"Your young man, of course. What else? A half-hour ago, he was roaring
and stamping about and calling me a liar. If it had not been for my dead
body, he would have rushed in here and killed you. My dead body, or what
I told him about passing over it, was the revolver that I flourished. He
has gone, but he swore he would return. Now, unless you rally to the
colours, we will have to hide in the cellar, or rather, as we haven't
any, in the pantry. Don't you think you could eat a bit of sweetbread,
or perhaps some almond pudding?"
Again Margaret put her hand to her forehead. "Don't say that, mother.
Keith did not call you a liar and it is not like him to roar and stamp
about."
"My dear, I don't wonder you don't believe me. He went on like a madman.
He could not get over the fact that his dollymop was one too many for
you. He seemed to think that it was none of your business."
"Don't."
"My dear Margaret, you must do me the justice to admit that I stood up
for him. I said he was an attractive young man. So he is. But that is
just it. Attractive young men are most unreliable and reliable young men
are most unattractive. At your age, I used to like them fair and false.
That was your father's fault. He perverted me. He was so domestic!"
It was an old wound that Mrs. Austen touched then and under it Margaret
winced. "The poor dear! He was a saint and you know it."
"Know it! I should say I did. I know too that he made me hate saints.
But you love them and thought you had one, instead of which you got a
devil. Your luck is far better than mine. If you take my advice, you
will hang on to him like grim death. It is not too late. To-morrow he
will be here, thundering at the gates."
Dimly at the moment the girl's creed turned a ray on her. She lifted her
head.
"He will not thunder at the gates and he is not what you say. But
perhaps I am. I may have done worse than he has and what he has done is
my punishment."
It was very little but it was too much. Mrs. Austen, in spite of her
facile digestion, gagged at it.
"If that is theosophy, I will believe it when I am old, fat and a Hun."
Margaret sank back. "But I am sorry you have been annoyed. It won't
happen again. I will write to him."
Later, she did write.
Forgive me, dear Keith, if I cause you pain, but I feel that I am
not suited to you. Forgive me therefore for not recognising it
sooner. I have thought it all over and, though it wrings my heart
to say it, I cannot see you again. Forgive me and forget.