The Loyalist Part 28

"I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered at intervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit may restrain vice, and pa.s.sion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."

She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. How serious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition which characterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturnine complexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was a.n.a.lytic and she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of an expert chemist.

"I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."

"Please, let me a.s.sure you there is no need of an apology."

"And you were not disappointed?"

A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried to be humorous.

"Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."

"You might have joined us."

"You know better than that."

"I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."

"Did she say so?"

"No. But I know that she would."

"Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.

She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.

"I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.

"Why?"

"I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."

"I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"

"Have you had reason?"

"I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find my reasoning correct at some future time, I hope."

"Do you approve of my friends.h.i.+p with her?"

She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixed upon the needles.

"It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."

Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.

"I simply asked your advice, that was all."

The words. .h.i.t so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he had been brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first, then wounded pride, then a sense of crus.h.i.+ng pain.

"I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannot tell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly, but I would not say that your friends.h.i.+p with her should cease. Not at present, anyhow."

"Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"

"With him? No."

"Can you tell me the reason?"

And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking this man and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he was surrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, and wished for her own good that she would see no more of him.

There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsed into a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as the moments pa.s.sed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almost beyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through her mind.

At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginning of the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.

She continued with her knitting.

IV

A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him to become more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. There was revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part of Marjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeper did that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now a feeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been so unsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment, his pity was aroused.

"I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly and kindly. "It was altogether rude of me."

She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain the flood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forth with the p.r.o.nunciation of the merest syllable.

She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment, running its edges through her fingers.

"I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I would not, did you not ask me."

"I am not offended."

"Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."

"I did not mean that you should know it."

"Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you the a.s.surance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussion by us again. He must not be mentioned."

"Please! I--I----"

"It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I say this. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. I thought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possible for me to tell. You must ask me no more."

"He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been in his company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly, sincere, upright."

Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemed to contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober, enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could be communicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.

"You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has proved himself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and one measure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the opposite standard. I distrust every man until he has proved himself worthy, and it was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application of it to you."