A few days after Christmas, as Margaret was in her room, writing one
of her frequent long letters home, Mr. Decourcy’s card was brought to
her. It was with a strong feeling of reluctance that she went down to
him, and she stopped at Mrs. Gaston’s door, hoping her cousin would
accompany her. Mrs. Gaston, however, was lying on the lounge, reading
a novel, and she declared herself to be too tired to stir; so Margaret
was obliged to go down alone.
After her first impulse had died away, she had concluded to keep the
locket, as she felt she had no reason to take so extreme a step as to
return it. Nothing, however, would induce her to wear Alan Decourcy’s
picture, and that she meant to let him know.
It was the first time that Margaret had spoken to her cousin since
witnessing the scene with Mrs. Vere in the conservatory, and the
recollection of that scene necessarily threw a certain amount of
constraint into her manner.
Not observing this, however, Mr. Decourcy came toward her, with some
words of ardent greeting, and when she extended her hand he made a
motion to raise it to his lips. With a movement that was almost rough
in its suddenness, Margaret snatched her hand away.
“Margaret! What can this mean?” said Decourcy, in a tone of surprised
reproach.
Miss Trevennon gave a little, constrained laugh.
“I don’t like that sort of thing,” she said, lightly. “Don’t do it
again. It’s unpleasant to me.”
“Forgive me,” he answered, with the utmost gentleness, untinged by any
shade of pique. “I beg your pardon. I am very sorry.”
“Oh, never mind! It doesn’t matter,” said Margaret, hurriedly. “Thank
you so much for the locket, Alan. It is lovely--far lovelier than I
have any idea of, I dare say, for I am so ignorant about such things.”
“I hoped it would please you,” he said. “You saw the picture I ventured
to put in it? And will you consent to wear it?”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, somewhat uneasily. “It was very
kind of you to put it in, but I never have worn any one’s picture. I
know you’re a cousin, and all that, but I think, if you don’t mind,
I’ll take the picture out and put it----”
But he interrupted her.
“It isn’t because I am your cousin, Margaret, that I want you to wear
my picture,” he said. “On the contrary, I hope for the time when you
will forget that relationship in a nearer and tenderer one----”
“Alan! Stop. You must not go on,” said Margaret, with sudden vehemence.
“There can be no thought of a nearer relationship between us at
any time. If we are to be friends at all, this subject must not be
mentioned again.”
“Forgive me; I have startled you,” he said. “I meant not to do that. I
do not want to constrain you or to force this hope of mine upon you too
suddenly, but I cannot lightly give it up. It has been with me, during
all my wanderings to and fro--if not the definite hope, at least an
appreciation of the fact that my sweet cousin was endowed, more than
any woman whom I had known, with all the attributes and qualities a
man could desire in his companion for life. I cannot, even yet, quite
abandon the hope that I may yet induce you to accept my devotion.”
Margaret might have borne the rest, but this word galled her.
“Devotion!” she said mockingly, with a little scornful laugh. “Oh,
Alan!”
“What do you mean? Why should you speak to me in that tone? It is
unfair, Margaret. It is not like you.”
“I mean,” she said, growing grave, and speaking with a sudden, earnest
vehemence, “that you degrade the word devotion, when you call the
feeling you have to offer me by that name. I know too well what real
devotion means. I have too just an estimate of its goodness and
strength to call the cool regard you have for me devotion! A cool
regard between cousins does well enough, but that feeling in connection
with marriage is another thing, and I had better tell you, here and
now, that I would live my life out unloved and alone, sooner than I
would wrong myself by accepting such a counterfeit devotion as this
that you offer me.”
Decourcy, who was, of course, entirely ignorant of the ground on which
Margaret’s strong feeling was based, heard her with amazement. The only
explanation that suggested itself was that some one, who happened to be
aware of his rather well-known affair with Mrs. Vere, had informed his
cousin. It was, therefore, with a tone of injured gentleness, that he
said:
“Margaret, you surprise and grieve me inexpressibly by such words as
those. I can only account for them by the possibility of some one’s
having given you false ideas about me. There are always people to do
these things, unfortunately,” he went on, with a little sigh of patient
resignation; “but you should have hesitated before believing a story to
my disadvantage. I would have been more just to you.”
“There has been no story told,” said Margaret. “If there were any
stories to tell, they have been kept from me. Do not let us pursue this
topic, Alan, and when we drop it now, let it be forever. It is quite
out of the question that we can ever be more to each other than we are
now.”
“As you have said it,” he replied, “my only course is a silent
acquiescence. Painful and disappointing as such a decision is to me,
since it is your decision I have no word to say against it. But with
regard to the lightness and insincerity you have charged me with, I
have a right to speak and I must.”
