Part 90 (2/2)
To express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would be gross; though not to express it goes hard with Cecil. She contents herself with glancing expressively at Sir Penthony every now and then, who is standing at the other end of the room.
”I also congratulate you,” says Luttrell, coming forward, and speaking for the first time. He is not nearly so composed as Shadwell, and his voice has a strange and stilted sound. He speaks so that Molly and Cecil alone can hear him, delicacy forbidding any open expression of pleasure. ”With all my heart,” he adds; but his tone is strange. The whole speech is evidently a lie. His eyes meet hers with an expression in them she has never seen there before,--so carefully cold it is, so studiously unloving.
Molly is too agitated to speak to him, but she lifts her head, and shows him a face full of the keenest reproach. Her pleading look, however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely to meet her gaze.
With an abrupt movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as they afterward discover, the house.
Meantime, Marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. A blotted sheet half covered with her own writing,--the very letter begun and lost in the library last October; that, being found, has condemned her. With a half-stifled groan she lets it flutter to the ground, where it lies humbled in the dust, an emblem of all her falsely-cherished hopes.
Philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light that fatal letter of last summer that has so fully convicted him of unlawful dealings with Jews. Twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then, casting one quick, withering glance at Marcia (under which she cowers), he consigns it to his pocket without a word.
The play is played out. The new mistress of Herst has been carried away by Cecil Stafford to her own room; the others have dispersed. Philip and Marcia Amherst are alone.
Marcia, waking from her reverie, makes a movement as though she, too, would quit the apartment, but Shadwell, coming deliberately up to her, bars her exit. Laying his hand gently but firmly on her wrist, he compels her to both hear and remain.
”You betrayed me?” he says, between his teeth. ”You gave this letter”--producing it--”to my grandfather? I trusted you, and you betrayed me.”
”I did,” she answers, with forced calmness.
”Why?”
”Because--I loved you.”
”You!” with a harsh grating laugh. It is with difficulty he restrains his pa.s.sion. ”_You_ to love! And is it by ruining those upon whom you bestow your priceless affection you show the depth of your devotion? Pah! Tell me the truth. Did you want all, and have you been justly punished?”
”I _have_ told you the truth,” she answers, vehemently. ”I was mad enough to love you even then, when I saw against my will your wild infatuation for that designing----”
”Hus.h.!.+” he interrupts her, imperiously, in a low, dangerous tone. ”If you are speaking of Miss Ma.s.sereene, I warn you it is unsafe to proceed. Do not mention her. Do not utter her name. I forbid you.”
”So be it! Your punishment has been heavier than any I could inflict.--You want to know why I showed that letter to the old man, and I will tell you. I thought, could I but gain _all_ Herst, I might, through it, win you back to my side. I betrayed you for that alone. I debased myself in my own eyes for that sole purpose. I have failed in all things. My humiliation is complete. I do not ask your forgiveness, Philip; I crave only--your forbearance. Grant me that at least, for the old days' sake!”
But he will not. He scarcely heeds her words, so great is the fury that consumes him.
”You would have bought my love!” he says, with a bitter sneer. ”Know, then, that with a dozen Hersts at your back, I loathe you too much ever to be more to you than I now am, and that is--nothing.”
Quietly but forcibly he puts her from him, and leaves the room. Outside in the hall he encounters Sir Penthony, who has been lingering there with intent to waylay him. However rejoiced Stafford may be at Molly's luck, he is profoundly grieved for Philip.
”I know it is scarcely form to express sympathy on such occasions,” he says, with some hesitation, laying his hand on Shadwell's shoulder.
”But I must tell you how I regret, for your sake, all that has taken place.”
”Thank you, Stafford. You are one of the very few whose sympathy is never oppressive. But do not be uneasy about me,” with a short laugh.
”I dare say I shall manage to exist. I have five hundred a year of my own, and my grandfather's thoughtfulness has made it a thousand. No doubt I shall keep body and soul together, though there is no disguising the fact that I feel keenly the difference between one thousand and twenty.”
”My dear fellow, I am glad to see you take it so well. I don't believe there are a dozen men of my acquaintance who would be capable of showing such pluck as you have done.”
”I have always had a fancy for exploring. I shall go abroad and see some life; the sooner the better. I thank you with all my heart, Stafford, for your kindness. I thank you--and”--with a slight break in his voice--”good-bye!”
He presses Stafford's hand warmly, and, before the other can reply, is gone.
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