Chapter 72
retorted Claud, angrily. "Are you going to offer yourself to Miss Allonby in the midst of her domestic trouble?"
"Yes, certainly. I am no fancy lover to sing madrigals in my lady's bower. If I have any merit in her eyes, it shall be as one ready to help her in her hour of need. I can at least say to her, 'Here am I, my house, my lands, my money, all to be spent in your service; use them all, for they are freely yours.'"
"And I," faltered Claud, in an undertone, "can only say, 'I have no house, no lands, no money; all I can offer is myself, and that I withheld as long as I could.' I congratulate you, Fowler. You ought to win in a canter."
Henry laughed somewhat bitterly.
"Ought I? Perhaps, if Miss Allonby were likely to be swayed by such considerations. But she will marry for love, and only for love. Claud, what makes me rail against you so is that I believe she loves you. You don't deserve it, but I am afraid she does. And you--if you do not value it as you should----" he paused, for there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," he said, irritably.
A waiter brought in a telegram for Claud. Hastily scanning it the young man turned to his rival.
"I am to bring you to dinner in Bruton Street," he said, after a pause.
"I am afraid you must come. Percivale is to be there."
"I will be ready in fifteen minutes," answered Henry; and he disappeared into the inner room.
Claud stood gazing into the red embers in the grate with an awful sinking of the heart--a horrible depression he had never felt before.
Now that he felt the possibility of losing Wynifred, he knew at last what his love was worth--knew that she was his life's one possibility of completion. Yet he had deserved to lose her.
Resting his arms on the mantel-piece, he let his fair head fall disconsolately upon them.
"My love, my dear," he whispered, "he is more worthy of you than I; and yet I believe that you belong to me--that I, with all my faults, could make you happier than he could. Choose me, Wynifred--my beloved, choose me!"
CHAPTER XLVI.
To have her lion roll in a silken net, And fawn at a victor's feet.
_Maud._
The news from Mansfield Road next morning defeated for a time the designs of both the aspirants after Wynifred Allonby's hand.
Ted Haldane had been able to bring a certain amount of comfort to Hilda and Jacqueline. He had been to Osmond's bankers, and found that the young man had that morning drawn out a considerable sum. This certainly seemed to negative any idea of suicidal intentions. But no further clue was forthcoming. The porter believed that Mr. Allonby, on leaving the bank, hailed a hansom and drove off; but even on this head he was by no means sure.
It was the opinion, however, both of Henry Fowler and Mr. Haldane that Osmond would himself send news of his present whereabouts in a few days'
time, when he had cooled down somewhat. But Wynifred was unable to derive comfort from the news, such as it was, for when she recovered from her long fainting-fit she was quite delirious. For the next few days the two poor girls had a time of terrible anxiety. The third morning brought a brief, reckless note from Osmond in Paris. It was merely to let them know that he was alive. He could
No words could express the comfort which Mr. Fowler was able to afford the desolate girls. He saw that Wynifred had the best advice in London, and everything that money could procure; and when, in a week's time, the doctors were able to declare with confidence that the dreaded brain-fever had been averted, it was hard to tell who most rejoiced in the fact.
Meantime, the engagement of Elsa to Mr. Percivale was publicly announced. The marriage was to take place immediately after Easter, and, as the young lady totally declined to be married in Devons.h.i.+re, two of the Misses Willoughby were coming to town almost immediately to take a furnished house for a couple of months. After all, it was but natural that the girl should shrink from a place which had such terrible a.s.sociations for her.
Percivale sympathised entirely with her in this matter, as in everything. It was extraordinary for outsiders to watch the utter subjugation of his strong nature by the power of his love. Only one thing did certainly trouble him. His betrothed could not bear the quaint old dark house overlooking the river. It was exactly suited to the disposition of the young man who, as Claud said, always seemed to be trying to escape from his own century, somehow. He had improved the house, spent large sums of money upon it, and it was, indeed, the one spot in the modern roar of London wherein he felt entirely at home. His life of seclusion had, of course, rendered him shy. Going much into society was a trouble to him. But who wanted to find Elsa must needs go into society to seek her, and he thought she more than repaid the effort. Of course, if she found the house dull, it must be sold; but he had persuaded her graciously to consent to live in it for a few months first, just to try. Immediately on their marriage, he was going to take her to Schwannberg, that she might see the bursting of the glorious South German spring; but here again occurred a slight difference between them. He would have liked to linger, but this did not suit his bride.
It would be dreadful, she urged, to waste these precious months cooped up in such a remote corner of the world. She must be in town by the middle of May, to have her first taste of a London season.
This was a definite trial to Leon; but all his tastes were gradually undergoing such a complete revolution that he was willing on all occasions to think himself in the wrong. When first Elsa had fixedly declared that a month was the longest honeymoon she would suffer, the idea had greatly ruffled him. They had parted in much offence on the lady's part, and some unhappiness on the gentleman's.
Next day he presented himself with a mixture of feelings at Burton Street. Fate was propitious. Lady Mabel was out at a calisthenic cla.s.s with her children and the governess. Elsa was alone in the boudoir, attired in a tea-gown of delicate silk, and seated near the fire with a little sick terrier of his which she had undertaken to doctor. At her lover's entrance she half looked up, then turned slowly away and devoted her attention to the dog. Percivale stood in the doorway, his hand on the lock, his fine head thrown back.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Pray do," said a small and frigid voice.
He closed the door and came forward, his daily offering of flowers in his hand. Pausing before her--
"Are you angry with me, Elsa?" he asked, miserably.
"I thought _you_ were angry with _me_," she said, in low and injured tones.
"My darling, no." He knelt down beside her. "Only I was a little disappointed to think--to think that you would not be happy alone with me----"
She shot a shy glance at him from beneath her heavy lashes.
"I do not know you very well yet," said she softly.
"Are you afraid of me, Elsa?"
A suggestive pause, during which he hung breathless on every change which swept over the lovely face.
"I do not quite understand you," faltered she at last.
"I only plead to be allowed to explain myself," he murmured. "What is it, love? I am so unused to women, you must be good to me, and help me, and forgive me if I am not gentle enough. What is it you do not understand?"
"Is our honeymoon only to last as long as our wedding journey?" slowly asked the girl. "Will you not love me as well in London as in Tyrol?
Will you change when that little month is over? For me, I shall love you as dearly, wherever we are."
"My beloved!" he flung his arm about her in a rapture; for Miss Brabourne, as a rule, was very wisely sparing of her professions of attachment. "You are right--I was wrong. Our honeymoon will last for ever--what matters where we spend it?"
"That was what I thought--no, Leon, you must not kiss me again--once is quite enough. Be good and listen to me while I talk to you a little."
She pa.s.sed her arm round his neck as he knelt, and, with her other hand, pushed up the soft curling rings of his bright hair. He closed his eyes with rapture as he felt the touch.
"You say," said Elsa, stroking softly, "that you do not care for society, that you dislike London in the season."
"And that is true, my own----"
"Now, how do you know? Have you tried society?"
"No, never. I have always avoided it!"
"And how many seasons have you been through?"
"Not one."
"There, you see! Now, Leon, look at me!" Daintily placing a finger beneath his chin, she turned his face up to hers. "Is it fair to say you dislike a thing you have never tried? How can you tell beforehand? Is it not, perhaps, a little wee bit selfish of you?"