Part 20 (1/2)
The special irritant ceased to gall.
”Now!” echoed Moya. ”What do you mean by now?”
”Why, the whole thing's off, of course.”
”What whole thing?”
”Your late engagement.”
”Oh, is it! Thanks for the news; it's the first I've heard of it.”
”Then it won't be the last. You're not going to marry a convict's son, or a convict either; and this fellow promises to be both.”
”I shall marry exactly whom I like,” said Moya, trembling.
”Don't flatter yourself! You may say so out of bravado, but you're the last person to make a public spectacle of yourself; especially when--well, you know, to put it brutally, this is pretty well bound to ruin him, whatever else it does or does not. Besides, you don't like him any more; you've stopped even thinking you do. Do you suppose I've got no eyes?”
”Theodore,” said Moya in a low voice, ”if I were your wife I'd murder you!”
”Oh, no, you wouldn't; and meanwhile don't talk greater rot than you can help, Moya. Believe me it isn't either the time or the place. We must get out of the place, by the way, the first thing to-morrow. I see you're still wearing his ring. The sooner you take that off and give it to me to return to him the better.”
”It will come to that,” said Moya's heart; ”but not through Theodore; no, thank you!”
”It shall never come to it at all!” replied her heart of hearts.
And her lips echoed the ”Never!” as she marched to the door. Theodore had his foot against it in time.
”Now listen to me! No, you're not going till you listen to reason and me! You may call me a brute till you're black in the face. I don't mind being one for your own good. This thing's coming to an end; in fact it's come; it ought never to have begun, but I tell you it's over. The family were always agreed about it, and I'm practically the head of the family; at all events I'm acting head up here, and I tell you this thing's over whether you like it or not. But you like it. What's the good of pretending you don't? But whether you do or you don't you shall never marry the fellow! And now you know it you may go if you like. Only do for G.o.d's sake be ready in the morning, like the sane person you always used to be.”
Moya did not move an inch towards the opened door. Her tears were dry; fires leapt in their stead.
”Is that all?”
”Unless you wish me to say more.”
”What a fool you are, Theodore!”
”I'm afraid I distrust expert evidence.”
”With all your wits you don't know the first thing about women!”
”You mean that you require driving like Paddy's pig? Oh, no, you don't, Moya; go and sleep upon it.”
”Sleep!”
It was one burst of all she felt, but only one.
”I'm afraid you won't,” said Theodore, with more humanity. ”Still it's better to lose a night thinking things over, calmly and surely, as you're very capable of doing, than to go another day with that ring upon your finger.”