AFTER DINNER AT HOME.
When the singing ended, Nevill looked up quickly into his companion's
face, and cried in surprise,--
'What, another change! Why, the weather-cock and the moon are fixed
stars compared with you! All is right between you and Marie, and all
is wrong between you and yourself. You are as unintelligible as a
woman, and more inconstant. What is your difficulty _now?_'
'I have no difficulty now. All is clear and fair.'
'Then we'll make it a double marriage. I'll give you away, and you'll
give me away. That will be impressive. It reminds me of the time when
I wore a turban.'
'Now, Nevill, Alice isn't here to be amused. Let us talk like men.'
'Severe, but perhaps merited. I am so delighted with all I see and
hear and feel that I am disposed to dry up and become sedate and
middle-aged; at once. Come, Osborne, I'll be middle-aged; you can't
help being. You were born middle-aged. You were intended for the
patriarchal time. You ought to have flocks and herds, and a long white
beard, and five wives. A man with a slow blue eye, like yours, is
always a good judge of cattle. But, as you suggest, let us talk like
men. What is the new position? How have you managed--reconciled your
difficulties?'
'You may remember that day Marie, Kate, and I deserted you in London,
and dined with the husband of a friend of Marie's?'
'Yes, I recollect. It was a case of most inhuman desertion.'
'Well, on that occasion we dined with a man named Parkinson, a very
agreeable, well-read, and thoughtful man. Nothing could have been more
pleasant than the host; the hostess and the two children of the house
were simply charming. Yet, as I told you at the time, Parkinson had
long ceased to occupy his thoughts with anything beyond the world
around us.'
'And you have lately come to the conclusion that--'
'Since Parkinson, notwithstanding his faith or want of faith, could be
a good husband and make a good woman happy, there was no reason why
another man should not do likewise, and no reason why spiritual
matters should stand in the way of earthly ties.'
'Some people look on those ties as more than merely earthly. However,
I will not argue the question with you. But she knows of your new
view, and approves of it?'
'I have not yet had an opportunity of speaking to her about it, but I
am certain she will not make any difficulty.'
'You intend telling her before you are married?'
'Undoubtedly. You do not think me capable of deceiving her?'
'No; but I do think you capable of deceiving yourself unwittingly. How
are you sure Marie will be content with the new departure?'
'I asked her if she would marry me supposing such a case arose, and
she said she would.'
'Well, but, my dear Osborne, more people than Marie are uneasy about
you. I think it would kill your poor mother if she thought your
present condition likely to be permanent.'
'My dear Nevill, what is the good of such thoughts? If I am of opinion
the sky is black at midday, the mere fact that another person is
grieved because I will not alter my opinion can in no way affect my
opinion itself. Neither my mother nor Marie can be more grieved than I
am at my present state. But if I suffer from a defect of sight, which
makes the sky seem black to me, how can the wishes of other people
change my eyes? If I myself could change my eyes, I would.'
'But ten thousand people say the sky at noon is blue for the ten that
say it's black. Has the weight of evidence no value for you?'
'No. Suppose, when we go to the drawing-room, all there gathered round
you and assured you Marie was Kate, would you believe us?'
'Certainly not; but that is not a fair case. Cæsar tells us he
conquered Gaul and Britain. But you have more than Cæsar's word for
it. You have most of the intelligent people of to-day and of eighteen
centuries believing Cæsar's word; and against his word, and the words
of sixty generations, you have only your own individual doubt.'
'My dear fellow, I am familiar with that argument and a hundred
others. Let us drop the subject. No one was ever yet convinced by an
argument when something more than reason did not prompt belief. I have
lost my faith, and can, of my own will, no more recover it than a
child who has lost a parent in a crowd can by its mere will return to
the guardianship of that parent.'
'There may be a good deal in what you say, Osborne. You know most of
my life I was utterly careless of all religious matters. When I came
right, I came right all at once; and you will too in the same way.
