Suddenly Peggy hid her face in her hands, and gave one short sob. He looked up startled, clutching the arm of his chair with a fierce grip. He sat like that, his eyes set on her. But when he spoke, it was lamely and almost coldly.
'Of course we should all like to save her pain; we would all do what we could. But think of the money wanted! It's out of the question.'
She sprang to her feet and faced him. For the moment she forgot her tenderness for him; her understanding of his struggle was swept away in indignation.
'You love her!' she cried in defiant challenge. 'You of all people should help her. You of all people should throw all you have at her feet. You love her!'
He made no denial; he rose slowly from his chair and faced her.
'Oh, what is love if it's not that?' she demanded. 'Why, even friendship ought to be that. And love----!' Again her hands were outstretched to him in a last appeal. For still there was time--time to save his honour and her own, time to spare him and her the last shame. 'It would be riches to you, riches for ever,' she said. 'Yes, just because it's so hard, Airey!'
'What?' The word shot from his lips full of startled fear. Why did she call it hard? The word was strange. She should have said 'impossible.' Had he not put it before her as impossible? But she said 'hard,' and looked in his eyes as she spoke the word.
'Love can't make money where it isn't,' he went on in a dull, dogged, obstinate voice.
'No, but it can give it where it is!' She was carried away. 'And it's here!' she cried in accusing tones.
'Here?' He seemed almost to spring at her with the word.
'Yes, here, in this room--in that safe--everywhere!'
They stood facing one another for a moment.
She challenged denial. Airey Newton had no word to say. She raised her hand in the air and seemed to denounce him.
'You love her, she's ruined, and--you're rich! Oh, the shame of it--you're rich, you're rich!'
He sank back into his chair and hid his face from her.
She stood for a moment, looking at him, breathing fast and hard. Then she moved quickly to him, bent on her knee, and kissed his hand passionately. He made no movement, and she slipped quietly and swiftly from the room.
MY DEAR SARAH,--How I wish you were here! You would enjoy yourself, and I should like to see you doing it--indeed I should be amused. I never dare tell you face to face that you amuse me--you'd swell visibly, like the person in Pickwick--but I can write it quite safely. We are a family party--or at any rate we look forward to being one some day, and even now escape none of the characteristics of such gatherings. We all think that the Proper Thing will happen some day, and we tell one another so. Not for a long while, of course! First--and officially--because Mortimer feels things so deeply (this is a reference to the Improper Thing which so nearly happened--are you wincing, Sarah?); secondly--and entirely unofficially--because of a bad chaperon and a heavy pupil. You are a genius; you ought to have had seventeen daughters, all twins and all out together, and five eldest sons all immensely eligible! Nature is so limited. But me! I'm always there when I'm not wanted, and I do hate leaving a comfortable chair. But I try. Do I give you any clear idea when I say that a certain young person wants a deal of hoisting--and is very ponderous to hoist? And I'm not her mother, or I really wouldn't complain. But sometimes I could shake her, as they say. No, I couldn't shake her, but I should like to get some hydraulic machinery that could. However--it moves all the same! What's-his-name detected that in the world, which is certainly slow enough, and we all detect it in this interesting case--or say we do. And I've great faith in repeating things. It spreads confidence, whence comes, dear Sarah, action.