Part 59 (1/2)
”But I have just told you, sir, I am under obligation to him--great obligation!”
”Oh! I see! you want him yourself!--Well, as you wish it, I would rather you should have him than that she-devil. But come, now, you must be open with me.”
”I am. I will be.”
”You say so, of course. Women do.--But you confess you want him yourself?”
Mary saw it would be the worst possible policy to be angry with him, especially as she had given him the trouble to come to her, and she must not lose this her last chance.
”I do not want him,” she answered, with a smile; ”and, if I did, he would never look at one in my position. He would as soon think of marrying the daughter of one of his laborers--and quite right, too--for the one might just be as good as the other.”
”Well, now, that's a pity. I would have done a good deal for _you_--I don't know why, for you're a little humbug if ever there was one! But, if you don't care about the fellow, I don't see why I should take the trouble. Confess--you're a little bit in love with him--ain't you, now?
Confess to that, and I will do what I can.”
”I can't confess to a lie. I owe Mr. Wardour a debt of grat.i.tude--that is all--but no light thing, you will allow, sir!”
”I don't know; I never tried its weight. Anyhow, I should make haste to be rid of it.”
”I have sought to make him this return, but he only fancies me a calumniator. Miss Yolland has been beforehand with me.”
”Then, by Jove! I don't see but you're quits with him. If he behaves like that to you, don't you see, it wipes it all out? Upon my soul! I don't see why you should trouble your head about him. Let him take his way, and go to--Sepia.”
”But, sir, what a dreadful thing it would be, knowing what she is, to let a man like him throw himself away on her!”
”I don't see it. I've no doubt he's just as bad as she is. We all are; we're all the same. And, if he weren't, it would be the better joke.
Besides, you oughtn't to keep up a grudge, don't you know; you ought to let the--the _woman_ have a chance. If he marries her--and that must be her game this time--she'll grow decent, and be respectable ever after, you may be sure--go to church, as you would have her, and all that--never miss a Sunday, I'll lay you a thousand.”
”He's of a good old family!” said Mary, foolishly, thinking that would weigh with him.
”Good old fiddlestick! d.a.m.ned old worn-out broom-end! _She's_ of a good old family--quite good enough for his, you may take your oath! Why, my girl! the thing's not worth burning your fingers with. You've brought me here on a goose-errand. I'll go and have my lunch.”
He rose.
”I'm sorry to have vexed you, sir,” said Mary, greatly disappointed.
”Never mind.--I'm horribly sold,” he said, with a tight grin. ”I thought you must have some good thing in hand to make it worth your while to send for me.”
”Then I must try something else,” reflected Mary aloud.
”I wouldn't advise you. The man's only the surer to hate you and stick to her. Let him alone. If he's a stuck-up fellow like that, it will take him down a bit--when the truth comes out, that is, as come out it must. There's one good thing in it, my wife'll get rid of her. But I don't know! there's an enemy, as the Bible says, that sticketh closer than a brother. And they'll be next door when Durnmelling is mine! But I can sell it.”
”If he _should_ come to you, will you tell him the truth?”
”I don't know that. It might spoil my own little game.”
”Will you let him think me a liar and slanderer?”
”No, by Jove! I won't do that. I don't promise to tell him all the truth, or even that what I do tell him shall be exactly true; but I won't let him think ill of my little puritan; that would spoil _your_ game. Ta, ta!”