Some Rude Behaviour, of Which Only a Western Man Could Be Guilty
He walked quickly back. At the doorway she gave him her hand, which he took in silence. "Why—Mr. Bines!—you wouldn't have surprised me last night. To-night I pictured you on your way West."
Her gown was of dull blue dimity. She still wore her hat, an arch of straw over her face, with ripe red cherries nodding upon it as she moved. He closed the door behind him.
"Do come in. I've been having a solitary rummage among old things. It is my last night here. We're leaving for the country to-morrow, you know."
She stood by the table, the light from a shaded lamp making her colour glow.
Now she noted that he had not spoken. She turned quickly to him as if to question.
He took a swift little step toward her, still without speaking. She stepped back with a sudden instinct of fright.
He took two quick steps forward and grasped one of her wrists. He spoke in cool, even tones, but the words came fast:
"I've come to marry you to-night; to take you away with me to that Western country. You may not like the life. You may grieve to death for all I know—but you're going. I won't plead, I won't beg, but I am going to take you."
She had begun to pull away in alarm when he seized her wrist. His grasp did not bruise, it did not seem to be tight; but the hand that held it was immovable.