Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/249

 etly as if she did not greatly care [sic] This man had possession of her, body and soul—or so it was, at the moment. What did it matter what to-morrow had to bring?

“To-morrow,” he said slowly enunciating each word carefully, permitting it to sink in spacing out his words so that she could catch the full import of what he was saying. “To-morrow you are going with me to Norfolk. We will take out a marriage license in the morning. In the afternoon we will be⸺”

“No! No! Not that!” she burst out, galvanized for an instant into life, a fleeting instant that was gone almost as it came. “I cannot do that⸺”

“Yes, you can,” he said, slowly, gazing full into her eyes. The color that had flamed up in her receded from her cheeks as quickly as it had come, leaving her listless, languid, and complaisant—his to order, his to do with whatever he willed.

“To-morrow you will do as I ask, Jessica,” he said again, repeating the sentence once more, slowly.

“Yes, Ignace,” she replied, in a whisper so low he could scarcely catch it. She was careless of what he asked again; it was of no consequence. Had he asked her to accompany him to a justice of the peace or a minister to-night, she would have done so unquestioningly now.

“Ah, exactly, my dear,” he said. “I knew you would see it my way.” He was courtly now, and attentive—the attitude fitting in a man towards the woman he is about to take to his bosom as wife.

“I’m tired, Ignace,” she said unexpectedly. “I want to rest. Now that I have promised⸺”

“Of course, my dear,” he replied to this. “Of course.” He rose and faced to the door. “I’ll go now.