"I am very glad to see you," was her simple answer. "Now sit down andtalk to me; tell me all about yourself. Stop; before you begin--howvery curious it is! Do you know I dreamed about you last night--such acurious, painful dream. I dreamed that I was asleep in my room--whichindeed I was--and that it was blowing a gale and raining intorrents--which I believe it was also--so there is nothing verywonderful about that. But now comes the odd part. I dreamed that youwere standing out in the rain and wind and yet looking at me as thoughyou saw me. I could not see your face because you were in the dark,but I knew it was you. Then I woke up with a start. It was a most vividdream. And now to-day you have come to see me after all these years."
He shifted his legs uneasily. Considering the facts of the case, herdream frightened him, which was not strange. Fortunately, at that momentthe impressive footman arrived with the tea-things and asked whether heshould light the lamps.
"No," said Lady Croston; "put some wood on the fire." She knew that shelooked her very best in those half-lights.
Then, when she had given him his tea, delighting him by remembering thathe did not like sugar, she fell to drawing him out about the wild lifehe had been leading.
"By the way," she said presently, "perhaps you can tell me--a few daysago I bought a book for my boy"--she had two children--"all about bravedeeds and that sort of thing, and in it there was a story of a volunteerofficer in South Africa (the name was not mentioned) which interestedme very much. Did you ever hear of it? It was this: The officer was incommand of a fort containing a force that was operating against a nativechief. While he was away the chief sent a flag of truce down to thefort, which was fired on by some of the volunteers in the fort, becausethere was a man among the truce party against whom they had a spite.Just afterwards the officer returned, and was very angry that such athing had been done by Englishmen, whose duty it was, he said, to teachall the world what honour meant.
"Now comes the brave part of the story. Without saying any more,and notwithstanding the entreaties of his men, who knew that in allprobability he was going to a death by torture, for he was so brave thatthe natives had set a great price upon him, wishing to kill him and usehis body for medicine, which they thought would make them as brave ashe was, that officer rode out far away into the mountains with onlyan interpreter and a white handkerchief, till he came to the chief'sstronghold. But when the natives saw him coming, holding up his whitehandkerchief, they did not fire at him as his men had fired at them,because they were so astonished at his bravery that they thought hemust be mad or inspired. So he came straight on to the walls of thestronghold, called to the chief and begged his pardon for what hadhappened, and then rode away again unharmed. Shortly afterwards, thechief, having captured some of the officer's volunteers, whom in theordinary course of affairs he would have tortured to death, sent themback again untouched, with a message to the effect that he would showthe English officer that he was not the only man who could behave 'likea gentleman.' I should like to know that man. Do you know who he was?"
Bottles looked uncomfortable, as well he might, for it was an incidentin his own career; but her praise and enthusiasm sent a flush of prideinto his face.
"I believe it was some fellow in the Basuto War," he said, prevaricatingwith peculiar awkwardness.
"Oh, then it _is_ a true story?"
"Yes--that is, it is partially true. There was nothing heroic about it.It was a necessary act if our honour as fair opponents was to continueto be worth anything."
"But who was the man?" she asked, fixing her dark eyes on himsuspiciously.
"The man!" he stammered. "Oh, the man--well, in short----" and hestopped.
"In short, _George_," she put in, for the first time calling him by hisChristian name, "that man was _you_, and I am so proud of you, George."
It was very hateful to him in a way, for he loathed that kind ofpersonal adulation, even from her. He was so intensely modest he hadnever even reported the incident in question; it had come out in someroundabout way. Yet he could not but feel happy that she had found himout. It was a great deal to him to have moved her, and her sparklingeyes and heaving bosom showed that she was somewhat moved.
