WHEN MY GEORGE IS AWAY.
Osborne's mind was finally made up. He would not again speak to Marie
under his mother's roof. He would go away, not only from the house,
but from Stratford. He would go back to London; not of course to Mrs
Barclay's, but to some other quiet place, and there await Marie's
ultimate decision. He would put the issue plainly before her and let
her decide. The situation was most awkward and embarrassing. But, as
far as he was concerned, it was only awkward and embarrassing. It
might seem cruel to leave Marie without a word; but if he met Marie
again in this house it would be impossible for him to deal with the
whole question, and it would be unwise to treat of merely a part.
For aught he knew to the contrary, Marie would leave this house as
soon as he had gone. That was a thing he could not advocate for many
reasons. In the first place, it would be undignified and unworthy of
him and her. In the second place, people would be sure to put a number
of most unjustifiable and injurious constructions on such an act. He
himself was quite above caring for what people said, but Marie's name
must not be placed at their disposal. No; he should take no advantage.
In fact, he would rather place difficulties in the way than seek easy
means to his ends.
Yes, he did not mind difficulties. He preferred that there should be
difficulties. He did not care how many or how great these difficulties
were. In fact, he cared for only one thing now, namely, the absolute
certainty that in the end Marie should be his wife. All his life he
had been placid, docile; but he had never been crossed by anyone in
his schemes or plans. So long as he felt he and he alone was
responsible for Marie, he had been a martyr to scrupulosity. But now
someone else--his mother--had sought to divide either his
responsibility with regard to Marie, or with regard to himself, and he
no longer hesitated or doubted. He had questioned his own ability to
dispose of the situation; but the moment someone else showed a desire,
not only to question his ability to govern the position, but actively
interfered to prevent his action, he rose in revolt.
It was not against his mother personally he rose, but against the idea
that he was not able to take care of himself and Marie. In fact, the
personality of his mother almost wholly disappeared in the question.
The problem had been shifted from, 'Should I allow her to incur this
risk?' to, 'Am I not able to take care of her and myself in any case
of difficulty or danger?' He answered himself passionately a thousand
times that no one could take such care of Marie as he, for no one else
loved her so well.
But while he was quite firm as to his resolution of marrying her, no
matter who might say nay, he was equally resolved not to expose her to
any adverse comment from which he could save her.
Shortly after that interview with Nevill, George left the house. In
the meeting with his mother he had told her the course he proposed
pursuing. He had not asked her opinion or approval. He had no parting
interview with Marie or either of his sisters. When he left Nevill he
went upstairs, put a few things in a bag, wrote a few lines to Marie
saying he had been compelled to leave most unexpectedly, and that he
would write to her from London in a day or two, and that he was her
own always loyal lover, George. This he sent to her by O'Connor. He
then left the house carrying his bag in his hand.
When Marie got the note she was completely confounded. What had
occurred between the writing of the earlier one and this she could not
guess. Why did not George give her some hint of what had caused his
sudden flight? No doubt it had something to do with her. What could
have caused it? This was almost as bad as the bad time in London. It
was not quite as bad, for now she was easy in her mind about George.
Whatever it had been that caused him to behave in so extraordinary a
manner last night there could now be no barrier between them, for the
only thing which could have had enough importance in his mind to
separate them had the day before disappeared.
At four o'clock Mrs Osborne sent word to Marie that she would like to
see her in her own room. Thither Marie went at once, wondering if an
explanation awaited her there.
When she entered the room where George's mother sat, she saw at a
glance that, although Mrs Osborne was now calm, she had been weeping
lately.
'Come and sit by me, Marie,' said the elder woman, in a low, sad
voice. 'Here, child, on this seat. Are you quite well now? You are
looking better than when you went to bed last night, but you are
looking anxious. Give me your hand, child.'
'I am quite well, thank you. I was very sorry you were not well enough
to come down to luncheon. I hope you are better?'
'Like you, child, I am well in body, but anxious, very anxious, and I
want to speak to you seriously. You remember a promise you made me
yesterday? You remember a promise you made me about George?'
'Yes.'
'Have you seen George to-day? Has he said anything particular to you
to-day?'
'He has not said anything particular to me. But he has written me a
few lines saying he is leaving this.'
'He has left, my child. But do you know the reason why?'
'No. He said he would explain all by-and-by.'
'Well, my child, the sad fact is, you have deceived yourself as to the
change for the better you thought you found in George. He has not
changed his opinions since the bad change came over him in London.'
The girl looked into the woman's face with frightened eyes. 'I do
not--I do not understand you.'
'Well, I will explain. I had a long talk to-day with Alice and with
George, one at a time, and from both I was grieved, more grieved than
I can tell you, to learn that since George allowed himself to be
misled by science he has never come back again to his right mind.'
'But, Mrs Osborne, I can hardly have been mistaken--'
'My child, you were. When I spoke to George about the matter he
reflected a long time, and he said he could in no way account for the
conclusion you had come to except you formed it in the train as you
came from London to this.'
'That was the time. And is it not true?'
'Ah no, my dear. I am sorry to say not.'
Marie's face darkened. This statement of Mrs Osborne's explained
George's conduct in the conservatory last night. It explained his
flight. But it left much in doubt. What should she do? What should she
say to George's mother under the circumstances? For a long time
neither woman spoke. At last Marie said,--
'This is dreadful. I thought he was all right again. I am sure I do
not know what to do, Mrs Osborne.'
'You can do nothing, and nothing is the best thing for you to do. He
will come to his senses soon. He will come to his senses when he finds
you are firm in keeping your word. He has gone away. You will stay
with us. You will stay with us until he is cured of this wicked folly;
then he will come home; then he will come back to you and us.'
'But,' thought the girl, 'how long am I to be from him? How long is he
to be from me?' she said aloud. 'But, Mrs Osborne, shall I not be in
your way?'
'In our way, child! not at all. We shall be delighted to have you. You
will be a companion to Alice. Indeed, I do not know what Alice would
do only for the hope of having you.'
'And who will keep me company when my George is away--when my George
is away?' thought Marie.