"Friend?" she said. "No! I do not make friends lightly. Acquaintance, if you will, for Mr. Darcy's sake—for the sake of your great disappointment pecuniarily I am willing to be that."
"It was deserved," he faltered, his eyes averted. "I have repented—Heaven knows how bitterly. That I have lost a fortune through my own misdeeds is the least of my punishment."
She turned from him, sick—sick at heart with the utter scorn she felt. As her gaze wandered away, it fell upon another face—the face of Richard Gilbert!
He was watching them. As he met her glance he bowed and walked away. A flush that Laurence Thorndyke had not for a second called there, came vividly into her pale cheeks.
"And for this craven—this hypocrite, I fled from him—spoiling my own life and his forever. Oh, fool! fool! What can he have but scorn and loathing for me now."
She arose impatiently. All at once the presence of Laurence Thorndyke had grown intolerable to her. Without a word of excuse she bent her head to him slightly and frigidly and moved away.
Mr. Thorndyke was not offended. The course he meant to pursue in regard to Mrs. Darcy was not yet quite clear. This, however, was—he would not let her easily offend him. His friend she should be. Who could tell what the future might bring forth? With all her girl's heart and strength she had loved him once. A fatuous smile came over his face as he glanced at himself in the mirror. Not so good-looking as of yore, certainly, but late hours, hard drinking, and the fierce excitement of the gaming-table had wrought the evil. He would change all that—go in for reform—total amendment of life—try sculpture and become a respectable member of society. Meantime he would see all he could of Mrs. Darcy.
By Jove! how handsome she had looked—what thoroughbred good style she was! And if—hidden under all this outward coldness—the old love still lay, how easy for him to fan the smoldering embers into bright flames. And then—?
A vision rose before him—Helen, in the shabby rooms at home, writing far into the night, to earn the bread his children ate. Whilst Helen lived, let his uncle's heiress love him never so well, what could it avail him? "There is the law of divorce," whispered the small voice of the tempter. "To the man who wills, all things are possible. Mr. Darcy's fortune, and Mr. Darcy's heiress may be yours yet. You have played for high stakes before to-night, Laurence, my boy. Play your cards with care now, and you hold the winning hand?"
From that night a change began in Laurence Thorndyke—began on the spot. Once more, that night, he had spoken to Mrs. Darcy—then it was to say farewell.