The chat which George Osborne had with Nevill the night before had eased and steadied his mind, but had in no way relieved his heart. There were less hurry and confusion in his thoughts, but his thoughts were far from pleasant. His mother had gone out of her way to extract this promise from Marie, and she must therefore attach a great deal of importance to it. Marie had attributed a cause quite opposite to the real one for the change which had come over him in the railway-carriage. If she had not noticed that change, or if she had not misinterpreted it, matters might not be in their present hopeless condition. Nevill had said last night that he would make an effort to mend the situation. But what could Nevill do? When he, Osborne, arrived at Stratford, he would have gladly shut his eyes to his own spiritual condition and married Marie. But this promise to his mother looked a fatal barrier. In that promise, extracted from Marie in the cathedral, he might, when the first shock had passed, have easily agreed that the pledge was never intended to apply to him, and that in keeping the letter she might break the spirit of that pledge. In the present case there was no such loophole. Marie had made a clear definite promise not to name the day for their marriage, should George return to the scepticism to which he had given way of late. It was true, if this were merely a legal question, there were two points which might make that promise inoperative. First, he had never abandoned his doubts, and therefore could not be said to go back to them. Second, the day had been fixed before he knew anything of Marie's promise. But of course, in conscience, neither of these points would hold for an instant. What should he do now? Could he do anything? Of course he could marry the girl, in spite of his mother. But could he marry her with ease to his own mind in spite of her promise? That was the question which perplexed him. Could he ask her to break her deliberate promise, in order that she might by his side run the risk of infidelity? He knew not one man in a thousand would hesitate a moment. He knew that in ordinary cases when a man wished to make a woman his wife he thought very little of anything else than attaining his object. But he, Osborne, was not a man of that kind. The mere dread that any shadow of doubt or difficulty lay between him and her would spoil all. His head was quite clear, but his heart was troubled sorely. What, he, for the sake of a few meaningless words, lose all the sunshine and the glory of his life! What, was his life to be marred for ever because Marie had uttered a few words to his mother? What right had words spoken by her to a third person to come between her and him? It was absurd to think of such a thing. No one out of Bedlam could dream of such a thing for a moment. Nothing of the kind should come between him and his love. Nothing. Mere words. What had mere words to do with him or her? What had mere words to do anywhere? Mere words, which once breathed disappeared for ever, to stand in the way of hearts drawn to one another as the moon draws the sea? What a humdrum thing breakfast had been without her! What a humdrum thing life had been until he met her! Now life would be simply intolerable without her. Without her? What nonsense! Promise or no promise, faith or no faith, he was not going to lose her; he was not going to lose the great melody of his life for ever. Come fair, come foul; come weal, come woe, he would make Marie Gordon his wife. It was a lucky thing he had business in the town. It would occupy him till luncheon, and then, as soon as he came back, he'd see his beautiful darling once more. What had she said last night in the conservatory after his cry? He had no more recollection than of what happened in the Great Desert at the time. Could he have muttered anything like a reproach, like words of farewell? 'Farewell! Ah, God, not that! No, no, no! Farewell, never! There shall be no farewell. I may be at liberty to break my own heart, but I am not at liberty to break hers. 'It never struck me in that way before. I have never gone farther than thinking what I ought to do so as to secure her against danger. If it would break her heart to part from me, it would be murder to let her go. Fancy my taking up a knife and killing Marie! Fancy my standing before her, and firing a loaded pistol at her head! Fancy the look in her eyes when she saw my arm upraised to strike, extended to fire! Suppose I said to her, this evening in the drawing-room,--"Marie, I have made up my mind that, owing to scruples of mine, you and I must be strangers for evermore. I leave Stratford to see you no more." I think she would laugh at first. But when she found out I was in earnest? Oh, I cannot look at her face as I see it now. No, no, no! I have no right to break her heart; and if she will marry me, nothing earthly shall induce me to give her up. Fancy her calling after me, saying, "George, will you not come back to me?" Oh, God, I cannot even think of it. I will not think of it. I am glad I have this business in the town. It will kill time and thought until I get back and see my own love once again.' He arose, and went into the hall. As he was putting on his overcoat, O'Connor tripped downstairs. 'Good morning, O'Connor. How is your mistress now?' 'She is in a nice quiet sleep now, sir.' George beckoned her into the parlour, which was now deserted. 'Was Miss Gordon very bad last night, O'Connor?' 'She was bad enough, sir. I slept in the dressing-room; and about an hour after she went to bed I heard her saying, "Don't! Oh don't! Don't send me away!" I thought she was awake at the time, so I went to her, and spoke to her. But she was fast asleep. I came out, and sat in her room; and all through the night she never stopped waking and falling asleep again; and as soon as she fell asleep she began moaning and crying in her sleep. I was wondering, sir, maybe Miss Osborne and you and Mr Nevill and my mistress went to some very mournful play in London by Shakespeare, and that coming into his native air, sir, may have made the mournfulness of the play come against her all at once; for I never saw Miss Gordon like that before.' 'Ay,' answered Osborne vaguely. 'O'Connor, I want you to wait a minute, while I scribble a few lines for her.' He took a pencil and wrote,--

'My Darling Marie,--I have no clear recollection of how that scene in the conservatory ended. O'Connor tells me you are now sleeping. God bless you! I have to go out on business. We shall meet at luncheon. I can hardly bear to leave the house where my only love is. I hope I did not say or do anything very bad in that conservatory. Whatever I then said or did, believe me, my darling Marie, nothing shall ever separate Marie from

'George.'

He folded it up, and handed it to the maid, saying-- 'Now, O'Connor, give her this when she awakes.' Then he walked into the hall, put on his hat and went out. He did not get back until a few minutes before luncheon. Marie was down, looking a little pale, but very happy. As he took her hand, George said,-- 'Did you get my note?' 'Yes, and it has made me so glad. I am quite well since I read it.' When Nevill had said good-afternoon to Marie he went over to where Alice stood, arranging something on the chimneypiece. He took her hands, and said gaily,-- 'And how has Mistress Alice fared since?' 'Badly. I did my best and failed. She is not coming down to luncheon.' 'Failed! Failed! Then I do not know what will become of it!'