CHAPTER XVI.

THE EVENTS OF EIGHTEEN MONTHS.

"Time flies onward with tireless wings. Divers gifts to us all he brings, Joy and sorrow On every morrow, A thousand pleasures, a thousand stings.

"Love he hath brought to a maiden fair, Hate hath sundered a loving pair, Gauds that glitter, And memories bitter, Each of us born hath his fated share.

"Life is evil, the wise man saith. Joy comes but at the last-drawn breath, Earth's false pleasures Yield no treasures, There is no gift like the gift of death."

Perhaps it is due to the way we live now, or possibly to the inherent restlessness of the present generation, but Time certainly seems to pass more rapidly with us than it did with our grandfathers.

They lived in a delightfully leisurely fashion, not without its charm, and either stayed complacently at home, or, if they did travel, went in a sober-sides mode by stage coach and sailing vessel. If they did make a journey through Europe, it was called a Grand Tour, and seemed to have been somewhat after the style of a royal progress, Judging from the stately manner in which it was conducted. Ah, there is, no doubt, our steady-going ancestors knew the value of being idle, an art which we have quite lost, and took life in a wonderfully sedate way, sauntering, as it were, in an idle fashion, from the cradle to the grave.

We, alas, have changed this somnolent existence, and made the latter end of this nineteenth century somewhat trying to a man whose health is not of the best, or to him who desires to shine among his fellow creatures. The struggle for existence is keener, the survival of the fittest more certain than ever, and the art of enjoyment has resolved itself into a series of hurried glances at a multiplicity of things.

If we want to travel, steam whirls us from one end of the world to the other, giving us no time to examine things; if we wish to read, hundreds of books, fresh from the press, call for attention; if we desire to enjoy ourselves, theatres, balls, picture galleries, all offer their attractions in such profusion, that it is difficult to know where to begin. We have gained many aids to enjoyment, yet it is questionable if those very aids have not lost us the faculty itself; for a breathless scamper after pleasure, with a hurried glance here, and a momentary pause there, can hardly be called true enjoyment. The world, and we who live therein, are so busy getting things in order for the beginning of the next century, that all hands are pressed into the service, and no one has a moment to be idle, or to admire the profusion of good things spread before him.

Therefore, amid all this hurry and bustle, Time flies much more quickly than formerly; our ancestors yawned through twelve hours of leisurely work, we scarcely find twenty-four long enough for all we want to do. We eat, drink, marry, and give in marriage, welcome the newly born, and forget the newly dead, with the utmost despatch and rapidity, and no sooner is one year, with all its troubles and breathless enjoyment, at an end, than we have mapped out the cares of the next twelve months before they are fairly started.

Eighteen months had, therefore, passed very rapidly since the Erringtons took possession of the Hall, and a good many important events, both to nations and individuals, had happened in the meantime. It was now the middle of the London season, and those who had parted months before at Como, were now about to meet again under widely different circumstances.

Victoria Sheldon had duly returned home with Mrs. Trubbles, and taken up her abode once more with Aunt Jelly, who was privately very glad to see her, although she took good care that the girl should not know of such weakness on her part. She asked Victoria a good many questions concerning the people she had met abroad, and particularly about Otterburn, of whom Miss Sheldon gave an account quite at variance with the real state of affairs, carefully suppressing the fact that the young man had proposed and been refused. In fact, she passed over her acquaintance with him so very lightly, that she succeeded in deceiving lynx-eyed Miss Corbin as to her feelings towards him, and never, by word or deed, hinted that he had any interest for her in any way.

But although she might deceive the world, she could not deceive herself, and in reality she thought a good deal about the man she had rejected, regretting, with the curious caprice of a woman, that she had done so. The manner in which he had received her refusal had greatly impressed her, for it differed greatly from the behaviour of her other suitors, and if Angus had only asked her again a few months after her arrival in England, he would doubtless have gained her consent to the marriage.

