Red Rowans Part 11

"Yes, if you like. I'll say you have played fast and loose with me--as you have. You have known for years that I cared for you, and that I intended to marry you. And when a girl allows that sort of thing to go on without a word, and doesn't mean it, I say she is a flirt--a heartless flirt, and I have nothing more to do with her."

He turned his horse as he spoke, and without another word rode off, leaving her to go home with the groom. Inexcusable violence, no doubt.

Alice told herself so again and again in the vain effort to get rid of a certain surprised remorse, for the girl was emphatically a moral coward, and any display of high-handed resentment, so far from rousing her opposition, invariably made her doubtful of her own wisdom. She hated scenes most cordially, hated, above all things, to have opprobrious epithets hurled at her; for she clung with almost piteous tenacity to her own virtue. It was too hard, too unkind of Jack to blame her, and yet despite this, his condemnation seemed to dim that lodestar of her firmament--common sense. After all, if he liked her, why should they not marry? Why should such devotion be sacrificed to the Moloch of position? In truth, as she thought over the incident, an odd mixture of anger and regret came to upset her usual placidity, so that, much to her own surprise, she broke down helplessly into tears over her mother's conventional inquiry as to how she had enjoyed her ride. Nor could she find any reason for this unwonted emotion, beyond the fact that Jack had been brutal and called her a flirt, and had ridden away, declaring that he would have nothing more to say to her.

That such would be the case Mrs. Woodward, as she administered sal volatile and talked about the trying heat, felt was most devoutly to be wished; but a long course of three volume novels warned her of the danger of trusting to the permanence of lovers' quarrels. So after her daughter had been provided with darkness and eau-de-cologne, and a variety of other feminine remedies against the evil effects of emotion, she went off to her own sitting-room to consider the position by the light of her five-and-forty years of human experience. To begin with, the girl's feelings were clearly more deeply implicated than she, or for the matter of that Alice herself, had imagined. The question, therefore, came uppermost whether this fact ought to be admitted or deprecated; whether in short this evident dislike to giving her cousin pain was the result of a romantic attachment or simply the natural kindliness of a girl for a young fellow she had known from infancy. Now the cogitations of mothers over their daughters' matrimonial prospects are always fair game for both moralist and novelist. For some mysterious reason the least display of prudence is considered worldly; yet, on the face of it, a woman who has had, say, five-and-twenty years of married life cannot possibly fail to see how much of her own life has been made or marred by influences which she never considered in accepting d.i.c.k, Tom, or Harry. In nine cases out of ten it is the remembrance of her own ignorance which makes her espouse the cause of the lover who can bring the greatest number of chances for content. And it is idle to deny, for instance, that a girl marrying into a family which will welcome her is far less likely to quarrel with her husband than one who is looked on askance by her mother-in-law. There is, in sober truth, an immense deal to be said in favour of the French theory which holds that given a favourable nidus, and kindly atmosphere, the germ of happiness is more likely to grow into a goodly tree, and bear fruit a thousandfold, than when it is planted in a hurry by two inexperienced gardeners in the first pot which they fancy in the great Mart. Owing, however, to our somewhat startling views as to the sanct.i.ty of the romantic pa.s.sion over the claims of duty towards oneself and others, these minor considerations are considered mercenary to the last degree, and the mother who is courageous enough to confess them openly is held up to obloquy. Why, it is difficult to say, since none of us really believe in the popular theory. It will not hold water for an instant when put to the practical test of experience; even if we leave out of consideration the fact that fully one-half of the people one meets have never felt, and have never felt the desire to feel, an absorbing pa.s.sion.

Mrs. Woodward, for instance, had not; moreover she had brought Alice up from the cradle to share her views of life, and had never once found her way barred by any bias towards a more pa.s.sionate outlook. In fact, she was, in her mother's estimate, the very last girl in the world to find sentiment soothing. On the contrary, it distressed her, made her cry, necessitated her lying down with smelling-salts and a hot-bottle. Then above all things she loved a certain refined distinction and exclusiveness. Even as a child she had held her head high in the soap-boiling connection, and though she would no doubt be very fairly happy with Jack, the Macleod family was distinctly more suitable. The question, therefore, soon resolved itself, not into whether the outworks of the girl's placidity should be defended, but how this could best be effected. How in short Jack could be prevented from posing as a martyr; for Mrs. Woodward was sharp enough to see that, at present at any rate, the danger lay entirely in her daughter's remorse.

