Janet, warningly. “You are letting the
cat out of the bag;” and the boy promptly clapped his hand to his lips.
Lady Marjorie found Karne deep in thought, watching with half-closed
eyes the smoke as it curled upwards from his cigar.
He rose at her approach, and having wished her many happy returns of the
day, presented her with a beautifully painted pastel of her boy.
Her face lit up with pleasure as she thanked him, for the gift had
evidently occasioned him much thought.
“I shall hang it up in my boudoir at Durlston,” she said, when she had
expressed her admiration of the portrait, “next to the one you painted
of Bobbie as a baby. Heigho, how time flies! I feel dreadfully old
to-day--because it is my birthday, I suppose.”
“One is never old whilst the heart is young,” he answered, with a swift
glance from his deep eyes. He was just thinking how delightfully fresh
and young she looked.
Lady Marjorie met his eyes and blushed. Then she sat down at a small
table and, unfolding a daily paper, glanced through the morning’s news.
“Are you tired of the shooting?” she inquired presently. “I was quite
surprised when Bobbie informed me that you were still indoors.”
“I am afraid there will be no more shooting for me this year,” he
replied regretfully, taking up a time-table which had recently occupied
his attention. “I have just packed my traps previous to taking my
departure. This morning’s post brought me two letters containing news
which makes it necessary for me to go to Brighton immediately. I am more
sorry than I can say to have to bring this enjoyable visit to such an
abrupt termination.”
Lady Marjorie’s face fell perceptibly. “Then you are going away!” she
exclaimed in dismay. “You have not received bad news, I hope?”
“Well, that depends on how one looks at it,” he answered, noting her
crestfallen expression with a vague pang of self-reproach. “Celia’s
visit to Woodruffe has cost her dear; it has probably been the means of
making her lose her entire fortune.”
Lady Marjorie gave vent to an ejaculation of amazement.
“How could that possibly be?” she asked, her eyes distended in surprise.
The announcement almost took her breath away.
“She has decided to become a Christian,” he replied, as if apprising her
of some calamity. “And by doing so, according to the terms of her
father’s will, forfeits all claim to his wealth, which will go to build
a Jewish hospital in South Africa.”
Lady Marjorie stared at him blankly. “The little goose!” she exclaimed.
Then she corrected herself. “No, I didn’t mean that. Of course she must
act according to her belief. But I wonder what made her father insert
such a nonsensical stipulation in his will. I suppose she is aware of
it?”
“No; judging by her letter, I do not think she is,” the artist answered,
with troubled brow. “I blame myself very much that I did not inform her
of it when I received the copy of the will, but I never dreamt of such a
thing as this happening. Her _fiancé_ knows, however--Bernie Franks must
have told him himself,--and he is in a dreadful way about it. He is
staying at Mrs. Rosen’s house in Brighton, and begs me to join him there
without delay. Celia’s baptism is fixed for next Sunday; and, of course,
if that is allowed to take place, nothing can be done. Salmon writes
that we must prevent that at all costs, but I don’t see how we can if
the girl has thoroughly made up her mind to it.”
“No, I suppose not, as she is of age. But you may be able to persuade
her to postpone her baptism for a few months or so. It is possible that
her opinions may yet undergo another change. Does she seem very
enthusiastic over the matter?”
For answer Herbert handed her Celia’s letter to read. It consisted of
eight closely written pages; and judging by the frequent erasures, had
evidently been a difficult one to indite.
Lady Marjorie perused it carefully, reading several passages two or
three times in order to fully comprehend their meaning. At length she
replaced it in the envelope, and returned it without comment.
“Well?” interrogated Karne, briefly. “What do you think about it?”
“I hardly know. You see, I’m a Christian myself--though not a good one,
I’m afraid,--and I can understand how Celia feels about it. Religion is
a strange and fascinating subject; and it has evidently taken strong
hold of her. I do not think you will be able to deter her from carrying
out her intention. She seems to take it for granted that you will not
blame her for what she is doing. But I should not think she is aware of
the loss of fortune her conversion entails.”
“Oh, I do not blame her,” he said quickly. “If she imagines she can be
happier as a Christian, let her be one by all means. I do not suppose
there will be anything gained by attempting to argue the question with
her. She will probably prefer to be guided by the instinct she calls
faith than to consider any reasoning of mine.”
A clock in the adjoining hall struck eleven. Herbert glanced at his
watch.
“I suppose you will go by the 12.50?” Lady Marjorie said, with a sigh.
“We must have an early luncheon; and then I will drive down to the
station to see you off. I shall miss you when you are gone,” she added
regretfully. “We’ve had a nice time up here together, haven’t we? Do
you know, of all Bexley’s guests, you are the only one whose society I
have really enjoyed. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I should
have stayed in Scotland all this time. I am terribly outspoken, am I
not? But one cannot always bottle up one’s feelings.”
Again a touch of self-reproach smote Karne’s breast. He glanced into
Lady Marjorie’s eyes--such blue eyes, as clear and innocent as a
child’s; then feeling that he was expected to say something, expressed
the pleasure his visit had given him, and thanked her for her own and
Bexley’s kindness.
He did not respond, however, in the way she had hoped he would; and his
words struck coldly upon her ears. Why did he always repel her whenever
she tried to make their friendship a little closer, she wondered, with a
vague feeling of disappointment at her heart.
It was the same at the railway station, where she lingered until the
train moved off. She gave him plenty of opportunity for pretty farewell
speeches, but he didn’t make them; and as she drove home again with
Bobbie, tears of mortification welled up into her eyes. It was quite
ridiculous of her to care so much, she told herself, as she choked them
down.
Bobbie noticing her emotion, endeavoured to console her.
“Don’t cry, mother dear,” he said sympathetically. “We shall see Mr.
Karne again in Durlston next month. If you cry on your birthday, you’ll
cry all the year round, you know.”
Lady Marjorie thought she detected amusement in the expression of the
footman’s broad back.
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with a feeble smile. “Crying, indeed! It’s a
speck of dust in my eye.”
And another white lie was added to the list on her conscience.