'And so, miss, we're going down to the country to stay awhile with Mr---- I mean Miss Osborne's mother. Well, that will be a change anyway, and it's time we had a change out of London. I'm tired of London for one! And where are we going after Stratford? Are we coming back to London?' 'I do not know, O'Connor.' 'And when do we leave London for Stratford?' 'To-morrow afternoon.' The maid withdrew and left the mistress alone. Marie sat in an old-fashioned elbow-chair before the fire. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her head drooped forward. Her eyes were fixed upon her hands. Her face was dull and expressionless. No light shone in her eye. The thoughts that visited her came like shadows, and went like shadows, vague in their approach, leaving nothing after them when they had gone. She was not thinking so much as musing, not so much musing as allowing what idea would to stray into her mind. Her heart had become a weary spectator of her thoughts. She was not dreaming, for dreaming means dealing with things which are not. She was looking with heavy, dull, uninterested eyes at a panorama of the immediate past. So grave now, and now so restless. What had happened to her George, to her great fair-faced, calm-minded, loyal gentleman lover? What had happened to him? His eyes no longer rested on her. They were dim, and busy with far-off things. He was no longer attentive to her motions or words as awhile ago. When he came back last evening from Stratford he was polite and gentle, but there was no ardour in his ways. He had not seemed to wish for a quiet chat with her. He had not sought a solitary greeting or leave-taking. He had, in fact, treated her as though she wore no ring of his giving on her finger. What could be the meaning of this? The notion that she could have displeased him seriously was nonsense, for she knew she had done nothing wrong, and she knew he was of too simple and manly a nature to be, altered by any trifle. Nothing petty could have changed him. It must have been something of importance. What could it be? He was not a man to change in any respect for a trifle. Why had he changed towards her? It could not be that the change had been wrought by his visit to his home, for had he not come back with an invitation for her to go there? He could not have been displeased with her for accepting that invitation, for he had handed her his mother's cordial letter in the presence of Kate and Mr Nevill, and had given her no opportunity of talking over the matter with him. Besides, why should he bring the invitation unless he wished her to accept it? He had not only afforded her no opportunity of discussing that invitation with him, but immediately before, and ever since his going to, and since his return from, home he had avoided her; he had never sought her when they might be alone. It was not so much that he avoided her, as that he did not seek her. This was inexplicable. She, if she had her choice, would never be a moment from his side. His voice was all she wanted to make everything beautiful and gay. The sense of youthfulness and joy came to her when she heard his voice. It was as though all the troubles and jars and difficulties and vexations, which, added upon youth by years, made one feel the loss of early sprightliness, had been removed, and the full irresponsible joyousness had been restored. Love in women takes off all responsibility save the duty of loving. It may add to the cares of man the burden of which woman is relieved. But then George had broad shoulders and a brave spirit. The burden of her own responsibilities had always sat lightly upon her; it surely could not bow down, much less break down, George. He was no coward; he was no weakling. He had asked her to make certain pledges, and she had made them as unhesitatingly as she would follow him all over the world. If she had any doubt or difficulty now, she would go to him and tell him all. Why did he not come to her if he were in any doubt or difficulty? Kate had never seen him in such a way before. What could it mean? Kate had never seen him thus before, and Kate must have seen him in every phase of his character. Yes, in every phase of his character. In every phase of his character--save one. She had never seen him in love before. He had been very much in love with her a few days ago. He showed it in all his acts, he told her so in plain words a hundred times, and yet Kate did notthensay she had never seen George's general manner such before. It was only since this change towards her came that Kate noticed the unfamiliar manner. Kate had never seen him in love before, and yet a week ago his general manner had not been changed by love. What had changed his particular manner towards her and his general manner to those around? Had he repented of his hasty love-making? Had he repented? No doubt he had been hasty. Did he now think he had been rash? Ah, that was a thing to ponder over, but not now, not now. George had come back; that was the great matter now. But how different he was from what he had been only a few days ago! Then he had made royal warm love to her, and she had sat in the sunshine of his love, content and rich. Now she was going with Kate on a visit to his home, to see the place in which his nature had expanded and developed. She had pictured to herself that home for their own home. He had made a sketch of it, and she had filled in the sketch. There was to be no romance in their future, but that divinest of all earthly romance, the romance of wedded love. He was, outside the ordinary duties of his position, to devote himself to her. He was not to make a goddess of her, but she was to share all things with him. What was he sharing with her now? Ah well, perhaps when she got down to the country, out of this worrying city, he would tell her all, share his secret with her, instead of imposing this strange cold gloom. Why did he not come to her and tell her what his trouble was? Even if it were she, it would be better for him to come and tell her boldly, and she would know what to do. She should then merely tell O'Connor to pack up, and they could go away--whither she cared not, so long as he was relieved. Men talked about dying for women they loved. She would live in any misery, if living could do him any good. He was lord of her, and she was his slave. He had to order, she to obey. She did not want kind words or gentle consideration. She would be satisfied with anything, so long as he was happy. He was her lord and master. He should be her lord and master until her heart had ceased to beat. She would have no other lord or master, no other all her life. Why did he not come to her and tell her what was the matter, that she might lay her heart at his feet? She wanted him only to show her what sacrifice of hers could ease him in any way. She had once been proud or vain, she knew not which. She had in the olden time scorned women who were easily led by men; now she would follow him to the grave. Nay, she would walk into the grave, although she knew he was not to follow her; although it was to be their final separation for time and eternity. Was this infatuation? No. This was love as she had dreamed of it, as it had always presented itself to her in the long-ago of unrest and heart fancy-free. Yes, she would rather see him married to someone not herself, than that he should be her husband and dissatisfied with his wife. But would he ever unbosom himself to her? Would he allow her to go down to his mother's place without explaining the alteration of his manner? That would be worse than even here. What should she do? Another girl in her place would refuse the invitation. But he had brought the note from home, and she was justified in concluding it had been dictated by his heart. Oh, that there were any way of finding out what would come of this--death or life! Gradually, as the minutes went on, the mind of the girl had become more active. In time the mere dreamy contemplation of dull shadows passed away, and her ideas assumed sharp edges, and her thoughts exact formulæ. 'O'Connor, is that you?' 'Yes, miss.' 'What brought you back?' 'A note for you from Mr Osborne.' With hands that trembled slightly, the mistress took the envelope and opened it. The contents were:--
'Tell me when you can give me an hour or two. I want to have a quiet chat with you in the open air somewhere.
