Chapter VIII

MAX was conscious of very conflicting feelings as he sat patiently in the governess-cart opposite Charlie, and observed the mouse-coloured back of the strong little Welsh pony, and his marked ears, progressing before him. Charlie, of course, with a dutiful mournfulness, pointed out the dangerous corner, coming out of the station-yard, where poor Miss Brent had met her death. " And it was this very pony, sir," he said gloomily; " but it was Jim, my brother, not me, that drove him. 'E 'asn't been allowed to drive since, 'asn't Jim."

But the memory of Miss Brent's death took no particular part in his discomfort, except indeed, very indirectly. It did just occur to him — no more than that — that if, by any extraordinary development, his marriage did not take place, Marion would, so far as he knew, have no friend left at all. However, the marriage was, undoubtedly, to take place; so that consideration was beside the point. His feelings rose, rather, from the struggle between his heart and his head, or, to be yet more particular, between a section of his heart and the rest of him.

He still retained, quite strongly, and, at moments, even passionately, an affection for Marion; it caused considerable excitement to contemplate that he was actually driving to her house, in her pony-cart, at this instant. He pictured, when he was not otherwise engaged, the garden he would see presently, and the girl's white figure coming to meet him across the grass. (" Miss Marion " — Charlie had observed — " she's ordered tea to be in the garden, I 'eard Mrs. Grant say.") Her personality still possessed for him a very clear and sweet attraction, not tumultuous, but yet strong: it was the kind of attraction of which he had been conscious on the moors and by the salmon-river in Scotland, just under a year ago. If all else had been clear, he would have contemplated his marriage without misgiving.

But all else was not clear. On the other side there rose up that mountain of argument which old Sir Robert had put into such tactful words. Again and again the young man had stormed against it, assuring himself that it was but a mass of empty snobbery and worldly prudence and convention; yet, when the smoke of his assertions had died away, the mountain was still there. It was a fact, however deplorable. Further, he had lost from the thought of her that particular glamour with which the operatic stage had gilded her earlier image — that glamour in whose light worldly arguments appeared as unsubstantial as he declared they were in truth. Life without Marion would certainly be dreary; but it would not be impossible.

Yet, to his honour it must be said that he did not flinch. He was as resolute as ever; he had won this girl's heart, and he had given her his own; his only discomfort rose from the contemplation of those chilly considerations whose claim he denied.

" Miss Marion," observed Charlie, half-way up the long hill, flicking away a fly from the pony's shoulder, " Miss Marion she don't play no more now."

"Doesn't she?"

" No, sir: she don't. She've got a cover over her piano. I see it through the window."

" Did you ever hear her sing? "

" I 'eard her singing up and down like: but Miss Marion she usedn't to- sing songs much at any time."

Max perceived that Charlie was alluding to Marion's exercises.

" Ah! I expect you heard her practising," he said.

" Ah! I daresay that was it. Pity 'er voice is gone, ain't it, sir? "

" A great pity," said Max politely.

His heart quickened very distinctly when the pony began to trot down the last hill. He could see the roof of the cottage over to the left, among the limes. Again he wondered, though with scarcely a touch of curiosity, why it was that she had sent for him; and again he satisfied himself completely by the theory that obviously, now that Maggie was gone, she wished to discuss with him her own plans before the marriage. He was strongly in favour of her remaining here: there might be all kinds of small annoyances in town: for instance, he was quite sure that his mother would not invite her to Cheriton House, or, at the most, very occasionally indeed, now that she was no longer singing; she was no longer in any sense a lion: and it would be a little hard to explain this quite frankly.

All fell out as he had rehearsed. Jenny, who must obviously have been watching, opened the door, even before the cart had halted; and went before him through the little hall.

" Miss Tenterden," she said, " told me to take you out at once, sir."

He saw the golden gleam of the sunlit garden, even before he stepped out into it: and there was Marion, in white, rising from her chair against the roses, and smiling as she met his eyes.

" First of all," she said, " what train must you catch back? Will you dine here early, or what? (Stay a minute, Jenny.) "

" I simply mustn't," he said. " I had no idea you wanted me to, or I'd have made arrangements. I've sworn to meet Guy at my club at half-past eight."

She made no attempt to dissuade him.

" Very well. No, Jenny: Mr. Merival won't stop. Tell Charlie to be here in time to catch the six-fiftyeigjht."

" Very good, Miss," observed Jenny, and went.

" It's heavenly to see you again," he said, sitting down.

