“Good evening, Mistress Merrill,” said the man, fastening the hungry gaze of his deep-set eyes upon her face. “I am glad to see you looking so well.”
“Good evening, sir, and thank you,” said Garde, in a voice scarcely audible. She had become suddenly pale. She trembled. She looked at the man as one fascinated by a baleful point of light.
“It seemed but reasonable that I should call and see you, since our betrothal is so soon to end in our marriage,” said Randolph, moving slowly toward her, as if to prolong his own anticipation of standing where he could reach her at last. “I have been very patient, have I not, my pretty sweetheart?”
“You—have been very—patient,” echoed Garde, helplessly and panting like a spent doe, to catch her breath.
“And I have kept my word,” he went on, still slowly approaching. “Massachusetts has her charter, and now—I have my wife.”
He put out his hand, like a talon, to clutch her fast.
One convulsive shiver seemed to break the spell which had held Garde enthralled. She leaped away, her eyes blazing, her lips quivering, her frame shaken with emotion.
“No!” she cried. “No! Don’t touch me! Keep away! I loathe you! I know what you are! Keep away,—I can’t bear you!”
“What’s this?” said the man, scowling, till his great brow threw a sinister shadow as far down as his cheek bones. “Have a care, my dear Garde. We made our bargain a year ago. This is no time for kittenish pranks. Come back here where you were.”
His tone was authoritative. The gleam in his eyes was a warning against disobedience. But Garde could be no further frightened than he had made her by his mere presence. She stood there, alert for the first sign which would send her running, if need be, to jump through the window.