The Wheels of Chance [24]
in the world."
"You have always had it so--in your generalising way. But let us look at the facts of the case--if that pleases you better."
With an impatient gesture she motioned him to go on.
"Well," he said,--"you've eloped."
"I've left my home," she corrected, with dignity. "I left my home because it was unendurable. Because that woman--"
"Yes, yes. But the point is, you have eloped with me."
"You came with me. You pretended to be my friend. Promised to help me to earn a living by writing. It was you who said, why shouldn't a man and woman be friends? And now you dare--you dare--"
"Really, Jessie, this pose of yours, this injured innocence--"
"I will go back. I forbid you--I forbid you to stand in the way--"
"One moment. I have always thought that my little pupil was at least clear-headed. You don't know everything yet, you know. Listen to me for a moment."
"Haven't I been listening? And you have only insulted me. You who dared only to talk of friendship, who scarcely dared hint at anything beyond."
"But you took the hints, nevertheless. You knew. You KNEW. And you did not mind. MIND! You liked it. It was the fun of the whole thing for you. That I loved you, and could not speak to you. You played with it--"
"You have said all that before. Do you think that justifies you?"
"That isn't all. I made up my mind--Well, to make the game more even. And so I suggested to you and joined with you in this expedition of yours, invented a sister at Midhurst--I tell you, I HAVEN'T a sister! For one object--"
"Well?"
"To compromise you."
She started. That was a new way of putting it. For half a minute neither spoke. Then she began half defiantly: "Much I am compromised. Of course--I have made a fool of myself--"
"My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and you know very little of this world. Less than you think. But you will learn. Before you write all those novels we have talked about, you will have to learn. And that's one point--" He hesitated. "You started and blushed when the man at breakfast called you Ma'am. You thought it a funny mistake, but you did not say anything because he was young and nervous--and besides, the thought of being my wife offended your modesty. You didn't care to notice it. But--you see; I gave your name as MRS. Beaumont." He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynical pose. "MRS. Beaumont," he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching the effect.
She looked into his eyes speechless. "I am learning fast, " she said slowly, at last.
He thought the time had come for an emotional attack. "Jessie," he said, with a sudden change of voice, "I know all this is mean, isvillanous. But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all this subterfuge, for any other object--"
She did not seem to listen to his words. "I shall ride home," she said abruptly.
"To her?"
She winced.
"Just think," said he, "what she could say to you after this."
"Anyhow, I shall leave you now."
"Yes? And go--"
"Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free woman, to live without conventionality--"
"My dear girl, do let us be cynical. You haven't money and you haven't credit. No one would take you in. It's one of two things: go back to your stepmother, or--trust to me."
"How CAN I?"
"Then you must go back to her." He paused momentarily, to let this consideration have its proper weight. "Jessie, I did not mean to say the things I did. Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke so. If you will, forgive me. I am a man. I could not help myself. Forgive me, and I promise you--"
"How can I trust you?"
"Try me. I can assure you--"
She regarded him distrustfully.
"At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we have been in the shadow of this horrible bridge long enough."
"Oh! let me think," she said, half turning from him and pressing her hand to her brow.
"THINK! Look here, Jessie. It is ten o'clock. Shall we call a truce until one?"
She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed.
They
"You have always had it so--in your generalising way. But let us look at the facts of the case--if that pleases you better."
With an impatient gesture she motioned him to go on.
"Well," he said,--"you've eloped."
"I've left my home," she corrected, with dignity. "I left my home because it was unendurable. Because that woman--"
"Yes, yes. But the point is, you have eloped with me."
"You came with me. You pretended to be my friend. Promised to help me to earn a living by writing. It was you who said, why shouldn't a man and woman be friends? And now you dare--you dare--"
"Really, Jessie, this pose of yours, this injured innocence--"
"I will go back. I forbid you--I forbid you to stand in the way--"
"One moment. I have always thought that my little pupil was at least clear-headed. You don't know everything yet, you know. Listen to me for a moment."
"Haven't I been listening? And you have only insulted me. You who dared only to talk of friendship, who scarcely dared hint at anything beyond."
"But you took the hints, nevertheless. You knew. You KNEW. And you did not mind. MIND! You liked it. It was the fun of the whole thing for you. That I loved you, and could not speak to you. You played with it--"
"You have said all that before. Do you think that justifies you?"
"That isn't all. I made up my mind--Well, to make the game more even. And so I suggested to you and joined with you in this expedition of yours, invented a sister at Midhurst--I tell you, I HAVEN'T a sister! For one object--"
"Well?"
"To compromise you."
She started. That was a new way of putting it. For half a minute neither spoke. Then she began half defiantly: "Much I am compromised. Of course--I have made a fool of myself--"
"My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and you know very little of this world. Less than you think. But you will learn. Before you write all those novels we have talked about, you will have to learn. And that's one point--" He hesitated. "You started and blushed when the man at breakfast called you Ma'am. You thought it a funny mistake, but you did not say anything because he was young and nervous--and besides, the thought of being my wife offended your modesty. You didn't care to notice it. But--you see; I gave your name as MRS. Beaumont." He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynical pose. "MRS. Beaumont," he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching the effect.
She looked into his eyes speechless. "I am learning fast, " she said slowly, at last.
He thought the time had come for an emotional attack. "Jessie," he said, with a sudden change of voice, "I know all this is mean, isvillanous. But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all this subterfuge, for any other object--"
She did not seem to listen to his words. "I shall ride home," she said abruptly.
"To her?"
She winced.
"Just think," said he, "what she could say to you after this."
"Anyhow, I shall leave you now."
"Yes? And go--"
"Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free woman, to live without conventionality--"
"My dear girl, do let us be cynical. You haven't money and you haven't credit. No one would take you in. It's one of two things: go back to your stepmother, or--trust to me."
"How CAN I?"
"Then you must go back to her." He paused momentarily, to let this consideration have its proper weight. "Jessie, I did not mean to say the things I did. Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke so. If you will, forgive me. I am a man. I could not help myself. Forgive me, and I promise you--"
"How can I trust you?"
"Try me. I can assure you--"
She regarded him distrustfully.
"At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we have been in the shadow of this horrible bridge long enough."
"Oh! let me think," she said, half turning from him and pressing her hand to her brow.
"THINK! Look here, Jessie. It is ten o'clock. Shall we call a truce until one?"
She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed.
They