She smiled delightfully: she was already at the tea-things.

" Tea first," she said, " you must be thirsty after those two train- journeys. I suppose you lunched in town? "

She seemed quite resolute in refusing to discuss anything of importance until he had had tea: once he asked her whether there was anything particular she wanted to see him about; and she appeared not to hear. She was looking just as he expected. After all, it was only two or three weeks since they had met, though certainly a great deal had happened since then. She had just the touch of a worn look about her eyes; but that was all: her voice was still hoarse.

" I'm not wearing mourning, you see," she said presently: " I can't bear it anyhow: and as, after all, Maggie wasn't actually a relation of mine, there's no particular convention that I should. How she'd have loathed it, too! "

*' What a dreadful shock it must have been to you," he said.

" Yes," said Marion, quite quietly.

Now that he saw her again, every one of his conflicting feelings received corroboration and emphasis, but most of all those that bound her to him. He saw, or thought he saw, tiny indications of that social difference between them which he was striving to forget — indications so small that in Norah, for instance, they would have made no difference at all, yet, with his nerves already strung up to receive such impressions, he perceived them. They were ludicrously small; and in a few minutes he ceased even to remember them. (It struck him, for example, that her shoes were wrong in some way — he did not even know how. ) In a few minutes these thoughts were gone, swept away on that tide of attraction to her which her personality caused in his soul. She appeared to him, now that he saw her, more than ever slim and boyish and gallant; her eyes laughed as frankly and humorously as ever: there was but a very faint element of seriousness in them; and that he attributed to all her recent troubles.

As he lit his first cigarette this reviving attraction broke gently out.

" Marion," he said again. " It's just heavenly to see you again. And this garden fits you like... like scenery."

She looked round it slowly.

" I like to hear that," she said. " Do you know I've grown to love this place."

" I don't wonder," he said. " I... I think that suffering in a place always does that."

A look of real astonishment came into her eyes; and he realised that he had never since he had known her said anything to her quite like that.

" Why! How did you know that? " she asked. " I always used to find just the opposite."

" Oh! I don't know," he said rather shyly, slightly ashamed of his remark: really, he did not know how it had come into his head: it seemed to him scarcely quite the right thing to have said.

" But that's extraordinarily clever of you, Max," she said, with a new sort of look in her face: she seemed to be scrutinizing his mind. " You know you do say dreadfully good things sometimes! "

" Thank you very much," he said gravely. (Really Marion was an extraordinarily pleasant companion! What a gloomy ass he had been, recently.) " But I want to talk about you. Do you mean to stop on here — for the present? I've been thinking on the way down that it's probably the best plan. You won't be lonely? Where's the cat, by the way? "

She laughed.

"Yes: I shall be lonely. But I shall love it. I've learned such a lot lately."

" I'm thinking of having a talk to my father this week," he said. " They go north next week, you know."

"Ah! And you go too?"

" Well: I really don't know. It depends how he takes this affair — I mean about my profession."

She was silent. But he pursued his train of thought. It seemed to him he simply had to make some sort of excuse.

" I suppose my mother hasn't suggested your coming up there? "

" No."

Again he plunged.

" I simply daren't suggest it, you know. They'd be bound to suspect. Oh! by the way, I've told Norah. I had to."

She looked up sharply.

"What?"

" She'd half guessed. I had to do it to seal her mouth. She's quite clever sometimes, you know. I suppose she hasn't written lately, either? "

She seemed to have sunk into meditation again; but she recovered herself.

"Who? Norah? No." Then she laughed. "I'm not interesting any more, now, you know."

She said it without even a hint of bitterness. Before he could speak she went on:

" Max, I've got a confession to make: and I want to make it before I come to the real thing I've got to say."

" My darling, don't talk like that! "

" But I have: and it's really frightful. Max: you've not got tired of me because I can't sing any more, have you?"

The words hit something in his soul so hard and straight that he flinched and drew his breath.

" My dear girl; what in the world? "

" There: that's enough," she said. " It was dreadfully selfish of me to ask it. But I had to. Besides, I'm just a little frightened."

Evidently she was not joking. Her face was a little paler: and the worn look in her eyes was deepened.

" Look here, Max: it's a long story. I want you not to look at me while I tell it. Put the box of cigarettes by you " — (she got up and shifted it swiftly) — " just go on like that. I shall... I shall break down if you speak."

"My darling!"

" No: I mean it. Now listen carefully, please. I simply -can't say it again."

