Chapter II

Laline, for her part, had almost forgotten the time when she had first flushed with indignation at the notion of running errands for her father.

One gets used to a great many things in three years, and it was three years since Laline, a forlorn little figure in deep mourning, had stood on the deck of a Folkestone steamer on her way to her widowed father and her motherless home. Of her father she knew very little indeed at that time, not having seen him for two years. England had become too hot to hold Mr. Garth about that period, and he had taken up his residence permanently in Boulogne; but for many years before he had been practically a stranger in that tiny household in Westmoreland. The late Mrs. Garth had been a gentle, dreamy-eyed lady, of refined but narrow mind, fond of poetry, fancywork, church-decoration, and district-visiting, easily shocked, and thoroughly orthodox in her views on all subjects. Her great aim with regard to her daughter, whom she loved devotedly, was to make of her a refined gentlewoman, and to guard her from all knowledge of, and contact with, the wickedness of the great world outside the hills of Westmoreland.

From this life of watchfulness, this sheltered, peaceful existence under the shadow of the little grey church in the valley, Laline was unexpectedly torn and transferred to an atmosphere of debt, neglect, and shiftlessness, the life of a ruined gamester, exiled from his native country, and earning by his wits a precarious subsistence in a back street of Boulogne.

Before her tears for her mother's loss were dry, Laline had begun to realise that Captain Garth fully intended that she should, in some measure, make up to him for the hundred a year which he had lost by his wife's death. He was kind to her in his manner, but he never for one moment understood her. When he tried to speak to her of her mother, she received his remarks in silence, watching him with great eyes full of wondering pain. His talk jarred on the girl, and it seemed a desecration to hear him discuss his dead wife in his favourite terms.

"A good woman, a very good woman, according to her lights! We didn't quite hit it off together; but I am not blaming her. And no doubt she has done her best with you; no doubt---- Why, my dear, what are you crying for?"

"I would so much rather that you did not talk to me about mother," the girl had said; and Captain Garth had respected her wish without in the least understanding it.

Then began a twofold existence for the dreamy, imaginative child. An indoor life of poverty and hard work--cooking, washing, tidying, dusting, and mending, under the superintendence of Bénoîte, until Laline could replace Aurélie the _bonne_ and spare her father the latter's keep and wages, and an outdoor life of long rambles, sometimes by herself and sometimes in charge of the little Bertins' next door, up to the _vallée_ or down to the sands and along the shore to the neighbouring seaside villages, with her friend the sea lapping the sands at her feet.

Day-dreams for ever filled her mind, sharing it with recollections of her happy childhood among the hills. Her soft, near-sighted eyes could never with bare vision perceive the coast of England; but the eldest Bertin boy possessed a telescope, by the aid of which she could distinguish with a bounding heart the white cliffs of her native land. All that she knew of joy and peace, of tender love and gentle sympathy, of refinement and of culture, came from her English experiences; her present life, half drudgery, half solitary wandering, was lonely and hard by comparison. In England she had been the one thought of her mother's mind, the vicar's favourite pupil, the village pet, "little Miss Garth," daughter of a lady known and honoured by all. Here, in the Rue Planché, she was "_la p'tite Gart_," who ran errands, begged for credit from tradespeople, and looked after the _ménage_ with deaf and irascible old Bénoîte.

Of her beauty Laline was unconscious; a few artists had sketched her from memory, and she had seen the sketches, and wondered whether her hair really looked like that in the sunshine. But she had read _Ivanhoe_ and other novels by Walter Scott, and her ideal of loveliness was the black-haired type with sloping shoulders, alabaster brow, eyes black as night, and the smallest possible mouth.

French romances, except some especially goody-goody stories avowedly intended for the very young, were altogether unknown to her. Captain Garth respected the child-like innocence of his daughter's mind and locked up his amusing paper-covered novels. Of her father's sporting and card-playing associates Laline knew but little. Captain Garth received visitors in his den, which the girl never entered unless her father was the sole occupant of the room. He would have wished to pose before her as a high-minded, hardworking, and honourable gentleman, driven from his country and his equals by the envious spite of a cabal and the undeserved blows of "outrageous fortune;" but when he vapoured to his little girl concerning his high principles and unrecognised genius, Laline said never a word, and contented herself with scanning him with soft eyes which saw outer things but dimly, but which seemed to have the gift at times of divining the hidden spirit beyond.

