When Osborne entered the drawing-room at Peter's Row he was pale, spent, weak. He could hardly stand for a moment; the place swam round him, and he swayed to and fro as if about to fall. Some of the guests looked at him with amazement, some with suspicion, some with fear. What was wrong with this young man? Why did he come down to breakfast the other morning in that extraordinary condition? What was the meaning of any man, half covered with mud, breaking into a drawing-room? It was very strange. Was he drunk? Why did not Mrs Barclay tell him to leave? Kate saw at a glance something dreadful had occurred. She looked hastily at Marie, but found no explanation there. Marie sat on a couch fronting the door, and stared in vague apprehension at him. In her, love was alarmed by an unfamiliar phase of the beloved. Kate rose, and went to George, saying,-- 'What is the matter, George? What is the matter? You look ill.' 'I am only tired--only tired, Kate.' He glanced at Marie. 'She fears me already,' he thought. 'She fears me. See how she shrinks from me. She would scream out if I dared to go near her. She would scream. She sees, with the swift instinct of a woman, that what I swear to-day I will forswear to-morrow. She loathes me more than the most unsightly things that crawl on earth. Oh, my Marie, my life--my soul! Have I lost you for ever--for ever!' All the guests were still staring mutely at him. He was unconscious of their presence. He was unconscious of everything but the feeling of loss. He stood in the midst of a pitiless desert. Neither heaven nor earth, beast nor man, would take pity on him, would kill him, and put him out of this awful pain. If he could shut his eyes for ever on her, for ever on the past, he would be content. For, indeed, what want of contentment can there be when past, present, and future are no more? Had he been born to open his eyes on this apparition of supreme loveliness, merely that he might see it for a brief span, and then lose it, and all memory of it, for ever? If even memory might remain he should now be content. But nothing would be left--nothing. He had been foolish, insane, a moment ago, to wish for oblivion. He would prefer the memory of her, the mental image of her, with all the sense of final loss, to forgetfulness. How shallow Dante had been to say memory of former joys was the crudest pain! Who would give up certain aspects of his true love for all the pain those pictures could bring? Memory was the inexhaustible bank of love. As the future is the fairest, so is the past the most dear. The feeling you must lose all the heart-savings of a love-time is the most bitter sting that can enter the soul of man. Ay, but Dante did not think he or anyone should lose the memory of love at the silent side of the grave. That accounted for Dante saying, the bitterest thing of all was remembering brighter hours. Into Dante's code oblivion did not enter.Miserere nobis.Miserere nobis. With a weary, vacant smile he held out his hand to Kate. 'I am very tired, Kate, very tired, and am going to bed. Say good-night to Marie for me.' He drew back into the passage, and closed the door. Marie turned pale. Furtive eyes now sought her. The men looked at her with anger against him in their eyes. In the glances of the women was pity. Plainly all was over between her and him. Well, who could expect any good to come out of such an engagement? No one but a fool. Fancy people meeting in a common boarding-house, falling in love, and getting engaged! Why, if such things were to happen and turn out well there would be no protection to society, and domestic life would have to be abandoned; and then things would be in a nice state. The minds of the men took another direction. What had he been doing? He looked as if he had been on a fearful spree. But how could a man bengaged to that glorious girl go on a spree? And besides, Osborne was as steady as a rock. No; it couldn't be a spree. What, then, had cut him up so dreadfully? He looked all right yesterday, or nearly so. No matter how wild a man had been for one day, he would not be so cut up. Evidently something was wrong between this incomparable girl and him. What could it be? Had he been suddenly seized with illness, or were there traces of insanity in his family? A man must be mad to quarrel with such loveliness. 'What's the matter, Kate?' whispered Marie, as soon as the former had returned to her old place close to the couch. 'I don't know, dear. He looks awful, and says he's tired. What can it be? There is no quarrel?' 'No. Nor do I know any reason why he should not speak to me.' 'He told me to say good-night to you for him, and that he was very tired.' 'What! Very tired! Was George too tired to cross this little room to say good-night to me? Oh, Kate, there is something wrong, something wrong! Did he say anything about Mr Nevill?' 'No; not a word. I have told you all he said. I never saw George in such a way before.' The two girls rose soon after, and went to their rooms. When George Osborne closed the drawing-room door he walked slowly upstairs. He undressed, and went to bed. He was completely worn out, and fell into a profound sleep. He awoke. What, dark still! 'Who's there?' 'I.' 'Oh, Nevill, is that you? What o'clock is it?' 'You have had a long sleep. It is five o'clock in the afternoon.' 'Five o'clock in the afternoon! What is the matter? Have I been ill? I forget. Nevill, tell me, have I been ill? Where is Kate?' 'Kate is downstairs. You have not been ill. You know you had a long walk and great anxiety yesterday. Would you like a light?' 'I remember all now. No, I don't want a light. We can talk in the dark.' 'How do you feel to-day? Shall I tell them to bring you something to eat?' 'No, thank you. I shall get up presently. I am not hungry. Have you seen Marie to-day?' 'I have not. I was not in to breakfast. Even had I been, I should not have seen her, for neither she nor Kate was down.' 'You awoke me, Nevill, did you not? Have you anything to tell me, anything to say?' 'I am sorry I disturbed you, Osborne; but I could not rest still. My dear fellow, you know what I told you last evening about Kate?' 'Yes; that you had proposed to her. Have you got a reply?' 'I have. I called this morning at Lombard Street, and found a letter there from Kate. The letter, although a refusal, gave me a half notion I had failed only for the time. So I came on straight here to see her and you. I have been with her all day, and I cannot tell you how delighted I am, my dear Osborne, to say to you there is hope I may yet succeed, though nothing definite has been arranged, nor will she allow me to call her anything more than Miss Osborne, until her mother's consent has been obtained, which is quite right.' 'And you want to speak to me now about the matter?' asked Osborne, sitting up in the darkness. 'Yes, if you have no objection.' 'On the contrary, I shall be glad to listen; it will interest me, since it concerns Kate, and at present I prefer not to think of my own affairs. Go on, Nevill; go on.' 'Well, Osborne, I will tell you all I think you would care to hear, and then I will ask you to do me a great favour. I have knocked about in the world in my time, and have been no better than most men--nothing like you. I lived at Rome; and you know that Rome often lived up a tree. But, upon the whole, I was among the ruck; I don't think I led. You must know my people were no great swells, only middle-class merchant-folk. I am alone in the world. My father lived at New York, and made a little money in corn. I'm thirty years of age. I have never been in gaol. I have never yet committed bigamy. I have thirty thousand pounds, and not a soul to leave a penny to. I'd settle all of it on Kate, and anyone who might come after us. I am a native of England, of the parish of Stepney, as I was born at sea. I was born under British colours, on the way out to the States, before either my father or mother, and I may add before I myself, ever set foot on American soil. I am an advanced Radical, was reared in the Church of England faith, and mean henceforth to conform to that creed.' He paused awhile, and tried to pierce the darkness in the direction where Osborne sat; but he could see absolutely nothing. Now that there was silence, Nevill could hear the deep breathing of the silent listener. At length George spoke,-- 'Go on, Nevill. Go on; I am listening to you most attentively.' 