MRS. GLADWYNE'S APPEAL
Millicent was sitting in a window-seat with a paint-box beside her and a
drawing of a water-ouzel upon her knee. It was a lifelike sketch, but she
had a great capacity for painstaking and she was not altogether pleased
with the drawing. The bird stood on a stone an inch or two above a
stream, its white breast harmonizing with the flecks of snowy froth, and
the rest of its rather somber plumage of the same hue as a neighboring
patch of shadow. This was as it should be, except that, as the central
object of a picture, it was too inconspicuous. She was absorbed in
contemplating it when Mrs. Gladwyne was shown in. Clarence's mother did
not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object
in coming.
She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair,
her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress.
"Busy, as usual, my dear," she said, glancing at the sketch. "That's very
pretty."
"I think it's correct," returned Millicent; "but I'm not sure it's what
it ought to be in other respects. You see, its purpose is to show people
what a water-ouzel is like and it's hard to make the creature out. Of
course, I could have drawn it against a background that would have forced
up every line, but that wouldn't have been right--these wild things were
made to fade into their surroundings." She laughed. "Truth is rigid and
uncompromising--it's difficult to make it subservient to expediency."
Her visitor did not feel inclined to discuss the matter.
"You're too fastidious," she smiled, and added with a sigh: "George was
like that. Little things keep cropping up every day to show it--I mean in
connection with his care of the property. I'm sometimes afraid that
Clarence is different."
Millicent could not deny this, but she did not see his mother's purpose
in confessing it.
"Of course," she answered, as she rang for tea, "he hasn't been in charge
very long. One can learn only by experience."
Mrs. Gladwyne looked grateful; but although she was very tranquil there
was something in her manner that hinted at uncertainty.
"You will finish the book and these pictures some day," she said. "What
will you do then?"
"I really don't know. Perhaps I shall start another. If not, there is
always something I can turn my hand to. So many things seem to need
doing--village matters alone would find me some occupation."
The elder lady considered this.
"Yes," she agreed with diffidence. "I'm now and then afraid everything's
not quite so satisfactory as it used to be. The cottages don't look so
pretty or well cared for, the people are not so content--some of them are
even inclined to be bitter and resentful. Of course, things change, our
relations with our dependents among them; but I feel that people like the
Marples, living as they do, have a bad effect. They form a text for the
dissatisfied."
Millicent contented herself with a nod. She could not explain that in
spite of the changing mode of thought it is still possible for an
old-fashioned landlord to retain almost everybody's good will. Sympathy
and tactful advice are appreciated, though not effusively, and even a
bluff, well-meant reproof is seldom resented. But when rents are
rigorously exacted by a solicitor's or banker's clerk, and repairs are
cut down, when indifference takes the place of judicious interest, it is
hardly logical to look for the cordial relations that might exist.
Nasmyth's tenants stopped and exchanged a cheery greeting or a jest with
him; most of Gladwyne's looked grim when he or his friends, the Marples,
passed.
Then tea was brought in and Millicent found pleasure in watching her
guest. Mrs. Gladwyne made a picture, she thought, sitting with the dainty
china in her beautiful hands; she possessed the grace and something of
the stateliness which is associated with the old regime.
"How quick your people are," she commented. "You rang and the things were
brought in. Our staff is large and expensive, but as a rule they keep us
waiting. Though you paint and go out so much, you have the gift of making
a home comfortable. It really is a gift; one that should not be wasted."
Millicent grew serious. It looked as if her companion were coming to the
point, and this became plainer when Mrs. Gladwyne proceeded.
"Do you think the life you contemplate--writing books on birds and
animals--is the best or most natural one for a woman?"
A little color crept into the girl's face.
"I don't know; perhaps it isn't. It is the one that seems open to me."
"The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean."
Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided
a plain issue.
"I think," she said, "it would be better if you told me."
"It's difficult." Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. "You must forgive me if I go
wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry
Clarence some day. It would be so desirable."
"For which of us?" Millicent's tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs.
Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.
"It was Clarence that I was thinking of," admitted her visitor. "I
suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother." She laid down her cup
and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. "I must go on, though I don't
think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good
qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my
misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I
have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from
what they were when I was young."
This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.
"I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and
then. I cannot approve of all his friends--sometimes they jar on me--and
I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not
the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong
associations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be
so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence." She
smiled at Millicent. "One could trust implicitly to yours."