Otterburn, however, had been deeply wounded at what he deemed her unjustifiable coquetry, and being intensely proud, resolved not to submit himself to a second slight, therefore kept out of her way. If some kind fairy had only brought these two foolish young people together, everything would doubtless have been arranged in a satisfactory manner between them, but as such aid was not forthcoming, seeing we live in times when Oberon has resigned his sceptre, they remained apart, each in ignorance of the other's feelings, and mutually blamed one another for the position of affairs.

Absence, in this case, made Victoria's heart grow fonder, and she felt that she was really and truly in love with Angus, but as she neither saw nor heard of him, she had to lock up her secret in her own breast, which did not add to the pleasures of life.

At the invitation of Lady Errington, she went down to the Hall at Christmas, and had a very pleasant time, despite her heart-ache, as her hostess made a great deal of her, and the young Nimrods of the county quite lost their heads over "Such a jolly girl who rode so straight to hounds, taking the fences like a bird, by Jove." She could have been married three or four times had she so chosen, but neither her suitors nor their possession of houses and lands tempted her, so she returned to town and Aunt Jelly still heart-whole, except as regarding the little affair of Angus Macjean.

During the season she kept a keen look-out for him at all the places she went to under the wing of Mrs. Trubbles, but Otterburn did not make his appearance, and it was only by chance that she heard he had gone to America for some big game shooting in the Rockies. Evidently there was no chance of his proposing a second time, and Victoria should have put all thought of his doing so out of her heart, but she felt that she loved him too much to do so, and hugged her secret with all its pain closer to her breast, until she grew pale and thin, so that Aunt Jelly became alarmed about her lungs, thinking she was going into consumption. With this idea the old lady, who hated change, took a villa at San Remo and stayed there for some months with Victoria and Minnie Pelch. The change did both girls good, and when the trio returned to Town, Aunt Jelly took Victoria a round of visits to several country houses, which proved so successful that Miss Sheldon quite recovered her lost spirits and came back to London eager for the pleasures of her third season in the great city.

While Victoria was thus paying the penalty of her prompt rejection of Otterburn's suit, that young gentleman was having by no means a pleasant time of it himself. The shooting expedition to the Carpathians had been a great success, and the excitement of sport had for the time quite put Victoria out of his head, notwithstanding the genuine love he had for the brilliant Australian beauty. Returned to England, however, he found his thoughts constantly running on her, and with her piquant face constantly in his mind he felt inclined to seek her and try his luck a second time, but his pride forbade him to do so, which was certainly a very foolish view to take of the subject.

Angus, however, was remarkably obstinate in some things, and, as he was determined not to run the chance of a second refusal, put himself out of the way of temptation by going up to Scotland on a visit to his father, thinking that at Dunkeld Castle, at least, he would have peace of mind. He was mistaken in this supposition, for his father, being delighted to find him so improved, immediately urged on him the necessity of a speedy marriage with Miss Cranstoun.

The Master, however, to his father's dismay, proved very obstinate on this point and flatly refused to marry the lady, which refusal brought down on him the wrath of both Lord Dunkeld and Mr. Mactab, who tried to bully the young reprobate into acquiescence. Plain-looking Miss Cranstoun, however, proved too much for Otterburn, seeing that the charming face of Victoria Sheldon was constantly haunting his fancy, and notwithstanding all the arts which were brought to bear on him, he held out against the match in the most stubborn manner.

Lord Dunkeld raved, and Mactab quoted Scripture, all to no purpose, and at length, becoming weary of dour looks and continual lectures, Otterburn abruptly left his ancestral home in company with Johnnie, and, together with the chum whom he had met in Venice, started for America in order to have some sport in the Rocky Mountains. The wrath of the home authorities at this unexpected revolt of the hitherto obedient Angus can be better imagined than described, but as there seemed to be absolutely no way of bringing the young man to reason, they were forced to let him do as he pleased. For very shame Lord Dunkeld could not cut off the allowance of his only son, so he had to acquiesce in impotent anger in Otterburn's disobedience, hoping that a lengthened tour in America would bring the young prodigal to reason and induce him to return to Dunkeld Castle and matrimony.

