It had been dark some time and the night was raw, but Jim Crestwick strolled up and down the drive to Marple’s house, thinking unusually hard. In the first place, part at least of the folly of his conduct during the last year or two had been plainly brought home to him, and the realization was bitter. It was galling to discover that while he had regarded himself as a man of the world he had been systematically victimized by the men who had encouraged him in the delusion. He felt very sore as he remembered how much he owed Batley, but this troubled him less than the downright abhorrence of Gladwyne which had suddenly possessed him. He had looked up to the latter as a model and had tried to copy his manners; and it was chiefly because Batley was a friend of Gladwyne’s that he had paid toll to him. For he had felt that whatever the man he admired was willing to countenance must be the correct thing. Now he saw Gladwyne as he really was—a betrayer of those who trusted him, a counterfeit of an honorable type, one who had by the merest chance escaped from crime.
In the second place, he was concerned about Bella. She had obviously been attracted by Gladwyne, and it was his duty to warn her. Whether the warning was altogether necessary he could not tell—he had watched her face that morning—and Bella sometimes resented advice. When she did so, she had an exasperating trick of putting him in the wrong; but he meant to speak to her as plainly as appeared desirable. He had another duty—to Lisle; but he was inclined to think that on the whole he had better not saddle himself with it. His self-confidence had been rudely shaken and he recognized the possibility of his making things worse. Moreover, he had cultivated the pride of caste, and having with some difficulty obtained an entry to the circle in which Gladwyne moved, he felt it incumbent on him to guard the honor of all who belonged to it.
Presently Bella came out, as he had anticipated, and joined him.
“You have been very quiet since this morning,” she began. “I saw that you meant to slip away as soon as you could.”
“Yes,” he admitted; “I’ve had something to think about—I’ve been a fool, Bella; the commonest, most easily gulled kind of imbecile!”
He had expected her to remind him that she had more than once tried to convince him of this, but she failed to do so. Instead, she answered with a touch of the candor that sometimes characterized her.
“You’re not the only one.”
This was satisfactory, for it suggested that she had been undeceived about Gladwyne; but she had not finished.
“What did you see this morning?” she asked, and he felt that she was speaking with keen anxiety.
“I’ll tell you, but it must never go any farther. I hate to think of it! But first of all, what makes you ask?”
She had already mentioned that she had been near when Gladwyne made his attempt to come up with Lisle, but she had not explained that she had seen hatred stamped in hideous plainness on his face.
“Never mind,” she answered sharply. “Go on!”
“Well,” said Jim, “I was standing right against the hedge, the only person on that side, and I don’t think Gladwyne saw me. Lisle’s bay fouled the top bar of the hurdle, but it held long enough to bring him down in a heap. Gladwyne was then a length or two behind. He rode straight at the broken hurdle, hands still—I can’t get his look out of my mind!”
“But perhaps he couldn’t pull up,” Bella defended him desperately, as if she would not believe the truth she dreaded.
“There were other ways open. He could have gone at the hedge a yard or two on one side; he could have spoiled the chestnut’s take-off and made him jump short. It might have brought him down—the hurdle was firm in the ground—but that would have been better than riding over a fallen man!”
“Are you sure he did nothing?”
“I wish I were not! The thing’s horrible! Gladwyne must have seen that he’d come down on Lisle or the struggling bay—he could have prevented it—he didn’t try.”
Bella shivered. Her brother was right: it was almost beyond contemplation. But that was only half of the matter.
“He must have had a reason,” she argued harshly.
“Yes; one doesn’t ride over a man in cold-blood for nothing. I think he had some cause for being afraid of Lisle; several things I remember now point to it. His chance came suddenly—nobody could have arranged it—he only remembered that Lisle with his brains crushed out could do him no harm.”
The girl recognized that Jim had guessed correctly. When she had gone to Lisle for help, he had allowed her to understand that he could compel Gladwyne’s compliance with his request, which was significant. Still, convinced as she was, she would not openly acquiesce in her brother’s theory.
“Jim,” she protested, “if he’d ridden at the hedge or made the chestnut jump short, he might have broken his own neck. He must have realized it—it would make him hesitate.”
The lad laughed scornfully.
“It’s quite possible, but is that any excuse? Would Nasmyth or Lisle or Batley have shirked a risk that would mean the saving of the other fellow? Supposing your idea’s right—though it isn’t—it only shows the man as a disgusting coward.”
There was no gainsaying this; and Bella was crushed and humiliated. She had already seen Gladwyne’s weakness, and after the choice she had been compelled to make between him and her brother, she had tried to drive all thought of him out of her mind. It had been difficult; he was fascinating in many ways and she had set her heart upon his capture. Now she had done with him; after the morning’s revelation she shrank from him with positive horror. Jim seemed to guess this.
“I’m sorry, Bella,” he said gently. “But the fellow’s impossible.”