George.'
She took up a pencil and wrote back,--
'I can keep any appointment you make.
Marie.'
He rejoined:--
'Come at once.'
She rose, and said,--
'O'Connor, give me a waterproof; I am going out.'
'Going out, miss! I'm glad of that. I hope it will make you feel better.'
'Nothing can make me feel worse,' thought Marie.
When Marie got downstairs she found George restlessly pacing the hall. He stopped when he saw her, looked at her sadly, and held out his hand. She cast one rapid glance at him, and then, fixing her eyes on the floor, silently held out her hand to him. He stooped, kissed her glove, and then, having opened the door for her, she passed out, followed by him. 'Only my glove!' she thought. 'Only my glove!' As they turned out of Peter's Row he offered her his arm, and said,-- 'I want to have a quiet talk with you, Marie.' She said nothing. She looked down, counting the divisions in the flags as she passed. 'Only my glove,' she thought drearily; 'only my glove he kissed. More than a glove has come between his hand and mine--between his lips and mine. If he had put his arms round me in the hall and kissed me and said-"My own Marie!" I should have forgotten everything but that I was his. Now I do not know what to forget. In the old time I belonged to myself; of late I have belonged to him. Now he seems not to want me, and I do not want myself only for his sake. God help me, God help me! I am poorer than the worst-used wife in England. I would rather be used badly by him than that he should pass me by. If I cannot be happy with him there is but one thing else I could endure, and that is to be unhappy with him. God give me guidance and strength! If Thou wilt, give me my George's love back again!' They turned into Lincoln's Inn Fields. Not a word had been spoken the whole way from Peter's Row. As soon as they were out of the turmoil of Holborn, she said, without raising her eyes or her head,-- 'Have I annoyed you, George?' 'Hush, girl, no. Let me speak. I have asked you to give me a few minutes here, because I want you to grant me a great favour.' 'A favour!' she said to herself, with a joyous cry. 'A favour! George wants a favour of me! This lord of my life wants a favour of me! Oh, monstrous happiness, that he should want anything I can give! It must be my life he wants. It cannot be less than my life he wants; he could think of nothing else as a great favour. My life, or--or--yes, it may be that. It may be he is tired of me, and wants my ring back for another's finger! That would be more than my life, but nothing worth his taking. How incalculably rich love makes one! A month ago I had nothing more precious than my life; now I have love, a thousand times more precious than life. Of course I will give up my sweetheart for my love's sake. I will give him up as freely as I gave him my love. It will then be a dark and dreary world for me; but there will be one bright spot--the place where he dwells in happiness; one memory of intoxicating pain and sacrificial joy, that of the time when I gave him up to secure his happiness.' She raised her head and her left hand. Looking into his eyes for the first time, she said, in a tone of tender firmness,-- 'George, I know what it is. You have been hasty. You now find out you have been hasty. You are terribly distressed, because you think what you are going to ask will pain me. Is not what I say true?' 'There is something in it, Marie. But how could you have guessed?' he asked, in amazement. For a moment her lips moved, but no words came. Suddenly she turned deadly pale, her head dropped forward, and she tottered. He seized her round the waist, and whispered frantically,-- 'Marie, Marie, you are faint. Let me get you something. Cab, cab!' She raised her head slowly, and looked into his face with a sweet dim smile, saying feebly,-- 'No, George, please do not. I am all right. I only grew giddy for a moment. Don't call a cab. I am all right now.' 'But, Marie, what happened to you? You are looking wretched now. Do let me get a cab and take you home.' 'No, no, I am quite well now. It was only a passing giddiness. I feel all right. It will be better for me to walk and keep in the air.' She had divined truly. It was for his happiness she should never see him again. All the light had gone out of the world at once. All the days would be clouded for ever; all the months of the year would be Octobers. She resumed speaking,-- 'I was saying something a moment ago. I cannot recollect what it was about.' 'Marie, Marie, do not look in that way. Do not speak in that tone. My God, what have I done to this girl!' 'Oh yes, I remember now. I recollect it all, George. Dear George, you must not distress yourself about me, about any such trifle. I know, George, you do not look on a matter of this kind as a trifle. But it really is. You want me to give you this back, don't you?' She touched the third finger of her left hand, where, under the glove, lay his ring. 'No, no, no, Marie, not that! For mercy's sake, don't smile. I think my heart is breaking. I only want you to be merciful to me. I am in great difficulties and dangers which I cannot now explain to you.' 'I do not ask you to explain anything to me, George. I only ask you to tell me what I am to do. What you tell me to do I will do, for I know you are strong and wise and noble.' He looked at her for a moment with eyes of infinite tenderness. The smile which had pained him had faded from her face, and a light of enthusiastic loyalty gleamed in her eyes. What had he done, what was he doing--to win such a love and think of losing her now? She looked pale and anxious--she, his darling! Ah, it was hard on him. But there was nothing for it but to go on now. He said aloud,-- 'No, I do not want you to give me that ring back. I want you to keep it for awhile, anyway.' For awhile--for awhile! What could he mean by 'For awhile'? 'I want you, Marie, to give me a little time--a little time.' 'A little time!' she repeated, in dreary perplexity. 'What do you mean by a little time? You have been too hasty in giving me this ring. Take it back, and you will have all time.' 'You do not understand.' 'I do not want to understand, George. You say you want time. How can I give you more time than by returning you this ring, which will make matters exactly as if you had never said more to me than to any other girl you know? I feel I am not worthy of you.' 'Marie, Marie, for Heaven's sake do not say such a thing! You not worthy of me! Monstrous! Such a thought could enter the head of only a fool.' 'Then, George, I am no better than a fool. For I know and feel I am not worthy of you; and you even, with all your splendid, manly generosity, cannot but have found out--have already found out--how inferior I am to you.' 