“It was such a little thing!” he answered.

“What a—man you are!” she said softly.

“Just that, Hermione,” he answered, “and—frightfully human!” She was silent. “Do you know what I mean?” he demanded, glancing at her averted face.

“Yes!” she answered, without looking around. So they walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly he seized her hand and drew it through his arm.

“Hermione,” he said gently, “I want my wife.”

She still kept her head averted, but he could feel how she was trembling.

“And you think—” she began softly.

“That I have been patient long enough. I have waited and hoped because—”

“Because you are so generous, so kind—such a man!” she said softly and with head still averted.

“And yet since I have been well again, you have kept me at arm’s length. Dear, you—love me still, don’t you?”

“Love you?” she repeated, “love you?” For a moment she turned and looked up at him then drew her arm from his and walked on with head averted once more. So they entered the rose garden and coming to the lily pool leaned there side by side.

“Hermione,” said he, staring down into the water, “if you really love me, why do you hate to kiss me? Why do you hardly suffer me to touch you? And you’ve never even called me by my name, that I remember!”

“Geoffrey!” she breathed; “and I—love you to touch me! And I don’t hate to kiss you, Geoffrey dear.”

“Then why do you keep me at arm’s length?”

“Do I?” she questioned softly, gazing down at the lily pads.

“You know you do. Why?”

“Well—because.”

“Because what?”

“Oh, well, just—because.”

“Hermione—tell me.”

“Well, everything is so strange—so unreal! This great house, the servants, all the beautiful clothes you bought me! To have so very much of everything after having to do with so very little—it’s all so wonderful and—dreadful!”

“Dreadful?”

“You are so—dreadfully rich!”

“Is that the reason you keep me at such a distance? Is that why you avoid me?”

“Avoid you?”

“Yes, dear. You’ve done it very sweetly and delicately, but you have avoided me lately. Why?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

“And you haven’t touched any of the monthly allowance I make you,” he went on, frowning a little, “not one cent. Why, Hermione?”

Hermione was silent.

“Tell me!”

Still she was silent, only she bent lower above the pool and drew further from him, whereat his pale cheek flushed, and his frown grew blacker.

And presently, as he scowled down into the water, she stole a look at him, and when she spoke, though the words were light, the quiver in her voice belied them.

“Invalid, dear, if you want to be angry with me, wait—till you’re a little stronger.”

Ravenslee stooped and picked up a handful of small pebbles that chanced to lie loose.

“Wife, dear,” said he, “I’m as well and strong as ever I was. But I’ve asked you several questions which I mean you to answer, so I am going to give you until I have pitched all these pebbles into the water, and then—” Hermione glanced up swiftly.

“Then?” she questioned.

“Why then, if you haven’t answered, I shall—take matters into my own hands. One!” and a pebble splashed into the pool.

“What do you want to know?”

“Two! Why haven’t you condescended to take your allowance?”

“Dear, I—I didn’t need it, and even if I had, I—oh, I couldn’t take it—yet!”

“Three! Why not?”

“Because you have given me so much already, and I—have given you—nothing.”

“Four! Why—haven’t you?”

“Oh—well—because!”

“Five! What does ‘because’ mean, this time?”

“It means—just—because!”

“Six! Seven! Eight! Why have you avoided me lately?”

Hermione was silent, watching him with troubled eyes while he slowly pitched the pebbles into the pool, counting as they fell.

“Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Why do you keep me at arm’s length?”

“I don’t—I—I—you won’t let me—” she said a little breathlessly, while one by one he let the pebbles fall into the pool, counting inexorably as they fell.

“Thirteen! Fourteen, fifteen—and that’s the last!” As he spoke he turned toward her, and she, reading something of his purpose in his eyes, turned to flee, felt his long arms about her, felt herself swung up and up and so lay crushed and submissive in his fierce embrace as he turned and began to bear her across the garden. Then, being helpless, she began to plead with him.

“Ah, don’t, don’t—dear! Geoffrey! Put me down! Where are you taking me? If any one sees us—”

“Let them!” he muttered grimly; “you’re my wife!”

So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.

