Trafford's second meeting with Marjorie, which, by the by, happened on
the afternoon of the following day, brought them near to conclusive
decisions. The stiffness of their first encounter in London had
altogether vanished. She was at her prettiest and in the highest
spirits--and she didn't care for anything else in the world. A gauzy
silk scarf which she had bought and not paid for that day floated
atmospherically about her straight trim body; her hair had caught the
infection of insurrection and was waving rebelliously about her ears. As
he drew near her his grave discretion passed from him as clouds pass
from a hillside. She smiled radiantly. He held out both his hands for
both of hers, and never did a maiden come so near and yet not get a
public and shameless kissing.
One could as soon describe music as tell their conversation. It was a
matter of tones and feelings. But the idea of flight together, of the
bright awakening in unfamiliar sunshine with none to come between them,
had gripped them both. A certain sober gravity of discussion only masked
that deeper inebriety. It would be easy for them to get away; he had no
lectures until February; he could, he said, make arrangements, leave his
research. She dreaded disputation. She was for a simple disappearance,
notes on pincushions and defiantly apologetic letters from Boulogne, but
his mother's atmosphere had been a gentler one than her home's, with a
more powerful disposition to dignity. He still couldn't understand that
the cantankerous egotism of Pope was indeed the essential man; it seemed
to him a crust of bad manners that reason ought to pierce.
The difference in their atmospheres came out in their talk--in his
desire for a handsome and dignified wedding--though the very heavens
protested--and her resolve to cut clear of every one, to achieve a sort
of gaol delivery of her life, make a new beginning altogether, with the
minimum of friction and the maximum of surprise. Unused to fighting, he
was magnificently prepared to fight; she, with her intimate knowledge of
chronic domestic conflict, was for the evasion of all the bickerings,
scoldings, and misrepresentations his challenge would occasion. He
thought in his innocence a case could be stated and discussed; but no
family discussion she had ever heard had even touched the realities of
the issue that occasioned it.
"I don't like this underhand preparation," he said.
"Nor I," she echoed. "But what can one do?"
"Well, oughtn't I to go to your father and give him a chance? Why
shouldn't I? It's--the dignified way."
"It won't be dignified for father," said Marjorie, "anyhow."
"But what right has he to object?"
"He isn't going to discuss his rights with you. He _will_ object."
"But _why?_"
"Oh! because he's started that way. He hit you. I haven't forgotten it.
Well, if he goes back on that now----He'd rather die than go back on it.
You see, he's ashamed in his heart. It would be like confessing himself
wrong not to keep it up that you're the sort of man one hits. He just
hates you because he hit you. I haven't been his daughter for twenty-one
years for nothing."
"I'm thinking of us," said Trafford. "I don't see we oughtn't to go to
him just because he's likely to be--unreasonable."
"My dear, do as you please. He'll forbid and shout, and hit tables until
things break. Suppose he locks me up!"
"Oh, Habeas Corpus, and my strong right arm! He's much more likely to
turn you out-of-doors."
"Not if he thinks the other will annoy you more. I'll have to bear a
storm."
"Not for long."
"He'll bully mother till she cries over me. But do as you please. She'll
come and she'll beg me----Do as you please. Perhaps I'm a coward. I'd
far rather I could slip away."
Trafford thought for a moment. "I'd far rather you could," he answered,
in a voice that spoke of inflexible determinations.
They turned to the things they meant to do. "_Italy!_" she whispered,
"_Italy!_" Her face was alight with her burning expectation of beauty,
of love, of the new heaven and the new earth that lay before them. The
intensity of that desire blazing through her seemed to shame his dull
discretions. He had to cling to his resolution, lest it should vanish in
that contagious intoxication.
"You understand I shall come to your father," he said, as they drew near
the gate where it seemed discreet for them to part.
"It will make it harder to get away," she said, with no apparent
despondency. "It won't stop us. Oh! do as you please."
She seemed to dismiss the question, and stood hand-in-hand with him in a
state of glowing gravity. She wouldn't see him again for four-and-twenty
hours. Then a thought came into her head--a point of great practical
moment.
"Oh!" she said, "of course, you won't tell father you've seen me."
She met his eye. "Really you mustn't," she said. "You see--he'll make a
row with mother for not having watched me better. I don't know what he
isn't likely to do. It isn't myself----This is a confidential
communication--all this. No one in this world knows I am meeting you. If
you _must_ go to him, go to him."
"For myself?"
She nodded, with her open eyes on his--eyes that looked now very blue
and very grave, and her lips a little apart.
She surprised him a little, but even this sudden weakness seemed
adorable.
"All right," he said.
"You don't think that I'm shirking----?" she asked, a little too
eagerly.
"You know your father best," he answered. "I'll tell you all he says and
all the terror of him here to-morrow afternoon."