'So much for the past and present. Now for the future. You are not, I suppose, going to live in London always?' 'I cannot say. I do not know.' 'Well, if I prosper in this, I propose to go to Stratford--your old place-and take a house there, and settle down as a member of a quiet English family. I will grow into a middle-aged respectable man as soon as I can, and you and your mother and younger sister and I will be the greatest friends in the world--a kind of colony of love, down in that dear old place of Shakespeare's.' He paused again. No sound from the bed but the breathing, which had grown more laboured. He waited awhile. He knew that Osborne shuddered; though how he knew this he could not tell. Then the other spoke in a constrained voice,-- 'I. see nothing whatever to object to in what you propose. I think nothing would please Kate or my mother more than that Kate's home should be near Stratford. You said you intended asking me something. What is it?' 'Oh yes. I want you to take me down to Stratford, introduce me to your mother, and let me plead my cause with her. In fact, you can arrange both our affairs--I mean yours and mine--at the one time.' Nevill paused once more. The breathing had grown quieter. There was not a sound. The room was as hushed as a stone. Nevill remained perfectly still. Stop, there was a faint, very faint, sound. A soft, delicate pat-pat-pat, as though you beat a table very gently with the top of your finger. It could not be the beating of Osborne's heart. It was too slow for that. What could it be? 'Why don't you speak, Osborne? What's the matter?' Pat-pat-pat. 'Good God, Osborne, you are weeping!' 'Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me my life? Who has taken my life away? Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me sight, and gives me darkness? Dear God, turn away Thy wrath, and show me mercy! I am humbled and punished. Let me come back to Thee and peace. Give me faith for this void, light for this darkness. O God, my life!' 'Osborne! Osborne! Osborne!' 'In a moment.' 'Osborne!' 'A little while longer.' 'Now I am all right. I could not help it, Nevill. It came on me suddenly. I had no power over myself. Will you forgive me, my dear friend? I hope I may some day call you brother. It all came upon me at once. I broke down when I thought of you and Kate being settled at Stratford, and I--' 'You too will be settled there or somewhere else with Marie soon. Take my word for it.' 'Ay. I may as well get up; and I may as well stop in bed. It is one of the advantages of being ruined that all things are alike to you. You are above or below every-day detail. I'll get up. It must be near six now.' 'Yes; the quarter-to has struck.' 'I'll get up. Do not leave for a minute. You need not tell anyone I broke down--Kate least of all. It would only pain her, and do no good. I'll go up to Stratford with you, and do all I can in your interest. I do not think my mother will make any objection, for she is a most just and considerate woman, and has taught all of us to rely on our own judgments since we were young. I think you may put your mind at rest. I feel much easier now than I did when you woke me first. You may go now. I'll get up. If you meet Marie before I go down, do not tell her anything I have told you. If she asks you anything about me, say I was merely tired, and overslept myself.' When Nevill had shut the door, Osborne arose and lit the gas. He was deadly pale, but refreshed with sleep. He felt weak, and thought some illness must be coming on him; he forgot he had not eaten anything the whole of yesterday. He was feeble now from over-exertion and want of food. It was six o'clock before he reached the dining-room, where tea was always set at that hour. The people had not yet sat down. He went over to where Kate and Marie stood by the fire, and shook hands with both. 'I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself. Yesterday I ran away without a word of explanation, and to-day I sleep until tea-time. I assure you both I never awoke until Nevill came into my room about an hour ago. I was quite worn out.' 'But, George,' asked Kate gravely, 'why did you go for such a long walk yesterday, and eat nothing all day?' 'Mr Nevill told Kate,' said Marie, 'that you ate nothing all yesterday, and that you would not have anything to eat last night when he met you. Surely that was too bad of you. You know, George, between sitting up all night over those books, and then walking about all day without food, you will very soon find yourself in the hands of the--' 'Hangman,' George concluded the sentence for her. 'No; don't be silly--in the hands of the doctor.' 'I am past cure,' he said gravely, and with a faint sweet smile. Marie looked up quickly at him. Was his old self coming back? In saying he was past cure, did he mean he was so much in love nothing could make him heart-whole again? There was no answering look in his eyes. What could be the matter? What had happened to George? He was wholly changed, wholly unlike himself of two days ago. He looked worn out and dull, more like a man just recovering from a raging fever than a healthy, hearty lover. What could be the matter? It was sad to think that, no sooner had she entered upon this fairyland of love, than some terrible monster invaded the garden also, and she went in constant dread of being struck down by the beast, and killed or maimed for ever. In Mrs Barclay's all meals were served in the dining-room, and it was customary for the ladies to retire to the drawing-room after breakfast, dinner, or tea. At tea that evening nothing was spoken of but the most general subjects. Marie and Kate did not speak beyond the words necessary in reply to commonplace questions from commonplace people. Mrs Barclay rallied Osborne on his recent irregular behaviour, and cautioned him that no doubt such vagaries might be expected from a bachelor, but very different conduct would be exacted from a married man. At this there was a general smile, and a sly look from his to Marie's face. All else that passed at the table was of the most ordinary and every-day character. Tea took forty minutes, and at about a quarter to seven the ladies retired to the drawing-room. Between seven and eleven was the quietest time of the day at Mrs Barclay's, for men and women staying at the house went out between those hours, either to theatres or other places of amusement, or to visit friends whom their business occupations in the day prevented them calling upon. When George Osborne entered the drawing-room he found no one in it but Marie and Kate. He felt refreshed and brightened by the meal. Tea always had an exquisitely cheering effect upon him. He walked first to Marie, took her gently by the hand, and said,-- 'I was not able to explain to you--do not move, Kate; what I am saying is intended for both of you--I was not able to explain what must have seemed extraordinary in my conduct during the past few days. I cannot yet tell you explicitly what it is, but in a few days I hope to be able to satisfy you. Both must have faith in me till then. You must believe that I have got a terrible shock, with which neither of you has anything to do. I am at present in a state of great mental anxiety, and you must try to be indulgent to me. No matter how odd I may seem to you, I ask you not to judge me hastily. Give me time, and I will tell you both all. Give me time. Will you, Marie--a few days?' 