It was an old plea, fallacious often, but none the less effective.
Millicent was devoid of officious self-righteousness, but she was endowed
with a compassionate tenderness which prompted her to extend help to all
who needed it. She thought that Clarence did so, but in spite of that she
did not feel so responsive as she could have wished.
"There is one difficulty," she answered while the blood crept into her
face. "I'll own that I recognized what your ideas and George's were about
Clarence and myself. I may go so far. But of late there has been nothing
to show that Clarence desired to carry out those ideas."
Mrs. Gladwyne gathered her courage.
"My dear, it is rather hard to say, but the truth is that a declaration
from a man is not usually quite spontaneous. He looks for some tacit
encouragement, a sign that one is not altogether indifferent to him. Now
it has struck me that during the past year you have rather stood aloof
from my son."
Millicent started slightly; there was some truth in this statement. Mrs.
Gladwyne, however, was not wise enough to stop.
"I think that is why there is some risk of his falling into bad
hands--that Crestwick girl isn't diffident," she went on. "I know the
strong regard he has for you; but the girl sees a good deal of him, and a
man is sometimes easily led where he does not mean to go."
Millicent's cheeks burned.
"Do you wish me to compete openly for Clarence's favor with Bella
Crestwick?"
Mrs. Gladwyne spread out her hands in protest.
"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I have said the wrong thing. I warned you
that you might have to forgive me."
"But the thought must have been in your mind!"
"I only meant that you needn't repel or avoid him, as you have done of
late."
Millicent felt compassionate. After all, Mrs. Gladwyne was pleading for
what she believed would benefit her only son; but the girl was very human
and a trace of her resentment remained. It was, however, obvious that
Mrs. Gladwyne expected some response.
"I can venture to promise that I won't be openly rude," Millicent agreed
with a faint smile.
"Can't you go a little beyond that, my dear?"
The girl, seeing the look in her eyes, yielded to an impulse which
prompted her to candor.
"What there is to be said had better be spoken now," she replied. "I have
confessed that I knew what was expected--Clarence showed that he knew it,
too--and the idea was not altogether repugnant to me. But since he came
back from Canada there has been a change in both of us. How or why I
can't explain, but we have drifted apart. I don't know whether this will
go on--I don't understand myself--I only know that I am as anxious for
his welfare as I always have been. It must be left to him; there is
nothing you must urge me to do."
Mrs. Gladwyne looked regretful, but she made a sign of acquiescence and
rising came toward the girl and took her hand.
"What I could do I have done--badly perhaps," she said. "I can't blame
you. I am only sorry."
She went out in a few minutes and left Millicent in a thoughtful mood.
Looking back on the past, the girl recognized that she had been fond of
Clarence--which was the best word for it--and that she would have married
him had he urged it. He had, however, hardly been in a position to do so
then, and she remembered that she had in no way regretted the fact. This
was, she thought, significant. Then the change had gradually come about.
She saw his faults more clearly and it grew increasingly difficult to
believe that she could eradicate them. What was more, during the past few
weeks she had once or twice felt scornfully angry with him. She had tried
not to yield to the sensation, and now she wondered how it had originated
and why she was less tolerant.
As she considered the question, a shadow fell upon the sunlit lawn and
looking up she saw Lisle approaching with a creel upon his back. She
started at the sight of him and once more felt her cheeks grow hot; then
she smiled, for the half-formed suspicion that had flashed into her mind
was obviously absurd. He saw her the next moment and strode toward the
open window.
"We got a few good white trout, fresh run," he said. "It occurred to me
that you might like one or two of them."
He glanced at the long French window.
"May I come in this way?"
"I've no doubt you could do so, but out of deference to conventional
prejudices it might be better if you went round by the usual entrance."
"Charmed!" he smiled. "That's easy."
"Would you rather have it hard?"
"That wasn't the idea," he answered. "I only felt that a much greater
difficulty wouldn't stop my getting in."
Millicent laughed.
"If one of my neighbors made such speeches, they'd sound cheap. From you
they're amusing."
He affected to consider this.
"I suppose the difference is that I mean them. Anyway, I'll walk around."
She gave him some tea when he came in, and afterward admired the fish.
"They're well above the average weight," she said.
"We had two or three that would beat them," Lisle declared. "Miss
Crestwick came along and corralled the finest."
"Was the explanation essential?" Millicent inquired with a smile.
"That was a bad break of mine. So bad that I won't try to explain it
away."
