V
For ten days, that seemed to her like as many years, Sybil Denham waited in the shelter into which she had been so relentlessly thrust for an answer to her letter to Bowker Creek, and during the whole of that time she lived apart, exchanging scarcely a word with any one. Every day, generally twice a day, she went down to the wharf; but, she could not bring herself to linger. The loneliness that perpetually dogged her footsteps was almost poignant there, and sometimes she came away with panic at her heart. Suppose Mercer also should forsake her! She had not the faintest idea what she would do if he did. And yet, whenever she contemplated his return, she was afraid. There was something about the man that she had never fathomed—something ungovernable, something brutal—from which instinctively she shrank.
On the evening of the tenth day she received her answer—a letter from Rollandstown by post. The handwriting she knew so well sprawled over the envelope which her trembling fingers could scarcely open. Relief was her first sensation, and after it came a nameless anxiety. Why had he written? How was it—how was it that he had not come to her?
Trembling all over, she unfolded the letter, and read:
"Dear Sybil,—I am infernally sorry to have brought you out for nothing, for I find that I cannot marry you after all. Things have gone wrong with me of late, and it would be downright folly for me to think of matrimony under existing circumstances. I am leaving this place almost at once, so there is no chance of hearing from you again. I hope you will get on all right. Anyhow, you are well rid of me.—Yours,
"ROBIN."
Beneath the signature, scribbled very faintly, were the words, "I'm sorry, old girl; I'm sorry."
She read the letter once, and once only; but every word stamped itself indelibly upon her memory, every word bit its way into her consciousness as though it had been scored upon her quivering flesh. Robin had failed her. That ghastly presentiment of hers had come true. She was alone—alone, and sinking in that awful whirlpool of desolation into which for so long she had felt herself being drawn. The great waters swirled around her, rising higher, ever higher. And she was alone.
Hours passed. She sat in a sort of trance of horror, Robin's letter spread out beneath her nerveless fingers. She did not ask herself what she should do. The blow had stunned all her faculties. She could only sit there face to face with despair, staring blind-eyed before her, motionless, cold as marble to the very heart of her. She fancied—she even numbly hoped—that she was going to die.
She never heard repeated knocking at her door, or remembered that it was locked, till a man's shoulder burst it open. Then, indeed, she turned stiffly and looked at the intruder.
"You!" she said.
She had forgotten Brett Mercer.
He came forward quickly, stooped and looked at her; then went down on his knee and thrust his arm about her.
She sat upright in his hold, not yielding an inch, not looking at him. Her eyes were glassy.
For a little he held her; then gently but insistently he drew her to him, pillowed her head against him, and began to rub her icy cheek.
"I've left you alone too long," he said.
She suffered him dumbly, scarcely knowing what she did. But presently the blood that seemed to have frozen in her veins began to circulate again, and the stiffness passed from her limbs. She stirred in his hold like a frightened bird.
"I'm sorry!" she faltered.
He let her draw away from him, but he kept his arm about her. She looked at him, and found him intently watching her. Her eyes fell, and rested upon the letter which lay crumpled under her hands.
"A dreadful thing has happened to me," she said. "Robin has written to say—to say—that he cannot marry me!"
"What is there dreadful in that?" said Mercer.
She did not look up, though his words startled her a little.
"It—has made me feel like—like a stray cat again," she said, with the ghost of a smile about her lips. "Of course, I know I'm foolish. There must be plenty of ways in which a woman can earn her living here. You yourself were thinking of something that I might do, weren't you?"
"I was," said Mercer. He laid his great hand upon hers, paused a moment, then deliberately drew her letter from beneath them and crushed it into a ball. "But I want you to tell me something before we go into that. The truth, mind! It must be the truth!"
"Yes?" she questioned, with her head bent.
"You must look at me," he said, "or I shan't believe you."
There was something Napoleonic about his words which placed them wholly beyond the sphere of offensiveness. Slowly she turned her head and looked him in the eyes.
He took his arm abruptly away from her.
"Heavens!" he said. "How miserable you look! Are you very miserable?"
"I'm not very happy," she said.
"But you always smile," he said, "even when you're crying. Ah, that's better! I scarcely knew you before. Now, tell me! Were you in love with the fellow?"
She shrank a little at the direct question. He put his hand on her shoulder. His touch was imperious.
"Just a straight answer!" he said. "Were you?"
She hesitated, longing yet fearing to lower her eyes.
"I—I don't quite know," she said at length. "I used to think so."
"You haven't thought so of late?" His eyes searched hers unsparingly, with stern insistence.
"I haven't been sure," she admitted.
He released her and rose.
"You won't regret him for long," he said. "In fact, you'll live to be glad that you didn't have him!"
She did not contradict him. He was too positive for that. She watched him cross the room with a certain arrogance, and close the half-open door. As he returned she stood up.
"Can we get to business now?" she said.
"Business?" said Mercer.
