Anthea made him no answer, and Jimmy drew her closer still. He had flung prudence and restraint away. What he had said and done was irrevocable, and he was glad that it was so. At last the girl looked up at him again.
"Jimmy," she said, "if you can thrust into the background all that Eleanor told me, you cannot let money come between us. Besides, I haven't any now. Could I lavish money that had been wrung from your father and other struggling men upon my pleasures—or dare to bring it to you? Can't you understand, dear? I am as poor as you are."
Then she suddenly shook herself free from his grasp, and seemed to shiver. "But you can't forgive him—it will be war between you?"
"Yes," said Jimmy slowly, "I am afraid that must be so. If there were no other reason, I cannot desert the men who befriended me, and your father will do all he can to crush them."
"Ah!" said the girl, "it is going to be very hard. Still, I cannot turn against him; he has, at least, been kind to me. I have never had a wish he has not gratified."
Jimmy slowly shook his head. "No," he said; "that is out of the question—I could not ask it of you. There is also this to recognize: your father is a man of station, and would never permit you to marry a steamboat skipper. He will make every effort to keep you away from me."
Just then Austerly's voice reached them from the house, and Anthea turned to the man again. "Jimmy," she said, "I know that you belong to me, and I to you; but that must be sufficient in the meanwhile. We can neither of us be a traitor. You must wait and say nothing, dear."
Then she turned and, slipping by him swiftly, moved across the lawn toward the house, while Jimmy stood where he was, exultant, but realizing that the struggle before them would tax all the courage that was in him and the girl.
Before he left the house, Nellie Austerly contrived to draw him to her side when there was nobody else near the chair in which she lay.
"Well?" she said inquiringly.