'Believe me, you are utterly mistaken. Such an idea as your not being good enough for me never crossed my mind--in fact, it could not enter my mind: and now even this denial of it seems affronting the respect I have felt for you. I feel I owe myself an apology for denying I ever felt anything of the kind. If anyone but you, Marie, had suggested such a possibility, I should simply laugh at him; I should not condescend to answer him seriously. It is about myself I feel uneasy; I do not think I am worthy of you.' 'Oh, George, you cannot be in earnest!' 'In bitter earnest. I do not think I am worthy of you; and I want you to give me a little time to find out, if I can--to satisfy myself, if I can--that I am worthy of you.' 'I cannot understand you, George--I cannot understand you. You are, I know, quite incapable of saying anything you have not good reason for saying; but I cannot understand you. I am quite content with you; why are not you content with yourself?' 'Marie, whatever happens between us, there must be no misunderstanding. Misunderstandings occur between only the vain and the foolish. When first I spoke of love to you, my belief was that when people like you and me agreed to love one another on earth, it was that they simply entered into an apprenticeship of eternal love.' 'I remember every word you have said to me--I have never forgotten one; and the words you speak of were the sweetest I had ever heard.' 'Suppose I have changed since then?' 'Changed in what?' 'In my idea of the carrying of our loves out of the world. Suppose I do not think we shall carry any memory out of this world--suppose I think the grave is the end of man? What then?' 'I am still unable to understand you. Make it plainer for me, George; you know I am only a dull woman. Tell me exactly what you mean?' 'Suppose I was to say, with Tennyson's "Lotus Eaters," "Death is the end of life," would you still marry me?' 'George, what difference would that make between you and me?' 'Don't you remember what you promised me when I put the ring on your finger under St Paul's?' 'Yes.' 'And would you, remembering what you then promised, marry me, even if I told you I no longer held the faith I then professed?' 'But, George, it is not so. You have not lost your faith. You are not serious; you are only trying me--George, you are only trying me. Tell me you are not serious, and let us be happy, George, as we were before.' 'I am not trying you, Marie. I am in sad earnest. I ask you, if I told you my opinions had changed, would you still marry me, in face of the promise you made me under St Paul's?' 'I would.'
That evening Marie did not leave her room. She did not come down to dinner, Judith O'Connor took her up some food, which Marie scarcely touched. She was not in bad spirits; she was not in bad humour. She was at a loss--at a dead standstill. She could see nothing in the future, nothing farther back in the past than the events of that day--the things he had said to her in that memorable walk round the square. What had been the meaning of his words? There was no harder riddle to read on all the earth. He loved her still, and thought her good enough for him, though she knew she was not. She had given him every faculty of her heart and soul; she could take none of those back from him; the spaces they had held were now occupied by love, and when love came to abide with her, all her possessions had left her as though she had died. Now he was asking her to give him time to let him try himself still further before he asked her to carry out the promise she had given him of becoming his wife; nay, more than that, he had asked her to withdraw for the present that promise. Why? Because of some scruple which had arisen in his mind with regard to what took place in St Paul's at their betrothal. Why should religious scruples separate people who loved one another? People of different religions married, and were happy. She had heard of an English lady who married a Mahometan, and having been twenty years his wife, declined to come back to her people. No doubt pious people were greatly shocked at a Christian woman marrying a Mahometan; but men and women of different Christian sects married, and no one made an outcry. Why should religion make any difference between two people who loved and were loyal? George--this noble George, her George--was too conscientious. He had got some ridiculous notion into his head. He loved her still; she could see that in all he did and said. He loved her as warmly as ever. She was essential to his happiness; but some over-scrupulous notion had affrighted him; and made him think that he was unworthy of her. He unworthy of her! What should she do now? Nothing. She would go on as though nothing had occurred to disturb the relations between them. He told her, before this cloud had fallen upon them, that his life would be worthless to him if she did not share it. Now he might do or say what he pleased; she would never be forced from his side. No; she was engaged to him, and in ordinary cases, when women are engaged to men, they expect the men to marry them, unless there is some excellent reason for not doing so. In this case no reason existed for his not marrying her. If he had grown tired of her; if he had relented having asked her to marry him; if he had met anyone he liked better, she would be eager to release him. But nothing of the kind entered into the present case. He loved her still, as he had loved her all along, and his life's happiness would be endangered if she allowed him to break with her now. Besides, this scruple that was upon him would not last; it would pass away. What an unlucky coincidence she should have introduced him to Parkinson! No doubt that man of science had had something--much--to do with the unfortunate change which had taken place in George. Well, that could not be helped now. She must only try and undo the harm, and how could she possibly undo it if she gave him up in this way? No; whatever might happen, she would never let him go from her, when going from her would do him harm, not good. She had no scruple about throwing that foolish promise to the winds; or rather it was not that the promise was foolish, but that it was foolish to think it applied to him. When he had extracted that pledge or promise or vow from her, she most assuredly meant to keep it, as he and she then meant it; but she had never thought such a condition could be applied to him. If at the time he had asked her if she would pledge herself to repudiate him if his religious opinions changed, she would have refused to do so. To keep that pledge to the letter would be to break it to the spirit; for the spirit was that she was so to pledge herself, in order that he and she might not be separated hereafter. That was the only inducement she recognised in making that promise. She would