Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 41

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Judalon said to herself that Narcisse could do nothing about it. Nobody could do anything about what she was doing, and only Narcisse had an inkling of it. Making men do things ... it always entranced her. She had set certain forces into motion. Now they could work out their own conclusion.

Slowly she walked with Bowie in the sunlit patio, laughingly complaining that her feet had almost gone to sleep from the long sitting.

He was silent.

“Have you an ox on your tongue?” she asked, in the old French phrase.

“No. Just thinking——”

“Thinking what, Jim?” she teased.

“That you’re too beautiful—to be true——”

It startled her. But on second glance she was sure he had not intended an ambiguity and accepted the compliment.

“I’m real enough, if that’s what you mean,” she said. She laughed a little tinkling laugh. “Extraordinary in nothing. Not very wise—and in spite of what you say, not very beautiful after all——”

Narcisse would have said that this was laying it on very thick to wring a compliment. But with a man like Bowie one had to lay it on thick. He rose beautifully to it.

“You are!” he insisted. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever known——” This sounded like a repetition, and he boggled down, gulping.

“That’s nice of you ... Jim.” Her voice was low and soft.

“Judalon—this may sound like—well, like foolishness to you—I wouldn’t blame you. But—but I think about you all the time—I try not to, but I can’t help it——”

He stopped, thunderstruck at where this was leading.

She drew a deep breath, and looked down. From it he wrongly took encouragement. “I reckon it’s downright presumptuous——” He hesitated, then plunged on, trying to put into words what he had not even thought out clearly. “But—you’ve made me think you’d at least listen—with kindness. I’m not much. Not now. But I’m going to be something. I’ve got it in me to be the kind of a man a girl like you could look on with pleasure—and respect. Can you believe that ... and would it make any difference?”

So it was out, Jim Bowie’s confession. And exactly as uncouth and awkward as she had expected it to be.

She said, “I think—after that—we’d better go back in.”

But he placed his hands upon her arms and stopped her, his face deadly serious.

“Not—until you tell me——”

“Take your hands off me, sir!” She drew herself away and looked at him white-faced. “If you must hear—I never heard anything so preposterous. You believe you’ve come a long way in a short time, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that Narcisse’s peculiar fancy for you gives you no right to presume to talk this way to me. If it weren’t so—so ridiculous—it would be insulting. But I’ll give you an answer—go back and ‘jump the broom’—isn’t that what you call it?—with one of your Cajun wenches, Mr. Bowie!”

Now she gave a cruel little laugh and left him, pale with anger and humiliation, standing alone in the bright garden.