“I will pay it,” she repeated, this time angrily.
“Do so,” he said after a moment’s pause. And then he added, “but remember this. If your mother had had from me a hundred times as much she would not have done me as much harm as you will do me if you throw me over.”
Was it true? Had she indeed worked all this evil? Would it not be easier to yield as she had meant to do that morning? He was so persistent, he would not give her up. She hesitated, and then, strong and clear, Phillis’s words came back—“Do not marry him if you do not love him.” She looked him full in the face. “Let me pass,” she said, “I can give you no other answer.” He had read something of the struggle, and was bitterly disappointed, though his determined will gave up nothing of his intention.
“If you write to Clive, it had better be without delay,” he said.
“I’ll write to-morrow morning.” And then she turned and put out her hand. “Thank you for letting me write, Oliver.”
“I dare not advise you to build upon it, but you can try,” he said. “Yes, by all means try.”
The next morning, as Bice was passing through the hall, she met Trent.
“If you have any letters for the early post,” he said, “I will take them, I am going into Florence.”
“Oh, thank you very much. I had meant to send little ’Tista.”
“’Tista is wanted for the vintage, and is not an over-safe messenger. Is this all?”