IN A NEW ASPECT.
The chat which George Osborne had with Nevill the night before had
eased and steadied his mind, but had in no way relieved his heart.
There were less hurry and confusion in his thoughts, but his thoughts
were far from pleasant.
His mother had gone out of her way to extract this promise from Marie,
and she must therefore attach a great deal of importance to it. Marie
had attributed a cause quite opposite to the real one for the change
which had come over him in the railway-carriage. If she had not
noticed that change, or if she had not misinterpreted it, matters
might not be in their present hopeless condition. Nevill had said last
night that he would make an effort to mend the situation. But what
could Nevill do?
When he, Osborne, arrived at Stratford, he would have gladly shut his
eyes to his own spiritual condition and married Marie. But this
promise to his mother looked a fatal barrier. In that promise,
extracted from Marie in the cathedral, he might, when the first shock
had passed, have easily agreed that the pledge was never intended to
apply to him, and that in keeping the letter she might break the
spirit of that pledge.
In the present case there was no such loophole. Marie had made a clear
definite promise not to name the day for their marriage, should George
return to the scepticism to which he had given way of late. It was
true, if this were merely a legal question, there were two points
which might make that promise inoperative. First, he had never
abandoned his doubts, and therefore could not be said to go back to
them. Second, the day had been fixed before he knew anything of
Marie's promise. But of course, in conscience, neither of these points
would hold for an instant.
What should he do now? Could he do anything? Of course he could marry
the girl, in spite of his mother. But could he marry her with ease to
his own mind in spite of her promise? That was the question which
perplexed him. Could he ask her to break her deliberate promise, in
order that she might by his side run the risk of infidelity? He knew
not one man in a thousand would hesitate a moment. He knew that in
ordinary cases when a man wished to make a woman his wife he thought
very little of anything else than attaining his object. But he,
Osborne, was not a man of that kind. The mere dread that any shadow of
doubt or difficulty lay between him and her would spoil all.
His head was quite clear, but his heart was troubled sorely.
What, he, for the sake of a few meaningless words, lose all the
sunshine and the glory of his life! What, was his life to be marred
for ever because Marie had uttered a few words to his mother? What
right had words spoken by her to a third person to come between her
and him? It was absurd to think of such a thing. No one out of Bedlam
could dream of such a thing for a moment. Nothing of the kind should
come between him and his love. Nothing. Mere words. What had mere
words to do with him or her? What had mere words to do anywhere? Mere
words, which once breathed disappeared for ever, to stand in the way
of hearts drawn to one another as the moon draws the sea?
What a humdrum thing breakfast had been without her! What a humdrum
thing life had been until he met her! Now life would be simply
intolerable without her. Without her? What nonsense! Promise or no
promise, faith or no faith, he was not going to lose her; he was not
going to lose the great melody of his life for ever. Come fair, come
foul; come weal, come woe, he would make Marie Gordon his wife.
It was a lucky thing he had business in the town. It would occupy him
till luncheon, and then, as soon as he came back, he'd see his
beautiful darling once more.
What had she said last night in the conservatory after his cry? He had
no more recollection than of what happened in the Great Desert at the
time. Could he have muttered anything like a reproach, like words of
farewell?
'Farewell! Ah, God, not that! No, no, no! Farewell, never! There shall
be no farewell. I may be at liberty to break my own heart, but I am
not at liberty to break hers.
'It never struck me in that way before. I have never gone farther than
thinking what I ought to do so as to secure her against danger. If it
would break her heart to part from me, it would be murder to let her
go. Fancy my taking up a knife and killing Marie! Fancy my standing
before her, and firing a loaded pistol at her head! Fancy the look in
her eyes when she saw my arm upraised to strike, extended to fire!
Suppose I said to her, this evening in the drawing-room,--"Marie, I
have made up my mind that, owing to scruples of mine, you and I must
be strangers for evermore. I leave Stratford to see you no more." I
think she would laugh at first. But when she found out I was in
earnest? Oh, I cannot look at her face as I see it now. No, no, no! I
have no right to break her heart; and if she will marry me, nothing
earthly shall induce me to give her up. Fancy her calling after me,
saying, "George, will you not come back to me?" Oh, God, I cannot even
think of it. I will not think of it. I am glad I have this business in
the town. It will kill time and thought until I get back and see my
own love once again.'
He arose, and went into the hall. As he was putting on his overcoat,
O'Connor tripped downstairs.
'Good morning, O'Connor. How is your mistress now?'
'She is in a nice quiet sleep now, sir.'
George beckoned her into the parlour, which was now deserted.
'Was Miss Gordon very bad last night, O'Connor?'
'She was bad enough, sir. I slept in the dressing-room; and about an
hour after she went to bed I heard her saying, "Don't! Oh don't! Don't
send me away!" I thought she was awake at the time, so I went to her,
and spoke to her. But she was fast asleep. I came out, and sat in her
room; and all through the night she never stopped waking and falling
asleep again; and as soon as she fell asleep she began moaning and
crying in her sleep. I was wondering, sir, maybe Miss Osborne and you
and Mr Nevill and my mistress went to some very mournful play in
London by Shakespeare, and that coming into his native air, sir, may
have made the mournfulness of the play come against her all at once;
for I never saw Miss Gordon like that before.'
'Ay,' answered Osborne vaguely. 'O'Connor, I want you to wait a
minute, while I scribble a few lines for her.'
He took a pencil and wrote,--
'My Darling Marie,--I have no clear recollection of how that scene in
the conservatory ended. O'Connor tells me you are now sleeping. God
bless you! I have to go out on business. We shall meet at luncheon. I
can hardly bear to leave the house where my only love is. I hope I did
not say or do anything very bad in that conservatory. Whatever I then
said or did, believe me, my darling Marie, nothing shall ever separate
Marie from
'George.'
He folded it up, and handed it to the maid, saying--
'Now, O'Connor, give her this when she awakes.'
Then he walked into the hall, put on his hat and went out.
He did not get back until a few minutes before luncheon. Marie was
down, looking a little pale, but very happy. As he took her hand,
George said,--
'Did you get my note?'
'Yes, and it has made me so glad. I am quite well since I read it.'
When Nevill had said good-afternoon to Marie he went over to where
Alice stood, arranging something on the chimneypiece. He took her
hands, and said gaily,--
'And how has Mistress Alice fared since?'
'Badly. I did my best and failed. She is not coming down to luncheon.'
'Failed! Failed! Then I do not know what will become of it!'