'Yes.' 'Will you Kate--a few days?' 'Yes.' The two girls were more terrified by this quiet, collected confession of trouble than by the most erratic thing he had yet done. Marie thought, 'Oh, my George, my love, my noble, simple-hearted gentleman, why will you not tell your Marie what troubles you? Why will you not let her share your anxiety? She would bear all the anxiety of this world rather than not share his secret pain. Oh, my love, why are you so white? What will become of me if anything happen to my love--if anything happen to thee--if anything happen to my love?' Kate was too terrified to think; she only prayed--prayed against evil to him, against evil to any of them. The affair between Nevill and herself could not have caused any such dreadful result as this. He spoke again,-- 'All the more necessary will it be for you to have confidence in me, because I am going to leave you both in the care of Mrs Barclay for a couple of days. Nevill and I are going to Stratford for a day or so.' Kate was too distressed to feel incommoded. She did not blush, she did not look down. Marie only thought, 'Oh, why will he not take us? Going away for two days, and in such a mood! Oh, how shall I get from rising to lying down while he is away? My love, if my life could save you this trouble, I would give it for you with joy.' 'We leave to-morrow morning. I shall not see you between this and then. Mrs Barclay, whom I have just spoken to, promises to look after you, and'--he smiled faintly--'to see that neither of you elopes while we are away. Good-night and good-bye now.' He kissed Marie. 'Good-night and good-bye.' He kissed Kate. 'The evening of the day after to-morrow, or, at latest, the morning following, we hope to be back. Till then take great care of yourselves, take great care of one another. Our thoughts will be with you two constantly all the time we are away.' He walked slowly out of the room, nodding to them with a feeble smile, as he closed the door. 'I could not talk to her, or be near her, now. I shall never be able to talk quietly to her until this fever is past. Nevill is right. Delay is the best thing now. If I trusted myself with her I should tell her all. O God, what a hideous, abominable all! Oh thou Maker and Unmaker, help me, if Thou wilt have mercy!' When he had gone each girl stood looking into the face of the other. Gradually they both sank down on a couch. Kate put her arm round Marie's waist; Marie covered her face with her hands and shuddered.
By an early train Osborne and Nevill left London for Stratford-on-Avon next day. Marie did not see him after that brief interview in the drawing-room the previous evening. Nevill asked Osborne if he had any objection to travel in a smoking compartment. Osborne answered, not the least. They started with two other men in the compartment. Thus private conversation was impossible, and neither cared to talk of general matters. Each read, or affected to read, a newspaper. When they arrived at Stratford, Osborne took Nevill to The Falcon, and went straight to his mother's. He found Mrs Osborne at home. She was surprised to see him; but she was one of those placid, lymphatic natures not easily disturbed or ruffled. She took off her gold-rimmed spectacles and placed them on the open page of Tillotson's Sermons lying on the table at her elbow. 'I did not expect you, George. You did not write to say you were coming. Where is your sister Kate?' 'I had no reason to think I was coming until it was too late to write last night, and I did not like telegraphing, lest you might be alarmed. Kate is in London, and quite well. Where is little Alice?' 'She is gone over to Mrs Craven, who is very bad--believed to be dying. I do not expect her to be back for an hour or two. Mrs Craven has been a great sufferer while you have been away. The doctor says she may die at any moment. Mr Craven is greatly to be pitied.' 'As you may guess, mother, I have not come for nothing. I wish to speak with you on a matter of importance.' Mrs Osborne took a letter out of her pocket, opened it on her lap, and, holding her finger on the sheet, said quietly,-- 'I got this letter from you, my son, in which you say you have met a lady in London whom you intend making your wife, or proposing marriage to. I daresay it is about that matter you wish to speak with me.' 'It--it is not about that I wish to speak with you now, but another matter of importance.' 'Very well, my son. I thought now you are in Stratford, now you have come back to your old home, you might care to say something to your mother about the lady you are going to make your wife, and about your approaching marriage. George, you are not looking well. I hope you are not breaking bad news to me?' 'No, no, mother. I am quite well, and bear no bad news. You must excuse my not entering upon the--the subject of my--of my mar--of my own affairs just now.' 'I know you too well, my son, to think you act without sufficient reason or judgment, and I am certain you act on good reasons when you do not wish to tell me of this haste--I mean this engagement of yours to a lady who was quite unknown to you, as I understand, a few weeks ago. I cannot help my feelings, for I am your mother. You, of course, are old enough and sensible enough to arrange your marriage yourself; but, as I said, not wishing, my son, to hurt you, I cannot help having a mother's feeling in the matter. You are my son.' 'Mother, mother, take my word for it I have good reason for not alluding to my own affairs at present. I know it must look very strange to you that I should not open my mind to you on that matter; but, trust me, I have good reason for not doing so just now.' 'You say no more for yourself than I say for you. Do not for a moment think I am suspecting you of having poor reasons for your silence. When you asked Kate to go up to London, I said,--"We know George has always good reasons for what he does and says." I say so still. I think it a little strange you should ask Kate up to London--say you wanted her most particularly--become engaged to a strange lady, and then come home saying, "I have nothing to tell you about my own marriage." My son, I do not blame or reproach you. I have the fullest faith in your good sense and judgment, but good sense and judgment are not feeling, and you are my son.' He was sitting in front of her, at the opposite side of the table on which Tillotson lay. He dropped his head on his hand, and, turning his white, worn face to the window, looked out at the bare wet trees standing up in the bare wet winter day. 'I am very sorry, mother, very sorry,' he said, after a long pause. 'Very sorry for what, George?' 'For what I cannot say.' 'You are changed, my child, greatly changed. London has altered you more in a few days than all the years before. I pray it may be a wholesome change.' 'Mother, you used, when we were little children, before my father died, to come into the room we slept in, and pray in a loud whisper, so that you should not wake us, but that God might know you were in great earnest.' 'Yes, my child; you were a little fellow then, not up to my elbow.' 'Do you, now that we are grown up, pray for us, mother?' 'Daily, my child, daily, day and night, and often when I am alone in the daytime, and always when I hear of evil or danger. What have I to do now, my child, but pray for my children while I am on earth, and ask God to show me grace and lead me to Him and to the presence of your good father by-and-by?' 'I have told you I do not care to speak of my own affairs just now. I ask you, mother, to pray for me. I am in sore trouble.' 