not have made it for all the world if she thought it could possibly come between him and her. Even taking the religious view solely, she must not think of giving him up. For as he had been first disturbed in his faith while he was friendly, in love with her, the best chance of his recovering from his folly would lie in having her near him always; for not only would this supply him with a quiet, unobtrusive advocate, but in her, and in her alone, could he have by him a woman who could not only sympathise with his conscientious struggles, but who had been near him, and in a way with him, through the wild terrors of the first onset on his faith. Plainly her duty to Heaven and to him was refusal of his request for freedom, refusal to give him up this ring. Fools would think this resolution unfeminine, unmaidenly. Let fools think as they pleased. What did she care for what fools thought? She cared for George more than for all the world, sages and fools, besides. If it were good for him, she would give him up. If it were good for him, she would cleave to him all her life. What were fools or sages to her? Not the tiniest flake of the ashes falling there into an ashpan of the grate compared to George. He was the sun in her system, and nothing on earth existed in light that did not proceed from him. But, after all, was she not trying to make up her mind on a point which had not yet arisen? He had not asked her to give him up her ring. He had not told her he wished their engagement at an end. He loved her, and she loved him, and they had had no quarrel, and there was no sensible reason for their parting, and they should not part. No; if all Europe tried to tear her away from his side, she would not go until he bade her go. And if she thought he was going to send her away she would go down on her knees and cling to him, and ask him to kill her there and then rather than send her from him. 'Oh, love, I bless you! All the pains I suffer by love now I would not change for all the happiness of my former life. It is dearer to suffer through love than to be joyous without it; for to suffer through love is to share a lover's pain, and that is the highest of earthly pleasure save to rejoice in a lover's joy.' She determined to try and clear up the situation no further, but to let matters take their course. She told herself she felt no doubt whatever of the issue; George would become himself again, and he and she would be just as though no cloud had ever darkened the sky above them. She rose, and busied herself about the room, partly in packing, and partly in turning over a dozen times things she had no need to take with her. Early in the afternoon of the next day, the whole party left London for Stratford-on-Avon. Fortunately they had a compartment to themselves. At first George hoped and prayed some stranger might get in; but Nevill did all he could to prevent this. He insisted upon their making the carriage present a crowded appearance. He made Kate sit at one of the windows looking on the platform, and Marie on the other. He littered the seats with handbags, umbrellas, newspapers, rugs, and every other kind of light baggage that accompanies the person. He stood up himself, and made George stand up too, so as to prevent anyone on the platform seeing into the remoter half of the compartment; and when anyone looking like a traveller approached, he glanced over his shoulder, and shook his head regretfully at the traveller. 'Of course I might have reserved this compartment by half-a-crown to the man, or by booking in advance. But I never tip railway servants. I consider tipping railway servants a sign of weakness in a traveller. You don't find a man who has pranced over a dozen continents tipping railway servants. He would prefer to ride on the buffer. He would rather walk the distance on his head. He would rather eat hard-boiled eggs all his life for breakfast, dinner, and supper. Why should you tip a railway official? Do you tip a soldier on the battle-field when he has fired each round? And yet a soldier fires at the enemies of his country, and the railway official only facilitates your chances of being smashed in a railway accident. There is some sense in giving a cabman more than his fare, for some time or another he may have the opportunity of running over you. But why tip a railway porter? Miss Gordon, do you think a man, when he is lashed to a gun and about to be blown from it, ought suddenly to put his hand in his pocket, and sing out to the man with the fuze or trigger-line, "Hallo, Corporal Bosco, here's sixpence to drink my health when the job is done!"?' 'I don't see how he could put his hand in his pocket if he were very securely lashed.' 'I did not say "very securely" lashed. I said "lashed." But suppose I grant you the pocket, and put the thing to you in another way? By Jove, we're off at last! Ah, this solitude is delightful. Only three stops on the way down. I think you ought to pass a vote of thanks to me for securing ourselves against intrusion. Come, we'll put Osborne in the chair, and give him a casting vote. What makes you look so blue, Osborne? Only for me you never could have had thisotium cum dignitate. Suppose you had undertaken to keep this compartment, you would have known no other way of doing it than of crawling up servilely to the guard, touching your hat to him, and tipping him half-a-dollar-crown, I mean. I don't see why a man of no intellect like you should be allowed to fatten on my genius. Why should you, like the gentlemen of England, sit in your compartment at ease, while I have been squandering my genius to save you from the rude shock of the world? You owe me half-a-crown, Osborne. As an honourable man you owe me half-a-crown. Come, my man, pay up. No welshing, my boy; pay up.' George made a prodigious effort to rouse himself, and replied, with a smile,-- 'If you had got in anyone in whose presence you would have to be silent, I should not mind giving him or you a crown.' 'Not bad for you,' Nevill rejoined, with an exaggerated air of a connoisseur. 