"You talk of reason," says he pa.s.sionately. "Does love reason? No! I will hear your last word now."
"Are you condemning me, then, to death?" asks she, smiling delicately, and laying two large but delicate hands upon his arms.
He shakes her off.
"Answer me. Will you marry me, or will you not?"
"This is too sudden, Maurice!"
A little fire is kindling in her own eyes; she had objected to that last repulsion.
"Sudden! After all these months!" He pauses. "Is it to be Dunkerton or me?" asks he violently.
"Please do not bring Lord Dunkerton into this discussion," says she coldly.
"I certainly shall."
"You mean that I----"
"Have encouraged him. So I hear, at all events, and--there are things I remember."
"For the matter of that," says she, throwing up her beautiful head, "there are things I remember too! You--you dare to come here and accuse _me_ of falsity when I have watched you all day making steady court to that wretched little plebeian, playing tennis with her all the day long, and far into the evening! No! I may have said half a dozen words to Lord Dunkerton, but you--how many half-dozen words have you said to Miss Bolton? Come, answer me that, as we seem bent on riddles."
"All this is as nothing," says Rylton. "You know, as well as I do, that Miss Bolton has not a thought of mine! I want only one thing, the a.s.surance that you love me, and I put it at marriage. Will you link your fate with mine, low down though it is at present? If you will, Marian"--he comes closer to her and lays his hands upon her shoulders, and gazes at her with eyes full filled with honest love--"I shall work for you to the last day of my life. If you will not----"
He pauses--he looks at her--he waits. But no answer comes from her.
"Marian, take courage," says he softly--very softly. "My darling, is money everything?"
She suddenly leans back from him, and looks fair in his eyes.
"It is, it is," says she hoa.r.s.ely. "I _can"t_ again go through what I suffered before. Wait, _do_ wait--something--something will happen----"
"You refuse me?" says he, in a lifeless tone.
"Not that. Don"t speak like that. Don"t leave me, Maurice."
"It is our last hour," says he deliberately. "Be sure of that. If money is so much to you--if money counts so far beyond all that a man can give you of his heart and soul--then take it."
"And you," says she, "are you not seeking money, too? This girl, this little _fool;_ your mother has led you to think of her. You will marry her!"
"I will marry you," says he coldly, "if you will marry me."
"I have told you that it is impossible"--she draws a deep breath--"at present."
"You will not trust me, then, to make a fortune for you?"
"A fortune! It takes so _long_ to make; and," smiling, and drawing nearer to him, and suddenly flinging her arms around his neck, "are we not happy as we are?"
"No." He loosens her arms lightly, and, still holding them, looks at her. How fair she is, how desirable! "Marian," says he hoa.r.s.ely, "think! It is indeed my last word. Will you trust yourself to me as things are, or will you reject me? Marian, say you will marry me as I now am--poor, ruined."
He holds her, gazing at her despairingly. She would have spoken, perhaps, but no words come to her; no words to soften her grim determination. She _will_ not marry him poor--and yet she loves him.
Rylton, with a stifled oath, pushes her from him.
"This is the end," says he.
He goes to the door.
"Maurice!" says she faintly.
He turns.
"Well, will you marry me to-morrow?" asks he mockingly.
"No. But----"
"There is no time for "buts,"" says he.
He opens the door and closes it sharply behind him.
Mrs. Bethune flings herself back into a chair, and presses her handkerchief to her face.
"Oh, it is nothing, nothing," says she presently. She gets up, and, standing before a gla.s.s, arranges her hair and presses her eyebrows into shape. "He gets impatient, that is all. He will never be able to live without me. As for that absurd child, Maurice would not look at _her_. No, I am sure of him, quite, quite sure; to-morrow he will come back to me, repentant."
CHAPTER IX.
HOW MAURICE PLACES HIS LIFE IN THE HANDS OF THE HOYDEN, AND HOW SHE TELLS HIM MANY THINGS, AND DESIRES MANY THINGS OF HIM.
Maurice had said it was his last word. He goes straight from Marian Bethune to one of the reception-rooms, called the lesser ballroom, where some dancing is going on. His face is a little white, but beyond that he betrays no emotion whatever. He feels even surprised at himself. Has he lost all feeling? Pa.s.sing Randal Gower he whispers a gay word or two to him. He feels in brilliant spirits.
t.i.ta Bolton is dancing, but when her dance comes to an end he goes to her and asks her for the next. Yes; he can have it. She dances like a little fairy, and when the waltz is at an end he goes with her, half mechanically, towards the conservatory at the end of the room.
His is calm now, quite calm; the chatter of the child has soothed him. It had been a pleasure to dance with her, to laugh when she laughed, to listen to her nonsense. As he walks with her towards the flowers, he tells himself he is not in the least unhappy, though always quite close to him, at his side, someone seems to be whispering:
"It is all over! it is all over!"
Well, so much the better. She has fooled him too long.
The conservatory at the end of the lesser ballroom leads on to the balcony outside, and at the end of that is another and larger conservatory, connected with the drawing-room. Towards this he would have led her, but t.i.ta, in the middle of the balcony, stops short.
"But I want to dance," says she.
That far-off house, full of flowers, seems very much removed from the music.