Part 52 (2/2)
”Of course,” David answered. ”We lived together in America for many years, and we came home together. Directly we arrived, however, he insisted on our separating. You know the madness of his life, Marcia.”
”I know,” she answered bitterly. ”Was I not the cause of it?”
”It was part of his scheme that I should help towards his revenge,” he explained. ”I did his bidding, and the end was disaster and humiliation.”
They stood under the little wooden porch which led out into the park.
”You will come up to Broomleys?” he invited.
She shook her head.
”Just now I would rather go back to the cottage,” she said. ”We shall meet again.”
”I shall be in England only for a few more days,” he told her gloomily.
”I am returning to America.”
She looked at him in some surprise.
”I thought you had settled down here?”
”Only to carry out my share in that infernal bargain. I have done it, I kept my word, I am miserably ashamed of myself, and I have but one feeling now--to get as far away as I can.”
”But tell me, David,” she asked, ”what was this scheme? What have you done to hurt him--the Marquis?”
”I have done my best to ruin him,” David replied, ”and through some accursed scheme in which I bore an evil and humiliating part, I have brought some shadow of a scandal upon--”
He broke off. Marcia waited for him to continue, but he shook his head.
”The whole thing is too insignificant and yet too d.a.m.nable,” he said.
”Some day, Marcia, I will tell you of it. If you won't come with me, forgive me if I hurry away.”
He was gone before she could remonstrate. She looked around and saw the reason. The Marquis was coming down the gravel path from the church in which he had taken refuge from the crowd. She felt a sudden shaking of the knees, a momentary return of that old ascendency which he had always held over her. Then she turned and waited for him. He smiled very gravely as he held her hand for a moment.
”You are going back to the cottage?” he asked. ”I will walk with you, if I may.”
They had a stretch of park before them, a wonderful, rolling stretch of ancient turf. Here and there were little cl.u.s.ters of cowslips, golden as the suns.h.i.+ne which was making quaint patterns of shadow beneath the oaks and drawing the perfume from the hawthorn trees, drooping beneath their weight of blossom. Marcia tried twice to speak, but her voice broke. There was the one look in his face which she dreaded.
”I shall not say any conventional things to you,” he began gently.
”Your father's life for many years must have been most unhappy. In a way, I suppose you and I are the people who are responsible for it.
And yet, behind it all--I say it in justice to ourselves, and not with disrespect to the dead--it was his primeval and colossal ignorance, the heritage of that stubborn race of yeomen, which was responsible for his sorrow.”
”He never understood,” she murmured. ”No one in this world could make him understand.”
”You know that our new neighbour up there,” he continued, moving his head towards Broomleys, ”was his nephew--a sharer, however unwilling, in his folly?”
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