by Guy Thorne
CHAPTER IV
THE SECOND LOVER ARRIVES
On the evening of the day in which she had fainted, Marjorie Poole satalone in the drawing-room of her mother's house in Curzon Street.
It was a large, handsome place, furnished in the Empire style withmirrors framed in delicate white arabesques, and much gilding woven intothe pattern. The carpet was a great purple expanse covered with laurelwreaths of darker purple.
There was but little furniture in the big, beautiful place, but it wasall airy, fantastic and perfect of its kind. There was a general air ofrepose, of size and comely proportion in this delightful room. Here, anold French clock clicked merrily, there were two or three inlaidcabinets, and upon the walls were a few copies of some of Watteau'sdelightful scenes in the old courtly gardens of Versailles.
Marjorie wore a long tea-gown, and she was sitting quite alone in thebrilliantly lit place, with a book in her hand. The book was in herhand indeed, but she was not reading it. Her eyes were fixed upon theopposite wall, though they saw nothing there. Her thoughts were busy andher face was pale.
She had recovered from her swoon in a minute or two, and found hermother fussing round her and her lover generally skilful in doing allthat was necessary. And a short time afterwards she had driven home withLady Poole.
What she had heard, the very strain of hearing and being so intenselyinterested in it, had taken her strength away. Then had come the wordswhen Sir William told her that the very thoughts that she was thinkingat that moment were being in some mysterious way recorded and known. Andshe knew that she had been thinking of another man, thinking of him asan engaged girl should never think.
But as she had returned to consciousness, Sir William had told herkindly and simply that if she had feared her thoughts, whatever theymight be, were known to him, she need fear no longer. "There was noone," he said, "observing any record of vibrations from your dear mind.Do you think that I should have allowed that, Marjorie? How could youthink it of me?"
She had driven home relieved but very weary, and feeling how complexlife was, how irrevocable the mistakes one made from impulse or lack ofjudgment really were.
Ambition! Yes, it was that that had brought her to where she was now.Her heart had never been touched by any one. She never thought herselfcapable of a great love for a man. From all her suitors she had chosenthe one who most satisfied her intellectual aspirations, who seemed toher the one that could give her the highest place, not only in themeaningless ranks of society, but in and among those who are the electand real leaders of the world.
And now? Well, now she was waiting because Guy Rathbone was coming tothe house.
A letter from him had arrived just before dinner. She had expected it byan earlier post, the post by which all his letters usually came, and shehad been impatient at its non-arrival. But it had come at last, and shewas sitting in the drawing-room waiting for him now.
He was on intimate terms in that house, and came and went almost as hewould, old Lady Poole liking to have young people round her, and feelingthat now Marjorie's future was satisfactorily settled, there was no needto bar her doors to people she was fond of, but who, before theengagement, she would have regarded as dangerous.
Even as Marjorie was thinking of him, the butler showed Guy Rathboneinto the room.
Marjorie got up, flushing a little as she saw him.
"Mother's very tired," she said; "she's not well to-night, and so she'sgone to bed. Perhaps you'd rather not stay."
He sat down, after shaking hands, without an answer in words. He lookedat her, and that was his answer.
He was a tall young man, as tall as Sir William, but more largely built,with the form and figure not of the student but rather of the athlete.His face was clean-shaven, frank, open and boyishly good-looking; but apair of heavy eyebrows hung over eyes that were alert and bright,robbing the upper part of his face of a too juvenile suggestion. Hishead was covered with dark red curls, and he had the walk and movementsof perfect health and great physical power, that had once led adyspeptic friend at the Oxford and Cambridge Club to remark of him, that"Rathbone is the sort of fellow who always suggests that he could eatall the elephants of India and pick his teeth with the spire ofStrasburg Cathedral afterwards."
There was force about him, the force of clean, happy youth, health, anda good brain. It was not the concentrated force and power of SirWilliam, but it was force nevertheless.
And as he came into the room, Marjorie felt her whole heart go out tohim, leaping towards him in his young and manly beauty. She knew thathere indeed was the one man that would satisfy her life for ever and aday. He was not famous, he was clever without having a great intellect,but for some reason or other he was the man for her. She knew it, andshe feared that he was beginning to know she knew it.
He was sitting in the chair, when he turned and looked her straight inthe face.
"I have come to-night," he said, "to say something very serious, veryserious indeed. I am glad Lady Poole isn't here, just for to-night,Marjorie."
"I've told you you oughtn't to say Marjorie," she said.
"Well," he answered, "you've called me Guy for a good long time now, andone good turn deserves another."
He smiled, showing a perfect and even row of teeth, a smile so simple,hearty and spontaneous that once more that furiously beating heart ofhers seems striving to burst its physical bonds and leap to him.
Then he passed his hand through his hair, and his face immediatelybecame full of perplexity and doubt.
