Mr. Wainbridge inspected Paul Harvey during this crisis. He was brown, strong, and lithe; standing by him Mr. Wainbridge appeared weak, effeminate.
She wished him just then at Cairo or anywhere else.
“Miss Archer has just promised to marry me.”
He wore an air of ownership and went nearer Launa. There was a slight degree of defiance in his attitude.
“I congratulate you,” said Paul; “you are very lucky. The most fortunate of men.”
“Sit down,” said Launa, with a smile at Paul which Mr. Wainbridge endeavoured to imagine was merely kind. Launa assured herself that hers was the smile of a married woman to some brother of whom she is fond. “Tell me about home, about ‘Solitude,’ about the canoe, and the rivers.”
They talked, while Mr. Wainbridge listened, not uninterested, but surprised. Launa was new, different. Paul had introduced another element into the game—an element of doubt.
“But I shall win,” thought Mr. Wainbridge; “she has promised.”
“I have known Paul for years,” said Launa, turning to Mr. Wainbridge, as if to explain the situation, and he knows all about the land I dwelt in and my old home.”
This explanation was as much for Paul as for Mr. Wainbridge, and also for herself. She was convinced now of good reasons for her joy.
The returned traveller’s welcome was delightful to Paul more than he had dared hope for, less than that for which he longed, though to be received as the friend of the family was not his only aspiration. It was the stone instead of the bread, the hand of fellowship instead of the kiss of passion. He left Mr. Wainbridge with Launa, no doubt waiting for his kiss. Paul winced at the idea, and he was dining with the Canadian Commissioner.
But Mr. Wainbridge did not kiss Launa—he left her alone. She threw herself down on the sofa. The idea of marriage had appealed to her as a narcotic. Paul’s coming had changed it into a scourge. He was here; perhaps the girl was dead! She flushed with joy, then hid her face with shame. Perhaps he did not love her, had never loved her, and she belonged to Mr. Wainbridge. Paul had found her—and it was too late.
THE winter passed quickly—spring came, a soft, slow, gentle coming. Paul Harvey was a constant visitor at Victoria Mansions.