"Paul, I love you. Come back to me, Paul, and we will forget our love."
But up at the Big House he was cursing his own folly in yielding to the temptation of seeing Marjory home. Yet what had come over him? He, who for the most part behaved with some regard to gentlemanly instincts. What had he done? The memory of it, seen by the light of his knowledge of evil, filled him with shame. Well! that finished it. When she had time to think she would never forgive him. She would understand, and that look would fade from her face--that look which---- But she was right! Even if he had seen it before, it would have made no difference; he would have gone on his way all the same. Why had he ever seen it to give him needless pain, and be a miserable memory? The only thing was to forget it--to forget, not the love which thrilled him--that, Heaven knows, could be easily forgotten--but that other! Yes! he must forget it. That was the only thing to be done now.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
Luckily, perhaps, for his determination to forget, a variety of causes combined to give Paul Macleod breathing space before he had, as it were, to take up the burden of his engagement with Alice Woodward. To begin with, he had to pay a visit on the way south, and the delights of really good partridge shooting are of a distinctly soothing nature. There is something fat and calm and comfortable about the stubbles and turnip fields which makes one think kindly of county magistrates and quarter sessions, of growing stout, and laying down bins of port wine. A very different affair this from cresting the brow of a heather-covered hill, with a wild wind from the west scattering the coveys like bunches of brown feathers, while the next brae rises purple before you, and another--and another--and another! Up and up, with a strain and an effort, yet with the pulse of life beating its strongest.
Then, when the North mail finally set him down at Euston, the Woodwards had gone to Brighton; and there was that going on in the artistic little house in Brutonstreet, which would have made it unkind for him to leave town and follow them, even if his own inclination had not been to stay and see what the days brought forth. For Blasius was ill, dangerously ill, and Lord George was a piteous sight as he wandered aimlessly down to the Foreign Office, and, after a vain effort to remain at work, wandered home again with the eager question on his lips, "Is there any change?"
But there was none. The child, after the manner of his sturdy kind, took the disease as hardly as it could be taken, and then fought against it as gamely. So the little life hung in the balance, till there came a day when the pretence of the Foreign Office was set aside, and Lord George sate in the nursery with his little son in his arms, an unconscious burden in the red flannel dressing-gown, which somehow seemed connected with so much of Blazes' short life. Blanche, almost worn out, stood by the open window holding Paul's hand--Paul, who was always so sympathetic, so kindly when one was in trouble. So they waited to see whether the child would choose life or death; while outside the people were picking their way gingerly through the mingled sunshine and shade of a thunder shower. It was so silent that you could hear the clock on the stairs ticking above the faint patter on the window-pane, almost hear the splash of the slow tear-drop which trickled down Lord George's cheek, and fell on Blazes' closed hand. And then, suddenly, a pair of languid eyes opened, and the little voice, mellow still, despite its weakness, said quietly:
"Ith's waining. Blazeth wants a wumberwella."
In the days following, if Blazes had wanted the moon, Lord George would have entered into diplomatic relations with the man in it, regarding a cession of territory; but the child, according to the doctors, wanted sea air more than anything else. So, naturally enough, they all migrated to Brighton, and, though he did not realise it, the general sense of relief and contentment pervading the whole party did much to make Paul Macleod feel the shackles bearable. Then Mrs. Woodward and Alice were at one of the big hotels, the Temples were in lodgings, while he, himself, had rooms at a golfing club, to which he belonged; an arrangement which gave everyone a certain freedom. Finally, as Paul discovered on the very first day, Alice showed much more to advantage on the parade, or riding over the downs, or putting on the green, than she had ever done at Gleneira.
"Oh, yes!" she said gaily, "I am a regular cockney at heart. I love the pavements, and I hate uncivilised ways. I know when Blanche told me she had to see the sheep cut up at Gleneira, I made a mental note that I wouldn't. I couldn't, for I hate the sight of raw meat."
"You bear the butchers' shops with tolerable equanimity," returned her lover, who hardly liked her constant allusions to Highland barbarism; "as a matter of fact, raw meat intrudes itself more on your notice in town than it ever does in the country."