“Geoffrey,” it said, “my poor Geoffrey, my dear husband, look up and show that you trust me. It is to the full as much my fault as yours that this misfortune has come upon us. But why should either of us blame the other? It is not the worst sorrow that could have happened to us. We are young and strong, and we will meet it together bravely. Only, only—do not turn from me. Do not punish me for all my selfish coldness—all my wicked scorn, long ago, of your goodness and affection—do not punish me by repulsing me now. Now, Geoffrey, in your time of sorrow when I brave all and remind you that I am your wife.”
Her voice broke and faltered: the last few words were all but inaudible. But they reached with perfect clearness and distinctness the ears of the man to whom they were addressed; they fell on his sore heart like drops of refreshing, invigorating rain on dried-up withered leaves. He lifted his head, he stretched out his arms, and drew her to him in a long, close embrace, and there were more tears on Marion’s face than those which had come from her own eyes.
Neither spoke, and there was for a moment perfect silence in the room. Then it was broken suddenly by a queer, irregular, stumping sound, which passed across the floor and out at the door almost before it was observed by the two so absorbed by their own emotion. It was Veronica’s crutch! Never before or since was she known to get out of a room so quickly, and she did it at no little risk to herself. But she felt that the moment was a sacred one—one of those in which a third presence, even though that of the most devoted friend, may jar on the sensitiveness of the excited nerves; may unwittingly interfere with the perfect healing of the disunited members, the sealing of the tacit bond of reconciliation.
An hour or two later, when the invalid bade adieu to her friends, and from her window watched them drive away to the home soon to be theirs no longer, some half-formed words escaped her.
“How little, after all, we know of ourselves or each other, or what is best for any of us! After all, who can say but what my two poor friends may have reason to remember with thankfulness the failure of the Mallingford Bank. Poverty and outward suffering and struggling may bring them more happiness than they have yet found since they joined their lives together. God grant it may prove so!”
[CHAPTER] VIII.
COTTON CHEZ SOI.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
AUTUMN again! Three years only since the dull September day when we first saw Marion Vere in her father’s house in the London square. Three years ago, which have brought more than one change to her, which have more than once utterly altered the current of her life. The last change which has come over her might, to superficial observation, seem the most disastrous of all. Let us see if in truth it is so.
A dull, uninteresting suburban street. Secluded and “genteel.” Too much so for even the enlivening neighbourhood of shops to be permitted in that portion of it where our interest lies. Rows and rows of monotonous little dwellings, all of the regulation pattern—two rooms on one side of the strip of lobby, undeserving of the more important name of hall; kitchen at the end thereof, a flight of some twelve or fifteen steps leading to the half-way room above the kitchen, on again to the two or three rooms occupying the position, in town houses of importance, usually devoted to drawing-rooms.