'Not bad for you. Well, Osborne, let us drop the sledge-hammers, and shake hands. Let us patch up a hollow truce, and await a more favourable opportunity of smashing one another. But to resume that most important subject, how to keep women out of a compartment that is not a smoking one. The best plan I know of is to leave on the seat you intend occupying a bottle of gin, and by its side a small tumbler. I admit the experiment is a bold one, but it is effective.' The train had gradually been gaining in speed, and Nevill had gradually raised his voice to overcome the growing clatter of the wheels. Here he paused for awhile, and then ran on again,-- 'It is marvellous how one becomes accustomed to anything. When I was young I could drown the row of a car. Now I can talk eighteen hours end on in a carriage flying at express rate, and never hurt my throat a bit. It is a wonder Darwin took no notice of this. I think I'll suggest to him to write a chapter, and call it "The Survival of the Shrillest." A hurricane on land, or a storm at sea, is nothing to talk through. But I confess I was once hurt--deeply hurt. I was taken by a friend to see the printing of a London morning paper. When we got to the machine-room there were eight machines all going at the one time. Such a clash and row I never heard near me before. I had been talking to the friend who was with me until then. There I stopped. I tried twice to make him hear, and failed. I looked round, and saw two men leaning against one of the machines. One was telling the other a long story. Every now and then they both laughed immoderately. I felt degraded to think I could not make myself heard, when these men were talking with as much ease as I am now to you.' There was a general laugh. Even George could not resist the humour of hearing this man gravely saying he was talking with ease, while his voice was raised to a shrill cry, and the great forked vein of his forehead stood out black upon the plain of his flushed swarthy skin! He joined in the laugh himself after a moment. 'Never mind,' he cried gaily; 'I haven't had an hour of it yet; and I am game to go on for fourteen hours more, I lay the odds.' No one seemed disposed to bet. By this time the noise of the wheels had become so loud, that it was impossible to talk with ease. To the mind of melancholy there is hardly anything more depressing than a railway journey, particularly in winter, through the middle of England. Leafless trees and isolated houses, with now and then a white hamlet, town, or village, are the only objects that break the vast extent of plain. A large stretch of country is under water, and above the surface of the dismal swamp protrude skeleton trees and the tops of fences. George Osborne needed no depressing influence from Nature. He had gone through more trying hours. That day he took the long walk, starting from London Bridge, and, having girt half London, ended at St Paul's, had been much more acutely trying to him; but there was a dull, dark, cold misery about this journey such as he had never felt the like of before. What was he doing? Whither was he leading her? Where was he himself going? He had not been fair to her. He had not been fair to himself. She was looking paler than of old, and when his unexpected glances found her eyes fixed on him, in those eyes there was always a look of mournful brooding and unextinguishable devotion. What would be the end of all this? the end of her? the end of him? Would to God the end of him had come before he had met this girl! Look at her now! The old sprightliness had left her face, and in its place dwelt the more subduing expression of melancholy. What man, being a man and nothing more, and knowing he was dear to that most dear of women, could forbear folding her in his arms, and pressing her to his breast? But there was more in man than humanity. Of old he used to think in addition to humanity there was divinity in man--a possible high and beautiful spirit better and stronger than the unembodied angels. Now--ah, what a blank, dreary waste now! Dreary as that waste of water out there, comfortless as that sky, barren as those ghostly trees. What had man, according to his present rudderless theory, in addition to his humanity? What? Supposing birth was the beginning and death the end of man, what was there more in man than his humanity? The question had never yet presented itself to his mind in that light. It was worth looking at the subject from this point of view before passing it by hastily, finally. Let him look at the case impartially. No. It was dreary enough within and without; he could not stand an examination in the abstract face to face with that dreary landscape, and this dreary mental interior. Let him regard the matter in the concrete. Here was Marie. Here was he. Nothing new had been imported into his humanity since he had seen Marie; nothing old had been taken away. The same code which governed his relations with his fellow-man before he had left Stratford was the code he still held. He would not wilfully injure man or woman now. All the human qualities he had previously considered admirable in man or woman he considered admirable still. Because of any change in his spiritual outlook, he would treat a dog no worse now than a year ago. He had in no way altered his general conduct, or his moral code. He loved and respected his mother as much as ever, and felt as affectionately towards his sisters. What, then, had been changed in him? Nothing but his faith. His faith had not been changed, but lost. It was as though he had possessed ten mental faculties heretofore, and now owned only nine. He had lost a mental or spiritual faculty--what then? That was his own individual personal loss. It hurt no one else; it profited no one else. It was a matter purely between Heaven and himself. It had shocked his mother, but it had not changed the relations between her and him. What! What was he coming at? What was he gradually approaching? What part of his brain had been dead, benumbed, until now? What glory and overwhelming joy lay right in his path? Let him put the matter soberly to himself. Suppose the alteration in his faith had caused no change in the relations between him and his mother, why should it cause any change between Marie and himself? Why should he give up Marie any more than his mother? There was that Promise, that Vow. But now he looked on that vow, or the object of it, as valueless. The very terms of it were now void. It was purposeless. She had made a vow to him from which he could, of course, release her, since, from his present standpoint, that vow was of no more value than the breath which uttered it. He threw up his head, and looked around. Nevill was directing Kate's attention to something in the landscape. Marie's eyes were fixed mournfully upon him. He stooped forward, caught both her hands in his, and drew her towards him, until his lips could reach her ear. Then he said,-- 'Marie, Marie, forgive me, my darling! I have been a great fool! Oh, my love, will you forgive me for all my queer conduct, and all my queer words of late? Nothing of the kind ever can occur again. Never, my Marie. Will you forgive me?' She looked in his face with tears of joy in her eyes. 'Oh, thank God; thank God, George!' 'Nothing of the kind shall ever come between us again, my own love.' She replied with only a radiant smile. He touched her forehead with his lips, and then released her hands. The great cloud which had fallen upon them had lifted, and its shadow was quickly drifting away.
