Part 12 (2/2)

She smiled--the faintest change in the perfect curve of her lips. ”You are very persistent, aren't you?”

”Very,” I answered. ”That is why I have always got whatever I wanted.”

”I admire it,” said she.

”No, you don't,” I replied. ”You think it is vulgar, and you think I am vulgar because I have that quality--that and some others.”

She did not contradict me.

”Well, I _am_ vulgar--from your standpoint,” I went on. ”I have purposes and pa.s.sions. And I pursue them. For instance, you.”

”I?” she said tranquilly.

”You,” I repeated. ”I made up my mind the first day I saw you that I'd make you like me. And--you will.”

”That is very flattering,” said she. ”And a little terrifying. For”--she faltered, then went bravely on--”I suppose there isn't anything you'd stop at in order to gain your end.”

”Nothing,” said I, and I compelled her to meet my gaze.

She drew a long breath, and I thought there was a sob in it--like a frightened child.

”But I repeat,” I went on, ”that if you wish it, I shall never try to see you again. Do you wish it?”

”I--don't--know,” she answered slowly. ”I think--not.”

As she spoke the last word, she lifted her eyes to mine with a look of forced friendliness in them that I'd rather not have seen there. I wished to be blind to her defects, to the stains and s.m.u.tches with which her surroundings must have sullied her. And that friendly look seemed to me an unmistakable hypocrisy in obedience to her mother. However, it had the effect of bringing her nearer to my own earthy level, of putting me at ease with her; and for the few remaining minutes we talked freely, I indifferent whether my manners and conversation were correct. As I helped her into their carriage, I pressed her arm slightly, and said in a voice for her only, ”Until to-morrow.”

XIV. FRESH AIR IN A GREENHOUSE

At five the next day I rang the Ellerslys' bell, was taken through the drawing-room into that same library. The curtains over the double doorway between the two rooms were almost drawn. She presently entered from the hall. I admired the picture she made in the doorway--her big hat, her embroidered dress of white cloth, and that small, sweet, cold face of hers.

And as I looked, I knew that nothing, nothing--no, not even her wish, her command--could stop me from trying to make her my own. That resolve must have shown in my face--it or the pa.s.sion that inspired it--for she paused and paled.

”What is it?” I asked. ”Are you afraid of me?”

She came forward proudly, a fine scorn in her eyes. ”No,” she said. ”But if you knew, you might be afraid of me.”

”I am,” I confessed. ”I am afraid of you because you inspire in me a feeling that is beyond my control. I've committed many follies in my life--I have moods in which it amuses me to defy fate. But those follies have always been of my own willing. You”--I laughed--”you are a folly for me. But one that compels me.”

She smiled--not discouragingly--and seated herself on a tiny sofa in the corner, a curiously impregnable intrenchment, as I noted--for my impulse was to carry her by storm. I was astonished at my own audacity; I was wondering where my fear of her had gone, my awe of her superior fineness and breeding. ”Mama will be down in a few minutes,” she said.

”I didn't come to see your mother,” replied I. ”I came to see you.”

She flushed, then froze--and I thought I had once more ”got upon” her nerves with my rude directness. How eagerly sensitive our nerves are to bad impressions of one we don't like, and how coa.r.s.ely insensible to bad impressions of one we do like!

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