"I shall, as a matter of course. But in spite of that, Miss Mackenzie, I can't go away without saying another word about the money. I can't indeed."
"There needn't be any more about that, Mr Rubb."
"But there must be, Miss Mackenzie; there must, indeed; at least, so much as this. I know I've done wrong about that money."
"Don't talk about it. If I choose to lend it to my brother and you without security, there's nothing very uncommon in that."
"No; there ain't; at least perhaps there ain't. Though as far as I can see, brothers and sisters out in the world are mostly as hard to each other where money is concerned as other people. But the thing is, you didn't mean to lend it without security."
"I'm quite contented as it is."
"And I did wrong about it all through; I feel it so that I can't tell you. I do, indeed. But I'll never rest till that money is paid back again. I never will."
Then, having said that, he went away. When early on the preceding evening he had put on bright yellow gloves, making himself smart before the eyes of the lady of his love, it must be presumed that he did so with some hope of success. In that hope he was altogether betrayed. When he came and confessed his fraud about the money, it must be supposed that in doing so he felt that he was lowering himself in the estimation of her whom he desired to win for his wife. But, had he only known it, he thereby took the most efficacious step towards winning her esteem. The gloves had been nearly fatal to him; but those words,—"I feel it so that I can't tell you," redeemed the evil that the gloves had done. He went away, however, saying nothing more then, and failing to strike while the iron was hot.
Some six weeks after this Mrs Stumfold called on Miss Mackenzie, making a most important visit. But it should be first explained, before the nature of that visit is described, that Miss Mackenzie had twice been to Mrs Stumfold's house since the evening of Miss Todd's party, drinking tea there on both occasions, and had twice met Mr Maguire. On the former occasion they two had had some conversation, but it had been of no great moment. He had spoken nothing then of the pleasures of love, nor had he made any allusion to the dove-like softness of women. On the second meeting he had seemed to keep aloof from her altogether, and she had begun to tell herself that that dream was over, and to scold herself for having dreamed at all—when he came close up behind and whispered a word in her ear.
"You know," he said, "how much I would wish to be with you, but I can't now."