“Take you with me?” he repeated, starting with a feeling of uneasiness. “But, Miss Lorm! I don’t see how I can.”
“Why not? I can go as Miss Merryweather, your sister—a lady missionary, if you like.” Her eyes shone naïvely. “Oh, there’s not a shadow of harm in it. I merely want your protection politically; and when I arrive there I will write to the Montellas and explain. I dare not tell them before I go. They would want to keep me here.”
“And meanwhile?” He flung away his cigar, and rising, paced the garden in agitation. Then he came back and stood at her side. “You don’t understand,” he said, in a voice which sounded almost stern. “What would my people say; what would Raie’s feelings be? They might place a wrong construction—might think.... Oh, no, it wouldn’t do—wouldn’t do at all. It would place us both in an utterly false position. You must see that yourself.”
Zillah’s mouth grew stubborn.
“I don’t see it at all,” she returned, looking straight before her. “‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ If Raie cannot trust you, she is not worthy of your affection. Besides, it’s so ridiculous. Surely a P. & O. steamer is large enough to hold us both. In my part of official sister I need only speak to you at meals.”
Ferdinand shook his head.
“Whether you speak to me much or little has nothing to do with the question,” he said imperturbably. “Miss Lorm, do be reasonable. If you were engaged to a man, and that man went on a three weeks’ journey with another lady—and that lady an inmate of your house—without telling you, how would you take it? Excuse my putting it so plainly, but you give me no alternative. Raie is the most trusting little soul in the world, but she would not be human if she did not have her doubts. Were I to accede to your request, I should be landed in a most unpleasant situation. Besides, it can’t be done; my permit is available only for myself.”
His decision was evidently final, and Zillah knew that it was not to be shaken. Once on a P. & O. steamer, she had hoped to win him through the social amenities of life on board ship; and if the Montellas—as Ferdinand feared—should place a wrong construction on her departure, so much the better for the success of her plan. But seeing that she could not enlist his aid, her dream gradually and regretfully melted away, until, overcome by disappointment and mortification, she threw away her self-control and burst into tears.
“I did not think you would refuse,” she sobbed, using her handkerchief with great ostentation. “I had packed my things and made all arrangements; I could have got off without telling a soul.”
Ferdinand hated to see a woman cry, and felt suddenly mean and despicable. But he could not bring himself to give way to her desire; something within him seemed to rise up and say, “Thou shalt not!” It was his love for Raie, his fear of doing her a seeming injustice. For himself he cared not at all—he was too well-seasoned a man of the world.