He Knew He Was Right

even some young women, should turn up their noses at the wife I have chosen, because she has not been chosen from among their own countrywomen, is that to be a cause of suffering to us? Can not we rise above that⁠—lasting as it would do for a few weeks, a month or two perhaps⁠—say a year⁠—till my Caroline shall have made herself known? I think that we are strong enough to live down a trouble so light.” He had come close to her as he was speaking, and had again put his arm round her waist. She tried to escape from his embrace⁠—not with persistency, not with the strength which always suffices for a woman when the embrace is in truth a thing to be avoided, but clutching at his fingers with hers, pressing them rather than loosening their grasp. “No, Carry,” he continued; “we have got to go through with it now, and we will try and make the best of it. You may trust me that we shall not find it difficult⁠—not, at least, on the ground of your present fears. I can bear a heavier burden than you will bring upon me.”

“I know that I ought to prove to you that I am right,” she said, still struggling with his hand.

“And I know that you can prove nothing of the kind. Dearest, it is fixed between us now, and do not let us be so silly as to raise imaginary difficulties. Of course you would have to marry me, even if there were cause for such fears. If there were any great cause, still the game would be worth the candle. There could be no going back, let the fear be what it might. But there need be no fear if you will only love me.” She felt that he was altogether too strong for her⁠—that she had mistaken his character in supposing that she could be more firm than he. He was so strong that he treated her almost as a child;⁠—and yet she loved him infinitely the better for so treating her. Of course, she knew now that her objection, whether true or unsubstantial, could not avail. As he stood with his arm round her, she was powerless to contradict him in anything. She had so far acknowledged this that she no longer struggled with him, but allowed her hand to remain quietly within his. If there was no going back from this bargain that had been made⁠—why, then, there was no need for combating. And when he stooped over and kissed her lips, she had not a word to say. “Be good to me,” he said, “and tell me that I am right.”

“You must be master, I suppose, whether you are right or wrong. A man always thinks himself entitled to his own way.”

“Why, yes. When he has won the battle, he claims his captive. Now, the truth is this, I have won the battle, and your friend, Miss Petrie, has lost it. I hope she will understand that she has been beaten at last out of the field.” As he said this, he heard a step behind them, and turning round saw Wallachia there almost before he could drop his arm.

“I am sorry that I have intruded on you,” she said very grimly.

“Not in the least,” said Mr. Glascock. “Caroline and I have had a little dispute, but we have settled it without coming to blows.”

“I do not suppose that an English gentleman ever absolutely strikes a lady,” said Wallachia Petrie.

“Not except on strong provocation,” said Mr. Glascock. “In reference to wives, a stick is allowed as big as your thumb.”

“I have heard that it is so by the laws of England,” said Wallachia.

“How can you be so ridiculous, Wally!” said Caroline. “There is nothing that you would not believe.”

“I hope that it may never be true in your case,” said Wallachia.

A couple of days after this Miss Spalding found that it was absolutely necessary that she should explain the circumstances of her position to Nora. She had left Nora with the purpose of performing a very high-minded action, of sacrificing herself for the sake of her lover, of giving up all her golden prospects, and of becoming once again the bosom friend of Wallachia Petrie, with this simple consolation for her future life⁠—that she had refused to marry an English nobleman because the English nobleman’s condition was unsuited to her. It would have been an episode in female life in which pride might be taken;⁠—but all that was now changed. She had made her little attempt⁠—had made it, as she felt, in a very languid manner, and had found herself treated as a child for doing so. Of course she was happy in her ill success; of course she would have been brokenhearted had she succeeded. But, nevertheless, she was somewhat lowered in her own esteem, and it was necessary that she should acknowledge the truth to the friend whom she had consulted. A day or two had passed before she found herself alone with Nora, but when she did so she confessed her failure at once.

“You told him all, then?” said Nora.

“Oh yes, I told him all. That is, I could not really tell him. When the moment came I had no words.”

“And what did he say?”

“He had words enough. I never knew him to be eloquent before.”

“He can speak out if he likes,” said Nora.

“So I have found⁠—with a vengeance. Nobody was ever so put down as I was. Don’t you know that there are times when it does not seem to be worth your while to put out your strength against an adversary? So it was with him. He just told me that he was my master, and that I was to do as he bade me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I promised to be a good girl,” said Caroline, “and not to pretend to have any opinion of my own ever again. And so we kissed, and were