Burke was beside her, patting her down and talking to her in a little intimate fashion much as though he were soothing6 a frightened child.
“You’re all in, aren’t you, old thing?” he murmured sympathetically. Then he glanced up at Jean, who was still sitting in the cart, feeling rather as though the end of the world had occurred and, in some surprising fashion, left her still cumbering the earth.
“She’s pretty well run herself out,” he remarked. “We shan’t have any more trouble going home”—smiling briefly7. “I hope not,” answered Jean a trifle flatly.
“You all right?”
She nodded.
“Yes, thank you. You must be an excellent whip,” she added. “I thought the mare would never stop.”
Probably even Jean hardly realised the fineness of the horsemanship of which she had just been a witness—the judgment8 and coolness Burke had evinced in letting the mare spend the first freshness of her strength before he essayed to check her mad pace; the dexterity9 with which he had somehow contrived10 to keep her straight; and finally, the consummate11 skill with which, that last half-mile, he had played her mouth, rejecting the dead pull on the reins12—the instinctive13 error of the mediocre14 driver—which so quickly numbs15 sensation and neutralises every effort to bring a runaway16 to a standstill.
“Yes. I rather thought our number was up,” agreed Burke absently. He was passing his hands feelingly over the mare to see if she were all right, and suddenly, with a sharp exclamation17, he lifted one of her feet from the ground and examined it.
“Cast a shoe and torn her foot rather badly,” he announced. “I’m afraid we shall have to stop at the next village and get her shod. It’s not a mile further on. You and I can have tea at the inn while she’s at the blacksmith’s.”
With a final caress18 of the steaming chestnut19 neck, he came back to the side of the cart, reins in hand.
“Can you drive her with a torn foot?” queried20 Jean.
“Oh, yes. We’ll have to go carefully down this hill, though. There are such a confounded lot of loose stones about.”
He climbed into the dog-cart and very soon they had reached the village, where the chestnut, tired and subdued21, was turned over to the blacksmith’s ministrations while Burke and Jean made their way to the inn.
Tea was brought to them upstairs in a quaint22, old-fashioned parlour fragrant23 of bygone times. Oaken beams, black with age, supported the ceiling, and on the high chimneypiece pewter dishes gleamed like silver, while at either end an amazingly hideous24 spotted25 dog, in genuine old Staffordshire, surveyed the scene with a satisfied smirk26. Through the leaded diamond panes27 of the window was visible a glimpse of the Moor28.
“What an enchanting29 place!” commented Jean, as, tea over, she made a tour of inspection30, pausing at last in front of the window.
Burke had been watching her as she wandered about the room, his expression moody31 and dissatisfied.
“It’s a famous resort for honeymooners,” he answered. “Do you think”—enquiringly—“it would be a good place in which to spend a honeymoon32?”
“That depends,” replied Jean cautiously. “If the people were fond of the country, and the Moor, and so on—yes. But they might prefer something less remote from the world.”
“Would you?”
“I?”—with detachment. “I’m not contemplating33 a honeymoon.”
Suddenly Burke crossed the room to her side.
“We might as well settle that point now,” he said quietly. “Jean, when will you marry me?”
She looked at him indignantly.
“I’ve answered that question before. It isn’t fair of you to reopen the matter here—and now.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t fair. In fact, I’m not sure that it isn’t rather a caddish thing for me to do, seeing that you can’t get away from me just now. But all’s fair in love and war. And it’s both love and war between us two”—grimly.
“The two things don’t sound very compatible,” fenced Jean.
“It’s only war till you give in—till you promise to marry me. Then”—a smouldering light glowed in his eyes—“then I’ll show you what loves means.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid,” she said, attempting to speak coolly, “that it means war indefinitely then, Geoffrey. I can give you no different answer.”
“You shall!” he exclaimed violently. “I tell you, Jean, it’s useless your refusing me. I won’t take no. I want you for my wife—and, by God, I’m going to have you!”
She drew away from him a little, backing into the embrasure of the window. The look in his eyes frightened her.
“Whether I will or no?” she asked, still endeavouring to speak lightly. “My feelings in the matter don’t appear to concern you at all.”
