“He does not hold me—I hold myself!” It was Lady's voice, low and trembling. “It is all my fault, Jack. I bound myself before I knew what—what a different thing it really was. I do love him—I love him dearly, but not—not—No, no; I don't mean what you think—or, if I do, I must not. Jack, I have promised, don't you see? And when I thought that perhaps he didn't care so much, and asked him—oh, I told you how beautifully he answered me, I will never hurt him so, never!”
“It is disgusting, it is horrible; he is twenty-five years older than you—he might be your father!” stormed the voice.
“I—I never cared for young people before!”
Could this be Lady, this shy, faltering girl? Moved by an overmastering impulse, the man behind the summer-house turned his head and looked through the broken wall.
Lady Jane was blushing and paling in quick succession: the waves of red flooded over her moved face and receded like the tide at turn. Her eyes were piteous; her hair fell low over her forehead; she looked incredibly young.
“Of course,” said the young man bitterly, “it is a good match—a fine match, You will have a beautiful home and everything you want.”
She put out her hands appealingly. “Oh, Jack, how can you hurt me so? You know I would live with you in a garret—on the plains—”
“Then do it.”
“I shall never hurt a person so terribly to whom I have freely given my word,” she said, with a touch of her old-time decision.
Colonel Driscoll felt his blood sweeping through his veins like wine. He was far too excited for finesse, too eager—and he had been so willing to wait, once!—for the next sweet moment when this almost tragedy should be resolved into its elements. He strode out into the open space in front of the little house.