Anonymous

Beside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back to him.

"I beg your pardon," said Lord Glengall at his elbow. "I have returned for some things Miss Graydon left behind her."

"These?" asked the young fellow, pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets on the moss. But even in his anger he blushed for the unhappiness of the position.

Lord Glengall stooped and picked up the things, and stuffed them into one of the pockets of his rough coat. He turned as if to go away. Then he hesitated an instant and came back.

"There is no reason why we should be enemies," he said, advancing a step nearer.

"No?" replied Anthony Trevithick, lifting his moody eyes. "That depends."

"On what, sir?"

"On—a great many things," stammered the young man.

"You mean on whether I am prepared to stand aside and to sacrifice everything that you may have your will. I know the state of affairs, you see."

"I meant to seek you out and tell you, Lord Glengall. I ought to say, perhaps, that Miss Graydon is without reproach in this matter."

"Neither of us is likely to wrong her in our thoughts, I hope," said Lord Glengall. "The question is, whether you are without reproach."

"By what right——" began the younger man.

"Hush!" said the other, with a dignity that was more compelling than his words. "We are speaking as man to man. Miss Graydon has told me something of how affairs lay between you and her, but not all. Why did you leave her in the first instance in the position of a half-engaged girl?"

"Are you her ambassador?"

"She is dearer to me, I dare swear, than she is to you, though you will not believe it. There is no use in beating about the bush. If I think you can make her happier than I can, I am prepared to give her back her promise."

"Lord Glengall!"

A gesture silenced the words on his lips.

"Don't say anything, please. If I do it, I do it for her. And I shall only give her up to you if I am sure you are worthy."

"I don't say I am worthy, but I have a fairly clean record. As for that matter, I will explain. I was unwise, but I was not altogether to blame. My mother has a greatly loved young cousin. She has been in the house with us since her mother died some years ago. It was a scheme of my mother's that we should marry, though it was not openly expressed. I did not oppose it. I had no idea what love meant till I saw Pamela; but I had fetched and carried for Lady Kitty. Probably a great number of people thought we were engaged; and it seemed to me that I ought to set the matter straight before I was formally engaged to Pamela."

"It would have been better to have let Pamela alone till you were quite free."

"Yes, I know, but——"

"There; you are young. You can't be expected to be as deliberate as an older man. You meant to act straight by her?"

"I meant to come back in a week a free man. When I was called away to my uncle's sick bed, my mother made me promise not to speak, not to try to clear up things with Lady Kitty, till I returned. I did write to Mr. Graydon, but the letter never reached him." He blushed hotly and paused.

"Yes, I know," interrupted Lord Glengall. "When you came back?"

"When I came back, I found—Pamela engaged to you, and my cousin engaged to a great friend of mine. As it proved, she had never thought of me in that way; but her affection for my mother prevented her from speaking out."

"You should have written again to Mr. Graydon. You made Pamela unhappy."

"I thought he had not written because I said I would come as soon as I could. Then I was kept week after week, till the time turned into months. I am deeply sorry that I caused her unhappiness."

"This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"It is absolutely the truth, and nothing else."

"Very well, Sir Anthony, I believe you. If you had not been straight, I should have held her to the letter of her bond against you and the world, even against herself. Now—in her heart she has chosen you, and you are a fitter mate for her than I—I resign her to you."

"Lord Glengall!"

"I do not ask your thanks, sir. Make her happy—that is all. For the rest, I have one word of advice for you."

"Whatever it is, I shall act upon it."

"Go back to-night to England."

"Without a word to Pamela?"

"Let her be. I will say what is necessary. You will have to win her again, young sir. She is not the girl to change her lovers like her frocks."

"Perhaps you are right, sir," with hesitation.

"Go," said Lord Glengall, waving him away, "go! If you speak to her in her present mood, you will be sorry. Let her be free of both of us for a while."

"You, too, will leave her?"

"I shall leave her till all this is forgotten. It will be nothing new for me to set out for the ends of the earth at an hour's notice."

"You are, as Pamela says, the best man living."

"Stop!" said Lord Glengall, with a gesture as if he could not endure the praise. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," repeated Sir Anthony, turning away.

Several times as he went homeward Lord Glengall stooped to pat the shaggy coat of the terrier who still trotted by him.

"You don't know poetry, old fellow," he said once aloud, "but there was a poet named Shakespeare who wrote something about people coming back 'to push us from our stools.' I am not good at remembering poetry; but that young gentleman we have just left has come back to push us from our stools—to push us from our stools."

The dog, as if he understood, thrust a sympathetic nose into his companion's hand.

When Lord Glengall reached Carrickmoyle, he went straight to Mr. Graydon's room. Mary was sitting by her father, stitching a piece of fine white stuff in the twilight.

