It became necessary as George Voss sat at supper with his father and
Madame Voss that he should fix the time of his return to Colmar, and
he did so for the early morning of the next day but one. He had
told Madame Faragon that he expected to stay at Granpere but one
night. He felt, however, after his arrival that it might be
difficult for him to get away on the following day, and therefore he
told them that he would sleep two nights at the Lion d'Or, and then
start early, so as to reach the Colmar inn by mid-day.
'I suppose you find the old lady rather fidgety, George?' said
Michel Voss in high good humour.
George found it easier to talk about Madame Faragon and the hotel at
Colmar than he did of things at Granpere, and therefore became
communicative as to his own affairs. Michel too preferred the
subject of the new doings at the house on the other side of the
Vosges. His wife had given him a slight hint, doing her best, like
a good wife and discreet manager, to prevent ill-humour and hard
words.
'He feels a little sore, you know. I was always sure there was
something. But it was wise of him to come and see her, and it will
go off in this way.'
Michel swore that George had no right to be sore, and that if his
son did not take pride in such a family arrangement as this, he
should no longer be son of his. But he allowed himself to be
counselled by his wife, and soon talked himself into a pleasant
mood, discussing Madame Faragon, and the horses belonging to the
Hotel de la Poste, and Colmar affairs in general. There was a
certain important ground for satisfaction between them. Everybody
agreed that George Voss had shown himself to be a steady man of
business in the affairs of the inn at Colmar.
Marie Bromar in the mean while went on with her usual occupation
round the room, but now and again came and stood at her uncle's
elbow, joining in the conversation, and asking a question or two
about Madame Faragon. There was, perhaps, something of the guile of
the serpent joined to her dove-like softness. She asked questions
and listened to answers--not that in her present state of mind she
could bring herself to take a deep interest in the affairs of Madame
Faragon's hotel, but because it suited her that there should be some
subject of easy conversation between her and George. It was
absolutely necessary now that George should be nothing more to her
than a cousin and an acquaintance; but it was well that he should be
that and not an enemy. It would be well too that he should know,
that he should think that he knew, that she was disturbed by no
remembrance of those words which had once passed between them. At
last she trusted herself to a remark which perhaps she would not
have made had the serpent's guile been more perfect of its kind.
'Surely you must get a wife, George, as soon as the house is your
own.'
'Of course he will get a wife,' said the father.
'I hope he will get a good one,' said Madame Voss after a short
pause--which, however, had been long enough to make her feel it
necessary to say something.
George said never a word, but lifted his glass and finished his
wine. Marie at once perceived that the subject was one on which she
must not venture to touch again. Indeed, she saw farther than that,
and became aware that it would be inexpedient for her to fall into
any special or minute conversation with her cousin during his short
stay at Granpere.
'You'll go up to the woods with me tomorrow--eh, George?' said the
father. The son of course assented. It was hardly possible that he
should not assent. The whole day, moreover, would not be wanted for
that purpose of throwing his thunderbolt; and if he could get it
thrown, it would be well that he should be as far away from Marie as
possible for the remainder of his visit. 'We'll start early, Marie,
and have a bit of breakfast before we go. Will six be too early for
you, George, with your town ways?' George said that six would not
be too early, and as he made the engagement for the morning he
resolved that he would if possible throw his thunderbolt that night.
'Marie will get us a cup of coffee and a sausage. Marie is always
up by that time.'
Marie smiled, and promised that they should not be compelled to
start upon their walk with empty stomachs from any fault of hers.
If a hot breakfast at six o'clock in the morning could put her
cousin into a good humour, it certainly should not be wanting.
In two hours after supper George was with his father. Michel was so
full of happiness and so confidential that the son found it very
difficult to keep silence about his own sorrow. Had it not been
that with a half obedience to his wife's hints Michel said little
about Adrian, there must have been an explosion. He endeavoured to
confine himself to George's prospects, as to which he expressed
himself thoroughly pleased. 'You see,' said he, 'I am so strong of
my years, that if you wished for my shoes, there is no knowing how
long you might be kept waiting.'
'It couldn't have been too long,' said George.
'Ah well, I don't believe you would have been impatient to put the
old fellow under the sod. But I should have been impatient, I
should have been unhappy. You might have had the woods, to be sure;
but it's hardly enough of a business alone. Besides, a young man is
always more his own master away from his father. I can understand
that. The only thing is, George,--take a drive over, and see us
sometimes.' This was all very well, but it was not quite so well
when he began to speak of Marie. 'It's a terrible loss her going,
you know, George; I shall feel it sadly.'