“I’d rather you came willingly—but, if you won’t, I swear I’ll marry you, willing or unwilling34!”
He was standing close to her now, staring down at her with sombre, passion-lit eyes, and instinctively35 she made a movement as though to elude36 him and slip back again into the room. In the same instant his arms went round her and she was prisoned in a grip from which she was powerless to escape.
“Don’t struggle,” he said, as she strove impotently to release herself. “I could hold you from now till doomsday without an effort.”
There was a curious thrill in his voice, the triumphant37, arrogant38 leap of possession. He held her pressed against him, and she could feel his chest heave with his labouring breath.
“You’re mine—mine! My woman—meant for me from the beginning of the world—and do you think I’ll give you up?... Give you up? I tell you, if you were another man’s wife I’d take you away from him! You’re mine—every inch of you, body and soul. And I want you. Oh, my God, how I want you!”
“Let me go... Geoffrey...”
The words struggled from her lips. For answer his arms tightened39 round her, crushing her savagely40, and she felt his kisses burning, scorching41 her face, his mouth on hers till it seemed as though he were draining her very soul.
When at last he released her, she leant helplessly against the woodwork of the window, panting and shaken. Her face was white as a magnolia petal42 and her eyes dark-rimmed with purple shadow.
A faint expression of compunction crossed Burke’s face.
“I suppose—I shall never be forgiven now,” he muttered roughly.
With an effort Jean forced her tongue to answer him.
“No,” she said in a voice out of which every particle of feeling seemed to have departed. “You will never be forgiven.”
A look of deviltry came into his eyes. He crossed the room and, locking the door, dropped the key into his pocket.
“I think,” he remarked coolly, “in that case, I’d better keep you a prisoner here till you have promised to marry me. It’s you I want. Your forgiveness can come after. I’ll see to that.”
The result of his action was unexpected. Jean turned to the window, unlatched it, and flung open the casement43.
“If you don’t unlock that door at once, Geoffrey,” she said quietly, “I shall leave the room—this way”—with a gesture that sufficiently44 explained her meaning.
Her voice was very steady. Burke looked at her curiously45.
“Do you mean—you’d jump out?” he asked, openly incredulous.
Her eyes answered him. They were feverishly46 bright, with an almost fanatical light in them, and suddenly Burke realised that she was at the end of her tether, that the emotional stress of the last quarter of an hour had taken its toll47 of her high-strung temperament48 and that she might even do what she had threatened. He had no conception of the motive49 behind the threat—of the imperative50 determination which had leaped to life within her to endure or suffer anything rather than stay locked in this room with Burke, rather than give Blaise, the man who held her heart between his two hands, ground for misunderstanding or mistrusting her anew.
Burke fitted the key into the lock of the door and turned it sulkily.
“You prim51 little thing! I was only teasing you,” he said. “Do you mean you’re really as frightened as all that of—what people may say? I thought you were above minding the gossip of ill-natured scandal-mongers.”
Jean grasped eagerly at the excuse. It would serve to hide the real motive of her impulsive52 action.
“No woman can afford to ignore scandal,” she answered quickly. “After all, a woman’s happiness depends mostly on her reputation.”
Burke’s eyes narrowed suddenly. He looked at her speculatively53, as though her words had suggested a new train of thought, but he made no comment. Somewhat abstractedly he opened the door and allowed her to pass out and down the stairs. Outside the door of the inn they found the mare and dog-cart in charge of an ostler.
“The mare’s foot’s rather badly torn, sir,” volunteered the man, “but the blacksmith thinks she’ll travel all right. Far to go, sir?”
“Nine or ten miles,” responded Burke laconically54.
He was curiously silent on the way home. It was as though the chain of reasoning started by Jean’s comment on the relation scandal bears to a woman’s happiness still absorbed him. His brows were knit together morosely55.
Jean supposed he was probably reproaching himself for his conduct that afternoon. After all, she reflected, he was normally a man of decent instincts, and though the flood-tide of his passion had swept him into taking advantage of the circumstances which had flung them together in the solitude56 of the little inn, he would be the first to agree, when in a less lawless frame of mind, that his conduct had been unpardonable. Although, even from that, one could not promise that he would not be equally culpable57 another time!