She laid her hand upon his arm.
“Jim,” she replied, “we have both been mad, and I suppose we must pay for it. I’ll help you to get clear of Batley when the time comes, but you must never have a deal of any kind with him again.”
“That’s promised; I’ve had my lesson. I think I’ll ask Lisle to take me with him when he goes back to Canada. He and Nasmyth are the only men worth speaking of I’ve met for a long while. When Lisle first came here I tried to patronize him.”
Bella laughed, rather feebly, but she wanted to relieve the tension.
“It was like you. But we’ll go in. This is our secret, Jim. Nobody would believe you if you let fall a hint as to what really happened, and there are many reasons why you shouldn’t. I think you said nobody else could have suspected?”
“Nasmyth hadn’t come up when the chestnut reached the hurdles; he was the nearest. Lisle was down with the horse upon him. He couldn’t have seen anything.”
“Well,” she decided, “perhaps that’s fortunate. It isn’t likely that Gladwyne will get such an opportunity again, and at the worst he acted on the spur of the moment.”
The lad nodded. He had felt that silence would entail some responsibility, but Bella accepted it without uneasiness. She seldom showed any hesitation when she had decided on a course.
In the meanwhile, Gladwyne had spent a miserable day, alternating between horror of himself and doubts about the future. Jim Crestwick’s description of the incident was correct—Gladwyne had ridden straight at the broken hurdle, knowing what the consequences might be and disregarding them. The next moment, however, the reaction had begun and he was thankful that he had not committed a hideous crime. Indeed, the knowledge that he had come so near to killing his opponent had left him badly shaken. He wondered at his insensate action until he recollected how he had once stood beside an opened cache in Canada, and then, ignoring his manifest duty, had hurried on through the frozen wilderness. On that occasion he had been accountable for his cousin’s death, and now Lisle had very narrowly escaped.
Yet he could with justice acquit himself of any premeditated intention in either case; fate had thrust him into a situation he was not strong enough to grapple with. Dreading Lisle, as he did, his chief thought had been for his own safety when he saw the bay blunder at the leap. To save the Canadian he must take a serious personal risk, which was foreign to his nature, and though a recognition of the fact that the death of the fallen man would be a great relief to him had been clearly in his mind, it was impossible to say how far it had actuated him.
He had grown more collected when he sat in his library as dusk was closing in, considering other aspects of the affair. He had not seen Crestwick, and Lisle, he thought, would remember nothing except his fall. After trying to recall the positions of the others, he felt comforted; nobody could charge him with anything worse than reckless riding or a failure of nerve at a critical moment. He would confess to the latter—it was to some extent the truth—and show concern about Lisle’s injury. Awkward as it was, the incident could be smothered over; it was consoling to remember that the people he lived among were addicted to treating anything of an unpleasant nature as lightly as possible. There was a good deal to be said for the sensible English custom of ignoring what it would be disconcerting to realize.
After a while his mother came in and gently touched him.
“My dear,” she urged, “you mustn’t brood over it. Lisle’s condition’s satisfactory. As it’s some hours since we got Nasmyth’s message, I sent a man over and he has just come back.”
“I’m glad you sent,” Gladwyne responded. “It was thoughtful. I forgot; but I’ve been badly troubled.”
She sat down near him, with her hand laid caressingly on his arm.
“It’s natural; I understand and feel for you. I wouldn’t have liked you to be indifferent; but you mustn’t make too much of it. The man is strong, he will soon be about again, and you couldn’t have saved him. Everybody I’ve seen so far has given me that impression. Of course, I didn’t need their assurances, but I was glad to see they exonerated and sympathized with you.”
Her confidence hurt him; he had still a sense of shame, and he found no great comfort in what she told him. His mother was generally loved, and he wondered how far his neighbors had been influenced by a desire to save her pain.
“It looks as if Lisle deserves their commiseration more than I do,” he answered with a smile which cost him an effort.
“It is being shown. I noticed nearly everybody in the neighborhood motoring or driving toward the house during the afternoon. Millicent’s with Nasmyth now, helping to arrange things. It’s wonderful what a favorite Lisle has become in so short a time; but I own that I find something very likable about him.”
Gladwyne moved impatiently. His hatred of the man was as strong as ever, and his mother’s attempts at consolation irritated him. Lisle was too popular; first Bella and now Millicent had taken him in hand.
“Millicent,” Mrs. Gladwyne went on, “is an exceptional woman in every desirable respect. I think you have long been as convinced of that as I am.”
“I’m afraid she can’t have an equally favorable opinion of me,” he said with a short laugh.
“One does not look for perfection in a man,” his mother informed him seriously. “He is criticized much less severely than a woman. It seems to be the universal rule, though I have sometimes thought it wasn’t absolutely just and that it had its drawbacks. It’s one of the things the women who go out and speak are declaiming against and something one of them lately said sticks in my mind.” She sighed as she added: “The times are changing; there was no need to consider such questions in your father’s case. He was the soul of honor—you were very young when death parted us.”