When the travellers arrived at Stratford they drove to Mrs Osborne's. She was expecting them, and was sitting in the drawing-room with Alice. 'Mother,' said George joyously, 'Miss Gordon.' Mrs Osborne first held out her right hand, then her left, and caught a hand of the girl's in each of her own. Marie smiled and blushed, and tried to bow. Mrs Osborne looked long and steadily at the girl before she spoke. When she broke silence she said,--'Thank you, my dear, for coming. You are most welcome. You and I must be great friends. I and George are great friends.' She let go the girl's hands, and turning up the radiant young face, held it a moment between her hands, looking admiringly at its bright young beauty. Then she kissed the red rounded cheek, and turning to Alice, said,--'Miss Gordon, this is my younger daughter Alice. I am sure you and she will be friends.' Alice approached Marie timidly, and kissed her half fearfully. She had never in all her life seen beauty like this before, and was a little overawed by it. Kate was, she knew, beautiful, but this was as different from Kate as sunshine from moonlight. But although she was timid and strange, she did not feel repelled. 'I don't wonder,' she thought, 'at George falling in love with her. If I was a man I should go crazy over her.' 'And now, Miss Gordon,' said Mrs Osborne, 'if you come with me, I will show you your room.' When his mother and sweetheart had left the room, George went to Kate; and said, in a low voice,--' I never expected my mother to take to Marie so kindly. I am amazed. Can you make it out, Kate? As a rule, mother is so slow to get on with people. Did you ever see mother so amiable before?' he asked, in a tone of proud triumph. 'No; but who can help liking, who can help loving Marie? I know no one who could resist her. Oh, George, I am so glad to see you looking so bright and happy to-day.' 'Oh, I am all right now, Kate. It must have been coming back here with Marie cured me. I have had a terribly hard trial, but it is all over. I cannot tell you how happy I am now. I think this is the happiest day of my life. Here are you and Nevill on the best of terms with mother; and here are Marie and myself a thousand times better received than I had dared to hope.' 'No one can help loving Marie. Mother will think more and more of her every day she knows her. I know little Alice liked her too, though she did look scared. Alice will simply worship her in a week. She is just the kind of girl little Alice will go mad about. I am sure you cannot be more glad than I am mother likes Marie so well. I have been very unhappy of late, George.' 'Very unhappy, very unhappy, Kate! What do you mean? Unhappy about what? Why did you not tell me?' 'Oh, not about myself. About you. Now that--that we haveallgot back here to the old place, and you are once more in good spirits, I am more than satisfied. I am delighted. But I used to feel very cold and dismal in London when I thought anything might come between you and Marie. It is so good of you to be like your old self again, George.' He put his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. Alice and Nevill had been chatting at the fire. Now they turned round and drew near Kate and George. The brother--went over to the younger sister, and said to her,-- 'Well, little Alice, are you disappointed?' 'I am a good deal disappointed, George. Fearfully disappointed. Kate wrote me to say she was lovely, and I knew you had some taste. I used to think you a good-looking man. But to think of such a beautiful creature as that accepting such a common-place, homely, dull young man as our George, is beyond my patience.' 'Oh, little Alice,' laughed the brother, 'I thought you meant to say you did not think her pretty.' 'Pretty! Pretty isn't the word, George, and a moonstruck poet like you ought to know better. Why, she's simply exquisite. Such a lovely quiet smile for a home as she has! George, is she awfully stuck up?' 'Not at all. She is wickeder than you.' 'Now, George, if there is one thing I hate it's a paragon, and if such a lovely girl as that was as wicked as I, she would be a paragon. Wicked as I! Why, she looks like an angel.' 'And so does little Alice, now,' laughed Nevill. In the meantime Mrs Osborne had led Marie to her room. On the way she had said little nothings, mere commonplaces about the things they passed and the view from the windows. 'This is your room, my dear,' said Mrs Osborne, as they entered. 'I hope you will find it comfortable. If you want anything let me know. That is the Avon, there. This place would be perfect only for the floods.' She shut the door and sat down. 'The house is, as you see, on a little hill. We are not quite enough out of the town for my taste; but Mr Osborne built the place before we were married, and of course I have lived in it all my life quite contented. 'We are a slow-moving people down here, my dear. Mr Osborne was a stanch Conservative, and did not wish to alter the plan of houses in use a hundred years ago. He said what had been good enough for his father was good enough for him. There are other branches of his family that were more lucky than his. But we must not grumble, my dear; we must not grumble. I have had a rough and a smooth time of it. When Mr Osborne died I had my troubles, besides the loss of the best of men. A good deal of our income went with him, as he had only a life interest in a large portion of the property; when he died a good deal of it went back to the head of the family. I am talking to you quite freely, my dear, as if you were a member of the family.' Marie coloured and bowed. 'I am quick in my likings and dislikings, and I like you; and when you are George's wife--' Marie blushed. 'When you are his wife you will know all the family history; but I am an old woman, and old women like best to talk of the past I don't weary you, do I, child?' 'No, Mrs Osborne; it is exceedingly kind of you to speak to me in this way. It puts me quite at my ease. You could not do me a greater kindness.' The girl looked up, and there were tears of gratitude in her dark deep eyes. Mrs Osborne took her hand and stroked the back softly, as she continued,-- 'All the Osbornes have been Tories--Conservatives, you know. Some of the men of the family have been as wild and reckless as any men need be; but they never forgot their principles or struck their flag. Church and State has been their cry for as long as the Osbornes have been settled in Warwickshire; and that goes back to the Conquest, my dear. A young girl cannot, I know, take as much interest in these things as an old woman; but, my dear, I was like you once--I was young, too, and took no interest in politics; but I married into the family, and I was always with my husband in the great elections long ago; and you will come to take an interest in them yourself, when you are married into the family, child. I am not tiring you?' 