HOW MAURICE SMOKES A CIGAR, AND MUSES ON MANY THINGS; HOW HE LAMENTS
HIS SOLITUDE; AND HOW AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR COMES TO HIM.
"It is the mynd that maketh good or ill," says the old poet. Sir
Maurice, sitting here in the library at The Place, feels _his_
"mynd" far from happy. He has finished his business with the agent,
and now there lies before him a long, dull evening in which to think
on many things.
He is comfortable enough. His mother is well away, somewhere in
Essex, and so he has the house to himself. The fire is burning very
nicely--these May evenings are often chilly--and the cigar he is
smoking is excellent. The dinner has been excellent, too.
Astonishing, considering the shortness of the notice and what
servants are. And yet--yet he feels dull to the last degree.
Over and over again his mind runs back to his morning's interview
with Margaret. He would have stifled such returns, but they are
beyond him. His brain insists on making photographs of Margaret's
drawing-room, with its screens here and its pots there, and the tall
jar filled with the sweet-scented flowers of early summer. The
photographs go farther than that, too. One prominent object in all
of them are the folding-doors at the end of the room.
It seems to him, as he angrily flicks the ash off the end of his
cigar, that he had seen nothing but those folding-doors. His eyes
had been riveted upon them. He--it was absurd, of course--but he had
in a way seen through them--seen _her_--that little faithless,
stormy child, who is playing the very mischief with his life.
"Ask not her name;
The light winds whisper it on every hand."
That is the worst of it! Rylton gets up, and begins to pace the
room. Her name--her face---- He cannot get rid of them. They seem to
haunt him! And what has he _done_ that she should so deride and
scorn him? Say he was in fault about Marian Bethune. Well, he
_was_--grossly in fault, if you like, so far as his having kept
silence about his love for her before his marriage. But afterwards!
He had little or nothing to reproach himself with afterwards. His
married life had been blameless so far as Marian had been concerned.
He had often wondered, indeed, about that--about that strange
coldness he had felt when she had come to stay with them--with Tita
and him. He had looked forward to her coming, and when she came--it
was a sort of blank! At the time he hated himself for it, but it was
not to be overcome. However, it was Marian's own doing. That last
time when she had refused him, he had understood her. Love with her
took a second place. Money held the reins.
Up and down, up and down the room he goes, smoking and thinking.
"She
Whom the gods love--tranquillity--"
is far from him to-night. Why had Tita run away when he went in?
Margaret had told him plainly that she would not see him; she had
almost allowed that she hated him, and certainly her whole conduct
points that way. What is to be the end of it, then? Is he to be
bound to her, and she to him, until kindly Death drops in to release
them one from the other? And never a word between them all the time!
It sounds ghastly! He flings his cigar into the fire, and, seating
himself on the edge or the table, gives himself up a prey to evil
prognostications.
His thoughts wander, but always they come back to those
folding-doors, and the possible vision behind them.
Such a tender vision! Half child, half woman, wholly sweet, yet a
little tyrant in her own way. The vision behind the folding-doors
grows brighter. A little thing, slender, beautiful, with such
bright, earnest eyes, and her lips just smiling and apart, and the
soft rings of hair lying on the white forehead. Behind those
doors--were the eyes glad, or angry, as they so often were--with
him? With Margaret, no doubt, they were always bright. She loved
Margaret, but him she never loved. Why should she? Had _he_ loved
her?
It is a terrible question, and all in a moment the answer to it
comes to him--an answer almost as terrible. He had thought of it,
trifled with it, played with it, this question. But now he _knows!_
Yes, he does love her. Her, and her only.
He is still sitting at the table thinking. His head is bent a little
down, his hands are resting on the table behind him. Will she ever
forgive or forget?
"My love is like the sea,
As changeful and as free;
Sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough,
Yet oft she's smooth and calm enough--
Ay, much too calm for me!"
The pretty words come to him as if describing her; "sometimes she's
angry": with him she had been often angry, but now, looking back on
it, what sweetest anger it had been, anger that cried aloud for
tender arms in which to sink and lose itself for ever. Oh, if
only--only--she would be angry with him once again, he might so
argue with her that she would forgive him, and, perhaps, take him,
worthless as he is, to that warm heart of hers.
Mechanically he slips from the table to a standing position. He will
be in town to-morrow. He will make one last effort to see her.
Margaret will aid him, and, after all, what is there to separate
them? Hescott is in South Africa (there was nothing in that
really--he had made an ass of himself over that, more or less). And
Marian Bethune? Well, Tita must know by this time that that old
folly is at an end for ever--even Marian herself has tired of it.
He turns slowly; the door has opened behind him. The lamp is a
little low, and he has to look closely into the gloom at the end of
the room to see who has come in. One of the servants, no doubt. He
looks again.
"The post, Peter?" says he expectantly. But it is not Peter who
comes forward.
_ "Maurice!"_ says Marian Bethune, in a tone that is barely above a
whisper.
She is with him now, her hands upon his arms, her eyes riveted upon
his.