IN THE LABYRINTH.
After these events there seemed a lull, in which nothing more seemed to
happen. Though time is so short, and our modern pace of living, we
flatter ourselves, so much more rapid than of old, how few after all are
the periods in which things happen, and with what long stretches of
vacant days between! Hester could hardly explain to herself how it was
that Edward Vernon's sudden evening visit, so unexpected, so
unprecedented, had made an entire revolution in her life. There had been
no mutual confessions of love, no proposal, no acceptance such as are
supposed to be necessary. There was nothing to confide to her mother,
had it been possible to take any one into that strait union of two
suddenly become one. The effect bewildered her entirely, and she could
not tell how it had been produced; but yet it was so. They had been on
the eve of this, she felt, for years, and the first time that they met,
in a moment of complete freedom, their souls flowed together, flowed
into one. Perhaps he had not meant it when he came. The dim parlour and
the sleepy mother, trying hard to be polite, quite unconscious how
unnecessary her presence was; the young man, with his eager eyes,
scarcely keeping himself in--came before her like a curious picture a
hundred times in a day: and then the sudden sweep of the torrent after
it, the almost involuntary, impetuous, unalterable junction of these two
hearts and lives. But the shock even of happiness when it comes so
suddenly is great; and Hester was not sure even that she was happy. He
seemed to have led her to the edge of some labyrinth, without freedom to
leave it, or to advance into its mysteries. There was a clue, indeed,
but it was lying in loose coils at her feet, and who could tell if it
ever could be sufficiently straightened, sufficiently tightened, to give
any real guidance? There was no habit of meeting in their lives, no way
of seeing each other even, without attracting suspicion. He sent her a
letter next morning, full of love, and of ecstatic realisation that she
was his, and that in all his difficulties he was sure of her sympathy,
but it was understood that he was not to make such a breach of all his
habits as to come to see her; and Hester was too proud to break through
hers, as she had done that one morning in order to see him. So that
everything remained a secret between them, and save for the sudden
understanding into which they had leaped, the sort of betrothal which
both took for granted, there was no difference in their outward lives;
which was a state of things infinitely painful to the girl who lived her
usual daily life with her mother and her friends in a state of guilty
abstraction, thinking of _him_ all the time, and feeling herself a
domestic traitor. She felt that it was but the shell of her that
remained, following mechanically the usual occupations, talking from the
lips outward, absorbed in a long perpetual reverie of new consciousness,
new hopes and fears. That secret world had need to have been bright to
make up to her for the sense of guilt and treachery with which she
entered into it: and it was not bright. The air was dark and tremulous
as in that sad valley, sad yet sweet, which, in Dante, lies outside of
hell. She never could tell at what moment some dark unknown shape of
calamity might appear through its twilight coming towards them; for
Edward had been driven to her by anxiety and trouble, and the sense of a
burden which he could not bear alone. What was it? He did not tell her
in his letter. The other little notes he wrote were but appeals to her
sympathy--petitions to her to love him, to think of him. Ah! Hester
thought to herself, no fear of that--but how? What was she to think? in
what way was her imagination to follow him, groping dimly amid scenes
she did not understand? His secret was as a germ of fire in her
heart--which by times blazed up into hot flames, devouring her with all
the anguish of that thirst to know which is one of the tortures of
uneasy love. What was it that troubled him so, that alarmed him so, that
might ruin and overwhelm him--that might make him fly, which was the
most mysterious hint of all? But to all these questions she got no
satisfaction. For the first few days she had a little furtive outlet to
her anxiety in questioning Roland, which she did with a vague sense of
treachery to Edward, as if she were endeavouring to surprise his secrets
by a back way, but very little perception of the false impression which
her interest in his communications was making upon Roland, who himself
became day by day more ready to believe that marriage might become a
possible venture, and that the decision of it rested chiefly with
himself. He knew no other reason why she should question him than
interest in himself, and it was with a grateful zeal that he attempted
to gratify a curiosity which was so legitimate, yet so unusual. He
explained his trade with that pleasure which the wisest of men feel in
talking about themselves, and never divined that her rapid mind passed
everything through one narrow test, _i.e._ whether it was possible that
it could concern Edward. She did not even remark the _attendrissement_
with which he received her questions, with eyes that said volumes. These
eyes overflowed with pleasure and sentiment as he made his little
disquisitions.
