“But you know that you used to be very fond of her?”
He had taken up his hat when he had risen from the sofa, and was still standing with it ready in his hand. He was even now half-minded to escape; and the name of Lily Dale in Miss Demolines’ mouth was so distasteful to him that he would have done so—he would have gone in sheer disgust, had she not stood in his way, so that he could not escape without moving her, or going round behind the sofa. She did not stir to make way for him, and it may be that she understood that he was her prisoner, in spite of her late command to him to go. It may be, also, that she understood his vexation and the cause of it, and that she saw the expediency of leaving Lily Dale alone for the present. At any rate, she pressed him no more upon the matter. “Are we to be friends again?” she said.
“I hope so,” replied Johnny.
“There is my hand, then.” So Johnny took her hand and pressed it, and held it a little while—just long enough to seem to give a meaning to the action. “You will get to understand me some day,” she said, “and will learn that I do not like to be reckoned among the everybodies by those for whom I really—really—really have a regard. When I am angry, I am angry.”
“You were very angry just now, when you showed me the way to the door.”
“And I meant it too—for the minute. Only think—supposing you had gone! We should never have seen each other again;—never, never! What a change one word may make!”
“One word often does make a change.”
“Does it not? Just a little ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’ A ‘no’ is said when a ‘yes’ is meant, and then there comes no second chance, and what a change that may be from bright hopes to desolation! Or, worse again, a ‘yes’ is said when a ‘no’ should be said—when the speaker knows that it should be ‘no.’ What a difference that ‘no’ makes! When one thinks of it, one wonders that a woman should ever say anything but ‘no.’ ”
“They never did say anything else to me,” said Johnny.
“I don’t believe it. I daresay the truth is, you never asked anybody.”
“Did anybody ever ask you?”
“What would you give to know? But I will tell you frankly;—yes. And once—once I thought that my answer would not have been a ‘no.’ ”
“But you changed your mind?”
“When the moment came I could not bring myself to say the word that should rob me of my liberty forever. I had said ‘no’ to him often enough before—poor fellow; and on this occasion he told me that he asked for the last time. ‘I shall not give myself another chance,’ he said, ‘for I shall be on board ship within a week.’ I merely bade him goodbye. It was the only answer I gave him. He understood me, and since that day his foot has never pressed his native soil.”
“And was it all because you are so fond of your liberty?” said Johnny.
“Perhaps—I did not—love him,” said Miss Demolines, thoughtfully. She was now again seated in her chair, and John Eames had gone back to his corner of the sofa. “If I had really loved him I suppose it would have been otherwise. He was a gallant fellow, and had two thousand a year of his own, in India stock and other securities.”
“Dear me! And he has not married yet?”
“He wrote me word to say that he would never marry till I was married—but that on the day that he should hear of my wedding, he would go to the first single woman near him and propose. It was a droll thing to say; was it not?”
“The single woman ought to feel herself flattered.”
“He would find plenty to accept him. Besides being so well off he was a very handsome fellow, and is connected with people of title. He had everything to recommend him.”
“And yet you refused him so often?”
“Yes. You think I was foolish;—do you not?”
“I don’t think you were at all foolish if you didn’t care for him.”
“It was my destiny, I suppose; I daresay I was wrong. Other girls marry without violent love, and do very well afterwards. Look at Maria Clutterbuck.”
The name of Maria Clutterbuck had become odious to John Eames. As long as Miss Demolines would continue to talk about herself he could listen with some amount of gratification. Conversation on that subject was the natural progress of the Bayswater romance. And if Madalina would only call her friend by her present name, he had no strong objection to an occasional mention of the lady; but the combined names of Maria Clutterbuck had come to be absolutely distasteful to him. He did not believe in the Maria Clutterbuck friendship—either in its past or present existence, as described by Madalina. Indeed, he did not put strong faith in anything that Madalina said to him. In the handsome gentleman with two thousand a year, he did not believe at all. But the handsome gentleman had only been mentioned once in the course of his acquaintance with Miss Demolines, whereas Maria Clutterbuck had come up so often! “Upon my word I must wish you goodbye,” he said. “It is going on for eleven o’clock, and I have to start tomorrow at seven.”
“What difference does that make?”
“A fellow wants to get a little sleep, you know.”
“Go then;—go and get your sleep. What a sleepy-headed generation it is.”
Johnny longed to ask her whether the last generation was less sleepy-headed, and whether the gentleman with two thousand a year had sat up talking all night
