I smile up to him, and am satisfied my words have caused nothing but the extremest content.
"Very good. It is easily arranged; and next year we can come and get through what we now leave undone. They must be wanting us at home, I fancy; there are the birds and everything," concludes Marmaduke, in a reflective tone, which is the nearest approach to a return of reason he has yet shown.
We spend a fortnight in London on our way back, when I am presented to some of my husband's relations. His sister, Lady Handcock, I do not see, as she has been in Canada for the last two years with Sir James, and, though now travelling homewards and expected every day, does not arrive during our stay in the Great Babylon.
Cousins and aunts and friends, however, are numerous, and for the most part so kind that restraint vanishes, and I tell myself people-in-law are not so formidable as I have been led to believe. One thorn, however, remains among my roses and pricks me gently.
Lady Blanche Going—with whom we stay a week—of all the cousins interests me most; though it must be confessed the interest is of a disagreeable nature. She has a charming house in Park Lane, and the softest, most fascinating manners; she is in every point such as a well-bred woman ought to be, yet with her alone I am not happy. For the most part looking barely twenty-five, there are times—odd moments when the invariable smile is off her face—when I could fancy her at least seven years older. Now and then, too, a suspicious gleam—too warm, as coming from a decorous matron—falls from her sleepy almond-shaped eyes upon some favorite among the "stronger" sex, and I cannot forgive her in that she makes me appear the most unsophisticated, childish bride that ever left a nursery. So that I am glad when we leave her and move farther south to our beautiful home.
Oh, the delight, the rapture, of the first meeting, when the first day after our return, I drive over to Summerleas: The darling mother's tearful welcome, the "boy Billee's" more boisterous one. Even Dora, for a moment or two forgets her elegance and her wrongs, and gives me a hearty embrace. And how well I am looking, and how happy! And how pretty my dress is, and how becoming! And how they have all missed me! And just fancy! Roland is really engaged to the "old boy's" daughter, after all; and the colonel himself writes about it, as though quite pleased, in spite of her having such a good fortune. Though, indeed, why should he not? for where could he find any one handsomer, or dearer, or more charming than our Roly? and so on.
All too swift in its happiness flies the day, and Marmaduke comes to reclaim me. Yet the strange senses of rest and completeness that fills me, in the presence of the old beloved, distresses me. Why can I not feel for Marmaduke that romantic, all-sufficing devotion of which I have read? I certainly like him immensely. He is everything of the dearest and best, and kind almost to a fault; therefore I ought to adore him; but somehow I cannot quite make up my mind to it. One should love a husband better than all the rest of the world put together; so I have heard, so I believe; but do I?
I lay little plans; I map out small scenes, to try how far my affection for my husband will go.
For instance, I picture to myself Billy or he condemned to start in the morning for Australia, never to return; one or other must go, and the decision rests with me. Which shall I let go, which shall I keep? I send Marmaduke, and feel a deep pang at my heart; I send Billy—the pang becomes keenest torture.
Again, supposing both to be sentenced to death, and supposing also it is in my power to save one of them: which would I rescue? Marmaduke of course! I haul him triumphantly from his gloomy cell; but as I do so my Billy's beautiful eyes, filled with mute despair, shine upon me from out the semi-darkness, and I cease to drag Marmaduke: I cannot leave my brother.