"After this," he said, with a laugh, "you will be armed _cap-à-pied_
against any doubtful agency, and able when you like to speculate for
yourself."
"And why should not I speculate," said Hester, "if I had any money? It
is like fighting, I suppose. It feels like living, they say. But after
all it is no true life--only figures, as you tell me."
"Figures," said Roland, "mean so much; in this elemental way they mean
money. And money means----"
"Figures over again," Hester said, with a certain weary disdain. It was
not possible that this alone could be the tragic danger, the burden of
the soul that Edward meant. But Roland was thinking his own thoughts,
and interpreted her comments in a way of his own.
"It means most things in this world," he said; "unfortunately, however
high-minded we are, we can do nothing without it. It means of course
show and luxury, and gaiety, and all the things you despise; but at the
same time---- It means," he said, after a little pause, "the house which
two people could make into paradise. It means ease of mind, so that a
man can rise every day without anxiety, knowing that he has enough for
every claim upon him. Ah! how can I say all that it means--you would
laugh, or be frightened. It means the right to love, and the right to
say it." Roland was making use of all his well-worn artillery, but of
something more besides which he had not quite understood the existence
of--something which lent a very eloquent tremor to his voice and doubled
the seduction of his eyes.
"Oh! I was not thinking of anything half so sentimental," said Hester.
She never looked at him, to be affected by his glances, or paid any
attention to his voice. And yet there had been a moment when Roland's
departure made the world itself shrink and look narrow: but she
remembered nothing about that now. "To tell the truth, all I was
thinking of was buying and selling," she said; "for business means that,
doesn't it? Of course I suppose, as we must have money to live, you may
say that money is the first thing in life, more necessary than bread;
but I did not mean that."
Conversations which ended in this way were, however, very little
serviceable to Hester, for how could she tell which of these mysteries
of the craft had entangled Edward, or if any of them could justify the
seriousness of his excitement, the tragic sense of a possible
catastrophe, the wild expedient of flight, which had been in his words!
All this talk about the vicissitudes of money was too petty to satisfy
her mind as a reason. And still less was that talk calculated to promote
Roland's purpose, who did not care very much what he was saying so long
as he could recommend himself to her favourable opinion. What he wanted
was to show her that the future had large possibilities of advancement.
He wanted, without committing himself or doing anything that could be
afterwards commented upon as "behaving badly," to leave upon Hester's
mind a delicate intimation that he meant to come back, to speak more
plainly, to say things more worthy of her attention; and that she might
be able to make up her mind in the meantime and not be taken by
surprise. Roland was not so romantic as to be unaware that the
advantages lay on his own side; he had solid gifts to give, and a
position to offer, which could not be carelessly considered by any
person of sense. And he was well aware that there was no crowd of
candidates contending for Hester's hand. She had to him the air of a
girl neglected, altogether out of the way of forming any satisfactory
engagements, almost painfully divested of that "chance" which Emma
looked at with such sensible if matter-of-fact eyes. Roland, to do him
justice, was all the more willing to show her a romantic devotion on
this account, but it kept him free from anxiety about his own hopes.