Walking down the rough stone-paved street on this particular midsummer day, Laline's thoughts busied themselves with the figure of Wallace Armstrong the tallest, handsomest Englishman to whom she had ever yet spoken. No self-consciousness touched her mind; she knew quite well that both Mr. Armstrong and her father regarded her as a child, and she had not the slightest wish to develop into a "young lady," fenced in with conventional proprieties. Captain Garth so seldom introduced any of his associates to her that that fact alone was sufficient to attract her notice; and then this powerfully-built young man with the black brows, drooping black moustache, brilliant eyes, and saturnine expression at once interested the girl from his resemblance to her ideal of the Templar in _Ivanhoe_.

Mr. Wallace Armstrong could not be very good, she decided. Her knowledge of evil was limited, but she opined that he played cards, and put money on horses and swore when they lost, and that he drank cognac, and perhaps did not pay his bills. His voice had sounded gentle enough in speaking to her, but rough and scornful when he addressed her father. Just so must Brian de Bois-Guilbert's voice have rung out, harsh and imperious, when he rated Rebecca's father. And yet Laline began to wonder at the fair Jewess's invincible dislike against the Templar. Meantime her little high-heeled feet had taken her to Monsieur Desjardins's, and the old man behind the counter, grumbling, took the money she proffered, and bade her remind her father that his little account had long been unsettled.

"_La p'tite Gart_ is growing too tall for her short skirts," his wife remarked, as Laline left the shop. "She becomes _une très-jolie fille_, and will soon be wanting a nice little _beau_."

"Bah! It is a child!" responded her husband. "In England they do not think of love and marriage until they are old maids of five- or six-and-twenty. Mam'selle Laline has a good ten years yet."

_Déjeuner_ at Rue Planché was a success that day. Laline cooked to perfection, and waited at table deftly. At the latter arrangement Wallace Armstrong demurred. He disliked to see so pretty a girl made into a household drudge; but Laline explained that Bénoîte's snuff-taking proclivities rendered her an undesirable waitress. She did not add that the household resources were at so low an ebb that cutlets at luncheon were a luxury she could not permit herself; she contented herself with assuring Mr. Armstrong that she had already partaken of luncheon, dignifying by that name a plate of thin vegetable soup and a piece of stale bread in the kitchen.

Eating made Wallace more hopeful. After all, as Captain Garth reminded him, he was six-and-twenty, and nephew to one of the richest men in London. No man was worthy the name, so the elder declared, who had not "sown his wild oats;" and the prodigal son, or prodigal nephew, as the case might be, was always the favourite in the end. Card-playing was not an exciting pastime between two men, neither of whom possessed any money or any immediate certainty of procuring any; but habit made them gamble away the sunny hours of a midsummer afternoon until five o'clock, when Armstrong suggested that they should stroll down to the hotel where he had been staying since his arrival in Boulogne three days before, and ascertain whether by chance there was any answer to his appeal to his uncle.

With characteristic improvidence, Wallace Armstrong had put up at an hotel which, although not specially dear as summer seaside prices go, was most certainly far beyond his means. Since his arrival at this establishment, which was under French management and faced the Museum in the Grand Rue, the big shabby young Englishman had consumed hardly any food, but a large amount of drinks, and the _patron_ within the office in the hall eyed him askance as he approached and inquired for letters.

"_Mais, oui, Monsieur; il y a bien une lettre._"

Wallace seized it, and the blood rushed to his face. The address was in his uncle's handwriting, and the letter was registered!

"Come outside," he said, after he had signed the receipt, thrusting his hand within Garth's arm. "I don't want these prying foreigners to get wind of my affairs."

Standing under an awning in front of a shop, Wallace tore open his uncle's letter, and Garth, watching him furtively under his white eyebrows, noted the swift changes of expression which passed over his face. First astonishment, then amusement, and finally a baffled and angered look characterised his features as he thrust the letter into the hands of his companion.

"Read it," he said, "and see if your infernal cunning can get me out of the scrape! It beats me!"

