What a Man Wills Part 8

"He doesn't mean it, dear; he doesn't mean it. Antony never would."

"Kiss her, you stupid fellow, kiss her! What's the use of glowering there?"

Then, in the midst of a thrilling silence, Juliet felt strong arms enfold her, felt the sweep of a moustache against her cheek. It was the first, the very first time in the course of her twenty-six years that any man but a blood relation had offered her a caress, and--she liked the sensation! She felt a horrible, horrible inclination to abandon herself to that strong support; to lift her own lips to meet his. The rebound from the temptation gave energy to the gesture with which she pushed him away and leaped, flaming, to her feet.

"It's my own heart, and I know best what it can stand! And--and--there are snakes--and rats--and insects, crawly-creepy things dropping from the ceilings! He can have anyone he likes... I don't care... I don't want him. I'll stay at home!" She dashed wildly from the room.

Antony and his aunt stared blankly at each other. The Squire chuckled complacently and rubbed his hands.

"_That's_ all right," he cried cheerily. "That's done it. She'll go with you, my boy. She'll go all right. Book a second pa.s.sage to-morrow, and I'll stand the risk."

At dinner that night there was an air of festival. The feast was sumptuous, the table was decorated with exquisite hothouse flowers, purely, spotlessly white--a bridal white, unmistakable in its significance. Juliet blushed as she beheld that table, and blushed again looking down on her own white robe. Upstairs in her own room she had cried, and stormed, and blushed, and trembled, and vowed fiercely to leave the house by the first train on the following morning, and sobbed again at the thought of departure. Also, she had vowed with fervour to be cold as ice to Antony Maplestone, and to prove to him by the haughtiness of her demeanour that his caress was unpardonable, without excuse. And then, being a woman, and a particularly feminine one at that, she had naturally selected her very best dress, and had arrayed herself therein for his delectation.

Now what bad luck that the dress happened to be white!

The Squire over-ate himself recklessly. "Hang it all, my dear," he informed his protesting wife, "a man can't always be thinking of diet.

There _are_ occasions--" He nodded meaningly towards his guest, and quaffed a b.u.mper of champagne.

After dinner, when the pseudo-lovers were left alone for the nightly _tete-a-tete_, the subject of the Squire's indiscretion was eagerly seized upon as a subject for conversation, to lessen the embarra.s.sment from which both were suffering.

Said Antony, "It's madness. He has not yet recovered from the last attack. One would think that a man who has suffered such agonies would have learned wisdom!"

Said Juliet gloomily, "Who does? n.o.body does! It certainly doesn't become _us_ to--er--"

"Oh, well," he interrupted quickly, "let's hope he escapes this time.

It's hard on a man to be everlastingly prudent. I'm not at all sure that the greatest wisdom does not exist in occasionally breaking loose!"

Juliet faced him, erect and dignified. She had scented a personal application in his words, and was determined to stand no nonsense.

"Mr Maplestone, I have been here four days; it seems to me inadvisable to stay any longer. To-morrow morning I propose to receive a telegram summoning me home. I should be obliged if you could make it convenient to be out after eleven o'clock. It would make it easier for me to get away."

There was consternation in his glance; more than consternation--dismay.

"Go! Why on earth should you go? Is it the office! Do they want you back at the office? Let _me_ write. Surely if I write and say--"

"As a matter of fact there is _no_ office. It's a mistake. I--I am not what I seem!" cried Juliet, with a touch of melodrama, born of desperation. Not another moment could she stand the deception; not another moment could she masquerade under another woman's name. "I am _not_ an inquiry agent. Never was. Never will be. It was just-- just--"

"Sit down. Sit down. Take your own time. Tell me all about it."

Antony pushed a deep-cushioned chair towards her, seated himself near at hand, leaned forward, gazing into her eyes. There was no consternation on his face this time; no dismay; nothing but happiest relief. "If you only knew how _thankful_ I am! I hated the thought of such work for you. Now--tell me!"

And Juliet told him. Told him how, among a party of friends, she had avowed her yearning for adventure, and had been bidden to hold fast to the thought, and await an opportunity. All things, she was told, come in good time to those who wait. And she had waited; through long, monotonous, uneventful months she had waited, and waited in vain. And then, suddenly, a chance, an opening--a possibility which must be taken, or left, while a moment ticked away its course! She told of the dead girl whose place she had taken, honestly determining to do her best, and allow no one to suffer through the exchange.

"If it had been work of which I was incapable I should have left at once. You believe it, don't you? You _do_ believe it?"

Antony seemed to ignore the question as beneath his notice. Something infinitely more important was occupying his mind.

"Then, what is your real name?"

