When Osborne entered the drawing-room at Peter's Row he was pale, spent, weak. He could hardly stand for a moment; the place swam round him, and he swayed to and fro as if about to fall. Some of the guests looked at him with amazement, some with suspicion, some with fear. What was wrong with this young man? Why did he come down to breakfast the other morning in that extraordinary condition? What was the meaning of any man, half covered with mud, breaking into a drawing-room? It was very strange. Was he drunk? Why did not Mrs Barclay tell him to leave? Kate saw at a glance something dreadful had occurred. She looked hastily at Marie, but found no explanation there. Marie sat on a couch fronting the door, and stared in vague apprehension at him. In her, love was alarmed by an unfamiliar phase of the beloved. Kate rose, and went to George, saying,-- 'What is the matter, George? What is the matter? You look ill.' 'I am only tired--only tired, Kate.' He glanced at Marie. 'She fears me already,' he thought. 'She fears me. See how she shrinks from me. She would scream out if I dared to go near her. She would scream. She sees, with the swift instinct of a woman, that what I swear to-day I will forswear to-morrow. She loathes me more than the most unsightly things that crawl on earth. Oh, my Marie, my life--my soul! Have I lost you for ever--for ever!' All the guests were still staring mutely at him. He was unconscious of their presence. He was unconscious of everything but the feeling of loss. He stood in the midst of a pitiless desert. Neither heaven nor earth, beast nor man, would take pity on him, would kill him, and put him out of this awful pain. If he could shut his eyes for ever on her, for ever on the past, he would be content. For, indeed, what want of contentment can there be when past, present, and future are no more? Had he been born to open his eyes on this apparition of supreme loveliness, merely that he might see it for a brief span, and then lose it, and all memory of it, for ever? If even memory might remain he should now be content. But nothing would be left--nothing. He had been foolish, insane, a moment ago, to wish for oblivion. He would prefer the memory of her, the mental image of her, with all the sense of final loss, to forgetfulness. How shallow Dante had been to say memory of former joys was the crudest pain! Who would give up certain aspects of his true love for all the pain those pictures could bring? Memory was the inexhaustible bank of love. As the future is the fairest, so is the past the most dear. The feeling you must lose all the heart-savings of a love-time is the most bitter sting that can enter the soul of man. Ay, but Dante did not think he or anyone should lose the memory of love at the silent side of the grave. That accounted for Dante saying, the bitterest thing of all was remembering brighter hours. Into Dante's code oblivion did not enter. Miserere nobis. Miserere nobis. With a weary, vacant smile he held out his hand to Kate. 'I am very tired, Kate, very tired, and am going to bed. Say good-night to Marie for me.' He drew back into the passage, and closed the door. Marie turned pale. Furtive eyes now sought her. The men looked at her with anger against him in their eyes. In the glances of the women was pity. Plainly all was over between her and him. Well, who could expect any good to come out of such an engagement? No one but a fool. Fancy people meeting in a common boarding-house, falling in love, and getting engaged! Why, if such things were to happen and turn out well there would be no protection to society, and domestic life would have to be abandoned; and then things would be in a nice state. The minds of the men took another direction. What had he been doing? He looked as if he had been on a fearful spree. But how could a man bengaged to that glorious girl go on a spree? And besides, Osborne was as steady as a rock. No; it couldn't be a spree. What, then, had cut him up so dreadfully? He looked all right yesterday, or nearly so. No matter how wild a man had been for one day, he would not be so cut up. Evidently something was wrong between this incomparable girl and him. What could it be? Had he been suddenly seized with illness, or were there traces of insanity in his family? A man must be mad to quarrel with such loveliness. 'What's the matter, Kate?' whispered Marie, as soon as the former had returned to her old place close to the couch. 'I don't know, dear. He looks awful, and says he's tired. What can it be? There is no quarrel?' 'No. Nor do I know any reason why he should not speak to me.' 