Reassured by Margaret’s assertion that no one had maligned him to her,
he felt strong to defend himself, and it was, therefore, in the most
urgent tone that he said:
“I feel it hard, Margaret, very hard, that you should harbor such
opinions of me, when my thoughts of you have been all tenderness and
trust. Was it not enough that you should deprive me, at one blow, of
the hope that I have cherished as my dearest wish for the future,
without adding to the bitterness of that disappointment, the still
keener one of feeling that I must endure your contempt?”
There was no doubt of his earnestness now. He was fired by a genuine
interest, and he longed to recover the good opinion of this spirited,
high-souled girl more than he had longed for anything for years.
“You were never unreasonable, Margaret,” he went on, “and therefore I
feel sure I may rely upon you to give me your reasons for this change
toward me--for you will not deny that you are changed.”
“Why talk about it, Alan? I like you very well. I suppose you’re
as much to be believed in as other men. The mistake I made was in
supposing you to be superior to them. You would not like the idea of
being on a pedestal, I know; so be content, and let us say no more
about the matter.”
“Excuse me, if I cannot consent,” he answered, gravely. “It is no light
matter to me to lose your regard; and when you remember that I have
long hoped to make you my wife, some day, I think you will feel that
that fact creates an indebtedness on your part to me, and gives me the
right to demand an explanation from you.”
His tone of conscious rectitude and the reproachful sadness of the eyes
he turned upon her, made Margaret so indignant and angry that she said,
with some heat:
“We are playing a farce, Alan, and it had better come to an end. I
am perfectly willing to accord you all the credit you deserve. You
are a charming man of the world,” she added, falling into a lighter
tone, “and I admire your manners immensely. I am perfectly willing
to continue to be on good terms with you, but there must be certain
limitations to our friendship. I could not consent to a return to the
old intimacy, and you must not expect it.”
“But why?” he said, urgently. “I insist that you tell me. Margaret,
remember how important this is to me; remember how I love you!”
And in a certain way his words were true. He felt himself, at this
moment, really in love. Now that he found himself likely to lose her,
this handsome, spirited, honest-hearted girl, grew inestimably more
dear to him. He longed to be able to control her--to settle it, then
and there, that she was to be his own. So it was with the fire of real
feeling in his eyes that he drew nearer and eagerly sought her averted
gaze, and even ventured to take her hand. But the moment she met
that look, and felt that touch, Margaret sprang to her feet and half
involuntarily took her position behind a large chair, where she stood,
resting upon its high back and looking at him with an expression of
defiant scorn.
“Margaret,” he said, rising too, and bending upon her again that eager
look that galled her so, “do you shrink from my mere look and touch?
There must be a reason for your manner, and that reason I must and will
know.”
“You shall!” she answered, excitedly, unable to bear his tone of
injured superiority any longer. “I witnessed a scene between you and
Mrs. Vere in the conservatory at the ball that night, that made me
despise you. It revealed your true nature to me, at a glance, and I
am glad of it. I should not have spoken of it. I could have managed
to hold my peace and meet you calmly as a casual acquaintance; but
that you would not have. But when you presume to offer me what you
are pleased to call your devotion, with the memory of that scene in
my mind, I can be silent no longer. And now,” she went on, after an
instant’s pause, “I have spoken, and we understand each other. Let the
whole subject be dropped just here, forever.”
She had avoided looking at him, as she spoke, and even now she
hesitated to meet his eyes. There was a moment’s deep stillness, and
then, to the relief of both, Cousin Eugenia’s silken robes were heard
sweeping down the staircase.
She entered, and the room’s whole atmosphere changed. Her graceful
toilet, well-turned phrases and studious correctness of demeanor,
recalled the usages of the world in which they lived, and Margaret
and Decourcy resumed their seats and began to talk of snow-storms and
sleigh-rides, following Cousin Eugenia’s lead.
When Margaret presently glanced at Mr. Decourcy, she saw that he was
very pale, but that was all. He had never been more self-possessed.
When he rose to go, Mrs. Gaston, seeing that something was amiss,
discreetly walked over to the window for a moment, and Decourcy,
taking a step toward Margaret, said in a low tone:
“You have been very hard to me, Margaret, and have judged me hastily.
The time may come when you will see that it is so, and for that time I
shall wait.”
He said good-bye then, without offering his hand, and Margaret, to her
amazement, found herself feeling like a culprit. There was such an air
of gentle magnanimousness about Mr. Decourcy, that it made her feel
quite contrite. In exciting which sensation Mr. Decourcy had obtained
exactly the result he had aimed at.