"Juliet! All that I have told you of my people is true. Everything is true, but the name and the work. Perhaps, in time to come, you might explain to your uncle that Clare Lawson was just a professional name which I adopted when I tried to take up work. It is quite usual. Many women do it."

"_Juliet_!" he repeated softly. From his manner he appeared to have heard only her name. "_Juliet_! It's perfect. A name that suits you above all others. Of course you are Juliet. I was a fool not to know that before. Juliet, I am so glad you are not Clare!"

"I'm not Clare, and I'm not Alice. It's a--a joke in two moves, but it is time it should come to an end. To-morrow I must go."

"You must not go. It's madness! Is it because of--of what happened to-day? It need never happen again. I was dreadfully sorry. I would not for the world--"

"Of course, of course. I _quite_ understand. You were driven to it.

It was as disagreeable to you as to me," Juliet said sourly. _She felt_ sour; more ruffled by the explanation than she had been by the offence itself.

What would have happened next there is no saying, but at that moment the door opened, and Mrs Maplestone appeared on the threshold. Uncle G.o.dfrey was in pain. He wished to go to bed. Would Tony come and give him an arm?

Retribution sure and swift fell upon the Squire. All night long he tossed in pain, and in the early morn the doctor was summoned, who delivered himself of a gloomy verdict: Serious. One bad attack following hard on the top of another. The patient had been warned, and the patient had transgressed. The patient's heart was not in a condition to stand these repeated strains. The patient must have a nurse. Must be kept quiet. The patient must be safeguarded against irritation and strain. Excitement at this juncture might have serious effects.

Then the doctor drove away, and the patient, who was to be kept quiet, proceeded to work himself into a condition of fuss and antagonism against every separate member of the household, and in especial against Antony, his heir. It was Antony's fault that he was laid low; the contrariety of Antony which had ruined his health; and now he lay at death's door (he was at death's door; he _chose_ to lie at death's door!

It was his own business, he supposed, at whose door he should lie?); now, even at this last moment, Antony delayed, prevaricated, shilly-shallied, talked calmly of waiting a couple of years! It was not the girl's fault. The girl was willing enough. She was making a pretence of unwillingness. All girls made a pretence. Let Antony stand up to her like a man, and she would give in; be glad to give in. Summon Antony! Summon the girl! Let them be brought before him. Let this matter be settled once for all!

Trembling, Mrs Maplestone obeyed his orders. Trembling, Juliet obeyed, and stood beside the patient's bed. Antony was not trembling, but his cheek was pale. Crimson cheeked, bright of eye, the patient made his p.r.o.nouncement: He had waited long enough; he could wait no longer; within the next few days he intended to die--probably to-morrow, or the day after; but before he died he wished to see his heir married to the woman of his choice. Send instantly for a priest!

"My dear uncle," Antony protested, "the thing's impossible. Even if-- even if--There are preliminaries. Banns. Licences. It is a case of weeks; of _several_ weeks--"

But the Squire knew better. There were such things as special licences.

When money was no object, when life and death hung in the balance, mountains had been, mountains could again be, removed. With a shaking hand he beckoned Juliet to his side, and levied a shocking question:

"Girl, do you wish to kill me?"

"You don't understand, you don't understand!" wailed the unhappy girl.

"Dear Mr Maplestone, try to be quiet; try not to worry about us. Only get better, and then--then--"

"I shall never get better," reiterated the Squire. His small bright eyes glittered with a sudden suspicion. "Is he playing with you?

Playing fast and loose, to suit his own convenience? Has he been unkind to you, cold, disappointing? Are you tired already of the fellow?"

"Oh, no, oh, no, you _don't_ understand! Dear Mr Maplestone, do leave it until you are stronger."

The crimson of the Squire's cheeks turned to a deeper hue, a spasm of pain contorted his lips, his eyes rolled, closed, opened again, and turned with a dreadful intensity upon his nephew.

"I'm dying!" he cried. "You are killing me between you. _Antony_!"

Then Antony stepped forward and took Juliet by the hands. White to the lips was he, but there was no flinching in his eyes, no tremor in the tone of his strong voice.

"_My darling_," said Antony, "_will you marry me this week_? As G.o.d is my witness, it is my dearest wish. As G.o.d is my witness, I will make you happy."

At the opposite side of the bed Mrs Maplestone subsided helplessly into tears. Writhing, gasping in pain, the Squire muttered to himself, "What a fuss to make! What a fuss about nothing!"

To Juliet, as to Antony, they might have been at the other side of the world. They had ceased to exist. He stood, drawn up to his full height, gazing down into her face. She looked up, looked deep, deep into the steady brown eyes, and read therein what she most longed to see.

"Yes, Tony, I will. The sooner the better," answered Juliet. And, so saying, started trustfully upon life's greatest adventure.