She did not always express herself clearly, but Gladwyne saw that she did not place him in the same category as his father and he recognized her half-formulated thought that it would have been better had he grown up under the latter’s firmer guidance.
“Wonders never cease, mother,” he responded with an attempt at lightness. “It’s difficult to imagine your being influenced by the latest propaganda. I thought you shuddered at it.”
“Well,” she said, “I was forgetting what I meant to talk about, drifting away from the subject; I’m afraid it’s a habit of mine. What I have long felt is that it would be so desirable if you married suitably.”
“The trouble is to define the suitability. It’s a point upon which everybody has a different opinion.”
“I would choose a girl of good family and education for you, one with a well-balanced will, who could see what was right and cling to it. Still, she must be wise and gentle; a tactful, considerate guide; and though means are not of first importance, they are not to be despised.”
Gladwyne leaned back in his chair with a laugh that had in it a tinge of irritation.
“Are such girls numerous? But why do you insist on a will and the power of guiding? It looks as if you thought I needed it. Sometimes you’re the reverse of flattering.”
His mother looked troubled; she would have wounded no living creature unnecessarily.
“My dear, it’s not always easy to express what one feels, and I dare say I’m injudicious in choosing my words. But your welfare is very near to my heart.”
“I know that,” he answered gently. “But you were not describing an imaginary paragon. Hadn’t you Millicent in your mind?”
“I should be very happy if I could welcome her as my daughter. I should feel that you were safe then.”
There was a thrill of regret in her voice that touched him. It hinted that she blamed herself for omissions and lack of wisdom in his upbringing. Besides, her confidence in any one who had won her respect, as Millicent had done, was bestowed so generously.
“I’m afraid I’ve often given you trouble, and I do you little credit now,” he said. “But, as to the other matter, one can’t be sure that Millicent would welcome the idea. Of late I’ve had a suspicion that she hasn’t a very high opinion of me.”
“You could hardly expect to gain it by devoting yourself to Miss Crestwick.”
The man smiled rather grimly.
“If it’s any consolation to you, I’m inclined to think that Miss Crestwick has let me drop. The truth’s not very flattering, but I can’t hide it.”
Mrs. Gladwyne’s relief was obvious, but she had more to say and she ventured upon it with some courage.
“If you would only get rid of Batley too!”
“I can hardly do that just now; he’s useful in several ways. Still, of course, if I married—”
He broke off abruptly, for his mother had occasional flashes of discernment.
“Millicent has means,” she said.
He started at this, wondering how much she had guessed, but he veiled his embarrassment with a smile.
“Well,” he acknowledged, “means, as you most wisely remarked, are not to be despised, and mine are unfortunately small.”
She saw that she had said enough and she left him sitting in the darkening room thinking rather hard. Bella had thrown him over when he had refused to help her brother, and there were many ways in which Millicent appealed to him. Besides, she could free him of his debt to Batley, which was a thing greatly to be desired. She had shown that she did not blame him severely for the accident at the hurdles, but he realized that in trying to comfort him she had been prompted by pity for his dejected mood, and it was clear that the part he had played was scarcely likely to raise him in her esteem. This was unfortunate, but he would not dwell on it; there were other points to consider and anything that served to divert his thoughts from the unfortunate affair was a vast relief.
When at last he rose he had partly recovered his usual equanimity and had decided that he would watch for some sign of Millicent’s feelings toward him. He was aware that they had somewhat changed, but this was to a large extent his fault, and with caution and patience he thought it might be possible to reinstate himself in her favor.
Some weeks had passed since the accident and Lisle was lying one afternoon on a couch near a window of Nasmyth’s sitting-room. Two or three Canadian newspapers lay on the floor and he held a few letters in one hand. The prospect outside was cheerless—a stretch of leaden-colored moor running back into a lowering sky, with a sweep of fir wood that had lost all distinctive coloring in the foreground. He was gazing at it moodily when Millicent came in. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he raised himself awkwardly with his uninjured arm, but she shook her head at him in reproof.
“You had orders to keep as quiet as possible for some time yet. Lie down again!”
“Keeping quiet is fast breaking me up,” he protested. “I’m quite able to move about.”
“All the same, you’re not to try.”
He looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to give in. You’re a determined person. People do what you ask them without resenting it. You have an instance here, though in a general way it’s a very undignified thing to be ordered about.”
He resumed his former position and she seated herself.
“I don’t see why you should drag my character in,” she objected with a smile. “Other people who occasionally obey me don’t say such things.”
“They’re English; that accounts for a good deal. I’m inclined to think my power of expressing my feelings on any point is a gift, though it’s one that’s not uncommon in the West.”
“Doesn’t it presuppose an assurance that any one you address must be interested in your views?”
