“Come here.” He beckoned again, and was about to whisper the amount, when his mood changed. “No, no! Nobody shall know what I’m worth. They’ll want money out of me. They’ll come around begging and borrowing and dunning. The less I pay, the more I have. Go, write the letter, girl—write the letter. Don’t take any notice of me and my money. I’m an old man. You’ve got all your life before you—one of the greatest heiresses in the country! And I know a man who’ll marry you for your money and love you as well—or I’ll know the reason why.”
There was something strangely sympathetic between 258 these two widely-contrasted beings—the young, clear-brained, high-spirited girl and the old misanthrope. She obeyed him as though mesmerized, and, flinging down her muff, took off her gloves, and seated herself at the writing-table. There was determination in every movement. The invalid mumbled and chuckled with satisfaction from the depths of his pillows; but she paid no further heed to him. With the first pen that came to hand, she dashed off a curt note to Ormsby:
“Dear Vivian, I cannot marry you, after all. It was all a mistake—a mistake. My heart always was and always will be another’s. Good-bye. Don’t come to see us any more. My decision is unalterable. It will only cause us both pain. I am very, very sorry.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, “I am going somewhere, right away, for a long time.”
Again, she paused thoughtfully, and Herresford made signs to her which she could not see, signifying that he wished to see the letter.
“Let me read,” he cried.
She handed him the letter as a matter of course, and he nodded approvingly as he read.
“Now, then, my girl, I’ll tell you a secret. Can you keep secrets?” 259
“I have always been able to.”
“It’s a big secret. How long could you keep a very big secret?”
“Quite as long as a little one.”