A Gamble with Life
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Beryl departed with a pout, and a look of disappointment in her eyes. A little later there was a sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Madeline disappointed her maid by insisting on wearing her least becoming evening gown, and the only ornament she wore was a bunch of holly berries in her hair.
She went downstairs alone, and was surprised to find the drawing-room empty. Where Lady Tregony and Beryl had taken themselves to she could not imagine. A big fire of logs was blazing in the grate, and in all the sconces candles were alight. She expected every moment that either Beryl or Lady Tregony would come to her; they were both dressed, and there was no reason whatever that they should remain in their rooms.
After several minutes had gone by she began to suspect the truth. They were keeping away so that she might meet Gervase alone. It was very thoughtful of them certainly, but it was taking rather too much for granted. She disliked so many evidences of management and contrivance. If Providence was arranging all these matters she could not see why Providence might not be allowed a free hand. So much human assistance did not seem at all necessary.
She was beginning to feel a little bit resentful when the door was thrown suddenly open, and Gervase entered. For a moment she started back with unfeigned surprise. She had expected seeing him in all the glory and splendour of his uniform, and here he was in ordinary evening dress, looking as common-place as any average country squire. The only splendid thing about him was his moustache, which was waxed out to its fullest dimensions.
"Madeline," he said, huskily, coming hurriedly forward, with outstretched hands. "This is the supreme moment of my life."
She placed both her hands in his, and looked him steadily in the eyes. She was quite calm again now. Her heart had ceased its wild gallop.
"It seemed as if I should never get here," he said, in the same husky tones. "Oh! how impatient I have been to look into your dear eyes."
"If you had missed this train you would not have got here for your Christmas dinner," she said, artlessly, "and that would have been horribly disappointing."
"Would you have been very much disappointed?" he questioned, trying to throw a note of tenderness into his voice.
"Of course, I should have been disappointed," she answered, frankly; "I've been quite consumed with curiosity to see what you look like."
"Not with curiosity only, I hope, Madeline."
"Why, isn't curiosity bad enough without having any other feeling to torment you?"
"Did you think I should have changed toward you?" he said, in hurt tones. "Did you regard me as one of the fickle mob, who hold love so lightly?"
"Nay, I have always regarded you as a brave, strong man who would place duty above everything."
"In that, I trust, I shall never disappoint you," he said, humbly. "Henceforth my duty and my joy shall be to serve you."
"I am only one," she said, quickly. "Is not your first duty to your country and your King?"
"My first duty is to my queen," he answered gallantly, "and that is you."
She drew her hands from his suddenly, and stepped back a pace. "Had we not better understand each other better before we talk so confidently?" she said, in hard decided tones.
"What, after three long years?" he questioned, in an aggrieved voice. "Is it possible that there is anything left unexplained? Have I not opened all my heart to you in my letters? Do I need still to prove my devotion?"
"No, no. You have been very candid and very loyal," she said, quickly. "But a matter of so much importance should not be decided in an hour."
"But we have known each other for years, and did we not understand each other from the very beginning?"
"Perhaps we did," she answered, with downcast eyes.
"And everyone else understood," he went on. "It is true little or nothing was said at the beginning, for you – you – were – were – very young. But I was of full age, and when the proper time came I wrote plainly to you."
"Yes, I know."
"And you were not surprised? You expected I should write in that way, did you not?"
"Yes, I think I did."
"And yet now you talk of our understanding each other better. Oh, Madeline! Let me assure you that no other woman has crossed my path, that no other face has caught my fancy, that my heart has been true to you from the first, and I am prepared now to devote the rest of my life to you."
"But is there not another side to the question?" she asked, seriously. "You said when first we met I was very young. But I have grown to be a woman now."
"That is true, by Jove!" he answered, with a harsh laugh, "and a very lovely woman, too. But that only adds force and weight to what I have already said. If you had grown to be ill-favoured or plain, you might hesitate, thinking my heart would change. But no, Madeline, I am not of the fickle sort. If you were not half so handsome as you are I should still come to you eager, devoted, and determined."
