'Don't I?' he asked, catching fire, as it were, more from his own thoughts than her words. 'Oh, Gwen! my dear, it's little you know of me, then, if you think that. Don't I see it?--who but the blind do not--in everything? Isn't it that which makes me content to go on as I'm doing? Gwen! it's because I know that it is bound to come--that sooner or later you will take my hands in yours as I take yours just now. Yes, Gwen! it's Fate--but when will it be, my dear? When will it be?'
She was never proof against this mood in the man, this tone in his voice.
'Oh, Dan!' she cried, in a petulance that was all feigned, 'didn't I say you would be asking me to marry you to-morrow if I was so rash as to tell you that you were a comfort to me? As if that had anything to do with it.'
'Sure it has everything to do with it!' replied her lover fondly. The future, in truth, gave him few fears: it was the present, with the chance of annoyance if that venomous woman remain unscotched in the bazaar, which caused him anxiety. On the other hand, it was the future over which Lewis Gordon frowned, as he sat trying to make up his mind about his own feelings, for though the present was palpably unpleasant, it seemed clear that the future would be worse, since they must face the possibility of a scandal boldly in the hopes that Chândni's story would break down; except perhaps as regarded George, and he, poor lad, had brought it on himself. And then, when all this was over, he--Lewis--was going to marry Mrs. Boynton. No doubt about it; for it was too late now to judge her for that other fault--far too late. He had condoned it with full knowledge of what he was doing, and the fact that Rose Tweedie's subsequent scorn had awakened a tardy blame did not alter the past. At the same time, he had an insane desire that Rose should be brought to see this as clearly as he saw it. In fact, the idea of talking over the matter with her, and perhaps taking her advice upon it, had an attraction for him; and though he heaped contumely on himself for the mere thought, it lingered insistently. It was partly that which made him pause to knock at her sitting-room door on his way to the drawing-room before dinner. She would be glad to have the last news of the miserable affair, he told himself, but in his heart he knew that was not the real reason--that he himself scarcely knew what the reason was. Reason? there was none! Only a foolish curiosity to understand better what this icicle of a girl meant by love. It did not seem to hurt her, at any rate. But as he entered to see her sitting by the fire, the reading-lamp on the table lighting up her dress, but leaving her face in shadow, he seemed to forget all these thoughts in the friendly confidence of her greeting.
'I'm so glad you have come. I was wondering if you would. What news?'
He shook his head. 'None. We have all had our chance, and failed.'
'Not all,' she answered quickly, pointing to Azîzan's portrait, which showed dimly above the mantelpiece against which he leant. 'You forget the girl--she has not said her say.'
The unreality, the strangeness of it all, struck him sharply, not for the first time, as he replied after a pause--
'And never will. She is dead. Fitzgerald managed to get that out of the woman to-day. She must have been hidden away--as a punishment, most likely--in some dungeon of the old tower, for her dead body was found among the ruins--by--by the old potter. Yes! I know what you are thinking of; but that is impossible. He was always searching about, you see, and so he was more likely than others to find anything that was to be found. It is a coincidence, I admit; but the fact of the death seems undoubted. The woman let it out in her anger--Fitzgerald is not a nice cross-examiner, I expect--and tried to gloze it over afterwards. Perhaps it is as well. That story may be best unknown.'
'I don't agree with you,' said Rose quickly. 'I have been counting on her help--perhaps more than I realised--and now that her chance has gone----' The girl's eyes filled with tears, and her voice failed for a moment, 'it seems as if we could do nothing more to save him.'