'He told me to say good-night to you for him, and that he was very tired.' 'What! Very tired! Was George too tired to cross this little room to say good-night to me? Oh, Kate, there is something wrong, something wrong! Did he say anything about Mr Nevill?' 'No; not a word. I have told you all he said. I never saw George in such a way before.' The two girls rose soon after, and went to their rooms. When George Osborne closed the drawing-room door he walked slowly upstairs. He undressed, and went to bed. He was completely worn out, and fell into a profound sleep. He awoke. What, dark still! 'Who's there?' 'I.' 'Oh, Nevill, is that you? What o'clock is it?' 'You have had a long sleep. It is five o'clock in the afternoon.' 'Five o'clock in the afternoon! What is the matter? Have I been ill? I forget. Nevill, tell me, have I been ill? Where is Kate?' 'Kate is downstairs. You have not been ill. You know you had a long walk and great anxiety yesterday. Would you like a light?' 'I remember all now. No, I don't want a light. We can talk in the dark.' 'How do you feel to-day? Shall I tell them to bring you something to eat?' 'No, thank you. I shall get up presently. I am not hungry. Have you seen Marie to-day?' 'I have not. I was not in to breakfast. Even had I been, I should not have seen her, for neither she nor Kate was down.' 'You awoke me, Nevill, did you not? Have you anything to tell me, anything to say?' 'I am sorry I disturbed you, Osborne; but I could not rest still. My dear fellow, you know what I told you last evening about Kate?' 'Yes; that you had proposed to her. Have you got a reply?' 'I have. I called this morning at Lombard Street, and found a letter there from Kate. The letter, although a refusal, gave me a half notion I had failed only for the time. So I came on straight here to see her and you. I have been with her all day, and I cannot tell you how delighted I am, my dear Osborne, to say to you there is hope I may yet succeed, though nothing definite has been arranged, nor will she allow me to call her anything more than Miss Osborne, until her mother's consent has been obtained, which is quite right.' 'And you want to speak to me now about the matter?' asked Osborne, sitting up in the darkness. 'Yes, if you have no objection.' 'On the contrary, I shall be glad to listen; it will interest me, since it concerns Kate, and at present I prefer not to think of my own affairs. Go on, Nevill; go on.' 'Well, Osborne, I will tell you all I think you would care to hear, and then I will ask you to do me a great favour. I have knocked about in the world in my time, and have been no better than most men--nothing like you. I lived at Rome; and you know that Rome often lived up a tree. But, upon the whole, I was among the ruck; I don't think I led. You must know my people were no great swells, only middle-class merchant-folk. I am alone in the world. My father lived at New York, and made a little money in corn. I'm thirty years of age. I have never been in gaol. I have never yet committed bigamy. I have thirty thousand pounds, and not a soul to leave a penny to. I'd settle all of it on Kate, and anyone who might come after us. I am a native of England, of the parish of Stepney, as I was born at sea. I was born under British colours, on the way out to the States, before either my father or mother, and I may add before I myself, ever set foot on American soil. I am an advanced Radical, was reared in the Church of England faith, and mean henceforth to conform to that creed.' He paused awhile, and tried to pierce the darkness in the direction where Osborne sat; but he could see absolutely nothing. Now that there was silence, Nevill could hear the deep breathing of the silent listener. At length George spoke,-- 'Go on, Nevill. Go on; I am listening to you most attentively.' 'So much for the past and present. Now for the future. You are not, I suppose, going to live in London always?' 'I cannot say. I do not know.' 'Well, if I prosper in this, I propose to go to Stratford--your old place-and take a house there, and settle down as a member of a quiet English family. I will grow into a middle-aged respectable man as soon as I can, and you and your mother and younger sister and I will be the greatest friends in the world--a kind of colony of love, down in that dear old place of Shakespeare's.' He paused again. No sound from the bed but the breathing, which had grown more laboured. He waited awhile. He knew that Osborne shuddered; though how he knew this he could not tell. Then the other spoke in a constrained voice,-- 'I. see nothing whatever to object to in what you propose. I think nothing would please Kate or my mother more than that Kate's home should be near Stratford. You said you intended asking me something. What is it?' 