A Sovereign Remedy

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

Ought she, or ought she not to go alone with Lord Blackborough in the motor? She knitted her brows over the problem, telling herself the while that she hated the world and every one in it. Then Lord Blackborough--he had an uncomfortable habit of reading her thoughts which she bitterly resented--had suggested Martha. And now Martha would not come. It was all such silly nonsense!

Ned Blackborough, watching her troubled face, felt that he could then and there have put his arms round her, kissed her even against her will and carried her right away from everything and everybody; from all conventionalities and princes and powers. She was a perpetual temptation to him to cast aside what few moorings he had. He was a man and she the one and only woman in the whole wide world; and he wanted her.

It was a headlong, purely emotional desire from which--curiously enough it struck him--passion was almost entirely absent. In a way, despite his greater reserve, there was more of passion in Ted's rational, straightforward, more normal love.

The very emotionality of Ned's feeling, however, carried with it content and certainty; for he felt that nothing in heaven or earth could dim the halo of flame and fire in which he stood beside her.

So he could afford to be magnanimous. "Then you had better take the fourth seat, Ted!" he said carelessly, looking to where the latter, his hands in his pockets, was glooming out of the window at the motor which could just be seen waiting through the bare branches across the drawbridge.

He had already had a casual invitation for himself and his cycle thrown at him, he felt, like a bone to a dog. But he had refused it. Pleasant work, indeed, riding in the dusty wake of a rival who was abducting the girl you loved at the rate of five-and-twenty miles an hour in a Panhard.

From every point of view he had decided it would be wiser to stop at home, possess his soul in patience, and keep Aura's grandfather in a good humour. For the more he saw of Aura the more he realised that her choice was likely to follow the lead of her environment. He was very clear-sighted, very much in earnest. The unconventionality of the position irked him, and he heartily wished that he could quarrel with Ned, or even huff him--as people always did on these occasions. But that was out of the question; he was bound to be friendly and fight for the girl fairly. Yet, being what he was, a man with a natural gift for business, he could not help drawing up his prospectus, as it were, and counting up all his available assets. His love had nothing of Ned's impetuosity about it, so with all his real passion for Aura he soon realised that it was wise not to show it too much.

It frightened her. The brotherly tack ensured quicker confidence. And, of course, Sylvanus Smith's liking for him was a great point in his favour. Regarding this, he did not feel in any way mean, for he himself liked the old fellow, and found his somewhat antiquated talk interesting.

But this later offer of Ned's was another thing; he looked round and accepted it heartily, feeling, however, as he often did when he looked at Ned's face, a trifle of a sneak; for he was fighting impulse with strategy, and he felt convinced that he was right in doing so.

He was, nevertheless, in danger of forgetting his rôle when Aura made her appearance dressed for her drive. She had a little conscious flush in her face, the result of having for the first time in her life tried on and rejected various articles of attire. So far as the dress and coat went, she had no choice. Her method of life made washing dresses a necessity; and for winter white was the only colour which would survive Martha's vigorous washing. So her serge, toned to a decided cream by those same efforts after cleanliness, was unalterable, and the furs she had found in the boxes of outworn apparel, which her grandfather had handed over to her on her sixteenth birthday, were also a permanent asset. She had no notion of their worth--she supposed they were sable; she knew that when the darker longer hairs blew aside the inner fluff was exactly the bronze hue of her hair. It was her head-covering which troubled her. She tried a scarlet Tam-o'-Shanter but flung it aside. The contrast was too great. A white one followed suit. There was something wrong; she knew not what. Finally a bronze, brown-specked one made a faint curve come to her lips. It matched the fur, and somehow, her face. Then she lingered with a half-shamed look by the chest-of-drawers. Should she? Should she not? She might at any rate take something in case; so she stuffed a long, fine lace scarf into her muff and ran hastily downstairs.