MRS. GLADWYNE’S TEMPTATION
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.