There had been Harry indeed--but she would not have Harry. And Edward he
was aware had paid her furtive "attentions" at Ellen Merridew's parties;
but what could Edward do? He could not pay serious addresses to any one,
in his circumstances, far less to Hester: and he was not the fellow to
marry a girl without money and under the cold shade of Catherine's
disfavour. This last was one of the things that made Roland himself
hesitate--but he thought it might be got over. And there could be no
doubt that his mind had made great strides towards making itself up
during this Christmas visit. But it was a short visit on the whole, for
he had not much time to spare for pleasure, and his business had been
summarily ended. Emma thought it was owing to Hester's interference that
she was left behind, Reginald Merridew having not yet "spoken;" but
there was in reality a certain sympathy in Roland's mind with his
sister's honest desire to be settled, and there would be much
convenience in it could it be accomplished, he felt. He went away
accordingly, slightly depressed by Hester's indifferent farewell, and
remembering the look of over-clearness in her eyes when he had gone away
the first time with a sort of fond regret. He was sure that day that she
had shed a few tears over his departure, of which there was no
appearance now. But soon he recovered his spirits, asking himself to
look the situation in the face. Who else was there? What rival could he
have? There was nobody. She was stranded in that old house as if it had
been a desolate island. And she could not be content to vegetate there
for ever, a girl of her spirit. There was a practical element in
Roland's character, notwithstanding his romantic eyes.
And Hester was so ungrateful that his departure was almost a relief to
her. She forgot altogether that she had cried the first time when he
went away, and she was glad to be set free from the hope, which at the
same time was a fear, of finding out something about Edward's troubles
from his chance revelations. Her mind turned now with unbroken eagerness
to the sole means of intercourse which she had with her lover, which
could be calculated upon with any freedom, which were Ellen's
parties--the _Thés Dansantes_! It seemed incredible that her entire
existence should be concentrated in a weekly assembly so frivolous, so
thoughtless, and nonsensical, and that all those grave and troublous
thoughts should seek interpretation in a dance. But so it was. The first
of them brought her only disappointment, and that of a kind that she
felt almost maddening--for Edward did not appear. He gave her no
warning, which was cruel, and when she found, after hours of waiting,
that he was not expected, the shock of resentment and shame and dismay
almost stunned her: but pride carried the day. She threw herself into
the current with a sort of desperation, and held her place with the
gayest: then entered, sombre and silent, upon another week of suspense.
The second occasion was not so bad. He was there, and appropriated her
as usual, and breathed hints into her ear which kept her in a whirl of
excitement.
"How can I explain to you," he said, "here? And even if I could explain
to you, I don't want to do it, for it is all miserable trade, which you
would not understand--which I don't wish you to understand."
"But I want to understand it, Edward. You don't think how cruel it is to
me to tell me just so much, then leave me outside."
"Should I _not_ have told you so much?" he said, looking at her. "You
are right. I believe you are right, Hester; but my heart was running
over, and to no one else could I say a word. I could not put a little
bit of my burden upon any one but you. I know it was selfish, dear."
"Oh, Edward; it is not that. I will bear your burden; I am glad to help
you; I would bear it all for you if I could," she cried with her bright
eyes widening, her cheeks glowing with enthusiasm. "Don't you _know_
that I would bear it all if I could? It is not that. But tell me, only
tell me a little more."
He shook his head.
"Hester," he said, "that is not what a man wants in a woman; not to go
and explain it all to her with pen and ink, and tables and figures, to
make her understand as he would have to do with a man. What he wants,
dear, is very different--just to lean upon you--to know that you
sympathise, and think of me, and feel for me, and believe in me, and
that you will share whatever comes."
Hester said nothing, but her countenance grew very grave.
"Don't you think that a woman could do all that--and yet that it would
be easier for her if she understood what it was, and why it was?" she
said, after a pause.
"Dear," said Edward, gazing at her with glowing eyes. He was in a
hopeful mood, and he allowed himself to indulge the love and pleasure he
felt in her, having bound her to him with a chain more fast than iron.
"Darling! was it ever known that a woman, a girl like you (if there ever
was a girl like my Hester), thought of what would be easiest? And you
who would bear it all, you said."
"So I should--gladly; but then I should understand."