"You fail to understand my point," she said, quickly.
"Not I, indeed," he interposed, with a laugh. "It is natural, I suppose, for a woman to have some doubts about a soldier. I know among the pious folk we have rather a bad reputation, and that we are supposed to have as many wives as Brigham Young. But that's a gross libel. I don't pretend that soldiers are saints, and some of them, I grant, change the objects of their affections frequently. But, Madeline, believe me, I have been true to you. True to that last smile and look you gave me in Washington. I come back offering you a complete and whole-hearted devotion. Now, come and let me kiss you, and settle the matter before dinner."
She drew back a step further. "I think we understand each other less now than when we began our talk," she said, in hard, unnatural tones.
"Well, by Jove, Madeline, you do astonish me," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise. "You surely don't think I'm insincere – that I'm putting it on, as it were; that I'm pretending what I don't feel? Let me assure you I'm absolutely certain of my regard for you. Even if I were in doubt before I got here – though, to tell you the candid truth, I never have been in any doubt. But even if I were, the sight of your face, the loveliness of your ripened womanhood, if you will allow me to say so, has drawn out my heart to you more strongly than ever."
"I don't think we shall gain anything by pursuing this subject any further just now," she said, quietly. "And we shall have many opportunities for quiet talks later on."
"And you are not going to let me kiss you?"
"Most certainly not," she said, the colour rising in a crimson tide to her cheeks and forehead.
"Then all I can say, it is a cold welcome," he said, using an adjective that need not be written down.
"You do not understand me, Gervase," she said, a pained look coming into her eyes.
"By Jove! I don't," he said, "and what is worse still, you persist in misunderstanding me."
"I am sorry you put it in that way," she answered; "but there goes the dinner-gong," and the next moment the door was pushed open, and Lady Tregony bustled into the room.
"So you have met!" she said, with a little giggle, "and no one to disturb your tête-á-tête. Well, that is delightful."
Gervase frowned, but did not reply, and Madeline took the opportunity of escaping out of the room.
In the dining-room she frustrated Lady Tregony's little design, and instead of seating herself next to Gervase she sat opposite him. She had not seen him for so long a time, that she wanted an opportunity of studying his face. Her first feeling of disappointment was confirmed as she looked at him more closely. In his uniform he looked magnificent – at least, that was the impression left on her mind; but in ordinary swallow-tail coat and patent leather slippers he looked common-place. There was no other word for it. Moreover, three years under the trying skies of India had aged him considerably. His straw-coloured hair no longer completely covered his scalp. The crow's feet about his eyes had grown deeper and more numerous. The skin of his face looked parched and drawn, his cheek bones appeared to be higher, his nose more hooked, and his teeth more prominent.
Moreover, under an ordinary starched shirt-front the well-rounded chest had entirely disappeared. Perkins, the butler, could give him points in that respect.
Madeline felt the process of disillusionment was proceeding all too rapidly. She wished he had come downstairs arrayed in scarlet and gold. As a study in black and white he was not altogether a success, and it was not pleasant to have her dreams blown away like spring blossoms in a gale.
CHAPTER XX
FATHER AND SON
It was a great disappointment to the Tregonys that they were unable to announce on the night of their "At Home" that Gervase and Madeline were engaged. Madeline, however, was obdurate. She saw no reason for haste, and she saw many reasons for delay. The very anxiety of the Tregonys to get the matter settled at once made her only the more determined not to be rushed. The very masterfulness of Gervase – which she admired so much – for once defeated its own end.
In her heart she had no real intention of upsetting what seemed to be the scheme and purpose of her life. It had seemed so long in the nature of things that she should marry Gervase Tregony – (why it should have seemed in the nature of things she hardly knew) – that to refuse to do so now would seem like flying in the face of Providence, and that required more courage than she possessed. Still, as far as she could see, it was no part of the providential plan that she should become engaged to Gervase that very year, and marry him early in the next. Dates did not appear to be included in the general arrangement, and she "guessed that in that matter she might be allowed considerable latitude."
