Under St Paul's: A Romance

CHAPTER XV.
OSBORNE'S FINAL RESOLUTION

When luncheon was served George looked around and asked, 'Kate, where is mother?' 'She is not coming down,' answered Alice, with averted head. 'Not coming down! Is she ill?' 'She is not quite well,' answered Alice softly. 'Then excuse me a few moments. Don't wait for me, Nevill; you sit here and look after them until I come back.' Alice now looked at him and tried to catch his eye, but before she could succeed he had left the room. They waited ten minutes. George did not return. At the end of that time Kate suggested they should wait no more. She said, 'You, Marie, must be fainting for something to eat.' 'Come on,' cried Nevill, 'I am literally starving. If you keep me any longer waiting I'll order up my own boots and have a private picnic on the hearth-rug. It is a rule which never should be broken, to fall to when a man says, "Don't wait for me." I remember once during the great Civil War I was stationed with a small body of sappers and miners on the slope of a hill which was crowned by a church. We were within the enemy's lines, and had to lie almost motionless among some thick undergrowth. The enemy had made a barracks of the church, and our object was to blow up the church at midnight when all the men in the church were asleep. We had only one day's rations with us, and we made up our minds not to eat our principal meal until after dusk. I had two bags, with forty pounds of gunpowder in each. All at once someone said "There goes the curfew-" Yes, I will have another small piece, if you please. I wonder what can be keeping George; he is long over his time already. The brown sherry, thank you. I know it isn't right to take brown sherry; it looks childish. But we are all children, except Mistress Alice. She ought to have a little brandy, I think, to stir the sluggish currents of her blood- Well, all at once the look-out cries, "Light ahead!" "Where away?" I sang out, raising my glass, and sweeping the horizon. I think I told you it was dark?' 'Yes,' said Alice, with a candid smile, 'and blowing hard.' 'It was blowing a whole gale out of the southward and eastward. I have been at sea many a bad night in my life, but never one like that. The waves rolled mountains high and the spray was something awful. You couldn't see the sky for spray, and you couldn't see the sea for clouds. All at once I heard the cry of 'Man overboard!' I wish George would come. He can't have missed his way, Kate, and gone down to the kitchen. I saw your cook to-day as she took in the bread. Wonderfully pretty girl. Just the kind George in his unguarded moments always told me he liked-Mistress Alice, will you be good enough to tell me at what point of the story I left off.' 'When you looked you saw a shark.' 'Oh yes. I was hanging over the taffrail when under the counter I saw a shark. He was lying on his side and winking at my legs which were hanging over the taffrail. "Ho, ho! my fine fellow!" cried I, "is that where you are?" I told you he had been following in the wake of the ship for several days- By Jove! George, I thought you'd never come. Sit down. A wing or a leg, George? No fowl? Ah well, the beef is excellent. Now, Mistress Alice, where was I in that story?' 'Somewhere about the stern and the wake.' 'Ah yes. It was the saddest thing I ever saw in all my life. You never saw an Irish wake, Marie?' 'No, never. Tell us about it.' What had happened to George? He was as pale as death. He ate nothing, and his mouth was squared and resolute-looking. 'Ah, never (unless you have a much less susceptible heart than I give you credit for) see a Irish wake. It is most affecting. In this case the poor fellow had been knocked over the stern of a boat in the Upper Lake, Killarney. He had been standing up tending the mainsail, when whiz, bang over goes the boom and knocks the poor fellow into the water. Of course, as he was connected with boats he couldn't swim a stroke, and so he was drowned. Most extraordinary thing, no man connected with ships or boats ever can swim! There ought to be an Act of Parliament forbidding any man to smell tar until he could swim round a man-of-war. Suppose a man on the Fire Brigade out of braggadocio insisted upon going to fires with his uniform steeped in petroleum, we should lock him up as an idiot. Talking of fires reminds me-' Nevill rattled on through the remainder of the time they sat at table, but it was under a great strain and sense of disadvantage. He could plainly see by George's face that the interview between son and mother had not been satisfactory, – in fact, had been decidedly unsatisfactory; but he did not want, if he could help it, the women to be vaguely depressed. He knew that under such circumstances Osborne was incapable of contributing in any way to the ordinary conversation, and that if he spoke all would at once know something was wrong. As soon as they stood up from table, Nevill took Osborne by the arm, led him to another room and said, – 'Well. By your appearance I see you and your mother have talked the whole thing over.' 'Yes, we have; and not very pleasantly; at least, I mean, not with pleasant result.' 'What was the result?' 'Well, in brief, she says she has made Marie promise her, as you know, and she means to keep Marie to her promise.' 'And what do you purpose doing?' 'Under the circumstances I cannot stay here. I cannot sleep another night in this house.' 'Don't be absurd, George.' 'If what I tell you is absurd, then you will have no choice but to think me absurd. I intend leaving this house to-night. My mother has made up her mind never to give Marie back her promise; at this time I can see no chance, however remote, of changing my mind. How then can I stay here, under my mother's roof, near Marie? When we came here together it was as two who were going to be married with the approval of my mother. Now that is changed. My mother not only no longer approves, but positively forbids our marriage. It is impossible for me to live under this roof as the accepted lover of Marie, when my mother has said in effect that I shall never be anything but a lover until I change certain opinions which I now see no chance of altering. Honestly, Nevill, you cannot say any other course is open to me; can you?' 'I own it is a very perplexing case, and I find myself in an exceedingly awkward position; for while all my sympathy is with you, I must remember your mother is Kate's mother too.' 'My dear Nevill, I can fully appreciate the difficulty of the situation, and I beg of you to say or do nothing about the matter to anyone after this talk. Of course you will tell Kate all I have told you. What a change since last evening. We had arranged the day. And now I do not know what is to become of us.' 'Have you had a quiet talk with Marie?' 'No; nor do I intend meeting her in private before I leave. How could I meet her here, under my mother's roof, and tell her that I was, because of her presence, obliged to quit my mother's roof? It would be painful and humiliating and useless. No; I shall leave at once. I will write a few lines, and go back to London to-night. When I get there I shall decide what further course I may follow.' 'But she may take queer notions into her head, George, when she finds you are gone.' 'She may, but I hope she will not. I think I may leave a good deal to her common-sense.' 'And have you no idea of what your ultimate course will be?' 'I have a very clear idea of what I shall try to do. I shall try to make Marie accept me as I am, and trust to chance for my reformation.' 'And the only reason you have to think she will not marry you is because of the promise she gave your mother yesterday?' 'That is the only reason.' 'All I can say is, George, that you deserve well, and I wish you well.' 'Thank you. I am sure you do.'

