"Why is it a different thing?"
"I meant that I hoped it might lead to something for them--I wasn't
thinking of friendship."
"_I'm_ not thinking of friendship; your friendship wouldn't be much use
to me out there. I want you to be my wife. Will you?"
They were in the garden, after dinner. From the ladies' orchestra in
the hall came the barcarolle from _The Tales of Hoffmann_. In sentiment
she was in her teens.
"I can't," she said, in a whisper.
"I'm so fond of you. Do you know I've never heard your name?"
She told him her name.
"Belle, I'd be so good to you. Don't you like me?"
She turned to him. No one could see them. The first kiss of her first
love--moonlight, and the barcarolle. Though she did not recognise it,
there was a single instant in which she was capable of any weakness.
But she was not capable of strength.
"I can't," she repeated. "How can I? To marry again! I couldn't say
such a thing to them. What would they--I couldn't do it."
"I don't understand. You 'can't marry me' because they wouldn't like
it? You don't mean that? Or is it because you don't think you ought to
leave them?"
"Both."
"But--good heavens!... Besides, there's this aunt they've gone to--they
could live with her. You aren't telling me--you can't mean you won't
marry me because you imagine it's your duty to sacrifice our happiness
for the sake of two young women you don't care about? You know you
don't care about them! It's mad! I need you more than they do; I can
make you happier than they do. I shall never be a millionaire, but I
shall come into a bit by and by, and I can make things bright for you
at home, one day. You'd have rather a good time out there, for that
matter. I _want_ to make things bright for you--I want to see you what
you were meant to be. You've never had your youth yet, you've been done
out of it; I want to give it to you, I want you to forget what it means
to feel depressed. That'd be just my loveliest joy, to see you in high
spirits, laughing, waking up younger instead of older, growing more
like a girl every day.... People'd begin to take me for your father!
That'd be rough on me, wouldn't it?"
She looked, misty-eyed and smiling, at this man who had transfigured
life for her.
"I know it sounds silly of me."
"That's meek," he laughed. "Very well, then. As soon as they come back
we'll tell them. Perhaps they won't mind as much as you think--they
aren't so devoted to you, are they?"
"It isn't that. Their father's memory means so much to them--they'll
think it so awful of me. And----"
"And what?"
"You don't know everything--I haven't told you all about it. It sounds
hideous, I know, but I couldn't help it--I drifted into it. I--I've
had to pretend so much. Pretend to miss him, I mean. All the time.
Every day. I----To tell them that it wasn't true----How can I?"
"You wouldn't be the only woman who had loved twice; other women have
cared for their husbands, and married again."
"It has been all the time," she muttered, shame-faced. "Even since we
have been here I've had to----Just before they went, we sent flowers
to the cemetery and I was supposed to--I mean, I had to pretend to be
sorry we couldn't take them ourselves. What a hypocrite I shall seem!
What'll they say?"
He grasped her hands, and held her tight, and told her what _he_ would
be willing to do for _her_--and though he was older than she, and
looked it, he talked like a boy. "Do you disbelieve me?" he asked. "And
if you don't disbelieve me, won't _you_ face a little awkwardness for
_me_? If it comes to that, _I_ can speak to them first. Once the news
is broken, the worst'll be over for you. What a baby you are, darling!
May I call you a baby the moment I'm engaged to you, Mrs. Findon,
madam? Oh, you little timid, foolish, sweetest soul, fancy talking
about missing all our happiness for life, to avoid a bad half-hour!
It'd be a funny choice, wouldn't it, Belle my Belle?"
She nodded, radiant; and aglow with the courage he had communicated,
she thought she could have proclaimed her intention straightway, if the
young women had returned then.
They did not, however, return at all. Next morning the post brought
from them the news that they felt too sad to find Harrogate congenial
now, and that they would rather be at home. They were going back to
Beckenhampton the "day after to-morrow."
It meant that her precious hours here were numbered. She showed the
letter disconsolately to Murray.
"I shall have to go this afternoon," she said.
"I don't see what for--I don't see why you should be dragged away at a
minute's notice. You're not a child to be 'sent for.'"
