He left her standing still in a mighty temper. She felt inclined to fling a stone after him. And yet she rejoiced at the bottom of her heart, because this scene made her future actions easier. Only one thing still held her to Mark Baskerville, and that was his money. The sickly ghost of regard for him, which she was pleased to call love, existed merely as the answer to her own appeal to her conscience. She had never loved him, but when the opportunity came, she could not refuse his worldly wealth and the future of successful comfort it promised.
Now, however, were appearing others who attracted her far more. Two men had entered into her life since the rehearsals, and both pleased her better than Mark. One she liked for his person and for his charms of manner and of speech; the other for his masterful character and large prosperity. One was better looking than Mark, and knew far better how to worship a woman; the other was perhaps as rich as Mark would be, and he appealed to her much more by virtue of his masculinity and vigour. Mr. Baskerville had actually mentioned this individual during the recent conversation; and it was of him, too, that Mark considered where he sat and waited for Cora by the stream.
But though she felt Timothy Waite's value, yet a thing even stronger drew her to the other man. Ned Baskerville was the handsomest, gallantest, most fascinating creature that Cora had ever known. Chance threw them little together until the rehearsals, but since then they had met often, and advanced far along a road of mutual admiration. Like clove to like, and the emptiness of each heart struck a kindred echo from the other; but neither appreciated the hollowness of the sound.
Under these circumstances Humphrey Baskerville's strictures, though exceedingly painful to her self-love, were not unwelcome, for they made the thing that she designed to do reasonable and proper. It would be simple to quote his father to her betrothed when she threw him over.
In this temper Cora now appeared to Mark. Had he been aware of it he might have hesitated before adding further fuel to the flames. But he began in a friendly fashion, rose and kissed her.
"You're late, Cora. Look here. Sit down and get cool and watch these flies. The merry dancers, they are called, and well they may be. 'Tis a regular old country measure they seem to tread in the air—figure in and cross over and all—just like you do when you go through the old dance in the play."
But she was in no mood of softness.
"A tidy lot of dancing I'll get when I'm married to you! You know you hate it, and hate everything else with any joy and happiness to it. You're only your father over again, when all's said, and God defend me from him! I can't stand no more of him, and I won't."
"You've met him?" said Mark. "I was afraid you might. I'm sorry for that."
"Not so sorry as I am. If I was dirt by the road he couldn't have treated me worse. And I'm not going to suffer it—never once more—not if he was ten times your father!"