The truth was stripped of the disguise in which he had sought to wrap it; he knew that he had never ceased to love her. As he had known it while she sobbed beside him on the boat, so he knew it when the Bar claimed him again and he wrestled with temptation amid his work. He might re-marry her! He could not drive this irruptive idea from his mind. It lurked there, impelled attention, dozed, woke, and throbbed in his consciousness persistently. Were he but weak enough to make the choice, the woman that he loved might belong to him once more.
Were he but weak enough! There were minutes in which he was very near to it, minutes in which the dishonour, if dishonour it were, looked as nothing to him compared with the joy of having her for his wife again. Yet were he but "weak" enough? Would it indeed be weakness—would it not rather be strength, the courage of his convictions? The longing illumined his vision, and he asked himself on what his doubt and hesitation was based. She had sinned; but he had pardoned her sin, not merely in words, but in his heart. And she was very dear to him; and she had repented. Then why should it be impossible? What after all had they done to her, what change in the beloved identity had they wrought, those months that were past? He was aware that it was the physical side that repelled him—there had been another man. Yet if she had been a widow when he met her first, there would have been another man, and it would have mattered nothing. Did this especial sin make of a woman somebody else? Did it give her another face, another form, another brain? Did unfaithfulness transform her personality? The only difference was the knowledge of what had happened—the woman herself was the same! But he would not vindicate his right to love her—he loved her, that was enough. In its simplicity, the question was whether he would do better to condone her guilt and know happiness, or to preserve his dignity and suffer. He could not blink the question; it confronted him nakedly when a week had worn by. Without her he was lonely and wretched; with her, while she lived, he was confident that his joy would be supreme. The step that he considered was, if any one pleased, revolting; but if it led to his contentment, perhaps to be "revolting" might be the height of wisdom. He must sacrifice his pride, or his peace! And at last, quite deliberately, without misgiving or a backward glance, Heriot determined to gain peace.
A few days after the arrival, Mrs. Baines had written to inform him that the physician was out of town, but now a line came to say that an appointment had been made for "Monday" and that she would communicate Dr. Drummond's pronouncement immediately they reached home after the interview. It was on Monday morning that Heriot received the note, and he resolved to go to Mamie the same evening.
The thought of the amazement that his appearance would cause her excited him wildly as he drove to Victoria. He could foresee the wonder in her eyes as he entered, the incredulity on her features as she heard what he was there to say; and the profoundest satisfaction pervaded him that he had resolved to say it. The comments that his world would make had no longer any place in his meditations; a fico for the world that would debar him from delight and censure what it could not understand! He had suffered long enough; his only regret was for the years which had been lost before he grasped the vivid truth that, innocent or guilty, the woman who conferred happiness was the woman to be desired.
A criticism of his brother's recurred to him: "You hadn't a single taste in common!" He had not disputed it at the time; he was not certain that he could deny it now. But there was no need to consider whether their views were kindred or opposed, whether she was defiled or stainless, when she was the woman whose magic could transfigure his existence. He was conscious that this marriage to be approved by his judgment, and condemned by Society, would be a sweeter and holier union than their first, to which she had brought purity, and indifference. As the cab sped down Victoria Street, his excitement increased, and in imagination he already clasped her and felt the warmth of her cheek against his face.
The hansom slackened, jerked to a standstill; and he leapt out and hurried to the booking-office. A train was at the point of starting. The sentiment of the bygone was quick in him as he found that he must pass through a yellow barrier on to the same platform to which he used to hasten when he went to see her in Lavender Street, Wandsworth. He had never trodden it since. A thousand associations, sad but delicious, were revived as he took his seat, and the guard, whose countenance seemed familiar, sauntered with a green flag and a lantern past the window. Victoria slipped back. It had been in one of these compartments—perhaps in this one—that he had first asked her to be his wife. How wet her cape had been when he touched it! A porter sang out, "Grosvenor Road," and at the sound of it Heriot marvelled at having forgotten that they were about to stop there. Yes, "Grosvenor Road," and then—what next? He could not remember. But memory knocked with a louder pang as each of the places on the line was reached. When "Wandsworth Common" was cried, he glanced at the dimly-lighted station while in fancy he threaded his way to the shabby villa that had been her home. He thought that he could find it blindfold.
After this the line was quite strange to him; and now the impatience of his mood had no admixture and he trembled with eagerness to gain his destination.
"Balham!" was bawled two minutes later; and among a stream of clerks and nondescripts, he descended a flight of steps and emerged into a narrow street. No cab was visible, and, having obtained directions, he set forth for Rosalie Road afoot.
A glimpse he had of cheap commerce, of the flare of gas-jets on oranges, and eggs, and fifth-rate millinery; and then the shops and the masses were left behind, and he was in obscurity. The sound of footsteps occurred but seldom here, and he wandered in a maze of little houses for nearly half an hour before a welcome postman earned a shilling.
Rosalie Road began in darkness, and ended in a brickfield. He identified Number 44 by the aid of a vesta, and pulled the bell. Impatience was mastering him when he discerned, through the panes, a figure advancing along the passage.
His voice was strange in his ears, as he inquired if Mamie was in.
"Yessir; she's in the drorin'-room. 'Oo shall I say?"
"Sir George Heriot. Is Mrs. Baines at home?"
His title rendered the little maid incapable of an immediate response.
"Missis is out of a herrand, sir," she stammered; "she won't be long."
"When she comes in, tell her that I'm talking privately to her niece. 'Privately'; don't forget!"
She turned the handle, and Heriot followed her into the room. Vaguely he heard her announce him; he saw the room as in a mist. Momentarily all that was clear was Mamie's face, white and wondering in the lamplight. She stood where she had been standing at his entrance, looking at him; he had the impression of many seconds passing while she only looked; many seconds seemed to go by before her colour fluttered back and she said, "You?"
"Yes, it's I. Won't you say you're glad to see me?"
"Aunt Lydia has written to you," she said, still gazing at him as if she doubted his reality. "Her letter has gone."
"I've come to hear what Dr. Drummond says."
She motioned him to a chair, and drooped weakly on to the shiny couch.
"I am not going to die," she muttered. "Your sympathy has been thrown away—I'm a fraud."
In the breathless pause he felt deafened by the thudding of his heart.
"He has given you hope?"
"He said, 'Bosh!' I told him what the doctor told me in Duluth. He said, 'Bosh!' One lung isn't quite sound, that's all; I may live to be eighty."
"O dear God!" said Heriot slowly, "I thank You!"
She gave a short laugh, harsh and bitter.
"I always posed. My last pose was as a dying woman!"
"Mamie," he said firmly—he went across to her and sat down by her side—"Mamie, I love you. I want you to come back to me, my darling. My life's no good without you, and I want you for my wife again. Will you come?"
He heard her catch her breath; she could not speak. He took her hands, and drew her to him. Their lips clung together, and presently he felt tears on his cheek.
Then she released herself with a gesture of negation.
"You are mad!" she said. "AndIshould be madder to accept the sacrifice!"
For this he was prepared.
"I am very sane," he answered. "Dearest, when you understand, you will see that it is the only reparation you can make me. Listen!"