Under St Paul's: A Romance
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CHAPTER IX.
MARIE'S PROMISE TO MRS OSBORNE
When the travellers arrived at Stratford they drove to Mrs Osborne's. She was expecting them, and was sitting in the drawing-room with Alice. 'Mother,' said George joyously, 'Miss Gordon.' Mrs Osborne first held out her right hand, then her left, and caught a hand of the girl's in each of her own. Marie smiled and blushed, and tried to bow. Mrs Osborne looked long and steadily at the girl before she spoke. When she broke silence she said, – 'Thank you, my dear, for coming. You are most welcome. You and I must be great friends. I and George are great friends.' She let go the girl's hands, and turning up the radiant young face, held it a moment between her hands, looking admiringly at its bright young beauty. Then she kissed the red rounded cheek, and turning to Alice, said, – 'Miss Gordon, this is my younger daughter Alice. I am sure you and she will be friends.' Alice approached Marie timidly, and kissed her half fearfully. She had never in all her life seen beauty like this before, and was a little overawed by it. Kate was, she knew, beautiful, but this was as different from Kate as sunshine from moonlight. But although she was timid and strange, she did not feel repelled. 'I don't wonder,' she thought, 'at George falling in love with her. If I was a man I should go crazy over her.' 'And now, Miss Gordon,' said Mrs Osborne, 'if you come with me, I will show you your room.' When his mother and sweetheart had left the room, George went to Kate; and said, in a low voice, – ' I never expected my mother to take to Marie so kindly. I am amazed. Can you make it out, Kate? As a rule, mother is so slow to get on with people. Did you ever see mother so amiable before?' he asked, in a tone of proud triumph. 'No; but who can help liking, who can help loving Marie? I know no one who could resist her. Oh, George, I am so glad to see you looking so bright and happy to-day.' 'Oh, I am all right now, Kate. It must have been coming back here with Marie cured me. I have had a terribly hard trial, but it is all over. I cannot tell you how happy I am now. I think this is the happiest day of my life. Here are you and Nevill on the best of terms with mother; and here are Marie and myself a thousand times better received than I had dared to hope.' 'No one can help loving Marie. Mother will think more and more of her every day she knows her. I know little Alice liked her too, though she did look scared. Alice will simply worship her in a week. She is just the kind of girl little Alice will go mad about. I am sure you cannot be more glad than I am mother likes Marie so well. I have been very unhappy of late, George.' 'Very unhappy, very unhappy, Kate! What do you mean? Unhappy about what? Why did you not tell me?' 'Oh, not about myself. About you. Now that-that we have all got back here to the old place, and you are once more in good spirits, I am more than satisfied. I am delighted. But I used to feel very cold and dismal in London when I thought anything might come between you and Marie. It is so good of you to be like your old self again, George.' He put his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. Alice and Nevill had been chatting at the fire. Now they turned round and drew near Kate and George. The brother-went over to the younger sister, and said to her, – 'Well, little Alice, are you disappointed?' 'I am a good deal disappointed, George. Fearfully disappointed. Kate wrote me to say she was lovely, and I knew you had some taste. I used to think you a good-looking man. But to think of such a beautiful creature as that accepting such a common-place, homely, dull young man as our George, is beyond my patience.' 'Oh, little Alice,' laughed the brother, 'I thought you meant to say you did not think her pretty.' 'Pretty! Pretty isn't the word, George, and a moonstruck poet like you ought to know better. Why, she's simply exquisite. Such a lovely quiet smile for a home as she has! George, is she awfully stuck up?' 'Not at all. She is wickeder than you.' 'Now, George, if there is one thing I hate it's a paragon, and if such a lovely girl as that was as wicked as I, she would be a paragon. Wicked as I! Why, she looks like an angel.' 'And so does little Alice, now,' laughed Nevill. In the meantime Mrs Osborne had led Marie to her room. On the way she had said little nothings, mere commonplaces about the things they passed and the view from the windows. 'This is your room, my dear,' said Mrs Osborne, as they entered. 'I hope you will find it comfortable. If you want anything let me know. That is the Avon, there. This place would be perfect only for the floods.' She shut the door and sat down. 