“What do you mean, Sir, by saying Mrs. Charles does not understand?” said Hepburn, coming from his window. A burning flush covered the young man’s face; his eyes looked hot and bloodshot, and the veins were knotted upon his forehead; he was suffering such agonies of shame and pain as few people, perhaps, have gone through; shame for the woman whom he loved. Yes, though he was ashamed of her, though he perceived her meanness, her prettiness, her folly, still he loved her. He had stood aloof as long as he could; now, when the tugging at his heart, as well as her impatient looks, called him to her side—when very shame impelled him to come to her defence, to save her from her own folly, to hide from himself the gnawing pangs of his own shame—that shame took the fiercer form of passion. If he had worn a sword he would have drawn it; if there had been any other foolish way of rushing into mortal conflict he would have adopted it. It was the writhing of his own pain which excited him, but he tried to make it look like indignation. “If you have anything to say to Mrs. Charles, Sir,” he added fiercely, “or any objections to make, be so good as to address yourself to me.”
“To you! why should I?” cried Fanshawe, more amazed than ever.
“Because she has given me the privilege of standing between her and all impertinent intruders,” cried the unhappy young man, taking her hand in an agony of self-humiliation. Poor boy! he identified himself with her publicly at the moment when he saw most distinctly and suffered most sharply from the revelation of her character, which, to do her justice, she had never meant to withhold from him. He almost hated her in the vehemence of his love; hated her for not being what he would have had her, with a hatred which somehow intensified his passion. The sight was so strange and painful that it subdued the impulse of anger in Fanshawe’s mind.
“In that case,” he said gravely, “since I can neither fight with you, nor argue with you, I will withdraw, Mr. Hepburn; and Mr. Heriot’s communication can be made officially—if necessary, to you. Good morning, I have no more to say.”
Verna rushed forward as he opened the door. Already her better sense had perceived the folly of her sister’s words.
“Mr. Fanshawe, Matilda is always ridiculous!” she cried, breathless; “but we will not yield a step till we are forced—not a step!”
“So be it!” said Fanshawe; “though I hope your advisers will counsel you less foolishly. At all events, I have said what I had to say.”
“Forget Matilda’s nonsense, at least!” cried the sister. Matilda had thrown herself back upon her sofa, where the unfortunate Johnnie was kneeling by her, soothing her. “But I will not give up, I cannot give up!” she said passionately, under her breath, clasping her hands. She was not aware she had said it; her face, which was very pale, took a strange character of force and high purpose,—yes, of high purpose, such as it was. She did not wish to defraud anyone; but she was struggling for bare life; she followed Fanshawe out, going with him to the door, with rising uneasiness—the more generous part of her character waking with her better judgment. “All that about Miss Heriot,” she said, gasping, “was ridiculous; and Mr. Fanshawe, I am sure she did not mean to be rude to you; I never meant to be rude to you; it was only temper and surprise. And oh, when a blow like this is coming, it seems so much easier when you can feel it is somebody’s fault!”
“But you are much too sensible to believe so?” said Fanshawe, “who could—or would—attempt to deceive you in such a matter? Do you think an invention of this kind could ever stand the eye of day?”
“It is—it must be an invention!” cried Verna; and then, poor soul, she had recourse to that expedient which women employ by instinct, and which, did they but know it, always ruins their cause, though it may gain them a momentary triumph. She appealed to her companion, as if that could serve her. “Oh, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, “we should do well if we were but left alone. The place would soon be got into order. I have given up all my plans about the house. I should see that Tommy was brought up as he ought to be. Why cannot they let us alone?”