She shifted her chair a foot back, so that he could only see her at an angle: he could not see her face; only her white outline against the grass.

Then she began.

" Max, dear, I shall probably make you frightfully angry before I've done: but I want you not to say anything till the end. Then say what you like. I shall accept whatever you say without a word. You will be absolutely in your rights in deciding as you please. I have no rights at all. Yes: I know you want to contradict me: but wait. You'll see I'm right.

" Max: I've never talked to you about religion — not really, I mean. I've only talked about the top of it. That was because I was living on the top myself. But you know I haven't always lived there — at least I think not. I used to be what is called pious — really pious, I mean, as we Catholics use the word. Well: when I first met you I'd given up religion practically. Yes: I know I went to mass, and so on, even in Scotland: but that's not everything. There's a great deal more than that.

" Oh! I do wish I could tell you what the Catholic religion really is — I mean in its heart. It's incredible how little people know about it outside: they think it's a religion of forms and ceremonies. If there's one single thing it's not, it's that. They're simply not the point, though of course we have a lot. But the thing that's underneath — what they call Having the Faith: that's... that's — I was almost going to say that's the frightful thing about it. Yes: I think that's exactly and literally the right word. It is, Frightful. It grips you: and it won't let you go. You can kick and scream and protest: but it's got you. You can think you've lost it; you can laugh at it: but you haven't lost it: you've only covered it up. And then something happens: you're left alone for a bit; or you lose a friend: or you're on your deathbed: and up it comes again — sometimes too late, I know: but still, up it comes.

" Well Ah! Max; don't look at me like that!

Turn your face away again. I must finish; though perhaps you've guessed.

" Max: dear: that's what's happened to me. It's been there all the time; and now it's come again. I'm not in the least hysterical or sentimental about poor dear Maggie or anything like that. I know that sort of reaction too: but this isn't that sort. It's absolutely real.

" I can't tell you all the things that have led to it. It would take hours. It was partly the loss of my voice; it was partly Maggie's death: it was reading some old letters I had once written to her; and a diary of hers I found. But it was chiefly being alone here.

That was why I didn't want you to come last week. I wanted to hear what... well... what Silence had to say. You know that old saying — French, I think — ' Silence is the Speech of God.' Well: it's true.

" Yes: I daresay you could argue about it: but there's no arguing with love: and that's what religion is. I know there's theology too; but I'm simply unable to argue about that. You see, to a Catholic, theology is obviously true. I could no more argue about it than I could argue about the alphabet. There it is! There's no more to be said.

" Well: but this isn't the point. The point is that I'm a Catholic. When I talked to you before, I was one too; I knew it was all true even then: only... only I didn't know that I knew it. I'm only thankful — yes, I really am — that I found it out before it was too late. One has just got to accept that fact. You may say it's just my education, or my blood, or my artistic temperament: I can't contradict you: though I must say the Church doesn't seem to me as artistic as all that! Anyhow, there it is.

" Now you see what follows.

" I told you before that I would marry you just as you liked — without the promises or anything else. I suppose I was mad — mad with pride or anger or something. Well: I'm not mad any more.

"Max: dear: I can't marry you except as a Catholic."

Her voice ceased. Through his soul poured such a tumult that he could scarcely discern one thought from another. Now it was anger, now it was a kind of wounded pride: now it was a sense of crushing pain. Yet over the surface of that volcano played other thoughts, as light as flame — and they were thoughts of relief that here lay what, subconsciously, he now saw to be a way of release. Yet, for the present, he was occupied with more elementary passions, roused by her nearness to him, by the charm of her presence, and by the humiliating perception that he was not, after all, absolutely first in her heart.

So soon as he was certain that she had finished speaking, he shifted in his chair so as to look at her. The creak of the basket-work sounded curiously loud in that still sunlit garden. His own voice was hoarse as he spoke.

" Marion! You can't mean it."

She leaned forward: and he saw a strange passion in her eyes.

** My darling! I would give the world to be able to say — No: I wouldn't. I wouldn't." — (She leaned back sharply, clasping her hands. ) — " Well... Yes... I mean it with my whole heart "

" But... but you don't understand: you don't understand what this means."

She laughed lightly; but it came from a great depth.

" Understand! Why, Max dear: do you think I could say all that, without understanding? We've talked it out together — the garden and I, I mean — till... till it's as clear as the dawn itself. I understand perfectly what it means. I understand that it gives you back your promise, so that, you can go away from here and never see me again, and yet that there will be no shadow of stain on your honour. There! is that explicit enough? "

He sprang up.