'In sore trouble, and will not tell me! In sore trouble about your marriage? I hope not, my boy.' 'Yes and no. You must not press me, mother. I am troubled, and you must not press me. Pray for me. All may be right yet, but up to this all is not right.' 'My dear son, my dear George, you may count on my prayers. What can be the matter? I hope, George, you have not given away your affections to any unworthy person. You tell me nothing about her or your marriage, and now you ask me to pray for you. I hope it is not as I fear?' 'No, no, no, mother. It is I who am unworthy, and need the help of Heaven towards worthiness, not she. She is all that is good and amiable.' 'You unworthy, George! Why, no woman alive could be too good for you. What can have put such a notion in your head? I hope you are not going to marry anyone with new-fangled religious notions. I hope she is not one of those for whom the simple religion of the English Church and England's Queen is not satisfactory; who must set up some foolish superstition of their own.' 'She was brought up, mother, as you and I were--in the Church of England; and she now holds the same faith as you. Be not uneasy on that account; and, mother, as a great favour, let us talk no more of my affairs for the present. I have other matters on which the happiness of two people depends, to speak to you about.' He turned his face away from the window, and looked gravely into his mother's eyes. She simply bowed in token that he was to proceed. 'When I went to London, as you know, I had neither friend nor acquaintance there. I stopped at the private hotel Garvage recommended. I arrived in London on Saturday night, and on Sunday I made the acquaintance of a man named Nevill--William Nevill. I have seen a great deal of him since. I have met him every day since, and I do not think I am misled when I say he is a respectable man, one whom you would be glad to know and receive. He has come down to Stratford expressly to see you, and is now at The Falcon awaiting your permission to call upon you.' 'I shall be very glad to receive any friend of yours, George. Why did you not bring him here direct? It scarcely looks hospitable to leave your friend at an hotel, when you know we have plenty of room and welcome.' 'He wishes to speak to you on a very important subject, and, as much will depend on your answer, he and I thought it best he should for the present put up at The Falcon.' 'Is he any relative of the lady you propose making your wife?' 'No, mother. He has no relatives alive. He is alone in the world, and thinks of settling down in England. He is an Englishman, but has spent much time travelling, and has been only a short time in England. He will settle down somewhere in the Midlands, perhaps here in Stratford, and he hopes you and he will get on very well together.' 'I am sure I hope so too, with all my heart. I shall always be glad to meet any friend of yours, and try to be friendly to him. You said he had some question to ask me, George. What is it? Do you know what it is?' 'Yes, I know. It may take you by surprise, mother, but it is only in the nature of things such a request should be made. I think he means to ask you to allow him to pay his addresses to Kate.' 'What!' cried Mrs Osborne, rising to her feet. 'He wants to take Kate away from me? London has taken you, and now it is going to take away my darling Kate. Oh, this is too bad, too bad!' She sank into her chair and covered her face for a moment. 'He does not mean to take Kate away. On the contrary, he means to live here in Stratford, close to you.' 'But why need Kate marry an interloping London man, or a traveller? Was not Mr Garvage good enough for her--an old neighbour, and most respectable man and family? Surely he is good enough for her. For, of course, this man would never come to me unless Kate told him; and, of course, Kate would not tell him to come to me unless she was willing to have him.' 'When he spoke to Kate, she told him she could give him no answer until he had spoken to you.' 'I know, of course, Kate would act properly in any such case; but that is not enough. I think--I think she had no right to favour a stranger who wants to take her away from me, instead of a settled, respectable, well-known man like Mr Garvage.' 'But, mother, I have explained to you that he has no intention of taking Kate away from you. Would you not be glad to see Kate well settled in Stratford?' 'Yes, in Stratford?' 'Well, you may be easy on that subject. He has money. He will buy a house in this neighbourhood, and Kate will live close to you.' 'What is this man like?' 'He is not very good-looking. His complexion is dark, and he is thin.' 'What in the name of wonder did Kate see in him?' 'He is very amiable and agreeable and amusing. I don't think you ever met a man of exactly his kind.' 'I am prepared to meet a man I shall not like.' 'Then I am certain you will be disappointed.' 'What are his means and his family?' 'He is in very fair circumstances. He has thirty thousand pounds.' 'Well, and what family is he of?' 'He has no living relative, as I told you. His father was in trade--a merchant in New York.' 'A merchant of New York! This is very bad, George. The Americans who come here are not the kind of people I should care to select a husband for my daughter from. And a merchant?' 'I don't think he is in trade himself. In fact, I don't think he ever has been; so great a traveller cannot have had any time for business matters.' 'I cannot understand how Kate could like him. An American, whose father, any way, has been in trade, and who is not himself good-looking. Now, Mr Garvage is a gentleman, and of a good stock and good property. I can't understand Kate. I can't indeed. Do you think she has fully made up her mind to accept him?' 'I only know, mother, what I have told you. I am sure Kate has not made up her mind to anything that does not depend on your decision.' 'I understand that. What I mean is, do you think Kate has made up her mind to accept this man if I give my consent to his paying her his addresses?' 'From the fact that Kate refers him to you, I should think so.' 'She has not told you so herself?' 'No, mother. I have not, I must tell you, seen her alone since she referred Nevill to you.' 'Not seen your sister Kate since this new acquaintance of yours proposed to her! Indeed, George, you astonish me. What am I to think of all this? I can scarcely credit my ears.' 'The fact is, I have been and am in such a distracted state of mind about my own affairs, I could not do anything rational in London. I am calmer down here. I wish, with all my heart and soul, I had never left this.' 'My son! What, am I listening to the words of my sane son, or those of a man whose brain is turned?' 'I think my brain is a little out of order. I fear I greatly exaggerate things; but they are bad enough with me now. When I came to you about Kate I had two objects in view--first, to tell you about that matter, and second, to get away from London, if even for only a few hours. Coming here has done me good. Until now I had no intention of telling you; but somehow the peace of this place, and being with you once again, the silence and freshness, give me ease and comfort me. And you, mother, above all--you, with your dear kind face and your simple goodness, have made me a new man almost, although I am still sorely perplexed.' 'Tell me, child, all your trouble. Am I not your best and most unselfish friend?' 'Oh yes, mother. But what I have to tell you will shock and pain you even more than anything I have yet told you. When I left Stratford I had strong religious feelings.' 'Yes, my son.' 'Well, mother, would you not be greatly shocked if I told you I felt, since I left this, a strong tendency to join--abandon my creed for some other?' 'Why do you ask so absurd a question? Of course I should be shocked and grieved beyond measure.' 'It is worse then even that. I have lost all I had, and have got nothing back in return.' 'My son, my son, this strange woman has stolen away your brain.' 'No, mother, it is still more desperate. She has stolen my heart, and God has taken away my reason and wholesomeness, and I wish it would please God to take away my life too.' 'My son!' She rose and threw her arms round his neck. 'My son, my darling son! My child, my child! How can you say such things to me, your mother?' 'Mother, for all sakes, it would be well if I died.'