"Oh, I must go," she sighed; "I _must_ get there before them, to see to
things."
They stood together in the hall--the hall that he knew would look so
pathetically blank to him this afternoon.
"We haven't had long, have we?" he said. "How I'm going to hate
everybody in this hydro when you've gone!--the people that mention
you, and the people that don't mention you; every single one of them;
because I shall be missing you in every second and they'll all be
chattering and scandalmongering just the same. When shall I hear from
you? You'll tell them as soon as you see them--you won't put it off,
even for an hour? Oh, my darling, don't think I'm not alive to all
that's beautiful in you, but"--he tried to smile--"you _are_ a little
bit of a coward where they're concerned, aren't you? Keep remembering
you're free to do as you like. If they aren't pleased, they can be
displeased. You haven't got to ask their permission. It's a perfectly
simple statement-you're' going to marry me.' They haven't a shadow
of right to complain. If you'll remind yourself of that, it'll make
it smoother for you.... I wish we could have had a day together
first--away from all this crew, I mean. Couldn't you make it to-morrow
instead? We'd have a car and go somewhere. Couldn't you, Belle?"
"I can't," she said wistfully. "It'd be heavenly. But I can't. I ought
to go upstairs and pack now."
"All right, little woman," said he; "I don't want to make it worse for
you. Go along, then. I may see you off, mayn't I? And I'll 'phone at
once about your passage on the boat. And I'll come to Beckenhampton the
instant you send for me. And we're to be married by special licence
next week. Oh, isn't it great! And then your new life begins--the
laughter life, the girl life. I'm going to wipe out that troubled look
they've put in your eyes--I'm going to make you self-willed, make you
tyrannise over me."
"Tyrannise over the Judge! Wouldn't it be a shame?" she laughed. "What
a reward for you!"
"I don't know," he said; "I believe I'd like it--it's time you did
a little tyrannising. I can't kiss you, darling, because somebody's
coming down the stairs, but look at me and let's pretend!"
Downcast as she felt, as the train bore her from him, she felt firm.
She could not view the ordeal before her as lightly as he--he did not
understand, she told herself; it was natural that he shouldn't--but
she was resolved to meet it without delay, and to be bold in the face
of the consternation she foresaw. How easy it would have been but for
the insincerities she had been guilty of, the craven insincerities! It
was her own horrible hypocrisy, not her stepdaughters' disapproval,
chat made the task so difficult. As she dwelt upon the difficulties,
as she realised the almost incredible shock she was about to deal, the
fortitude within her faded, and during the latter half of the journey
it was with thankfulness she reflected that she would not have to
confront the situation that day.
It should be directly they arrived, though! She vowed it.
* * * * *
She had watched tremulously till nearly three o'clock, when a cab
rumbled to the house at last; and her heart turned sicker still as she
saw that her stepdaughters were accompanied by their aunt.
"We persuaded her to come."
"I'm afraid I shall be a sad visitor for you, my dear."
"They were quite right. The change will do you good."
They explained that they had lunched early, and they sat awhile in
the drawing-room, with their hats and coats on--her sister-in-law
oppressive with much crape; the young women also wearing black dresses,
very badly made.
"A glass of wine, Harriet? You must be tired after the journey." She
rang the bell.
Sipping the port, and alternately nibbling a biscuit, and flicking
crumbs from her lap, Aunt Harriet was taciturn and tearful. And she had
little to say between tea and dinner, excepting when she spoke huskily
of her son's last hours. But in the evening her thoughts reverted to
the "happy days she had spent in the house when her dear brother was
alive," and she discoursed on them, remarking how "sadly different it
seemed now."
"It was a terrible loss for you, Belle," she moaned. "But the parting
is only for this life. That's all, my dear, only for this life. You'll
meet again where there are no partings. You must keep thinking of that.
It's only faith that helps us all to bear up."
And the hypocrite, loathing her hypocrisy, heard herself answer, "Oh, I
know! Oh yes!"
At Harrogate the orchestra would be playing now, and he was wondering
if she had told them yet! She gazed before her helplessly. She would
have to put it off till to-morrow.