The Odds by Ethel May Dell (best time to read books TXT) 📖

savage fashion," he said.
"Well," she said, a slight quiver in her voice, "it didn't hurt me, Piet."
Piet was silent.
"I mean," she said, gathering courage, "if--if I had known that it meant just that, I--well, I shouldn't have minded so much."
Still Piet was silent. His hand shaded his eyes, but she knew that he was watching her.
"Do you understand?" she asked him doubtfully.
"No," he said.
"Don't you--don't you know what I want you to do?" she said, rather Breathlessly.
"No," he said again.
"Must I--tell you?" she asked, with a gasp.
"I think you must," he said, in his grave way.
She lifted her head abruptly. Her eyes were very big and shining. She stretched her hands out to him with a little, quivering laugh.
"I hate you for making me say it!" she declared, with a vehemence half passionate, half whimsical. "Piet, I--I want you--to--to--take me in your arms again, and--and--kiss me--as you did--that night."
The last words were uttered from his breast, though she never knew how she came to be there. It was as though a whirlwind had caught her away from the earth into a sunlit paradise that was all her own--a paradise in which fear had no place. And the chain against which she had chafed so long and bitterly had turned to links of purest gold.

* * * * *


The Consolation Prize

"So you don't want to marry me?" said Earl Wyverton.
He said it by no means bitterly. There was even the suggestion of a smile on his clean-shaven face. He looked down at the girl who stood before him, with eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending at the moment to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf that grew close to the path. At his quiet words she started and the flower fell.
He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment, then slipped it into the basket that was slung on her arm.
"Don't be agitated," he said, gently. "You needn't take me seriously--unless you wish."
She turned a face of piteous entreaty towards him. She was trembling uncontrollably. "Oh, please, Lord Wyverton," she said, earnestly, "please, don't ask me! Don't ask me! I--I felt so sure you wouldn't."
"Did you?" he said. "Why?"
He looked at her with grave interest. He was a straight, well-made man; but his kindest friends could not have called him anything but ugly, and there were a good many who thought him formidable also. Nevertheless, there was that about him--an honesty and a strength--which made up to a very large extent for his lack of other attractions.
"Tell me why," he said.
"Oh, because you are so far above me," the girl said, with an effort. "You must remember that. You can't help it. I have always known that you were not in earnest."
"Have you?" said Lord Wyverton, smiling a little. "Have you? You seem to have rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville."
She turned back to her flowers. "There are certain things," she said, in a low voice, "that one can't help knowing."
"And one of them is that Lord Wyverton is too fond of larking to be considered seriously at any time?" he questioned.
She did not answer. He stood and watched her speculatively.
"And so you won't have anything to say to me?" he said at last. "In fact, you don't like me?"
She glanced at him with grey eyes that seemed to plead for mercy. "Yes, I like you," she said, slowly. "But--"
"Never mind the 'but,'" said Wyverton, quietly. "Will you marry me?"
She turned fully round again and faced him. He saw that she was very pale.
"Do you mean it?" she said. "Do you?"
He frowned at her, though his eyes remained quizzical and kindly. "Don't be frightened," he said. "Yes; I am actually in earnest. I want you."
She stiffened at the words and grew paler still; but she said nothing.
It was Wyverton who broke the silence. There was something about her that made him uneasy.
"You can send me away at once," he said, "if you don't want me. You needn't mind my feelings, you know."
"Send you away!" she said. "I!"
He gave her a sudden, keen look, and held out his hand to her. "Never mind the rest of the world, Phyllis," he said, very gravely. "Let them say what they like, dear. If we want each other, there is no power on earth that can divide us."
She drew in her breath sharply as she laid her hand in his.
"And now," he said, "give me your answer. Will you marry me?"
He felt her hand move convulsively in his own. She was trembling still.
He bent towards her, gently drawing her. "It is 'Yes,' Phyllis," he whispered. "It must be 'Yes.'"
And after a moment, falteringly, through white lips, she answered him.
"It is--'Yes.'"
* * * * *