'Oh yes. I want you to take me down to Stratford, introduce me to your mother, and let me plead my cause with her. In fact, you can arrange both our affairs--I mean yours and mine--at the one time.' Nevill paused once more. The breathing had grown quieter. There was not a sound. The room was as hushed as a stone. Nevill remained perfectly still. Stop, there was a faint, very faint, sound. A soft, delicate pat-pat-pat, as though you beat a table very gently with the top of your finger. It could not be the beating of Osborne's heart. It was too slow for that. What could it be? 'Why don't you speak, Osborne? What's the matter?' Pat-pat-pat. 'Good God, Osborne, you are weeping!' 'Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me my life? Who has taken my life away? Oh, my life, my life! Who gave me sight, and gives me darkness? Dear God, turn away Thy wrath, and show me mercy! I am humbled and punished. Let me come back to Thee and peace. Give me faith for this void, light for this darkness. O God, my life!' 'Osborne! Osborne! Osborne!' 'In a moment.' 'Osborne!' 'A little while longer.' 'Now I am all right. I could not help it, Nevill. It came on me suddenly. I had no power over myself. Will you forgive me, my dear friend? I hope I may some day call you brother. It all came upon me at once. I broke down when I thought of you and Kate being settled at Stratford, and I--' 'You too will be settled there or somewhere else with Marie soon. Take my word for it.' 'Ay. I may as well get up; and I may as well stop in bed. It is one of the advantages of being ruined that all things are alike to you. You are above or below every-day detail. I'll get up. It must be near six now.' 'Yes; the quarter-to has struck.' 'I'll get up. Do not leave for a minute. You need not tell anyone I broke down--Kate least of all. It would only pain her, and do no good. I'll go up to Stratford with you, and do all I can in your interest. I do not think my mother will make any objection, for she is a most just and considerate woman, and has taught all of us to rely on our own judgments since we were young. I think you may put your mind at rest. I feel much easier now than I did when you woke me first. You may go now. I'll get up. If you meet Marie before I go down, do not tell her anything I have told you. If she asks you anything about me, say I was merely tired, and overslept myself.' When Nevill had shut the door, Osborne arose and lit the gas. He was deadly pale, but refreshed with sleep. He felt weak, and thought some illness must be coming on him; he forgot he had not eaten anything the whole of yesterday. He was feeble now from over-exertion and want of food. It was six o'clock before he reached the dining-room, where tea was always set at that hour. The people had not yet sat down. He went over to where Kate and Marie stood by the fire, and shook hands with both. 'I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself. Yesterday I ran away without a word of explanation, and to-day I sleep until tea-time. I assure you both I never awoke until Nevill came into my room about an hour ago. I was quite worn out.' 'But, George,' asked Kate gravely, 'why did you go for such a long walk yesterday, and eat nothing all day?' 'Mr Nevill told Kate,' said Marie, 'that you ate nothing all yesterday, and that you would not have anything to eat last night when he met you. Surely that was too bad of you. You know, George, between sitting up all night over those books, and then walking about all day without food, you will very soon find yourself in the hands of the--' 'Hangman,' George concluded the sentence for her. 'No; don't be silly--in the hands of the doctor.' 