"My only love! understanding is nothing, it matters nothing; another
fellow, any man, a clerk in the office, would understand. I want your
sympathy. I want--you."
"Oh, Edward!" she cried, "you have me and my sympathy--even if you were
wrong you should have my sympathy. But is it just, is it good, do you
think, that you should ask all that and tell me nothing? I am a woman,
but I am not a fool. I can understand most things. Try me--tell me--I
will set my mind to it. Sympathy that is ignorant cannot be so good as
sympathy that knows."
He made a little pause, and then he said, looking at her, she felt,
severely, with a scoff in his voice--
"And where is this explanation to take place? Will you appoint to meet
me somewhere with my balance-sheet and my vouchers? Perhaps you will
come to my room at the bank? or appoint an accountant whom you can
trust?"
"Edward!" she drew her hand out of his arm and then put it back again
after a moment's hesitation, "do you want me to look a wretch even to
myself? Why should you say all this? and why--why be so unjust to me?
You forget that when one knows nothing one thinks all sorts of things,
and invents a hundred terrors. Tell me how it is in the general not
details. You do not want silly sympathy."
"I want all your sympathy, silly or not. I want you. Hester, if we are
to escape notice we must dance like the rest; we cannot stand and talk
all night. And I am just in the mood for it!" he cried.
Many people no doubt have waltzed with very little inclination for it,
people who were both sad and sorry, disappointed, heartbroken; but few
more reluctant than Hester, who felt her position intolerable, and by
whom the complacent injustice of it, the calm assertion that such blind
adherence was all that was to be looked for from a woman, was more
irritating and offensive than can be described. Was it possible that he
thought so? that this was what she would have to encounter in the life
she should spend with him? Her advice, her intelligent help, her
understanding, all ignored, and nothing wanted but a kind of doggish
fidelity, an unreasoning belief? Hester felt it cruel to be made to
dance even, to be spun through the crowd as if in the merest caprice of
gaiety while at such a crisis of her fate.
But neither this nor their subsequent conversations made any difference;
the evening passed for her as in a dream. Edward, who was not much of a
dancer, and seldom cared to perform these rites with any partner but
herself, danced repeatedly with others that night, while Hester stood by
looking on with gathering bewilderment. She had a headache, she said. It
was her mother's way of getting free of every embarrassment, and Hester
was acquainted with the expedient, though she had not hitherto been
tempted to use it. She sat by Mrs. Merridew, the mother of the house,
who was a kind woman, and disposed to be good to her. "Just say the
word, my dear, and as soon as our carriage comes I will take you home,"
this lady said; "for to sit with a racking headache and watch other
young folks dancing is more than flesh and blood can bear." But alas!
Mrs. Merridew's carriage was not ordered till two o'clock, and Hester
had to bear her burden. And of course it was not thus that the evening
ended. He came to seek her at Mrs. Merridew's side, and heard the
account of her headache with a sympathetic countenance.
"This was our dance," he said; "but come into the hall instead, where it
is cool, and let me get you some tea." He placed her there in the
shelter of the evergreens, when all the hubbub of the next dance was in
full progress. They were quiet, almost alone, and Edward was in a fever
of high spirits and excitement. He had said little about love in that
strange moment when he had taken possession of her. Now he made up for
all deficiencies. She endeavoured at first to bring him back to what she
called the more important subject. "Can any subject be more important?"
he said with tender reproach. And she was silenced, for what could she
say? And the moments flew too fast and were too brief to be lost in any
struggle. They parted with a few mysterious words whispered into her
ear, which did much however to bring back the painful tension which had
relaxed a little in his presence. "If I send to you, you will see me,
Hester?" he whispered. "You won't think of proprieties? I might have to
put your love to the test--to ask you----"
"What?" she cried with almost a spasm of alarm. He gave her hand a
warning clasp as he put her into the fly, and then stooping to arrange
the shawls around her, kissed it secretly. And that was all. She drove
home in the silence and dark, feeling every word thrill her through,
going over it again and again. What was this test of love that might be
required of her? What did he expect her to do for him, in ignorance, in
blind trust? Hester had too high a spirit to accept this _rôle_ with
ease. She was bewildered--dazzled by the lavish outpouring of his love;
but all that did not blind her to the strange injustice of this
treatment, the cruelty of her helpless position. For what could she do?
