He saw that it was hopeless-that the money had made no more dint upon her consciousness than some vague dream, that her whole being was set towards the new life with him, and shrank in horror from the menace of the vicar's withdrawal of her in the opposite direction. If joy and redemption had not already lain in the one quarter, the advantages of the other might have been more palpably alluring. As it was, her consciousness was "full up" in the matter, so to speak. He saw that he must tell her plain and plump, startle her out of her simple confidence.
"Listen to me, Mary Ann."
"Yessir."
"You are a young woman-not a baby. Strive to grasp what I am going to tell you."
"Yessir," in a half-sob, that vibrated with the obstinate resentment of a child that knows it is to be argued out of its instincts by adult sophistry. What had become of her passive personality?
"You are now the owner of two and a half million dollars-that is about five hundred thousand pounds. Five-hundred thousand-pounds. Think of ten sovereigns-ten golden sovereigns like that Mrs. Leadbatter gave you. Then ten times as much as that, and ten times as much as all that"-he spread his arms wider and wider-"and ten times as much as all that, and then"-here his arms were prematurely horizontal, so he concluded hastily but impressively-"and then FIFTY times as much as all that. Do you understand how rich you are?"
"Yessir." She was fumbling nervously at her gloves, half drawing them off.
"Now all this money will last for ever. For you invest it-if only at three per cent.-never mind what that is-and then you get fifteen thousand a year-fifteen thousand golden sovereigns to spend every--"
"Please, sir, I must go now. Rosie!"
"Oh, but you can't go yet. I have lots more to tell you."
"Yessir; but can't you ring for me again?"
In the gravity of the crisis, the remark tickled him; he laughed with a strange ring in his laughter.
"All right; run away, you sly little puss."
He smiled on as he poured out his tea; finding a relief in prolonging his sense of the humour of the suggestion, but his heart was heavy, and his brain a whirl. He did not ring again till he had finished tea.
She came in, and took her gloves out of her pocket.
"No! no!" he cried, strangely exasperated: "An end to this farce! Put them away. You don't need gloves any more."
She squeezed them into her pocket nervously, and began to clear away the things, with abrupt movements, looking askance every now and then at the overcast handsome face.
At last he nerved himself to the task and said: "Well, as I was saying, Mary Ann, the first thing for you to think of is to make sure of all this money-this fifteen thousand pounds a year. You see you will be able to live in a fine manor house-such as the squire lived in in your village-surrounded by a lovely park with a lake in it for swans and boats--"
Mary Ann had paused in her work, slop-basin in hand. The concrete details were beginning to take hold of her imagination.
"Oh, but I should like a farm better," she said. "A large farm with great pastures and ever so many cows and pigs and outhouses, and a-oh, just like Atkinson's farm. And meat every day, with pudding on Sundays! Oh, if father was alive, wouldn't he be glad!"
"Yes, you can have a farm-anything you like."
"Oh, how lovely! A piano?"
"Yes-six pianos."
"And you will learn me?"
He shuddered and hesitated.
"Well-I can't say, Mary Ann."
"Why not? Why won't you? You said you would! You learn Rosie."
"I may not be there, you see," he said, trying to put a spice of playfulness into his tones.
"Oh, but you will," she said feverishly. "You will take me there. We will go there instead of where you said-instead of the green waters." Her eyes were wild and witching.
He groaned inwardly.
"I cannot promise you now," he said slowly. "Don't you see that everything is altered?"
"What's altered? You are here, and here am I." Her apprehension made her almost epigrammatic.
"Ah, but you are quite different now, Mary Ann."
"I'm not-I want to be with you just the same."
He shook his head. "I can't take you with me," he said decisively.
"Why not?" She caught hold of his arm entreatingly.
"You are not the same Mary Ann-to other people. You are a somebody. Before you were a nobody. Nobody cared or bothered about you-you were no more than a dead leaf whirling in the street."
"Yes, you cared and bothered about me," she cried, clinging to him.
Her gratitude cut him like a knife. "The eyes of the world are on you now," he said. "People will talk about you if you go away with me now."
"Why will they talk about me? What harm shall I do them?"
Her phrases puzzled him.
"I don't know that you will harm them," he said slowly, "but you will harm yourself."
"How will I harm myself?" she persisted.
"Well, one day you will want a-a husband. With all that money it is only right and proper you should marry--"
"No, Mr. Lancelot, I don't want a husband. I don't want to marry. I should never want to go away from you."
There was another painful silence. He sought refuge in a brusque playfulness.
"I see you understand I'm not going to marry you."
"Yessir."
He felt a slight relief.
"Well, then," he said, more playfully still, "suppose I wanted to go away from you, Mary Ann?"
"But you love me," she said, unaffrighted.
He started back perceptibly.
After a moment, he replied, still playfully, "I never said so."
"No, sir; but-but--"-she lowered her eyes; a coquette could not have done it more artlessly-"but I-know it."
The accusation of loving her set all his suppressed repugnances and prejudices bristling in contradiction. He cursed the weakness that had got him into this soul-racking situation. The silence clamoured for him to speak-to do something.
"What-what were you crying about before?" he said abruptly.
"I-I don't know, sir," she faltered.
"Was it Tom's death?"
"No, sir, not much. I did think of him blackberrying with me and our little Sally-but then he was so wicked! It must have been what missus said; and I was frightened because the vicar was coming to take me away-away from you; and then-oh, I don't know-I felt-I couldn't tell you-I felt I must cry and cry, like that night when--" She paused suddenly and looked away.
"When--" he said encouragingly.
"I must go-Rosie," she murmured, and took up the tea-tray.
"That night when--" he repeated tenaciously.
"When you first kissed me," she said.
He blushed. "That-that made you cry!" he stammered. "Why?"
"Please, sir, I don't know."
"Mary Ann," he said gravely, "don't you see that when I did that I was-like your brother Tom?"
"No, sir. Tom didn't kiss me like that."
"I don't mean that, Mary Ann; I mean I was wicked."
Mary Ann stared at him.
"Don't you think so, Mary Ann?"
"Oh no, sir. You were very good."
"No, no, Mary Ann. Don't say good."
"Ever since then I have been so happy," she persisted.
"Oh, that was because you were wicked, too," he explained grimly. "We have both been very wicked, Mary Ann; and so we had better part now, before we get more wicked."
She stared at him plaintively, suspecting a lurking irony, but not sure.
"But you didn't mind being wicked before!" she protested.
"I'm not so sure I mind now. It's for your sake, Mary Ann, believe me, my dear." He took her bare hand kindly, and felt it burning. "You're a very simple, foolish little thing-yes, you are. Don't cry. There's no harm in being simple. Why, you told me yourself how silly you were once when you brought your dying mother cakes and flowers to take to your dead little sister. Well, you're just as foolish and childish now, Mary Ann, though you don't know it any more than you did then. After all, you're only nineteen. I found it out from the vicar's letter. But a time will come-yes, I'll warrant in only a few months' time you'll see how wise I am and how sensible you have been to be guided by me. I never wished you any harm, Mary Ann, believe me, my dear, I never did. And I hope, I do hope so much that this money will make you happy. So, you see, you mustn't go away with me now. You don't want everybody to talk of you as they did of your brother Tom, do you, dear? Think what the vicar would say."