“I deserve that,” he laughed; “but you’re not quite right. We say, in effect, ‘These are my sentiments, but I won’t be down-hearted if you haven’t the sense to agree with them.’ The last, however, doesn’t apply to you.”
“Thank you for the explanation,” she rejoined. “But why do you insist on a national difference? You’re really English, aren’t you, in Canada?”
“No,” he answered; “you and the others who talk in that strain are mistaken. We’re a brand new nation still fusing and fuming in the melting-pot. The elements are inharmonious in some respects—French from the Laurentian littoral, Ontario Scots, Americans, Scandinavians, Teutons, Magyars, Slavs. The English element’s barely strong enough to temper the mixture; the land’s too wide and the people too varied for British traditions to bind. When the cooling amalgam’s run out it will be into a fresh mold.”
“One made in Pennsylvania, or wherever the American foundries are?”
“They run the one you have in mind at Washington. You understand things a good deal better than many people I’ve talked to here; but you’re not right yet. If Canadians deliberately chose the American mold because it was American, a number of us would kick; but the cause is a bigger one than that. From Texas to Athabasca, from Florida to Labrador, pretty much the same elemental forces are fanning the melting fires. We have the same human raw material; we’ve much the same problems to tackle; the conditions are, or soon will be, pretty similar. It’s only natural that the result should be more or less identical. I’ve said nothing yet about our commercial and social relations with our neighbors.”
“But doesn’t England count?”
“Morally, yes. It’s your part to keep our respect and show us a clean lead.”
“After all,” she rejoined, “you, in particular, are essentially English by connection with the part of the country you’re now staying in.”
He smiled curiously.
“So you or Nasmyth have been tracing up the family!”
“No,” she replied with a little sharpness. “Why should I have done so? Of course, we knew the name; and you have relations living at no great distance. I understand Nasmyth got a hint that they would be glad to receive you.”
“Let it go at that,” he answered. “My father was cast out because he dared to think for himself and my mother was Canadian born. I’m a unit in the new nation; one of the rank and file.”
She considered this for a moment or two. It was hardly an English point of view, but—for his family had long been one of station—there was a hint of pride that struck her as rather fine about this renunciation. It was a risky thing to insist on being taken at one’s intrinsic value, stripped of all accidental associations that might enhance it, but she thought he need not shrink from the hazard. Now and then he spoke with slightly injudicious candor, and sometimes too vehemently, but in essential matters he displayed an admirable delicacy of feeling and she recognized in him a sterling sense of honor.
“I’ve broken loose again and you’re feeling shocked,” he said humorously. “It’s your own fault; you have a way of making one talk. There’s no use in discoursing to people who don’t understand. However—and it’s much more important—how’s the book getting on?”
“More important than my wounded susceptibilities?” Millicent laughed. “But we won’t mind them. I’m pleased to say I’ve heard from the publishers that it’s in strong request. Indeed, they add, rather superfluously, that the demand is somewhat remarkable, considering the nature of the work.”
Lisle laughed at this.
“Any more reviews?”
She handed him several and he noticed the guarded, unenthusiastic tone of the first two.
“These are the people who prefer a thing like a catalogue. This fellow says the first portion of the book shows most care in particulars and classification—it’s what one would expect from him. That was your brother’s work, I think. He was not an imaginative person.”
“No,” replied Millicent. “He was eminently practical and methodical.”
“There’s a great deal to be said in favor of that kind of man. You can trust him when it’s a case of grappling with practical difficulties. But I feel quite angry with the next reviewer. ‘The illustrations are rather impressionist drawings than a useful guide to identification.’ The fellow would no doubt rather have those stiff, colored plates which are about as like the real, breathing creature as a stuffed specimen in a museum.”
Millicent was pleased with his indignation, but his disgusted expression changed as he read the next cutting.
“Now,” he exclaimed, “we’re arriving at the sound sense of ordinary people, lovers of nature who’re not naturalists. This man’s enthusiastic; the next review’s even better!” He took up the others and there was keen satisfaction in his eyes when he laid them down. “Great!” he ejaculated. “I expected it. You’ve made your mark!”
The girl thrilled with pleasure; his delight at her success was so genuine.
“Well,” she told him, “the publishers suggest that I undertake another and more ambitious work. I’ve often thought that I should like to do so. The lonely country between the Rockies and the Pacific has a peculiar interest to me and I’ve long had a desire to follow my brother’s trail. I don’t think it’s a morbid wish—somehow I feel impelled to go.”
“It’s a beautiful, wild land, and the creatures that inhabit it are among the finest in the world. You promised to let me be your guide, and you should take Nasmyth, too; he’s a man to be depended on. You could start in the early summer next year.”
She smiled at his eagerness; but he suddenly grew thoughtful.