CHAPTER XVI.
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.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE END

In the afternoon of the day after Osborne left Stratford, Marie got the following letter from him: -

'My Own Darling Marie, – Here I am once more in London, but not in the old place. When you answer this, you are to address your letter to Kaiser's Hotel, E.C. 'I have thought over the whole thing most carefully. I have tried, with how much success I do not know, to look at the matter dispassionately, and I have come to a final conclusion. My mind is now made up to insist upon your marrying me within a month. I have not waited for a personal interview with you, for two reasons: I did not care, after my mother's positive refusal to release you from your promise, to use the house, or your visit to the house, as a means of urging my right; and I did not think that in an interview I could say in as forcible and simple a way as I could on paper. 'My reasons now for being so firm are very simple. You told me some time ago you would marry me, in spite of my religious beliefs or disbeliefs. After that you, imagining my faith had returned, promise my mother not to fix the day while I suffer from any form of unbelief. After that, while you are still under the belief I have come back to my old faith, you promise to marry me within a month, within three weeks. Thus you made the promise to my mother and the promise to me under the same mistake. Both these promises are cancelled, by the fact that they were made under a false impression. Therefore, neither your refusing to marry me, nor your marrying me within a month or three weeks, is obligatory according to your promises, but the promise you made me in Lincoln's Inn Fields was not qualified, nor has it been cancelled in any way. It is the only promise I now look upon as existing between you and me, and I know you are too simple and honourable a nature to allow yourself in any way to cloud your mind as to the line of your duty. 'What I have written is, I know, my darling, more like a letter of business than of love; but then our present business is love, and I want to put the rational aspect, the just aspect of the position before you. You will not need to know what my feelings are. In that most delicious hour in the conservatory you said you were mine, body and soul. I now claim your obedience to my will in this case. 'My own darling Marie, I can hardly bring myself to think I am so near as a month to the moment when you will be mine, and no power on earth can ever part us again. A month, a little month of thirty days! Only a month. I know many men think the month before they receive the hand they court a century. To me it seems but an hour, a moment. I am not a child, impatient to possess a new toy. I am a man who has set his heart on obtaining a noble object, and I am so profoundly grateful for my success I can think of nothing but that some day soon you will be mine. The fact that you will be mine is everything. I could have waited for you years. But as you said, the sooner the better. – I am, my darling love, your own sweetheart,

