“Hermione—tell me.”
“Well, everything is so strange—so unreal! This great house, the servants, all the beautiful clothes you bought me! To have so very much of everything after having to do with so very little—it’s all so wonderful and— dreadful!”
“Dreadful?”
“You are so—dreadfully rich!”
“Is that the reason you keep me at such a distance? Is that why you avoid me?”
“Avoid you?”
“Yes, dear. You’ve done it very sweetly and delicately, but you have avoided me lately. Why?”
Hermione didn’t answer.
“And you haven’t touched any of the monthly allowance I make you,” he went on, frowning a little, “not one cent. Why, Hermione?”
Hermione was silent.
“Tell me!”
Still she was silent, only she bent lower above the pool and drew further from him, whereat his pale cheek flushed, and his frown grew blacker.
And presently, as he scowled down into the water, she stole a look at him, and when she spoke, though the words were light, the quiver in her voice belied them.
“Invalid, dear, if you want to be angry with me, wait—till you’re a little stronger.”
Ravenslee stooped and picked up a handful of small pebbles that chanced to lie loose.
“Wife, dear,” said he, “I’m as well and strong as ever I was. But I’ve asked you several questions which I mean you to answer, so I am going to give you until I have pitched all these pebbles into the water, and then—” Hermione glanced up swiftly.
“Then?” she questioned.
“Why then, if you haven’t answered, I shall—take matters into my own hands. One!” and a pebble splashed into the pool.
“What do you want to know?”
“Two! Why haven’t you condescended to take your allowance?”
“Dear, I—I didn’t need it, and even if I had, I—oh, I couldn’t take it—yet!”
“Three! Why not?”
“Because you have given me so much already, and I—have given you—nothing.”
“Four! Why—haven’t you?”
“Oh—well—because!”
“Five! What does ‘because’ mean, this time?”
“It means—just—because!”
“Six! Seven! Eight! Why have you avoided me lately?”
Hermione was silent, watching him with troubled eyes while he slowly pitched the pebbles into the pool, counting as they fell.
“Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Why do you keep me at arm’s length?”
“I don’t—I—I—you won’t let me—” she said a little breathlessly, while one by one he let the pebbles fall into the pool, counting inexorably as they fell.
“Thirteen! Fourteen, fifteen—and that’s the last!” As he spoke he turned toward her, and she, reading something of his purpose in his eyes, turned to flee, felt his long arms about her, felt herself swung up and up and so lay crushed and submissive in his fierce embrace as he turned and began to bear her across the garden. Then, being helpless, she began to plead with him.
“Ah, don’t, don’t—dear! Geoffrey! Put me down! Where are you taking me? If any one sees us—”
“Let them!” he muttered grimly; “you’re my wife!”
So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.
“A little weak—still!” said he, “but not so bad—you’re no scraggy sylph, thank heaven! Hermione—look at me!” But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still. So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—wonder of wonders—her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—then strove wildly to hold him away.
“Loose me!” she cried, “let me go! Geoffrey—husband, be generous and let me go!” But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.
“Hermione, when will you—be my wife?”
Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip:
“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”
