“Oh, I NEVER tempted you,” cried Agatha. “I did not. It is not true.” He said nothing, but offered his hand. “No; go away; I will not.” He persisted, and she felt her power of resistance suddenly wane. Terror-stricken, she said hastily, “There is not the least use in bothering me; I will tell you nothing to-day.”
“Promise me on your honor that you will say Yes to-morrow, and I will leave you in peace until then.”
“I will not.”
“The deuce take your sex,” he said plaintively.
“You know my mind now, and I have to stand here coquetting because you don’t know your own. If I cared for my comfort I should remain a bachelor.”
“I advise you to do so,” she said, stealing backward towards the door. “You are a very interesting widower. A wife would spoil you. Consider the troubles of domesticity, too.”
“I like troubles. They strengthen—Aha!” (she had snatched at the knob of the door, and he swiftly put his hand on hers and stayed her). “Not yet, if you please. Can you not speak out like a woman—like a man, I mean? You may withhold a bone from Max until he stands on his hind legs to beg for it, but you should not treat me like a dog. Say Yes frankly, and do not keep me begging.”
“What in the world do you want to marry me for?”
“Because I was made to carry a house on my shoulders, and will do so. I want to do the best I can for myself, and I shall never have such a chance again. And I cannot help myself, and don’t know why; that is the plain truth of the matter. You will marry someone some day.” She shook her head. “Yes, you will. Why not marry me?”
Agatha bit her nether lip, looked ruefully at the ground, and, after a long pause, said reluctantly, “Very well. But mind, I think you are acting very foolishly, and if you are disappointed afterwards, you must not blame ME.”
“I take the risk of my bargain,” he said, releasing her hand, and leaning against the door as he took out his pocket diary. “You will have to take the risk of yours, which I hope may not prove the worse of the two. This is the seventeenth of June. What date before the twenty-fourth of July will suit you?”
“You mean the twenty-fourth of July next year, I presume?”
“No; I mean this year. I am going abroad on that date, married or not, to attend a conference at Geneva, and I want you to come with me. I will show you a lot of places and things that you have never seen before. It is your right to name the day, but you have no serious business to provide for, and I have.”
“But you don’t know all the things I shall—I should have to provide. You had better wait until you come back from the continent.”
“There is nothing to be provided on your part but settlements and your trousseau. The trousseau is all nonsense; and Jansenius knows me of old in the matter of settlements. I got married in six weeks before.”
“Yes,” said Agatha sharply, “but I am not Henrietta.”
“No, thank Heaven,” he assented placidly.
Agatha was struck with remorse. “That was a vile thing for me to say,” she said; “and for you too.”
“Whatever is true is to the purpose, vile or not. Will you come to Geneva on the twenty-fourth?”
“But—I really was not thinking when I—I did not intend to say that I would—I—”
“I know. You will come if we are married.”
“Yes. IF we are married.”
“We shall be married. Do not write either to your mother or Jansenius until I ask you.”
“I don’t intend to. I have nothing to write about.”
“Wretch that you are! And do not be jealous if you catch me making love to Lady Brandon. I always do so; she expects it.”
“You may make love to whom you please. It is no concern of mine.”
“Here comes the wagonette with Lady Brandon and Ger—and Miss Lindsay. I mustn’t call her Gertrude now except when you are not by. Before they interrupt us, let me remind you of the three points we are agreed upon. I love you. You do not love me. We are to be married before the twenty-fourth of next month. Now I must fly to help her ladyship to alight.”
He hastened to the house door, at which the wagonette had just stopped. Agatha, bewildered, and ashamed to face her friends, went in through the conservatory, and locked herself in her room.
Trefusis went into the library with Gertrude whilst Lady Brandon loitered in the hall to take off her gloves and ask questions of the servants. When she followed, she found the two standing together at the window. Gertrude was listening to him with the patient expression she now often wore when he talked. He was smiling, but it struck Jane that he was not quite at ease. “I was just beginning to tell Miss Lindsay,” he said, “of an extraordinary thing that has happened during your absence.”
“I know,” exclaimed Jane, with sudden conviction. “The heater in the conservatory has cracked.”
“Possibly,” said Trefusis; “but, if so, I have not heard of it.”
“If it hasn’t cracked, it will,” said Jane gloomily. Then, assuming with some effort an interest in Trefusis’s news, she added: “Well, what has happened?”
“I was chatting with Miss Wylie just now, when a singular idea occurred to us. We discussed it for some time; and the upshot is that we are to be married before the end of next month.”
Jane reddened and stared at him; and he looked keenly back at her. Gertrude, though unobserved, did not suffer her expression of patient happiness to change in the least; but a greenish-white color suddenly appeared in her face, and only gave place very slowly to her usual complexion.
“Do you mean to say that you are going to marry AGATHA?” said Lady Brandon incredulously, after a pause.
“Yes. I had no intention of doing so when I last saw you or I should have told you.”
“I never heard of such a thing in my life! You fell in love with one another in five minutes, I suppose.”
“Good Heavens, no! we are not in love with one another. Can you believe that I would marry for such a frivolous reason? No. The subject turned up accidentally, and the advantage of a match between us struck me forcibly. I was fortunate enough to convert her to my opinion.”
“Yes; she wanted a lot of pressing, I dare say,” said Jane, glancing at Gertrude, who was smiling unmeaningly.
“As you imply,” said Trefusis coolly, “her reluctance may have been affected, and she only too glad to get such a charming husband. Assuming that to be the case, she dissembled remarkably well.”
Gertrude took off her bonnet, and left the room without speaking.
“This is my revenge upon you for marrying Brandon,” he said then, approaching Jane.
“Oh, yes,” she retorted ironically. “I believe all that, of course.”
“You have the same security for its truth as for that of all the foolish things I confess to you. There!” He pointed to a panel of looking glass, in which Jane’s figure was reflected at full length.
“I don’t see anything to admire,” said Jane, looking at herself with no great favor. “There is plenty of me, if you admire that.”
“It is impossible to have too much of a good thing. But I must not look any more. Though Agatha says she does not love me, I am not sure that she would be pleased if I were to look for love from anyone else.”
“Says she