III
His purpose was no sooner definitely fixed, than in the way of its fulfilment practical difficulties began to arise. They arose in form of scruples. He intended no harm to Essie. She never should suffer in smallest degree, by word or act, in giving herself to him. But to marry her never—at the first making of his purpose—so much as crossed his mind. A little later this aspect of his moral intentions towards her came up in his thoughts—and marriage he at once dismissed as altogether subversive of that very peace of mind he anticipated in having her for his own. To marry her, as he saw it, were an irrevocable and dreadful step that immediately would return him to new torments, new despair. Bound for life to such as Essie was, not loving her, only very fond of her, very grateful to her—why, the bond would terrify him and goad him as much as ever he was terrified and goaded by the bonds and responsibilities of the London days from which in frenzy he had fled. Misery for him and, knowing himself, he knew that he would visit it in misery upon her. Panic at what he had done would fill him, consume him in all the dreadful forms in which he knew his panics, directly he had done it. He would hate her. Despite himself, despite his fondness for her, despite all she had given him and could give him, despite all these, if he were bound to her he would be unkind to her, cruel to her. Merely and without bond to have her for his own presented his Essie—his jolly little Essie, good little Essie, pretty little Essie—on a footing immeasurably different. That very fact of being responsible for her without being bound to her would alone—and without his happiness in her—assure her of his constant care, his unfailing protection always and always. Natured as he was—or as he had become in the days of his stress—he thought of bondage as utterly intolerable to him. No; marriage was worse than unthinkable, marriage was to lose—and worse than lose—the very happiness upon which now he was determined.
Yet scruples came.
He had not the smallest doubt of winning Essie to his intentions—Essie who liked to think somebody was fond of her, who liked to be kissed, who had confessed of the lodgers that "most of 'em had"—who, in fact, was Essie Bickers. He knew, thinking upon it, what had been in pretty little Essie's heart when she said softly: "What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" He knew it was that she loved him. He knew what had been in her heart when, having said it, she drew away from him, and he knew why as she drew away he had seen tears in her eyes. He knew it was because, having made her confession of love, she had seen no response of love in his eyes that only were bemused with sudden thought upon his sudden plan. He knew he had only to tell her that she was wrong, that indeed he loved her. Yet scruples came.
IV
He set about his plans. On the morning when but a week remained to the end of the term—the date he had fixed in his mind—he wrote before he came down to breakfast a letter to his agent in London.
"DEAR LESSINGHAM,
"I'm still alive! I've been wandering—getting back my health. I was rather run down. Now, very soon, I hope to get to work again. Keep it to yourself that you've heard of me again. I'll be seeing you soon. Meanwhile, you've got a pile of money for me, haven't you? I want you, please, to send me at once £200 in £10 notes to this address. I'm going abroad for a bit.
"Yours ever,
"PHILIP WRIFORD."
Funny to be in touch with that world again! He put the letter in his pocket. He would post it on his way to school. Imagine Essie's eyes when she saw all that wealth! He could hear her cry—he imagined himself showing it to her in a first-class carriage bound for London—"Oh, Arthur! Did you ever, though!"