'Oh no. Please go on. It is very good of you to take such trouble with me.' 'I am taking no trouble with you; and even suppose I was, with whom should I take more trouble than the woman who is to be my George's wife? But it interests me to talk to you in this way. Well, as I was telling you, root and branch of the Osborne family have always stood up for Church and State; and it would be a terrible blow to the name in the county if anything went wrong now with one of the family. I need hardly say it would be an awful blow to me if anything went wrong with anyone of the name belonging to me.' Marie looked up in surprise and fear. Mrs Osborne continued,-- 'I have been in great fear of George. I am greatly afraid he has strayed from the Church. He tells me you are a member of the Church. So ought he to be. Now, my dear child, I have taken you aside the very first opportunity, the very first moment you entered our house, to ask you, who are to be his wife, to do all in your power to bring him back to faith and reason. There is no better-hearted man in all England than George, no more honourable gentleman, no son a mother loves more dearly; but it were better he had never been born than that he should forego religion. I want you, my dear, to do all you can with him. It is natural you should now have more influence with him than anyone else in the world. I want you to do all you can to bring him back again. In the natural course of things, I shall die long before him; and it would embitter all my life to my death, and make my dying moments awful, if I thought my only son, my dear George--' Marie looked up with a bright look, exclaiming-- 'Oh, Mrs Osborne, I am so glad to tell you I think all those foolish doubts are out of his mind. He has not told me in words that they are, but I think I may be as sure as if he had told me in words. 'Thank God!' cried the mother devoutly. She clasped her hands and looked up to heaven. After a pause Mrs Osborne said, 'You are not sure; you only think.' 'I am sure.' Mrs Osborne clasped the girl's hand eagerly, and looked up into her face with beseeching eyes, and spoke rapidly,-- 'I am his mother. You are the woman who is to be his wife. We are more interested in him than all the rest of the world put together. You say he has got rid of those doubts?' 'Yes; I am sure he has.' 'No time is fixed for the marriage?' 'No.' 'Promise me, his mother, one thing. Promise me, should those doubts return, you will never fix a day for your wedding until they have gone away. Promise me you will never marry him while any doubt remains in his mind. I am his mother who asks you to do this.' 'I promise.'
When Mrs Osborne and Marie came down to dinner they seemed to be excellent friends. Mrs Osborne did and said everything she could think of to put Marie at ease and make her feel at home. The mother had one of those sedate, orderly intellects which cannot be comfortable in the presence of any breach in the ordinary rules of conventional life. She would not have been at all content if she had an assurance George would never marry. George's father and grandfather had married, and why should not George? It was true there had been bachelors on both sides of the family; but she did not approve of bachelors. At first she had not liked the thought of George marrying a person whom he had met casually at an hotel in London. She could not endure hotels herself, and put up at them as seldom as possible. But her Uncle Frederick had married an Austrian lady whom he first met at an hotel in the Alps somewhere, and the marriage had turned out excellently. Besides, much as she had disliked the notion of her son marrying an alien, the girl had not been two minutes in the room before she had conceived a liking for her. Of course she was beautiful, and that was a great deal. Then her hands and ears were good, and she walked well enough to wear a coronet. No girl in or about Stratford was so beautiful as Marie. It was not in women the great difference existed, but in men. The vast majority of girls made good wives; and if there is unhappiness in many households, the fault in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is on the man's side. But there could be no doubt of this simple, straightforward girl making a good wife. Though she had not yet known her a day, she felt as much reliance on her as on one of her own daughters. And then here was this lover of Kate's. What could she think of him? Appearances were certainly against him. He was about as plain-looking a man as she had ever seen. But he had no presumption. Indeed, he could not presume much on his good looks! But he was candid. Manly and handsome or fine men did not always make the best husbands; and George liked him; and when a girl had a careful, sensible brother like George there was no one better qualified to decide the merits of a sister's lover than such a brother. He would settle in the neighbourhood, and that was no small consideration. If George and Kate were comfortably settled close to Stratford they would be quite a large family. It was rather hard to think of parting from two children at once; but in the usual order they would marry some day; and she could not dream of standing in the way of their happiness or prosperity; and the next best thing to their staying at home would be that they should live near the parent house. Marie had never known such peaceful happiness before. It had been a great joy to her when she first admitted to herself she loved George Osborne. From that moment, until the cloud came over him, she had lived in a world of delightful dreams, of wonderful and beautiful sensations. His advent had revealed to her the sanctuary of her own heart. She had known she was physically beautiful--men and women had told her so. But she had never known the loveliness of her nature until then. She had appreciated her physical beauty, but had never boasted of it to herself. But when she found out she loved George, and that because of that love she was prepared to make any sacrifice for him, she delighted in telling herself what an unselfish heart she had. She said, 'I would do anything George asked me. I would go anywhere he asked me. I am not selfish or vain. How I loathe girls who make slaves of men; who make their lovers fetch and carry for them, as though anyone could not fetch and carry while it was possible to love only one! 