Gervase showed much less diplomacy than his father. Sir Charles had more correctly gauged Madeline's disposition than any other member of the family. He knew very well that she would never be driven, that any attempt at coercion would defeat its own end. On this assumption he had acted all the way through, and but for a single incident everything might have gone well.
As the days passed away Gervase grew terribly impatient. He was hard up. "Horribly, disgustingly hard up," as he told his father, and here were Madeline's thousands or millions steadily accumulating, and nobody the better for it. If he could once get the knot tied he would be safe. She had so much that she could let him have all he wanted without feeling it, and there seemed no reason in the world why he should not begin to enjoy himself without delay.
Madeline listened in the main with much patience to his appeals and protestations, but for some reason she could not understand, they failed to move her. He never touched the heroic side of her nature. His appeal was always to her vanity and selfishness. His pictures of happiness were merely pictures of self-indulgence. The aim and end of life as he shadowed it forth was "to take thy ease, eat, drink, and be merry." A town house, a shooting-box in Scotland. Two or three motor-cars, a steam yacht, and an endless round between times of balls and calls and grand operas.
She frankly owned to herself that her idol had been taken off its pedestal, and there was no longer any halo about his head. To live in the same house with Gervase day after day was distinctly disquieting. His civilian attire made him look painfully common-place, his conversation was as common-place as his appearance.
She asked him one day why he did not wear his captain's uniform.
"Because I have resigned my commission," he answered.
"Resigned your commission?" she questioned, slowly.
"Why not?" he replied. "I have done my share of roughing it, surely."
"But – but – oh! I don't know. I had an idea once an officer, always an officer."
"Oh, nothing of the sort," he laughed, "I've given up soldiering to devote myself to you. Isn't that a much nobler occupation?"
"I don't think so," she answered, slowly. "Besides, I did not want you to give up your commission to devote yourself to me."
"At any rate, I've done it. I thought it would please you. It will show you, at any rate, how devoted I am. There is nothing I would not give up for your sake, and I never thought you would hesitate to speak the one word that would make me the happiest man in the world."
"But you could not be happy unless I was happy also?" she interrogated.
"But you would be happy. I should just lay myself out to make you as happy as a bird. By my soul, you would have a ripping time!"
"I don't think that is just what I want," she said, abstractedly. "Don't you think there is something greater in life than either of us have yet seen?"
He looked at her with as much astonishment in his eyes as if she had proposed suicide. "Greater," he said, in a tone of incredulity. "Well, I'm – I'm – . The truth is, Madeline, you're beyond me," he added, twisting suddenly round, and back again. "As if there could be anything greater. We might have a turn at Monte Carlo if you liked, or Homburg in the season, or – but the fact is, we might go anywhere. Think of it! You can't conceive of anything greater!"
"Oh, yes! I can," she answered quietly, but firmly. "There's nothing noble or heroic in living merely for self and pleasure."
"Noble! heroic!" he repeated, slowly, as if not quite comprehending. "Well, now, I wonder what preaching fool has been putting these silly notions into your head. Have you turned Methodist?"
"I don't know why you call such notions silly," she said, ignoring his last question. "Did not Christ say that a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth?"
"Oh! well, I'm not going to say anything against that as an abstract thing," he said. "But the Bible must not be taken too literally, you know."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, I mean what I say, and what every man, if he's got any sense, means. Religion is a very respectable thing, and all that. And I think everybody ought to go to church now and then and take communion, and be confirmed when he's young, and all that. And if people are very poor there must be a lot of comfort in believing in Providence, don't you see, and in living in hope that they'll have a jolly good time later on, and all that, don't you see. But as for making oneself miserable for other people, and denying oneself that somebody else may have a better time, and turning the other cheek, and all that, don't you see – well, that's just rot, and can't be done."
"Why not?"
"Why not? Well, it's just too silly for words. Fancy a man or a woman not having a good time if he has the chance."
