She waved a hand disdainfully. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.
He drew himself up. He seemed to rearrange the motions of his mind with a little of the old vanity, which was at once grotesque and piteous. “I am going to forgive you and to try to put things right,” he said. “I have had my faults. You were not to blame altogether. I have left you too much alone. I did not understand everything all through. I had never studied women. If I had I should have done the right thing always. I must begin to study women.” The drawn look was going a little from his face, the ghastly pain was fading from his eyes; his heart was speaking for her, while his vain intellect hunted the solution of his problem.
She could scarcely believe her ears. No Spaniard would ever have acted as this man was doing. She had come from a land of No Forgiveness. Carvillho Gonzales would have killed her, if she had been untrue to him; and she would have expected it and understood it.
But Jean Jacques was going to forgive her—going to study women, and so understand her and understand women, as he understood philosophy! This was too fantastic for human reason. She stared at him, unable to say a word, and the distracted look in her face did not lessen. Forgiveness did not solve her problem.
“I am going to take you to Montreal—and then out to Winnipeg, when I’ve got the cheese-factory going,” he said with a wise look in his face, and with tenderness even coming into his eyes. “I know what mistakes I’ve made”—had not George Masson the despoiler told him of them?—“and I know what a scoundrel that fellow is, and what tricks of the tongue he has. Also he is as sleek to look at as a bull, and so he got a hold on you. I grasp things now. Soon we will start away together again as we did at Gaspe.”
He came close to her. “Carmen!” he said, and made as though he would embrace her.
“Wait—wait a little. Give me time to think,” she said with dry lips, her heart beating hard. Then she added with a flattery which she knew would tell, “I cannot think quick as you do. I am slow. I must have time. I want to work it all out. Wait till to-night,” she urged. “Then we can—”
“Good, we will make it all up to-night,” he said, and he patted her shoulder as one would that of a child. It had the slight flavour of the superior and the paternal.
She almost shrank from his touch. If he had kissed her she would have felt that she must push him away; and yet she also knew how good a man he was.