“It is too horrible,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “My dear, dear son, for God’s sake don’t underrate the horror of it all because of your love for this poor girl. You cannot marry a girl whose brother is an unconvicted murderer.”
How she harped upon the word murder! Vansittart ground his nails into the palms of his clasped hands, as he stood up, frowning darkly, in an agony of indignant feeling. His mother to be so womanish, so illogical, so foolish in her exaggeration of evil.
“I say again, the man who struck that unlucky blow was no murderer. The word is a lying word applied to him,” he protested. “The story you have told me—the crime you try to fix upon Harold Marchant—can make no shadow of difference in my love for Harold Marchant’s sister. Had she ten brothers, and every one of the ten were a felon, I would marry her. It is she whom I love, mother—not her surroundings. And as for your modern fad of heredity, I believe in it no more than I do in table-turning. God made my Eve—as pure, and single, and primitive a being as that other Eve in His Garden of Eden; and over the morning of her fair life no act of her kindred can cast a shadow.”
There was a silence. Sefton had risen when Vansittart rose. He took up his hat, and came through the flickering lights and shadows towards Mrs. Vansittart, who sat with drooping head and clasped hands, betwixt sorrow and anger—sorrow for her son’s suffering, anger at his obstinate adherence to the girl he loved. She gave Sefton her hand mechanically, without looking up.
“Good night, Vansittart,” said Sefton, as he moved towards the door. “I can only admire your loyalty to Miss Marchant, though I may question your wisdom. She is a very charming person, I grant you; but, after all”—with a little laugh—“she is not the only woman in the world.”
“She is the only woman in my world.”
“Really?”
The intonation of this one word, the slight shrug of the shoulders, were full of meaning. Vansittart perceived the covert sneer in that parting speech, and saw in it an allusion to that lovely foreigner whom Sefton had seen hanging affectionately upon his arm a few days ago on the Chelsea Embankment.
“One word, Mr. Sefton,” said Vansittart, in a peremptory tone. “I take it that your employment of detectives and couriers—that all you have done in this business—has been done out of regard for a college chum, who was once your friend, and from a kindly desire to relieve Miss Marchant’s anxiety about a brother whom—whom she appears to have dearly loved. I think, under these circumstances, I need not suggest the wisdom of keeping this unhappy business to yourself—so far as she is concerned.”
“You are right. I shall say nothing to Miss Marchant.”