She was ashamed—not of herself or her brother, but of them!
At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from her lover saying that he would reach Post Bridge Hall that evening. Of course the news of the happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried to him. He told Marjorie that his father would be absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall. He did not want anyone to know of his arrival.
So Marjorie said nothing. Her love had become too precious a thing to be talked about. Moreover, she did not want Despard to know of Jim's presence at the Hall. Feeling secure in the knowledge that John Dale approved of his love for Marjorie, Despard had pressed his suit on every available opportunity, giving her no peace. When he found it was useless to plead, he even threatened her.
But Marjorie laughed in his face.
"You can laugh now," he said savagely. "But I mean to make you my wife. I mean to win you. Not many men would have done for a woman what I've done for you. I've saved you from poverty, I've saved you from disgrace. Perhaps when we're married I can save your brother from prison."
She had always believed in her heart that Despard could have proved Rupert's innocence if he had chosen to speak at the trial. And these words returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.
Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left the farm and walked in the direction of Beardown, intending to pass the rest of the day there reading, until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall. When the fog came down, she had to slightly alter her plans, and she made for the main road as she knew she could not lose her way there. She was terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered close to Post Bridge Hall until it began to grow dark. She scarcely heard the boom of the warning signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on meeting the man she loved. It was just as the fog lifted and she was making her way by the long drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook her and pulled up, and Jim jumped to the ground.
They looked at one another, but spoke no word. Telling the chauffeur to take the car on, Jim slipped his arm through Marjorie's, and together they walked up to the house. Not until they had entered the drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing, did Jim Crichton speak. He took Marjorie's hand in his and looked deep into her eyes.
"I can hardly believe that you are really here," he whispered. "It seems too good to be true. The months have been like years. But you have never been absent from me—even in my work you have always been beside me. By day and by night. If I had ever doubted that love was the greatest thing in the world I should know it now."
Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she tried to speak, but no words came. He had said just what she wanted him to say. And he had said it quietly, almost coldly.