He looked up and his eyes caught hers; the room was nearly dark now, butthe bright flame from the wood the servant had put on the fire playedupon her face. His eyes caught hers, and there was a look in them fromwhich he could not escape, even if he had wished to do so. She hadthrown her head back so that the coronet of her glossy hair rested uponthe back of her low seat, and thus, without strain, could look straightup into his face. He had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. Aslow, sweet smile grew upon the perfect face, and the dark eyes becamesoft and luminous as though they shone through tears.
In another second it had ended, as she thought that it would end and hadintended that it should end. The great strong man was down--yes, downon his knees before her, one trembling hand catching at the arm ofher chair, and the other clasping her tapering fingers. There was nohesitation or awkwardness about him now, the greatness of his long-pentpassion inspired him, and he told her all without let or stop--all thathe had suffered for her sake throughout those lonely years, all hiswretched hopelessness, keeping nothing back.
Much she did not understand; such a passion as this was too deep tobe fathomed by her shallow lines, too soaring for her to net in herworld-straitened imagination. Once or twice even his exalted notionsmade her smile: it seemed ridiculous, knowing the world as she did, thatany man should think thus of _any_ woman. Nor, when at length he hadfinished, did she attempt an answer, feeling that her strength lay insilence, for she had a poor case. At least, the only argument that sheused was a purely feminine one, but perfectly effective. She bent herbeautiful face towards him, and he kissed it again and again.
IV
The revulsion of feeling experienced by Bottles as he hurried back tothe Albany to dress for dinner--for he was to dine with his brother atone of his clubs that night--was so extraordinary and overwhelming thatit took him, figuratively speaking, off his legs. As yet his mind, solong accustomed to perpetual misfortune in this, the ruling passion ofhis life, could not quite grasp his luck. That he should, after all,have won back his lost Madeline seemed altogether too good to be true.
As it happened, Sir Eustace had asked one or two men to meet him,amongst them an Under-Secretary for the Colonies, who, having to preparefor a severe cross-examination in the House upon South African affairs,had jumped at the opportunity of sucking the brains of a man thoroughlyacquainted with the subject. But the expectant Under-Secretary wasdestined to meet with a grievous disappointment, for out of Bottlescame no good thing. For the most part of the dinner he sat silent, onlyspeaking when directly addressed, and then answering so much at randomthat the Under-Secretary quickly came to the conclusion that SirEustace's brother was either a fool or that he had drunk too much.
Sir Eustace himself saw that his brother's taciturnity had spoilt hislittle dinner, and his temper was not improved thereby. He was notaccustomed to have his dinners spoiled, and felt that, so far as theUnder-Secretary was concerned, he had put himself into a false position.
"My dear George," he said in a tone of bland exasperation when they hadgot back to the Albany, "I wonder what can be the matter with you? Itold Atherleigh that you would be able to post him up thoroughly aboutall this Bechuana mess, and he could not get a word out of you."
His brother absently filled his pipe before he answered:
"The Bechuanas? Oh, yes, I know all about them. I lived among them for ayear."
"Then why on earth didn't you tell him what you knew? You put me inrather a false position."
"I am very sorry, Eustace," he answered humbly. "I will go and see himif you like, and explain the thing to him to-morrow. The fact of thematter is, I was thinking of something else."
Sir Eustace interrogated him with a look.
"I was thinking," he went on slowly, "about Mad--about Lady Croston."
"Oh!"
/> "I went to see her this afternoon, and I think, I hope, that I am goingto marry her."
If Bottles expected that this great news would be received by hiselder brother as such news ought to be received--with congratulatoryrejoicing--he was destined to be disappointed.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Sir Eustace shortly, letting his eyeglassdrop.
"Why do you say that, Eustace?" Bottles asked uneasily.
"Because--because," answered his brother in the emphatic tone which washis equivalent for strong language, "you must be mad to think of such athing."
"Why must I be mad?"
"Because you, still a young man, with all your life before you,deliberately propose to tie yourself up to a middle-aged and _passee_woman--she is extremely _passee_ by daylight, let me tell you--whohas already treated you like a dog, and is burdened with a couple ofchildren, and who, if she marries again, will bring you very littleexcept her luxurious tastes. But I expected this. I thought she wouldtry to catch you with those languishing black eyes of hers. You are notthe first; I know her of old."
