‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’
‘Hate.’
Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,—in the solid oriental sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips.
‘I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’
‘Those who hate are kin.’
‘That, also, I should be slow to admit; but—to go a step farther—what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?’
‘You love her.’ This time I did not ask him to supply the name,—being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. ‘She loves him,—that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,—that will be well.’
‘Indeed.—And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?’
‘Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.’
Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I hesitated. There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,—which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,—only to win her!