“But I shall win,” thought Mr. Wainbridge; “she has promised.”
“I have known Paul for years,” said Launa, turning to Mr. Wainbridge, as if to explain the situation, and he knows all about the land I dwelt in and my old home.”
This explanation was as much for Paul as for Mr. Wainbridge, and also for herself. She was convinced now of good reasons for her joy.
The returned traveller’s welcome was delightful to Paul more than he had dared hope for, less than that for which he longed, though to be received as the friend of the family was not his only aspiration. It was the stone instead of the bread, the hand of fellowship instead of the kiss of passion. He left Mr. Wainbridge with Launa, no doubt waiting for his kiss. Paul winced at the idea, and he was dining with the Canadian Commissioner.
But Mr. Wainbridge did not kiss Launa—he left her alone. She threw herself down on the sofa. The idea of marriage had appealed to her as a narcotic. Paul’s coming had changed it into a scourge. He was here; perhaps the girl was dead! She flushed with joy, then hid her face with shame. Perhaps he did not love her, had never loved her, and she belonged to Mr. Wainbridge. Paul had found her—and it was too late.
CHAPTER XV
The winter passed quickly—spring came, a soft, slow, gentle coming. Paul Harvey was a constant visitor at Victoria Mansions.
Sometimes he was there when Mr. Wainbridge was not, and then that was a “white day.”
Mr. Wainbridge found Paul’s appreciation of Launa gave life a zest—it added uncertainty and attractiveness, though he intended to win. A man can appropriate another man’s wife for walks and talks with much greater ease than he can the girl the other man is going to marry. But Mr. Wainbridge was enduring an amount of worry and annoyance about his uncle’s affairs, and he was not free, while Paul was. Mr. Wainbridge never connected him with the someone Launa had loved—was he not dead? Had she not implied as much, more than once?