It was impossible for George's mother to mistake him. She looked at his face, and found it pale and careworn and full of definite sorrow. The tones of his voice left her no choice but to believe he really was in deep, in desperate mental and spiritual trouble. He sat back in his chair and looked vacantly at the small table lying between them. She took up her gold-rimmed spectacles and softly rapped the volume of Tillotson with them. Mother and son were both silent for a long time. She broke the silence. 'I have forgotten the name of this gentleman who wishes to see me about Kate. What is his name?' 'Nevill. William Nevill,' answered Osborne, brightening up and looking at his mother with more animation than he had yet shown. 'When does he wish to see me?' 'Whenever you please. He would call at any time that may be convenient to you.' 'This evening?' 'Yes. I am certain he would call this evening, if you give him leave.' 'Then bring him to me this evening. As soon as you have introduced us you can leave us for an hour, and then come back for your friend.' From this George took his dismissal, and went back to The Falcon, where he found Nevill nervously fiddling with a daily paper. 'Well,' asked the parishioner of Stepney eagerly, 'what luck?' 'I can't tell. At first, of course, she seemed shocked--my own affair being so fresh--I mean that she was a bit taken aback, the thing coming so suddenly on her. Kate, you know, is a great favourite--always has been.' Nevill looked grave. 'No wonder Kate has been a great favourite at home; but she's a great favourite with me too, Osborne. I hope there will be no final objection on your mother's side. I am prepared for anything short of final objection.' 'I don't fear that. My mother is very staid and calm, Nevill.' 'I know. Not a bit like me. But I am staid and far from calm now. I don't think there is any fear of my old levity breaking out. Do you?' 'No. I think not. I imagine you may rely upon yourself so far.' 'Ay, I may rely on myself, and I may fail, eh, Osborne?' He screwed up his eyes and peered into the face of the other, as though trying to recollect who George was. 'Oh, I am sure you may count on yourself. You are not to fancy my mother is sour or cross-tempered. On the contrary, she is very sweet and wonderfully even.' 'But suppose I made a pun, eh? Wouldn't that be against me? Suppose I bounced out some roaring lie? Suppose I was to rap out some story of my adventures early in life in the slave-trade--' 'Have you ever been in the slave-trade?' asked George apprehensively. 'No, no. My people were Yankees to the backbone, and strong Abolitionists. But suppose I did blurt out that famous adventure of mine when in the slave-trade, upon the occasion of our being pursued by an eighteen-gun British brig? How I, at the head of forty daredevils, boarded the brig, drove the crew before me like sheep--sent all the crew below, battened down the hatches, pulled down the Union Jack and ran up the star-spangled banner of liberty, set fire to the brig, sent her and her eighty-five hands sky high when the magazine exploded, and gave five hundred dollars to build a new church out of the profits of the cargo I then had aboard my own vessel, called theNiggers' Paradise. If I told her that adventure, what effect do you think it would have?' 'Disastrous.' 'Disastrous! Ah, then there is but one thing to do. I must take precautions against the chance of making a fool of myself.' George looked up at him inquisitively for a moment. 'And how are you to take precautions against the danger of a too inventive mind and a too inventive tongue?' 'My dear George, you have much to learn. When we are all settled down here--' George shook his head gravely. 'I say,' persisted Nevill, 'when we areallsettled down here quietly, I shall take you in hand. I shall become your tutor at a salary of one hundred and fifty pounds a year--you to find rattans for your own chastisement.' 'I shall never need to find others than I now have,' said George quietly. 'Nonsense, Osborne! you want only a few days in the country, and a tonic.' 'Never mind me just now, Nevill, I'd much prefer you would not say anything about me just now.' 'Then I shall have to choose, contrary to the sound old advice, the greater evil, and stick to myself. What was I saying about myself? Oh, ay, I must adopt precautions. Do you know, Osborne, I already feel greatly refreshed and invigorated since I have come here. That is very extraordinary, if one thinks that when we set out from London I could have given you ten out of a hundred in dismals and beaten you hands down. But stay now. Wait here for me. I am going out for a few minutes. I sha'n't be long. I want to get something. Here's a newspaper to amuse you while I am away.' He took up his hat, and had left the room before Osborne could question him as to his destination or his plans. He asked his way to the nearest druggist's, and, having found the shop, entered it. In less than a quarter of an hour he was back at the hotel, carrying a small vial in his pocket. He called for a wineglass, poured the contents of the vial into the glass, and swallowed the fluid. Then, with a sigh, said, 'Now I'm ready.' 'Nevill, are you ill? What have you swallowed?' asked Osborne apprehensively. 'Never in better physical health in all my life. I have taken a powerful sedative to calm me. The result will be marvellous, revolutionary. I shall now be in no danger of repeating my exploits in the Gulf of Cabes when I was in the service of an Algerine pirate, or of the way in which we treated the Christian prisoners who would not renounce the errors of their faith and become Mussulmans. Ah, Osborne, that was a bad time, and often since have I regretted it--deeply, bitterly regretted it. But I am an altered, a reformed man now, Osborne. I would not now oppress a Christian unless he was a personal enemy. I would not now take service under the red flag again, for the thing is too full of risk. Had we not better set out at once?' 'Yes, my dear Nevill; but none of this nonsense over the way.' 'Nonsense! Nonsense! My dear fellow, who gave you liberty to apply such a word to what I have said? But let us not discuss that. Let us go. Ah, the air does so improve one. It freshens one up, and makes one feel one and a half. Osborne, I think I was destined by nature for a philosopher of--' 'The peripatetic school.' 'No, the platonic. I have a natural genius for writing dialogue and constructing spiritual theories. I think there is room for a new philosophy. After all, I don't know that I should follow old Plato. I could start a new philosophy of my own. Don't you think something could be done with a philosophy called the dynamitic-psychic philosophy, which would teach there are only two things in the world, namely, force and soul? If anyone chose to question your theory, you could fill his heretical mouth with dynamite and blow his infamous opinions down his throat. Upon my word, Osborne, I think there is something in the thing. Eh?' 'Now stop this nonsense, Nevill. Here we are. This is the house.' 'Is that it? Oh, confound it!' 'What's the matter?' 