The Malefactor [99]
If Juliet will not take your money, why should she take mine?"
Wingrave came out from his place. He was standing now between Aynesworth and the door.
"Aynesworth," he said, "do I understand that you are not going to marry the child?"
"I? Certainly not!" Aynesworth answered.
Wingrave remained quite calm, but there was a terrible light in his eyes.
"Now, for the first time, Aynesworth," he said, "I am glad that you are here. We are going to have a complete understanding before you leave this room. Juliet Lundy, as my ward, was, I believe, contented and happy. It suited you to disturb our relations, and your excuse for doing so was that you loved her. You took her away from me, and now you say that you do not intend to marry her. Be so good as to tell me what the devil you do mean!"
Aynesworth laughed a little bitterly.
"You must excuse me," he said, "but a sense of humor was always my undoing, and this reversal of our positions is a little odd, isn't it? I am not going to marry Juliet Lundy because she happens not to care for me in that way at all. My appearance is scarcely that of a joyous lover, is it?"
Wingrave eyed him more closely. Aynesworth had certainly fallen away from the trim and carefully turned out young man of a few months back. He was paler, too, and looked older.
"I do not understand this," Wingrave said.
"I do!" Aynesworth answered bitterly. "There is someone else?"
"Someone whom I do not know about?" Wingrave said, frowning heavily. "Who is he, Aynesworth?"
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. Wingrave came a step nearer to him.
"You may as well tell me." he said quietly, "for I shall postpone my journey until I know the whole truth."
"It is not my secret," Aynesworth answered. "Ask her yourself!"
"Very well," Wingrave declared, "I will. I shall return to London tonight."
"It is not necessary," Aynesworth remarked.
Wingrave started.
"You mean that she is here?" he exclaimed.
Aynesworth drew him towards the window.
"Come," he said, "you shall ask her now."
Wingrave hesitated for a moment. An odd nervousness seemed to have taken possession of him.
"I do not understand this, Aynesworth," he said. "Why is she here?"
"Go and ask her your question," Aynesworth said. "Perhaps you will understand then."
Wingrave went down the path which led to the walled garden and the sea. The tall hollyhocks brushed against his knees; the air, as mild as springtime, was fragrant with the perfume of late roses. Wingrave took no note of these things. Once more he seemed to see coming up the path the little black-frocked child, with the pale face and the great sad eyes; it was she indeed who rose so swiftly from the hidden seat. Then Wingrave stopped short for he felt stirring within him all the long repressed madness of his unlived manhood. It was the weakness against which he had fought so long and so wearily, triumphant now, so that his heart beat like a boy's, and the color flamed into his cheeks. And all the time she was coming nearer, and he saw that the child had become a woman, and it seemed to him that all the joy of life was alight in her face, and the one mysterious and wonderful secret of her sex was shining softly out of her eager eyes. So that, after all, when they met, Wingrave asked her no questions. She came into his arms with all the graceful and perfect naturalness of a child who has wandered a little away from home . . . .
"I am too old for you, dear," he said presently, as they wandered about the garden, "much too old."
"Age," she answered softly, "what is that? What have we to do with the years that are past? It is the years to come only which we need consider, and to think of them makes me almost tremble with happiness. You are much too rich and too wonderful a personage for a homeless orphan like me; but," she added, tucking her arm through his with a contented little sigh, "I have you, and I shall not let you go!"
End
Wingrave came out from his place. He was standing now between Aynesworth and the door.
"Aynesworth," he said, "do I understand that you are not going to marry the child?"
"I? Certainly not!" Aynesworth answered.
Wingrave remained quite calm, but there was a terrible light in his eyes.
"Now, for the first time, Aynesworth," he said, "I am glad that you are here. We are going to have a complete understanding before you leave this room. Juliet Lundy, as my ward, was, I believe, contented and happy. It suited you to disturb our relations, and your excuse for doing so was that you loved her. You took her away from me, and now you say that you do not intend to marry her. Be so good as to tell me what the devil you do mean!"
Aynesworth laughed a little bitterly.
"You must excuse me," he said, "but a sense of humor was always my undoing, and this reversal of our positions is a little odd, isn't it? I am not going to marry Juliet Lundy because she happens not to care for me in that way at all. My appearance is scarcely that of a joyous lover, is it?"
Wingrave eyed him more closely. Aynesworth had certainly fallen away from the trim and carefully turned out young man of a few months back. He was paler, too, and looked older.
"I do not understand this," Wingrave said.
"I do!" Aynesworth answered bitterly. "There is someone else?"
"Someone whom I do not know about?" Wingrave said, frowning heavily. "Who is he, Aynesworth?"
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. Wingrave came a step nearer to him.
"You may as well tell me." he said quietly, "for I shall postpone my journey until I know the whole truth."
"It is not my secret," Aynesworth answered. "Ask her yourself!"
"Very well," Wingrave declared, "I will. I shall return to London tonight."
"It is not necessary," Aynesworth remarked.
Wingrave started.
"You mean that she is here?" he exclaimed.
Aynesworth drew him towards the window.
"Come," he said, "you shall ask her now."
Wingrave hesitated for a moment. An odd nervousness seemed to have taken possession of him.
"I do not understand this, Aynesworth," he said. "Why is she here?"
"Go and ask her your question," Aynesworth said. "Perhaps you will understand then."
Wingrave went down the path which led to the walled garden and the sea. The tall hollyhocks brushed against his knees; the air, as mild as springtime, was fragrant with the perfume of late roses. Wingrave took no note of these things. Once more he seemed to see coming up the path the little black-frocked child, with the pale face and the great sad eyes; it was she indeed who rose so swiftly from the hidden seat. Then Wingrave stopped short for he felt stirring within him all the long repressed madness of his unlived manhood. It was the weakness against which he had fought so long and so wearily, triumphant now, so that his heart beat like a boy's, and the color flamed into his cheeks. And all the time she was coming nearer, and he saw that the child had become a woman, and it seemed to him that all the joy of life was alight in her face, and the one mysterious and wonderful secret of her sex was shining softly out of her eager eyes. So that, after all, when they met, Wingrave asked her no questions. She came into his arms with all the graceful and perfect naturalness of a child who has wandered a little away from home . . . .
"I am too old for you, dear," he said presently, as they wandered about the garden, "much too old."
"Age," she answered softly, "what is that? What have we to do with the years that are past? It is the years to come only which we need consider, and to think of them makes me almost tremble with happiness. You are much too rich and too wonderful a personage for a homeless orphan like me; but," she added, tucking her arm through his with a contented little sigh, "I have you, and I shall not let you go!"
End