"And you accepted him! Oh, Phyllis!"
The younger sister looked at her with eyes of wide astonishment, almost of reproach. They were two of a family of ten; a country clergyman's family that had for its support something under three hundred pounds a year. Phyllis, the eldest girl, worked for her living as a private secretary and had only lately returned home for a brief holiday.
Lord Wyverton, who had seen her once or twice in town, had actually followed her thither to pursue his courtship. She had not believed herself to be the attraction. She had persistently refused to believe him to be in earnest until that afternoon, when the unbelievable thing had actually happened and he had definitely asked her to be his wife. Even then, sitting alone with her sister in the bedroom they shared, she could scarcely bring herself to realize what had happened to her.
"Yes," she said; "I accepted him of course--of course. My dear Molly, how could I refuse?"
Molly made no reply, but her silence was somehow tragic.
"Think of mother," the elder girl went on, "and the children. How could I possibly refuse--even if I wanted?"
"Yes," said Molly; "I see. But I quite thought you were in love with Jim Freeman."
In the silence that followed this blunt speech she turned to look searchingly at her sister. Molly was just twenty, and she did the entire work of the household with sturdy goodwill. She possessed beauty that was unusual. They were a good-looking family, and she was the fairest of them all. Her eyes were dark and very shrewd, under their straight black brows; her face was delicate in colouring and outline; her hair was red-gold and abundant. Moreover, she was clever in a strictly practical sense. She enjoyed life in spite of straitened circumstances. And she possessed a serenity of temperament that no amount of adversity ever seemed to ruffle.
Having obtained the desired glimpse of her sister's face, she returned without comment to the very worn stocking that she was repairing.
"I had a talk with Jim Freeman the other day," she said. "He was driving the old doctor's dog-cart and going to see a patient. He offered me a lift."
"Oh!" Phyllis's tone was carefully devoid of interest. She also took up a stocking from the pile at her sister's elbow and began to work.
"I asked him how he was getting on," Molly continued. "He said that Dr. Finsbury was awfully good to him, and treated him almost like a son. He asked very particularly after you; and when I told him you were coming home he said that he should try and manage to come over and see you. But he is evidently beginning to be rather important, and he can't get away very easily. He asked a good many questions about you, and wanted to know if I thought you were happy and well."
"I see." Again the absence of interest in Phyllis's tone was so marked as to be almost unnatural.
Molly dismissed the subject with a far better executed air of indifference.
"And you are really going to marry Earl Wyverton," she said. "How nice, Phyl! Did he make love to you?"
There was a distinct pause before Phyllis replied. "No. There was no need."
"He didn't!" ejaculated Molly.
"I didn't encourage him to," Phyllis confessed. "He went away directly after. He said he should come to-morrow and see dad."
"I suppose he's frightfully rich?" said Molly, reflectively.
"Enormously, I believe." A deep red flush rose in Phyllis's face. She had begun to tremble again in spite of herself. Molly suddenly dropped her work and leaned forward.
"Phyl, Phyl," she said, softly; "shall I tell you what Jim Freeman said to me that day? He said that very soon he should be able to support a wife--and I knew quite well what he meant. I told him I was glad--so glad. Oh, Phyl, darling, when he comes and asks you to go to him, what will you say?"
Phyllis looked up with quick protest on her lips. She wrung her hands together with a despairing gesture.
"Molly, Molly," she gasped, "don't torture me! How can I help it? How can I help it? I shall have to send him away."
"Oh, poor darling!" Molly said. "Poor, poor darling!"
And she gathered her sister into her arms, pressing her close to her heart with a passionate fondness of which only a few knew her to be capable. There was only a year between them, and Molly had always been the leading spirit, protector and comforter by turns.
Even as she soothed and hushed Phyllis into calmness her quick brain was at work upon the situation. There must be a way of escape somewhere. Of that she was convinced. There always was a way of escape. But for the time at least it baffled her. Her own acquaintance with Wyverton was very slight. She wished ardently that she knew what manner of man he was at heart.
Upon one point at least she was firmly determined. This monstrous sacrifice must not take place, even were it to ensure the whole family welfare. The life they lived was desperately difficult, but Phyllis must not be allowed to ruin her own life's happiness and another's also to ease the burden.
But what a pity it seemed! What a pity! Why in wonder was Fate so perverse? Molly thought. Such a brilliant chance offered to herself would have turned the whole world into a gilded dreamland. For she was wholly heart-free.
The idea was a fascinating one. It held her fancy strongly. She began to wonder if he cared very deeply for her sister, or if mere looks had attracted him.
She had good looks too, she reflected. And she was quick to learn, adaptable. The thought rushed through her mind like a meteor through space. He might be willing. He might be kind. He had a look about his eyes--a quizzical look--that certainly suggested possibilities. But dare she put it to the test? Dare she actually interfere in the matter?
For the first time in all her vigorous young life Molly found her courage at so low an ebb that she was by no means sure that she could rely upon it to carry her through.
She spent the rest of that day in trying to screw herself up to what she privately termed "the necessary pitch of impudence."
* *