"I think you are wise," Millicent retorted with a trace of dryness.
On the face of it, she was pleased with his answer, but the fact he had
mentioned caused her some irritation. Bella Crestwick, not content with
monopolizing Clarence, must also seek to include the Canadian in her
train. It was curious that for the moment that seemed the more serious
offense. The girl was insatiable and going too far, Millicent thought.
Lisle noticed her silence.
"Remember that I'm from the wilds," he said.
She smiled at him reassuringly.
"After all, that isn't a great drawback. Anyway, I'm grateful for the
trout." Then, somewhat to his surprise, she abruptly changed the subject.
"I wonder what you think of a tacit promise?"
His face grew thoughtful; she liked his quick change to seriousness.
"Well, I don't know that my opinion's of much value, but you may have it.
Supposing two people allow each other to assume that they're agreed upon
the same thing, it's binding upon both of them."
"But if only one actually made his wishes clear."
"In that case, the other had the option of showing that they couldn't be
acceded to. Failing that, in my view, he can't go back on it." Then his
eyes gleamed with amusement. "I don't often set up as a philosopher."
Millicent was a little vexed with herself for asking him and did not
quite understand why she had done so, unless it was because she had not
altogether recovered her usual collectedness after Mrs. Gladwyne's visit.
Why she should be interested in this man's opinion was not clear, but she
thought he was one who would act in accordance with it. She was afterward
even more astonished at her next remark, which she made impulsively.
"You have seen a good deal of Miss Crestwick, one way or another."
He considered this gravely.
"Yes," he replied. "I like her. For one thing, she's genuinely concerned
about that brother of hers."
"What do you think of him?"
"Not much," Lisle answered candidly. "I've no use for a man who needs a
woman to keep him straight and look after him. But one feels a strong
respect for the woman, even though it's obvious that she's wasting her
time."
"Is it wasting time?"
"It strikes me like that. A man of that sort is bound to come down badly
some day."
Millicent sat silent a while. The conversation had taken an unusually
serious turn, but she wondered whether he were right. She had, she
thought, allowed Clarence to assume that she would not repulse him when
he formally claimed her and that--so this man from the wilds
considered--constituted a binding obligation. She could not contest this
view; but Clarence seemed more interested in Bella Crestwick than he was
in her. Then she wondered why the girl had made so much of Lisle, unless
it was to use him for the purpose of drawing Clarence on. If that were
so, it seemed a pity that the confiding Canadian could not be warned,
though that, of course, was out of the question.
"I'm afraid I'm not very amusing to-day," she acknowledged.
He smiled.
"I'll go the moment you want to get rid of me; but, even if you don't say
anything, I like sitting here. This place rests me."
"I shouldn't have imagined you to be of a very restful nature."
"Oh," he declared, "there's a kind of quietness that braces you."
He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm
of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done.
Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere
prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn sunshine streamed in, and the
girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings,
furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory
carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most
satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually
thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could
hardly have analyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she
should talk to him.
"There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up
at the never-melting snows," he went on. "You feel that you could sit
there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be
owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity."
"Why?" Millicent inquired.
"As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping
big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides,
you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash."
"Then, after the day's labor, a man must do his own domestic work?"
"Of course," answered Lisle. "Now and then one comes back to camp too wet
or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I'm
speaking of when you're working for your own hand. In a big logging or
construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to
the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the
proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking."
"And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?"
"Then," Lisle informed her dryly, "you have to pull out pretty quick."
"It sounds severe; that's cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it's
quite logical--everybody must do his part. I'm afraid I shouldn't be
justified if we adopted it here."
"Cooperation implies a division of tasks," Lisle pointed out. "In a
country like this, they're many and varied. So long as you draw the wild
things as you do, you'll discharge your debt."
"Do you know that that's the kind of work the community generally pays
one very little for?"
"Then it shows its wrong-headedness," Lisle answered as he glanced
meaningly round the room. "But haven't you got part of your fee already?
Of course, that's impertinent."
"I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it's quite correct,"
Millicent replied. "Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I'd
like your opinion about this ouzel."
She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to
Mrs. Gladwyne.
"It's right; don't alter it," advised Lisle. "It's your business to show
people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter
it to suit their untrained views."
He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.
"After that, I'd better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to
come in."
She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about
him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his
opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and
she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple
in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything
mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this
representative of it in particular.