So Marjorie carried her point. She wasn't to be married tamely after the
common fashion which trails home and all one's beginnings into the new
life. She was to be eloped with, romantically and splendidly, into a
glorious new world. She walked on shining clouds, and if she felt some
remorse, it was a very tender and satisfactory remorse, and with a clear
conviction below it that in the end she would be forgiven.
They made all their arrangements elaborately and carefully. Trafford got
a license to marry her; she was to have a new outfit from top to toe to
go away with on that eventful day. It accumulated in the shop, and they
marked the clothes _M.T._ She was watched, she imagined, but as her
father did not know she had seen Trafford, nothing had been said to her,
and no attempt was made to prohibit her going out and coming in.
Trafford entered into the conspiracy with a keen interest, a certain
amusement, and a queer little feeling of distaste. He hated to hide any
act of his from any human being. The very soul of scientific work, you
see, is publication. But Marjorie seemed to justify all things, and when
his soul turned against furtiveness, he reminded it that the alternative
was bawling.
One eventful afternoon he went to the college, and Marjorie slipped
round by his arrangement to have tea with Mrs. Trafford....
He returned about seven in a state of nervous apprehension; came
upstairs two steps at a time, and stopped breathless on the landing. He
gulped as he came in, and his eyes were painfully eager. "She's been?"
he asked.
But Marjorie had won Mrs. Trafford.
"She's been," she answered. "Yes, she's all right, my dear."
"Oh, mother!" he said.
"She's a beautiful creature, dear--and such a child! Oh! such a child!
And God bless you, dear, God bless you....
"I think all young people are children. I want to take you both in my
arms and save you.... I'm talking nonsense, dear."
He kissed her, and she clung to him as if he were something too precious
to release.