'The house is, as you see, on a little hill. We are not quite enough out of the town for my taste; but Mr Osborne built the place before we were married, and of course I have lived in it all my life quite contented. 'We are a slow-moving people down here, my dear. Mr Osborne was a stanch Conservative, and did not wish to alter the plan of houses in use a hundred years ago. He said what had been good enough for his father was good enough for him. There are other branches of his family that were more lucky than his. But we must not grumble, my dear; we must not grumble. I have had a rough and a smooth time of it. When Mr Osborne died I had my troubles, besides the loss of the best of men. A good deal of our income went with him, as he had only a life interest in a large portion of the property; when he died a good deal of it went back to the head of the family. I am talking to you quite freely, my dear, as if you were a member of the family.' Marie coloured and bowed. 'I am quick in my likings and dislikings, and I like you; and when you are George's wife-' Marie blushed. 'When you are his wife you will know all the family history; but I am an old woman, and old women like best to talk of the past I don't weary you, do I, child?' 'No, Mrs Osborne; it is exceedingly kind of you to speak to me in this way. It puts me quite at my ease. You could not do me a greater kindness.' The girl looked up, and there were tears of gratitude in her dark deep eyes. Mrs Osborne took her hand and stroked the back softly, as she continued, – 'All the Osbornes have been Tories-Conservatives, you know. Some of the men of the family have been as wild and reckless as any men need be; but they never forgot their principles or struck their flag. Church and State has been their cry for as long as the Osbornes have been settled in Warwickshire; and that goes back to the Conquest, my dear. A young girl cannot, I know, take as much interest in these things as an old woman; but, my dear, I was like you once-I was young, too, and took no interest in politics; but I married into the family, and I was always with my husband in the great elections long ago; and you will come to take an interest in them yourself, when you are married into the family, child. I am not tiring you?' 'Oh no. Please go on. It is very good of you to take such trouble with me.' 'I am taking no trouble with you; and even suppose I was, with whom should I take more trouble than the woman who is to be my George's wife? But it interests me to talk to you in this way. Well, as I was telling you, root and branch of the Osborne family have always stood up for Church and State; and it would be a terrible blow to the name in the county if anything went wrong now with one of the family. I need hardly say it would be an awful blow to me if anything went wrong with anyone of the name belonging to me.' Marie looked up in surprise and fear. Mrs Osborne continued, – 'I have been in great fear of George. I am greatly afraid he has strayed from the Church. He tells me you are a member of the Church. So ought he to be. Now, my dear child, I have taken you aside the very first opportunity, the very first moment you entered our house, to ask you, who are to be his wife, to do all in your power to bring him back to faith and reason. There is no better-hearted man in all England than George, no more honourable gentleman, no son a mother loves more dearly; but it were better he had never been born than that he should forego religion. I want you, my dear, to do all you can with him. It is natural you should now have more influence with him than anyone else in the world. I want you to do all you can to bring him back again. In the natural course of things, I shall die long before him; and it would embitter all my life to my death, and make my dying moments awful, if I thought my only son, my dear George-' Marie looked up with a bright look, exclaiming- 'Oh, Mrs Osborne, I am so glad to tell you I think all those foolish doubts are out of his mind. He has not told me in words that they are, but I think I may be as sure as if he had told me in words. 'Thank God!' cried the mother devoutly. She clasped her hands and looked up to heaven. After a pause Mrs Osborne said, 'You are not sure; you only think.' 'I am sure.' Mrs Osborne clasped the girl's hand eagerly, and looked up into her face with beseeching eyes, and spoke rapidly, – 'I am his mother. You are the woman who is to be his wife. We are more interested in him than all the rest of the world put together. You say he has got rid of those doubts?' 'Yes; I am sure he has.' 'No time is fixed for the marriage?' 'No.' 'Promise me, his mother, one thing. Promise me, should those doubts return, you will never fix a day for your wedding until they have gone away. Promise me you will never marry him while any doubt remains in his mind. I am his mother who asks you to do this.' 'I promise.'
CHAPTER X.