She could not desert him in his hour of need; if he made this call upon
her which he spoke of so mysteriously, it would no doubt be in his
utmost need, when to desert him would be like a traitor. And Hester knew
that she could confront any danger with him or for him--but what was it?
A dilemma so terrible had never presented itself to her imagination.
There was a cruelty in it, a depreciation of all the nobler parts of
her, as if only in ignorance could she be trusted. Her mother's
questions about the ball, and whether she had danced much, and who her
partners had been, were insupportable, as insupportable as the
maunderings of Emma. In short, if there was anything that could have
made this mystery and darkness in which her way seemed lost, more hard
to bear, it was the background of amusement and supposed
light-heartedness against which it was set. "My head ached," she said.
"I scarcely danced at all," by way of freeing herself; but this opened
only another kind of torture, for poor Mrs. John, well used to the
feminine indulgence of headaches, had a whole surgery of little
remedies, and bathed her child's forehead, and drew back her hair, and
would have administered sal-volatile, tea, eau-de-cologne--there was no
telling how many cures--if she had been allowed.
"Let me fan you then, my love: sometimes that does me a great deal of
good. Just let me pour a little eau-de-cologne first; you don't know how
cooling it is."
"Oh, mamma! let me be still; let me be in the dark; go to bed, and don't
mind me," cried Hester.
"My love! how could I do that and leave my child to suffer," said Mrs.
John, heroically--and it was heroic, for the night was cold, the fire
burning low, the hour three o'clock. Hester, with her brain throbbing,
all inaccessible to eau-de-cologne, did not know how to free her mother
from this too generous unnecessary martyrdom. She began to talk to break
the spell.
"Emma is very happy," she said, "she danced with Edward Vernon. She
thinks perhaps it may make the other speak, or that even Edward
himself--" Hester broke off with a quiver in her lip. "I am becoming
malicious like the rest," she said.
"That is not malicious, dear," said Mrs. John. "Emma is very amusing,
being so frank, but she is right enough when you come to think of it;
for what can she do if she does not marry? And I am sure Edward Vernon,
though Catherine makes such a fuss about him, is nothing so very great.
I wonder what he meant coming here that one night, and so late."
"It was by accident," Hester said.
"It was a very odd accident," cried her mother, "no one else ever did
so."
"He had been sitting late over his work, and his head was very full
of--business."
Mrs. John looked in all the confidence of superior wisdom into her
daughter's face. A smile dawned upon her lips.
"Perhaps you think he was coming to confide his troubles about his
business, Hester, to you and me."
"And why not?" said Hester, raising herself from her bed.
Mrs. John dropped her fan in her surprise, and sat down abruptly upon
the little chair by Hester's bedside, to her daughter's great relief.
"Why not?" she said. "I think, though you are my own, that you are the
strangest girl I ever knew. Do you think a man _ever_ talks to women
about these things? Oh, perhaps to a woman like Catherine that is the
same as a man. But to anybody he cares for--never, oh, never, dear! I
suppose he has a respect for you and me; think of any man venturing to
bring business into my drawing-room, though it is only a poor little
parlour now, not a drawing-room at all. Oh, no, that could never--never
be! In all my life I never descended so low as that," Mrs. John said,
with dignity. "I used to be brought into contact with a great many
business people when your poor dear papa was living; but they never
talked 'shop,' as they call it, before me."
"But my father himself?" said Hester, her eyes blazing with the keenest
interest; "you knew all his affairs?"