“It’s curious how events seem to have started beside those lonely river-reaches among the rocks,” he remarked. “It was there that I got to know Nasmyth, and through him I met you. It was there that I learned something about your brother and Clarence Gladwyne. The drama began in those wilds and I’ve a feeling that it will end among them.”
“The drama?” she queried, and he was conscious that he had made a slip.
“Well,” he answered, “before we crossed the big divide I wasn’t aware of your existence, and I’d only a hazy idea that I might come to England some day. Now, if I may say it, I’ve joined your group of friends and entered into their lives. One feels it can’t have sprung from nothing; it isn’t blind chance.”
She mused for a few moments.
“It’s strange,” she asserted, “but I’ve had something of the same feeling. You seem to have become a part of things, a connecting link between us all—Mrs. Gladwyne, Clarence, Nasmyth, and even young Crestwick. One could almost fancy that some mysterious agency were working upon us through you.”
He did not wish her to pursue this train of thought too far.
“I’ve promised to take Jim Crestwick back with me,” he said. “I’m going as soon as I’m fit to get about.”
“Going back, in a few weeks?”
“Yes. In many ways, I’m sorry; but I’ve had some letters that show it’s needful. Business calls.”
She made no reply for some moments. There was no doubt that she would miss him badly, and she recalled the strange and tense anxiety of which she had been conscious when he had fallen at the hurdles.
“We have come to look upon you as one of us,” she told him simply. “Somehow we never contemplated your going away, and now it seems an almost unnatural thing.”
“It would be, if I broke off the connection with my English friends, but I think that can’t be done. We’re to see more of each other; I’m to be your guide when you come out next year.”
“It’s very likely that I shall come.”
She left him shortly after this and walked home in a thoughtful mood, regretting his approaching departure and pondering over what he had said. With reflection it became clearer that she had entertained the same idea as his. He and she and the others he mentioned were not acting and reacting upon one another casually; it was all a part of a purpose, leading up to something that still lay unrevealed on the knees of destiny. Perhaps he had been right in speaking of a drama; it suggested a sequence of prearranged events, springing from George’s death. Reaching home, she endeavored to banish these thoughts, which were vaguely troublesome, but Miss Hume found her preoccupied and absent-minded during the evening.
The following day she went over to see Mrs. Gladwyne and was asked to wait until her return. Shortly afterward, Clarence entered the room where she was sitting, and she alluded to her visit to Lisle.
“He is going back as soon as he can stand the journey,” she said.
Gladwyne made an abrupt movement and she noticed with surprise and some indignation the relief in his expression. Though the men had not been on very cordial terms, it puzzled her.
“You don’t attempt to conceal your satisfaction,” she commented. “Isn’t it a little ungenerous?”
His effort to recover his composure was obvious, but he answered her quietly.
“I’m afraid it is. After the accident—I think I was partly blamed for that—he behaved very well; told everybody about the slippery ground and said what he could to exonerate me.”
“I didn’t mean to refer to that matter,” explained Millicent. She knew that it was a painful one to him.
“Still,” he resumed, “even if it’s ungrateful, I am rather glad he’s going.”
“‘Rather glad’ hardly seems to describe it; you looked overjoyed.”
“Don’t be severe, Millicent. Let me explain. Since Lisle came over, nothing has been quite the same. He got hold of you and Nasmyth and the others, and in a way alienated you from me. I don’t mean he did it with deliberate intention, but he took up your time and monopolized your interest. I’ve seen much less of both of you.”
“And, of late, of the Crestwicks.”
“Oh,” he returned in his most casual manner, “I shouldn’t have had much more of their company in any case. Jim’s going to Canada and Bella to Sussex. I understand from Marple that it will be some time before she visits us again.”
Millicent was glad to hear it, but she made no comment.
“It’s unreasonable to blame Lisle,” Gladwyne went on; “though he did make some unpleasantness with Batley; but I have had so many annoyances and troubles since he arrived. Everything has been going wrong and I can’t disassociate him from the unfortunate tendency.”
He sat where the light fell upon his face, and Millicent, studying it, was stirred to compassion, which was always ready with her. He looked harassed and nervous, as if he had borne a heavy strain, and she knew that the accident had preyed upon his mind. That, she thought, was to his credit. In addition to this, she had suspected that he was threatened with financial difficulties. The man had a dangerous gift of rousing women’s interest and sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” she said with sincere feeling. “You should go away for a time. You need a change.”
“I’ve thought of it; but I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting things lately and there’s a good deal that needs straightening up—farm buildings to be looked to, the stream to dyke in the low ground, and that draining scheme.”
It was not all acting; he had meant to give those matters some attention when he found it convenient, and she was far from suspicious and was quick to take the most favorable view of any one. That he recognized his duties and intended to discharge them gratified her.
“I think,” she told him, “that if you undertake these things in earnest, you’ll be better for the occupation; and they certainly need looking after.”
