For now his uneasiness was verging on that species of superstitious inquietude which at times obsesses all gamblers, and which is known as a “hunch.” He had a hunch that he was “in wrong” somehow or other; an overpowering longing to get on board the steamer 113 assailed him—a desire to get out of the city, get away quick.
The risk he had taken was beginning to appear to him as an unwarranted piece of recklessness; he was amazed with himself for taking such a chance—disgusted at his foolish and totally unnecessary course with this young girl. All he had had to do was to wait a few months. He could have married in safety then. And even now he didn’t know whether or not the ceremony performed by Parson Smawley had been an illegally legal one; whether it made him a bigamist for the next three months or only something worse. What on earth had possessed him to take such a risk—the terrible hazard of discovery, of losing the only woman he had ever really cared for—the only one he probably could ever care for? Of course, had he been free he would have married her. When he got his freedom he would insist on another ceremony. He could persuade her to that on some excuse or other. But in the meanwhile!
He entered the deserted dining-room, came over to where Rue was waiting, and sat down, heavily, holding an unlighted cigar between his stubby fingers.
“Well, little girl,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “was I away very long?”
“Not very.”
“You didn’t miss me?” he inquired, ponderously playful.
His heavy pleasantries usually left her just a little doubtful and confused, for he seldom smiled when he delivered himself of them.
He leaned across the cloth and laid a hot, cushiony hand over both of hers, where they lay primly clasped on the table edge: 114
“Don’t you ever miss me when I’m away from you, Rue?” he asked.
“I think—it is nice to be with you,” she said, hotly embarrassed by the publicity of his caress.