Suddenly I felt a great surprise, as if I had lived all my life on the
sea-shore, but had kept my face always towards the land, and believed
there was nothing but land, until suddenly I turned round and saw the
ocean. I am not a religious man like you, and, instead of being
terribly overawed, I felt inclined to laugh out loud at my old foolish
self and my old foolish thoughts. There was the sea as sure as the
land had been.'
'That is a very striking way of illustrating it,' said Osborne sadly.
'If I am to adopt it, I feel as though I had all my life stood upon
firm land and had seen the sea and firm land, but that all at once a
dense fog fell, and I could see nothing.'
'By-the-way, you have never seen the sea?'
'No, never. I shall go there when we are married.'
'But I suppose, now that all is square between you two, you will be
married before summer?'
'Before summer! Before spring, I hope. Why should we wait any longer
than is now absolutely necessary? All is settled between us. My mother
is content, I think, and no friend or relative of Marie's has to be
consulted.'
'I am sorry things are not so far forward between Kate and me. We have
not definitely arranged anything yet, and I have first of all to get a
formal answer from your mother. For that answer I cannot press
immediately--I mean for a week or so. Although I asked you to make it
a double event, I fear I haven't the power to arrange about it now.
Twenty-four hours ago I thought I was much more near the happy state
than you; and now you seem to be on the point of entering it, and I,
although on the road to it, a long way off. Well, we must only take
our luck as it comes. But why do you choose the seaside for your
winter honeymoon?'
'It is a whim of mine, a foolish whim, perhaps. I can't give you a
reason for it. Don't you think all whims foolish?'
'My dear fellow, I am delighted you have a whim; no man can possibly
be perfect without a whim. You have gone up fifteen per cent, in my
esteem within the last two minutes. Think whims foolish? Not I! Why,
they are the bouquet in the wine of a man's nature. A whim is
something out of the common. What is genius but a bundle of whims? Up
to a few moments ago I regarded you as an assemblage of all the
cardinal virtues mixed up humbo-jumbo, mixed up anyway, anyhow, but
without the cement of vice or weakness. Now you are to me like a vast
cathedral, perfect in proportion, perfect in detail. I don't say a
whim is a vice or a crime, but it's a thing an archbishop would think
very little of. Your having a whim reminds me of the time when I was
cast away on a coral island in the Pacific. Just as I rubbed the
salt-water out of my eyes I saw coming towards me--'
'Nevill, you are growing young again. Little Alice is in the
drawing-room, and she will be delighted to hear about that crocodile.'
'Bless my soul, Osborne, you are too bad! The only crocodile I ever
had an encounter with was one that escaped from the Japanese village
at the Alexandra Palace, and took to the reedy shores and uninhabited
islands of the New River at Wood Green. They had been trying to catch
him with a kedge-anchor baited with the flesh of bailiffs; but the
beast would not bite. The reptile naturally had an objection to a man
in possession. I called upon the Mayor of Wood Green--'
'No, no, no! Come on. You have been only playing with the wine, and I
know you like coffee, and it has gone up by this time; and I'm sure
Alice is most anxiously awaiting you.'
'But, my dear fellow, this is not a drawing-room story at all. It is
full of awful language.'
'Well, go on.'
'"D--n you!" said I to the man at my elbow (I told you it was not a
drawing-room story, but that's nothing in the way of swearing like
what's coming), "d--n you!" said I to the man at the wheel, "why don't
you put your helm hard a-port and throw her aback!"'
'Who, the crocodile?'
'No, no; don't be absurd, Osborne. Throw a crocodile aback by porting
the helm of a full-rigged ship! Did anyone but yourself ever conceive
such an idea? Don't you see, it was a stern chase. We were leading. My
object was to throw our vessel suddenly across his bows, and rake him
fore and aft; and then up stick and away again before he knew where he
was. But I fear the description of the fight would be unintelligible
to you, as it is full of technical terms. Tell me honestly, Osborne,
do you know what a spankerboom is?'
'I have not the least idea.'