Alexander Wallace's handwriting was small and cramped, but perfectly legible. His letter was written from his London office, and ran as follows,--

"DEAR NEPHEW,--If it be true that a pious and virtuous lady has been
so misguided as to link her fate with such an idle and dissipated
ne'er-do-weel as I fear you have become, your wife has my heartiest
sympathy. But I have a belief which is almost unlimited in the
capability of a good woman for reforming a man, however deeply
he be sunk in depravity, and I intend, for your wife's sake, to
give you yet another chance. To this end I send you ten pounds to
relieve your present necessities; and within a week, if your wife
is strong enough to travel, I will forward the money wherewith you
may at once make your way to my house in London. But understand--my
future dealings with you will depend upon your absolute truthfulness
and candour in the matter. If I find that Mrs. Wallace Armstrong
is indeed what you describe--a gentle, high-minded, romantic, and
unworldly young lady, your equal in birth, of truly Christian
training, devoted to you, and believing in your higher capabilities,
I will take both her and you into my house, which sadly needs the
sweetening presence of a daughter for my old age. More than that;
upon your arrival with your wife at my office--armed, of course, with
all necessary credentials, such as your marriage-certificate and such
papers as shall show your wife's position and home-training before
you married her--I will provide you with immediate employment, and
I will settle upon your wife, whose name, by-the-way, you do not
mention, the sum of three hundred pounds a year, to be paid quarterly
for her sole use and benefit, and to be increased in a given time
to five hundred if I deem it expedient. On receipt of this letter
and enclosure I must ask you to pay at once all that you owe at the
hotel, to provide your wife with food and necessaries, and to send
on to me full receipts for all amounts you may disburse from the
enclosed ten pounds. Will you also tell me at what date I may expect
you and your wife, and you shall receive by return the necessary
sum for your fares and other expenses incidental on your journey.
Remember, I had not meant, nor had I wished, to see your face again;
but, if a good woman has been brought to believe in you, and to link
her fate with yours, I will try to forget your past conduct, and will
give you yet one more chance of attaining that position which, but
for your follies and vices, should be yours already.

"Your uncle, "Alexander Wallace."

Captain Garth read the letter twice through. Then he returned it to its owner and began pulling reflectively at his white moustache.

"My boy," he observed, "it is a poser--certainly a poser! But the chance is not one to let slip. Three hundred a year going begging for want of a wife. We must have a _petit verre_ together at the nearest _café_ out of this sunshine and think it over. Three hundred a year!"

Oddly enough, as he reflected, it was the exact amount of the late Mrs. Garth's life-interest, which had passed away on her death to her own family. A third of that had been his; and although two pounds a week was an absurd trifle for a gentleman of his taste and social position, yet, with only himself to keep, it had often sufficed in bad times to keep the wolf from the door. And times grew worse instead of better, and the three hundred would probably soon be increased to five--more than that, if once Wallace Armstrong was restored to his uncle's favour, the lion's share of old Wallace's wealth might well be his some day, since, of the banker's two nephews, he had undoubtedly at that time been the best-loved. Such a chance must by no means be allowed to slip from this young man's grasp.

It must not be supposed that Captain Garth's solicitude on Armstrong's behalf was wholly unselfish. At fifty-six Captain Garth was almost incapable of formulating any plan into which self-interest entered not, and he clearly wanted, in his own parlance, to "make a good thing out of" Wallace Armstrong. He set then to work drawing up a mental inventory of the potential brides with any one of whom, at the shortest possible notice, he might unite his young friend in matrimony.

"There is only one thing to be done, of course," he said, sipping the cognac Armstrong had ordered on the strength of his uncle's remittance, and jotting down names in pencil on his cuff under the awning of the _café_--"there is only one thing to be done. You must get married."

Wallace stared at him, and then laughed contemptuously.

"If that's all you've got to suggest," he observed, "I can dispense with your advice!"

"Now, my boy, be reasonable! With a wife you can get your fare to England at once advanced, return to the bosom of your family with everything forgotten and forgiven, enjoy the fatted calf, obtain in all probability a position in your uncle's bank, live in his house rent-free, pocket a tidy little income, and eventually succeed to the bulk of your uncle's property. Without a wife--well, I don't want to be too personal, but you know best the details of your present financial position."

