Paddy-The-Next-Best-Thing. Gertrude Page
it had done the face of his father, and made everything worth while. He bent down with a look of fond amusement, and kissed her forehead.
“I don’t know why in the world I went to the trouble of making up my mind not to come,” he said; “I should have saved my energy, realising that a wilful woman always has her way.”
Mrs. Blake smiled a little wistfully, and moved toward the door, which he hastened to open for her. She was thinking if only she could conjure up that lightning smile, with its extraordinary charm, a little oftener, or if only he would—
But what was the use of expecting Lawrence to be rational and considerate. Had he ever been? He was tired of gaiety, yet he hated monotony. Tired of idleness, yet indifferent to his estate. Tired of flirting, yet averse to considering marriage. Full of latent possibilities of achieving, that he was too indolent to develop. She hoped someone, or something, would sting him alive some day, but at present he persisted in adopting the rôle of the blasé looker-on, and no one appeared to have any influence over him whatever.
For his part, left alone, Lawrence once more sank into the roomy, inviting-looking chair, instead of going out, and watched his cigarette smoke with a cogitating air.
He was thinking of Eileen Adair.
She had probably grown prettier than ever since he last saw her, and he had an artist’s appreciation of beauty. He was glad that she would be there. Her high-flown idealistic sentiments would probably be somewhat boring, but, on the other hand, she was simple and natural, with a simpleness and naturalness that were decidedly refreshing for a change. And then there was that young fool, Jack O’Hara, at the rectory, who could look such outspoken dislike, and seemed to develop rather a sudden fancy for Eileen whenever Lawrence was winning her smiles, and he, himself, overlooked. It would be rather amusing to annoy him.
Yes, since he must go to humour his mother, he was glad Eileen would be there. They would go on where they left off for a little while. He was not quite sure at what stage that was, but it involved many very sweet, serious upward glances from a pair of exceedingly beautiful eyes, and some enlightening on his part that was entertaining, because so surprising. Of course he would be circumspect, and not intentionally mislead her. He would, in fact, make a point of shocking her, partly for her own sake, and partly, because, when a girl became fond of him, she usually bored him to extinction at once. After which, he once more got up and prepared to go to the club.
“I shall not be in to dinner,” he told the butler as he went out, having forgotten to mention the fact to his mother, and half an hour later he was making a fourth at bridge at a table called the Monte Carlo table, because the players always played for specially high stakes; and, except with an interval for dinner, would continue until the early hours of the morning.
And on the mountain side, Eileen was dreaming, and Jack was trying to fathom her, and both were alike in vain.
Chapter Seven.
Lawrence Finds Eileen on the Shingles.
For several paces after the encounter at Warrenpoint, neither Jack nor Eileen spoke, and though he tried hard to see her face, she kept it resolutely turned from him toward the Loch.
“Is Mr. Blake’s friend someone staying with them?” she asked at last.
“I expect so,” he answered. “I don’t remember ever seeing her before.”
Eileen was feeling a little sick and dazed, so when they met Paddy and Ted Masterman, she suggested at once that they should return home, and Paddy, feeling irritated with things in general, agreed with alacrity.
“Oh, by the way,” she remarked later, as they were going up to bed, “Mr. Masterman and I met Lawrence Blake with that Harcourt girl, who used to stay with them. She’s a cousin or something, don’t you remember? Lawrence used to say she could talk as fast as three ordinary women in one, but that as she never expected to be answered, it was rather a rest, because you needn’t listen. That’s how he looked to-night; as if he were taking a rest.”
“Are you sure it was Miss Harcourt? I didn’t recognise her.”
“Quite sure. She looks very different with her hair up, that’s all. I should have stopped them, but I heard her say they were very late, and they seemed in a hurry, so I didn’t.”
Eileen turned away in silence, but a weight was lifted off her mind.
The following day, as she was sitting reading by the water, while Jack and Paddy were out fishing, a firm step on the shingle suddenly roused her, and Lawrence himself approached.
“How do you do?” he said, with a pleasant smile. “I came down here before going up to the house, rather expecting to find some of you such a beautiful afternoon.”
Eileen shook hands simply, with the usual greetings, but a lovely flood of colour, that she could not control, spread over her face, and was noted with a certain amount of gratification by Lawrence’s experienced eye.
“It’s pleasant to be seeing old friends again,” he said. “May I sit down?”
She moved to make more room for him, and asked at once after his mother and sisters.
“Mother is very well,” he said, “and the girls are full of frocks and hair-dressing. There’s to be a big dance next month, and I suppose I shall have to stay for it.”
“Were you going away again, then?”
“I rarely stay long anywhere,” a little ambiguously.
“Have you decided where to go?”
“Not quite. I shall not decide until a few days before starting, I expect. But how is everybody at The Ghan House? Does his lordship of the rectory hate me as cordially as ever? I see Paddy has not yet managed to get herself transported to a better clime.”
While Eileen replied to his questions, her slender white hands played a little nervously with a flower, and her deep eyes fluttered between the distant mountains and her companion’s face. She felt he was studying her, and knew there was admiration in his eyes, and her heart felt foolishly glad.
“Have we been away three whole years?” he said presently. “How strange! It seems like three months now I am back. Shall I find everyone as unchanged as you, Eileen?”
“I am three years older,” she said, with a little smile.
“Yes, but there are some people to whom the years make very little difference. I think you are one of them.”
“Yet I feel different.”
“How?” looking at her keenly.
“It wouldn’t be easy to describe. It is just different, that’s all,” and she gazed a little wistfully toward the mountains.
“I expect you are getting too thoughtful,” he said.
“You ought to go away somewhere, and see something of the world outside these mountains.”
“I am very fond of the mountains,” she told him simply. “I don’t want to go away. I do not think any place could be as lovely as this.”
“That is where you are wrong. I acknowledge the scenery among these mountains is very beautiful, but there are heaps of equally and indeed more beautiful places in the world.
“The only thing is one gets tired,” relapsing into a languid manner, that Eileen could not but see had gained upon him during his absence. “I’d give something not to have seen, nor heard, nor learned, more than you have. To have it all before me, instead of all behind.”
“But surely,”—leaning forward with ill-concealed eagerness—“the future