A DINNER AT HOME
When Mrs Osborne and Marie came down to dinner they seemed to be excellent friends. Mrs Osborne did and said everything she could think of to put Marie at ease and make her feel at home. The mother had one of those sedate, orderly intellects which cannot be comfortable in the presence of any breach in the ordinary rules of conventional life. She would not have been at all content if she had an assurance George would never marry. George's father and grandfather had married, and why should not George? It was true there had been bachelors on both sides of the family; but she did not approve of bachelors. At first she had not liked the thought of George marrying a person whom he had met casually at an hotel in London. She could not endure hotels herself, and put up at them as seldom as possible. But her Uncle Frederick had married an Austrian lady whom he first met at an hotel in the Alps somewhere, and the marriage had turned out excellently. Besides, much as she had disliked the notion of her son marrying an alien, the girl had not been two minutes in the room before she had conceived a liking for her. Of course she was beautiful, and that was a great deal. Then her hands and ears were good, and she walked well enough to wear a coronet. No girl in or about Stratford was so beautiful as Marie. It was not in women the great difference existed, but in men. The vast majority of girls made good wives; and if there is unhappiness in many households, the fault in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is on the man's side. But there could be no doubt of this simple, straightforward girl making a good wife. Though she had not yet known her a day, she felt as much reliance on her as on one of her own daughters. And then here was this lover of Kate's. What could she think of him? Appearances were certainly against him. He was about as plain-looking a man as she had ever seen. But he had no presumption. Indeed, he could not presume much on his good looks! But he was candid. Manly and handsome or fine men did not always make the best husbands; and George liked him; and when a girl had a careful, sensible brother like George there was no one better qualified to decide the merits of a sister's lover than such a brother. He would settle in the neighbourhood, and that was no small consideration. If George and Kate were comfortably settled close to Stratford they would be quite a large family. It was rather hard to think of parting from two children at once; but in the usual order they would marry some day; and she could not dream of standing in the way of their happiness or prosperity; and the next best thing to their staying at home would be that they should live near the parent house. Marie had never known such peaceful happiness before. It had been a great joy to her when she first admitted to herself she loved George Osborne. From that moment, until the cloud came over him, she had lived in a world of delightful dreams, of wonderful and beautiful sensations. His advent had revealed to her the sanctuary of her own heart. She had known she was physically beautiful-men and women had told her so. But she had never known the loveliness of her nature until then. She had appreciated her physical beauty, but had never boasted of it to herself. But when she found out she loved George, and that because of that love she was prepared to make any sacrifice for him, she delighted in telling herself what an unselfish heart she had. She said, 'I would do anything George asked me. I would go anywhere he asked me. I am not selfish or vain. How I loathe girls who make slaves of men; who make their lovers fetch and carry for them, as though anyone could not fetch and carry while it was possible to love only one! 'Why should foolish girls think it a privilege to tyrannise over those who love them? I could never think of tyrannising over George. Fancy my tyrannising over George! Fancy my trying to make him do anything that would lower his dignity in the eyes of other men! I! I would die first. I am not so foolish or so wicked as to play with the man I love; and I am glad to think my George has not fallen in love with a woman whose pretty face and figure are all she has worth his consideration. If I were plain I should be more worthy of George's admiration than if I were the greatest beauty in England and had a less unselfish heart.' Those hours in London had been for Marie full of large and liberal thoughts. That moment in the train, when she saw the cloud drift away, had been one of intense relief, followed by strong, vague thankfulness. But at this dinner the feeling was one of deep, unanalysed, unthinking pleasure. Here was George looking his own kind, quiet, contented self again. Now and then he said a word to her; now and then she found his constant, frank eyes fixed upon her with their old expression of chivalric admiration and loyal devotion. Here was his mother, gracious and affectionate, and going out of her way to make Marie see that the future wife of George was approved of and highly welcomed. Here was gentle Kate, demurely happy, and looking now and then with a warning glance at Nevill when he burst forth with his usual audacity. All went well and pleasantly. At the beginning Nevill adopted a wise precaution-he said nothing of himself. He kept chiefly to the Red Man. He once knew a red man named Tomahawk Effendi. Tomahawk Effendi was a man over six feet in height, and as red as a new brick house. 'You remember Tomahawk Effendi, Osborne?' 'It was before I went to London,' said George. Kate glanced at Nevill. 'I did not know there were any Red Indians in London just now,' said Mrs Osborne. 