A TROUBLED HEART.
'And so, miss, we're going down to the country to stay awhile with
Mr---- I mean Miss Osborne's mother. Well, that will be a change anyway,
and it's time we had a change out of London. I'm tired of London for
one! And where are we going after Stratford? Are we coming back to
London?'
'I do not know, O'Connor.'
'And when do we leave London for Stratford?'
'To-morrow afternoon.'
The maid withdrew and left the mistress alone.
Marie sat in an old-fashioned elbow-chair before the fire. Her hands
were clasped in her lap, her head drooped forward. Her eyes were fixed
upon her hands. Her face was dull and expressionless. No light shone
in her eye. The thoughts that visited her came like shadows, and went
like shadows, vague in their approach, leaving nothing after them when
they had gone. She was not thinking so much as musing, not so much
musing as allowing what idea would to stray into her mind. Her heart
had become a weary spectator of her thoughts. She was not dreaming,
for dreaming means dealing with things which are not. She was looking
with heavy, dull, uninterested eyes at a panorama of the immediate
past.
So grave now, and now so restless. What had happened to her George, to
her great fair-faced, calm-minded, loyal gentleman lover? What had
happened to him? His eyes no longer rested on her. They were dim, and
busy with far-off things. He was no longer attentive to her motions or
words as awhile ago. When he came back last evening from Stratford he
was polite and gentle, but there was no ardour in his ways. He had not
seemed to wish for a quiet chat with her. He had not sought a solitary
greeting or leave-taking. He had, in fact, treated her as though she
wore no ring of his giving on her finger. What could be the meaning of
this?
The notion that she could have displeased him seriously was nonsense,
for she knew she had done nothing wrong, and she knew he was of too
simple and manly a nature to be, altered by any trifle. Nothing petty
could have changed him. It must have been something of importance.
What could it be?
He was not a man to change in any respect for a trifle. Why had he
changed towards her? It could not be that the change had been wrought
by his visit to his home, for had he not come back with an invitation
for her to go there? He could not have been displeased with her for
accepting that invitation, for he had handed her his mother's cordial
letter in the presence of Kate and Mr Nevill, and had given her no
opportunity of talking over the matter with him. Besides, why should
he bring the invitation unless he wished her to accept it?
He had not only afforded her no opportunity of discussing that
invitation with him, but immediately before, and ever since his going
to, and since his return from, home he had avoided her; he had never
sought her when they might be alone. It was not so much that he
avoided her, as that he did not seek her. This was inexplicable. She,
if she had her choice, would never be a moment from his side. His
voice was all she wanted to make everything beautiful and gay. The
sense of youthfulness and joy came to her when she heard his voice. It
was as though all the troubles and jars and difficulties and
vexations, which, added upon youth by years, made one feel the loss of
early sprightliness, had been removed, and the full irresponsible
joyousness had been restored. Love in women takes off all
responsibility save the duty of loving. It may add to the cares of man
the burden of which woman is relieved.
But then George had broad shoulders and a brave spirit. The burden of
her own responsibilities had always sat lightly upon her; it surely
could not bow down, much less break down, George. He was no coward; he
was no weakling. He had asked her to make certain pledges, and she had
made them as unhesitatingly as she would follow him all over the
world. If she had any doubt or difficulty now, she would go to him and
tell him all. Why did he not come to her if he were in any doubt or
difficulty? Kate had never seen him in such a way before. What could
it mean?
Kate had never seen him thus before, and Kate must have seen him in
every phase of his character. Yes, in every phase of his character. In
every phase of his character--save one. She had never seen him in love
before. He had been very much in love with her a few days ago. He
showed it in all his acts, he told her so in plain words a hundred
times, and yet Kate did not _then_ say she had never seen George's
general manner such before. It was only since this change towards her
came that Kate noticed the unfamiliar manner. Kate had never seen him
in love before, and yet a week ago his general manner had not been
changed by love. What had changed his particular manner towards her
and his general manner to those around? Had he repented of his hasty
love-making?
Had he repented?
No doubt he had been hasty. Did he now think he had been rash? Ah,
that was a thing to ponder over, but not now, not now. George had come
back; that was the great matter now. But how different he was from
what he had been only a few days ago! Then he had made royal warm love
to her, and she had sat in the sunshine of his love, content and rich.
Now she was going with Kate on a visit to his home, to see the place
in which his nature had expanded and developed. She had pictured to
herself that home for their own home. He had made a sketch of it, and
she had filled in the sketch. There was to be no romance in their
future, but that divinest of all earthly romance, the romance of
wedded love. He was, outside the ordinary duties of his position, to
devote himself to her. He was not to make a goddess of her, but she
was to share all things with him.
What was he sharing with her now?
Ah well, perhaps when she got down to the country, out of this
worrying city, he would tell her all, share his secret with her,
instead of imposing this strange cold gloom. Why did he not come to
her and tell her what his trouble was? Even if it were she, it would
be better for him to come and tell her boldly, and she would know what
to do. She should then merely tell O'Connor to pack up, and they could
go away--whither she cared not, so long as he was relieved. Men talked
about dying for women they loved. She would live in any misery, if
living could do him any good. He was lord of her, and she was his
slave. He had to order, she to obey. She did not want kind words or
gentle consideration. She would be satisfied with anything, so long as
he was happy. He was her lord and master. He should be her lord and
master until her heart had ceased to beat. She would have no other
lord or master, no other all her life. Why did he not come to her and
tell her what was the matter, that she might lay her heart at his
feet? She wanted him only to show her what sacrifice of hers could
ease him in any way.
She had once been proud or vain, she knew not which. She had in the
olden time scorned women who were easily led by men; now she would
follow him to the grave. Nay, she would walk into the grave, although
she knew he was not to follow her; although it was to be their final
separation for time and eternity. Was this infatuation? No. This was
love as she had dreamed of it, as it had always presented itself to
her in the long-ago of unrest and heart fancy-free. Yes, she would
rather see him married to someone not herself, than that he should be
her husband and dissatisfied with his wife.
But would he ever unbosom himself to her? Would he allow her to go
down to his mother's place without explaining the alteration of his
manner? That would be worse than even here. What should she do?
Another girl in her place would refuse the invitation. But he had
brought the note from home, and she was justified in concluding it had
been dictated by his heart. Oh, that there were any way of finding out
what would come of this--death or life!
Gradually, as the minutes went on, the mind of the girl had become
more active. In time the mere dreamy contemplation of dull shadows
passed away, and her ideas assumed sharp edges, and her thoughts exact
formulæ.
'O'Connor, is that you?'
'Yes, miss.'
'What brought you back?'
'A note for you from Mr Osborne.'
With hands that trembled slightly, the mistress took the envelope and
opened it. The contents were:--
'Tell me when you can give me an hour or two. I want to have a quiet
chat with you in the open air somewhere. George.'
She took up a pencil and wrote back,--
'I can keep any appointment you make. Marie.'
He rejoined:--
'Come at once.'
She rose, and said,--
'O'Connor, give me a waterproof; I am going out.'
'Going out, miss! I'm glad of that. I hope it will make you feel
better.'
'Nothing can make me feel worse,' thought Marie.