Submission such as this, however, was very far from Otterburn's thoughts, as he had made up his mind not to marry Miss Cranstoun, and moreover considered he was perfectly entitled to choose his own wife, seeing it was he who would have to live with her, so he went off to the States with a light heart. His adventures and that of his friends would take a long time to describe, as they had a splendid time of it in the Rockies after big game, and becoming quite enamoured of the uncivilized life drifted down Montana way, where they met with cow-boys and plenty of young Englishmen who were cattle ranching in the wilds.

During this wild existence, which had such an ineffable charm for them, Otterburn told his chum, a merry young fellow called Laxton, of his admiration for Victoria, whereupon Laxton, being versed in affairs of the heart, lectured his friend and advised him to once more try his luck.

"And I'll lay two dollars," said this sagacious young man, who had Americanised his speech, "that she won't say 'no' a second time."

With this idea in his head, Otterburn became anxious to return home, and Laxton, being somewhat tired of primeval simplicity, consented to leave the wide rolling prairies for the delights of Pall Mall. Laxton wanted to return in a leisurely fashion by making for San Francisco and going home again by New Zealand and Australia, but then he was heart-whole and had not the vision of a charming face constantly in his mind's eye. This fact being urged by Otterburn as an argument in favour of taking the shortest route possible to London, Laxton, being really a good-natured young fellow, consented, and leaving their delightfully savage life behind they went to New York. After a few days' stay in that city they went across to Liverpool by one of the big Cunarders, and duly arrived after a pleasant passage.

Laxton went off to see his people in Yorkshire, but Otterburn did not venture to trust himself within the grim walls of Dunkeld Castle, well knowing the stormy reception he would meet with, so journeyed straight to the Metropolis, where he engaged a comfortable set of chambers in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, and started on his matrimonial campaign with a dogged determination to succeed in winning Victoria Sheldon for his wife, or, in case of failure, to depart for an uninhabited island and live a Robinson Crusoe misogamistic existence till he died.

Many events had happened in the Errington household since the young couple had arrived at the Hall, the most important being the birth of a little boy, which had greatly rejoiced Guy's heart, as he now had an heir to succeed to the estates. Aunt Jelly also signified her approval in her own grim way, and actually stood godmother to the child, whom she insisted on christening Henry, after her old love, Sheldon, although no one knew or guessed her reason for doing so.

Eustace Gartney had been right in his estimate of Alizon's character, for the birth of the child transformed her from a cold statue into a loving, breathing woman, rendered perfect by her motherhood. No one who saw her, with her delicate face flushed with joy bending over the cradle of the child, would have thought it was the same woman who had been so chill and impassive in her appearance and demeanour. The cold, white snow-drop had changed into the warm, red rose, and the passionate idolatry she had for the child seemed to fill out and complete her life, hitherto so void and empty for the want of something to love.

Guy adored his little son, to whom, for some inexplicable reason, he gave the name of "Sammy," and laughingly averred that Alizon bestowed so much love on the son that she had none left for the father, which assertion his wife smilingly denied, though it was true in the main. Lady Errington gave up going out a great deal, devoting herself entirely to the child, so Guy was left to a great extent to himself, which he by no means relished; yet he made no complaint, as it would have seemed ridiculous to blame a mother for being over fond of her first born. Still, Guy felt a little sore on this point, and much as he had desired an heir and loved his son, he almost wished the child had never been born, so much did it seem to come between them. Had Alizon been a wise woman, she would have seen the folly of loving her child to the exclusion of her husband, but blinded by maternal love she neither saw nor felt anything that did not pertain to the tiny babe she clasped so ardently to her breast.

Mrs. Veilsturm made no further attempt to force her friendship on Lady Errington, but shortly after the rebuff she had received--the knowledge of which she kept to herself--departed for a trip on the Continent, which, for her, meant Monte Carlo, where she was afterwards joined in the most casual way by Major Griff. The partners were too clever to travel together, as it might have attracted attention, but when one was at any special place the other was sure to turn up a few weeks later on business connected with the West Indian estates. So on her return to England for the season, Mrs. Veilsturm told her dear friends that she had sold one estate, although, as a matter of fact, the money she averred she had received therefor was due to luck at the green tables.