'I can understand that,' said George.
'But of course I had my duty to do to the girl. I had to see that
she should be well settled, and she will be well settled. There's a
comfort in that;--isn't there, George?'
But George could not bring himself to reply to this with good-humoured
zeal, and there came for a moment a cloud between the father and son.
But Michel was wise and swallowed his wrath, and in a minute or two
returned to Colmar and Madame Faragon.
At about half-past nine George escaped from his father and returned
to the house. They had been sitting in the balcony which runs round
the billiard-room on the side of the court opposite to the front
door. He returned to the house, and caught Marie in one of the
passages up-stairs, as she was completing her work for the day. He
caught her close to the door of his own room and asked her to come
in, that he might speak a word to her. English readers will perhaps
remember that among the Vosges mountains there is less of a sense of
privacy attached to bedrooms than is the case with us here in
England. Marie knew immediately then that her cousin had not come
to Granpere for nothing,--had not come with the innocent intention
of simply pleasing his father,--had not come to say an ordinary word
of farewell to her before her marriage. There was to be something
of a scene, though she could not tell of what nature the scene might
be. She knew, however, that her own conduct had been right; and
therefore, though she would have avoided the scene, had it been
possible, she would not fear it. She went into his room; and when
he closed the door, she smiled, and did not as yet tremble.
'Marie,' he said, 'I have come here on purpose to say a word or two
to you.' There was no smile on her face as he spoke now. The
intention to be savage was written there, as plainly as any purpose
was ever written on man's countenance. Marie read the writing
without missing a letter. She was to be rebuked, and sternly
rebuked;--rebuked by the man who had taken her heart, and then left
her;--rebuked by the man who had crushed her hopes and made it
absolutely necessary for her to give up all the sweet poetry of her
life, to forget her dreams, to abandon every wished-for prettiness
of existence, and confine herself to duties and to things material!
He who had so sinned against her was about to rid himself of the
burden of his sin by endeavouring to cast it upon her. So much she
understood, but yet she did not understand all that was to come.
She would hear the rebuke as quietly as she might. In the interest
of others she would do so. But she would not fear him,--and she
would say a quiet word in defence of her own sex if there should be
need. Such was the purport of her mind as she stood opposite to him
in his room.
'I hope they will be kind words,' she said. 'As we are to part so
soon, there should be none unkind spoken.'
'I do not know much about kindness,' he replied. Then he paused and
tried to think how best the thunderbolt might be hurled. 'There is
hardly room for kindness where there was once so much more than
kindness; where there was so much more,--or the pretence of it.'
Then he waited again, as though he expected that she should speak.
But she would not speak at all. If he had aught to say, let him say
it. 'Perhaps, Marie, you have in truth forgotten all the promises
you once made me?' Though this was a direct question she would not
answer it. Her words to him should be as few as possible, and the
time for such words had not come as yet. 'It suits you no doubt to
forget them now, but I cannot forget them. You have been false to
me, and have broken my heart. You have been false to me, when my
only joy on earth was in believing in your truth. Your vow was for
ever and ever, and within one short year you are betrothed to
another man! And why?--because they tell you that he is rich and
has got a house full of furniture! You may prove to be a blessing
to his house. Who can say? On mine, you and your memory will be a
curse,--lasting all my lifetime!' And so the thunderbolt had been
hurled.
And it fell as a thunderbolt. What she had expected had not been at
all like to this. She had known that he would rebuke her; but,
feeling strong in her own innocence and her own purity, knowing or
thinking that she knew that the fault had all been his, not
believing--having got rid of all belief--that he still loved her,
she had fancied that his rebuke would be unjust, cruel, but
bearable. Nay; she had thought that she could almost triumph over
him with a short word of reply. She had expected from him reproach,
but not love. There was reproach indeed, but it came with an
expression of passion of which she had not known him to be capable.
He stood before her telling her that she had broken his heart, and,
as he told her so, his words were half choked by sobs. He reminded
her of her promises, declaring that his own to her had ever remained
in full force. And he told her that she, she to whom he had looked
for all his joy, had become a curse to him and a blight upon his
life. There were thoughts and feelings too beyond all these that
crowded themselves upon her heart and upon her mind at the moment.
