Part 25 (1/2)

Duncan saw now that the heart which he had felt so confident of his power to master had slipped from his grasp. Still the thought that so emotional a nature might yet be conquered by appeal prompted him to say, ”What is the meaning of this change? Yesterday you loved me.”

”That was yesterday. Much may happen in a day, Mr. Grahame.”

”Yes,” smiled Duncan sarcastically, drawing lines on the floor with the toe of his boot. ”In a day one may learn the fickle nature of the woman one is foolish enough to love.”

”Yes, and the character of the feeling one was foolish enough to fancy might be love,” added Marion.

”Will you not listen to me?” he answered. ”Some one has been poisoning your mind against me.”

Marion felt that this distasteful interview must end. She had been the prey of too many emotions that day to bear up much longer. She felt a desire to fly away somewhere and escape from this man. Summoning her courage she looked full into Duncan's face and said, in a firm voice: ”Mr. Grahame, I will not be insulted. I think there is nothing more to be said.”

The color rose to Duncan's cheeks. His pride was touched, yet deep in his heart he could not help feeling ashamed of his own conduct. Revenge for another woman's actions had prompted him to act the part he had played, and there was still manhood enough in his callous heart to make him recognize that he deserved the treatment he was receiving. But pride prompted him to retreat boldly. ”As you will, Mrs. Sanderson,” he answered, coolly returning Marion's glance. ”I came at your bidding and I leave at your command. I had been led to believe, by your actions in the past, that I should receive a more responsive welcome, but I acknowledge my mistake.”

”We understand each other perfectly,” said Marion. ”Six months ago, Mr.

Grahame, you challenged me to a game of skill. I think you know the game well enough to recognize that you have lost.”

Duncan nodded a.s.sent and walked slowly toward the door. On the threshold he turned and looked at Marion. A feeling of admiration for the woman he had so misjudged prompted him to speak ”Let me compliment your skill,”

he said. ”I played that game with the a.s.surance of an old hand and I lost. You were a novice, but you won.”

CHAPTER XVI.

IN THE LIBRARY.

Roswell Sanderson was in the library writing. A week had pa.s.sed since his departure for St. Louis, and a considerable acc.u.mulation of mail was absorbing his attention. He had arrived home that morning on an early train, and not caring to awake his wife had gone into the library to look over his letters. It was Sunday, and the measured patter of the raindrops on the window-panes seemed to forebode a cheerless day, while the dismal light, almost obscured by the lowering clouds and heavy window draperies, produced an air of gloom intensified, perhaps, by the unusual chill of the summer atmosphere. Roswell was alone, and as he wrote the scratching of his pen on the paper blended monotonously with the pattering raindrops. Perhaps half an hour pa.s.sed. Marion entered the room and stood for a moment near the door. There was a fresher color in her cheeks, even in that dim light, and her eyes seemed to have lost their look of restless longing. As she watched her husband writing, a smile of mingled tenderness and sadness came to her lips. Then she walked softly on tip-toe to where he sat, and placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

Roswell looked up startled. ”Why, Marion,” he said, ”I didn't expect to see you so early.” Then, leaving his seat, he took both his wife's hands in his and kissed her.

”I am thankful you have come back,” said Marion. ”I have wanted you so much.”

She placed her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder. There had been a tenderness in her voice which made Roswell's heart beat faster than it had ever done before. ”Yes, dear,” he said, ”I have come back, and I think I have a surprise for you, too.”

”A surprise,” said Marion, looking up.

”Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it.”

Roswell resumed his seat, and Marion took a low stool at his side and waited for him to speak.

”It is not very much,” he said, taking a letter from the table, ”but I have here a refusal of the McIlvaine cottage at Bar Harbor for the season. Would you like to go there?”

An expression of astonishment came to Marion's face. ”Is this true?” she asked.

”I am only waiting for you to say yes before sending my reply.”

”Why did you do this, Roswell?” she said, with a tone of tenderness in her voice.

”Because I felt it would be better for both of us to go away this summer. I am working too hard, I think, and must have a rest. But that is only a selfish reason; I feel it would do you good to be among new people and new scenes.”

Marion looked into his eyes a moment and a dark expression of disgust came across her face. ”Why don't you speak the truth, Roswell?” she said. ”Why don't you say that you are going away because your wife is a selfish woman who is discontented in her home; why don't you say that she is a wicked creature who cares for nothing but her own amus.e.m.e.nt, and that you are taking her where she can find new excitements? Why don't you say this?” she repeated, and then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.