'That wretched sedative has not gripped me yet, and if I went in now I'd be sure to relate the history of my life when I was one of the Mormons, and loved my eleven wives most dearly. That would never do; would it, George?' 'No, certainly not. I really wish you would try and be reasonable.' 'Oh, blame not the bard if he fly to the bower where a narcotic lies carelessly smiling at pirates. Don't let us go in yet. That drug has not fetched me, and I am all adrift. But how much better I feel upon coming back to my native air!' 'I thought you told me you were born at sea?' asked Osborne. 'Oh, bother! What a fellow you are for detail! If I come here and settle down, does not this become my native air? Do you mean to say that if a doctor ordered me to my native air I should be obliged to learn navigation to find out the exact position of the ship I was born in at the moment I first saw the light, and that I should then have a kind of raft built and towed there, and that I should have to live on that raft until my health was fully restored or a devil-fish ate me? Or do you think if I was recommended to turn myself loose in my native wilds I'd go and drag out a miserable existence at Stepney? Rubbish! A man's native place is the place he loves best. At least that is my definition of it; and in any discussion a man has a right to make his own definitions, has he not?' 'Undoubtedly. He has a right to his own definitions until they are challenged.' 'Talking of discussions makes me think of argument, and argument naturally takes me back to discussion, and backing and filling in that latitude brings me, Osborne, upon a profound reflection. Let us walk on awhile till that sedative turns up. You will be able to recognise its exhibition by a slightly nasal twang and a slightly pious tone. When you find these symptoms, lead me back. But as I was going to say, I have come upon a fine rule for the discussion of the future. We all know a man may start by defining everything to be nothing. Very good. We also know that never in the history of man has one discussion caused one man to alter his mind. Now if a man has a right to his definitions, and if his arguments and deductions can have no influence on the mind of his adversary, why not postulate his arguments and deductions at once, and be done with the whole matter? But, Osborne, this is no better than trifling. In fact, Osborne, it is not even trifling; it is deliberate folly. I am awfully nervous, and I am in mortal terror that my nervousness will betray me into some mischief or other in this coming interview. Do you detect a pious odour? Do you notice a nasal twang?' 'I think if you intend calling this afternoon you had better go now.' 'Very well. Lead on. Osborne, I never, knew what nervousness was until now.' They retraced their steps, and in a few minutes entered the house. The servant said Mrs Osborne would be down in a short time. Miss Alice was in the drawing-room. 'You will like little Alice, as we call her, Nevill. She is gayer than Kate.' 'I am sure I shall like her; but her differing from Kate is not what will make me like her, but her resembling Kate. What a still quiet home you have lived in all your life, Osborne, while I have had the noises of the bustling world about my ears!' George opened the drawing-room door. 'My sister Alice. Mr Nevill.' She bowed, ran to her brother, threw her arms round his neck, and cried out,-- 'Oh, dear George, 'Tilda told me you had been here, and that you would be back some time in the afternoon. And when I came over from Mrs Craven's and heard you would be here soon, I couldn't spare time to run up and take off my hat. Where is Kate? Why didn't she come back with you? Is she quite well? Will you take me to London with you when you go?' 'We'll see, Alice; we'll see. Kate is quite well. I left her behind me in London. I am going back there again almost immediately.' She unclasped her arms, and looked at the stranger. George said,-- 'Mr Nevill met Kate in London; so, little Alice, we shall all be as old friends.' 'Do you like Kate?' asked Alice, looking at Nevill. 'Yes, very much indeed,' he answered, with a quiet smile. 'Oh, George, I am so wretched and lonely since Kate went away. It is such misery to have no one to tease. Will she come back soon? You saw mother when you were here before. I have not seen her since I came back from Mrs Craven's. Do tell me all the news?' 'Mr Nevill,' said George, with a smile, 'you must not mind little Alice. She seems rudely inattentive to you; but she does not mean to be rude at all. She generally is what she does not mean to be.' 'Then she must mean never to be charming,' said Nevill, with a suave bow. Alice coloured slightly, and looked at the stranger fixedly for the first time. She thought: 'What a plain-looking man! He isn't ugly enough for an ornament. What can have induced George to make friends with him? I declare if Kate were at home I'd give up chaffing her about Mr Garvage, and say Mr Nevill was the real victim. Oh, my poor Kate, after all I don't know that I could be so cruel as that.' She said aloud, 'I hope Mr Nevill will forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. I am delighted to meet any friend of yours, George, anyone that knows and likes our foolish Kate. Here's mother.' 'Mother, allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr William Nevill.' Mrs Osborne looked at the thin man, with his plain sallow face; held out her hand to him, sighed, and said, 'Welcome to Stratford-on-Avon, Mr Nevill. I hope you will like the place.' 'I am sure I shall. I have already learned to like some of the people.' 'By Jove!' he thought, 'that sedative has turned up at last. I am even in doubt now as to whether I shall pin my fate to my works as a missionary in Central Africa or my scheme that the English should take China, Japan, and Eel-pie Island, with a view to converting the Inhabitants to Christianity.'
When a few commonplaces had passed, George put his arm round Alice, saying, 'Come with me; I want to have a quiet chat with you;' and led her out of the room. As soon as Mrs Osborne found herself alone with Nevill, she turned to him, and smiling, said,-- 'George has informed me you wish to speak with me. We shall not be interrupted now.' 'I find myself in an exceedingly difficult position, a position in which I have never found myself before, and in which I hardly know how to go on.' She bowed very slightly, and awaited what further he had to say. 'The fact is, I have been a useless, worthless man all my life, Mrs Osborne, a wanderer over the face of the globe, never doing an honest day's work, and not caring particularly what happened to me or the world to-morrow. I am no longer a very young man. I begin to think of settling down, and I have decided upon settling down in the neighbourhood of Stratford, if you have no objection.' 'Why should I have any objection to your settling in Stratford?' 'Well, in this way. Suppose I settled in this neighbourhood, and bought a house, and lived a quiet homely English life, and got into such respectable society as would admit me, do you think you would have any objection, just because I'm ugly and the son of an English merchant, to my coming and seeing you occasionally?' 'Not the least. You must not say rude things of yourself.' She smiled. There was no denying he was ugly; but it was unusual to hear a man thus push his ugliness into prominence. Whatever his birth may have been he was not ashamed to own it. And what on earth could be better than an English merchant, except an English gentleman? And practically he was an English gentleman. He was modest enough; and then he might be so useful. If he would only promise to be useful it would be an enormous advantage in the unfortunate state of things now existing. 