“This talk about our marriage—it’s an old story, Elsie, and we may as well drop it.”
The change in her expression was something terrible, as she listened to these heartless words. She grew deadly pale, and her whole frame trembled.
“Drop it—never!” she repeated, with passionate earnestness. “Tom, if you hate me now you must marry me; I will kill myself or you if you don’t.”
“It’s no good talking folly.”
“It’s not folly; it’s truth, as there is a God above us it is truth! What, after all, after all,” and she wrung her hands, “you would go back! But you shall not, Tom! You may think to throw me over because you are tired of me, and take up with another girl, but there are two words to that—I will go to Miss Churchill myself—”
“If you do,” interrupted Henderson, with a fierce oath, “I will strike you dead!”
“You can’t strike me worse than you’ve struck me now, but strike me or not, I’ll do what I say unless you keep your word.”
She stood there defying him, with her eyes gleaming and her hands clenched. She was a handsome woman, of a certain type, with a clear brown skin and thick, coarse black hair. She looked also determined and passionate, and perhaps Henderson was afraid to excite her further. At all events he moderated his tone.
“Well, don’t make any more row,” he said; “we can talk it over some other time.”