"It was very unkind of Jack I must say," she commented skilfully on the story which Alice unfolded to her after a time; "but you mustn't be hard on him, my dear. Men never have so much self-control as we have, and no doubt the knowledge that you were right vexed him. They get over these little rebuffs very quickly."

"It--it seemed to hurt him though--and I hate--all that sort of thing," murmured the girl doubtfully, looking as if she were going to cry again.

"And it hurts you apparently, though you know quite well that you only did your duty."

"I suppose so," remarked Alice, still more doubtfully; "only I wish he hadn't been so unreasonable."

"So do I; but in these cases the girl always has to have sense for both. Besides Jack has a vile temper. But it is soon over. You will see that he will come to dinner as usual--it is the opera night, and he wouldn't miss that for anything--not even for you, my dear."

Alice smiled a watery smile, and said she did not think it meant so little to him as all that; but Mrs. Woodward maintained her position, having, in fact, some grounds for her belief, owing to the despatch of a certain little note which she had sent off before coming in to console Alice, and which ran thus:--

"Dear Jack,--Alice tells me you were very much put about to-day regarding our visit to Scotland; why, I can scarcely understand. Dear boy, if only for your own sake--since you can scarcely wish to quarrel with her, or us--do try and keep that temper of yours a little more under control. The poor girl came home crying, and I really cannot allow you to go out with her again if you are so inconsiderate. You ought to know quite well how sensitive she is, so for goodness' sake don't let this stupid misunderstanding disturb us all.--Your affectionate Aunt,

"Sophia Woodward."

P.S.--"We dine earlier to-day, as Alice wants to be in time for the overture, 'Tannhauser.'"

A note which meant all or nothing according to the wishes of the reader. In this case it meant all, for Jack, returning to his rooms after a disastrous attempt to begin his future role in life by playing whist with the old fogies at his club, was feeling that life, even as a misogynist, was unendurable, when the sight of his aunt's handwriting made his heart beat. The note was not in the least what he had expected to receive, and made him somehow feel as if he had grossly exaggerated the necessity for grief.

"Aunt Soph is on my side, anyhow," said the young man, with a certain elation, "and I was a brute, I'm afraid."

The result being, that before Alice, who had been spending the afternoon with Paul Macleod's sister, Lady George Temple, had returned from her drive, Jack, with a big gardenia in his coat, was ushered into the drawing-room, where his aunt, in satin and diamonds, was skimming through the last few pages of another novel which had to be returned to the library that evening.

"Good boy!" she said, smiling. "Now, I hope you won't spoil Alice's pleasure to-night by even alluding to your rudeness."

Jack looked a little aghast. "But, Aunt Sophia, I must beg her pardon."

"Then you had better do it at once," replied Mrs. Woodward, "and get it over. For there she is at the door. You can run downstairs and meet her, for she will have to go up to dress at once. She is late as it is."

Begging your mistress's pardon on the way upstairs, before the eyes of a butler and a footman, was not quite what Jack had pictured to himself; but it was better than nothing, and Alice's unfeigned look of relief at seeing him could not be mistaken.

Mrs. Woodward slept soundly that night, feeling that she had done a good day's work, and steered the bark of her daughter's happiness out of a great danger. And happiness to her philosophy meant much, since virtue was so very much easier of attainment when life went smoothly.

This was partly the reason why she did not detail the past danger to her husband after the manner of some wives, who love to chase sleep from their good man's eyes by breaking in upon the delicious drowsiness of the first ten minutes in bed by perfectly needless revelations of past woe.