'Only a few in the outskirts. They have been almost all shot down by this time.' 'My goodness, Mr Nevill, what do you mean? I have seen nothing about the massacre of Indians in London.' 'It was not what you might consider a massacre-' 'But you said shot.' 'I meant killed by London gin. "Pay the shot" means pay the score; and pay the score means pay for the drink. They are, in ethics, convertible terms, like meum and tuum.' 'And are there really Red Indians in London?' 'In the suburbs only. There is a large tribe of them in Lordship Lane at present. Owing to the intense susceptibility of the United States Embassy, these aboriginal Red Indians have been compelled by the Government to pass themselves off as gipsies; but they are no more gipsies than I am a Caucasian. You remember, Osborne, the other day, on the occasion of that demonstration in Hyde Park in favour of abolishing the laws now regulating fishing on the Newfoundland banks? You remember one of those so-called gipsies spoke. He wound up by saying he had a home on the other side of the water as well as on this, "And by that right we will defend it?" cried the warrior, throwing down his tomahawk and raising the war-cry of his nation. You remember it surely, Osborne? It created quite a sensation at the time. You recollect it?' 'I have some recollection of the words.' 'It was a splendid speech. I am sure Miss Alice Osborne would have been delighted very much with it.' 'But,' said Alice, putting down her dessert-fork, 'you were going to tell us something about a man with a horrible name. Is this the man with the horrible name, or is this the horrible man without the name?' 'This is the horrible man without the name.' 'And who was the man with the name?' 'You mean Clooney O'Keefe, the famous bush-ranger; the man I shot-' 'The man you shot, Mr Nevill!' 'The man I shot with, Mrs Osborne. I was about to say with. I paused merely to recall his features. He wore a goatee beard and a plug-hat. But the most extraordinary thing about Clooney O'Keefe, the outlawed murderer and robber-' 'With whom you shot, Mr Nevill?' cried Mrs Osborne. 'Accidentally, of course, Mrs Osborne, as one might be shooting at Wimbledon or Inverness-shire in company with the greatest ruffian unhung. The curious thing about Clooney O'Keefe was that, although he was half his time out in the bush, he always wore a blue tight-fitting frock-coat, a flower in his button-hole, and a pair of six-chambered revolvers in his back coat-pockets. He said no gentleman could think of wearing a belt. He had a melancholy end. It created a sensation in the colony.' 'How did he die?' asked Mrs Osborne, with a faint smile. 'One day, while he was resting after robbing a stoutish man, he put his gun on the ground and walked a little way from it, to see if the man whom he had robbed and bound was satisfied, or preferred to be shot rather than run the risk of not being found by anyone before he died of starvation. The man elected to live. Poor Clooney turned round to go back for his rifle, when he saw, to his horror, that a full-grown kangaroo had taken up the loaded weapon, and was pointing it at him, poor Clooney. The creature had, no doubt, seen Clooney cover the traveller with the rifle. The piece might go off at any moment. Clooney drew out one of his revolvers and fired. The bullet struck the trigger of the gun; it went off, and Clooney fell. They put up a monument to the kangaroo, and were very near lynching the traveller when they found him, for being, in a manner, the cause of Clooney's death. These colonial people are a queer lot.' Mrs Osborne rose, and, as he held the door for her, she said, with a smile in passing, 'I am afraid Mr Nevill has been entertaining us with nothing better than travellers' tales.' 'I hope with nothing worse,' he said, bowing low. When the door had been closed he went over to George, and said, 'I am delighted to see you back in your old form again, Osborne. You look as though the heart bowed down with weight of woe had gone in for dumb-bells and come straight in the back again. I hope all is now right between you and Marie?' 'I think so. I have reason to think so.' 'I am delighted. What an awful fool you were to knock your mind into a cocked hat over questions you must take as settled by other men! Did I make a fool of myself-I mean an extra fool of myself-at dinner?' 'No; on the contrary, you got on very well.' 'You don't think I annoyed or displeased your mother?' 'Not in the least. At first she could not make you out. Then she decided you were treating Alice as a very young girl, and inventing stories for her amusement.' 'Oh, was that it?' said Nevill. 'I'm delighted. Because, you know, Osborne, it would never do for your mother to know the truth about me until after Kate and I are married.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Nevill.' 'Perhaps you think I am now inventing travellers' tales to please a child. Were you very little better than a child when you were peddling over your doubts and fears? Why didn't you do as I did? Why didn't you admit that better men and better informed men believed what you hesitated to adopt-men, too, who had given the attention of a lifetime to the subject? Who's that singing? It isn't Kate; her voice is a soprano. It can't be your younger sister; she's very fair, and fair women never have contralto voices. What a magnificent voice it is! What song is that?' 'It is Marie,' said George,' and she is singing the "Miserere nobis."' 'It is very fine. To think you were a doubter a day or two ago!' 'I am one still.'
CHAPTER XI.
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.