'Ah, then, there is no use in my going on. You could not understand
the story. I am very sorry for it, Osborne, but I fear there is
nothing left us to do but to rejoin the ladies.'
When they reached the drawing-room Osborne led Nevill to where Alice
was sitting at a small table by herself, and said,--
'Alice, Mr Nevill has a most amusing story to tell you. What is it
about, Nevill?'
'Oh, about the spankerboom. You know nothing about sea terms?'
'I am sorry to say I do not. Should I know before I could understand
the tale?' said Alice, with a smile.
'On the contrary. Nothing I know of embarrasses the narrator of a
sea-story more than technical knowledge in the listener. For if I tell
you we carried away our t'gallant backstay, and you asked me what we
did then, did we splice it or cut it away, you interrupt the even and
straightforward course of the tale--'
At this point Osborne moved away, and went to the couch upon which Mrs
Osborne and Marie sat.
The drawing-room was large and of an L-shape. The shorter arm of the
room was divided from the longer by thick curtains looped and held
back so as to leave but a narrow opening between the curtains. At the
rear of the back drawing-room was a small conservatory. Both rooms
were lighted up, but the conservatory was not; it lay almost
invisible, a place of warm, moist twilight. At the end of less than an
hour Marie and George found themselves seated alone in this dim
retreat.
'I think, George,' said Marie, after a long silence, 'this has been
the happiest day of my life.'
'I am sure, my darling,' he said, pressing her hand, 'it has also been
my happiest; and this is the happiest moment of my happiest day.'
This was the first time they had been alone during the day.
'The change I saw come over you, George, in the train, after all the
anxiety you and I have felt, would by itself have made this one of my
happiest days. But the great kindness of your mother to me astonishes
me, and pleases me more than I can tell.'
'Who could be anything else but kind to my darling?'
'But she was much more kind than anyone could expect or guess. I was
wonderfully surprised. When she came with me to my room that time, she
told me, George, all about your family and politics, until I felt I
had been a great politician for years, ready to die for Church and
State.'
George kissed her and said,--
'In fact, my Marie, she treated you as though you already were her
daughter. Is that not so, my love?'
She answered by pressing his hand.
'She told me how all your family had been Conservatives. I don't
know exactly what Conservatives are. I believe they have
something to do with the Government. Won't you tell me all about
Conservatives--by-and-by?'
'Yes, love; but let us not talk of such things now. Nevill and I had a
chat after dinner to-day, and I was telling him that now all obstacles
had been cleared away, I hope very soon to have my first look at the
sea, and I had made up my mind never to set eyes on it until I go on
my honeymoon. So, love, as I am very anxious to get my first glance at
the sea, I hope you will let me go there as soon as ever you can.
Won't you?'
He felt her tremble and sigh in his arms. She did not answer.
He went on,--
'You know, love, I told you of that awful dream I had in London of the
sea, and of how I lost you. I am sure, not until this moment, not
until now in this middle of peaceful and prosperous England, when my
arm is safely round my own girl, did it occur to me why I had a whim
to pass the honeymoon by the sea. The whim must have arisen in some
way or the other from that dream. No doubt from a half-felt
inclination to avoid the sea until nothing could take my Marie from
me.'
'Not all the world, George. Not all the world could take me from you
now, George.'
She put her arm round him, and clung to him, and then ceased to cling,
and simply leaned against him.
'George,' she continued, after a pause, 'I have travelled a good deal,
and some might think me restless by nature. But I am not. I am quite
content to rest here for ever. Won't you let me, George?'
He pressed her closely to him.
'You shall never leave me, love. What moments these are, Marie!'
'I shall always think of this conservatory as the end of my
wanderings. We did not feel quite sure, my love, did we, until your
mother saw me?'
'I felt quite sure she could not but love my Marie.'
'George, suppose your mother had turned her back on me, would you have
turned your back on me?'
'Why should we vex ourselves now with such questions? My mother likes
you wonderfully well.'
'But suppose she had not received me well, would you have given me
up?'