It had been possible for her to accept the hand of Adrian Urmand
because she had become assured that George Voss no longer regarded
her as his promised bride. She would have stood firm against her
uncle and her aunt, she would have stood against all the world, had
it not seemed to her that the evidence of her cousin's indifference
was complete. Had not that evidence been complete at all points, it
would have been impossible to her to think of becoming the wife of
another man. Now the evidence on that matter which had seemed to
her to be so sufficient was all blown to the winds.
It is true that had all her feelings been guided by reason only, she
might have been as strong as ever. In truth she had not sinned
against him. In truth she had not sinned at all. She had not done
that which she herself had desired. She had not been anxious for
wealth, or ease, or position; but had, after painful thought,
endeavoured to shape her conduct by the wishes of others, and by her
ideas of duty, as duty had been taught to her. O, how willingly
would she have remained as servant to her uncle, and have allowed M.
Urmand to carry the rich gift of his linen-chest to the feet of some
other damsel, had she believed herself to be free to choose! Had
there been no passion in her heart, she would now have known herself
to be strong in duty, and would have been able to have answered and
to have borne the rebuke of her old lover. But passion was there,
hot within her, aiding every word as he spoke it, giving strength to
his complaints, telling her of all that she had lost, telling her of
all she had taken from him. She forgot to remember now that he had
been silent for a year. She forgot now to think of the tone in
which he had asked about her marriage when no such marriage was in
her mind. But she remembered well the promise she had made, and the
words of it. 'Your vow was for ever and ever.' When she heard
those words repeated from his lips, her heart too was broken. All
idea of holding herself before him as one injured but ready to
forgive was gone from her. If by falling at his feet and owning
herself to be vile and mansworn she might get his pardon, she was
ready now to lie there on the ground before him.
'O George!' she said; 'O George!'
'What is the use of that now?' he replied, turning away from her.
He had thrown his thunderbolt, and he had nothing more to say. He
had seen that he had not thrown it quite in vain, and he would have
been contented to be away and back at Colmar. What more was there
to be said?
She came to him very gently, very humbly, and just touched his arm
with her hand. 'Do you mean, George, that you have continued to
care for me--always?'
'Care for you? I know not what you call caring. Did I not swear to
you that I would love you for ever and ever, and that you should be
my own? Did I not leave this house and go away,--till I could earn
for you one that should be fit for you,--because I loved you? Why
should I have broken my word? I do not believe that you thought
that it was broken.'
'By my God, that knows me, I did!' As she said this she burst into
tears and fell on her knees at his feet.
'Marie,' he said, 'Marie;--there is no use in this. Stand up.'
'Not till you tell me that you will forgive me. By the name of the
good Jesus, who knows all our hearts, I thought that you had
forgotten me. O George, if you could know all! If you could know
how I have loved you; how I have sorrowed from day to day because I
was forgotten! How I have struggled to bear it, telling myself that
you were away, with all the world to interest you, and not like me,
a poor girl in a village, with no thing to think of but my lover!
How I have striven to do my duty by my uncle, and have obeyed him,
because,--because,--because, there was nothing left. If you could
know it all! If you could know it all!' Then she clasped her arms
round his legs, and hid her face upon his feet.
'And whom do you love now?' he asked. She continued to sob, but did
not answer him a word. Then he stooped down and raised her to her
feet, and she stood beside him, very near to him with her face
averted. 'And whom do you love now?' he asked again. 'Is it me, or
is it Adrian Urmand?' But she could not answer him, though she had
said enough in her passionate sorrow to make any answer to such a
question unnecessary, as far as knowledge on the subject might be
required. It might suit his views that she should confess the truth
in so many words, but for other purpose her answer had been full
enough. 'This is very sad,' he said, 'sad indeed; but I thought
that you would have been firmer.'
'Do not chide me again, George.'
'No;--it is to no purpose.'
'You said that I was--a curse to you?'
'O Marie, I had hoped,--I had so hoped, that you would have been my
blessing!'
'Say that I am not a curse to you, George!'
But he would make no answer to this appeal, no immediate answer; but
stood silent and stern, while she stood still touching his arm,
waiting in patience for some word at any rate of forgiveness. He
was using all the powers of his mind to see if there might even yet
be any way to escape this great shipwreck. She had not answered his
question. She had not told him in so many words that her heart was
still his, though she had promised her hand to the Basle merchant.
But he could not doubt that it was so. As he stood there silent,
with that dark look upon his brow which he had inherited from his
father, and that angry fire in his eye, his heart was in truth once
more becoming soft and tender towards her. He was beginning to
understand how it had been with her. He had told her, just now,
that he did not believe her, when she assured him that she had
thought that she was forgotten. Now he did believe her. And there
arose in his breast a feeling that it was due to her that he should
explain this change in his mind. 'I suppose you did think it,' he
said suddenly.