'Why should foolish girls think it a privilege to tyrannise over those who love them? I could never think of tyrannising over George. Fancy my tyrannising over George! Fancy my trying to make him do anything that would lower his dignity in the eyes of other men! I! I would die first. I am not so foolish or so wicked as to play with the man I love; and I am glad to think my George has not fallen in love with a woman whose pretty face and figure are all she has worth his consideration. If I were plain I should be more worthy of George's admiration than if I were the greatest beauty in England and had a less unselfish heart.' Those hours in London had been for Marie full of large and liberal thoughts. That moment in the train, when she saw the cloud drift away, had been one of intense relief, followed by strong, vague thankfulness. But at this dinner the feeling was one of deep, unanalysed, unthinking pleasure. Here was George looking his own kind, quiet, contented self again. Now and then he said a word to her; now and then she found his constant, frank eyes fixed upon her with their old expression of chivalric admiration and loyal devotion. Here was his mother, gracious and affectionate, and going out of her way to make Marie see that the future wife of George was approved of and highly welcomed. Here was gentle Kate, demurely happy, and looking now and then with a warning glance at Nevill when he burst forth with his usual audacity. All went well and pleasantly. At the beginning Nevill adopted a wise precaution--he said nothing of himself. He kept chiefly to the Red Man. He once knew a red man named Tomahawk Effendi. Tomahawk Effendi was a man over six feet in height, and as red as a new brick house. 'You remember Tomahawk Effendi, Osborne?' 'It was before I went to London,' said George. Kate glanced at Nevill. 'I did not know there were any Red Indians in London just now,' said Mrs Osborne. 'Only a few in the outskirts. They have been almost all shot down by this time.' 'My goodness, Mr Nevill, what do you mean? I have seen nothing about the massacre of Indians in London.' 'It was not what you might consider a massacre--' 'But you said shot.' 'I meant killed by London gin. "Pay the shot" means pay the score; and pay the score means pay for the drink. They are, in ethics, convertible terms, likemeumandtuum.' 'And are there really Red Indians in London?' 'In the suburbs only. There is a large tribe of them in Lordship Lane at present. Owing to the intense susceptibility of the United States Embassy, these aboriginal Red Indians have been compelled by the Government to pass themselves off as gipsies; but they are no more gipsies than I am a Caucasian. You remember, Osborne, the other day, on the occasion of that demonstration in Hyde Park in favour of abolishing the laws now regulating fishing on the Newfoundland banks? You remember one of those so-called gipsies spoke. He wound up by saying he had a home on the other side of the water as well as on this, "And by that right we will defend it?" cried the warrior, throwing down his tomahawk and raising the war-cry of his nation. You remember it surely, Osborne? It created quite a sensation at the time. You recollect it?' 'I have some recollection of the words.' 'It was a splendid speech. I am sure Miss Alice Osborne would have been delighted very much with it.' 'But,' said Alice, putting down her dessert-fork, 'you were going to tell us something about a man with a horrible name. Is this the man with the horrible name, or is this the horrible man without the name?' 'This is the horrible manwithoutthe name.' 'And who was the man with the name?' 'You mean Clooney O'Keefe, the famous bush-ranger; the man I shot--' 'The man you shot, Mr Nevill!' 'The man I shotwith, Mrs Osborne. I was about to saywith. I paused merely to recall his features. He wore a goatee beard and a plug-hat. But the most extraordinary thing about Clooney O'Keefe, the outlawed murderer and robber--' 'With whom you shot, Mr Nevill?' cried Mrs Osborne. 'Accidentally, of course, Mrs Osborne, as one might be shooting at Wimbledon or Inverness-shire in company with the greatest ruffian unhung. The curious thing about Clooney O'Keefe was that, although he was half his time out in the bush, he always wore a blue tight-fitting frock-coat, a flower in his button-hole, and a pair of six-chambered revolvers in his back coat-pockets. He said no gentleman could think of wearing a belt. He had a melancholy end. It created a sensation in the colony.' 'How did he die?' asked Mrs Osborne, with a faint smile. 'One day, while he was resting after robbing a stoutish man, he put his gun on the ground and walked a little way from it, to see if the man whom he had robbed and bound was satisfied, or preferred to be shot rather than run the risk of not being found by anyone before he died of starvation. The man elected to live. Poor Clooney turned round to go back for his rifle, when he saw, to his horror, that a full-grown kangaroo had taken up the loaded weapon, and was pointing it at him, poor Clooney. The creature had, no doubt, seen Clooney cover the traveller with the rifle. The piece might go off at any moment. Clooney drew out one of his revolvers and fired. The bullet struck the trigger of the gun; it went off, and Clooney fell. They put up a monument to the kangaroo, and were very near lynching the traveller when they found him, for being, in a manner, the cause of Clooney's death. These colonial people are a queer lot.' Mrs Osborne rose, and, as he held the door for her, she said, with a smile in passing, 'I am afraid Mr Nevill has been entertaining us with nothing better than travellers' tales.' 'I hope with nothing worse,' he said, bowing low. When the door had been closed he went over to George, and said, 'I am delighted to see you back in your old form again, Osborne. You look as though the heart bowed down with weight of woe had gone in for dumb-bells and come straight in the back again. I hope all is now right between you and Marie?' 'I think so. I have reason to think so.' 'I am delighted. What an awful fool you were to knock your mind into a cocked hat over questions you must take as settled by other men! Did I make a fool of myself--I mean an extra fool of myself--at dinner?' 'No; on the contrary, you got on very well.' 'You don't think I annoyed or displeased your mother?' 'Not in the least. At first she could not make you out. Then she decided you were treating Alice as a very young girl, and inventing stories for her amusement.' 'Oh, was that it?' said Nevill. 'I'm delighted. Because, you know, Osborne, it would never do for your mother to know the truth about me until after Kate and I are married.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Nevill.' 'Perhaps you think I am now inventing travellers' tales to please a child. Were you very little better than a child when you were peddling over your doubts and fears? Why didn't you do as I did? Why didn't you admit that better men and better informed men believed what you hesitated to adopt--men, too, who had given the attention of a lifetime to the subject? Who's that singing? It isn't Kate; her voice is a soprano. It can't be your younger sister; she's very fair, and fair women never have contralto voices. What a magnificent voice it is! What song is that?' 'It is Marie,' said George,' and she is singing the "Miserere nobis."' 'It is very fine. To think you were a doubter a day or two ago!' 'I am one still.'