To Win the Love He Sought Part 27

"Then give me permission."

"Never!"

"You don't mean that?"

"I do! Lord Lumley, allow me to pa.s.s. I will not be kept here against my will!"

He caught hold of my wrist, but I s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand away.

"Margharita, listen! I love you. Why should you be angry? I want you to be my wife."

I believe he thought that I was won. I had sunk down upon the music stool and covered my face with my hands. My bosom was heaving with sobs.

With all my strength I was battling with a strange bewildering succession of feelings. In reality I was more exquisitely and perfectly happy than I had ever dreamed of.

I felt his strong hands close over my fingers and remove them one by one. His head was quite close to mine, and suddenly I felt his mustache brush my cheek.

I sprang to my feet, wildly, fiercely angry. My eyes were flas.h.i.+ng, and I had drawn myself up until I seemed almost as tall as he was. If he had dared to kiss me. Oh! if he had dared!

"Let me pa.s.s!" I cried pa.s.sionately. "Let me pa.s.s at once, I say."

He fell back immediately. He was half frightened, half puzzled.

"Lord Lumley, I never wish you to speak to me again," I cried, trembling all over with pa.s.sionate indignation, and das.h.i.+ng the tears from my eyes. "I hate you. Do you hear! I hate you!"

He ought to have been abashed, but he was not.

"You have no cause to hate me!" he said proudly. "Surely a man does not insult a woman by offering her his love, as I have offered you mine. I scarcely see at least how I have deserved your anger."

Suddenly his voice broke down, and he went on in a very altered tone:

"Oh, Margharita, my love, my love! Give me one word of hope! Tell me at least that you are not really angry with me."

And then, without a moment's warning, the fire of indignation which had leaped up to help me suddenly died out. He was standing respectfully away from me, pale and dignified. His face was full of emotion, and his hands were trembling; but some instinct seemed to have told him how I hated his touch, and he did not attempt even to hold my hand. Oh! that moment, terrible as it was at the time, will be very sweet to think upon in after days.

My strength had come to an end. I knew that I was in terrible risk of undoing all that I had done, but I could not help it. That moment seemed somehow sacred. Although my whole life was itself a lie, I could not then have looked in his eyes and spoken falsely. If I had let him see my face, though only for an instant, he would have known my secret; so I buried it in my hands, and swept from the room before he could stop me.

Am I more happy or more miserable, I wonder, since he has spoken those words which seem to be ever ringing in my ears? Both, I think! Life is more intense; it has other depths now besides that well of hate and pity which has brought me into this household. At any rate, I have felt emotions to-night which I never dreamed of before.

If only he knew--knew all, how he would scorn, hate, despise me! How he would hasten to drive me out of his memory, to crush every tender thought of me, to purge his heart of love for me, to pluck it up by the roots and cast it away forever! Would he find it an easy task, I wonder?

Perhaps. He loves his mother so much. Why should he not? So far as he is concerned, she deserves it. She is a good mother, and a good wife. If it were not for the past I would call her a good woman. Sometimes I wish that she were not so, that she was still vain and heartless, the same woman who, for the sake of an alien and a stranger, brought down a living death upon the man who had trusted her with his most sacred secrets; and that man the last of the Marionis, my uncle. I think of it, and coldness steals once more into my heart. What she is now is of no account. It is the past for which she must suffer.

CHAPTER XXV

AMONG THE PINE TREES

This morning I heard noises about the house quite early and heavy footsteps in the drive. I was awake--it was only a few minutes since I had been sitting at the window watching the day break over the sea, and I had the curiosity to look out. I think that something must have told me what it meant, for my heart sank even before I had any idea of what was going on. There were two sailors from Lord Lumley's yacht in the bay, carrying great hampers down from the house. I guessed it all in a moment; he was going away.

I put on my dressing-gown and sat down in a low chair to watch. Through a c.h.i.n.k in the blind I could keep it lowered and still see quite plainly. Presently I saw him appear in his yachting clothes, with oilskins on his arm. Would he glance up at all, I wondered. Yes; at the bend in the shrubbery he turned and looked for a full minute up at my window. It was all I could do to keep from waving him to come back. How pale he was, and how dejected his walk seemed. My eyes grew dim, and there was a lump in my throat as he turned and walked away. Would it have made any difference, I wonder, if he had known of my being there; if he could have seen my poor, sad, tear-stained face? I think that it would.

He has gone. I have seen the last of him. Am I glad or sorry, I wonder.

Glad that my task has become so much easier, or sorry for my own unreasoning, selfish sake. Why should I be a hypocrite? These pages are to be the mirror of my heart. To others my whole life is a lie. I write here so that I may retain some faint knowledge of what truth really is.

