He advanced a few steps, and stopped. Absorbed in herself, Annefailed to hear him. She never moved.

"I have come, as you made a point of it," he said, sullenly."But, mind you, it isn't safe."

At the sound of his voice, Anne turned toward him. A change ofexpression appeared in her face, as she slowly advanced from theback of the summer-house, which revealed a likeness to her mother, not perceivable at other times. As the mother had looked, inby-gone days, at the man who had disowned her, so the daughterlooked at Geoffrey Delamayn--with the same terrible composure,and the same terrible contempt.

"Well?" he asked. "What have you got to say to me?"

"Mr. Delamayn," she answered, "you are one of the fortunatepeople of this world. You are a nobleman's son. You are ahandsome man. You are popular at your college. You are free ofthe best houses in England. Are you something besides all this?Are you a coward and a scoundrel as well?"

He started--opened his lips to speak--checked himself--and madean uneasy attempt to laugh it off. "Come!" he said, "keep yourtemper."

The suppressed passion in her began to force its way to thesurface.

"Keep my temper?" she repeated. "Do _you_ of all men expect me tocontrol myself? What a memory yours must be! Have you forgottenthe time when I was fool enough to think you were fond of me? andmad enough to believe you could keep a promise?"

He persisted in trying to laugh it off. "Mad is a strongish wordto use, Miss Silvester!"

"Mad is the right word! I look back at my own infatuation--and Ican't account for it; I can't understand myself. What was therein _you_," she asked, with an outbreak of contemptuous surprise,"to attract such a woman as I am?"

His inexhaustible good-nature was proof even against this. He puthis hands in his pockets, and said, "I'm sure I don't know."

She turned away from him. The frank brutality of the answer hadnot offended her. It forced her, cruelly forced her, to rememberthat she had nobody but herself to blame for the position inwhich she stood at that moment. She was unwilling to let him seehow the remembrance hurt her--that was all. A sad, sad story; butit must be told. In her mother's time she had been the sweetest,the most lovable of children. In later days, under the care ofher mother's friend, her girlhood had passed so harmlessly and sohappily--it seemed as if the sleeping passions might sleepforever! She had lived on to the prime of her womanhood--andthen, when the treasure of her life was at its richest, in onefatal moment she had flung it away on the man in whose presenceshe now stood.

Was she without excuse? No: not utterly without excuse.

She had seen him under other aspects than the aspect which hepresented now. She had seen him, the hero of the river-race, thefirst and foremost man in a trial of strength and skill which hadroused the enthusiasm of all England. She had seen him, thecentral object of the interest of a nation; the idol of thepopular worship and the popular applause. _His_ were the armswhose muscle was celebrated in the newspapers. _He_ was firstamong the heroes hailed by ten thousand roaring throats as thepride and flower of England. A woman, in an atmosphere of red-hotenthusiasm, witnesses the apotheosis of Physical Strength. Is itreasonable--is it just--to expect her to ask herself, in coldblood, What (morally and intellectually) is all this worth?--andthat, when the man who is the object of the apotheosis, noticesher, is presented to her, finds her to his taste, and singles herout from the rest? No. While humanity is humanity, the woman isnot utterly without excuse.

Has she escaped, without suffering for it?

Look at her as she stands there, tortured by the knowledge of herown secret--the hideous secret which she is hiding from theinnocent girl, whom she loves with a sister's love. Look at her,bowed down under a humiliation which is unutterable in words. Shehas seen him below the surface--now, when it is too late. Sherates him at his true value--now, when her reputation is at hismercy. Ask her the question: What was there to love in a man whocan speak to you as that man has spoken, who can treat you asthat man is treating you now? you so clever, so cultivated, sorefined--what, in Heaven's name, could _you_ see in him? Ask herthat, and she will have no answer to give. She will not evenremind you that he was once your model of manly beauty, too--thatyou waved your handkerchief till you could wave it no longer,when he took his seat, with the others, in the boat--that yourheart was like to jump out of your bosom, on that later occasionwhen he leaped the last hurdle at the foot-race, and won it by ahead. In the bitterness of her remorse, she will not even seekfor _that_ excuse for herself. Is there no atoning suffering tobe seen here? Do your sympathies shrink from such a character asthis? Follow her, good friends of virtue, on the pilgrimage thatleads, by steep and thorny ways, to the purer atmosphere and thenobler life. Your fellow-creature, who has sinned and hasrepented--you have the authority of the Divine Teacher for it--isyour fellow-creature, purified and ennobled. A joy among theangels of heaven--oh, my brothers and sisters of the earth, haveI not laid my hand on a fit companion for You?

There was a moment of silence in the summer-house. The cheerfultumult of the lawn-party was pleasantly audible from thedistance. Outside, the hum of voices, the laughter of girls, thethump of the croquet-mallet against the ball. Inside, nothing buta woman forcing back the bitter tears of sorrow and shame--and aman who was tired of her.

