III
"Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to do exactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"
"I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I think you do him a grave injustice."
She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of the side yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid of two great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into an article of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed was she, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention was aroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, and advanced to meet him.
"I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"
He looked at her.
"Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply. "Already twice have I failed to find you."
They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller one that stood over against them.
"That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."
"You were similarly engaged on both occasions."
He brought his chair near to her.
"With Mr. Anderson?"
She smiled straight in his face.
"Of course."
He, too, smiled.
"Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"
He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his chair and he looked far up the road.
"You do not like him?" she asked quickly.
"It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, I myself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you know later. Not now."
A deep sigh escaped her.
"I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.
"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 passion 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 analytic 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 assure 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 friendship 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 hit 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 crushing 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 friendship 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 passed. 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.