'I say ho rude things of myself. I know what I am. I have been about the world long enough to have lost all false shame. I hope I have not lost true shame with it. I am not ashamed of the business upon which I came here to you to-day.' Again she bowed. 'The fact is, Mrs Osborne, as you know, I met your son in London, and as everyone who meets him must, I took a great liking to him. He was in every way such a contrast to me; so quiet and retiring, and bashful and good. I also had the privilege of meeting your daughter, Miss Osborne, and I have come to you, Mrs Osborne, by her direction, to ask you if you would have any objection to my paying my addresses to her, with a view to my marrying her, if you are good enough to give me permission, and she is good enough to have me. Believe me, I am not saying what I should like to say in the matter. But I feel awkward. In fact, I am not accustomed to making--what rubbish am I talking! Be merciful, and take the will for the deed.' He paused, and looked at her eagerly. His sallow face was flushed, his eyes anxious, his hands trembling violently. 'It is a very serious question, Mr Nevill.' 'A very serious question indeed, for you, for her, for me. I am so much impressed by the gravity of this interview that I do not feel at all self-possessed. The excitement of the moment has quite changed my nature.' Mrs Osborne looked at him long, and not unkindly. 'He is sincere, at all events,' she thought. She said:-- 'George had given me to understand you would say something of this kind to me, and he has also told me matters of detail, matters of business which are satisfactory so far as I have heard. But in a grave affair of this kind we ought to be very careful. It is worth being careful about one's child, one's daughter. George has told me one thing, to which I attach the utmost importance. He says you are of the same faith as Kate.' 'Yes. Mrs Osborne, I desire in this matter to be perfectly candid with you in all things. I was brought up in the church, and have never been a member of any other religious body. But I have not been an active or pious member. You will understand a man going about as much as I, is not so particular about keeping up observances as if he were settled down in a quiet English country town.' 'I understand. Although I have lived a very quiet life I can make allowances for young men, and so long as they do not take up some new-fangled notions, I am prepared to make allowances. Now, I think the best thing to be done is to bring Kate home. As you say you think of settling somewhere hereabout, we shall be glad to see you now and then, when it pleases you to call; but you will understand I go no further than giving you leave to call. You may renew the subject of this conversation later on, that is, if you do not in the meantime alter your mind.' 'How can I tell you how much obliged I am to you, dear Mrs Osborne!' he cried, excitedly clasping his own hands, and rising to his feet. 'You don't know what you have done for me to-day. You cannot imagine the favour you have conferred. It is above all price. I will not say more now than that, no matter how this affair may turn out, I shall never forget the confidence and kindness you have shown me, a mere stranger.' 'There is a subject, Mr Nevill, on which I am exceedingly anxious, one which has never caused me a moment's uneasiness until to-day. You may and you may not be able to serve me in it. If you are, you can serve me greatly. I am uneasy about George.' 'Uneasy about George, Mrs Osborne! In what way?' 'Never lived a better son or brother; but I am afraid he is in more danger than if he was much less good. I wish you would speak to him seriously. Try to show him the wickedness and folly and misery of unbelief. Now if, Mr Nevill, you could only do this, you would earn more of my gratitude than you could in any other way.' 'I have no great faith in my influence with him, but I will do my very best. You may rely on that.' 'You will stay for dinner? We dine at six.' 'I shall be very glad if you will allow me to dine with you; but first I'll run over to The Falcon for a moment, just to counter-order a dinner there. I shall be back before six.' He left the house without meeting George. He went straight to that dreary little railway station. The day was raw and wet, and cold and miserable, and the railway station is one of the bleakest in England. To him the day was full of light and gaiety. When he reached the miserable telegraph-office he smiled at the damp-looking clerk. The damp-looking clerk did not smile at him. No man in a normal state of mind could smile on a wet winter's day at the Stratford railway station. Nevill took up a telegraph form, and put down his own name boldly. Then he wrote 'Miss Osborne, care of Mrs Barclay, Peter's Row, London, E.C.,' with great distinctness and care, touching and retouching the letters of her name caressingly. Then bit elaborately, and carefully inspected, the end of his pencil. Meanwhile the damp-looking clerk faced him with the expression of a martyr to electricity and suppressed catarrh. Nevill's was not an ordinary case. He was addressing his first telegram to her who now he had good reason to think would become his future wife. It was in the nature of his position he should feel strongly, tenderly, hopefully. But how was a man to be strong and tender and hopeful in the presence of this damp clerk? the knowledge that this damp clerk would read the message, and send it over a hundred miles of damp wires to London, where it would again be read? What should he say? For a moment he thought he would not telegraph at all; and then he thought that would look very like treating Kate carelessly, and surely nothing in the world was further from his desire than to treat Kate carelessly. 'Well, he couldn't stand there all day staring at that man. The clerk looked as if he would as soon stand there all day as not; nothing being of any interest to him. At last Nevill resolved upon the simplest form, words that could bring no meaning to anyone who had not the clue. The message ran:-- 'I have had a most satisfactory interview. Nothing could have been kinder. I will write. I dine there this evening.' As soon as this had been handed in, Nevill returned to The Falcon, countermanded the dinner, and strolled back to Osborne's. The dinner passed over without any incident of consequence. Mrs Osborne was grave, and George dull. Nevill's happiness spoiled his natural free extravagance, and Alice, who now knew what the stranger had come about, sat lost in wonder and dismay before the proof of Kate's bad taste. Mother and son had a little talk about matters of a purely local character; and in these Nevill did his utmost to join and take an interest. Instead of relating his own adventures among pirates, or gamblers, or bushmen, he listened to all the doings of the little town, and all the changes the few weeks of George's absence had made in the neighbouring families and visitors around. Nevill was charmed. He had never known what a family circle was. He had not left school when his own home had been broken up; and since then, he had been here and there and everywhere, but never in a quiet, sweet, wholesome home like this, where all was orderly and clean and respectful, and there was no ambition or bitterness, or spite or display. It was a domestic haven for a weary man, and already Nevill felt perfect peace descending upon him and clothing him round, as the darkness had that evening descended upon the silent road, the peaceful garden, and, clothed them now in repose. 'It is delicious to think I shall, after all,' he thought, 'end my days under an apple-tree in an English orchard. To think of shaking off the dust of the weary world, and gathering oneself into this pastoral Warwick, sunk in the memories of its histories and of its great son: in an English orchard with gentle Kate, with gentle Kate! 