Part 25 (1/2)
”Not money, but the love of it,” replies she, quickly. ”Do not lose heart, Philip; he cannot last forever; and this week how ill he has been!”
”So he has, poor old wretch,” her companion interrupts her hastily.
”Well, I have just one clear week before me, and then,--I suppose I had better have recourse to my friends, the Jews. That will be a risky thing, if you like, under the circ.u.mstances. Should he find that out----”
”How can he? They are always so secret, so safe. Better do it than eat your heart out. And who is to betray you?”
”You.” With a laugh.
”Ay, tremble!” says she, gayly; then softly, ”If that is all you have to fear, Philip, you are a happy man. And when you have got the two thousand pounds, will you be free?”
”No, but comparatively easy for awhile. And who knows, by that time----”
”He may die?”
”Or something may turn up,” exclaims he, hurriedly, not looking at her, and therefore unable to wonder at the stolidity and utter unconcern of her expression.
At this moment a querulous, broken voice comes to them from some inner room. ”Marcia, Marcia!” it calls, with trembling impatience; and, with a last flick at the unoffending peac.o.c.k, she turns to go, yet lingers, as though loath to leave her companion.
”Good-bye,--for awhile,” she says.
”Good-bye,” replies he, and, clasping her lightly round the waist, presses a kiss upon her cheek,--not upon her lips.
”You will be here when I return?” asks she, turning a face slightly flushed by his caress toward him as she stands with one foot placed upon the bow-window sill preparatory to entering the room beyond. There is hope fully expressed in her tone.
”No, I think not,” replies he, carelessly. ”The afternoon is fine; I want to ride into Longley, for----” But to the peac.o.c.ks alone is the excuse made known, as Marcia has disappeared.
Close to a fire, although the day is oppressively warm, and wrapped in a flannel dressing-gown, sits an old man,--old, and full of the snarling captiousness that makes some white hairs hideous. A tall man, with all the remains of great beauty, but a singularly long nose (as a rule one should always avoid a person with a long nose), that perhaps once might have added a charm to the bold, aristocratic face it adorned, but now in its last days is only suggestive of birds of prey, being peaky and astonis.h.i.+ngly fine toward the point. Indeed, looking at it from a side-view, one finds one's self instinctively wondering how much leaner it can get before kindly death steps in to put a stop to its growth. And yet it matches well with the lips, which, curving downward, and thin to a fault, either from pain or temper, denote only ill-will toward fellow-man, together with a certain cruelty that takes its keenest pleasure in another's mental suffering.
Great piercing eyes gleam out from under heavy brows, and, looking straight at one, still withhold their inmost thoughts. Intellect (wrongly directed, it may be, yet of no mean order) and a fatal desire for power sparkle in them; while the disappointment, the terrible self-accusing sadness that must belong to the closing of such a life as comes of such a temperament as his, lingers round his mouth. He is meagre, shrunken,--altogether unlovely.
Now, as he glances up at Marcia, a pettishness, born of the sickness that has been consuming him for the past week, is his all-prevailing expression. Raising a hand fragile and white as a woman's, he beckons her to his side.
”How you dawdle!” he says, fretfully. ”Do you forget there are other people in the world besides yourself? Where have you been?”
”Have I been long, dear?” says Marcia, evasively, with the tenderest air of solicitude, shaking up his pillows and smoothing the crumpled dressing-gown with careful fingers. ”Have you missed me? And yet only a few minutes have really pa.s.sed.”
”Where have you been?” reiterates he, irritably, taking no notice of her comfortable pats and shakes.
”With Philip.”
”Ay, 'with Philip.' Always Philip. I doubt me the course of your love runs too smoothly to be true. And yet it was a happy thought to keep the old man's money well together.” With a sneer.
”Dear grandpapa, we did not think of money, but that we love each other.”
”Love--pis.h.!.+ do not talk to me of it. I thought you too shrewd, Marcia, to be misled by a mirage. It is a myth,--no more,--a sickening, mawkish tale. Had he no prospects, and were you penniless, I wonder how far 'love' would guide you?”
”To the end,” says Marcia, quickly. ”What has money to do with it? It can neither be bought nor sold. It is a poor affection that would wither under poverty; at least it would have no fears for us.”
”Us,--us,” returns this detestable old pagan, with a malicious chuckle.