It seemed to Laline that Wallace Armstrong made no attempt to disguise
the look of triumphant delight which spread over his face when she
placed her hand in his.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't come!" he murmured.
"I was much pleased to accept your kind invitation," she returned,
demurely, while Clare shot a quick glance of jealous inquiry from one
to the other.
Miss Cavan could not, however, complain that the companion whose
presence she so much objected to endeavoured in any way to outshine
her in conversation. Laline scarcely spoke at all during tea, at which
meal she presided behind the tea-urn, her manipulation of which filled
Wallace with secret rapture. There was something so delightfully
domestic in the sight of her slim wrists peeping from her neat
blue-serge sleeves as she filled the cups, something so suggestive of
honeymoon-breakfasts and little _tête-à-tête_ meals on winter evenings,
that it was as much as he could do to refrain from springing from his
seat and proposing to her there and then, and prefacing his remarks
with a kiss on each enchanting wrist.
Old Mr. Wallace sat stroking his silver-gray beard and gazing with
much satisfaction on the assembled guests after they had taken their
place round the tea-table. At length he turned to Mrs. Vandeleur, and
addressed her in his usual slow tones, marked by a strong Scotch accent.
"I believe, madam," he said, "that I am very much behind the times. But
I am an old man, and I live in a very old house and carry on a very old
business, and that must be my excuse. My boy Wallace humours me; he
knows I like a table to be where I'm used to seeing it--in the middle
of the room--and the chairs drawn up round it, and so he puts it there.
And now I am wondering whether the two charming young ladies you have
brought with you to-day will humour me too?"
"In what, Mr. Armstrong?"
"Would they take off their hats while they are here?" he asked, with
a wistful eagerness which touched Laline deeply. "You see," he added,
apologetically, "this is not a fashionable call, and there are no
fashionable people to meet you. And when I see young people about me
without their hats it makes me feel for the time that they are not only
visitors, but my own family."
Long before he had finished speaking Laline had removed her hat, much
to Wallace's delight, and had confided it to him to place on one side
for her, thus enabling him to feast his eyes upon her white brow and
soft hair, waving in Madonna-like fashion over her temples and across
the tips of her little pink ears.
"Have you no women-relations at all, then?" Mrs. Vandeleur inquired.
Alexander Wallace sighed and shook his head.
"None that I see now," he answered. "Of my twin-sisters, one, this
boy's mother, is dead, and the other has married for the second time
and lives in South America. Of my two nieces--this boy's sisters--one
is dead, and the other married a German baron and lives with him in
the Black Forest. I never see any of them. Once, more than four years
ago, I expected a daughter to come into my house as my nephew's wife, a
gentle and beautiful young girl, whom I longed to welcome to my heart.
But it was not to be."
"Don't speak of that now, Uncle Alec," put in Wallace, quickly,
throwing an uneasy glance in the direction of his guests; "it only
makes you unhappy to recall that time!"
Laline watched both men with a fluttering heart. It was quite clear
that Wallace wished to keep his uncle from the topic of the niece who
never arrived, and as patent that the old gentleman was anxious to
prose on the subject to sympathetic feminine listeners. The younger
man at once strove to create a diversion by drawing Mrs. Vandeleur's
attention to his sketches on the walls of the room; but old Mr.
Wallace, who was very obstinate, returned to his former subject before
the little lady had had time to express an opinion.
"This boy thinks of nothing but art and society, spelt with capital
letters, you must know, Mrs. Vandeleur!" he broke in, testily. "I am
fond of good pictures myself; but pictures won't fill an empty house
with sunshine and laughter. That is what this house wants--young
voices, music, and pattering feet to drive the ghosts away. My niece
Laline would have been twenty-one by this time. I had prepared one
entire floor for her at the Hampstead house, as well as three rooms
here on the floor below this. Just what I thought a very young
newly-married woman would like I put there--the newest novels, and
fresh flowers, and pretty hangings, and cut-glass scent-bottles, and
plenty of looking-glasses--all pretty girls like looking-glasses, and
plain ones, too, for the matter of that. And I bought a canary for her,
and a white Persian kitten, and a King Charles spaniel; that was the
popular dog that year, and I know girls like pets and prefer them to be
in the fashion. Then, when everything was prepared, and I was counting
the hours until my nephew brought home his wife, I received a telegram
to say that at the moment of starting she had been seized with typhoid
fever and was already dangerously ill."
"How terribly sad!" ejaculated Mrs. Vandeleur, politely, while Clare
yawned furtively, and Laline kept her eyes fixed on her plate lest
they might betray her.
"You are making Mrs. Vandeleur quite miserable, Uncle Alec," put in
Wallace, his black brows contracting into an impatient frown.
"My boy," observed his uncle, doggedly, "I am telling a story and I
have not yet finished. As you know the end and do not appear to want to
hear it again, I should advise you to make a tour of the room with the
young ladies and show them your sketches!"