'Oh my Kate! Who could ever have fancied I should turn out such a lover? Love cannot beautify me, but it beautifies all the rest of the world for me; and what need I care for my ill-looks so long as my Kate cares for me and is at my side? Under an apple-tree in an English garden! What a handsome fellow that Osborne is! He'll be a credit to me as a brother, and that is more than I shall be to him. What a pair he and Miss Gordon will make! for of course what Osborne is talking of is only rubbish. A handsome couple, by Jove! They will make--' 'George,' said Mrs Osborne, interrupting Nevill's thoughts, 'I think it is now time Kate came home.' Osborne looked up at his mother as though suddenly reminded of something he had forgotten. He then started on remembering the occasion of Kate's visit to London, and the enormous difference in his hopes and plans since the day he met her at the London railway terminus. 'I have thought over thewholeaffair,' continued Mrs Osborne, with slight emphasis and a significant look, 'and considering the friendship that has sprung up between--Miss Gordon and Kate, and the kindness she has shown to Kate, the least we may do is to give her a most cordial invitation down here, and take no refusal.' George looked up at his mother with tears of gratitude in his eyes. He saw the kindly intent of a mother whom he loved with all the force of his nature, and who, of late years, ever since he had grown to be a lad, had behaved to him more as a sympathetic friend than as a mother. She had sought to lead rather than to drive, to take him by the hand rather than push him by the shoulder. Here was she now, entering into his schemes, interesting herself in making matters easy for him, helping him towards that marriage he had set his heart and soul upon awhile ago. Things were going right with everybody--but his wretched self. What should he do? Whither should he turn? Where should he go? Anyway, his reply was plain,-- 'I am sure, mother, it would be a very gracious thing to do, and Kate would be greatly pleased by it.' 'Then, you see,' said Mrs Osborne, more cordially than he had ever in all his life heard her speak before, 'we shall be a party much the same as you were in London; for I understand Mr Nevill will not be far off, and Alice and I will be of the party, and we can have a few people now and then, and we may go out occasionally.' George tried to smile, and said, almost inarticulately,-- 'You are very good, mother.' Nevill was delighted. Why, this was as good as giving him a standing invitation to all the parties at the house, as well as to the ordinary hospitality! What could be more delicious than this? Nothing in the world. To woo by day his own sweet, fair, gentle Kate in country lanes, and then spend the evening with her at a homely hearth! What could be more fascinating? And then the fact that Mrs Osborne spoke of arrangements of this kind before him, made him feel she already regarded him as a member of the family. He had prospered much better than he had hoped in his wildest dreams. Mrs Osborne thought, 'If I can only get George to stay here and be under the old influence, and the influence of this girl, all may go well, and he may lose the awful doubts and difficulties under which he now labours.' When the ladies had retired, the two men left the table and drew their chairs to the fire. 'You may smoke,' said Osborne; 'no one objects to smoking here, Any of my friends who use tobacco always smoke here.' Nevill lit a cigar, and for a long time both men sat looking in silence at the fire. Nevill spoke first,-- 'I have got on to-day much better than I had hoped. I think it will be all right. What do you think, George?' 'I am almost sure all will be right. I think nothing could have been better than the way you got on,' answered Osborne, very sedately. 'I don't think I can be wrong now. I will not believe I can be wrong. Kate would not have referred me to your mother, George, unless she was willing to listen to me; and your mother would not have spoken as she did at dinner, unless she had made up her mind not to refuse her consent. What she said at dinner was more significant than anything she said to me privately. I don't think I can fail now, do you?' 'I think--I am sure--you have no reason for fear in the matter now. I should think it unbecoming in either Kate or my mother to go so far and draw back without very good and strong reason.' He crossed his legs, leaned his elbow on the table, and his head on his hand. 'I feel certain I may count on it now. You cannot believe what a relief it is to me. I would not go through the last week again for all the money in the Bank of England.' 'Nor would I.' 'From the first moment I found out my feelings towards Kate until now I have never had a peaceful hour, never a peaceful minute. By day I had a racking doubt, half fear, half hope. I could not sit still half-an-hour. I could not fix my mind on anything, on anyone. My mind was not always occupied with Kate; but when I strove to compel it to look at anything else, I had a feeling as though something must be happening to her while my mind was away from her. Of course I should not speak so freely to any other man; but you and I are in the same boat, and you will appreciate what my feelings must have been.' Osborne crossed the leg which had been under over the other, but said no word. 'And now, George, coming to the practical, do you know any place about here you think would suit us?' 'Not at the moment. What kind of a place would you like?' 'Well, if I am to settle in the country, I may as well have a little bit of the country to turn in. I'd like a comfortable house with ten or twelve acres of land. I have always had an idea of starting as a tree-grower. You can grow trees on ten or twelve acres. I don't mean growing timber, mind; I mean trees for planting. I have had a notion of the whole thing in my mind for years.' 'It would not be easy to get such a place, but you might pick it up.' 'Of course we couldn't live in very good style; but we could have rashers for breakfast, and bacon and beans for dinner, and watercress and shrimps for tea.' 'I don't know about the shrimps hereabout. You'd often have to send for them. We have not a well-supplied fish-market.' 'Well, say tinned beef. We couldn't afford much for that house and land; say, four thousand, or under. Not much splendour to be got for that; but quiet comfort, I should think.' 'You ought to be able to get a place to suit you for the money.' 'I'd like it to be thorough rural, not so near the town as this. I'd like a house on a hill, and would not care to be more than a mile from a good old church, where five or ten generations of simple folk have knelt and worshipped until they were gathered into the quiet churchyard. My dear good George, it would be such a pleasure to me, who have been kicking about the world so long, owning nothing but my baggage, having no being on earth more dear to me than the waiter who last drew a cork for me, to find myself owner of a quiet English house on the top of one of these gentle hills, overlooking a little valley with an old-fashioned church in view, and the dearest girl in all the world by my side, and you and your wife--' 'Yes, I can understand, I can understand,' said Osborne, very softly. He got up, and leaning his elbows on the chimneypiece, was silent for awhile. Something in his action and manner caused Nevill to pause. All at once Osborne turned round, held out his hand, and said, in a firm, clear voice,-- 'Nevill, I hope you may succeed, and realise all your hopes. You are a good, kindly fellow. I like you very much. I shall be very glad to do anything I can for you, and to hear you speak on any subject but one. From this, until I tell you I have removed the injunction, you must not allude to my affairs.'