"Well," he said at length, "I had the honour of making you an offer last night."
The girl found something reassuring in his lack of embarrassment and his dispassionate tone. She felt that the man was not in love with her, and that promised to make things a good deal easier. She was also relieved to find that she was mistress of herself.
"It was, perhaps, rather an unusual thing for me to ask you to meet me here, but I fancied we should be quite alone," she said. "There is something to be said."
"Yes," said Leland gravely. "That is quite natural. I am all attention."
"Then will you tell me candidly why you wish to marry me."
The moonlight showed the faint twinkle in Leland's eyes, as he made her one of his queer little bows.
"I wonder," he said, "do you ever look into your mirror?"
"Pshaw!" said the girl. "That is, after all, a very indifferent reason. I want the real one."
Leland stood very straight now, looking at her steadily, but it was evident that he was somewhat perplexed. Accustomed as he was to being frank with himself, he did not quite know why he wanted to marry her then. A few weeks earlier he had been swayed by no more than an unreasoning desire to save her from Aylmer, but he was by no means sure that was all now. She stood full in the moonlight with the fleecy wrap about her shoulders, intensifying the duskiness of her eyes and hair, and the long light dress suggesting the sweeping lines of a beautifully-moulded figure, and her freshness and beauty stirred his depths. The faint trace of imperiousness in her pose, and the unfaltering gaze of her dark eyes, which were as steady as his own, had an effect that was stronger still, for her courage and composure appealed most to him. In the meanwhile she was, however, apparently awaiting an answer, and, though he was usually candid, nothing would have induced him to mention his original reason.
"Well," he said, "I think I have told you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever, at least, spoken to, but that, though it goes some distance, isn't quite everything. You've got grit and fibre that are worth more than looks. I am a lonely man with big fancies of my own, and, with you beside me to teach me what I do not know, I think I could make my mark in my own country."
"You have nothing more to urge?"
Leland made a little gesture.
"My dear, I think you would find me kind to you."
If the issue had been less serious, Carrie Denham could have laughed. His frankness and the absence of any sign of ardour or impassioned protest were, she fancied, under the circumstances, somewhat unusual, but that was, after all, a matter of relief to her. She was willing to marry him, but she meant to teach him to keep his distance afterwards, which would naturally be more difficult to do in the case of a man in love with her. Then he fixed his gaze on her again.
"I almost fancy it's my turn now," he said. "I want the answer to a question I asked you last night. Will you come back to Prospect with me, as my wife?"
Carrie Denham felt her cheeks burn, for she had to make him understand, and it was harder than she had imagined.
"Yes," she said simply; "on conditions. One must be honest, and I could not make a bargain with you – afterwards – you can draw back now. I think you know that I do not love you – and I have nothing to give you except my fellowship. Still, as you do not love me, you will, perhaps, be content with that."
The moonlight showed that Leland started slightly, and the darker colour in his bronzed face, but he made her a little deferential gesture. Then he looked up again, straightening himself, with the glint in his eyes she had now and then seen there before.
"My dear," he said, "you shall do 'most everything you like; but, when you say that I do not love you, I am not sure that you are right."
"Still," said the girl sharply, "I, at least, know what I feel myself, and I have tried to tell you that you must not expect too much from me."
Leland, stooping, caught her hand and held it fast.
"It's a bargain," he said. "You shall be your own mistress in every way, and your wishes will be quite enough for me; but I almost think that you will love me, too, some day. I shall try to find how to make you, and I have never been quite beaten yet in anything I undertook."
He saw the look of shrinking in her face, and, though he had not expected it, a little thrill of pain ran through him. Then he raised the hand he held, and, stooping, touched it with his lips before he laid it on his arm. As they went up the steps together, he looked down on her again.
"In the meanwhile, I will try to do nothing that could make you sorry you married me; and you have only to tell me when anything does not please you."
He left her at the entrance to the hall, while he went in search of Branscombe Denham, and, as it happened, saw very little of her during the rest of the evening. It was late that night when the girl related to Eveline Annersly a part of what had passed. The faded, merry little woman, her aunt and only confidante, smiled as she listened.
"You probably know your own affairs best, but I can't help wondering if you were wise in giving that man to understand that you didn't care in the least for him," she said.
"Why?" said Carrie.
"Because it is just possible that you may be sorry for it by-and-bye. As it is, I don't think there is any great necessity for pitying you. If it had been Aylmer, it would have been a different matter."
The girl looked at her with lifted brows.
"Do you suppose I should ever care for a man like that one?"
"Well," said her companion reflectively, "he seems to me a much superior man to Reggie. Quite apart from that, I never could discover any particular reason for the belief the Denhams seem to have that they are set apart from the rest of humanity. If there were any, I should know it, since I'm one of them myself, you see. Henry Annersly, with all his shortcomings – and he naturally had them – was a much better man than Jimmy will ever be. In any case, you would have had to marry somebody; and, if I had been your mother, I would have shaken you for trying to fancy yourself in love with Reggie."
Carrie Denham flushed crimson, and her brows straightened ominously, but she restrained herself, and laughed, a little bitter laugh.
"Well," she said, "I suppose I did, and I had my chances in two Town seasons. Perhaps I was unreasonably fastidious, but I was – if it wasn't more than that – fond of Reggie, and, at least, I am willing to bear the cost of my foolishness now."
Mrs. Annersly rose, and, after looking down on her a moment, stooped and kissed her.
"Still," she said, "it wouldn't be quite honest to expect your husband to bear it too. Good-night, and try to think well of him. I almost fancy he deserves it."
She went out smiling, but, when the door had closed, her face grew grave again.
"I wonder if that man will have reason to hate me for what I have done," she said.
CHAPTER VI
THE PRAIRIE
Two long whistles came ringing up the track.
Carrie Leland rose unsteadily in the big overheated car and struggled into the furs which had been one of her husband's gifts to her. She had never worn furs of that kind before, and, indeed, had never seen anything quite like them in her friends' possession; but, while that had naturally been a cause of satisfaction, it was, nevertheless, with a vague repugnance she put them on. They were one of the visible tokens that in the most sordid sense of the word she belonged to him. The man had not won her favour. In fact, he had made no great pretence of seeking it, for which, so far as that went, she was grateful; but he had evidently carried out his part of the bargain, and now she was part of his property, acquired by purchase. The recognition of it carried with it an almost intolerable sting, though hitherto – and it was just a fortnight since her wedding – she had not felt it quite so keenly. He had not been exacting, and it had been comparatively easy to