第53章

Just then Stanley Baird came through the pretty little house, seeking her.``There you are!'' he cried.``Do go get dressed.''

Hastily she flung a scarf over the book and papers in her lap.She had intended to speak to him about that fresh deposit of five thousand dollars--to refuse it, to rebuke him.Now she did not dare.

``What's the matter?'' he went on.``Headache?''

``It was the wine at dinner last night,'' explained she.

``I ought never to touch red wine.It disagrees with me horribly.''

``That was filthy stuff,'' said he.``You must take some champagne at lunch.That'll set you right.''

She stealthily wound the scarf about the papers.

When she felt that all were secure she rose.She was looking sweet and sad and peculiarly beautiful.There was an exquisite sheen on her skin.She had washed her hair that morning, and it was straying fascinatingly about her brow and ears and neck.Baird looked at her, lowered his eyes and colored.

``I'll not be long,'' she said hurriedly.

She had to pass him in the rather narrow doorway.

From her garments shook a delicious perfume.He caught her in his arms.The blood had flushed into his face in a torrent, swelling out the veins, giving him a distorted and wild expression.

``Mildred!'' he cried.``Say that you love me a little! I'm so lonely for you--so hungry for you!''

She grew cold with fear and with repulsion.She neither yielded to his embrace nor shook it off.She simply stood, her round smooth body hard though corsetless.

He kissed her on the throat, kissed the lace over her bosom, crying out inarticulately.In the frenzy of his passion he did not for a while realize her lack of response.As he felt it, his arms relaxed, dropped away from her, fell at his side.He hung his head.He was breathing so heavily that she glanced into the house apprehensively, fearing someone else might hear.

``I beg pardon,'' he muttered.``You were too much for me this morning.It was your fault.You are maddening!''

She moved on into the house.

``Wait a minute!'' he called after her.

She halted, hesitating.

``Come back,'' he said.``I've got something to say to you.''

She turned and went back to the veranda, he retreating before her and his eyes sinking before the cold, clear blue of hers.

``You're going up, not to come down again,'' he said.

``You think I've insulted you--think I've acted outrageously.''

How glad she was that he had so misread her thoughts --had not discovered the fear, the weakness, the sudden collapse of all her boasted confidence in her strength of character.

``You'll never feel the same toward me again,'' he went fatuously on.``You think I'm a fraud.Well, I'll admit that I am in love with you--have been ever since the steamer--always was crazy about that mouth of yours--and your figure, and the sound of your voice.I'll admit I'm an utter fool about you--respect you and trust you as I never used to think any woman deserved to be respected and trusted.I'll even admit that I've been hoping--all sorts of things.I knew a woman like you wouldn't let a man help her unless she loved him.''

At this her heart beat wildly and a blush of shame poured over her face and neck.He did not see.He had not the courage to look at her--to face that expression of the violated goddess he felt confident her face was wearing.In love, he reasoned and felt about her like an inexperienced boy, all his experience going for nothing.He went on:

``I understand we can never be anything to each other until you're on the stage and arrived.I'd not have it otherwise, if I could.For I want YOU, and I'd never believe I had you unless you were free.''

The color was fading from her cheeks.At this it flushed deeper than before.She must speak.Not to speak was to lie, was to play the hypocrite.Yet speak she dared not.At least Stanley Baird was better than Siddall.Anyhow, who was she, that had been the wife of Siddall, to be so finicky?

``You don't believe me?'' he said miserably.``You think I'll forget myself sometime again?''

``I hope not,'' she said gently.``I believe not.Itrust you, Stanley.''

And she went into the house.He looked after her, in admiration of the sweet and pure calm of this quiet rebuke.She tried to take the same exalted view of it herself, but she could not fool herself just then with the familiar ``good woman'' fake.She knew that she had struck the flag of self-respect.She knew what she would really have done had he been less delicate, less in love, and more ``practical.'' And she found a small and poor consolation in reflecting, ``I wonder how many women there are who take high ground because it costs nothing.'' We are prone to suspect everybody of any weakness we find in ourselves--and perhaps we are not so far wrong as are those who accept without question the noisy protestations of a world of self-deceivers.