"But it may be more blessed to give than to receive."
"Don't you believe it, Madeline. I believe in taking a common-sense view of life. We've only one life to live, and it's our duty to squeeze all the juice out of it that we can."
"But may not the pursuit of self end in missing self? Is there not more joy in pursuing duty than in chasing pleasure?"
"Look here, Madeline," he said, after a long pause, staring hard at her, "tell me candidly who's been putting these silly notions into your pretty little head."
"I wish you would not talk to me as though I had the head of a baby," she said, a little indignantly. "You should remember that I am no longer a child," and she turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Gervase went off to the library at once to interview his father. The days were passing away, and he was getting no nearer the realisation of his desire. All his interviews with her ended where they began. Whenever he approached the subject nearest his heart and his interests, she always managed to shunt him off to some side issue.
Sir Charles was busy writing letters, but he looked up at once when Gervase entered.
"Can you spare time for a little talk?" the son asked, abruptly.
"Why, of course I can," was the reply. "Is there something particular you wish to talk about?"
"Well, the truth is," he said, in a tone of irritation, "I am not getting on with Madeline a bit."
"Perhaps you are too eager and impatient. You must remember that Madeline is not the girl to be driven."
"Yes, I've heard that before," he said, angrily. "You have always harped on that string. But you've been in the wrong, I'm sure you have. If you'd only let me have my way I would have proposed to her three years ago."
"And spoiled everything."
"No, I should have won everything. She was only a girl then, and was immensely gone on me. A soldier in her eyes was a hero, and an officer's uniform the most splendid thing she could imagine. If I'd struck then, when the iron was hot, she'd have fallen into my arms, and once engaged there'd have been no backing out."
"My dear boy, you don't know Madeline Grover," Sir Charles said, seriously. "No girlish promise would have bound her if she wanted to get out of it."
"Oh, yes, it would. She has tremendously high notions about honour and duty."
"Exactly. That's just where you fail to appreciate the difficulties of the situation. Very likely you tell her that some of her notions are silly, because you don't understand them."
"That's just what I have been telling her this very morning."
"And you think that's the way, perhaps, to win her promise."
"But what's a fellow to do? One cannot sit mum while she talks rot about – about – "
"About what?"
"Oh! I don't know; but you know when a girl gets on to heroics she generally makes a fool of herself."
"Madeline is very sane as a general thing."
"Then why in the name of common-sense doesn't she jump?"
"She wants to make sure of her ground, perhaps."
"But she knows who I am and who you are, and, surely, it's something to ask a nameless girl to marry into a family like ours."
"I confess I expected she would be more impressed than she is."
"Does she know she's got the tin?"
"I don't think so. She thinks we have the wealth and the position, and everything else."
"And yet she doesn't jump. I'd no idea she'd hold out as she is doing."
"You'll have to humour her, Gervase. I've told you from the first she's not to be driven. Sympathise with her in what you call her heroics. Encourage her in her mental flight after great ideals."
Gervase shook his head, and looked blank. "It's no use, father," he said, despondingly, "I should only make a fool of myself if I tried. Nature never gave me any wings of that sort."
"At any rate, don't contradict her, and call her a goose, and assume the airs of a superior person."
"But surely I know a mighty lot more than she does. Think of my age and experience, and remember I haven't travelled over half the world with my eyes shut."
"It is not experience of the world, but knowledge of the ways of women you want. It isn't strength, but diplomacy that you need."
"You think she will come round in time, don't you?"
"Oh, yes! I think so, provided you play your cards with skill. She has never said 'no' has she?"
"That isn't the trouble exactly. She has never said 'yes,' and until she says it I'm not safe. You know she comes of age in May."
"Well?"
"You take it very coolly, father," Gervase said, in a tone of irritation. "I don't think it is at all well. Madeline is my only hope. Unless I marry a rich woman I'm stranded – absolutely stranded."
"You've not been getting into deeper debt, I hope?"
