Part 36 (1/2)
”The days are beginning to lengthen already,” said Mr. Thomson. ”I have noticed it, especially the last few days, and the rooks are clamourous--very clamourous.”
”It was to be expected,” faltered Magdalen.
”The accounts are, I am glad to say, in perfect order. I am proud to add, though I fear a statement so unusual may lay me open to a charge of romancing, that we have a small balance in hand.”
How he had looked forward to saying these words. With what a flash of surprised delight he had expected this astounding, this gratifying announcement would be received.
He paused a moment to let his words sink in--evidently Miss Bellairs had not heard.
”Three pounds five and nine,” he said.
”It is wonderful,” said Magdalen emphatically.
”Quite wonderful. I never heard of a boot-and-shoe club which was not in debt. Have you?” And she turned to Lord Lossiemouth.
But Lord Lossiemouth's temper was absent. He found the situation intolerable. He only answered, ”Never.”
”Bessie is waiting to hear all about it in the schoolroom,” continued Magdalen. ”I have asked her to go over the papers with you. She will be as surprised and delighted as I am. Shall we go and tell her?”
And without waiting for an answer she rose and led the way to the schoolroom, followed by Mr. Thomson. Bessie was sitting alone there, staring in front of her, paralysed by Lord Lossiemouth's arrival, and indignant at the possibility that Magdalen might marry that ”horrid old thing,” who was not the least like the charming photograph of him in her sister's alb.u.m. However, she grasped the situation, and after an imploring glance from Magdalen, grappled with all her might with the boot-and-shoe club.
Magdalen hurriedly tore off the little red shawl and returned to the morning-room, and closed the door. It was a considerable effort to her to close it, and by doing so to invite a renewal of Lord Lossiemouth's offer. But it could not be left open.
”It was not poor Mr. Thomson's fault,” she said, ”but I wish I could have saved you this annoyance.”
He struggled to recover his temper. Her quivering face shewed him that she was suffering from the miserable accident of the interruption even more than he was.
”I was asking you to marry me,” he said with courage, but with visible irritation. ”Will you?”
”I am afraid I cannot.”
”I knew you would say that. I expected it. But I beg you to reconsider it, that is if--if your feeling for me is still unchanged.”
”It is unchanged.”
”Then why not marry me?”
”Because you do not care for me.”
”I felt certain you would say that. But I _do_ care for you. Should I be here if I did not? We are two middle-aged people, Magdalen. The old raptures and roses would be out of place, but I have always cared for you. Surely you know that. Have you forgotten the old days?”
”No.”
”Neither have I. All we have to do is to forget the years between.” As he spoke he felt that the thing could hardly have been better put.
”I have no wish to forget them.”
He had made a great effort to control his temper, but he found her unreasonable. His anger got the upper hand.
”It is one of two things that makes you refuse me. Either you can't forgive me, and I daresay I don't deserve that you should, I am not posing as a faultless character--or you have ceased to love me. Which is it?”
”I have not ceased to love you,” she replied. ”Have I not just told you so? But you would find yourself miserable in the--lop-sided kind of marriage which you are contemplating. It is unwise to try to make bricks without straw.”