Part 81 (2/2)
”Yes, I know. I meant it. But I've changed my mind about stopping in the country--at least, I'm running down to The Place for the night to see after some business with the agent, but I'll be back to-morrow.”
”Really, you must forgive me if I say I don't think much of your mind,” says Margaret, who is still a little sore over her own reflections.
”I don't think much of it myself,” says Rylton, with increasing gloom.
At this abject surrender Margaret's tender heart relents.
”I believe all you have told me,” says she; ”and I suppose I'm glad of it, although--Well, never mind that. Marian deserves no pity, but still----”
”Pshaw!” says he. ”What has Marian got to do with it? Marian never cared _that_ about me.” He makes an expressive movement with his fingers--a little snap. ”I know now that Marian only played with me.
I amused her. I was the plaything of an hour.”
”You wrong her there, Maurice.”
”Do I? How? They tell us”--with a bitter smile--”that if a woman loves a man she will cling to him through all things--poverty, ill-repute, even crime. But poverty, the least of these things, daunted _her.”_
”She had known so _much_ poverty----”
”Are you pleading _her_ cause now?” says Maurice, with a slight smile. ”You plead it badly. The very fact of her knowing it so well should not have deterred her from trying it again with the man she loved. I offered to throw up everything for her, to go abroad, to work, to wrestle with fortune for her sake, but she----” He stops, and draws a long breath. ”Well, it is over,” says he.
”That is. But your future life----”
”I'm not a favourite of G.o.ds, am I?” says he, laughing. ”My future life! Well, I leave it to them. So t.i.ta is looking well?”
”Yes; quite well. A little pale, I said.”
”She never had much colour. She never speaks of me, I suppose?”
”Sometimes--yes.”
Rylton looks down at the carpet, and then laughs a little awkwardly.
”I expect I had better not inquire into it,” says he. ”It is a general remark, yet it is _all _question.”
”Of course, she remembers things,” says Margaret nervously.
If he were to make another scene, to prance up and down the room, and talk at the top of his lungs, there is no knowing _what_ may not happen, considering who is standing behind those folding-doors.
”We can all remember things,” says Sir Maurice, rising and holding out his hand. He bids her good-bye. As he gets to the door he looks back. ”Tell her I didn't like to keep her in durance vile longer than was necessary,” says he.
With this parting shot, he goes down the stairs and out of the house.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW MARGARET MAKES A FEARFUL DISCOVERY; HOW SHE RUSHES TO THE RESCUE, BUT IS FAR FROM WELL RECEIVED; AND HOW t.i.tA GIVES HERSELF AWAY, NOT ONCE, BUT TWICE.
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