It is not necessary to say any more; and I am
sure you will see, later on, that at least there was no cause for your
indignation! I have done an unconventional thing, I know; and I dare say
I shall have to pay for it in humiliating bitterness of thought later on! But please remember we are all alone! This is a secret between us; no
one else need ever know or suspect it!' She rose as she concluded. The quiet dignity of her speech and bearing
brought back Leonard in some way to his sense of duty as a gentleman. He
began, in a sheepish way, to make an apology:

'I'm sure I beg your pardon, Stephen.' But again she held the warning
hand:

'There is no need for pardon; the fault, if there were any, was mine
alone. It was I, remember, who asked you to come here and who introduced
and conducted this melancholy business. I have asked you several things,
Leonard, and one more I will add--'tis only one: that you will forget!' As she moved away, her dismissal of the subject was that of an empress to
a serf. Leonard would have liked to answer her; to have given vent to
his indignation that, even when he had refused her offer, she should have
the power to treat him if he was the one refused, and to make him feel
small and ridiculous in his own eyes. But somehow he felt constrained to
silence; her simple dignity outclassed him. There was another factor too, in his forming his conclusion of silence. He had never seen Stephen look so well, or so attractive. He had never
respected her so much as when her playfulness had turned to majestic
gravity. All the boy and girl strife of the years that had gone seemed
to have passed away. The girl whom he had played with, and bullied, and
treated as frankly as though she had been a boy, had in an instant become
a woman--and such a woman as demanded respect and admiration even from
such a man. CHAPTER XII--ON THE ROAD HOME


When Leonard Everard parted from Stephen he did so with a feeling of
dissatisfaction: firstly, with Stephen; secondly, with things in general;
thirdly, with himself. The first was definite, concrete, and immediate;
he could give himself chapter and verse for all the girl's misdoing. Everything she had said or done had touched some nerve painfully, or had
offended his feelings; and to a man of his temperament his feelings are
very sacred things, to himself. 'Why had she put him in such a ridiculous position? That was the worst
of women. They were always wanting him to do something he didn't want to
do, or crying . . . there was that girl at Oxford.' Here he turned his head slowly, and looked round in a furtive way, which
was getting almost a habit with him. 'A fellow should go away so that he
wouldn't have to swear lies. Women were always wanting money; or worse:
to be married! Confound women; they all seemed to want him to marry
them! There was the Oxford girl, and then the Spaniard, and now
Stephen!' This put his thoughts in a new channel. He wanted money
himself. Why, Stephen had spoken of it herself; had offered to pay his
debts. Gad! it was a good idea that every one round the countryside
seemed to know his affairs. What a flat he had been not to accept her
offer then and there before matters had gone further. Stephen had lots
of money, more than any girl could want. But she didn't give him time to
get the thing fixed . . . If he had only known beforehand what she wanted
he could have come prepared . . . that was the way with women! Always
thinking of themselves! And now? Of course she wouldn't stump up after
his refusing her. What would his father say if he came to hear of it? And he must speak to him soon, for these chaps were threatening to County
Court him if he didn't pay. Those harpies in Vere Street were quite
nasty . . . ' He wondered if he could work Stephen for a loan. He walked on through the woodland path, his pace slower than before. 'How
pretty she had looked!' Here he touched his little moustache. 'Gad! Stephen was a fine girl anyhow! If it wasn't for all that red hair . . . I like 'em dark better! . . . And her being such an infernal boss!'. . . Then he said unconsciously aloud:

'If I was her husband I'd keep her to rights!' Poor Stephen! 'So that's what the governor meant by telling me that fortune was to be
had, and had easily, if a man wasn't a blind fool. The governor is a
starchy old party. He wouldn't speak out straight and say, "Here's
Stephen Norman, the richest girl you are ever likely to meet; why don't
you make up to her and marry her?" But that would be encouraging his son
to be a fortune-hunter! Rot! . . . And now, just because she didn't tell
me what she wanted to speak about, or the governor didn't give me a hint
so that I might be prepared, I have gone and thrown away the chance. After all it mightn't be so bad. Stephen is a fine girl! . . . But she
mustn't ever look at me as she did when I spoke about her not obeying. I
mean to be master in my own house anyhow! 'A man mustn't be tied down too tight, even if he is married. And if
there's plenty of loose cash about it isn't hard to cover up your tracks
. . . I think I'd better think this thing over calmly and be ready when
Stephen comes at me again. That's the way with women. When a woman like
Stephen fixes her cold grey on a man she does not mean to go asleep over
it. I daresay my best plan will be to sit tight, and let her work
herself up a bit. There's nothing like a little wholesome neglect for
bringing a girl to her bearings!' . . . For a while he walked on in satisfied self-complacency. 'Confound her! why couldn't she have let me know that she was fond of me
in some decent way, without all that formal theatrical proposing? It's a
deuced annoying thing in the long run the way the women get fond of me. Though it's nice enough in some ways while it lasts!' he added, as if in
unwilling recognition of fact. As the path debouched on the highroad he
said to himself half aloud:

'Well, she's a mighty fine girl, anyhow! And if she is red I've had
about enough of the black! . . . That Spanish girl is beginning to kick
too! I wish I had never come across . . . ' 'Shut up, you fool!' he said to himself as he walked on. When he got home he found a letter from his father. He took it to his
room before breaking the seal. It was at least concise and to the point:

   'The enclosed has been sent to me. You will have to deal with it
   yourself. You know my opinion and also my intention. The items
   which I have marked have been incurred since I spoke to you last about
   your debts. I shall not pay another farthing for you. So take your
   own course! 'JASPER EVERARD.' The enclosed was a jeweller's bill, the length and the total of which
lengthened his face and drew from him a low whistle. He held it in his
hand for a long time, standing quite still and silent. Then drawing a
deep breath he said aloud:

'That settles it! The halter is on me! It's no use squealing. If it's
to be a red head on my pillow! . . . All right! I must only make the
best of it.