With a steadiness that she found somewhat difficult of accomplishment she made reply:
"You thought you could find me employment—some means by which I could pay you back."
"You still want to pay me back?" he said.
She glanced up half nervously.
"I know that I can never repay your kindness to me," she said. "So far as that goes, I am in your debt for always. But—the money part I must and will, somehow, return."
"Being the most important part?" he suggested, halting in front of her.
"I didn't mean to imply that," she answered. "I think you know which I put first. But I can only do what I can, and money is repayable."
"So is kindness," said Mercer.
Again shyly she glanced at him.
"I am afraid I don't quite understand."
He sat down once more upon the table edge to bring his eyes on a level with hers.
"There's nothing to be scared about," he said.
She smiled a little.
"Oh, no; I am not scared. I believe you think me even more foolish than I actually am."
"No, I don't," said Mercer. "If I did, I shouldn't say what I am going to say. As it is, you are not to answer till you have counted up to fifty. Is that a bargain?"
"Yes," she said, beginning to feel more curious than afraid.
"Here goes then," said Brett Mercer. "I want a wife, and I want you. Will you marry me? Now, shut your eyes and count!"
But Sybil disobeyed him. She opened her eyes wide, and stared at him in breathless amazement.
Mercer stared back with absolute composure.
"I'm in dead earnest," he told her. "Never made a joke in my life. Of course, you'll refuse me. I know that. But I shan't give you up if you do. If you don't marry me, you won't marry any one else, for I'll lick any other man off the ground. I come first with you now, and I mean to stay first."
He stopped, for amazement had given place to something else on her face. She looked at him queerly, as if irresolute for a few seconds; but she no longer shrank from meeting his eyes. And then quite suddenly she broke into her funny little laugh.
"Amusing, is it?" he said.
She turned sharply away, with one hand pressed to her mouth, obviously struggling with herself.
At last:
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to laugh really—really. Only you—you're such a monster, and I'm such a shrimp! Please don't be vexed with me!"
She put out her hand to him, without turning.
He did not take it at once. When he did, he drew her round to face him. There was an odd restraint about the action, determined though it was.
"Well?" he said gruffly. "Which is it to be? Am I to go to the devil, or stay with you?"
She looked down at the great hand that held her. She was still half laughing, though her lips quivered.
"I couldn't possibly marry you yet," she said.
"No. To-morrow!" said Mercer.
She shook her head.
"Not even then."
"Listen!" he said. "If you won't marry me at once you will have to come with me without. For I am going up-country to see my farms, and I don't mean to leave you here."
"Can't I wait till you come back?" she said.
"What for?"
He leaned forward a little, trying to peer under her drooping lids. She was trembling slightly.
"I think you forget," she said, "that—that we hardly know each other."
"How are we to get any nearer if I'm up-country and you're here?" he said.
She looked at him unwillingly.
"You may change your mind when you have had time to think it over," she said, colouring deeply.
"I'll take the risk," said Mercer. "Besides"—she saw his grim smile for an instant—"I've been thinking of nothing else since I met you."
She started a little.
"I—I had no idea."
"No," he said; "I saw that. You needn't be afraid of me on that account. It ought to have the opposite effect."
"I am not afraid of you," she said, with a certain dignity. "But I, too, should have time for consideration."
"A woman doesn't need it," he asserted. "She can make up her mind at a moment's notice."
"And is often sorry for ever afterwards," she said smiling faintly.
He thrust out his jaw, as if challenging her.
"You think I shall make you sorry?"
"No," she answered. "But I want to be quite sure."
"Which is another reason for marrying me to-morrow," he said. "I'm not going to let you wait. It's only a whim. You weren't created to live alone, and there is no reason why you should. I am here, and you will have to take me."
"Whether I want to or not?" she said.
"Don't you want to?" he questioned.
She was silent.
He lifted the hand he held and looked at it. He spanned her wrist with his finger and thumb.
"That's reason enough for me," he abruptly said. "You are nothing but skin and bone. You've been starving yourself."
"I haven't," she protested. "I haven't, indeed."
"I don't believe you," he retorted rudely. "You weren't such a skeleton as this when I saw you last. Come, what's the good of fighting? You'll have to give in."
She smiled again faintly at the rough persuasion in his voice, but still she hesitated.
"I shan't eat you, you know," he proceeded, pressing his advantage. "I shan't do anything you won't like."
She glanced at him quickly.
"You mean that?"
His eyes looked straight back at her.
"Yes, I mean it."
"Can I trust you?" she said, almost in a whisper.
He rose to his full height, and stood before her. And in that moment an odd little thrill went through her. He was magnificent—the finest man she had ever seen. She caught her breath a little, feeling awed before the immensity of his strength. But, very curiously, she no longer felt afraid.
"You must ask yourself that question," he said bluntly. "You have my word."
And with a gasp she let herself go at last.
"I will take you on trust," she said.