Part 55 (1/2)
He lit a candle, and was about to light a lamp when she exclaimed impatiently, ”Oh, I did not notice it: what does it matter? Do let the lamp alone, and listen to me.” He obeyed, much amused at her irritation.
”Where has Marian gone to?” she asked.
”Is she out?” he said, suddenly grave. ”You forget that I have come straight from Glasgow.”
”I have been here since three o'clock. Marian sent me a note not to come on Sunday--that she should be out and that you were away. But they tell me that she was at home all yesterday, except for two hours when she was out with Sholto. She packed her trunks in the evening, and went away with them. She told the cabman to drive to Euston. I dont know what it all means; and I have been half distracted waiting here for you. I thought you would never come. There is a note for you on your dressing-table.”
He pursed his lips a little and looked attentively at her, but said nothing.
”Wont you go and open it?” she said anxiously. ”It must contain some explanation.”
”I am afraid the explanation is obvious.”
”You have no right to say that. How do you know? If you are not going to read her letter, you had better say so at once. I dont want to pry into it: I only want to know what is become of Marian.”
”You shall read it by all means. Will you excuse me whilst I fetch it?”
She stamped with impatience. He smiled and went for the letter, which, after a brief absence, he placed unopened on the table before her, saying:
”I suppose this is it. I laid my hand on it in the dark.”
”Are you going to open it?” she said, hardly able to contain herself.
”No.”
He had not raised his voice; but it struck her that he was in a rage.
His friendly look and quiet att.i.tude first rea.s.sured, then, on second thoughts, exasperated her.
”Why wont you?”
”I really dont know. Somehow, I am not curious. It interests you. Pray open it.”
”I will die first. If it lie there until I open it, it will lie there forever.”
He opened the envelope neatly with a paper cutter, and handed her the enclosure. She kept down her hands stubbornly. He smiled a little, still presenting it. At last she s.n.a.t.c.hed it, much as she would have liked to s.n.a.t.c.h a handful of his hair. Having read it, she turned pale, and looked as she had used to in her childhood, when in disgrace and resolute not to cry. ”I had rather have had my two hands cut off,” she said pa.s.sionately, after a pause.
”It is very sad for you,” said Conolly, sympathetically. ”He is an educated man; but I cannot think that he has much in him.”
”He is a selfish, lying, conceited hound. Educated, indeed! And what are _you_ going to do, may I ask?”
”Eat my supper. I am as hungry as a bear.”
”Yes, you had better, I think. Good-evening.” He seemed to know that she would not leave; for he made no movement to open the door for her. On her way out, she turned, and so came at him with her fists clenched, that for a moment he was doubtful whether she would not bodily a.s.sault him.
”Are you a brute, or a fool, or both?” she said, letting her temper loose. ”How long do you intend to stand there, doing nothing?”
”What _can_ I do, Miss McQuinch?” he said, gently.
”You can follow her and bring her back before she has made an utter idiot of herself with that miserable blackguard. Are you afraid of him?