A Gamble with Life

"Is your book very interesting, Madeline?" he asked, throwing himself into an easy chair near the fire.

"Rather so," she answered, without looking up.

"You seem very fond of reading," he said, after a brief pause.

"I am very fond of it."

Another pause.

"Don't you think it is very hurtful to the eyes to read so much?" he said, edging his chair a little nearer to the couch on which she sat.

"Really, I have never thought of it."

"But you ought to think of it, Madeline. The eyesight is most important."

"I suppose it is."

Another pause, during which Gervase threw a lump of wood on the grate. Madeline went on reading, apparently oblivious of his presence.

"I can't understand how people can become so lost in a book," Gervase said, a little petulantly.

"No?"

"No, I can't. It's beyond me."

"Do you never read?"

"Sometimes, but not often. I've too much else to do. Besides, doesn't the Bible say that much reading is a weariness to the flesh?"

"Does it?"

"I don't know; but I've heard it somewhere, and it's true."

"You've proved it?"

"Over and over again."

"What sort of books do you find so wearisome?"

"Oh, all sorts. There's not much to choose between them."

"Do you really think that?"

"Of course I do, or I shouldn't say it. I'm not the sort of man to say what I don't mean. I thought you had found that out long ago."

"I don't think I have thought much about it."

"I thought as much. It appears that I am of no account with you, Madeline. And yet I had hoped to be your husband. But devotion is lost, affection is thrown away, the burning hope of years is trampled upon."

"I thought we were to let that matter drop, Gervase, until we had had more time to think it over?"

"But I don't want more time, Madeline. My mind is quite made up. If I wait a year – ten years – it will be all the same. For me there is only one woman in the world, and her name is Madeline Grover."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Gervase, and I really feel very much honoured. But, you see, I have only known you about a week."

"Oh, Madeline, how can you say that? We have known each other for years."

"In a sense, Gervase, but not in reality. In fact, I find that all the past has to be wiped out, and I have to start again."

"Why so?"

"I cannot explain it very well, but I expect we have both changed. Madeline Grover, the school-girl, is not the Madeline Grover of to-day."

"By Jove, I fear that's only too true," he said, almost angrily.

"And the Captain Tregony I met in Washington – excuse me for saying it – is not the Gervase Tregony of Trewinion Hall."

"Have I deteriorated so much?" he questioned, with an angry flash in his eyes.

"I do not say that you have deteriorated at all," she said, with a smile. "Perhaps we have both of us vastly improved. Let us hope so at any rate. But what I am pointing out is, we meet – almost entirely different people."

"That you are different, I don't deny," he answered, sullenly. "In Washington you made heaps of me, now you are as cold as an iceberg. But I deny that I have changed. I loved you then, I have loved you ever since, I love you now."

"Well, have it that I only have changed," she said, with a touch of weariness in her voice. "I don't want to make you angry, Gervase, but you must recognise the fact that I was only a school-girl when we first met. I am a woman now. Hence, you must give me time to adjust myself if you will allow the expression. You see, I have to begin over again."

"That's very cold comfort for me," he said, angrily. "How do I know that some other fellow will not come along? How do I know that some adventurer has not come between us already?"

She glanced at him for a moment with an indignant light in her eyes, then picked up her book again.

"Pardon me, Madeline," he said, hurriedly, "I would not offend you for the world, but love such as mine makes a fellow jealous and suspicious."

"Suspicious of what?" she demanded.

"Well, you see," he said, slowly and awkwardly, turning away from her, and staring into the fire, "it's better to be honest about it, isn't it?"

"Honest about what?"

"I don't think I'm naturally jealous," he explained, "but father has told me all about your – your – well, your escapade with that scoundrel, Sterne."

"Is he a scoundrel?"

"You know nothing about him, of course, but he is just the kind of fellow that would take advantage of any service he had rendered."

"I was not aware – "

"Of course not," he interrupted, "but those – well, what I call low-born people have no sense of propriety; and in these days – I am sorry to have to say it – very little reverence for their betters."

"Well, what is all this leading to?"