"I must," he answered. "I must—in spite of the joy that it is to me to be even in your presence, and to hear your voice—I must go. I cannot bear it. I love you too well. It is a greater pain than I can bear, to look at you and to know that I can bring you no comfort, no solace; that your heart is buried with Richard Luttrell in a grave."
"You are mistaken," she said again. Then, in a faltering voice, "you can bring me comfort. I shall be sorry if you are away."
He caught his breath. "Do you mean it, Angela?" he cried, eagerly. "Think what you are saying, do not tell me to stay unless—unless—you can give me a little hope. Is it possible that you do not forbid me to love you? Do you think that in time—in time—I might win your love?"
"Not in time," she murmured, "but now—now."
He could hardly believe his ears. He knelt down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Now, Angela?" he said. "Can you love me now? Oh, my love, my love! tell me the truth! Have you forgiven me?"
Her eyes were swimming in tears, but she gave him a glance of so much tenderness and trust, that he never again doubted her entire forgiveness. She might never forget Richard Luttrell, but her heart, with all its wealth of love, was given to the man who knelt before her, not buried in a grave.
Of course he did not go to California. The project was an utterly unsuitable one, and nobody scouted it more disdainfully than did he as soon as the mood of discontent was past. If a crowning touch were needed to the happiness of Brian and Elizabeth, it was given by this marriage. The sting of remorse which had troubled them at times when they looked at Percival's gloomy face was quite withdrawn. Percival's face was seldom gloomy now. Angela seemed to have found the secret of soothing his irritable nerves, of calming his impatience. Her sweet serenity was never ruffled by his violence; and for her sake he learned to subdue his temper, and to smooth his tongue as well as his brow. She led the lion in a leash of silk, and he was actually proud to be so led.
They took a house in the unfashionable precincts of Russell-square, where Percival could be near his work. They were not rich, by any manner of means; but they were able to live in a very comfortable fashion, and soon found themselves surrounded by a circle of friends, who were quite as much attracted by Angela's tranquil grace and tenderness as by Percival's fitful brilliancy. Percival would never be very popular; but it was soon admitted on every hand that his intellect had seldom been so clear, his insight so great, nor his wit so free from bitterness, as in the days that succeeded his marriage with Angela. There is every reason to suppose that he will yet be a thoroughly prosperous and successful man.
The one drop of bitterness in their cup is the absence of children. No little feet have come to patter up and down the wide staircase of that roomy house in Russell-square, no little voices re-echo along the passages and in the lofty rooms. But Angela's heart is perhaps only the more ready to bestow its tenderness upon the many who come to her for help—the weak, the sickly, the sinful and the weary, for whom she spends herself and is not spent in vain.