"Intended?" she said. "If either of you had done your brother justice, I don't think I should have mentioned him at all."

Miss Weston smiled scornfully and moved away, but the blood crept into the face of the girl she left. That she had outraged these people's sense of their importance she felt reasonably sure, and their resentment, which she admitted was, perhaps, more or less warranted, did not trouble her, but the drift of Miss Weston's last observation filled her with anger. They evidently regarded her as a raw Colonial, endued with no sense of what was fitting, who could not expect to be countenanced by an insolvent land-owning family. This was amusing; but the suggestion that she recognized the fact, and because of it had endeavored to alienate Clarence Weston from his relatives, who had apparently been very glad to get rid of him, was a very different matter. However, she recovered her composure with an effort, and succeeded in taking a part in the general conversation which broke out when Weston drove away.

CHAPTER XIX

ILLUMINATION

It was three or four months later when Ida was carried swiftly westward through the London streets toward twelve o'clock one night.

The motor purred and clicked smoothly, slinging bright beams of light in front of it as it twisted eel-like through the traffic. The gla.s.s that would have sheltered Ida from the cool night breeze was down, but she scarcely noticed the roar of the city or the presence of Arabella and Mrs. Kinnaird.

She was thinking of that afternoon at Scarthwaite, and wondering, as she had done somewhat frequently since then, what had impelled her to speak in that impulsive fashion. It had not been, as she now recognized, merely a desire to justify Clarence Weston in the eyes of his English relatives, for she had felt reasonably sure that this was a thing beyond accomplishment while he remained a railroad-hand or a bush chopper. The other explanation was that she had spoken to rea.s.sure herself; but that, as she would have admitted, seemed scarcely necessary, for in this respect he did not need an advocate.

There was the third alternative, that the att.i.tude of Weston and his daughter toward the absent man had fanned her dislike of shams into a blaze of downright rage, and that she had merely ridden a somewhat reckless tilt against her pet aversions.

One thing, at least, was certain. Weston had not called on her, to ask for any further information about his son; and, for that matter, she would have been astonished had he done so. She realized now that there was truth in what Clarence Weston said when he told her that the failures were soon forgotten. That, however, was a matter that depended largely on one's point of view, and she could not regard him as a failure.

There was in Ida Stirling a vein of wholesome simplicity which made for clearness of vision, and she seldom shrank from looking even an unwelcome truth squarely in the face. That Clarence Weston was probably shoveling railroad gravel did not count with her, but she was reasonably sure that the fact that she was a young woman with extensive possessions would have a deterrent effect on him. She once or twice had felt a curious compelling tenderness for him when in his presence, but reflection had come later, and she could not be sure that she loved him well enough to marry him, should he offer her the opportunity. During the last few months she had become more uncertain on this point, for her English visit was having an effect on her that she had not expected.

In the meanwhile the insistent clamor of the city was forcing itself on her attention, until at length she became engrossed by it. The theaters had just been closed, and the streets resounded with the humming of motors, the drumming of hoofs and the rattle of wheels.

They also were flooded with what seemed to her garish light, for she had swept through many a wooden town lying wrapped in darkness beside its railroad track. The hansoms and motors came up in battalions, and in most of them she could see men of leisure in conventional white and black and lavishly dressed women, while the sidewalks streamed with a further host of pleasure-seekers. She wondered when these people slept, or when they worked, if indeed in one sense some of them worked at all. Even in the winter they had nothing like this in Montreal, and the contrast between it and the strenuous, grimly practical activity of the Canadian railroad camp or the lonely western ranch was more striking still. There men rose to toil with the dawn, and slept when the soft dusk crept up across solemn pines or silent prairie. These men, however, saw and handled the results of their toil, great freight-trains speeding over the trestles they had built, vast bands of cattle, and leagues of splendid wheat. After all, the genius of London is administrative and not constructive, and it is the latter that appeals most directly to the Colonial. One can see the forests go down or the great rocks rent, but the results that merely figure in the balance-sheet are less apparent.

There was another matter that claimed Ida's attention. She would meet Gregory Kinnaird at the dance, and she had seen a good deal of him during the last few months. He was not formal like his father, and in most respects she liked the man; and there was no doubt whatever that he neglected no opportunity for enjoying her company. Indeed, he had of late drawn rather close to her, and she wondered a little uneasily how far this approachment was to go. London, she was conscious, was getting hold of her, and there was, after all, a good deal it had to offer that strongly appealed to her.

By and by the motor stopped before a house with balconies and ponderous pillars, and she and her companions went up the ample stairway and into several uncomfortably crowded, flower-bedecked rooms. Ida, however, was getting used to the lights and the music, the gleam of gems, the confused hum of voices, and the rustle of costly draperies, and, though she admitted that she liked it all, they no longer had the same exhilarating effect on her. She danced with one or two men, and then, as she sat alone for a moment, Gregory Kinnaird crossed the room toward her. His face was a little more serious than usual. As a rule, he took things lightly.