"I've not been getting into shallower water, you may bet your bottom dollar on that."
"Am I to understand that you have been anticipating events?"
"I have a little. I thought I was perfectly safe in doing so. Your letters indicated that the way was quite clear, that Madeline looked upon the thing as settled, that she knew it was her father's wish, that you were quite agreeable, that everything was as straight as straight could be."
"But I never saw her letters to you."
"They were almost entirely satisfactory, I can assure you. She did not accept my proposal, it is true. But – well – she couldn't have written in a more friendly way. She thought we should meet again first, that was all. No hint of any delay after I came back."
"I hope you haven't been disappointing her in some way."
"I believe she is a bit disappointed at my retiring from the army. Like most girls, she dotes on a soldier. She loves the uniform and the gold braid and all that. But I told her I gave up the army that I might devote myself to her."
"And did that satisfy her?"
"I don't know. I can't make out exactly where she is. She seems to have changed in some way. If she hadn't lived under your eye ever since she has been in England I should be half disposed to think some other fellow had been making love to her."
Sir Charles gave a little start, then turned his head, and contemplated his writing pad.
"I suppose she didn't flirt with anybody while you were in London?" Gervase questioned, after a pause.
"Not that I am aware of, Oh, no! I'm certain she didn't," Sir Charles replied, looking up again.
"And, of course, in St. Gaved there's nobody she would look at for a moment," Gervase went on.
Sir Charles nibbled for a moment at the end of his penholder. He hardly knew whether to tell Gervase or no. It was but a vague fear at most. For months – so he believed – she had never seen Rufus Sterne, and his name was never mentioned under any circumstances. Gervase was a violent fellow, and if he were made jealous there was no knowing what he might do or say. On the other hand, it was almost certain that he would hear the story of Madeline's adventure on the cliffs sooner or later, and then he would be excessively angry at not having been told by his own people.
On the whole, Sir Charles concluded that he had better let Gervase know all there was to be known. The simple truth might gain in importance in his eyes the longer it was kept from him.
"I don't think, Gervase, you need have the least fear that you have a rival," he said, at length, looking up with what he intended to be a reassuring smile. "There was a little circumstance some months ago that caused me a moment's uneasiness; but only a moment's. I soon saw that it meant nothing, that it never could mean anything, in fact."
"What was the circumstance?" Gervase asked, with a quick light of interest in his eyes.
"Well, it came about in this way," and Sir Charles told in an off-hand and apparently indifferent manner the story of Madeline's escapade.
Gervase listened in gloomy silence, tugging vigorously at his moustache all the time.
"And you say she visited him in his diggings?" he questioned, sullenly, when Sir Charles had finished.
"I understand she called twice. From her point of view it seemed right enough. He had broken his leg in rescuing her, and with her American notions of freedom and independence, she saw no harm in calling to see him when he was getting better."
"But you say she went twice?"
"She went a second time to take him some books she had promised to lend him."
"Are you sure she went only twice?"
"I think I may say yes to that question. Madeline is very truthful and very frank, and when I pointed out that it was scarcely in harmony with our English notions of propriety she fell in with the suggestion at once."
"And she made no attempt to see him after?"
"Not the smallest. She had expressed her gratitude and the episode had closed."
Gervase looked thoughtful, and not quite satisfied.
"Madeline can be as close as an oyster when she likes," he said, after a pause; "how do you know she has not been thinking about the fellow ever since?"
"Why should she?"
"Well, why shouldn't she? He saved her life, that is no small matter, especially to a romantic temperament like hers. He broke his leg, and nearly lost his life in doing it; that would add greatly to the interest of the situation. Then, if I remember rightly, he's a singularly handsome rascal, with an easy flow of speech, and a voice peculiarly rich and flexible."
"My dear boy, you can make a mountain out of a molehill, if you like," Sir Charles said, with a laugh. "That's your look-out. I thought it right to tell you everything – this incident among the rest; but I can assure you you need not worry yourself five seconds over the matter."