Clare rose with alacrity; but Laline declared that she preferred to
listen to Mr. Wallace; so, much against his will, Mr. Armstrong had
to pair off with Miss Gavan. Laline could see clearly how he tried to
catch his uncle's words, even while conducting Clare round the walls
and explaining to her his various drawings; but her interest was so
centred in the story told by old Mr. Wallace that she had little
attention to spare for his nephew.
"Constant telegrams were sent to me," the old gentleman proceeded, in
great satisfaction at securing so absorbed a listener as Laline, "and
I was making arrangements for going over to see for myself that the
poor girl had the best of nursing, when I received a message telling
me that my niece had succumbed to the disease and was already dead.
Only seventeen, and a bride of a few weeks! It was indeed a cruel
blow! But the part that especially grieved me, and of which I never
think without the keenest self-reproach, is that when my nephew first
arrived in Europe from the Colonies he was in dire straits for money
and too proud to apply to me. His poor little bride had relatives
in the town of Boulogne, and thither they made their way; but these
relations were extremely poor and could do little for them. One of
them, a Captain Garth, wrote me a most touching letter after the
poor child's death--which I fear was hastened by the privations she
had undergone--in which he detailed her last moments and her pitiful
disappointment at not being able to see her beautiful English home.
Poor little Laline! No one mourned her more sincerely than I. Her rooms
in this house and at Hampstead have never been used since that time,
and never will be until my nephew marries."
"You wish him to marry, then?" Mrs. Vandeleur suggested.
"Most earnestly I do. But, though I have nothing to complain of about
him, and he is making amends to me in every way for the terrible
trouble I have had, he seems strangely averse to settling down, and
talks a great deal about failing to meet his ideal, and not being able
to put up with any one else, and so on. Young men nowadays are too
fond of talking about themselves and their feelings; and this boy is
so popular, and gets invited out so much, that in the multitudes of
fresh pretty faces he is constantly meeting he is in danger, I fear, of
frittering his time away. Boating-parties in summer, perpetual racing
and punting, riding, tennis, and golf, and in the winter balls and
skating-parties--his time is so filled up that he doesn't have a moment
left for love-making. With all that, he's an excellent man of business
and invaluable to me at the Bank. Oh, I have nothing to complain of
about the boy!"
To Laline's sensitive ears there was something a little disparaging
in Alexander Wallace's praise of his nephew, some note which almost
suggested that he regretted not being able to find fault with him.
For her own part, the knowledge of her husband's deceitful treachery
towards his over-indulgent uncle filled her with disgust, and she had
been hardly able to restrain her indignation when Alexander Wallace
alluded to Captain Garth's "pathetic letter" containing his "niece"
Laline's last words. Unable to account for her disappearance, and
unwilling to give themselves the trouble of searching for her, it was
clear to Laline that her father and her husband had invented the story
of her seizure and death by typhoid fever in order to extract further
sympathy and further funds from the kind and credulous old banker, and
she grew hot with shame to think that she should have almost allowed
herself to pardon and to like a man so mercenary and deceitful as
Wallace Armstrong must be.
"Would you like to look over the house, Miss Grahame? There are some
rather interesting rooms, one especially, in which a great ball was
given on the very day when that prodigious swindle, the South Sea
Bubble, burst. It is called the 'South Sea Room,' and has a wonderful
Chinese paper; I think it would interest you."
It was her husband's voice, and a little shiver of repulsion passed
through Laline at the sound. Nevertheless she rose, and Alexander
Wallace rose also. Adams, the discreet-looking man-servant, was
summoned with his key, and the tour of the old house began.
Clare Cavan was inquisitive. Moreover, she fully intended, if that were
possible, installing herself as mistress in this gloomy old mansion at
some future date. She therefore peered and peeped about her, noting
the size and number of the rooms, and perpetually asking questions in
what seemed like overflowing girlish vivacity. Mr. Armstrong's suite of
apartments comprised the sitting-room, in which tea had been served, a
bedroom and dressing-room adjoining, and up another flight of stairs,
a spacious studio, lighted entirely from above, and containing casts,
clay models, canvases, easels, and innumerable sketches placed along
the dado of the room, the walls of which were painted Indian-red.
To this room, at Clare's urgent request, Wallace conducted the two
girls, passing, as he did so, the closed door of another attic of equal
dimensions.
"Is this another studio of yours?" Clare inquired, stopping before the
closed door.
"It is a disused lumber-room," Wallace answered, "and kept locked, as
you see," he added, shaking the handle of the door before leading the
way into his studio adjoining.
Clare lingered behind the other two and bent to examine the keyhole.
"It may be locked," she said to herself, "but the key is on the inside.
I wonder why Mr. Armstrong tried to deceive me? Is it some pretty model
he is keeping here on the sly?"
Resolved to settle this point to her own satisfaction so soon as an
opportunity should arise, Clare followed the others into the studio,
and affected great admiration of Wallace's sketches, which were in
truth far too fanciful and unconventional to arouse her interest.
"This is where my heart is," he said to Laline on her first
introduction to the studio; "or, rather"--glancing quickly round and
perceiving that Clare had not yet joined them--"this is where it was."