'Think what, George?'
'That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word was
worth no reliance.'
'I thought no evil of you, George,--except that you were changed to
me. When you came, you said nothing to me. Do you not remember?'
'I came because I was told that you were to be married to this man.
I asked you the question, and you would not deny it. Then I said to
myself that I would wait and see.' When he had spoken she had
nothing farther to say to him. The charges which he made against
her were all true. They seemed at least to be true to her then in
her present mood,--in that mood in which all that she now desired
was his forgiveness. The wish to defend herself, and to stand
before him as one justified, had gone from her. She felt that
having still possessed his love, having still been the owner of the
one thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her own doubts;
and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder. 'It is of no
use to think of it any more,' he said at last. 'You have to become
this man's wife now, and I suppose you must go through with it.'
'I suppose I must,' she said; 'unless--'
'Unless what?'
'Nothing, George. Of course I will marry him. He has my word. And
I have promised my uncle also. But, George, you will say that you
forgive me?'
'Yes;--I will forgive you.' But still there was the same black
cloud upon his face,--the same look of pain,--the same glance of
anger in his eye.
'O George, I am so unhappy! There can be no comfort for me now,
unless you will say that you will be contented.'
'I cannot say that, Marie.'
'You will have your house, and your business, and so many things to
interest you. And in time,--after a little time--'
'No, Marie, after no time at all. You told me at supper to-night
that I had better get a wife for myself. But I will get no wife. I
could not bring myself to marry another girl, I could not take a
woman home as my wife if I did not love her. If she were not the
person of all persons most dear to me, I should loathe her.'
He was speaking daggers to her, and he must have known how sharp
were his words. He was speaking daggers to her, and she must have
felt that he knew how he was wounding her. But yet she did not
resent his usage, even by a motion of her lip. Could she have
brought herself to do so, her agony would have been less sharp. 'I
suppose,' she said at last, 'that a woman is weaker than a man. But
you say that you will forgive me?'
'I have forgiven you.'
Then very gently she put out her hand to him, and he took it and
held it for a minute. She looked up at him as though for a moment
she had thought that there might be something else,--that there
might be some other token of true forgiveness, and then she withdrew
her hand. 'I had better go now,' she said. 'Good-night; George.'
'Good-night, Marie.' And then she was gone.
As soon as he was alone he sat himself down on the bedside, and
began to think of it. Everything was changed to him since he had
called her into the room, determining that he would crush her with
his thunderbolt. Let things go as they may with a man in an affair
of love, let him be as far as possible from the attainment of his
wishes, there will always be consolation to him if he knows that he
is loved. To be preferred to all others, even though that
preference may lead to no fruition, is in itself a thing enjoyable.
He had believed that Marie had forgotten him,--that she had been
captivated either by the effeminate prettiness of his rival, or by
his wealth and standing in the world. He believed all this no more.
He knew now how it was with her and with him, and, let his
countenance say what it might to the contrary, he could bring
himself to forgive her in his heart. She had not forgotten him!
She had not ceased to love him! There was merit in that which went
far with him in excuse of her perfidy.
But what should he do now? She was not as yet married to Adrian
Urmand. Might there not still be hope; hope for her sake as well as
for his own? He perfectly understood that in his country--nay, for
aught he knew to the contrary, in all countries--a formal betrothal
was half a marriage. It was half the ceremony in the eyes of all
those concerned; but yet, in regard to that indissoluble bond which
would indeed have divided Marie from him beyond the reach of any
hope to the contrary, such betrothal was of no effect whatever.
This man whom she did not love was not yet Marie's husband;--need
never become so if Marie could only be sufficiently firm in
resisting the influence of all her friends. No priest could marry
her without her own consent. He--George--he himself would have to
face the enmity of all those with whom he was connected. He was
sure that his father, having been a party to the betrothal, would
never consent to a breach of his promise to Urmand. Madame Voss,
Madame Faragon, the priest, and their Protestant pastor would all be
against them. They would be as it were outcasts from their own
family. But George Voss, sitting there on his bedside, thought that
he could go through it all, if only he could induce Marie Bromar to
bear the brunt of the world's displeasure with him. As he got into
bed he determined that he would begin upon the matter to his father
during the morning's walk. His father would be full of wrath;--but
the wrath would have to be endured sooner or later.