George.

When she had read this letter she put it down in her lap. A soft, pensive smile stole over her face, and she murmured, 'My George, my George, my own George. My great-hearted, my noble love!' She read the letter again. Yes, it was quite right. Everything he said was perfectly true and just. He never could have made it so clear to her if he had been present, for she would only have heard the music of his voice; and although she would have taken for granted all he said, her mind would not have got so clear an idea of her duty as from this letter. Duty? yes, duty. She owed him duty now. What a soothing, what a peaceful thought it was that she owed George duty. She would pay him duty a thousand fold. She had told him she had given herself to him body and soul, and surely her duty was little to give when she had given these. He was her lord and master, and he should command her. The promise she had made to his mother was made under a mistake. If she had, at the time of making that promise, known the real state of George's mind, she never would have given such a pledge. She would now go straight to Mrs Osborne and tell her she had heard from George. Marie found Mrs Osborne in her own room. 'I have got a letter from George, Mrs Osborne.' 'Have you, my child? Where from?' 'London.' 'And what does he say?' 'I think you are aware, Mrs Osborne, that I know about Alice's visit to you yesterday. She told me you did not think it would be advisable matters should go any farther between us, while George remained unconvinced of his errors.' 'Yes, my child, that was my view. That is my view. What does George say?' 'Mrs Osborne, I find myself in a cruelly awkward position.' 'No doubt, child, I can appreciate your feelings.' 'And-and-and although I am very sorry for it, I think the best thing I can do is to leave this.' 'Did George ask you to leave this?' 'No; but I feel very awkward. I cannot explain to you, and I am not content that you do not know everything.' 'Has George asked you to disregard that promise you made me?' 'Yes. Unfortunately I made that promise to you under a false impression, and under the same false impression I made another promise to him, and he says I am not bound by either, they having been given under a mistake; but he says I am bound by a promise given to him before we came to Stratford.' 'And what is the promise given to him before you came to Stratford?' 'That nothing which might arise could make any difference between him and me.'

'Bournemouth, 7th March 1880.

'My Dear Mother, – This is to let you know in Cork, that I am now here, where you may send the yellow handkerchief I told you of last month. I am not any longer, as you know, in the employ of Miss Gordon, for there is no such person. She was married in London to Mr Osborne the day before yesterday, and she and her husband are now staying here. On the same day, Mr Osborne's sister was married to a gentleman named Nevill. The other wedding took place in Stratford, that dead-and-alive hole I told you we were a couple of days in. Mr and Mrs Nevill are coming on a visit here next month; but I believe the old lady, Mr Osborne's mother, is not pleased with the marriage of her son, owing to his having given up going to church, or something of that kind. You can send the handkerchief in a glove-box, they will give you one for nothing at any shop where they sell gloves. I enclose a Post-office order, my dear mother, for a pound. Buy with it any little comfort you may want. – I am, with duty, your loving daughter,

'Judith O'Connor.'

The End