CHAPTER XIII
The hour was late, but in spite of Heriot's kindly suggestion that the rapture he anticipated from her conversation should be postponed till she had recovered from the fatigues of her journey, his fiancée unselfishly preferred to recompense him immediately for his prolonged deprivation of her society. He acceded at once to her wishes, with the most amiable air imaginable.
"And now, my dear Madge," said he, when they were seated in a secluded corner of the lounge, "tell me all your news. In the first place, how's my own precious?"
"I am very well, thank you," replied the lady, a little coolly.
"Delighted to hear it!"
"You could, of course, have discovered it sooner by simply writing to inquire," she pointed out, with the same air.
"But I did, my dear girl, I did."
"Once."
"Only once, was it? Now, I could have sworn it was twice."
"And did you think twice was often enough?"
"Well, you see, Madge," he explained, "we got engaged in such a deuce of a hurry, and I had to rush off next morning, and so on. I didn't have time to ask you how often you wished me to write."
"Didn't my last two unanswered letters give you any idea on the subject?"
"Two letters, Madge? Now, do you know, I could have sworn it was only one."
She looked at him steadily.
"Heriot, what is the meaning of your conduct?"
"To what points in it do you refer, my dear?"
"I may tell you I have heard from Charlie Munro."
It was remarkable how quickly Mr. Walkingshaw had developed. That reputation he still clung to when he saw her last was no longer a brake upon his downward career.
"Poor old Charlie!" he laughed. "By Jove, Madge, I jolly well hoisted him with his own thingamajig!"
She regarded him stonily.
"And what of the business you went to see him about?"
"Did I say I was going to see him on business?"
"You did!"
"Oh, no, no, my dear girl; you must have misunderstood me. Of course, it was natural enough; we were both rather carried away by our feelings that night, weren't we, Madge?"
He took her hand and pressed it affectionately, but it made no response.
"Why didn't you come to see me when you were in Edinburgh?" she inquired.
"I ought to have," he answered, with an expression of the sincerest apology. "Yes, I suppose I ought to have."
"You suppose! Didn't it occur to you at the time?"
"Oh, yes, it occurred. In fact, my difficulty was to keep myself away from you."
"May I ask why it was necessary to make the effort?"
"Well, the fact is," he explained, "I had a little scheme for Jean which I wanted to keep a secret—"
"And you couldn't trust me!" she interrupted.
"A charming woman and a secret?" he smiled archly. "My dear girl, your rosy lips would have gone chatter, chatter, chatter all over the town!"
She snatched her hand away with some degree of violence.
"You talk like an idiot!" she replied.
"My dear Madge! This is your own Heriot?"
She took out a little handkerchief of lace and gently touched first one eye and then the other.
"I don't believe you love me!"
Heriot's kind heart was sincerely moved.
"I adore you!"
A faint smile at last appeared upon her face.
"How can you possibly when you go on like this?"
"Like what?"
The smile died away and a quick frown took its place.
"Heriot! Do you mean to say you think your behavior has looked like loving me?"
"It's the heart that counts, Madge, not the behavior," he assured her.
She sat up in her chair with an air of decision.
"The behavior does count; so please don't talk as though you thought I was a fool. For your own sake, for the sake of your reputation and your family, you've got to come back with me to-morrow!"
He seized her hand.
"My dear Madge, that's just what I meant to do."
He rose and bent over her with every symptom of affection.
"And now you must really go to bed. You're looking tired; really you are. It quite distresses me."
She still kept her seat.
"You promise to come with me?"
"I assure you I've got to come."
"I must have your promise."
He looked hurt.
"Hang it, Madge, can't you trust me?"
"No, I cannot. Give me your promise."
His air of affection decidedly diminished, but he gave the pledge—
"I promise to go north to-morrow."
"I can really trust you?"
He began to frown.
"Implicitly."
She rose at last, and they went together towards the lift.
"When do you breakfast?" she asked.
He answered somewhat stiffly—
"There is no necessity of starting before two o'clock. Breakfast when you like."
"We shall say ten o'clock, then."
"That is fairly late, isn't it?"
"You forget that I have had a tiring day, and perhaps you hardly realize whose conduct has tired me. Good-night."
"Good-night," he replied in an unimpassioned voice.
As the widow ascended she told herself that she had adopted entirely the right attitude. She might relent to-morrow, but till then it was well he should be deprived of the sunshine of her smiles.
Next morning at the hour of 10:15 she stepped out of the lift to find Jean waiting in the hall. She greeted Mrs. Dunbar with a markedly composed air.
"I hope you won't mind breakfasting alone?" she said.
It was evident that the widow did mind.
"Do you mean to say your father has actually breakfasted without me?"
"Unfortunately, he had to."
"Had to!"
"He and Frank found they must catch the ten o'clock train."
Mrs. Dunbar gasped.
"He—has gone?"
"Yes."
"But he promised to go with me!"
"I understood him to say," said Jean quietly, "that he had merely promised to go north."
"Oh, indeed! Then he has run away?"
"From whom?" asked Jean demurely.
The widow bit her lip.
"I consider his conduct simply disgraceful—"
Jean interrupted her quickly—
"I had rather not discuss my father's conduct. Don't let me keep you from breakfast."
Mrs. Dunbar remained standing in silence, a magnificent statue of displeasure. In a moment she inquired—
"And why are you waiting here?"
"Father thought you might like my company on the journey."
"How very thoughtful of him! Then you go at two?"
"Yes."
The widow gazed at her intently.
"I can hardly believe this of Heriot. Is all this his own idea?"
Jean flushed slightly, but answered as demurely as ever—
"It is his wish."
"Ah, I see!" exclaimed Mrs. Dunbar bitterly, "I thought there was a woman's hand in this affair."
"Do you mean another woman's hand?"
The injured lady began uneasily to realize that there was a fresh factor in the situation. But who would have dreamt of little Jean Walkingshaw being dangerous? As Madge traveled north that afternoon, uncompromisingly secluded behind a lady's journal, she could not get out of her head the uncomfortable fancy that her trim, fair-haired escort sat like a protecting deity (heathen and sinister) between Heriot and all who desired, even with the most loving purpose, to chasten his faults and moderate the exuberance of his too virile spirit.
Jean herself was warmly conscious that some such duty was surely laid upon her. With what less reward could she repay all he had done for her? It will be discovered, however, from the succeeding instalment of facts, that though the guardian angel of Heriot Walkingshaw might go the pace with him thus far, it would probably have been beyond the power even of a genuinely celestial spirit to keep at his shoulder when he spurted.