“But why remember it against them, poor little things, who have done no harm? Oh, Randolph, I have never been otherwise than your friend when I had the chance. Be mine now! There are a hundred things about which I want to consult you. You have a family of your own; you have been trained to it; you know how to take care of children. I wanted to ask your advice, to have your help—— ”
“Do you think me a fool then,” he cried, “as silly as yourself? that you try to get me to acknowledge this precious deception, and give you my support against myself? Why should I back you up in a wicked contrivance against my own interests?”
“What is it you mean? Who has been guilty of wicked contrivances?” cried Mary, aghast. She gazed at him with such genuine surprise that he was arrested in his angry vituperation, and changed his tone to one of mockery, which affected her more.
“Well,” he said, “let us allow that it is your first attempt, Mary, and that is why you do it so clumsily. The mistakes good people make when they first attempt to do badly are touching. Villany, like everything else, requires experience. But it is too funny to expect me to be the one to stand up for you, to persuade my father to believe you.”
“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “do you think this is what I ask? It is you who mistake, Randolph. It has never occurred to my father, or any one else, not to believe. He never doubted any more than I was capable of doubting. I will show you John’s letter.”
Randolph put up his hand, waving off the suggested proof.
“It is quite unnecessary. I am not to be taken in by such simple means. You forget I have a stake in it—which clears the judgment. And I warn you, Mary, that I am here to look after my personal interests, not to foist any nondescript brat into the family. I give you notice—it is not to help your schemes, it is for my own interests I am here.”
“What do interests mean?” she said wondering. “Your own interests!—what does that mean? I know I have none.”
“No—it cannot make much difference to you whatever happens; therefore you are free to plot at your leisure. I understand that fully; but, my dear, I am here to look after myself—and my boy. You forget I have an heir of my own.”
Mary looked at him with a dulness of intelligence quite unusual to her. There are things in the most limited minds which genius itself could not divine. The honourable and generous, and the selfish and grasping, do not know what each other mean. They are as if they spoke a different language. And her brother was to Mary as if he veiled his meaning in an unknown tongue. She gazed at him with a haze of dulness in her eyes. What was it he intended to let her know? Disbelief of her, a suggestion that she lied! and something more—she could not make out what, as the rule of his own conduct! He looked at her, on the other hand, with an air of penetration, a clever consciousness of seeing through and through her and her designs, which excited Mary to exasperation. How could they ever understand each other with all this between?