"I have sometimes thought," she mused, "that the fault lay with you—somewhat."
"With me!"
"That you could force me to love you, if you dared. The rest would not matter, then. Misery me! I wish that we had never met! And yet I can not let you go, because you do not know how to care for yourself. If you will sail to France on the next packet, and remain with your mother, I'll say nothing. I'll go with a flag I care not where—only to know you are safe. Will you? O Carus, I would my life were done and all ended!"
She was silent for a while, leaning on the table, tracing with her finger the outline of her dull reflection in the shining surface. Presently she looked up gaily, a smile breaking in her eyes.
"All that I said is false. I desire to live, Carus. I am not unhappy. Pray you, begin your writing!"
I drew the paper to me, dipped a quill full of ink from the musty horn, rested my elbow, pen lifted, and began, dating the letter from the Blue Fox, and addressing it most respectfully to Sir Peter and Lady Coleville.
First I spoke of the horses we had taken, and would have promised payment by draft enclosed, but that Elsin, looking over my shoulder, stayed my pen.
"Did you not see me leave a pile of guineas?" she demanded. "That was to pay for our stable theft!"
"But not for the horse I took?"
"Certainly, for your horse, too."