Laline glanced at him coldly and turned to examine some drawings.
Nothing, she told herself, should ever induce her to forgive him; but
his pictures interested her, and especially a pencil sketch, as yet
uncompleted, of extreme delicacy and beauty, entitled "Evelyn Hope."
The figure of the dead girl, exquisitely youthful and pure in outline,
lay stretched upon the bed, touched and glorified by two long rays
of light that stole through the hinges of the close shutters. A
dark-haired young man sat, with face averted from the spectator, gazing
intently at the still white figure, into whose hand he was gently
thrusting a single geranium leaf.
"'So hush--I will give you this leaf to keep!
See--I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There--that is our secret; go to sleep.
You will wake and remember and understand.'"
Wallace came behind Laline as she stood before the easel examining the
picture, and softly quoted Browning's lines, which she had never heard
before, and which touched her with a keen delight.
"I should like to read you the entire poem," he said.
"But who did you take for your heroine--I mean, who sat for it?"
"No one. It was a memory. I did it on my return from that walk in
Kensington Gardens."
He spoke very low, so as not to be heard by Clare, who was at the
farther end of the room turning over some sketches in a portfolio
against the wall. Laline had already recognised her own profile in
"Evelyn Hope," and was not ill-pleased by the dreamy loveliness which
characterised the drawing.
She learned that Wallace frequently exhibited at the minor
picture-shows, and, further, that he was a regular contributor of
black-and-white drawings to more than one English and American magazine.
"You see I can't give the work the time I would like," he explained,
"though luckily banking hours are not onerous. I sit down-stairs from
ten until four, with a calculating-machine clicking away in my brain;
but in the early summer mornings or the long winter evenings I bring my
heart and mind up here."
At this point Clare, tired of a conversation which was no longer
specially addressed to her, suggested a move to the South Sea Room,
which she declared herself "dying to see;" and to the first floor
they forthwith descended to a vast apartment, with floor of shining
polished oak and an immense mantelpiece in carved and coloured marble,
an apartment in which the electric-light, shining down from bosses in
the elaborately-carved ceiling, seemed a glaring anachronism, and in
which a few old-fashioned chairs and sofas, covered with moth-eaten
brocade and set in far corners of the room, suggested ghostly dowagers
and wall-flowers silently watching a rustling fleshless ball.
Mrs. Vandeleur was delighted, and went about with upraised eye-glasses,
"sniffling the air for ghosts," as Clare irreverently whispered to
Wallace Armstrong.
"You have done your very worst," the little lady observed with much
severity to old Alexander, "with your odious glaring electric-light.
And, as I perceive, some Vandal forefather of yours has gilded and
whitened over all the lovely woodwork of the ceiling! As to your
dreadful Chinese wall-paper, sticky with varnish and most inartistic
and patchy in effect, I haven't a doubt that it is plastered all over
the original beautiful oak-panelled walls, and that the spirits of the
malevolent little pigtailed horrors who designed and executed it have
driven away all the dear, charming, picturesque people in patches and
powder and stiff brocade who used to congregate here a hundred years
ago. I declare I can hardly hear a rustle of their silk petticoats or a
tap of their high-heeled shoes!"
"If you hear as much as that, madam, you are cleverer than I," said the
old Scotchman, drily.
"If I had my way with this room," pursued Mrs. Vandeleur, "I'd have all
the paper and all the paint and varnish off, and take down your nasty
electric-light and substitute wax candles. And I would have an old
spinet in the corner and play it softly in the evenings, until I had
reconstituted the entire scene. As it is, it hurts me to see a place so
desecrated. Is there no corner in the entire house left sacred for the
poor spirits to come back to and feel themselves at home?"
But here Adams, who had been listening, equally scared and scandalised,
interposed to suggest that if the lady liked old things she might
admire the banqueting-hall, which had never yet been "properly
restored;" and thither he led the way, followed by Mrs. Vandeleur,
still intent upon demonstrating to the old Scotchman his enormities and
that of his predecessors in the arrangement of the old rooms.
Laline, who had been examining with interest the odd designs upon the
walls, turned to follow her employer; but Clare had already gone out,
and Wallace detained her as she tried to pass him.
"Don't go yet!" he whispered, quickly. "I must speak to you. Why are
you so cold to me again to-day?"
"Nonsense, Mr. Armstrong! Remember, we are strangers."
"We are not! Feel my heart!"--and, suddenly seizing her hand, he
pressed it against his heart, so that she felt its quick strong
throbs. "Could a stranger make my heart beat like this? Miss
Grahame--Lina----Oh, I don't mind if you are angry! You are Lina to me
in my thoughts and dreams. Lina, why do you try so hard to hate me? For
you are trying; I can see it in your eyes, which seek mine until you
hastily avert them; I can feel it in your hand, which half returns my
pressure before you snatch your fingers from me. Lina, why do you try
to steel your heart against me? What have I done, dear, that you should
refuse to follow your heart and love me as I love you?"