On a certain evening about ten days after the events related in the
last chapter, Valentine Paget and her father were seated together in
the old library. Good-natured Mrs. Johnstone had popped in her head at
the door, but seeing the girl's face bent over a book, and Mr. Paget
apparently absorbed in the advertisement sheet of the _Times_, she had
discreetly withdrawn.
"They look very snug," soliloquized the widowed and childless woman
with a sigh. "I wonder what Mortimer Paget will do when that poor
handsome Mr. Wyndham proposes for Val? I never saw anyone so far gone.
Even my poor Geoffrey long ago, who said his passion consumed him to
tatters--yes, these were poor dear Geoffrey's very words--was nothing
to Mr. Wyndham. Val is a desperately saucy girl--does not she see that
she is breaking that poor fellow's heart? Such a nice young fellow,
too. He looks exactly the sort of young man who would commit suicide.
Dear me, what is the world coming to? That girl seems not in the very
least troubled about the matter. How indifferent and easy-going she is!
I know _I_ could not calmly sit and read a novel when I knew that I was
consuming the vitals out of poor dear Geoffrey. But it's all one to
Val. I am very much afraid that girl is developing into a regular
flirt. How she did go on and amuse herself with Mr. Carr at the cricket
match to-day. Adrian Carr has a stronger face than poor young
Wyndham--not half as devoted to Val--I doubt if he even admires her,
and yet how white Gerald Wyndham turned when he walked her off across
the field. Poor Val--it is a great pity Mr. Paget spoils her so
dreadfully. It is plain to be seen she has never had the advantage of a
mother's bringing up."
Mrs. Johnstone entered the beautifully-furnished drawing-room, seated
herself by the open window, and taking up the third volume of a novel,
soon forgot Valentine's love affairs.
Meanwhile that young lady with her cheeks pressed on her hands, and her
eyes devouring the final pages of "Jane Eyre," gave no thought to any
uncomfortable combinations. Her present life was so full and happy that
she did not, like most girls, look far ahead--she never indulged in
day-dreams, and had an angel come to her with the promise of any golden
boon she liked to ask for, she would have begged of him to leave her
always as happy as she was now.
She came to the last page of her book, and, drumming with her little
fingers on the cover, she raised her eyes in a half-dreaming fashion.
Mr. Paget had dropped his sheet of the _Times_--his hand had fallen
back in the old leathern armchair--his eyes were closed--he was fast
asleep.
In his sleep this astute and careful and keen man of business dropped
his mask--the smiling smooth face showed wrinkles, the gay expression
was succeeded by a careworn look--lines of sadness were about the
mouth, and deep crow's-feet wrinkled and aged the expression round the
eyes.
The mantle of care had never yet touched Valentine. For the first time
in all her life a pang of keen mental pain went through her as she
gazed at her sleeping father. For the first time in her young existence
the awful possibility stared her in the face that some time she might
have to live in a cold and dreary world without him.
"Why, my father looks quite old," she half stammered. "Old, and--yes,
unhappy. What does it mean?"
She rose very gently, moved her chair until it touched his, and then
nestling up close to him laid her soft little hand on his shoulder.
Paget slept on, and the immediate contact of Valentine's warm, loving
presence, made itself felt in his dreams--his wrinkles disappeared, and
his handsome lips again half smiled. Val laid her hand on his--she
noticed the altered expression, and her slightly roused fears
slumbered. There was no one to her like her father. She had made a
mistake just then in imagining that he looked old and unhappy. No
people in all the world were happier than he and she. He was not
old--he was the personification in her eyes of all that was manly and
strong and beautiful.
The tired man slept on, and the girl, all her fears at rest, began idly
to review the events of the past day. There had been gay doings during
that long summer's afternoon, and Valentine, in the prettiest of summer
costumes, had thoroughly enjoyed her life. She had spent some hours at
Lords, and had entered with zest into the interest of the Oxford and
Cambridge Cricket Match. She lay back in her chair now with her eyes
half closed, reviewing in a lazy fashion the events of the bygone
hours. A stalwart and very attractive young man in cricketing flannels
mingled in these dreams. He spoke to her with strength and decision.
His dark eyes looked keenly into her face, he never expressed the
smallest admiration for her either by look or gesture, but at the same
time he had a way of taking possession of her which roused her
interest, and which secured her approbation. She laughed softly to
herself now at some of the idle nothings said to her by Adrian Carr,
and she never once gave a thought to Wyndham, who had also been at
Lords.