Part 31 (1/2)

worry when you and Rosamund Barry went a-sailing--not that I feared you'd drown, either. O Carus, Carus, you distract me, you worry me; you tell me nothing, nothing, and I never knew what you were about there in New York when you were not with me!--doubtless a-courting every petticoat on Hanover Square, for all I know!”

”Well,” said I, amazed and perplexed, ”if you think, under the circ.u.mstances, there is any prospect of our falling in love after marriage, and so continuing, I will wed you--now----”

”No!” she interrupted angrily; ”I shall not marry you, nor even betroth myself. It may be that I can see you leave me and bid you a fair journey, unmoved. I would to G.o.d I could! I feel that way now, and may continue, if I do not fall a-pondering, and live over certain hours with you that plague me at times into a very pa.s.sion. But at moments like this I weary of you, so that all you say and do displeases, and I'm sick of the world and I know not what! O Carus, I am sick of life--and I dare not tell you why!”

She rested her head on her hands, staring down at her blurred image, reflected in the polished table-top.

”I have sometimes thought,” she mused, ”that the fault lay with you--somewhat.”

”With me!”

”That you could force me to love you, if you dared. The rest would not matter, then. Misery me! I wish that we had never met! And yet I can not let you go, because you do not know how to care for yourself. If you will sail to France on the next packet, and remain with your mother, I'll say nothing. I'll go with a flag I care not where--only to know you are safe. Will you? O Carus, I would my life were done and all ended!”

She was silent for a while, leaning on the table, tracing with her finger the outline of her dull reflection in the s.h.i.+ning surface.

Presently she looked up gaily, a smile breaking in her eyes.

”All that I said is false. I desire to live, Carus. I am not unhappy.

Pray you, begin your writing!”

I drew the paper to me, dipped a quill full of ink from the musty horn, rested my elbow, pen lifted, and began, dating the letter from the Blue Fox, and addressing it most respectfully to Sir Peter and Lady Coleville.

First I spoke of the horses we had taken, and would have promised payment by draft enclosed, but that Elsin, looking over my shoulder, stayed my pen.

”Did you not see me leave a pile of guineas?” she demanded. ”That was to pay for our stable theft!”

”But not for the horse I took?”

”Certainly, for your horse, too.”

”But you could not know that I was to ride saddle to the Coq d'Or!” I insisted.

”No, but I saddled _two_ horses,” she replied, delighted at my wonder, ”two horses, monsieur, one of which stood ready in the stalls of the Coq d'Or! So when you came a-horseback, it was not necessary to use the spare mount I had led there at a gallop. _Now_ do you see, Mr. Renault?

All this I did for you, inspired by--foresight, which you lack!”

”I see that you are as wise and witty as you are beautiful!” I exclaimed warmly, and caught her fingers to kiss them, but she would have none of my caress, urging me to write further, and make suitable excuse for what had happened.

”It is not best to confess that we are still unwedded,” I said, perplexed.

”No. They suppose we are; let be as it is,” she answered. ”And you shall not say that you were a spy, either, for that must only pain Sir Peter and his lady. They will never believe Walter Butler, for they think I fled with you because I could not endure him. And--perhaps I did,” she added; and that strange smile colored her eyes to deepest azure.

”Then what remains to say?” I asked, regarding her thoughtfully.

”Say we are happy, Carus.”

”Are you?”

”Truly I am, spite of all I complain of. Write it!”

I wrote that we were happy; and, as I traced the words, a curious thrill set my pen shaking.