The Star-Gazers Part 65

"Well, you are a strange girl," he said; "hot one day, cold the next.

But I don't care; say what you like, dear."

Marjorie started as if she had been stung at this last word, for, more than anything which had pa.s.sed, it made her feel how she had fallen.

"You want to play with me and hold me off; and you are going to say you didn't mean it."

With an action quick as that of some wild creature, he caught her wrist again, and looked at her mockingly, but with a flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes which made her s.h.i.+ver and glance quickly round.

"No," he said, with a laugh; "no one can see. But, look here," he whispered earnestly, "I've been thinking about you ever since. You don't care for them here, and their money and fine clothes. Come away along with me--it'll be free like--right away from everyone who knows you, and I'll be real good to you, dear, 'pon my soul I will."

"Loose my wrist! How dare you!" cried Marjorie; and in her alarm she wondered now that she could have been so mad with one whom she thought she could sway with a look, but who was beginning to sway her.

"How dare I? because you like me to hold you," he whispered. "Do you think I'm a fool? Look here; you used to love him, but you hate him now, and you love me. Well, I used to love Hayle's girl; I was mad after her, but since I've seen you I don't care a straw for her, not even if I never see her again."

"Will you loose my wrist?" cried Marjorie, in a low, angry voice.

"No--not till I like."

"Am I to call for a.s.sistance and have you punished, sir?"

"If you like," he said mockingly. "There, that will do. What's the good of all this nonsense? Don't play with me. I say you're a lady--a beautiful lady--and I never saw a woman I liked half so well. Look here; come along with me. I'll be like your dog, and do everything you ask me. I'll kill him if you tell me, and Judith Hayle, too. There, you wouldn't find one of your sort ready like that."

Frantic with dread, Marjorie looked wildly round as she strove to free her wrist.

"Why, what a struggling little thing you are," he whispered. "Can't you see that I like you, and wouldn't hurt you for the world? What's the good of holding off like this? No one can see you; there isn't anybody within a couple of miles of where we are, and you promised me another kiss."

"Let me go," cried Marjorie hoa.r.s.ely. "I did not mean it. I was half wild when I said that to you. Look here; take my watch and my rings, and I have some money here. I did not mean all that. Let go or I will call for help."

"Well," he said coolly, "call for help. I'm not afraid; you are, and you won't call--I know better than that. Look here, you know what you said."

She looked sharply round and shuddered.

"Yes," she said huskily, "but I was mad and foolish then. It was in an angry fit. I didn't mean it."

"Didn't you?" he said, looking at her with a cunning smile. "How easily you people can lie. You did mean it, and you made me a promise, and you're going to keep it."

"No, no," she cried wildly.

"You are," he said, "and I'm going to be paid. I'm only waiting for my chance."

"I tell you no," cried Marjorie. "I did not mean it."

"You meant it then, and you mean it now, and I'm going to keep my word when I can. I'm not a fool. Do you think I don't know why it all is?

Not so blind as all that, my dear. It's plucky of you, and I like you the better for it, and some day you'll tell me how glad you are that-- pst! someone coming," he whispered, completely altering his manner and tone bowing obsequiously, and whining out an appeal to the dear kind lady to bestow a trifle on a poor young man out of work.

That night Marjorie lay awake thinking, half-repentant, half-glad; the latter feeling increasing till there was a glow of triumph in her eyes as she seemed to be gazing down upon Glynne, cast off by her cousin, her enemy and rival no longer, but an unhappy despairing object humbled at her feet.

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

FACING THE UNKNOWN.

The time was drawing nigh, and Sir John and his brother were sitting over their wine, when the former began upon matters connected with the wedding. Rolph had only left them that day, and was to return the next morning to meet them at the church, in company with a brother officer, ready to act as his best man. Then the wedding over, the happy pair were to start for the Continent; and Brackley would be left to the brothers, both of whom looked blank and dispirited as they asked themselves what they were to do when the light of the place had gone.

And that was how the conversation first began. Sir John sighing, and saying that he should miss Glynne very much indeed.

"Of course, I give lots of attention to my pigs and sheep, and the rest of them," he said dolefully; "but Brackley won't be the same, Jem, old fellow, when she's gone. I shall miss her dreadfully."

"Yes," said the major, raising his claret to his lips, and setting the gla.s.s down again untouched, "we shall miss her dreadfully."

Then, after a long conversation, Sir John had touched upon the subject of his brother's treatment of the bridegroom, and his conduct at the wedding.

They sat sipping their claret for some time, Sir John being very silent; and at last the long pause was followed by the major saying,--

"Well, don't let's leave our darling. I suppose I may say 'our darling,' Jack?"

"My dear brother!" exclaimed Sir John, grasping his hand.

"I say then, don't let's leave our darling alone any longer. We shall have plenty of time to sip our wine of nights when we are alone, Jack.

Let's go and let her pour out tea for us for what will pretty well be the last time."

"Hah! yes!" said Sir John, rising slowly, "for pretty well the last time, Jem, and--and--"

Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine florid face quivered.

The major laid one hand upon his brother's shoulder in good old schoolboy fas.h.i.+on, caught his right hand in his own, and remained gripping it warmly--a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly feeling; but he spoke no word.

Sir John was the first to break the silence. "Thank you, Jem," he said, "thank you, Jem. It's very weak and childish of me at my time of life, but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my only child; and--and--and, Jem, my lad, don't jump upon me--I must own it to you now, and I will--I feel that I am making a great mistake."

"Thank G.o.d!" cried the major fervently.

"Jem!"

"I say, thank G.o.d," cried the major, "that you see the truth at last, Jack, before it is too late."

"No, no, Jem," said Sir John sadly; "I have not seen it before it is too late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound.

I cannot interfere."

"Hang honour!" cried the major excitedly. "I'd give up all the honour in the world sooner than that girl's life should be blighted. Jack, Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We've had our fling of life.

Let's think of our darling's happiness, and not of what the world thinks of us."

"Too late, Jem! too late!" said Sir John.

"I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I'll do anything.

I'll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have her."

"Don't talk nonsense, Jem--don't talk nonsense. I've sounded Glynne well, and it is too late."

"What! Do you mean to tell me that she would insist upon having him if you forbade it?" cried the major.