“I am very glad you believed in me,” said Jimmie, laying down the unlit pipe which he had been fondling. “I would n't be human if I did n't--but you must n't exaggerate. Exposure would have ruined Morland's career, and I thought it would go near breaking your heart. To me, an insignificant devil, what did it matter?”
“Did n't my love for you matter? Did n't all that you have suffered matter? Oh, don't minimise what you have done. I am afraid of you. Your thoughts are not my thoughts, and your ways not my ways. You will always be among the stars while I am crawling about the earth.”
Jimmie rose hurriedly and fell at her feet, and took both her hands and placed them against his cheeks.
“My dear,” he said, moved to his depths. “My dear. My wonderful, worshipped, God-sent dear. You are wrong--utterly wrong. I am only a poor fool of a man, as you will soon find out, whose one merit is to love you. I would sell my body and my soul for you. If I made a little sacrifice for the love of you, what have you done tonight for me--the sacrifice of all the splendour and grace of life?”
“The lies and the rottenness,” said Norma, with a shiver. “Did you comprehend my mother?”
He took her hands from his face and kissed her fingers.
“Dear, those are the unhappy, far-off things. Let us forget them. They never happened. Only one thing in the world has ever happened. You have come to me, Norma,” he said softly, speaking her name for the first tremulous time, “Norma!”
Their eyes met, and then their lips. The world stood still for a space. She sighed and looked at him.
“You will have to teach me many things,” she said. “You will have to begin at the very beginning.”
EVERY one knew that the marriage arranged between Morland King and Norma Hardacre would not take place. It was announced in the “Times” and “Morning Post” on the Tuesday morning; those bidden to the wedding received hurried messages, and a day or two later the wedding-gifts were returned to the senders, who stored them up for some happier pair. But the new engagement upon which Norma had entered remained a secret. Norma herself did not desire to complete the banquet of gossip she had afforded society, and Mrs. Hardacre was not anxious to fill to overflowing the cup of her own humiliation. The stricken lady maintained a discreet reserve. The lovers had quarrelled, Norma had broken off the match and would not be going out for some time. She even defied the duchess, who commanded an explicit statement of reasons. Her grace retorted severely that she ought to have brought her daughter up better, and signified that this was the second time Norma had behaved with scandalous want of consideration for her august convenience. “She shall not have the opportunity of doing it again. I dislike being mixed up in scandals,” said the duchess; and Mrs. Hardacre saw the gates of Wiltshire House and Chiltern Towers closed to her forever. But of the impossible painter wretch she spoke not a word, hoping desperately that in some mysterious fashion the God of her fathers would avert this crowning disgrace from them and would lead Norma forth again into the paths of decency and virtue. As for her husband, he stormily refused to speak or hear the outcast's name. He had done with her. She should never sleep again beneath the roof she had dishonoured. He would not allow her a penny. He would cut her out of his will. She had dragged him in the mud, and by heaven! she could go to the devil! It took much to rouse the passions of the feeble, mean-faced little man; but once they were roused, he had the snarling tenacity of the fox. Mrs. Hardacre did not tell him of Morland's confession and the rehabilitation of his rival. The memory of her stunning humiliation brought on a feeling akin to physical nausea. She strove to bury it deep down in her sub-consciousness, beneath all the other unhallowed memories. There were none quite so rank. On the other hand, her husband's vilification of the detested creature was a source of consolation which she had no desire to choke. Why should she deny herself this comfort. The supreme joy of vitriol throwing was not countenanced in her social sphere. At odd times she regretted that she was a lady.