Part 48 (1/2)
He stretched out his hand to unfasten it. She sprang back, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng at his touch.
”You shall not have it! Neither Lady Gwendoline nor any one else shall wear it, and, married or single, _I_ shall keep it to my dying day if I choose. Charley--what do you mean, sir! How dare you? Let me go!”
For he had risen suddenly and caught her in his arms, looking steadily down into her dark eyes, with a gaze she would not meet. Whilst he held her, whilst he looked at her, he was her master, and he knew it.
”Charley, let me go!” she pleaded. ”If any one came in; the servants, or--or--Sir Victor.”
He laughed contemptuously, and held her still.
”Yes, Edith; suppose Sir Victor came in and saw his bride-elect with a sacrilegious arm about her waist? Suppose I told him the truth--that you are mine, not his: mine by the love that alone makes marriage holy; his for his t.i.tle and his rent-roll--bought and sold. By Heaven! I half wish he would!”
Was this Charley--Charley Stuart?
She caught her breath--her pride and her insolence dropping from her--only a girl in the grasp of the man she loves. In that moment, if he had willed it, he could have made her forego her plight, and pledge herself to be his wholly, and he knew it.
”Edith,” he said, ”as I stand and look at you, in your beauty and your selfishness, I hardly know whether I love or despise you most. I could make you marry me--_make_ you, mind--but you are not worth it. Go!”
He opened his arms contemptuously and released her. ”You'll not be a bad wife for Sir Victor, I dare say, as fas.h.i.+onable wives go. You'll be that ornament of society, a married flirt, but you'll never run away with his dearest friend, and make a case for the D. C. 'All for love and the world well lost,' is no motto of yours, my handsome cousin. A week ago I envied Sir Victor with all my heart--to-day I pity him with all my soul!”
He turned to go, for once in his life, thoroughly aroused, pa.s.sionate love; pa.s.sionate rage at war within him. She had sunk back upon the sofa, her face hidden in her hands, humbled, as in all her proud life she had never been humbled before. Her silence, her humility touched him. He heard a stifled sob, and all his hot anger died out in pained remorse.
”Oh, forgive me, Edith!” he said, ”forgive me. It may be cruel, but I had to speak. It is the first, it will be the last time. I am selfish, too, or I would never have pained you--better never hear the truth than that the hearing should make you miserable. Don't cry, Edith; I can't bear it. Forgive me, my cousin--they are the last tears I will ever make you shed.”
The words he meant to soothe her, hurt more deeply than the words he meant to wound. ”They are the last tears I will ever make you shed!”
An eternal farewell was in the words. She heard the door open, heard it close, and knew that her love and her life had parted in that instant forever.
CHAPTER XVII.
”FOREVER AND EVER.”
Two weeks later, as June's golden days were drawing to a close, five of Lady Helena's guests departed from Powyss Place. One remained behind. The Stuart family, with the devoted Captain Hammond in Trixy's train, went up to London; Miss Edith Darrell stayed behind.
Since the memorable day following the ball, the bride-elect of Sir Victor Catheron had dwelt in a sort of earthly purgatory, had lived stretched on a sort of daily rack. ”How blessings brighten as they take their flight.” She had given up Charley--had cast him off, had bartered herself in cold blood--for a t.i.tle and an income. And now that he held her at her true value, that his love had died a natural death in contempt and scorn, her whole heart, her whole soul craved him with a sick longing that was like death. It was her daily torture and penance to see him, to speak to him, and note the cold scorn of his gray, tranquil eyes. Jealousy had been added to her other torments; he was ever by Lady Gwendoline's side of late--ever at Drexel Court.
His father had set his heart upon the match; she was graceful and high-bred; it would end in a marriage, no doubt. There were times when she woke from her jealous anger to rage at herself.
”What a dog in the manger I grow,” she said, with a bitter laugh. ”I won't have him myself, and I cannot bear that any one else should have him. If he would only go away--if he only would--I cannot endure this much longer.”
Truly she could not. She was losing flesh and color, waxing wan as a shadow. Sir Victor was full of concern, full of wonder and alarm. Lady Helena said little, but (being a woman) her sharp old eyes saw all.
”The sooner my guests go, the better,” she thought; ”the sooner she sees the last of this young man, the sooner health and strength will return.”
Perhaps Charley saw too--the gray, tranquil eyes were very penetrating.
It was he, at all events, who urged the exodus to London.
”Let us see a little London life in the season, governor,” he said.
”Lady Portia Hampton, and _that_ lot, are going. They'll introduce us to some nice people--so will Hammond. Rustic lanes and hawthorn ledges are all very pretty, but there's a possibility of their palling on depraved New York minds. I pine for stone and mortar, and the fog and smoke of London.”
Whatever he may have felt, he bore it easily to all outward seeming, as the men who feel deepest mostly do. He could not be said to actually avoid her, but certainly since that afternoon in the drawing-room, they had never been for five seconds alone.