“A little weak—still!” said he, “but not so bad—you’re no scraggy sylph, thank heaven! Hermione—look at me!” But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still. So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—wonder of wonders—her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—then strove wildly to hold him away.

“Loose me!” she cried, “let me go! Geoffrey—husband, be generous and let me go!” But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.

“Hermione, when will you—be my wife?”

Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip:

“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”

But, even while he kissed her, between those quivering, parted lips came a murmur of passionate prayer and pleading.

“Oh, my love, wait—wait! Let me tell you—ah, loose me and let me tell you.”

Slowly his hold relaxed, and, twisting in his arms, she slipped upon her knees beside him, and, crouching close, hid her face against him.

“Beloved,” she whispered quickly, breathlessly, “oh, dear man that I love so—there is something between us, a shadow of shame and horror that is with me day and night and always must be. While you lay sick it was there, torturing me with every moan and sigh you uttered. It is with me wherever I go—it is between us now—yes, now—even while I strain you in my arms like this. I have watched you grow strong and well again, I’ve seen the love in your eyes, and I’ve yearned to be to you—all you would have me, but because of this shadow I—dare not. Ah, God, how can I be wife to you when—let this answer for me.” And she placed in Ravenslee’s hand a coat button whereto a piece of cloth adhered. “Dear love, I saw you throw it away,” she explained, “and I searched and searched until I found it.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you would soon ask me—this question, and I have kept it for my answer. Ah, God! how can I be wife to you when my brother would have killed you—murdered you!”

Ravenslee hurled the button far away, then lifting Hermione’s bowed head, spoke very tenderly.

“How does all this affect our love, Hermione, except to show me you are even sweeter and nobler than I had thought. And as for the shadow, it is—only a shadow after all.”

“But it is my shame!” she answered. “You might have had for wife the sister of a thief, but not—oh, God! not the sister of a would-be murderer. If—if I came to you now, I should come in shame—Ah, Geoffrey, don’t—shame me!”

“God forbid!” he muttered.

Close, close she clasped him, hiding her face against him, kissing and kissing the rough cloth of his coat.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she murmured, “how we do love each other!”

“So much, Hermione, that I will never—claim you until you are ready to come to me of your own will. But, dear, I am only a man—how long must I wait?”

“Give me time,” she pleaded, “with time the horror may grow less. Let me go away for awhile—a little while. Let me find Arthur—”

“No,” he answered, frowning, “you shan’t do that; there will be no need—to-morrow I go to fetch him.”

“To bring him—here?”

“Why, of course. You see, I intend him to go to college.”

Hermione rose and coming to the entrance of the arbour leaned there.

“Why, Hermione—dear love—you’re crying! What is it?”

“Nothing,” she answered, bowing her face upon her arm, “only—I think—if you ask me again—I can’t—keep you—waiting—very long!”

CHAPTER XLI

OF A PACKET OF LETTERS

M’Ginnis jerked aside the roll-top desk and falling on his knees before a small but massive safe built into the wall behind, set the combination and swung open the heavy door, talking to his companion as he did so and quite unconscious of the pale face that watched him through the dingy window.

“That dam’ Soapy’s gettin’ ugly,” he was saying, “an’ it don’t do t’ get ugly with me, Heine, boy! Soapy thinks he’s smart Alec all right, but I guess I’m some smarter. Why, I got evidence enough in here t’ ‘lectrocute a dozen Soapys.”

“So?” said Heine, chewing on his cigar and peering into the safe. “Say, what’s all them tied up in sassy blue ribbon, Bud?”

“These?” said M’Ginnis, and he took out a bundle of letters, turning them over in his big hands.

“Skirt—hey, Bud?”

“Sure thing!” he nodded, and as he stared down at this packet, how should he know how tense and rigid had become the lounging form in the darkness beyond the window, or guess of the wide glare of watchful eyes or of the sudden quiver of a smouldering cigarette?

“Yes, a girl’s letters, Heine! An’ a hell of a lot of ‘em. I dunno why I keep ‘em, but—oh, hell!” So saying he tossed the letters back again and turned to his companion. “Hand over that dope!” he commanded, and Heine passed over a bundle of papers which M’Ginnis carefully slipped into a certain compartment. As he did so, Heine spun around upon his heel.