Part 39 (1/2)
”No! no! It is nothing,” says she, with a little laugh that is full of pain. She makes a movement that almost repulses him. ”But I am your friend, if nothing else; and the world--the world is beginning to talk about you, Maurice!”
”About me!”
He has drawn back with a sharp pang. She sees that this new idea that touches him, or that little fool (as she has designated t.i.ta in her mind), has destroyed his interest in her for the moment.
”Yes! Be warned in time.”
”Who is daring to talk about me?”
”Not about you directly; but about Lady Rylton.”
Some strange feeling compels him to put a fresh question for her, though he knows what the answer will be.
”My mother?”
”This is unworthy of you,” says Marian slowly. ”No; I meant t.i.ta!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW MARIAN FIGHTS FOR MASTERY; AND HOW THE BATTLE GOES; AND HOW CHANCE BEFRIENDS THE ENEMY.
”t.i.ta! You wrong her!” says he. ”Why speak of her? You should not; you always disliked her.”
”True.” She is silent for a moment, looking down into the silent garden. Then she lifts her head, and gazes straight at him. ”You know why I disliked her. You must! You--you only. Some instinct from the very first warned me against her. I knew. I _knew_ she would rob me of all that life had left me. I knew”--with a quick, long sob--”she would take _you_ from me!”
Rylton, who has been leaning on the railings beside her, raises himself, and stands staring at her, a terrible anguish in his eyes.
”Marian--think,” says he hoa.r.s.ely.
”Oh, _why_ did you marry her?” cries she, smiting her hands together as if half distracted. ”There was always so much time--time!”
”There was none.”
”There is always time!” She is silent for a moment, and then, with an increase of pa.s.sion in her tone, repeats her question: ”Why did you marry her?”
_”You_--to ask me that!” exclaims he fiercely.
”It was not like you,” says she, interrupting him in a measure, as though unable to keep back the words, the accusations, that are rus.h.i.+ng to her lips. ”I have known you so long--so long. Ah! I thought I knew you. I believed you faithful. I believed you many things. But, at all events”--with a sad and desolate reproach--”I never believed you fond of money.”
”Marian!” She has laid her hand upon his arm, and now he flings it from him. ”That _you_ should accuse _me!_ Money! What was money to me in comparison with your love? But you--you----”
He does not go on: it is so hard to condemn her. He is looking at her in the tender light with eyes that seek to read her heart, and he is very pale. She can see that, in spite of the warm, pink glow of the lamps behind them.
”Well--and I?” questions she, with deep agitation.
How handsome he is! how lovable! Oh for the good sweet past she has so madly flung aside!
”You refused me,” says he slowly, ”you, on whom my soul was set.”