“But if I tell you you must!” He was entirely out of patience. What fantastic piece of folly was this that had made her set herself against him like a rock? He was beyond his own control with impatience and irritation. “I hope you will not drive me to say something I will be sorry for,” he said. “You, Margaret, who have always been a good girl, and you don’t even care for this young man!”
“He cares,” said Margaret, under her breath.
“Is that why you resist me?” cried her brother. “He cares! yes, for your money, you foolish girl—for what you have got; because he will be able to live and think himself a gentleman!”
“Ludovic!” she cried, her face growing crimson; “but you are only angry; you don’t mean to be so unkind.”
And then he stopped short, touched, in the midst of his anger, by the simplicity of her confidence.
“Do you mean to tell me—that you are really going to marry—Rob Glen, Margaret?”
“Oh! but not for such a long, long time!” she said.
What was he to say to her—a girl so simple, so almost childish, so unyielding? If Mary had only done it herself! probably she would have had some means of insight into this strange, subtle girl’s mechanism which was out of his way. What was reason, argument, common-sense, to a creature like this, who refused to abandon her lover, and yet drew a long breath of relief at the thought that it must be “a long, long time” before he could claim her? Sir Ludovic was at his wit’s end. They had been walking up and down in front of the house, where, out of reach of all the windows, their conversation was quite safe. The grassy path was damp, but it was noiseless, affording no interruption to their talk. On the ruined gable the tall wall-flowers were nodding, and the ivy threw a little shower of rain-drops over them whenever the wind blew. Looking up at that ruined gable reminded him of all his own cares, so much more important than this love nonsense. Should he ever be able to rebuild it? But in the mean time he must not think of this question at all, but address himself to the still more difficult subject of Rob Glen.
When the conversation, however, had come to this pass, beyond which it seemed so difficult to carry it, an interruption occurred. A lumbering old hackney-carriage, well known in the country, which carried everybody to and from the station, of the few who wanted any other means of conveyance but their own legs or their own carriage—and there were not many people of this intermediate class in Stratheden—suddenly swung in heavily at the gate, and sinking deep in the rut, which it went to Ludovic’s heart to see, disfiguring the muddy road through the scanty trees, which called itself the avenue—came laboring toward them. There was a portmanteau on the outside of this vehicle, and somebody within, who thrust out his head as he approached, reconnoitring the curious old gray house. When he saw the two figures advancing from the other side, he called to the driver and leaped out. It was a young man, fair and fashionable, and spotless in apparel, with a beardless but not boyish face, an eyeglass in his eye and a great-coat on his arm.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I am sure that I am speaking to—”