She roused herself. She was her mother's daughter; and she had aspark of her mother's spirit. Her life depended on the issue ofthat interview. It was useless--without father or brother to takeher part--to lose the last chance of appealing to him. She dashedaway the tears--time enough to cry, is time easily found in awoman's existence--she dashed away the tears, and spoke to himagain, more gently than she had spoken yet.

"You have been three weeks, Geoffrey, at your brother Julius'splace, not ten miles from here; and you have never once riddenover to see me. You would not have come to-day, if I had notwritten to you to insist on it. Is that the treatment I havedeserved?"

She paused. There was no answer.

"Do you hear me?" she asked, advancing and speaking in loudertones.

He was still silent. It was not in human endurance to bear hiscontempt. The warning of a coming outbreak began to show itselfin her face. He met it, beforehand, with an impenetrable front.Feeling nervous about the interview, while he was waiting in therose-garden--now that he stood committed to it, he was in fullpossession of himself. He was composed enough to remember that hehad not put his pipe in its case--composed enough to set thatlittle matter right before other matters went any farther. Hetook the case out of one pocket, and the pipe out of another.

"Go on," he said, quietly. "I hear you."

She struck the pipe out of his hand at a blow. If she had had thestrength she would have struck him down with it on the floor ofthe summer-house.

"How dare you use me in this way?" she burst out, vehemently."Your conduct is infamous. Defend it if you can!"

He made no attempt to defend it. He looked, with an expression ofgenuine anxiety, at the fallen pipe. It was beautifullycolored--it had cost him ten shillings. "I'll pick up my pipefirst," he said. His face brightened pleasantly--he lookedhandsomer than ever--as he examined the precious object, and putit back in the case. "All right," he said to himself. "She hasn'tbroken it." His attitude as he looked at her again, was theperfection of easy grace--the grace that attends on cultivatedstrength in a state of repose. "I put it to your owncommon-sense, " he said, in the most reasonable manner, "what'sthe good of bullying me? You don't want them to hear you, out onthe lawn there--do you? You women are all alike. There's nobeating a little prudence into your heads, try how one may."

There he waited, expecting her to speak. She waited, on her side,and forced him to go on.

"Look here," he said, "there's no need to quarrel, you know. Idon't want to break my promise; but what can I do ? I'm not theeldest son. I'm dependent on my father for every farthing I have;and I'm on bad terms with him already. Can't you see it yourself?You're a lady, and all that, I know. But you're only a governess.It's your interest as well as mine to wait till my father hasprovided for me. Here it is in a nut-shell: if I marry you now,I'm a ruined man."

The answer came, this time.

"You villain if you _don't_ marry me, I am a ruined woman!"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Don't look at me in that way."

"How do you expect me to look at a woman who calls me a villainto my face?"

She suddenly changed her tone. The savage element inhumanity--let the modern optimists who doubt its existence lookat any uncultivated man (no matter how muscular), woman (nomatter how beautiful), or child (no matter how young)--began toshow itself furtively in his eyes, to utter itself furtively inhis voice. Was he to blame for the manner in which he looked ather and spoke to her? Not he! What had there been in the trainingof _his_ life (at school or at college) to soften and subdue thesavage element in him? About as much as there had been in thetraining of his ancestors (without the school or the college)five hundred years since.

It was plain that one of them must give way. The woman had themost at stake--and the woman set the example of submission.

"Don't be hard on me," she pleaded. "I don't mean to be hard on_you._ My temper gets the better of me. You know my temper. I amsorry I forgot myself. Geoffrey, my whole future is in yourhands. Will you do me justice?"

She came nearer, and laid her hand persuasively on his arm.

"Haven't you a word to say to me? No answer? Not even a look?"She waited a moment more. A marked change came over her. Sheturned slowly to leave the summer-house. "I am sorry to havetroubled you, Mr. Delamayn. I won't detain you any longer."

He looked at her. There was a tone in her voice that he had neverheard before. There was a light in her eyes that he had neverseen in them before. Suddenly and fiercely he reached out hishand, and stopped her.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

She answered, looking him straight in the face, "Where many amiserable woman has gone before me. Out of the world."

He drew her nearer to him, and eyed her closely. Even _his_intelligence discovered that he had brought her to bay, and thatshe really meant it!

"Do you mean you will destroy yourself?" he said.

"Yes. I mean I will destroy myself."

He dropped her arm. "By Jupiter, she _does_ mean it!"

With that conviction in him, he pushed one of the chairs in thesummer-house to her with his foot, and signed to her to take it."Sit down!" he said, roughly. She had frightened him--and fearcomes seldom to men of his type. They feel it, when it does come,with an angry distrust; they grow loud and brutal, in instinctiveprotest against it. "Sit down!" he repeated. She obeyed him."Haven't you got a word to say to me?" he asked, with an oath.No! there she sat, immovable, reckless how it ended--as onlywomen can be, when women's minds are made up. He took a turn inthe summer-house and came back, and struck his hand angrily onthe rail of her chair. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want."