"I should have been here before," he said, "only I was detained. I meta man who happened to take my overcoat to-day in mistake for his ownfrom the hairdresser's. He turned out to be a decent sort of chap, and Icouldn't get rid of him at once. But that's by the way. I've come hereto say something which is awfully difficult to say. I've fought it outwith myself, and I've wondered if I should be a bounder in saying it.I'm afraid I'm going to say something that a gentleman oughtn't to say.I don't know. I really don't know. But something within tells me that ifI don't say it I should be doing something which I should regret all mylife long. But you must forgive me, and if after what I've said to youyou feel that I oughtn't to have done so, I do beg you will forgive me,Marjorie. Will you forgive me?"
Her voice was very low. "Yes," she said in almost a whisper.
"You are engaged to another man," he said. "I don't know him, I havenever seen him. I know he is a great swell and very important. A yearago, if anybody had told me that I was going to talk to a girl who wasengaged to another man as I'm going to talk to you, I should probablyhave knocked him down. Shows one never knows, doesn't it, Marjorie?"
She began to breathe quickly. Her breast rose and fell, her agitationwas very manifest. The tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. Shehated herself for this visible emotion; she did her best to control it,but it was utterly impossible, and she knew that she was telling himeven now what she knew also he most desired to hear.
He got up from his chair, big, forceful, manly and young, and was by herside in a moment.
"Marjorie," he said, "dear, sweet girl, I can't help telling you,however wrong it may be. I love you, I love you deeply and dearly. I amquite certain, I don't know how, but I'm certain, and nothing in theworld could persuade me I wasn't, that I'm the man who was made for you,and that you're the girl who was made for me. I can't put it poetically,I don't know how to say it beautifully, as the Johnnies say it in thenovels and on the stage, but, darling, I love you."
There was a catch and a break in his voice; a sob had come into it.
Then he went on. "Do you know, Marjorie, I can't help thinking somehowthat you must have made a mistake--" He was kneeling now by the side ofher chair. His arms stole round her, she made no motion to forbid it. Itwas a moment of absolute surrender, a surrender which she had no powerto withstand.
And now he held her in his strong arms, his kisses fell upon her lips,her head was on his shoulder, she was sobbing quietly and happily. Withno word of a
vowal spoken, she gave herself to him at that moment. He hadfelt, and his whole body was shaken with joy and triumph, that come whatmight, she was his in spirit if indeed she could never be his in anyother way.
It was a great moment for those two young lives. Young man and maid,knowing themselves and each other for the first time. It wasn'tromantic, exactly, there was nothing very striking about it, perhaps,but it was sweet--ah! unutterably sweet!
* * * * *
He was walking about the room.
"You must tell him," he said, "dearest. You'll have to go through somuch more than I shall, and it cuts me to the heart to think of it.You'll have to face all the opposition of everybody, of your people, ofsociety and the world generally. And I can't help; you'll have to gothrough this alone. It's a bitter thought that I can't help you. Dear,dare you fight through this for me? Are you strong enough? are you braveenough?"
She went up to him, and placed both her hands upon his shoulders,looking straight into his face.
"I have been wicked," she said, "I have been wrong. But perhaps therewere excuses. Until one has felt love, real love, Guy, one doesn'trealize its claims or the duties one owes it. I was ambitious. I likedWilliam well enough. He interested me and stimulated me. I felt proud tothink that I was to be the companion of a man who knew and had done somuch. But now the mere thought of that companionship fills me with fear.Not fear of him, but fear of the treachery I should have done my natureand myself if I had married him. I don't know what will happen, but hereand now, Guy, whatever may be the outcome, I tell you that I love you,and I swear to you, however wrong it may be, whatever violence I may bedoing to my plighted troth, I tell you that, however great theunworthiness, I will be yours and yours alone. I know it's wrong, andyet, somehow, I feel it can't be wrong. I don't understand,but--but----" He took her in his arms once more and held her.
It was late, and he was going, and was bidding her farewell. He kneltbefore her and took her hand, bowing over it and kissing it.
"Good-night," he said, "my lady, my love, my bride! I am with you now,and shall be with you always in spirit until we are one--until the endof our lives. And whatever may be in store in the immediate future Ishall be watching and waiting, I shall be guarding you and shielding youas well as I can, and if things come to the worst, I shall be ready, andwe will count the world well lost, as other wise lovers have done, forthe sacred cause and in the holy service of Love."
So he bowed over her slim white hand and kissed it, looking in hisbeauty and confidence and strength like any knight of old kneelingbefore the lady he was pledged to serve. And when he was gone, and shewas alone in her room up-stairs, Marjorie was filled with a joy andexhilaration such as she had never known before. Yet there seemedhanging over the little rosy landscape, the brightly-lit landscape inwhich she moved, a dark and massive cloud.
She dreamt thus. She dreamt that this cloud grew blacker and blacker,and still more heavy, sinking lower and lower towards her. Then she sawher lover as a knight in armour cutting upwards with a gleaming sworduntil the cloud departed and rushed away, and all was once more bathedin sunlight. She knew the name of that sword. It was not Excalibur, itwas Love.
