The truth was stripped of the disguise in which he had sought to wrap
it; he knew that he had never ceased to love her. As he had known it
while she sobbed beside him on the boat, so he knew it when the Bar
claimed him again and he wrestled with temptation amid his work. He
might re-marry her! He could not drive this irruptive idea from his
mind. It lurked there, impelled attention, dozed, woke, and throbbed
in his consciousness persistently. Were he but weak enough to make the
choice, the woman that he loved might belong to him once more.
Were he but weak enough! There were minutes in which he was very near
to it, minutes in which the dishonour, if dishonour it were, looked as
nothing to him compared with the joy of having her for his wife again.
Yet were he but "weak" enough? Would it indeed be weakness--would it
not rather be strength, the courage of his convictions? The longing
illumined his vision, and he asked himself on what his doubt and
hesitation was based. She had sinned; but he had pardoned her sin,
not merely in words, but in his heart. And she was very dear to him;
and she had repented. Then why should it be impossible? What after
all had they done to her, what change in the beloved identity had
they wrought, those months that were past? He was aware that it was
the physical side that repelled him--there had been another man. Yet
if she had been a widow when he met her first, there would have been
another man, and it would have mattered nothing. Did this especial sin
make of a woman somebody else? Did it give her another face, another
form, another brain? Did unfaithfulness transform her personality?
The only difference was the knowledge of what had happened--the woman
herself was the same! But he would not vindicate his right to love
her--he loved her, that was enough. In its simplicity, the question was
whether he would do better to condone her guilt and know happiness, or
to preserve his dignity and suffer. He could not blink the question;
it confronted him nakedly when a week had worn by. Without her he was
lonely and wretched; with her, while she lived, he was confident that
his joy would be supreme. The step that he considered was, if any one
pleased, revolting; but if it led to his contentment, perhaps to be
"revolting" might be the height of wisdom. He must sacrifice his pride,
or his peace! And at last, quite deliberately, without misgiving or a
backward glance, Heriot determined to gain peace.
A few days after the arrival, Mrs. Baines had written to inform him
that the physician was out of town, but now a line came to say that an
appointment had been made for "Monday" and that she would communicate
Dr. Drummond's pronouncement immediately they reached home after the
interview. It was on Monday morning that Heriot received the note, and
he resolved to go to Mamie the same evening.
The thought of the amazement that his appearance would cause her
excited him wildly as he drove to Victoria. He could foresee the wonder
in her eyes as he entered, the incredulity on her features as she heard
what he was there to say; and the profoundest satisfaction pervaded him
that he had resolved to say it. The comments that his world would make
had no longer any place in his meditations; a fico for the world that
would debar him from delight and censure what it could not understand!
He had suffered long enough; his only regret was for the years which
had been lost before he grasped the vivid truth that, innocent or
guilty, the woman who conferred happiness was the woman to be desired.
A criticism of his brother's recurred to him: "You hadn't a single
taste in common!" He had not disputed it at the time; he was not
certain that he could deny it now. But there was no need to consider
whether their views were kindred or opposed, whether she was defiled
or stainless, when she was the woman whose magic could transfigure his
existence. He was conscious that this marriage to be approved by his
judgment, and condemned by Society, would be a sweeter and holier union
than their first, to which she had brought purity, and indifference.
As the cab sped down Victoria Street, his excitement increased, and in
imagination he already clasped her and felt the warmth of her cheek
against his face.
The hansom slackened, jerked to a standstill; and he leapt out and
hurried to the booking-office. A train was at the point of starting.
The sentiment of the bygone was quick in him as he found that he must
pass through a yellow barrier on to the same platform to which he used
to hasten when he went to see her in Lavender Street, Wandsworth.
He had never trodden it since. A thousand associations, sad but
delicious, were revived as he took his seat, and the guard, whose
countenance seemed familiar, sauntered with a green flag and a lantern
past the window. Victoria slipped back. It had been in one of these
compartments--perhaps in this one--that he had first asked her to be
his wife. How wet her cape had been when he touched it! A porter sang
out, "Grosvenor Road," and at the sound of it Heriot marvelled at
having forgotten that they were about to stop there. Yes, "Grosvenor
Road," and then--what next? He could not remember. But memory knocked
with a louder pang as each of the places on the line was reached. When
"Wandsworth Common" was cried, he glanced at the dimly-lighted station
while in fancy he threaded his way to the shabby villa that had been
her home. He thought that he could find it blindfold.
After this the line was quite strange to him; and now the impatience of
his mood had no admixture and he trembled with eagerness to gain his
destination.
"Balham!" was bawled two minutes later; and among a stream of clerks
and nondescripts, he descended a flight of steps and emerged into a
narrow street. No cab was visible, and, having obtained directions, he
set forth for Rosalie Road afoot.
A glimpse he had of cheap commerce, of the flare of gas-jets on
oranges, and eggs, and fifth-rate millinery; and then the shops and
the masses were left behind, and he was in obscurity. The sound of
footsteps occurred but seldom here, and he wandered in a maze of little
houses for nearly half an hour before a welcome postman earned a
shilling.
Rosalie Road began in darkness, and ended in a brickfield. He
identified Number 44 by the aid of a vesta, and pulled the bell.
Impatience was mastering him when he discerned, through the panes, a
figure advancing along the passage.
His voice was strange in his ears, as he inquired if Mamie was in.
"Yessir; she's in the drorin'-room. 'Oo shall I say?"
"Sir George Heriot. Is Mrs. Baines at home?"
His title rendered the little maid incapable of an immediate response.
"Missis is out of a herrand, sir," she stammered; "she won't be long."
"When she comes in, tell her that I'm talking privately to her niece.
'Privately'; don't forget!"
She turned the handle, and Heriot followed her into the room. Vaguely
he heard her announce him; he saw the room as in a mist. Momentarily
all that was clear was Mamie's face, white and wondering in the
lamplight. She stood where she had been standing at his entrance,
looking at him; he had the impression of many seconds passing while she
only looked; many seconds seemed to go by before her colour fluttered
back and she said, "You?"
"Yes, it's I. Won't you say you're glad to see me?"
"Aunt Lydia has written to you," she said, still gazing at him as if
she doubted his reality. "Her letter has gone."
"I've come to hear what Dr. Drummond says."
She motioned him to a chair, and drooped weakly on to the shiny couch.
"I am not going to die," she muttered. "Your sympathy has been thrown
away--I'm a fraud."
In the breathless pause he felt deafened by the thudding of his heart.
"He has given you hope?"
"He said, 'Bosh!' I told him what the doctor told me in Duluth. He
said, 'Bosh!' One lung isn't quite sound, that's all; I may live to be
eighty."
"O dear God!" said Heriot slowly, "I thank You!"
She gave a short laugh, harsh and bitter.
"I always posed. My last pose was as a dying woman!"
"Mamie," he said firmly--he went across to her and sat down by her
side--"Mamie, I love you. I want you to come back to me, my darling. My
life's no good without you, and I want you for my wife again. Will you
come?"
He heard her catch her breath; she could not speak. He took her hands,
and drew her to him. Their lips clung together, and presently he felt
tears on his cheek.
Then she released herself with a gesture of negation.
"You are mad!" she said. "And _I_ should be madder to accept the
sacrifice!"
For this he was prepared.
"I am very sane," he answered. "Dearest, when you understand, you will
see that it is the only reparation you can make me. Listen!"