“I’ve been slack,” he owned. “I seemed to lose interest and, as I said, I’ve had difficulties to distract me.”
He had struck the right note again. Anything of the nature of a confession or appeal for sympathy seldom failed to stir her.
“In fact,” he resumed, “I’m not clear of troubles now. If I do half that I’m asked to do, it will nearly ruin me, and I don’t know where to begin. I haven’t any great confidence in Grierson’s advice; he doesn’t seem to grip things readily.”
“The trouble is that he has his favorites,” she said bluntly. “I don’t think he suffers from any lack of understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
It was unpleasant, but she had courage and the man was doing Clarence harm.
“Well, there are people who can get very much what they ask Grierson for, in the shape of repairs and improvements, whether they need it or not.”
“At my expense, while the rest get less than they should have?”
“A number of your tenants have got practically nothing for some years. It’s false economy; you’ll have to lay out twice as much as would keep them here satisfied, when they leave you in disgust.”
She supplied him with several instances of neglect, and a few clever suggestions, and he looked at her in admiration which was only partly assumed.
“What an administrator you would have made!” he exclaimed. “The place would thrive in your hands and everybody be content. It’s obvious, quite apart from his good qualities, why George was so popular.”
Millicent did not suspect him of an intent to flatter her, and she recognized that there was truth in what he said. She knew everybody on the estate and knew their most pressing needs, and she undoubtedly possessed the power of management. She had a keen discernment and could arrive at a quick and just decision.
“Clarence,” she said, “I shouldn’t advise you to take the business altogether out of Grierson’s hands. He’s honest, so far as you are concerned, and one or two of the hardest things he did were by your orders.”
“You mean the Milburn and Grainger affair?” He showed a little embarrassment. “Well, perhaps I was hasty then, but they would have exasperated a much more patient man. I sometimes feel that I can’t please these people, whatever I do.”
She smiled at this.
“They’re not effusive, but they’re loyal once you win their confidence. But, to go back to Grierson—let him collect payments and handle the money, but don’t ask his advice as to how you will lay it out. Look around, inquire into things, and trust your own judgment.”
He turned to her beseechingly.
“I can’t trust it in these matters—it hasn’t been cultivated. If I’m to keep out of further trouble and do any good, you must help me.”
Millicent hesitated. It was not a little thing he asked. To guide him aright would need thought and patient investigation. Still, there was, as she had said, so much to be done—abuses to be abolished, houses to be made habitable, burdens to be lifted from shoulders unable to carry them. There was also land the yield from which could be increased by a very moderate expenditure. She would enjoy the power to do these things which the man’s demand for help offered her, but she was more stirred by his desire to redeem past neglect and set right his failures.
“Well,” she promised, “you shall have my candid advice whenever you need it.”
He showed his gratitude, but he was conscious of a satisfaction that had no connection with the welfare of his estate. He would have a legitimate excuse for seeing her often; the work jointly undertaken would lead to a closer confidence. He had always cherished a certain tenderness for her; he must marry somebody with money before long; and though Millicent’s means were not so large as Bella’s, they were not contemptible. He had not the honesty to let these thoughts obtrude themselves, but they nevertheless hovered at the back of his mind. It was more graceful to reflect that Millicent possessed refinement, a degree of beauty, and many most desirable qualities.
Clarence had gone away with Batley when Lisle called on Mrs. Gladwyne. She was leaving home for a visit on the following day and he wished to say good-by, and, if an opportunity offered, to ask her opinion upon a matter he had at heart. She was not a clever woman, but there were points on which he thought her judgment could be trusted. He was told that she would be occupied for a few minutes and was shown into her drawing-room. He sat down to wait and, though he was familiar with the house, he looked about him with an interest for which there was a reason. The room had always impressed him by its size and loftiness, and it did so more than ever that afternoon.
The floor was of hardwood, polished to a glossy luster by the hands of several generations, and the rugs scattered here and there emphasized its extent. Most of the furniture was old, and the few articles apparently bought in later times harmonized with it. The faded ceiling had been painted with Cupid’s trailing ribands, he judged by some artist of the period shortly preceding the French Revolution, and two or three Arcadian figures hinted at the same date. There were other things—a luster chandelier, quaintly-wrought hearth-irons, a carved wood mantel—that posited to bygone days.
It all impressed him with a sense of the continuity of English traditions and mode of life, as applied to such families as the Gladwynes. Cradled in a degree of luxury which nevertheless differed from modern profusion and ostentation, steeped in a slightly austere refinement, he could understand their shrinking from sudden chance and clinging to the customs of the past. They were all, so far as he had seen, characterized by the possession of high qualities, with the exception of Clarence, whom he regarded as a reversion to a baser type; but he thought that they would suffer if uprooted and transplanted in a less sheltered and less cultivated soil. Inherited instincts were difficult to subdue; he was conscious of their influence. He came from a new land where he had often toiled for a dollar or two daily, but a love and veneration for the ancient English homes in which his people had lived was growing strong in him.
