“You are not flinching,” he said, trying to rouse her. “Surely you are not flinching at the last moment?”
No light of intelligence came into her eyes, no change passed over her face. But she heard him—for she moved a little in the chair, and slowly shook her head.
“You planned this marriage of your own freewill,” pursued the captain, with the furtive look and the faltering voice of a man ill at ease. “It was your own idea—not mine. I won’t have the responsibility laid on my shoulders—no! not for twice two hundred pounds. If your resolution fails you; if you think better of it—?”
He stopped. Her face was changing; her lips were moving at last. She slowly raised her left hand, with the fingers outspread; she looked at it as if it was a hand that was strange to her; she counted the days on it, the days before the marriage.
“Friday, one,” she whispered to herself; “Saturday, two; Sunday, three; Monday—” Her hands dropped into her lap, her face stiffened again; the deadly fear fastened its paralyzing hold on her once more, and the next words died away on her lips.
Captain Wragge took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“Damn the two hundred pounds!” he said. “Two thousand wouldn’t pay me for this!”
He put the handkerchief back, took the envelopes which he had addressed to himself out of his pocket, and, approaching her closely for the first time, laid his hand on her arm.
“Rouse yourself,” he said, “I have a last word to say to you. Can you listen?”
She struggled, and roused herself—a faint tinge of color stole over her white cheeks—she bowed her head.