It was then that Robin had seen moodiness succeed to anger,
and long silence to moodiness. He told the tale with a true lover's art,
for he watched her face and trained his tone and his manner as he saw
her thoughts come and go in her eyes and lips, like gusts of wind across
standing corn; and at last he told her outright what his father had said
to him on St. Stephen's night, and how he himself had kept silence.
Marjorie's face was as white as a moth's wing when he was finishing, and
her eyes like sunset pools; but she flamed up bright and rosy as he
finished.
"You kept silence!" she cried.
"I did not wish to anger him, my dear; he is my father," he said gently.
The colour died out of her face again and she nodded once or twice, and
a great pensiveness came down on her. He took her hand again softly, and
she did not resist.
"The only doubt," she said presently, as if she talked to herself, "is
whether you had best be gone at Easter, or stay and face it out."
"Yes," said Robin, with his dismay come fully to the birth.
Then she turned on him, full of a sudden tenderness and compassion.
"Oh! my Robin," she cried, "and I have not said a word about you and
your own misery. I was thinking but of Christ's honour. You must forgive
me.... What must it be for you!... That it should be your father! You
are sure that he means it?"
"My father does not speak until he means it. He is always like that. He
asks counsel from no one.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25