The tie, in fact, between these two whose night-capped heads reposed side by side, was a curious one if absolutely commonplace. It consisted of a vast amount of mutual respect for each other's position as husband or wife, a solid foundation of placid affection, and no confidence. For instance, Mrs. Woodward knew considerably more about her son Sam Woodward's debts than his father did, to say nothing of minor points in the matter of household management; but then at least two-thirds of Mr. Woodward's life was absolutely unknown to the wife of his bosom. He breakfasted and dined at home on week days, and on Sundays he added lunch to the other meals; what is more, he never deserted her for the club on the occasion of "At Homes." But of his life between 10 A.M. and 7 P.M. she knew nothing, except that he lunched at a bar in the City. So far as this went, he was to her exactly what he was to the outside world; that is to say, Mr.

Woodward, the lucky financier, whose name meant money. Even the success or failure of the companies which she saw advertised with his name as director did not interest her, for she knew by experience that money and to spare was always forthcoming. And to tell the truth, Mr.

Woodward was a singularly lucky man. When the smash came to the company "For Preserving the North American Indian from Total Extinction by Supplying him with a Sparkling Beverage, Exhilarating but non-Alcoholic, to take the Place of the Deleterious Fire Water,"

he had happened to sell his last remaining share the day before; and even when the scheme for supplying hard-boiled eggs to the settlers in Africa failed, it did not affect the home supply at all. And yet Mr.

Woodward's character as a business man stood above suspicion, and the worst that had ever been said of him was that he could sail a point or two nearer to the wind with safety than most men.

So that night he also slept the sleep of the just, undisturbed by the thoughts of Jack's temerity. Even if he had known of it, it is to be feared that he would have set the question aside with the mental verdict that it was clearly the business of the girl's mother to see to such things. Poor mothers! who as they look at the bald head on the pillow beside their own cannot but feel, even while they would not now part with it for all the world, that life would have been less disappointing if circ.u.mstances had been more kind.

As for Alice herself, she slept peacefully also, the doubt which poor Jack's pain had raised in her gentle mind having been allayed by his prompt submission. And Jack snored--positively snored; for he was rather fatigued with his own excitement, being of the sort which takes most things not so much keenly as heavily. To tell the truth, also, his determination to marry his cousin was so fixed that the greater part of his pain had been sheer inability to grasp the idea of denial; so that he reverted gladly to the old position without asking questions as a less tenacious man might have done.

CHAPTER VII.

Lord George Temple sate moodily in the armchair of his study in his little house in Mayfair chewing the end of a cigar and looking disconsolately at a tray of whiskey and water and a plate of oval thin Captain's biscuits on the table. He was a red-haired smooth-faced man with rather a long upper lip, and a good-natured, somewhat whimsical expression.

"It is a confounded shame!" he said to his wife, who, with an opera cloak slipping from her pretty bare shoulders, was resting for a moment before going upstairs to bed. "Graham gives his cook twenty-five pounds a year--I heard her telling you so one day when she was wanting a new one--and yet there wasn't a thing fit to eat on the table----"

"Well, I don't know," put in Lady George, absently; "I think those stuffed larks came from Mirobolants. I saw that style of decoration in his place the other day, and I'm quite sure the iced souffle was Bombardi's; I know the shape."

"Exactly what I said!" continued the husband, "not a thing fit for a gouty man to eat at the table, and yet a woman on twenty-five pounds ought to be up to roast chicken and a rice pudding."

Blanche Temple looked at her spouse with the compa.s.sionate air of tolerance which she invariably extended to his views.

"But you can't give your friends roast chicken and rice pudding; you can't, indeed, nowadays. People wouldn't come."

"My dear girl," interrupted Lord George, obstinately, "there were four men at the table who, like myself, partook of soup, fish, and cheese straws. And one poor beggar didn't even have the soup." The thought was apparently comforting, for he began more contentedly on a biscuit.

But his wife was now interested in the subject. Most things interested her, either to affirmation or denial, for Paul Macleod's sister was a very clever woman, if at the same time curiously conventional.

"Well! I don't know who eats the things, then," she said, aggrievedly.