Blaise had proved painfully correct in his estimate of the dangers attaching to unexploded bombs. Jean admitted it to herself ruefully. And she was honest enough also to admit that, with his warning ringing in her ears and with the memory of what had happened in the rose garden to illumine it, she herself was not altogether clear of blame for the incidents of the afternoon.
She had played with Burke, even encouraged him to a certain extent, allowing him to be in her company far more frequently than was altogether wise, considering the circumstance of his hot-headed love for her.
It was with somewhat of a mental start of surprise that she found herself seeking for excuses for his behaviour—actually trying to supply adequate reasons why she should overlook it!
His brooding, sulky silence as he drove along, mile after mile, was not without its appeal to the inherent femininity of her. He did not try to excuse or palliate his conduct, made no attempt to sue for forgiveness. He loved her and he had let her see it; manlike, he had taken what the opportunity offered. And she didn’t suppose he regretted it.
The faintest smile twitched58 the comers of her lips. Burke was not the type of man to regret an unlawful kiss or two!
She was conscious that—as usual, where he was concerned—her virtuous59 indignation was oozing60 away in the most discreditable and hopeless fashion. There was an audacious charm about the man, an attractiveness that would not be denied in the hot-headed way he went, all out, for what he wanted.
Other women, besides Jean had found it equally difficult to resist. His sheer virility61, with its splendid disregard for other people’s claims and its conscienceless belief that the battle should assuredly be to the strong, earned him forgiveness where, for misdeeds not half so flagrant, a less imperious sinner would have been promptly62 shown the door.
But no woman—not even the women to whom he had made love without the excuse of loving—had ever shown Burke the door or given him the kind of treatment which he had thoroughly63 well merited twenty times over. And Jean was no exception to the rule.
At least he had some genuine claim on her forgiveness—the claim of a love which had swept through his very bung like a flame, the fierce passion of a man to whom love means adoration64, worship—above all, possession.
And what woman can ever long remain righteously angry with a man who loves her—and whose very offence is the outcome of the overmastering quality of that love? Very few, and certainly none who was so very much a woman, so essentially65 feminine as Jean.
It was in a very small voice, which she endeavoured to make airily detached, that she at last broke the silence which had reigned66 for the last six miles or so.
“I suppose I shall have to forgive you—more or less. One can’t exactly quarrel with one’s next door neighbour.” Burke smiled grimly.
“Can’t one?”
“Well, there’s Judith to be considered.”
“A rather curious expression came into her eyes.
“Yes,” he agreed. “There’s Judith to be considered.” There was a hint of irony67 in the dry tones.
“It would complicate68 matters if I were not on speaking terms with her brother,” pursued Jean.
She waited for his answer, but none came. The threatened possibility contained in her speech appeared to have fallen on deaf ears, and the silence seemed likely to continue indefinitely.
Jean prompted him gently.
“You might, at least, say you are sorry for—for——”
“For kissing you?”—swiftly.
“Yes”—flushing a little.
“But I’m not. Kissing you”—with deliberation—“is One of the things I shall never regret. When I come to make my peace with Heaven and repent69 in sackcloth and ashes for my sins of omission70 and commission, I shan’t include this afternoon in the list, I assure you. It was worth it—if I pay for it afterwards in hell.”
He was silent for a moment. Then:
“But I’ll promise you one thing. I’ll never kiss you again till you give me your lips yourself.”
Jean smiled at the characteristic speech. She supposed this was as near an apology as Burke would ever get.
“That’s all right, then,” she replied composedly. “Because I shall never do that.”
He flicked71 the chestnut lightly with the whip.
“I think you will,” he said. “I think”—he looked at her somewhat enigmatically—“that you will give me everything I want—some day.”
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1
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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13
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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numbs
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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49
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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51
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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52
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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53
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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54
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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55
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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56
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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57
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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58
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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60
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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66
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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67
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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70
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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71
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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