He took another turn. There was nothing for it but to give way onhis side, or run the risk of something happening which mightcause an awkward scandal, and come to his father's ears.

"Look here, Anne," he began, abruptly. "I have got something topropose."

She looked up at him.

"What do you say to a private marriage?"

Without asking a single question, without making objections, sheanswered him, speaking as bluntly as he had spoken himself:

"I consent to a private marriage."

He began to temporize directly.

"I own I don't see how it's to be managed--"

She stopped him there.

"I do!"

"What!" he cried out, suspiciously. "You have thought of ityourself, have you?"

"Yes."

"And planned for it?"

"And planned for it!"

"Why didn't you tell me so before?"

She answered haughtily; insisting on the respect which is due towomen--the respect which was doubly due from _him,_ in herposition.

"Because _you_ owed it to _me,_ Sir, to speak first."

"Very well. I've spoken first. Will you wait a little?"

"Not a day!"

The tone was positive. There was no mistaking it. Her mind wasmade up.

"Where's the hurry?"

"Have you eyes?" she asked, vehemently. "Have you ears? Do yousee how Lady Lundie looks at me? Do you hear how Lady Lundiespeaks to me? I am suspected by that woman. My shameful dismissalfrom this house may be a question of a few hours." Her head sunkon her bosom; she wrung her clasped hands as they rested on herlap. "And, oh, Blanche!" she moaned to herself, the tearsgathering again, and falling, this time, unchecked. "Blanche, wholooks up to me! Blanche, who loves me! Blanche, who told me, inthis very place, that I was to live with her when she wasmarried!" She started up from the chair; the tears driedsuddenly; the hard despair settled again, wan and white, on herface. "Let me go! What is death, compared to such a life as iswaiting for _me?_" She looked him over, in one disdainful glancefrom head to foot; her voice rose to its loudest and firmesttones." Why, even _you_; would have the courage to die if youwere in my place!"

Geoffrey glanced round toward the lawn.

"Hush!" he said. "They will hear you!"

"Let them hear me! When _I_ am past hearing _them_, what does itmatter?"

He put her back by main force on the chair. In another momentthey must have heard her, through all the noise and laughter ofthe game.

"Say what you want," he resumed, "and I'll do it. Only bereasonable. I can't marry you to-day."

"You can!"

"What nonsense you talk! The house and grounds are swarming withcompany. It can't be!"

"It can! I have been thinking about it ever since we came to thishouse. I have got something to propose to you. Will you hear it,or not?"

"Speak lower!"

"Will you hear it, or not?"

"There's somebody coming!"

"Will you hear it, or not?"

"The devil take your obstinacy! Yes!"

The answer had been wrung from him. Still, it was the answer shewanted--it opened the door to hope. The instant he had consentedto hear her her mind awakened to the serious necessity ofaverting discovery by any third person who might stray idly intothe summer-house. She held up her hand for silence, and listenedto what was going forward on the lawn.

The dull thump of the croquet-mallet against the ball was nolonger to be heard. The game had stopped.

In a moment more she heard her own name called. An interval ofanother instant passed, and a familiar voice said, "I know whereshe is. I'll fetch her."

She turned to Geoffrey, and pointed to the back of thesummer-house.

"It's my turn to play," she said. "And Blanche is coming here tolook for me. Wait there, and I'll stop her on the steps."

She went out at once. It was a critical moment. Discovery, whichmeant moral-ruin to the woman, meant money-ruin to the man.Geoffrey had not exaggerated his position with his father. LordHolchester had twice paid his debts, and had declined to see himsince. One more outrage on his father's rigid sense of propriety,and he would be left out of the will as well as kept out of thehouse. He looked for a means of retreat, in case there was noescaping unperceived by the front entrance. A door--intended forthe use of servants, when picnics and gipsy tea-parties weregiven in the summer-house--had been made in the back wall. Itopened outward, and it was locked. With his strength it was easyto remove that obstacle. He put his shoulder to the door. At themoment when he burst it open he felt a hand on his arm. Anne wasbehind him, alone.

"You may want it before long," she said, observing the open door,without expressing any surprise, "You don't want it now. Anotherperson will play for me--I have told Blanche I am not well. Sitdown. I have secured a respite of five minutes, and I must makethe most of it. In that time, or less, Lady Lundie's suspicionswill bring her here--to see how I am. For the present, shut thedoor."

She seated herself, and pointed to a second chair. He tookit--with his eye on the closed door.

"Come to the point!" he said, impatiently. "What is it?"

"You can marry me privately to-day," she answered. "Lis ten--andI will tell you how!"