“Yes,” he said, “that is why I want you. Just think a moment; don’t say
no. You are not vexed with me—are you, Syb?”
“Vexed, Hal! I am scarcely inhuman enough to be angry on account of
being loved.”
Ah, why did I not love him as I have it in me to love! Why did he look
so exasperatingly humble? I was weak, oh, so pitifully weak! I wanted a
man who would be masterful and strong, who would help me over the rough
spots of life—one who had done hard grinding in the mill of fate—one
who had suffered, who had understood. No; I could never marry Harold
Beecham.
“Well, Syb, little chum, what do you say?”
“Say!”—and the words fell from me bitterly—“I say, leave me; go and
marry the sort of woman you ought to marry. The sort that all men like.
A good conventional woman, who will do the things she should at the
proper time. Leave me alone.”
He was painfully agitated. A look of pain crossed his face.
“Don’t say that, Syb, because I was a beastly cad once: I’ve had all
that knocked out of me.”
“I am the cad,” I replied. “What I said was nasty and unwomanly, and I
wish I had left it unsaid. I am not good enough to be your wife, Hal,
or that of any man. Oh, Hal, I have never deceived you! There are
scores of good noble women in the world who would wed you for the
asking—marry one of them.”
“But, Syb, I want you. You are the best and truest girl in the world.”
“Och! Sure, the blarney-stone is getting a good rub now,” I said
playfully.
Annoyance and amusement struggled for mastery in his expression as he
replied:
“You’re the queerest girl in the world. One minute you snub a person,
the next you are the jolliest girl going, and then you get as grave and
earnest as a fellow’s mother would be.”
“Yes, I am queer. If you had any sense, you’d have nothing to do with
me. I’m more queer, too. I am given to something which a man never
pardons in a woman. You will draw away as though I were a snake when
you hear.”
“What is it?”
“I am given to writing stories, and literary people predict I will yet
be an authoress.”
He laughed—his soft, rich laugh.
“That’s just into my hand. I’d rather work all day than write the
shortest letter; so if you will give me a hand occasionally, you can
write as many yarns as you like. I’ll give you a study, and send for a
truck-load of writing-gear at once, if you like. Is that the only
horror you had to tell me?”