"If," said his brother, rising in dudgeon, "you are going to abuseMadeline to me, I think I had better say good night, for we shallquarrel--which I would not do for anything."
Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "Those whom the gods wish to destroythey first make mad," he muttered, as he lit his hand candle. "This iswhat comes of a course of South Africa."
But Sir Eustace was an amenable man. His favourite motto was "Live andlet live"; and having given the matter his best consideration during thelengthy process of shaving himself on the following morning, he came tothe conclusion, reluctantly enough it must be owned, that it was evidentthat his brother meant to have his own way, and therefore the best thingto be done was to fall in with his views and trust to the chapterof accidents to bring the thing to naught. Sir Eustace, for all hisapparent worldliness and cynicism, was a good fellow at heart, andcherished a warm affection for his awkward, taciturn brother. Healso cherished a great dislike for Lady Croston, whose character hethoroughly understood. He saw a good deal of her, it is true, because hehappened to be one of the executors of her husband's will; and since hehad come into the baronetcy it had struck him that she had developed aconsiderable partiality for his society.
The idea of a marriage between his brother and his brother's old flamewas in every way distasteful to him. In the first place, under herhusband's will, Madeline would bring, comparatively speaking, relativelylittle with her should she marry again. That was one objection. Another,and still more forcible one from Sir Eustace's point of view, was thatat her time of life she was not likely to present the house of Perittwith an heir. Now, Sir Eustace had not the slightest intention ofmarrying. Matrimony was, he considered, an excellent institution, andnecessary to the carrying on of the world in a respectable manner, butit was not one with which he was anxious to identify himself. Therefore,if his brother married at all, it was his earnest desire that the unionshould bring children to inherit the title and estates. Prominent aboveboth these excellent reasons, stood his intense distrust and dislike ofthe lady.
Needs must, however, when the devil (by whom he understood Madeline)drives. He was not going to quarrel with his only brother andpresumptive heir because he chose to marry a woman who was not to histaste. So he shrugged his shoulders--having finished his shaving and hisreflections together--and determined to put the best possible face onhis disappointment.
"Well, George," he said to his brother at breakfast, "so you are goingto marry Lady Croston?"
Bottles looked up surprised. "Yes, Eustace," he answered, "if she willmarry me."
Sir Eustace glanced at him. "I thought the affair was settled," he said.
Bottles rubbed his big nose reflectively as he answered, "Well, no.I don't think that marriage was mentioned. But I suppose she means tomarry me. In short, I don't see how she could mean anything else."
Sir Eustace breathed more freely, guessing what had taken place. Sothere was as yet no actual engagement.
"When are you going to see her again?"
"To-morrow. She is engaged all to-day."
His brother took out a pocket-book and consulted it. "Then I am morefortunate than you are," he said; "I have an appointment with LadyCroston this evening after dinner. Don't look jealous, old fellow, it isonly about some executor's business. I think I told you that I am oneof her husband's executors, blessings on his memory. She is a peculiarwoman, your _inamorata_, and swears that she won't trust her lawyers, soI have to do all the dirty work myself, worse luck. You had better cometoo."
"Shan't I be in the way?" asked Bottles doubtfully, struggling feeblyagainst the bribe.
"It is evident, my dear fellow, that you cannot be _de trop_. I shallpresent my papers for signature and vanish. You ought to be infinitelyobliged to me for giving you such a chance. We will consider thatsettled. We will dine together, and go round to Grosvenor Streetafterwards."
Bottles agreed. Could he have seen the little scheme that was dawning inhis brother's brain, perhaps he would not have assented so readily.