Mrs. Gladwyne did not appear, but he had a good deal to think of and was content to wait. He had grown fond of the stately lady and it was, indeed, largely for her sake that he had decided not to reveal for a while what he knew about the tragedy in British Columbia. He could not absolutely prove his version of the affair, and it would bring distress upon the mother of the offender; he had already waited two years and, though he felt that his dead comrade had a strong claim on him, he could wait a little longer. Fate might place conclusive evidence in his hands or remove some of his difficulties. Besides, he must go back as soon as possible to the Canadian North, and in one respect he was very loath to do this.
At last he heard a footstep and his hostess came in. Her dress was not of the latest fashion, but it somehow struck him as out of place; she ought to have been attired in the mode of a century ago, with powder in her hair. Nevertheless, fragile as she was, with her fine carriage and her gracious smile, she made an attractive picture in the ancient room.
“I’ve come on an unpleasant errand—to say good-by—and to thank you for many favors shown to a stranger,” he said.
“I think you were never that from the beginning,” she told him. “By and by we learned the reason—you really belong to us.”
He made a gesture of humorous expostulation.
“I like to believe that I belong here, but not because of the explanation you give. It doesn’t seem to be much to my credit that my forefathers lived in this part of the country; I’d rather be taken on my actual merits, if that isn’t, too egotistical.”
“They did live here,” she rejoined. “You can’t get over that—it has its influence.”
It was the point of view he had expected her to take.
“We are very sorry you are going,” she continued; “somehow we hardly anticipated it. Have you ever thought of coming back for good?”
She was unconsciously giving him the lead he desired, but he would not seize it precipitately; he was half afraid.
“No,” he answered, smiling; “my work’s out yonder. I couldn’t sit idle. I think Miss Gladwyne hit it when she told me that I was one of the pioneers.”
His hostess showed more comprehension than he had looked for.
“Yes; I set you down as one of the men who prefer heat and cold, want of food, and toil, to the comforts they could have at home. I have met a few, sons of my old friends, and heard of others. After all, we have a good many of them in England.”
“Troublesome people, aren’t they? What do you do with them?”
“Let them go. How do we rule India and hold so much of Africa? How did we open up Canada for you?”
He nodded.
“That’s right. It doesn’t matter that in respect to Canada the sons of Highland peasants did their share; the Hudson Bay people and the Laurentian Frenchmen showed us the way. We found out what kind of men they were when we went in after them.”
There was silence for a few moments and he glanced at her with admiration. The honorable pride of caste she had shown strongly appealed to him. She stood for all that was fine in the old regime, and once more he wondered how such a woman could have borne such a son.
“I’m returning because business calls,” he explained. “My means won’t keep me in idleness, and that fact has a bearing on the question as to whether I’ll ever come back again. It’s a very momentous one to me.”
She waited, noticing with some surprise the sudden tenseness of his expression, until he spoke again, hesitatingly.
“You are the only person I can come to for advice. I’d be grateful for your opinion.”
“I’ll try to give it carefully,” she promised.
“Well,” he said, “the life you people lead here has its attractions; they must be strong to you. It would be hard to break with all its associations, to face one that was new and different; I mean for a woman to do so?”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, seeing the drift of his remarks at last. “You had better tell me whom you are thinking of.”
“Millicent.”
She started. This was a painful surprise, though she now wondered why she had never suspected it. He had met the girl frequently before his accident, and she had since gone over to Nasmyth’s to talk with him now and then; yet, for some not very obvious reason, nobody seemed to have contemplated the possibility of his falling in love with her. Mrs. Gladwyne had undoubtedly not done so, and she was filled with alarm. It was most desirable that Millicent should marry Clarence.
“How long have you had this in your mind?” she asked.
“That is more than I can tell you,” he answered thoughtfully. “I admired her greatly the first time I saw her; I admired her more when we made friends, but I don’t think I went much farther for a while. In Tact, I believe it was only when I knew I must go back soon that I realized how strong a hold she had on me, and then I fought against yielding. The difficulties to be got over looked so serious.”
“Has Millicent any suspicion of your regard for her?” It was an important question and Mrs. Gladwyne waited in suspense for his reply.
“Not the slightest, so far as I can tell. I tried to hide my feelings until I could come to a decision as to what I ought to do.”
This was satisfactory, provided that his supposition was correct, and his companion could imagine his exercising a good deal of self-repression.
“What is your fear?” she asked.
“Well, I’m rough and unpolished compared with Nasmyth and the rest, but with her large mind she might overlook that. I couldn’t live here as Nasmyth and Clarence do; I’m not rich enough. My wife, if I marry, must come out West with me, and I might have to be away from her for months now and then. I don’t know that I could even establish myself in Victoria, where she would find something resembling your English society. Besides, my small share of prosperity might come to an end; I’m going back now, sooner than I expected, because there are business difficulties to be grappled with.”
