There's Meg Van Dam, now; surely she knows why I have come to her, and she was Milly's friend; yet she fawns upon me. I thought her a great person, but now I know she's eager to rise by hanging at my skirts, and I amuse myself with her joy that I've rejected Ned, as she thinks; with her talk of Strathay, her dismay at John Burke's wooing.
John's so persistent. He called to see me the very day—almost in the hour I came here; the hour I was pacing the dainty little room Meg assigns me, picturing the scene on board the Bermuda boat, wondering if Ned had gone to the dock on the chance of a parting word with Milly, torturing myself with the vision of a lovers' reconciliation.
When John's card was brought, I was tempted to refuse to see him. But at the thought that he would know too well how to interpret reserves, I went down, nerved to meet him with a smile.
"Why, John," I said with my most pleased expression, "back from the West so soon? You've heard the news, I suppose—my cousins sailed this morning."
He had turned from the window at the rustle of my dress, and the grimness of his square-set jaws, warning me of a coming struggle, relaxed into a look of perplexity. Men have so little insight; he could not see that, as I sank, still smiling, into a chair, my breath came in gasps that almost choked me. After a moment's silence he said sharply:—
"Helen, we must be married."
"Married! Didn't you get my letter? John—"
"Listen!" he interrupted. "I must have the right to take care of you. You need me."
"Indeed?"
My tone was purposed insolence; I met his look with bravado. I hated him because he—because I—because he dared to know—because he offered to come to my relief when my aunt—Ned—perhaps he thought me deserted—lovelorn. His awkward figure woke in me a sudden physical repulsion.