CONCLUSION.
"Marion, will you not listen to me?--will you not listen to reason?
Your fortune, you say, is now all gone--must be restored to its lawful
owners, the Paris bankers, and that you have made the necessary
arrangements for doing so. You are bankrupt in fortune: why should you
be bankrupt also in love?"
"Understand me, Thomas Blake, I will speak on this subject no more to
you. I do not think you will have the bad taste to remain any longer
in this house when I ask you to go."
"I will do anything on earth for you, Marion--anything in reason you
ask me."
"Then go."
"But is that reasonable? Is it reasonable to ask me to leave you now
that you are as free as you were in the olden times?"
She looked at him wrathfully, scornfully.
"Have you got a second bidder for me in view? Did you not take my
heart when it was young, when you were young, and sell it for a sum of
money down? You know there is no one in this house but servants. Save
yourself the ignominy of my ringing the bell. Sir, will you go? I have
affairs to attend to. You have broken your promise by renewing this
subject."
"Why did you telegraph for me to London?"
"Because I thought you might be useful to me, and you have proved
useless."
"And if I had proved useful, would you have rewarded me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Marion, Marion, you are playing with me! Do you mean to say you
would have allowed me to hope if I had proved of service in that
affair? I did my best. I swear to you I did my best, and if you will
only give me your hand now----"
"Thomas Blake, I would have rewarded you by saying that your debt to
me had been diminished by one useful act of yours. But my contempt for
you would have been just the same. Take your elderly protestations of
love to fresh ears. Mine are too old and too weary, and too well
acquainted with their value, to care much for them. Go now. When I
have need of you again I shall send for you."
"Marion, this is too bad. You are treating me as if I were a dog."
"Worse--much worse. We were intended for one another. Once I would
have died for you; now I cannot endure you except when I think you may
be of use to me. I shall send for you if I should happen to want you
again."
His face grew white, and he set his teeth. They were in the green
drawing-room of Kilcash House. The full June sun was flaming abroad on
the sea, and shining in through the windows.
"You outrage me. I am not accustomed to be----"
"Told the simple truth," she said, finishing the sentence for him. "I
threatened to ring."
She went to the bell-rope. He sprang between her and it menacingly.
"I believe you are capable of violence," she said, surveying him with
a taunting smile.
"I am capable of murder."
"Only for plunder," she said, still smiling.
He ground his teeth.
"You will drive me to it, Marion Butler."
At the mention of her maiden name, a swift flush of crimson darkened
her face. Her eyes flashed, her nostrils dilated, her head bent
forward, her mouth opened, the veins in her temple swelled. She
clenched her hands--her bosom heaved--she stood still.
The sudden change in her appearance arrested his anger. He believed
she was going to have a fit. Her maiden name had not been purposely
uttered by him. It loosed some current in the brain which had not
flowed for years.
Awhile she stood thus. Then all at once the colour fled from her face,
and left it pallid, cold, rigid. She pressed her hand once or twice
across her brow, and then, looking at him intently for a few moments,
said, in a quiet, weary voice:
"I am ill. Leave me; but come to me soon again. In an
hour--half-an-hour. I did not mean what I said. Pray leave me, and
come to me soon. I shall be here. I am confused."
Without speaking, and scarcely believing the words he heard, he stole
from the room.
She sat down on a couch and covered her face with her hands.
"Wait," she said softly to herself. "There is something I must
do--something I have forgotten. Oh, I know! He is an honourable
gentleman, and must not be disregarded."
She went over to a table, found writing materials, sat down, and
wrote:
"Dear Mr. Paulton,
"I got your note this morning. I told you the first time you did me
the honour of offering me marriage that there was no hope. I am sorry
to say I am of the same mind still. You will forget and forgive me in
time. I shall never forget your kindness to me in my distress.
"Yours sincerely,
"Marion Butler."
She read the note over and over again from top to bottom. Something in
the look of it did not please her, but she could not think of anything
better to say. She had received a note from him that morning, asking
her to grant him another interview. He had proposed to her a week ago.
She had told him plainly she would not marry him. He had begged that
he might be allowed to call again. She said it was quite useless. He
craved another interview, and she gave way, on the understanding no
hope was to be based on the permission. He had come again, and again
had been refused. And now he was asking for a third chance. She would
not give it to him. It would be worse than useless under the
circumstances. There was something wrong with this note, but it must
serve, as Tom Blake was waiting.
She put the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Alfred at the
"Strand Hotel," Kilcash, rang the bell, and sent a servant off with
it.
When it was gone she said:
"I must go now and meet Tom. He said he'd be---- Where's this he said
he'd be? Oh, I know! By the corner of the wood on the Bandon Road.
I'll put on the white muslin Tom likes. If Mr. Paulton should come
they must say I am out."
Alfred Paulton got the note, and although he could not understand the
signature--it was no doubt the result of a lapse of memory, in which
she went back for a moment to her girlish days--he knew his dismissal
was final.
That day he set off for London, and arrived in time to see Madge
married to his old friend, Jerry O'Brien, who was secretly delighted
at the failure of Alfred's suit.
While Jerry was on his honeymoon he got a letter from his old friend
and solicitor, the postscript of which gave him the latest news of
Mrs. Davenport: the doctors had pronounced her hopelessly insane.
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * *
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
End of Project Gutenberg's Tempest-Driven (Vol. III of 3), by Richard Dowling