When her old lover went away reluctantly to dress for dinner on theprevious day, Madeline Croston sat down to have a good think, and theresult was not entirely satisfactory. It had been very pleasant tosee him, and his passionate declaration of enduring love thrilled herthrough and through, and even woke an echo in her own breast. It madeher proud to think that this man, who, notwithstanding his ugliness andawkwardness, was yet, her instinct told her, worth half a dozen smartLondon fashionables, still loved her and had never ceased to love her.Poor Bottles! she had been very fond of him once. They had grown uptogether, and it really gave her some cruel hours when a sense of whatshe owed to herself and her family had forced her to discard him.
She remembered, as she sat there this evening, how at the time she hadwondered if it was worth it--if life would not be brighter and happierif she made up her mind to fight through it by her honest lover's side.Well, she could answer that question now. It had been well worth it. Shehad not liked her husband, it is true; but on the whole she had enjoyeda good time and plenty of money, and the power that money brings. Thewisdom of her later days had confirmed the judgment of her youth. Asregards Bottles himself, she had soon got over that fancy; for yearsshe had scarcely thought of him, till Sir Eustace told her that he wascoming home, and she had that curious dream about him. Now he had comeand made love to her, not in a civilised, philandering sort of a way,such as she was accustomed to, but with a passion and a fire and anutter self-abandonment which, while it thrilled her nerves with acurious sensation of mingled pleasure and pain, not unlike that she onceexperienced at a Spanish bull-fight when she saw a man tossed, was yetextremely awkward to deal with and rather alarming.
Now, too, the old question had come up again, and what was to be done?She had sheered him off the question that afternoon, but he would wantto marry her, she felt sure of that. If she consented, what were they tolive on? Her own juncture, in the event of her re-marriage, would be cutdown to a thousand a year--she had four now, and was pinched on that;and as for Bottles, she knew what he had--eight hundred, for Sir Eustacehad told her. He was next heir to the baronetcy, it was true, but SirEustace looked as though he would live for ever, and besides, he mightmarry after all.
For a few minutes Lady Croston contemplated the possibility of existingon eighteen hundred a year, and what Chancery would give her as guardianof her children in a poky house somewhere down at Kensington. Soon sherealised that the thing was not to be done.
"Unless Sir Eustace will do something for him, it is very clear that wecannot be married," she said to herself with a sigh. "However, I neednot tell him that just yet, or he will be rushing back to South Africaor something."
V
Sir Eustace and his brother carried out their programme. They dinedtogether, and about half-past nine drove round to Grosvenor Street.Here they were shown into the drawing-room by the solemn footman, whoinformed Sir Eustace that her ladyship
was upstairs in the nursery andhad left a message for him that she would be down presently.
"All right; there is no hurry," said Sir Eustace absently, and the manwent downstairs.
Bottles, being nervous, was fidgeting round the room as usual, and hisbrother, being very much at ease, was standing with his back to thefire, and staring about him. Presently his glance lit upon the bluevelvet curtains which shut off the room they were in from the largersaloon that had not been used since Lady Croston's widowhood, and anidea which had been floating about in his brain suddenly took definiteshape and form. He was a prompt man, and in another second he had actedup to that idea.
"George," he said in a quick, low voice, "listen to me, and for Heaven'ssake don't interrupt for a minute. You know that I do not like the ideaof your marrying Lady Croston. You know that I think her worthless--no,wait a minute, don't interrupt--I am only saying what I think. Youbelieve in her; you believe that she is in love with you and will marryyou, and have good reason to believe it, have you not?"
Bottles nodded.
"Very well. Supposing that I can show you within half an hour that sheis perfectly ready to marry somebody else--myself, for instance--wouldyou still believe in her?"
Bottles turned pale. "The thing is impossible," he said.
"That is not the question. Would you still believe in her, and would youstill marry her?"
"Great heavens! no."
"Good. Then I tell you what I will do for you, and it will perhapsgive you some idea of how deeply I feel in the matter; I will sacrificemyself."
"Sacrifice yourself?"
Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales Page 9
