His manner had changed when he returned. He stood by the fire, near Maria, grave and earnest, and began talking more seriously to her on this new project than he had done in the presence of his child.
“I think I should do wrong were I to refuse it: do not you, Maria? It is an offer that is not often met with.”
“Yes, I think you would do wrong to refuse it. It is far better than anything I had hoped for.”
“And can you be ready to start by New Year’s Day?”
“I—I could be ready, of course,” she answered. “But I—I—don’t know whether——”
She came to a final stop. George looked at her in surprise: in addition to her hesitation, he detected considerable emotion.
She stood up by him and leaned her arm on the mantel-piece. She strove to speak quietly, to choke down the rebellious rising in her throat: her breath went and came, her bosom heaved. “George, I am not sure whether I shall be able to undertake the voyage. I am not sure that I shall live to go out.”
Did his heart beat a shade quicker? He looked at her more in surprise still than in any other feeling. He had not in the least realized this faint suggestion of the future.
“My darling, what do you mean?”
He passed his arm round her waist, and drew her to him. Maria let her head fall upon his shoulder, and the tears began to trickle down her wasted cheeks.