"Ah! Glengall," said the invalid briskly. "Have you come in to smoke a last pipe with me? Come and tell me what prices were like at the fair to-day. Run away, Molly child, and rest your eyes, and let Glengall have your seat."

The two men lit up soberly, and smoked away for a while, discussing prices and cattle and crops in a desultory fashion.

At last Lord Glengall knocked out the ashes from his stumpy clay against the top bar of the grate, and stuffed the pipe into his pocket.

"I wanted to talk to you about Pam, Graydon," he said.

"What about Pam?"

"Only that I did the child an injustice in wanting to marry her. I am too old."

"Does Pam say this? Are you speaking for her?"

"Poor little Pam! There were some love-passages, Graydon, between her and your pupil Trevithick."

"I guessed as much, but how far the thing went I have no idea. I don't believe in probing into those things, Glengall. It is better to let them die."

"Had you any idea that the young fellow might possibly ask for her?"

"I hoped so once, not because it would be a good marriage for Pam, or anything of that sort, but because I thought him a good lad, and I believed in his father's son. I was disappointed that he turned out so different from my expectations."

"Would you be surprised to hear that he wrote to you about Pam immediately after he left, and that his mother intercepted the letter?"

"His mother!"

"Yes; she had other views for him."

"I wonder why she came here, why she troubled our peace, and forced her hospitality on Pam, who didn't want it?" said Mr. Graydon musingly.

"To make a parting between the lad and Pam more certain. She told Pam he was engaged to his cousin; and in other ways made the child's visit miserable."

"My poor Pam! I remember she hated to go."

"I am sorry the boy has such a mother."

"Yet I remember her a very noble-looking girl. I don't think she was made for mean things."

"Ah! well, we can let her be. She is sufficiently punished, poor woman, by her son's scorn. That must be a terrible thing to endure."

"And she is a proud woman."

"However, Graydon, we are not concerned with her. The state of the case is this: The young people were in love with each other, and were parted by a fraud. Under a total misapprehension, Pamela has engaged herself to me. Now that the misapprehension is removed, what is the clear course for me to take?"

"I should ask Pamela, Glengall."

"Pamela is at this moment in a mood in which it would not be safe to take her at her word. The only thing for me to do is to step down and out."

"Glengall!" said Mr. Graydon, laying a hand on his.

"Don't pity me just now, Graydon. Frankly, I'm not equal to it."

"Have you told Pam?"

"I shall tell her. Afterwards I shall go away till the nine days' wonder is forgotten."

"Glengall, I wish this had not happened."

"There is one way in which you can atone to me for its bitterness—I don't mind confessing to you that it is bitter."

"And that way?"

"You must borrow from me what will take you abroad. You must; it is for their sakes."

"Very well; if there is no other way. I shall repay you, I hope."

"You have plenty of time before you to grow rich in. When you come back next spring, you must finish your magnum opus."

Mr. Graydon rubbed his hands in boyish cheerfulness.

"I shall feel equal to tackling it after a change. I'm afraid I've been vegetating, and the mosses and mildew have grown upon me. You have lived, Glengall, while I was growing into a worthless old block."

"It is you who have lived," said Lord Glengall. "You have lived naturally. When I die, it is the end of my line, and I shall have no one to close my eyes."

When he found Pam in the drawing-room alone, a little later, he drew her to him, and kissed her hair where it clustered over the white forehead.

"I have brought your pretty things, Pam," he said, fumbling in his pocket.

"And you have forgiven me?"

"I have forgiven you, dear."

He fastened the little chain about her neck and the bracelet on her wrist.

"You will wear them for me, Pam?" he said. "I should not know what to do with them."

"And my ring?" said Pam, wondering.

"I have taken back the ring. You are free, Pam; free as air."

"But I don't want to be free."

"You did yesterday, Pam, and you will to-morrow. I have seen Sir Anthony, Pam. He is guiltless, and will come again."

"I do not want him to come," cried Pam with a great sob.

"I sent him away because I was afraid if he came to you now you would make him and yourself unhappy. He hated to go, but he went. He will come again. You will be good to him, Pam, because you love him. Now, good-bye, my dear. I shall come back when you are married."

Pamela's hands were over her eyes, and she was crying quietly.

"Another thing, Pam," he said. "I have arranged with your father. He is to winter abroad."

"Sylvia will see to that," she answered. "Miss Spencer has made it easy for her. At least, we need not take that from you."

"You have given me great happiness," he repeated. "And now, good-bye, my dear, good-bye."

A day or two later Carrickmoyle was startled by the news that Lord Glengall had sailed for Australia.