“He won’t do it.”

“He will.”

With that difference of opinion, they parted.

6.—­The Brute.

To-morrow came—­and Mrs. Westerfield’s faithful James justified her confidence in him.

“Oh, Jemmy, how glad I am to see you!  You dear, dear fellow.  I’m yours at last.”

“That depends, my lady, on whether I want you.  Let go of my neck.”

The man who entered this protest against imprisonment in the arms of a fine woman, was one of the human beings who are grown to perfection on English soil.  He had the fat face, the pink complexion, the hard blue eyes, the scanty yellow hair, the smile with no meaning in it, the tremendous neck and shoulders, the mighty fists and feet, which are seen in complete combination in England only.  Men of this breed possess a nervous system without being aware of it; suffer affliction without feeling it; exercise courage without a sense of danger; marry without love; eat and drink without limit; and sink (big as they are), when disease attacks them, without an effort to live.

Mrs. Westerfield released her guest’s bull-neck at the word of command.  It was impossible not to submit to him—­he was so brutal.  Impossible not to admire him—­he was so big.

“Have you no love left for me?” was all she ventured to say.

He took the reproof good-humoredly.  “Love?” he repeated.  “Come!  I like that—­after throwing me over for a man with a handle to his name.  Which am I to call you:  ‘Mrs?’ or ’My Lady’?”

“Call me your own.  What is there to laugh at, Jemmy?  You used to be fond of me; you would never have gone to America, when I married Westerfield, if I hadn’t been dear to you.  Oh, if I’m sure of anything, I’m sure of that!  You wouldn’t bear malice, dear, if you only knew how cruelly I have been disappointed.”

He suddenly showed an interest in what she was saying:  the brute became cheery and confidential.  “So he made you a bad husband, did he?  Up with his fist and knocked you down, I daresay, if the truth was known?”

“You’re all in the wrong, dear.  He would have been a good husband if I had cared about him.  I never cared about anybody but you.  It wasn’t Westerfield who tempted me to say Yes.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No, indeed it isn’t.”

“Then why did you marry him?”

“When I married him, Jemmy, there was a prospect—­oh, how could I resist it?  Think of being one of the Le Basques!  Held in honor, to the end of my life, by that noble family, whether my husband lived or died!”

To the barman’s ears, this sounded like sheer nonsense.  His experience in the public-house suggested an explanation.  “I say, my girl, have you been drinking?”

Mrs. Westerfield’s first impulse led her to rise and point indignantly to the door.  He had only to look at her—­and she sat down again a tamed woman.  “You don’t understand how the chance tempted me,” she answered, gently.