He does not repulse her—that is beyond him—but in this new strange voice of his there is assuredly no welcome. He feels choking. The dead past is so horribly dead that he cannot bear to look upon it. He feels cold—benumbed. What is he to say to her, or she to him? Must this battle be fought? And through all this weary wondering there is ever present with him a strong fear.
If Tita should hear of this—if she should learn that Marian was here to-night—with him—alone! His heart sinks within him. Not all the waters of Jordan could wash him clean in her eyes.
A sudden anger against this woman rises within him. Has she not been his undoing from first to last? Gently, but with determination, he lifts her fingers from his arms.
"Is this wise?" says he.
"No one can know. No one," says she hurriedly. "I have arranged it all. I am staying with the Heriots, and when I heard at dinner that you would be here to-night, I felt that I should—must see you."
She flings back the soft furred cloak that is enfolding her with a little rapid movement, as though stifling. It falls in a loose mass at her feet, and leaves her standing before him a very picture of beauty perfected. Beauty ripe, yet fresh!
All in black! From head to foot black clothes her. In her hair jet stars are shining, round her neck jet sparkles, making more fair the sweet fair flesh beneath; and her gown that clings around her shapely limbs as though it loves them, is black, too, and glittering with black beads.
She is looking her loveliest. Maurice takes a step towards her. Nature (as poor a thing at times as it is often grand) compels this step, then suddenly he stops. All at once, from the shadow of the room, the memory of a small, sweet, angry, frowning little face stands out.
"Still——" begins he.
"You need not be uneasy about me," says Marian, in the full egotism of her nature, still believing herself as dear to him as in those old days when he was at her feet. "I told them—the Heriot girl (who would follow me, and see to my bad headache)—that I should go for a long walk in the park to ease the pain; I told her not to expect me for some time. You know they let me do as I like. I ran through the park, and at the village inn I engaged a fly."