That night Prudence asked Edward Morgan for her release. The dance to
which she had looked forward so gladly, and which she had not enjoyed,
had galvanised her into a fixed determination to secure her freedom
while yet there was time. The thought of marriage with a man so much
older than herself, with whom she had nothing in common, whose every
wish opposed itself in gentle opposition to her own, had become a
nightmare to her. Young eyes had looked into her eyes that night with a
wondering question in them that had hurt her. The hunger for young
companionship gripped her. Her memory echoed the careless inconsequent
chatter, the joyous laughter of irresponsible youth. One laugh in
particular, an amused incredulous laugh, rang in her ears like a
reproach.
Why had she committed this folly? She must draw back before it was too
late.
With manifest nervousness Prudence made her faltering appeal for release
from her engagement during the homeward drive. Mr Morgan was amazed.
He keenly resented her lack of consideration for himself in wishing to
withdraw her promise after the publicity given to their engagement. She
shrank back from the cold anger in his eyes and the hardness of his
voice when he answered her.
"You are overwrought," he said. "You don't know what you are saying.
What have I done, that you should wish to break off your engagement? I
have striven to please you, to make you happy. Do you realise that in
less than two months we are to be married? You would make me
ridiculous. People will laugh. It will be scandalous."
His voice gathered anger as he considered the amusement that would arise
at his expense when it became known that the young bride he had chosen
had jilted him--jilted the wealthy Edward Morgan almost on the eve of
the wedding.
"It is absurd!" he added. "You don't realise what you ask."
"Oh, please!" she cried, and turned a white frightened face towards him.
"Don't be angry with me. I'm so sorry. I ought never to have become
engaged to you. I don't love you."
He sounded a note of impatience.
"You raised that point at the time when I proposed," he said. "I
thought we had settled that. Love will come with marriage. I have
enough for both."
"Don't you see that that only makes it worse?" she said in a voice that
shook with nervousness. "I can never love you. I know that now. I've
tried. Oh! please be generous and forgive me. I am so sorry for
causing you pain. I'm so sorry."
She broke down, and sat huddled in a corner of the motor, and sobbed.
Mr Morgan sank back in his corner and stared out at the darkened
street. Never in his life had he felt so annoyed and upset. At the
back of his mind lurked the uncomfortable conviction that he had been a
fool, that his world would call him a fool, an old fool for falling in
love with a pretty face.
He wished he had never seen Prudence, wished that he had never asked her
to become his wife. Since he had asked her and she had accepted him, he
had no intention of acceding now to her absurd request for release. She
was placing him in a most invidious position. She seemed to have no
appreciation of what was right and due to him. It would be necessary to
make her see that he had to be considered in this as well as herself.
He thought of his mother, of the annoyance this would cause her. He
determined to ask her to intercede with the girl in his behalf. It was
impossible that she should retract from her promise at the eleventh
hour.
He sat in a heavy silence, his imagination busy with the awkwardness of
this disastrous crisis in his hitherto pleasant life, until the motor
turned in at his own gates and stopped in front of the house. He got
out, and, leaving Prudence to follow, walked up to the door which he
opened with his latchkey. He waited for her in the warm, dimly-lit
hall, and closed the door after her and bolted it. He lit a bedroom
candle for her with some attempt to atone for his late discourtesy, and
asked:
"Would you like anything before you go upstairs?"
"No, thank you."
She took the candlestick from him with a shaking hand and turned towards
the stairs.
"Good-night," he said.
The emotion in his voice moved her to yet deeper distress. It was the
first time she had parted from him without the good-night kiss. She
looked back at him where he stood, muffled in his greatcoat, a big
ungainly figure, which nevertheless seemed shrunken, possibly on account
of the loss of that air of successful assurance which hitherto had
characterised the man.
"Good-night," she answered softly. "I am so sorry that I have hurt
you."
Then, carrying her candle, she went swiftly up the stairs.
Neither Prudence nor Edward Morgan secured any sleep that night. While
Mr Morgan tossed restlessly on his bed, fretting and worrying over this
blow which she had dealt him, Prudence lay very still and wide-eyed in
the darkness, wondering dismally what the new day would bring forth, and
how she would face old Mrs Morgan's anger, and the pained displeasure
in Edward's eyes.
It was obvious to Prudence when she descended on the following morning,
heavy-eyed and with nerves strung to high tension, that Mr Morgan had
already confided in his mother the fact that she wished to end her
engagement. The old lady was upset and deeply affronted. Her agitation
betrayed itself in the trembling of her hands as she poured out the
coffee from the big silver urn. Nothing was said on the subject
uppermost in their thoughts until the finish of the meal, but a sense of
something impending hung in the air, making ordinary conversation
impossible. When he had finished his breakfast Mr Morgan rose and went
out, closing the door behind him. Mrs Morgan followed his exit with
her short-sighted gaze; then she sat back in her chair and gave her
attention to Prudence.
She did not speak immediately; she was busy collecting her ideas, trying
to subdue her bitter resentment against this girl who deliberately
planned to wreck her son's happiness. A betrayal of anger would, she
realised, only make the estrangement more complete.
"I want to talk to you," she said presently, breaking the silence which
was becoming increasingly awkward.
Prudence looked up, and sat crumbling the bread beside her plate
nervously, and waited.
"Edward has told me what happened last night," Mrs Morgan added with
fresh signs of agitation in her voice. "He is very distressed and
worried. This means more to him than you realise. It is not as if he
were a young man, and could face a disappointment and get over it. You
cannot seriously intend to break off your engagement--now--when
everything is arranged? It would be monstrous."
She paused, and looked with pathetic eagerness to Prudence for her
answer. The girl choked. She felt the tears rising to her eyes and
hastily winked them away. What could she say? What was there to say in
face of her determination not to marry a man with whom marriage seemed
to her now intolerable? It amazed her to think that ever she could have
contemplated such a step.
"I don't know how to answer you," she faltered. "It's so hateful to
keep hurting people. I know I've hurt Edward. I know you are thinking
badly of me--you must be. And I can't alter it. I can't please you. I
ought never to have accepted Edward. I don't love him. How can I marry
some one I don't love?"
The tears fell now unchecked; she made no attempt to staunch them. But
old Mrs Morgan took no heed of this display of emotion; no amount of
tears could atone for such heartless conduct. She set herself to the
task of overruling the girl's decision.
"I agree with you that you ought not to have engaged yourself to my
son," she said; "but, since you are engaged to him and every one knows
of the engagement, it would be most dishonourable for you to end it now.
Your father will say the same. You cannot do it, Prudence."
"But I must," Prudence insisted.
"No." The old lady became more emphatic. "It is unthinkable. You
can't do it. I don't consider, myself, that you will make Edward a
suitable wife; but he still wishes it; your family wish it. You cannot
draw back."
Prudence pushed back her chair and stood up.
"I'll go home," she said. "I'll go to-day--now. I don't think that
Edward has a right to expect me to many him against my will. I'll go
home." She gripped the back of her chair hard, and met Mrs Morgan's
unfriendly eyes with no sign of yielding in her look. "I know you are
angry with me," she added. "They'll be angry at home. I can't help
that. I deserve it. But to do as you wish wouldn't help matters. It
would be another mistake. I couldn't make him happy."
"You will never make any one happy," Mrs Morgan said, "because you are
utterly selfish."