“I’ll live for you then; and that’s about all I want to live for any longer,” declared Medora. She felt in a theatrical mood and Ned’s recent confession enabled her to speak with a great oncoming of warmth and emotion. Her perception had fastened upon it from the first and measured its value.
And now in the Priory ruin, she made the most of the matter. She had worked it up and found it a tower of strength.
“I know what happened,” she said. “You hid it, Jordan, like the man you are; but he told me how he knocked you into the water—cruel devil.”
“I’m sorry he told you.—I asked him not to.”
“He wanted me to see what he could do, and would do again, and will do again. He properly hates me now, and I shall soon be going in fear of my life—I know that well enough. Not that I care much for my life; but it’s awful to live with a tiger.”
“You don’t mean that, Medora?”
“I do then. He’s far ways different from what he was, or what anybody thinks. He may pretend in the works; but he’s got the temper of a devil; and sometimes I wish he’d strike and finish me; and sometimes—I’m young and I don’t like to think of dying—sometimes I say to myself I’ll make a bolt for it and go out into the world and chance it. The world would be kinder than him and anyway it couldn’t be crueller.”
“This is fearful—fearful,” he exclaimed. “I can’t stand you saying these things, Medora.”
“I wouldn’t if they weren’t true. It can’t go on. I hate to distress you, but there’s not a soul in the world cares a button what becomes of me but you. I’m punished for the past I suppose. I deserve it. I took that cruel tyrant when I might have took you—there, don’t listen to me. I’m mad to-day.” She worked herself into tears and wept convulsively, while he stared helplessly out at the world. His mind moved. He could not stand her continued suffering, and the confession and assurance of danger inspired him to thoughts of action. Something must be done. She was in evident peril now. Any day might bring the awful news of a disaster beyond repair. Such things were in every newspaper. Not for an instant did he doubt the critical nature of the situation. He hated to think Medora must presently return home to sleep under the same roof as her husband. To his order of mind the situation appealed with the uttermost gravity, for not an inkling of the true Medora tinctured his impression and he was as ignorant of the true Ned. He trusted the woman absolutely and he loved her. He steadfastly believed now that the most precious life in the world to him was in torment and in danger. She had, under dreadful stress of emotion as it appeared, more than once expressed her regret at the fatal step in the past. She had mourned frankly and explicitly at taking Dingle, when she might have married Kellock himself.
Here then was the tremendous problem for him; and so pressing and immediate did it appear, that the young man was driven out of his usual level attitude of mind and customary deliberation before the demands of life. For the moment his future ambitions and purposes were lost: he was only urged by the instant necessity to decide what might best be done for Medora’s sake. Immense prospects opened before him—knightly deeds, and unconventional achievements calling for great efforts and an indifference to all commonplace, social standards.