"I would as willingly accept you as a portionless bride," he declaimed in theatrical fashion; and then we both broke into hysterical laughter.
"Never mind," he said, at last, wiping his eyes. "I never dreamed that all this rubbish about you could cost so much; I ought to have had my eyes open. But now we aren't going to worry one little worry, are we? I'll straighten it all out in time. And now I really must go."
And so he went away with a parting kiss, leaving me very happy. I don't know that I love him; or rather I know that I don't—but I shall be good to him and make him so happy that he'll forget all the trouble I have cost him. Dear old unselfish, patient John!
And I am more content and less torn by anxiety than I have been for many a long day. It is such a relief!
And so I'm thinking it over. Even from the selfish standpoint I have not done so badly. John is developing wonderfully. He is not so destitute of social finesse as when he came, his language is better, his bearing more confident. He makes a good figure in evening dress. He will be a famous success in the law, and, with a beautiful wife to help him, he should go far. He may be President some day, or Minister to the Court of St. James, or a Justice of the Supreme Court.
Whatever his career, I shall help him. I have the power to do things in the world as well as he. And once married, I may almost choose my friends and his associates. The women will no longer fear me so much. He shall not regret this night's work.
So that is settled. I am so relieved, and more tired than I have ever guessed a woman could be. Tired, tired, tired!
I'm sure it is the best thing I could do, now; but—Judge Baker is right! What was it he said? "A loveless marriage,"—Oh, well, since I broke Ned Hynes's heart by setting a silly little girl to drive him away, and broke my own by breaking his, I haven't much cared what becomes of me; only to be at peace.
It will be a relief to move out of this accursed flat, where I have spent the gloomiest hours of my life.