"I think this is mine," he said, as the orchestra recommenced. "Still, perhaps you have had enough? I can find you a nice cool place where we can talk."

She went with him, because it certainly was uncomfortably warm where she was, and, besides, she was impelled by a certain curiosity to ascertain just how they stood. He pa.s.sed through one supper-room into another, and then drew back a heavy curtain from an open window.

"It's quiet, anyway," he said, and they pa.s.sed out on to a little balcony where, late in the year as it was, a row of potted shrubs cut them off from view.

Below, there were dusky, leafless trees, among which a few big lights gleamed, and the roar of the city came up across them brokenly. Ida sat down, and a ray of light fell upon her companion, who leaned against the rails. Gregory Kinnaird was well-favored physically, and bore the stamp of a military training. He was, she understood, captain of a rather famous regiment, and she liked his direct gaze, which did not detract from his easy suavity of manner. However, he appeared somewhat unusually diffident that evening.

"You like all this?" he asked, with a little wave of his hand which, she fancied, was intended to indicate the distant roar of the city as well as the music and dancing in the rooms behind her.

"Yes," she said with a smile, for he appeared to take it for granted, as others had done, that they had no brilliant social functions in Montreal. "I think I do; but when you have so much of it, the thing seems a little aimless, doesn't it?"

"Aimless?" inquired Kinnaird, who appeared to ponder over this until a light broke in on him. "Well," he admitted, "I suppose it is. Still, what else could half of them do?"

Ida laughed good-humoredly; and the man made a little expostulatory gesture.

"I generally avoid any discussions of that kind. They never lead to anything," he said. "I was wondering whether you could learn to like London as well as Montreal?"

"I don't know," replied Ida, in her most matter-of-fact manner.

"Oh," said her companion, "it seems a senseless question, but I want to explain. I have been offered an opportunity to go away--to do something--very soon. I should be away two years, at least; and as the notice is a short one, I have practically to make up my mind to-night."

It almost appeared that he had expected Ida to show some sign of interest, or, perhaps, concern, but none was perceptible.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To a colony in tropical Africa. They want somebody to hammer a native levy into shape and keep the n.i.g.g.e.rs in some kind of order."

"Don't they have fever there?"

"I believe it isn't a particularly salubrious place," said Kinnaird, smiling, "but that kind of thing affects only some const.i.tutions, and it makes promotion quicker."

Ida, who had perused a good many works of travel, knew a little about the fevers that afflict the country in question. In fact, she fancied that she knew more than the man did; but his careless indifference to the personal hazard pleased her. She noticed that he had spoken naturally, as he felt, without any idea of producing an effect on her.

"What is the result of that kind of work?" she asked.

"The result?" queried Kinnaird, with a puzzled air. "A battalion of thick-headed n.i.g.g.e.rs with some slight knowledge of civilized drill, and, perhaps, a few stockades blown up in the bush."

Then, as he saw the half-veiled amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, a light seemed to break in on him.

"If one managed the thing efficiently, it would, perhaps, lead to the offer of a second-rate semi-administrative post somewhere else in the tropics, though I believe the emoluments are not what one could call liberal."

"That is all?"

"Yes," said Kinnaird. "I'm afraid one couldn't expect anything further."

Ida smiled rather curiously. She liked the man, but it was clear that his mental capacity had its limits. Though she would not have had him expatiate on the fact, she had expected him to realize that his mission was to uphold the white man's supremacy, and establish tranquillity, commerce and civilization in a barbarous land. It was, however, evident that he did not understand this. He was going out, as he said, to drill thick-headed n.i.g.g.e.rs, and would, in all probability, content himself with doing that.

Then he turned toward her again.

"What it leads to doesn't matter very much. I've been getting away from the point," he said. "You see, I don't know whether I'm going at all, at the moment. It depends a good deal on what you have to say to me."

Ida started a little, though she had expected something of this kind.

Still, she recovered her serenity quickly, and in a moment she looked at him inquiringly with calm eyes.

"I didn't mean to say anything for some while yet, but this thing has forced my hand," he said. "You see, I must let them know during the next day or two whether I'm going."

He broke off for a moment, and his manner became diffident.

"Miss Stirling," he added, "I think I fell in love with you the second or third time I saw you, if not the first, and as I have seen you rather often since then, you can, perhaps, imagine what I feel now.

I'm afraid there is no very strong reason why you should look kindly on such a man as I am, but I came here to-night to ask if you would marry me."

Ida quietly met his gaze. The man was well-favored physically, honest, courteous and considerate, and in many ways she liked him. Indeed, she wondered with a certain uneasiness how far she had allowed the latter fact to become apparent, for it was quite another matter to marry him, as she now realized.

"Is this offer quite spontaneous?" she asked.

Kinnaird flushed a little, but she thought the more of him for the candor with which he answered her.

"In the first place, I believe my mother put the thing into my head,"

he admitted. "After that, it got hold of me--and I was rather glad that my people were apparently satisfied that it did. It promised to save trouble, for I should naturally have gone on with it if they had done their utmost to thwart me."