“I don’t know—just because
I do, I guess. And that’s all the satisfaction
you gave me when we had that man-talk. But I
have been loving you for weeks—during all
the time you have been so deliciously and unobtrusively
jealous of Tudor.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” he urged breathlessly,
when she paused.
“I wondered when you’d break out, and
because you didn’t I loved you all the more.
You were like Dad, and Von. You could hold yourself
in check. You didn’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Not until to-day,” he suggested.
“Yes, and I loved you for that, too. It
was about time. I began to think you were never
going to bring up the subject again. And now
that I have offered myself you haven’t even
accepted.”
With both hands on her shoulders he held her at arm’s-length
from him and looked long into her eyes, no longer
cool but seemingly pervaded with a golden flush.
The lids drooped and yet bravely did not droop as
she returned his gaze. Then he fondly and solemnly
drew her to him.
“And how about that hearth and saddle of your
own?” he asked, a moment later.
“I well-nigh won to them. The grass house
is my hearth, and the Martha my saddle, and—and
look at all the trees I’ve planted, to say nothing
of the sweet corn. And it’s all your fault
anyway. I might never have loved you if you
hadn’t put the idea into my head.”
“There’s the Nongassla coming in
around the point with her boats out,” Sheldon
remarked irrelevantly. “And the Commissioner
is on board. He’s going down to San Cristoval
to investigate that missionary killing. We’re
in luck, I must say.”
“I don’t see where the luck comes in,”
she said dolefully. “We ought to have
this evening all to ourselves just to talk things over.
I’ve a thousand questions to ask you.”
“And it wouldn’t have been a man-talk
either,” she added.
“But my plan is better than that.”
He debated with himself a moment. “You
see, the Commissioner is the one official in the islands
who can give us a license. And—there’s
the luck of it—Doctor Welshmere is here
to perform the ceremony. We’ll get married
this evening.”
Joan recoiled from him in panic, tearing herself from
his arms and going backward several steps. He
could see that she was really frightened.
“I . . . I thought . . .” she stammered.
Then, slowly, the change came over her, and the blood
flooded into her face in the same amazing blush he
had seen once before that day. Her cool, level-looking
eyes were no longer level-looking nor cool, but warmly
drooping and just unable to meet his, as she came toward
him and nestled in the circle of his arms, saying
softly, almost in a whisper,—
“I am ready, Dave.”
{1} Eaten.
{2} Food.
{3} Mary—beche-de-mer English for woman.