"You talk as if getting married were as easy as putting on one's coat!" Armstrong broke out impatiently. "I've had a rough time of it lately, but, thank Heaven, I've never been dragged down by a nagging, whining woman. I've never yet met the woman who was worth spending half an hour's thought upon--an extravagant, capricious, vain, mercenary, hypocritical crew----"

"Perhaps your experiences have been unfortunate?" suggested Garth, soothingly. "There are plenty of nice girls about, plenty, if one knows where to find them."

"Nice girls," sneered Armstrong, "who would be ready at a moment's notice to marry a penniless scamp with scarcely a rag to his back who hasn't even the decency to pretend to be in love with them!"

"Nice girls," Garth repeated, imperturbably, "who are not very happy at home, and who would be glad enough to make a good wife to a fine handsome young fellow, nephew to old Alexander Wallace, who would provide them with a comfortable home and a liberal allowance of pocket-money."

"You mean that I can buy a wife with all the domestic virtues for this promised three hundred a year?" Armstrong inquired, harshly.

"Well, yes--that's one way of putting it, if you like!" returned Garth, his patience beginning to give way. "Great Scot, man! You can't expect to have sentiment thrown in, too, in matters of this kind! What do most girls marry for? Why, a comfortable home, of course. And when they marry for anything else, such as a fine figure or a twinkling eye or a handsome pair of moustaches, what is the result? When the tax-collector and the butcher's and baker's bills come in at the door, love flies out at the window. It's all a matter of money and expediency. They manage these things much better here in France."

"You forget," said Wallace, "that, when I wrote to my uncle a week ago, I described myself as already married. Even if this paragon of a bride can be discovered, there would be, I suppose, some necessary delay before the ceremony could be performed----"

"About three weeks."

"Just so. And my wily old uncle has requested me to bring my certificate with me."

"That might be arranged. A little mistake as to the date, and the necessary delay before your wife is strong enough to travel--remember, you said she was starving, and a girl doesn't get over that in a day."

"And, after all this, where is the girl?"

The Captain recommenced pulling his white moustache and glanced at the initials scrawled in pencil on his cuff.

"I have a friend in the town," he began again, after a few seconds' reflection. "Talented man--Oxford man--but down on his luck. His daughters are good-looking girls and very much admired. The younger one is really handsome, a big blonde, very fine girl indeed--Nanny Westbrook. I could take you round this evening and introduce you."

"How old is she?"

"Oh, ha--one can never tell a woman's age! Not more than thirty, and looks much less. A very good amateur actress, and could do all the parson's-orphan-daughter-business thoroughly well. A really jolly girl, full of fun, with no nonsense about her. The best waltzer in the town, too. Last carnival ball here she went as a Pierrette, and I assure you she was the belle of the room. Didn't look more than eighteen, on my honour."

"None of your carnival-ball hacks for me!" said Armstrong, in a tone of disgust. "I know the type, and I hate it! If I've got to put up with a wife at all, I'll have one who'll stay at home and behave decently and give me no trouble. I don't think they grow them among your Boulogne acquaintances."

Two Frenchmen, who were sipping coffee and absinthe at an adjoining table, broke at this moment into lively expressions of admiration at sight of a young girl coming up from the quay.

"Look well, Jules! Is she not ravishing, the little English girl? She is English assuredly; no French girl so pretty as that would be promenading about all alone. It is not often that the English have such pretty feet. But, _sapristi_, what a dress! It is rather like a blue-bag than a gown! These English girls have no coquetry!"

The object of their remarks was none other than Laline Garth, fresh from a long swim out to sea, her loose auburn hair drying on her shoulders in the sun, the low, level rays of which shone in her soft, dark eyes and lit up the bright tints of her cheeks and lips. Hers was the _beauté du diable_ which nothing can spoil--not even shapeless gowns, ill-fitting silk-gloves, and a Zulu hat which cost fifty centimes--the sparkling evanescent loveliness of a child merging into a maiden.

Wallace Armstrong turned in his seat at the Frenchman's words and looked fixedly under his level, black brows at Laline as she climbed the hill with swift, springing steps.

"Garth," he said, suddenly, "I've made up my mind to take your advice. And I'll marry your daughter Laline."