Part 67 (1/2)
”Not lower it,” says he, quickly, grasping eagerly at what he vainly hopes is a last chance. ”Under the circ.u.mstances a divorce could be easily obtained. If you would trust yourself to me there should be no delay. You might easily break this marriage-tie that can scarcely be considered binding.”
”And supposing--I do not wish to break it? How then? But enough of this. I cannot listen any longer. I have heard too much already. I must really ask you to leave me. Go.”
”Is this how your friends.h.i.+ps end?” asks he, bitterly. ”Will you deny I was even so much to you?”
”Certainly not. Though I must add that had I known my friends.h.i.+p with you would have put me in the way of receiving so much insult as I have received to-day, you should never have been placed upon my list. Let me pray you to go away now, to leave Herst entirely for the present, because it would be out of the question my seeing you again,--at least until time has convinced you of your folly. You are an old friend, Talbot, and I would willingly try and forget all that has happened to-day, or at all events to remember it only as a pa.s.sing madness.”
”Am I a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?” cries he, catching her hand to detain her as she moves away. ”And why do you talk of 'insult'? I only urge you to exchange indifference for love,--the indifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravel at your feet.”
”And pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard for Lady Stafford?” exclaims Sir Penthony, walking through an open s.p.a.ce in the privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he has been spell-bound for the last two minutes. A short time, no doubt, though a great deal can be said in it.
He is positively livid, and has his eyes fixed, not on his enemy, but on his wife.
Lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens his grasp on Cecil's unwilling hand, and throws up his head defiantly.
”Let my wife's hand go directly,” says Stafford, in a low but furious tone, advancing.
By a quick movement Cecil wrenches herself free and gets between the two men. She does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost--as it seems--without moving.
”Not another word, Sir Penthony,” she says, quietly. ”I forbid it. I will have no scene. Mr. Lowry has behaved foolishly, but I desire that nothing more be said about it. Go,”--turning to Lowry, who is frowning ominously, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate,--”and do as I asked you a few moments since,--leave Herst without delay.”
So strong is her determination to avoid an _esclandre_, and so masterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both men instinctively obey her. Sir Penthony lowers his eyes and s.h.i.+fts his aggressive position; Lowry, with bent head, and without another word, walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, and disappears--for years.
When he has quite gone, Sir Penthony turns to her.
”Is this the way you amuse yourself?” he asks, in a compressed voice.
”Do not reproach me,” murmurs she, hurriedly; ”I could not bear it now.” She speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, because of the little tremor that runs through it, while her face is white as one of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. ”Besides, it is not deserved. Were you long here before you spoke?”
”Long enough.” With a world of meaning in his tone.
”Then you heard my exculpation. 'Cold as ice,' he called me. And he was right. As I am to you, Sir Penthony, so am I to all men. No one yet has touched my heart.”
”For myself I can answer,” replies he, bitterly; ”but for the others----”
”Not another word,” she breaks in, vehemently. ”Do not say--do not even hint at--what I might find it impossible to forgive. Not even to you will I seek to justify myself on such a point. And you,” she says, tears of agitation arising from all she has undergone, mingled with much pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, ”you should be the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who it was placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may say to me what they choose.”
”You are unjust,” he answers, nearly as white as herself. ”I only followed out your wishes. It was your own arrangement; I but acceded to it.”
”You should not have done so,” cries she, with subdued excitement. ”You were a man of the world, capable of judging; I was a foolish girl, ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. Our marriage was a wretched mistake.”
”Cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as you choose. No one loves you as I do.”
”Impossible.” Coldly. ”In this world a thing once done can never be undone. Have you lived so long without learning that lesson?”
As she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves him alone in the garden. Much as he has grown to love her, never until now has the very tenderness of affection touched him,--now, when the laughter-loving Cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusing woman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully, lest he should enter it.
How can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that her bosom is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing, and that down her cheeks--so p.r.o.ne to dimple with joyous laughter--the bitter tears are falling?
Almost as she reaches the house she encounters Tedcastle, and turns hastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping.