"I'm think of writing a letter to your father, and sending Hobson with it in the car immediately. Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know what your father is. Unless I'm much mistaken he's not a man to have much patience with your semi-romantic, semi-religious sentiments. Are you quite satisfied?"

"Quite."

"Very well! That's what I'll do, then."

After this there was a period of quiet in which I assumed that my husband was writing his letter. Then I heard a bell ring somewhere in the corridor, and shortly afterwards there was a second voice in the sitting-room, but I could not hear the words that were spoken. I suppose it was Hobson's low voice, for after another short interval of silence there came the thrum and throb of a motor-car and the rumble of india-rubber wheels on the wet gravel of the courtyard in front of the hotel.

Then my husband knocked at my door again.

"I've written that letter and Hobson is waiting to take it. Your father will probably get it before he goes to bed. It will be a bad break on the festivities he was preparing for the village people. But you are still of the same mind, I suppose?"

I did not speak, but I rose and went over to the window. For some reason difficult to explain, that reference to the festivities had cut me to the quick.

My husband must have been fuming at my apparent indifference, and I felt as if I could see him looking at me, passionate and proud.

"Between the lot of you I think you've done me a great injustice. Have you nothing to say?"

Even then I did not answer.

"All right! As you please."

A few minutes afterwards I heard the motor-car turning and driving away.

The wind had fallen, the waves were rolling into the harbour with that monotonous moan which is the sea's memory of a storm, and a full moon, like a white-robed queen, was riding through a troubled sky.

THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

The moon had died out; a new day had dawned; the sea was lying as quiet as a sleeping child; far out on the level horizon the sky was crimsoning before the rising sun, and clouds of white sea-gulls were swirling and jabbering above the rocks in the harbour below the house before I lay down to sleep.

I was awakened by a hurried knocking at my door, and by an impatient voice crying:

"Mary! Mary! Get up! Let me in!"

It was Aunt Bridget who had arrived in my husband's automobile. When I opened the door to her she came sailing into the room with her new half-moon bonnet a little awry, as if she had put it on hurriedly in the dim light of early morning, and, looking at me with her cold grey eyes behind their gold-rimmed spectacles, she began to bombard me with mingled ridicule and indignant protest.

"Goodness me, girl, what's all this fuss about? You little simpleton, tell me what has happened!"

She was laughing. I had hardly ever heard Aunt Bridget laugh before. But her vexation soon got the better of her merriment.

"His lordship's letter arrived in the middle of the night and nearly frightened us out of our senses. Your father was for coming away straight, and it would have been worse for you if he had. But I said: 'No, this is work for a woman, I'll go,' and here I am. And now tell me, what in the name of goodness does this ridiculous trouble mean?"

It was hard to say anything on such a subject under such circumstances, especially when so challenged, but Aunt Bridget, without waiting for my reply, proceeded to indicate the substance of my husband's letter.

From this I gathered that he had chosen (probably to save his pride) to set down my resistance to ignorance of the first conditions of matrimony, and had charged my father first and Aunt Bridget afterwards with doing him a shocking injustice in permitting me to be married to him without telling me what every girl who becomes a wife ought to know.

"But, good gracious," said my Aunt Bridget, "who would have imagined you _didn't_ know. I thought every girl in the world knew before she put up her hair and came out of short frocks. My Betsy did, I'm sure of that.

And to think that you--you whom we thought so cute, so cunning... .

Mary O'Neill, I'm ashamed of you. I really, really am! Why, you goose"

(Aunt Bridget was again trying to laugh), "how did you suppose the world went on?"

The coarse ridicule of what was supposed to be my maidenly modesty cut me like a knife, but I could not permit myself to explain, so my Aunt Bridget ran on talking.

"I see how it has been. It's the fault of that Reverend Mother at the convent. What sort of a woman is she? Is she a woman at all, I wonder, or only a piece of stucco that ought to be put up in a church corner! To think she could have you nine years and never say one word about... .

Well, well! What has she been doing with you? Talking about the mysteries, I suppose--prayers and retreats and novenas, and the spiritual bridegroom and the rest of it, while all the while... . But you must put the convent out of your head, my girl. You are a married woman now. You've got to think of your husband, and a husband isn't a spiritual bridegroom I can tell you. He's flesh and blood, that's what a husband is, and you can't expect _him_ to spend his time talking about eternity and the rosary. Not on his wedding-day, anyway."

I was hot in my absurd embarrassment, and I dare say my face was scarlet, but Aunt Bridget showed me no mercy.

"The way you have behaved is too silly for anything... . It really is.

A husband's a husband, and a wife's a wife. The wife has to obey her husband. Of course she has. Every wife has to. Some don't like it. I can't say that I liked it very much myself. But to think of anybody objecting. Why, it's shocking! Nobody ever heard of such a thing."

I must have flushed up to my forehead, for I became conscious that in my Aunt Bridget's eyes there had been a kind of indecency in my conduct.

"But, come," she said, "we must be sensible. It's timidity, that's what it is. I was a little timid myself when I was first married, but I soon got over it. Once get over your timidity and you will be all right.

Sakes alive, yes, you'll be as happy as the day is long, and before this time to-morrow you'll wonder what on earth you made all this fuss about."

I tried to say that what she predicted could never be, because I did not love my husband, and therefore ... but my Aunt Bridget broke in on me, saying:

"Mary O'Neill, don't be a fool. Your maiden days are over now, and you ought to know what your husband will do if you persist."

I jumped at the thought that she meant he would annul our marriage, but that was not what she was thinking of.

"He'll find somebody else--that's what he'll do. Serve you right, too.

You'll only have yourself to blame for it. Perhaps you think you'll be able to do the same, but you won't. Women can't. He'll be happy enough, and you'll be the only one to suffer, so don't make a fool of yourself.

Accept the situation. You may not like your husband too much. I can't say I liked the Colonel particularly. He took snuff, and no woman in the world could keep him in clean pocket handkerchiefs. But when a sensible person has got something at stake, she puts up with things. And that's what you must do. He who wants fresh eggs must raise his own chickens, you know."

Aunt Bridget ran on for some time longer, telling me of my father's anger, which was not a matter for much surprise, seeing how he had built himself upon my marriage, and how he had expected that I should have a child, a son, to carry on the family.

"Do you mean to disappoint him after all he has done for you? It would be too silly, too stupid. You'd be the laughing-stock of the whole island. So get up and get dressed and be ready and willing to go with his lordship when he sails by this afternoon's steamer."

"I can't," I said.

"You can't? You mean you won't?"

"Very well, Auntie, I won't."

At that Aunt Bridget stormed at me for several minutes, telling me that if my stubborn determination not to leave the island with my husband meant that I intended to return home she might inform me at once that I was not wanted there and I need not come.

"I've enough on my hands in that house already, what with Betsy unmarried, and your father doing nothing for her, and that nasty Nessy MacLeod making up to him. You ungrateful minx! You are ruining everything! After all I've done for you too! But no matter! If you _will_ make your bed I shall take care that you lie on it."

With that, and the peak of her half-moon bonnet almost dancing over her angry face, Aunt Bridget flounced out of my room.