but remains me to induce you to repair what I think was a mistake."
She shook her head. "I have returned home for good," said she.
"You'll pardon me," said he, "that I am so egotistical as to prefer Zoyland Chase to Lupton House. Despite the manifold attractions of the latter, I do not intend to take up my abode here."
"You are not asked to."
"What, then?"
She hated him for the smile, for his masterful air, which seemed to imply that he humoured her because he scorned to use authority, but that when he did use it, hers must it be to obey him.
Again she felt that everlasting calm, arguing such latent forces, was the thing she hated most in him.
"I think I had best be plain with you," said she. "I have fulfilled my part of the bargain that we made. I intend to do no more. I promised that if you spared my brother, I would go to the altar
with you today. I have carried out my contract to the letter. It is at an end."
"Indeed," said he; "I think it has not yet begun." He advanced towards her, and took her hand. She yielded it, unwilling though she was. "This is unworthy of you, madam," said he, his tone grave
and deferential. "You think to escape fulfilling the spirit of your bargain by adhering to the letter of it. Not so," he ended, and shook his head, smiling gently. "The carriage is still at your
door. You return with me to Zoyland Chase to take possession of your home."
"You mistake," said she, and tore her hand from his. "You say that what I have done is unworthy. I admit it; but it is with unworthiness that we must combat unworthiness. Was your attitude
towards me less unworthy?"
"I'll make amends for it if you'll come home," said he.
"My home is here. You cannot compel me."
"I should be loath to," he admitted, sighing.
"You cannot," she insisted.
"I think I can," said he. "There is a law . . ."
"A law that will hang you if you invoke it," she cut in quickly. "This much can I safely promise you."
She had need to say no more to tell him everything. At all times half a word was as much to Mr. Wilding as a whole sentence to another. She saw the tightening of his lips, the hardening of his
eyes, beyond which he gave no other sign that she had hit him.
"I see," said he. "It is another bargain that you make. I do suspect there is some trader's blood in the Westmacott veins. Let us be clear. You hold the wherewithal to ruin me, and you will use
it if I insist upon my husband's rights. Is it not so?"
She nodded in silence, surprised at the rapidity with which he had read the situation.
"I admit," said he, "that you have me between sword and wall." He laughed shortly. "Let me know more," he begged her. "Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace — so long as
I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name — you will not wield the weapon that you hold?"
"You are to understand so," she answered.
He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he
appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging — ignorant as he was of what was in it — the ruin that might
follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew
himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.
"The letter is in your hands?" he inquired.
"It is," she answered.
"May I see it?" he asked.
She shook her head — not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it — a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose.
He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke's interest than his own.
"You know," quoth he, "the desperate enterprise to
She shook her head. "I have returned home for good," said she.
"You'll pardon me," said he, "that I am so egotistical as to prefer Zoyland Chase to Lupton House. Despite the manifold attractions of the latter, I do not intend to take up my abode here."
"You are not asked to."
"What, then?"
She hated him for the smile, for his masterful air, which seemed to imply that he humoured her because he scorned to use authority, but that when he did use it, hers must it be to obey him.
Again she felt that everlasting calm, arguing such latent forces, was the thing she hated most in him.
"I think I had best be plain with you," said she. "I have fulfilled my part of the bargain that we made. I intend to do no more. I promised that if you spared my brother, I would go to the altar
with you today. I have carried out my contract to the letter. It is at an end."
"Indeed," said he; "I think it has not yet begun." He advanced towards her, and took her hand. She yielded it, unwilling though she was. "This is unworthy of you, madam," said he, his tone grave
and deferential. "You think to escape fulfilling the spirit of your bargain by adhering to the letter of it. Not so," he ended, and shook his head, smiling gently. "The carriage is still at your
door. You return with me to Zoyland Chase to take possession of your home."
"You mistake," said she, and tore her hand from his. "You say that what I have done is unworthy. I admit it; but it is with unworthiness that we must combat unworthiness. Was your attitude
towards me less unworthy?"
"I'll make amends for it if you'll come home," said he.
"My home is here. You cannot compel me."
"I should be loath to," he admitted, sighing.
"You cannot," she insisted.
"I think I can," said he. "There is a law . . ."
"A law that will hang you if you invoke it," she cut in quickly. "This much can I safely promise you."
She had need to say no more to tell him everything. At all times half a word was as much to Mr. Wilding as a whole sentence to another. She saw the tightening of his lips, the hardening of his
eyes, beyond which he gave no other sign that she had hit him.
"I see," said he. "It is another bargain that you make. I do suspect there is some trader's blood in the Westmacott veins. Let us be clear. You hold the wherewithal to ruin me, and you will use
it if I insist upon my husband's rights. Is it not so?"
She nodded in silence, surprised at the rapidity with which he had read the situation.
"I admit," said he, "that you have me between sword and wall." He laughed shortly. "Let me know more," he begged her. "Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace — so long as
I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name — you will not wield the weapon that you hold?"
"You are to understand so," she answered.
He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he
appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging — ignorant as he was of what was in it — the ruin that might
follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew
himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.
"The letter is in your hands?" he inquired.
"It is," she answered.
"May I see it?" he asked.
She shook her head — not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it — a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose.
He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke's interest than his own.
"You know," quoth he, "the desperate enterprise to
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