'Certainly not. Why do you ask such a question? Now that my mother has
behaved so well, it is ungenerous to force such an answer from me.'
'I am not ungenerous, George. There is no harm in your telling me
anything now, is there?'
'No, my love; you are quite right. You have a perfect right to my full
confidence. I was utterly wrong to say you were ungenerous. Indeed, at
the time I said the word, what I meant was that you forced me into
saying an ungenerous thing when we think of how well my mother has
treated me all my life, and especially on this occasion.'
'And if that change had not come over you in the train, if you had
remained in the same state of mind as you were when you left London,
would you, George, have given me up? Would you have sent poor Marie
away from you some day?'
'I cannot tell. I do not know. I did not know. I was nearly mad,
Marie. Cannot we forget all the bad past?'
'But, George, to think of the bad past while your arm is round me here
makes the present more precious.'
'My darling! My darling! The past is nothing to me now! I think of
only the present and the future.'
'Now, suppose you had promised your mother never to marry me if I
became an infidel, would you, upon my becoming an infidel, give me
up?'
'What earthly good can come of such strained and out-of-the-way
suppositions? You are inventing difficulties for consideration just at
the moment all difficulties have disappeared.'
'But there is no harm in your answering the question.'
'Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I answer you that question,
will you promise to fix a day for our marriage?'
'I will.'
'Well, if I had promised my mother not to marry you if you became an
infidel, I should keep my promise.'
'Oh, George, George, George! won't you be always as you are now? Won't
you, love?'
'Yes, darling, I hope so. Now for your promise.'
'The promise I made to your mother?'
'No; the promise you made to me.'
'You said the sooner the better.'
'I said so, and mean it with all my soul, darling Marie.'
'I say so too.'
'God bless you! When shall it be?'
'When you please, George.'
'But you know, sweetheart, it is you who are to decide this matter.'
'I know; but will you do it for me? I am yours now; do with me what
you think best. I will marry you any day you tell me; I will do
everything you tell me from this time. I am yours, George, body and
soul!'
'Hush, hush, sweet love! I am not worthy of this. Shall we say this
day month, my Marie?'
'Ay; I am willing.'
'This day three weeks?'
'If you wish it, George. The sooner the better.'
'Heaven bless my love for ever!'
'And Heaven bless my lover for ever, and keep him as he now is!'
'Amen.'
'Marie, you spoke a moment ago as if you had made my mother some
promise. Have you done so?'
'Yes, George.'
'What was the promise?'
'Not to fix the day for our wedding so long as you were not as you are
now.'
'What do you mean?'
'I told her I knew, by your manner in the train, that you had no
longer those horrible ideas about religion; and as I knew they had
disappeared on the way down from London, I promised not to marry you
while you held them. What--what is the matter, George? Don't leave me,
George. Why did you take your arm away? Why did you stand up? George,
won't you speak to me?'
'My God, girl, what have you done!'
'What have I done? George, speak to me! My George, my love, my lord,
tell me--tell poor Marie what she has done.... George, will you not
look down at me, and tell me what I have done? ... I am on my knees at
your feet.... I am kneeling at your feet, George.... Will you not look
down?... Oh, my heart will burst! Will you not look down at me--say a
word to me?... You will not? Then I will go!'
She rose from her knees, and walked a few paces towards the door of
the conservatory; stood, laid her hand on one of the flower-stands for
support; essayed again to walk, tottered, stood still; and then, with
a weary sigh, sank to the floor.
The sound of her fall roused Osborne from his lethargy; the sound of
his own voice was the last that had reached his consciousness. He
sprang to her side, raised her, and opening the conservatory door,
cried out,--
'Nevill, Kate, help! Marie has fainted.'
When she opened her eyes she found herself lying on a couch in the
drawing-room.
'With the door shut, the heat and closeness of the place were too much
for her. George ought to know no girl could stand that place with the
door shut,' said Mrs Osborne.
'I tried to get to the door, and then I remember no more,' said Marie
feebly.
'It was all my fault,' said George, in a tremulous voice.