Mrs. John held her delicate little hands clasped for a moment, and then
flung them apart, as if throwing the suspicion away.
"Never!" she cried; "he respected me too much. Your poor papa was
incautious about money, Hester, and that has done a great deal of harm
to both of us, for we are poor, and we ought to have been rich; but he
always had too much respect for me to mix me up with business. You are
very inexperienced, my dear, or you would know that such a thing could
not be."
Hester followed her mother with her large eyes, with a wondering wide
gaze, which answered well enough for that of believing surprise, almost
awe, which Mrs. John was very willing to recognise as a suitable
expression. And there was indeed a sort of awe in the girl's perception
of her mother's perfectly innocent, perfectly assured theory of what was
right in women. What wonder that a man should think so, when women
themselves thought so? This strange discovery composed and stilled her
when at last she was left in the dark and in peace.
Hester kept gazing through that wintry blackness, with eyes still wide
open, and her clear brows puckered with wonder and alarm. Was it
natural, then, a thing she could accept as just, that it was enough for
her to sympathise, to share the consequences, to stand by the chief
actor whatever happened, but never to share in the initiative or have
any moral concern in the motive or the means of what was done? A sense
of helplessness began to take the place of indignation in her mind. Was
that what they called the natural lot of women? to suffer, perhaps to
share the blame, but have no share in the plan, to sympathise, but not
to know; to move on blindly according to some rule of loyalty and
obedience, which to any other creature in the world would be folly and
guilt? But her mother knew nothing of such hard words. To her this was
not only the right state of affairs, but to suggest any better rule was
to fail in respect to the lady whose right it was to be left ignorant.
Hester tried to smile when she recalled this, but could not, her heart
being too sore, her whole being shaken. _He_ thought so too perhaps,
everybody thought so, and she alone, an involuntary rebel, would be
compelled to accept the yoke which, to other women, was a simple matter,
and their natural law. Why, then, was she made unlike others, or why was
it so?
Edward had been in great spirits that night. The next time they met was
in the afternoon late, when Hester was returning from a visit to Mrs.
Morgan. It was nearly dark, and it startled her to see him standing
waiting for her under one of the trees past the gate of the Heronry. She
went slowly, somewhat reluctantly, to join him on the sign just
discernible in the dark which he made her. He caught her hand quickly,
as she came up, and drew it within his arm.
"You have been so long with that old woman, and I have wanted you so,"
he cried, leading her away along the deserted country road, which struck
off at right angles with the Common. "Couldn't you divine that I wanted
you? Didn't you know by instinct I was longing for consolation?"
"Oh, Edward! what is wrong? What has made so great a change in you?" she
cried.
He drew her arm closer and closer through his, and leaned upon her as if
his appeal for support was physical too.
"I told you it was too long to explain," he said; "it is all the worry
of business. Sometimes things seem going well, and then I am top-gallant
high, and vex you with my levity, as the other night--you know you were
vexed the other night: and then things turn badly, and I am low, low
down in the depths, and want my love to comfort me. Oh, if you only
belonged to me, Hester, and we had a home somewhere where I could go in
to you and say 'Console me!'"
"But Edward, your business never used to be a fever and an excitement
like this."
"How do you know? I did not dare to come to you; and you were a child
then. Ah, but you are quite right, Hester; it was different. But a man
cannot vegetate for ever. I endured it as long as I could. Now it is all
on a turn of the cards, and I may be able to face the world to-morrow,
and have my own way."
"On a turn of the cards! Edward, you cannot mean it is play? You are not
a--gambler?" Hester gave a little convulsive cry, clutching him by the
arm with both her hands.
He laughed. "Not with cards, certainly," he said. "I am a respectable
banker, my darling, and very knowing in my investments, with perhaps a
taste for speculation--but that nobody has brought home to me yet. It is
a very legitimate way of making a fortune, Hester. It is only when you
lose that it becomes a thing to blame."