Mrs. Gladwyne nodded. She could follow his thought, but after a pause he continued.
“What troubles me most is that Millicent seems so much in harmony with her surroundings. We have nothing like them in Canada—anyway, not in the West. Whether ours are better or worse doesn’t affect the case; they’re widely different. There is much she would have to give up; what I could offer her in place of it would be new and strange, less finished, less refined. Could a woman of your station stand it? Would she suffer from being torn adrift from the associations that surround her here?”
His companion considered. Allowing for his generosity in thinking first of Millicent, he was a little too practical and dispassionate. She did not think he was very greatly in love with the girl as yet, and that was consoling. What Millicent thought she did not know, but in many respects the man was eminently likable. Mrs. Gladwyne had grown fond of him; but that must not be allowed to stand in her son’s way. Clarence came before anybody else.
“I feel my responsibility,” she said slowly. “Would you act on my advice?”
“I think so—it might be hard. Anyway, I’d try.”
She hesitated. The man had won her respect. Had she been wholly free from extraneous influences she might, perhaps, have counseled him to make the venture, but half-consciously she tried to see only the shadows in the picture he had drawn.
“Well,” she answered him, “until two years ago Millicent lived in this house—that must have had its effect on her.”
“Yes,” he agreed; “she shows it. These old places set their stamp on people—it’s very plain on you.”
Mrs. Gladwyne saw that he understood, but she felt half guilty as she proceeded:
“You admit that you could not give her anything of this kind in Canada?”
He laughed rather grimly.
“No; our homes were built yesterday, and we move on rapidly—they’ll be pulled down again to-morrow. I’ll own that our ideas and manners are in the same unfinished, transitory stage. We haven’t been able to sit down and learn how to be graceful.”
She made a sign of comprehension, though her reluctance to proceed grew stronger. He was very honest and there was pain in his face.
“Millicent,” she said, “is essentially one of us, used to what we consider needful, bred to our ways. The endless small amenities which make life smooth here have always surrounded her. Can you imagine her, for instance, living with the Marples?”
“No,” he replied harshly; “I can’t.”
“Then do you think it would be wise to take her to Canada?”
“I have thought she would not mind giving up many things she values, if one could win her affection.”
“That is very true; but it doesn’t get over the difficulty. It isn’t so very hard to nerve oneself to make a sacrifice, it’s the facing of the inevitable results when the reaction sets in that tells. She would continually miss something she had been used to and she would long for it.”
He sat silent for nearly a minute, with his face set hard, and then he looked up.
“If Millicent were your daughter, would you let her go?”
Again Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. His confidence hurt her; she shrank from delivering what she thought would be the final blow, but she strove to assure herself that she was acting in Millicent’s best interest.
“No,” she answered, “not unless she was passionately attached to the man who wished to take her out, and then I should do my utmost to dissuade her.”
He made no answer for a few moments. Then slowly he rose.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I’m afraid you’re right. It’s generally hard to do what one ought. Well,”—he took the hand she held out—“I’m grateful to you in many ways and I’d like you to remember me now and then.”
She let him go, and crossing the room to a window, she watched him stride down the drive with a swift, determined gait. He might be tried severely, but there was little fear of this man’s resolution deserting him. She was, however, troubled by a recurrence of the unpleasant sense of guilt when he disappeared; it was difficult to persuade herself that she had been quite honest, and the difficulty was new to her.
In the meanwhile Lisle walked on rapidly, disregarding the ache that the motion started in his injured arm and shoulder. In his dejected mood, the twinge at every step was something of a welcome distraction. Since a sacrifice must be made, it should, he resolved, be made by him; Millicent should not suffer, though he admitted that he had no reason for supposing that she would have been willing to do so. She had never shown him more than confidence and friendliness, and it was only during the past few weeks that he had ventured to think of the possibility of winning her. Even then, the thought had roused no excess of ardent passion; much as he desired her, a strong respect and steadfast affection were more in keeping with his temperament. Nevertheless, had he known that she loved him and he could confer benefits upon her in place of demanding a sacrifice, he would have been strangely hard to deter.
On his return, Nasmyth met him at the door.
“Where have you been?” he asked with some indignation.
“To Mrs. Gladwyne’s,” Lisle informed him.
“You walked to the house, after what Irvine said when you insisted on his taking the bandages off?”
“I took them off; he only protested. Anyway, I didn’t break my leg.”
Nasmyth noticed his gloomy expression.
“Well,” he responded, “I suppose there was very little use in warning you to keep quiet; but you look as if you had suffered for your rashness.”
“That’s true,” answered the Canadian with a grim smile. “After all, it’s what usually happens, isn’t it?”
They went in, Nasmyth a little puzzled by his companion’s manner; but Lisle offered no explanation of its cause.