I am sorry--desperately, foolishly sorry. I know that my cheeks are leaden, and my heart is heavy. There is no light in the day; none of that swift, keen struggling with myself which his presence always imposed. He is gone, and I miss them; I should have laughed a few short days ago to have believed this true. But it is true!

The first bell has gone, and I have drawn up my blind. The promise of that blood-red sunrise has been fulfilled. I wish that he had waited another day. I have an idea that there is going to be a storm. There is a pale yellow light in the sky which I do not like, and, as far as one can see, the waves are crested with white foam. It is an ugly sea and an ugly sky. I wish that I were going with him, and that a storm might come and we might die together. I would not mind his holding me in his arms then. We would die like that, and death would be joy.

At breakfast I was able to take the news of his departure without making any sign. I fancy that Lady St. Maurice was watching me when she made the announcement. If she was expecting to read my thoughts and fears she was disappointed. She could have seen nothing but the most utter indifference. I felt that my mask was perfect.

But as the day wore on my task grew harder. The wind, which had been blowing hard all the morning, became a hurricane, and even in the house, with closed doors and windows, we could hear the far-off thunder of the sea sweeping in against the cliffs. Every one in the household became strangely restless and anxious. Lord St. Maurice, with a field gla.s.s under his arm, went out upon the cliffs, and he returned hatless and with his coat ripped up, shaking his head with ill-affected cheerfulness. There was no sign of the _Stormy Petrel_.

"Lumley would make for Yarmouth harbor directly he saw this beast of a gale blowing up," he declared, walking up and down the morning room with troubled face. "He is a little careless, but he is an excellent sailor, and he must have seen that there was dirty weather brewing. It isn't as though it were a sudden squall, you know, or anything of that sort.

There was plenty of warning. All the same, I wish he hadn't started. It was very foolish, and I don't like such whims. I didn't hear him say anything about a cruise yesterday. Did you, Adrienne?"

Was it my fancy, or did Lady St. Maurice indeed glance at me as she answered:

"No, I heard nothing. Late last night he came to my room and told me that he had given Groves some orders, and that he should leave quite early this morning."

Lord St. Maurice frowned.

"It is most extraordinary," he said. "He gave you no reason whatever, then?"

"None!"

"Did he say where he was going to? We were shooting together all yesterday afternoon, and he said not a word about going away. On the contrary, he arranged to go to Norwich on Thursday to look at some horses."

The Countess shook her head.

"I know no more than you do, Geoffrey. I asked him where he was going, and he did not seem at all sure. He said that he would write if he remained away more than a day or two. You know how uncertain he is."

"It is very inconsiderate of him," Lord St. Maurice declared, leaving the room abruptly. "I am surprised at Lumley."

Lady St. Maurice and I were alone. She was pretending to read and I to work. So far as she was concerned, I could see that it was a pretence, for she held her book upside down, and for my part, I did not make a correct st.i.tch. I knew that I ought to have been calm, that I was imperiling my secret every moment. When at last she spoke to me, I made a great effort to control my tone.

"Lord Lumley said nothing to you, I suppose, Margharita, about going away?"

"Nothing whatever," I answered quietly. "He would be scarcely likely to mention his plans to me and not to you or Lord St. Maurice."

I was forced to look up, and I met her eyes fixed upon me with a look which I had seen there once or twice before. It was almost a look of fear, as though she saw in my face something which aroused a host of sad, dimly-veiled memories. Was she wondering whether the presence of a Marioni in her house boded ill-fortune to herself and those who were dear to her? It may have been so.

She did not answer immediately, and I took advantage of the pause to leave the room. I could not bear to talk to her.

Ought I not to have been glad at all this--to have watched her pale, suffering face with satisfaction, and even with inward joy. Was she not in trouble greater than any I could bring upon her, and, indeed, had I not had a hand in it? Was it not I who had driven her son out into this danger? Should I not have rejoiced? Alas! alas! how could I, when my own heart was beating fast in a very agony of sickening fear.

My little pupil was away for the day--gone to play with the clergyman's children down in the village, and my time was my own. I was thankful, for I could not possibly have forced myself into the wearisome routine of lesson hearing and teaching. Solitude was my only relief.

The day wore on. Servants had been sent to every point along the coast, and the harbor master at Yarmouth had been telegraphed to every hour. I stood by my window, looking out in the fast gathering twilight, until I could bear it no longer. Das.h.i.+ng the tears from my face, I caught up a thick cloak, and running softly down the back stairs, left the house un.o.bserved.