Cleopatra and her friend were much more circumspect in their second season in London. They did not wish to run the risk of any more disagreeable reports, and as their winnings at Monte Carlo had been very large the firm was enabled to dispense, to some extent, with baccarat on Sunday evenings. Mrs. Veilsturm fully re-established her position in London, and the Major was more devoted than ever, so the charming widow departed for her health to Algiers with the good wishes of everyone.

"Next year, Maraquita," said the Major in a satisfied tone, as they discussed their plans in a pleasant room looking out on to the blue waters of the Mediterranean, "we will go in for making money and then we can go off to America."

"I don't like giving up London," objected Mrs. Veilsturm angrily.

"You must, sooner or later," replied Major Griff shrewdly. "However, we will get together as much cash next season as we can, and if no one says anything so much the better, if they do--well, there is always America."

At the end of this eighteen months Eustace Gartney returned to Town, having heralded his appearance by a book of travels entitled "Arabian Knights," in which he described all his wanderings in the native land of Mahomet. Judging from the brilliant descriptions given in this book with its bizarre title, he seemed to have made good use of his time, and the fascinating pages of the volume opened an enchanted land to Western readers. The mysterious deserts with their romantic inhabitants, the lonely cities far in the interior, whose very names were suggestive of the fantastic stories of the "Thousand and One Nights," the poetic descriptions of the melancholy wastes of sand, whose sadness seemed akin to his own sombre spirit, and the wayward fierceness of the Arab love-songs scattered like gems through the book all made up a charming volume, and even the critics, much as they disliked Eustace for the contempt and indifference with which he treated them, were fain to acknowledge that this "Arabian Knights," whose punning title they ridiculed, was a worthy addition to English literature.

Eustace himself, in spite of the wide interval of time which had elapsed, was now returning to England in very much the same frame of mind as that in which he had set out. He had gone away to forget Alizon Errington, and he came back more in love than ever, not with the real woman exactly but with an ideal woman whom he had created out of her personality. He was in love with a phantom of delight, conjured up by his vivid imagination, and fancied that she dwelt on earth in the guise of his cousin's wife, but, having still some feelings of honour left, he determined to avoid the earthly representation of his ideal, as he hardly judged himself strong enough to withstand the temptation.

With his usual egotistical complacency--a trait which all his travelling had failed to eradicate--he never for a moment thought of looking at the question from Lady Errington's point of view. He was Sultan, and if he threw the handkerchief she would follow, so he would be merciful both to this woman and to her husband, and put a curb on his desire to take her to himself. He came back to England it is true, but with the resolve only to stay a month, and then go to Egypt, as he had an idea of exploring the land of the Pharoahs in a new direction.

He loved Alizon Errington, or rather the glorified Alizon Errington of his imagination, and determined neither to see nor speak to her while in England, because he did not wish to ruin Guy's happiness. He heard she was a mother, and wondered if the change he had prophesied at Como had come over her. If so he would like to see it for himself; still the flesh was weak, and he did not know but that he might be tempted to make love to her, which would be distinctly wrong.

So Eustace Gartney, blinded by self-complacency, prosed on to himself as he travelled homeward in one of the Orient steamers, and the curious part of it was that he actually believed that he was talking sense. A few sharp words from a sensible man or woman might have dispelled his visions of being an irresistible lover and have shown him that Lady Errington was not likely to give up everything for the sake of a man she cared nothing about; but Eustace made a confidant of no one, and, absorbed in his ridiculous dreamings, deemed himself quite a hero for resisting a dishonourable impulse, which, had he given way to it, would certainly have resulted in a manner vastly different to that which he anticipated.

So the puppets were all on the stage, and it only remained for Fate in the guise of a showman to move them hither and thither according to their several destinies.