The Complete Works of J. M. Barrie (With Illustrations). James Matthew Barrie
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There was a silence between them, which was at last broken by the colonel.
'What you have told me,' he said, 'is a great surprise, more especially with regard to my daughter. Being but a child at the time, however, she could not, I am confident, have thought of you in any other light than as her father's friend. It is, of course, on that footing that you return now?'
'As her father's friend, certainly, I hope,' said the baronet firmly, 'but I wish to tell you now that my regard for her has never changed. I confess I would have been afraid to come back to you had not my longing to see her again given me courage.'
'She has not the least idea of this,' murmured the colonel, 'not the least. The fact is that Mary has lived so quietly with me here that she is still a child. Miss Meredith, whom I dare say you have met here, has been almost her only friend, and I am quite certain that the thought of marriage has never crossed their minds. If you, or even if I, were to speak of such a thing to Mary, it would only frighten her.'
'I should not think of speaking to her on the subject at present,' the baronet interposed, rather hurriedly, 'but I thought it best to explain my position to you. You know what I am, that I have been almost a vagrant on the face of the earth since I reached manhood, but no one can see more clearly than I do myself how unworthy I am of her.'
'I do not need to tell you,' said the colonel, taking the baronet's hand, 'that I used to like you, Dowton, and indeed I know no one whom I would prefer for a son-in-law. But you must be cautious with Mary.'
'I shall be very cautious,' said the baronet; 'indeed there is no hurry, none whatever.'
Colonel Abinger would have brought the conversation to a close here, but there was something more for Dowton to say.
'I agree with you,' he said, forgetting, perhaps, that the colonel had not spoken on this point, 'that Miss Abinger should be kept ignorant for the present of the cause that drove me on that former occasion from the castle.'
'It is the wisest course to adopt,' said the colonel, looking as if he had thought the matter out step by step.
'The only thing I am doubtful about,' continued Dowton, 'is whether Miss Abinger will not think that she is entitled to some explanation. She cannot, I fear, have forgotten the circumstances of my departure.'
'Make your mind easy on that score,' said the colonel; 'the best proof that Mary gave the matter little thought, even at the time, is that she did not speak of it to me. Sweet seventeen has always a short memory.'
'But I have sometimes thought since that Miss Abinger did care for me a little, in which case she would have unfortunate cause to resent my flight.'
While he spoke the baronet was looking anxiously into the colonel's face.
'I can give you my word for it,' said the colonel cheerily, 'that she did not give your disappearance two thoughts; and now I much question whether she will recognise you.'
Dowton's face clouded, but the other misinterpreted the shadow.
'So put your mind at rest,' said the colonel kindly, 'and trust an old stager like myself for being able to read into a woman's heart.'
Shortly afterwards Colonel Abinger left his guest, and for nearly five minutes the baronet looked dejected. It is sometimes advantageous to hear that a lady with whom you have watched the moon rise has forgotten your very name, but it is never complimentary. By and by, however, Sir Clement's sense of humour drove the gloom from his chiselled face, and a glass bracket over the mantelpiece told him that he was laughing heartily.
It was a small breakfast party at the castle next morning, Sir Clement and Greybrooke being the only guests, but the baronet was so gay and morose by turns that he might have been two persons. In the middle of a laugh at some remark of the captain's, he would break off with a sigh, and immediately after sadly declining another cup of coffee from Mary, he said something humorous to her father. The one mood was natural to him and the other forced, but it would have been difficult to decide which was which. It is, however, one of the hardest things in life to remain miserable for any length of time on a stretch. When Dowton found himself alone with Mary his fingers were playing an exhilarating tune on the window-sill, but as he looked at her his hands fell to his side, and there was pathos in his fine eyes. Drawn toward her, he took a step forward, but Miss Abinger said 'No' so decisively that he stopped irresolute.
'I shall be leaving the castle in an hour,' Sir Clement said slowly.
'Papa told me,' said Mary, 'that he had prevailed upon you to remain for a week.'
'He pressed me to do so, and I consented, but you have changed everything since then. Ah, Mary——'
'Miss Abinger,' said Mary.
'Miss Abinger, if you would only listen to what I have to say. I can explain everything. I——'
'There is nothing to explain,' said Mary, 'nothing that I have either a right or a desire to hear. Please not to return to this subject again. I said everything there was to say last night.'
The baronet's face paled, and he bowed his head in deep dejection. His voice was trembling a little, and he observed it with gratification as he answered—
'Then, I suppose, I must bid you good-bye?'
'Good-bye,' said Mary. 'Does papa know you are going?'
'I promised to him to stay on,' said Sir Clement, 'and I can hardly expect him to forgive me if I change my mind.'
This was put almost in the form of a question, and Mary thought she understood it.
'Then you mean to remain?' she asked.
'You compel me to go,' he replied dolefully.
'Oh no,' said Mary, 'I have nothing to do with your going or staying.'
'But it—it would hardly do for me to remain after what took place last night,' said the baronet, in the tone of one who was open to contradiction.
For the first time in the conversation Mary smiled. It was not, however, the smile every man would care to see at his own expense.
'If you were to go now,' she said, 'you would not be fulfilling your promise to papa, and I know that men do not like to break their word to—to other men.'
'Then you think I ought to stay?' asked Sir Clement eagerly.
'It is for you to think,' said Mary.
'Perhaps, then, I ought to remain—for Colonel Abinger's sake,' said the baronet.
Mary did not answer.
'Only for a few days,' he continued almost appealingly.
'Very well,' said Mary.
'And you won't think the worse of me for it?' asked Dowton anxiously. 'Of course, if I were to consult my own wishes I would go now, but as I promised Colonel Abinger——'
'You will remain out of consideration for papa. How could I think worse of you for that?'
Mary rose to leave the room, and as Sir Clement opened the door for her he said—
'We shall say nothing of all this to Colonel Abinger?'
'Oh no, certainly not,' said Mary.
She glanced up in his face, her mouth twisted slightly to one side, as it had a habit of doing when she felt disdainful, and the glory of her beauty filled him of a sudden. The baronet pushed the door close and turned to her passionately, a film over his eyes and his hands outstretched.
'Mary,' he cried, 'is there no hope for me?'
'No,' said Mary, opening the door for herself, and passing out.
Sir Clement stood there motionless for a minute. Then he crossed to the fireplace, and sank into a luxuriously cushioned chair. The sunlight came back to his noble face.
'This is grand, glorious,' he murmured, in an ecstasy of enjoyment.
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