"Do you mean speculation, Edward?"
"Something of that sort; a capital horse when it carries you over the
ford--and everything that is bad when you lose."
"But do you mean--tell me--that it is simple speculation--that this is
all that makes you anxious?" Hester had never heard that speculation was
immoral, and her mind was relieved in spite of herself.
"Only--simple speculation! Good Lord! what would she have?" he cried, in
a sort of unconscious aside, with a strange laugh; then added, with mock
gravity, "that's all, my darling; not much, is it? You don't think it is
worth making such a fuss about?"
"I did not say that," said Hester, gravely, "for I don't understand it,
nor what may be involved; but it cannot touch the heart. I was
afraid----"
"Of something much worse," he said, with the same strange laugh. "What
were you afraid of?--tell me. You did not think I was robbing the bank,
or killing Catherine?"
"Edward!"--she did not like these pleasantries--"why do you talk so
wildly? Come in with me, and my mother will give you some tea."
"I want you, and not any tea. I should like to take you up in my arms,
and carry you away--away--where nobody could know anything about us
more. I should like to disappear with you, Hester, and let people
suppose we were dead or lost, or whatever they pleased."
"I wonder," said Hester, "why you should have lived so long close to me,
and never found out that you wanted me so much till now. Oh, don't laugh
so! You have always been very cool, and quite master of yourself, till
now."
"It was time enough, it appears, when you make so little response," he
said; "but all that is very simple if you but knew. I had to keep well
with so many. Now that it is all on a turn of the dice, and a moment may
decide everything, I may venture to think of myself."
"Dice! What you say is all about gambling, Edward."
"So it is, my sweetest. It is a trick I have got. Chance is everything
in business--luck, whatever that may be: so that gambling words are the
only words that come natural. But don't leave the talking to me; you can
talk better than I can; you are not a silent angel. Tell me something,
Hester. Tell me what you thought that night. Tell me what this little
heart is saying now."
Hester was not touched by that reference to her little heart, which was
not a little heart, but a great one, bounding wildly in her breast with
perplexity and pain, as well as love, but ready for any heroic effort.
"If I were to tell you perhaps you would not like it, Edward. It makes
me happy that you should want me, and lean on me, and give me your
burden to bear; but I want so much more. Perhaps I am not so gentle as
women ought to be. My mother would be content, but I am not. I want to
know everything, to help you to think, to understand it all. And
besides, Edward----No, one thing is enough; I will not say that."
"Yes, say everything; it is all sweet from you."
"Then, Edward, come home and let my mother know. She will betray nobody.
We ought not to meet in the dark like two----to send little hidden
notes. We are responsible to the people who love us. We ought to be
honest--to mamma, to Catherine Vernon."
"We ought to go and hand in the banns, perhaps," he said, with sudden
bitterness, "like two--honest shopkeepers, as you say. Catherine Vernon
would give me away. And is this all you know of love, Hester?--it is the
woman's way, I suppose--congratulations, wedding presents, general
triumph over everybody. How should you understand me when I speak of
disappearing with my love, getting lost, dying even, if it were
together--?"
There was a pause, for Hester was wounded, yet touched, both to the
heart. She said, after a moment, almost under her breath, "I can
understand that too." The faltering of her voice, the droop of her head,
and his own need for her, more urgent than either, changed Edward's
sarcastic mood. He drew her closer to him, and put down his face close
to her ear.
"We must not fight," he said, "my only love. I am going away, and I
can't quarrel with you, my only love! And I am your only love. There has
never been anybody between us. I will come back in two or three days;
but Hester, another time, if it should be for good, would you come?--you
would come?--with me?"
"Elope!" she said, breathless, her eyes large in the darkness, straining
upon the face which was too near her own to be very clear.
He laughed. "If you like the word; it is an innocent word. Yes, elope
then," he said.
"But why?--but why? It would wound them all--it would break their
hearts; and for what reason?" Hester cried.