'I am past cure,' he said gravely, and with a faint sweet smile. Marie looked up quickly at him. Was his old self coming back? In saying he was past cure, did he mean he was so much in love nothing could make him heart-whole again? There was no answering look in his eyes. What could be the matter? What had happened to George? He was wholly changed, wholly unlike himself of two days ago. He looked worn out and dull, more like a man just recovering from a raging fever than a healthy, hearty lover. What could be the matter? It was sad to think that, no sooner had she entered upon this fairyland of love, than some terrible monster invaded the garden also, and she went in constant dread of being struck down by the beast, and killed or maimed for ever. In Mrs Barclay's all meals were served in the dining-room, and it was customary for the ladies to retire to the drawing-room after breakfast, dinner, or tea. At tea that evening nothing was spoken of but the most general subjects. Marie and Kate did not speak beyond the words necessary in reply to commonplace questions from commonplace people. Mrs Barclay rallied Osborne on his recent irregular behaviour, and cautioned him that no doubt such vagaries might be expected from a bachelor, but very different conduct would be exacted from a married man. At this there was a general smile, and a sly look from his to Marie's face. All else that passed at the table was of the most ordinary and every-day character. Tea took forty minutes, and at about a quarter to seven the ladies retired to the drawing-room. Between seven and eleven was the quietest time of the day at Mrs Barclay's, for men and women staying at the house went out between those hours, either to theatres or other places of amusement, or to visit friends whom their business occupations in the day prevented them calling upon. When George Osborne entered the drawing-room he found no one in it but Marie and Kate. He felt refreshed and brightened by the meal. Tea always had an exquisitely cheering effect upon him. He walked first to Marie, took her gently by the hand, and said,-- 'I was not able to explain to you--do not move, Kate; what I am saying is intended for both of you--I was not able to explain what must have seemed extraordinary in my conduct during the past few days. I cannot yet tell you explicitly what it is, but in a few days I hope to be able to satisfy you. Both must have faith in me till then. You must believe that I have got a terrible shock, with which neither of you has anything to do. I am at present in a state of great mental anxiety, and you must try to be indulgent to me. No matter how odd I may seem to you, I ask you not to judge me hastily. Give me time, and I will tell you both all. Give me time. Will you, Marie--a few days?' 'Yes.' 'Will you Kate--a few days?' 'Yes.' The two girls were more terrified by this quiet, collected confession of trouble than by the most erratic thing he had yet done. Marie thought, 'Oh, my George, my love, my noble, simple-hearted gentleman, why will you not tell your Marie what troubles you? Why will you not let her share your anxiety? She would bear all the anxiety of this world rather than not share his secret pain. Oh, my love, why are you so white? What will become of me if anything happen to my love--if anything happen to thee--if anything happen to my love?' Kate was too terrified to think; she only prayed--prayed against evil to him, against evil to any of them. The affair between Nevill and herself could not have caused any such dreadful result as this. He spoke again,-- 'All the more necessary will it be for you to have confidence in me, because I am going to leave you both in the care of Mrs Barclay for a couple of days. Nevill and I are going to Stratford for a day or so.' Kate was too distressed to feel incommoded. She did not blush, she did not look down. Marie only thought, 'Oh, why will he not take us? Going away for two days, and in such a mood! Oh, how shall I get from rising to lying down while he is away? My love, if my life could save you this trouble, I would give it for you with joy.' 'We leave to-morrow morning. I shall not see you between this and then. Mrs Barclay, whom I have just spoken to, promises to look after you, and'--he smiled faintly--'to see that neither of you elopes while we are away. Good-night and good-bye now.' He kissed Marie. 'Good-night and good-bye.' He kissed Kate. 'The evening of the day after to-morrow, or, at latest, the morning following, we hope to be back. Till then take great care of yourselves, take great care of one another. Our thoughts will be with you two constantly all the time we are away.' He walked slowly out of the room, nodding to them with a feeble smile, as he closed the door. 'I could not talk to her, or be near her, now. I shall never be able to talk quietly to her until this fever is past. Nevill is right. Delay is the best thing now. If I trusted myself with her I should tell her all. O God, what a hideous, abominable all! Oh thou Maker and Unmaker, help me, if Thou wilt have mercy!' When he had gone each girl stood looking into the face of the other. Gradually they both sank down on a couch. Kate put her arm round Marie's waist; Marie covered her face with her hands and shuddered.