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“Let me think, let me think!” Lady Allonby said, and her hands plucked now at her hair, now at her dress. She appeared dazed. “I can’t think!” she wailed on a sudden. “I am afraid. I–O Vincent, Vincent, you cannot do this thing! I trusted you, Vincent. I know I let you make love to me, and I relished having you make love to me. Women are like that. But I cannot marry you, Vincent. There is a man, yonder in England, whom I love. He does not care for me any more,–he is in love with my step-daughter. That is very amusing, is it not, Vincent? Some day I may be his mother-in-law. Why don’t you laugh, Vincent? Come, let us both laugh–first at this and then at the jest you have just played on me. Do you know, for an instant, I believed you were in earnest? But Harry went to sleep over the cards, didn’t he? And Mrs. Morfit has gone to bed with one of her usual headaches? Of course; and you thought you would retaliate upon me for teasing you. You were quite right, ‘Twas an excellent jest. Now let us laugh at it. Laugh, Vincent! Oh!” she said now, more shrilly, “for the love of God, laugh, laugh!–or I shall go mad!”

But Lord Rokesle was a man of ice, “Matrimony is a serious matter, Anastasia; ’tis not becoming in those who are about to enter it to exhibit undue levity. I wonder what’s keeping Simon?”

“Simon Orts!” she said, in a half-whisper. Then she came toward Lord Rokesle, smiling. “Why, of course, I teased you, Vincent, but there was never any hard feeling, was there? And you really wish me to marry you? Well, we must see, Vincent. But, as you say, matrimony is a serious matter. D’ye know you say very sensible things, Vincent?–not at all like those silly fops yonder in London. I dare say you and I would be very happy together. But you wouldn’t have any respect for me if I married you on a sudden like this, would you? Of course not. So you will let me consider it. Come to me a month from now, say,–is that too long to wait? Well, I think ’tis too long myself. Say a week, then. I must have my wedding-finery, you comprehend. We women are such vain creatures–not big and brave and sensible like you men. See, for example, how much bigger your hand is than mine–mine’s quite lost in it, isn’t it? So–since I am only a vain, chattering, helpless female thing,–you are going to indulge me and let me go up to London for some new clothes, aren’t you, Vincent? Of course you will; and we will be married in a week. But you will let me go to London first, won’t you?–away from this dreadful place, away–I didn’t mean that. I suppose it is a very agreeable place when you get accustomed to it. And ’tis only for clothes–Oh, I swear it is only for clothes, Vincent! And you said you would–yes, only a moment ago you distinctly said you would let me go. ‘Tis not as if I were not coming back–who said I would not come back? Of course I will. But you must give me time, Vincent dear,–you must, you must, I tell you! O God!” she sobbed, and flung from her the loathed hand she was fondling, “it’s no use!”

“No,” said Lord Rokesle, rather sadly. “I am not Samson, nor are you Delilah to cajole me. It’s of no use, Anastasia. I would have preferred that you came to me voluntarily, but since you cannot, I mean to take you unwilling. Simon,” he called, loudly, “does that rascal intend to spin out his dying interminably? Charon’s waiting, man.”

From above, “Coming, my Lord,” said Simon Orts.

III

The Vicar of Heriz Magna descended the stairway with deliberation. His eyes twitched from the sobbing woman to Lord Rokesle, and then back again, in that furtive way Orts had of glancing about a room, without moving his head; he seemed to lie in ambush under his gross brows; and whatever his thoughts may have been, he gave them no utterance.