The MissionerOppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
Religion
The Missioner
Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
Detective and mystery stories
Her hand flashed out almost to his lips, long shapely fingers, ablaze
with the dull fire of emeralds.
"Stop," she commanded, "you are not quite yourself this evening. I am
afraid that you will say something which you will regret. Now listen.
You have made a most eloquent attack upon me, but you must admit that it
is a perfect tangle of generalities. Won't you condescend to look me in
the face, leave off vague complaints, and tell me precisely why you have
placed me in the dock and yourself upon the bench? In plain words, mind.
No evasions. I want the truth."
"You shall have it," he answered grimly. "Listen, then. I began at
Thorpe. You were at once rude and kind to me. I was a simple ass, of
course, and you were a mistress in all the arts which go to a man's
undoing. It wasn't an equal fight. I struggled a little, but I thanked
God that I had an excuse to give up my work. I came to London, but the
poison was working. Every morning before you were up, and every night
after dark, I walked round your square--and the days I saw you were the
days that counted."
"Dear me, how interesting!" she interrupted softly. "And to think that I
never knew!"
"I never meant you to know," he declared. "A fool I was from the first,
but never fool enough to misunderstand. When I brought Letty Foulton to
you, I brought her against my will. It was for the child's sake. And you
were angry, and then I saw you again--and you were kind!"
She smiled at him.
"I'm glad you admit that," she said gently. "I thought that I was very
kind indeed. And you repaid me--how?"
"Kind!" he cried fiercely. "Yes! you were kind! You were mine for the
moment, you lay in my arms, you gave me your lips! It was an impression!
It amused you to see any human being so much in earnest. Then the mood
passed. Your dole of charity had been given! I must sit apart and you
must smooth your hair. What did it all amount to? An episode, a trifling
debauch in sentiment--and for me--God knows!"
"To return once more," she said patiently, "to your complaint. Is it
that I will not marry you?"
"I did not ask that--at first," he answered. "It is a good deal, I
know."
"Then do you want to come and kiss me every day?" she asked, "because I
don't think that that would suit me either."
"I can believe it," he said.
"I am inclined to think," she said, "that you are a very grasping and
unreasonable person. I have permitted you privileges which more men than
my modesty permits me to tell you of have begged for in vain. You have
accepted them--I promised nothing beyond, nor have you asked for it. Yet
because I was obliged to talk reasonably to you, you flung yourself out
of my house, and I am left to rescue you at the expense of my pride,
perhaps also of my reputation, from associations which you ought to be
ashamed of."
"To talk reasonably to me," he repeated slowly. "Do you remember what
you said?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Naturally! And what I said was true enough."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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