"Why, the last time we had a dinner-party--I mean when the Woodwards were here--I'm sure Paul ought to be infinitely obliged to me for the trouble I take--the cook who came in used pounds on pounds of stock meat, and quarts on quarts of cream; to say nothing of a whole bottle of whiskey. 'You had better give it her, my lady,' said Jane, 'for fear as the dinner might 'ave no appearance.'"

Among other unknown and despised talents which did not suit Lady George's theory of her own role in life was a distinct turn for mimicry. Her admirable impersonation of Jane, therefore, made her husband burst out laughing; since by a whimsical perversion of affairs he loved his wife dearly for the very qualities which she feigned not to possess. For Blanche was essentially a theatrical woman, loving to pose in all the relations of life, her present one being that of a dutiful sister. On Paul's return from India she had not only hastened to impress on him the absolute necessity for his marrying an heiress if he wished to keep Gleneira in the family, but had also introduced him to Alice Woodward, as a girl who would suit the part admirably.

For Lady George knew her brother's foibles thoroughly, and understood that if he married for money, the bride must be a person who would neither offend his refinement, nor require much display of affection; since Paul would certainly never give himself away by pretending a depth of sentiment he did not feel, and yet would not marry without something of the sort. That she felt was the worst of him. _Au fond_ he was absolutely truthful to himself.

"Of course you could sell if you liked," she had said to him skilfully, well knowing that the very thought was utterly repugnant; "trade is always ready to buy a Highland property. The only alternative is to marry a girl with money. I know one, pretty, lady-like, refined; a girl of whom you would be very fond if she were your wife. Her father is a speculator. Not quite so safe, of course, as a solid business--b.u.t.tons or tallow--though, by the way, he has something to do with soap. Still, these Woodwards are quite presentable, and _Monsieur le pere_ has his wits about him. And then you know there are always settlements, and deeds of gift, and those sort of things which creditors make such a fuss about."

Her brother winced visibly. "I should prefer not to have a row with anybody else's creditors," he said shortly. "_I_ shall have enough apparently to do in keeping my own quiet. England is a terribly expensive place to live in."

"London, you mean," retorted his sister, gaily. "You can always go down to Gleneira and vegetate."

That had been at the beginning of the season, and now Paul had gone down, not to vegetate, but to prepare the old place for the visit of inspection; not without a certain resentful irritation at the necessity for it. Though at the same time it put the affair on an easier footing for the present.

Afterwards, however, Paul had every intention of imparting sentiment into the transaction, if it could be done; and he knew himself to have a vast capacity for falling in love, after the approved romantic fas.h.i.+on, with any pretty girl who was willing to let him make love to her. So his sister, bewailing the pounds of stock meat and quarts of cream expended on his behalf, yet felt that she had been successful; but, then, she would hardly have recognised herself if she had not been so, since in her own little world, which she carefully avoided extending unwisely either upwards or downwards, Lady George Temple was always cited as a success in all the roles which she felt called upon to play.

"I heard from Paul to-day, by the way," she said, as she gathered up her gloves and fan. "He wants me to go and call on that Mrs. Vane. You remember who I mean, of course?"

"No, I don't," replied Lord George, relapsing into moodiness over the biscuits.

"You never do remember what I mean, dear! But she is the Colonel's wife, who nursed Paul when he nearly died in India. Of course they do it very often, I know, and it is more confusing than sending for a woman whom you can pay and get rid of afterwards. Still, she really did save his life--under Providence, of course--at least, Paul always said so. Well, her husband, who, I believe, drank, or did something, died two years ago, leaving her dreadfully off, so she went to live with somebody--an uncle or an aunt, who, I fancy, must have left her some money, for she has just taken a house somewhere in Chelsea. And Paul, who hasn't seen her since those old days, has asked her to Gleneira, and wants me to make her acquaintance first. Rather a bore, for I wish to have a particularly pleasant party, and she will most likely be an old frump."

"Scarcely, my dear, if she nursed your brother, and he survived,"

remarked Lord George, gravely.