" You mean that? You mean that you can think it possible "

" Max, dear: please don't talk so loud. And please sit down.... Yes: I mean exactly that. I shall have no thought or memory of you except what is good and sweet. My darling; I love you dreadfully, you know: but... but I think I'm learning to love God too."

Again his mind revolved like a mill: yet, in its grinding the noise grew clearer as of a voice that said, " You are free! you are free! "

Then passion again rose and drowned it.

" Marion, my dearest: it's intolerable: it's intolerable. You... you haven't been fair to me."

" I know," she said softly: but he scarcely heard.

"You've... you've allowed me to think, all this time, that nothing should come between us. You... you explicitly said that the — what d'you call 'em? — the conditions or the promises, or whatever they are, meant nothing to you: and now you turn round and tell me you must have them after all. It isn't fair."

(She bowed her head.)

" Here have I been bothering and fighting and arguing-

(She lifted her head.)

" Yes: I have: I was going to tell you. Norah spoke to old Mainwaring — and he talked to me one evening — yes: last Sunday night. And... and I fought for you; and you never let me suspect What's the matter? "

She was looking at him with an expression which he could not in the least understand; but it gave one an odd sense of shame. He made haste to beat down that shame.

" No: it isn't fair. You shouldn't have treated me like that. Either you shouldn't have let me think that everything was all right: or you should have stuck to it. It isn't fair to change. I was perfectly prepared to face anything: to... to go into business, though I simply loathe it "

She smiled straight into his face.

" There! Poor old Max," she said; " I've treated you abominably: and I apologise. But it's all over now. Try to forgive me. We can still be friends, in our minds, can't we? "

" I... I don't understand," he stammered.

"Yes, you do, my dear boy. You and I are just friends again. We've... we've agreed we both made a mistake. Lots of people do, you know."

" You mean you throw me over? " he began.

She stood up. He rose with her.

" No, of course I don't, my dear. There's no question of throwing over. I quite see that it's utterly impossible for you to make those promises; and you quite see that it's utterly impossible for me not to make them. So there we are. Circumstances over which we have no control "

" You're not treating me fairly! " he cried.

" And there's no question of that either," she said. " Fairness isn't a word between you and me. We're friends, you know."

He still wavered between a dozen emotions. Then he decided on dignity.

" Well," he said, " you seem to be able to treat it very lightly. Personally, I can't. I feel it much too deeply for that " — (he really thought he did, too) — " It's a tremendous blow. I... I don't know when I've had a greater blow. I... I must go away: I'll write to you when I've had time to think it all over." Then once again his passion rose and his voice changed.

" Marion! do you really mean it? do you really mean "

" Yes; my dear. And so do you. Or you will when you've had time to think it over, as you say. You do forgive me, don't you? "

He looked at her again; but her face was as steady as a rock. There was even a touch of that old humour dancing in her eyes. Then he saw, out of the tail of his eye, the cottage door open and Jenny come out. By her, with his tail erect, marched Maximilian, contrary to instructions.

" Why: there's Jenny," said the girl. " It's not possible "

She glanced at her wrist-watch.

" Max," she said, " it's after the half-hour. How fearfully long we must have been over tea. Cart there, Jenny? "

" Yes, Miss."

" You really must go, Max. Jack's dreadfully slow up-hill."

She caught up the little cat: then she put out her hand.

" You mean it all? " he asked a little hoarsely, glancing at his gift to her as the kitten clawed for safety; and then back at her eyes.

" Every word."

"Then — I'll write."

He took her hand for an instant, so fiercely that she winced. Then he was gone.

She stood where he had left her, till she heard the wheels drive away, and, a minute later, the kitchen door shut. Then she quietly put the cat down. She had not meant Max to see the cat, lest it should be like a reminder. But no harm had been done.

Round her the garden was passing into the beginning of its hour of sunset glory. Once more, as in the dawn, the mystical glow was burning through the blossoms: the wind had dropped; and there was no sound but the tiny rattle of Jack's footsteps as he went up the village, and the murmur of the wheels: then these sounds too ceased abruptly as the cart turned the corner. In the pause that followed a pigeon cooed from the crown of one of the great elms that dotted the meadows beyond the stream — nine notes, the last broken suddenly. But no mate answered him; for she listened for the voice.

Then, without moving hand or foot, she lifted her eyes to where through the lancet glimmered the light above the tabernacle.

" Jesus! My knight!... x am ready now," she said softly.

THE END