Betty sought for arguments to clinch her refusal.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “You talk as if you had just to wave your hand. Why should your prince want to marry a girl he has never seen?”
“He will,” said Mr. Scobell confidently.
“How do you know?”
“Because I know he’s a sensible young skeesicks. That’s how. See here, Betty, you’ve gotten hold of wrong ideas about this place. You don’t understand the position of affairs. Your aunt didn’t till I put her wise.”
“He bit my head off, my dear,” murmured Miss Scobell, knitting placidly.
“You’re thinking that Mervo is an ordinary state, and that the Prince is one of those independent, all-wool, off- with-his-darned-head rulers like you read about in the best sellers. Well, you’ve got another guess coming. If you want to know who’s the big noise here, it’s me—me! This Prince guy is my hired man. See? Who sent for him? I did. Who put him on the throne? I did. Who pays him his salary? I do, from the profits of the Casino. Now do you understand? He knows his job. He knows which side his bread’s buttered. When I tell him about this marriage, do you know what he’ll say? He’ll say ‘Thank you, sir!’ That’s how things are in this island.”
Betty shuddered. Her face was white with humiliation. She half-raised her hands with an impulsive movement to hide it.
“I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!” she gasped.
Mr. Scobell was pacing the room in an ecstasy of triumphant rhetoric.
“There’s another thing,” he said, swinging round suddenly and causing his sister to drop another stitch. “Maybe you think he’s some kind of a Dago, this guy? Maybe that’s what’s biting you. Let me tell you that he’s an American—pretty near as much an American as you are yourself.”
Betty stared at him.
“An American!”
“Don’t believe it, eh? Well, let me tell you that his mother was born and raised in Jersey, and that he has lived all his life in the States. He’s no little runt of a Dago. No, sir. He’s a Harvard man, six-foot high and weighs two hundred pounds. That’s the sort of man he is. I guess that’s not American enough for you, maybe? No?”
“You do shout so, Bennie!” murmured Miss Scobell. “I’m sure there’s no need.”
Betty uttered a cry. Something had told her who he was, this Harvard man who had sold himself. That species of sixth sense which lies undeveloped at the back of our minds during the ordinary happenings of life wakes sometimes in moments of keen emotion. At its highest, it is prophecy; at its lowest, a vague presentiment. It woke in Betty now. There was no particular reason why she should have connected her stepfather’s words with John. The term he had used was an elastic one. Among the visitors to the island there were probably several Harvard men. But somehow she knew.
“Who is he?” she cried. “What was his name before he—when he—?”
“His name?” said Mr. Scobell. “John Maude. Maude was his mother’s name. She was a Miss Westley. Here, where are you going?”
Betty was walking slowly toward the door. Something in her face checked Mr. Scobell.
“I want to think,” she said quietly. “I’m going out.”
In days of old, in the age of legend, omens warned heroes of impending doom. But to-day the gods have grown weary, and we rush unsuspecting on our fate. No owl hooted, no thunder rolled from the blue sky as John went up the path to meet the white dress that gleamed between the trees.
His heart was singing within him. She had come. She had not forgotten, or changed her mind, or willfully abandoned him. His mood lightened swiftly. Humility vanished. He was not such an outcast, after all. He was someone. He was the man Betty Silver had come to meet.
But with the sight of her face came reaction.
Her face was pale and cold and hard. She did not speak or smile. As she drew near she looked at him, and there was that in her look which set a chill wind blowing through the world and cast a veil across the sun.
And in this bleak world they stood silent and motionless while eons rolled by.
Betty was the first to speak.
“I’m late,” she said.
John searched in his brain for words, and came empty away. He shook his head dumbly.
“Shall we sit down?” said Betty.
John indicated silently the sandstone rock on which he had been communing with himself.
They sat down. A sense of being preposterously and indecently big obsessed John. There seemed no end to him. Wherever he looked, there were hands and feet and legs. He was a vast blot on the face of the earth. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Betty. She was gazing out to sea.
He dived into his brain again. It was absurd! There must be something to say.
And then he realized that a worse thing had befallen. He had no voice. It had gone. He knew that, try he never so hard to speak, he would not be able to utter a word. A nightmare feeling of unreality came upon him. Had he ever spoken? Had he ever done anything but sit dumbly on that rock, looking at those sea gulls out in the water?
He shot another swift glance at Betty, and a thrill went through him. There were tears in her eyes.
The next moment—the action was almost automatic—his left hand was clasping her right, and he was moving along the rock to her side.
