On one point she was very clear with him.
"You'll live with us, mother?" he said abruptly.
"Not with you. As near as you like. But one house, one woman.... I'll have a little flat of my own—for you both to come to me."
"Oh, nonsense, mother! You'll have to be with us. Living alone, indeed!"
"My dear, I'd prefer a flat of my own. You don't understand—everything. It will be better for all of us like that."
There came a little pause between them, and then her hand was on his head again. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I want you to be happy. And life can be difficult. I won't give a chance—for things to go wrong. You're hers, dear, and you've got to be hers—be each other's altogether. I've watched so many people. And that's the best, the very best you can have. There's just the lovers—the real enduring lovers; and the uncompleted people who've failed to find it."...
§ 6
Trafford's second meeting with Marjorie, which, by the by, happened on the afternoon of the following day, brought them near to conclusive decisions. The stiffness of their first encounter in London had altogether vanished. She was at her prettiest and in the highest spirits—and she didn't care for anything else in the world. A gauzy silk scarf which she had bought and not paid for that day floated atmospherically about her straight trim body; her hair had caught the infection of insurrection and was waving rebelliously about her ears. As he drew near her his grave discretion passed from him as clouds pass from a hillside. She smiled radiantly. He held out both his hands for both of hers, and never did a maiden come so near and yet not get a public and shameless kissing.
One could as soon describe music as tell their conversation. It was a matter of tones and feelings. But the idea of flight together, of the bright awakening in unfamiliar sunshine with none to come between them, had gripped them both. A certain sober gravity of discussion only masked that deeper inebriety. It would be easy for them to get away; he had no lectures until February; he could, he said, make arrangements, leave his research. She dreaded disputation. She was for a simple disappearance, notes on pincushions and defiantly apologetic letters from Boulogne, but his mother's atmosphere had been a gentler one than her home's, with a more powerful disposition to dignity. He still couldn't understand that the cantankerous egotism of Pope was indeed the essential man; it seemed to him a crust of bad manners that reason ought to pierce.
The difference in their atmospheres came out in their talk—in his desire for a handsome and dignified wedding—though the very heavens protested—and her resolve to cut clear of every one, to achieve a sort of gaol delivery of her life, make a new beginning altogether, with the minimum of friction and the maximum of surprise. Unused to fighting, he was magnificently prepared to fight; she, with her intimate knowledge of chronic domestic conflict, was for the evasion of all the bickerings, scoldings, and misrepresentations his challenge would occasion. He thought in his innocence a case could be stated and discussed; but no family discussion she had ever heard had even touched the realities of the issue that occasioned it.
"I don't like this underhand preparation," he said.
"Nor I," she echoed. "But what can one do?"
"Well, oughtn't I to go to your father and give him a chance? Why shouldn't I? It's—the dignified way."
"It won't be dignified for father," said Marjorie, "anyhow."
"But what right has he to object?"
"He isn't going to discuss his rights with you. He will object."
"But why?"
"Oh! because he's started that way. He hit you. I haven't forgotten it. Well, if he goes back on that now——He'd rather die than go back on it. You see, he's ashamed in his heart. It would be like confessing himself wrong not to keep it up that you're the sort of man one hits. He just hates you because he hit you. I haven't been his daughter for twenty-one years for nothing."
"I'm thinking of us," said Trafford. "I don't see we oughtn't to go to him just because he's likely to be—unreasonable."
"My dear, do as you please. He'll forbid and shout, and hit tables until things break. Suppose he locks me up!"
"Oh, Habeas Corpus, and my strong right arm! He's much more likely to turn you out-of-doors."
"Not if he thinks the other will annoy you more. I'll have to bear a storm."
"Not for long."
"He'll bully mother till she cries over me. But do as you please. She'll come and she'll beg me——Do as you please. Perhaps I'm a coward. I'd far rather I could slip away."
Trafford thought for a moment. "I'd far rather you could," he answered, in a voice that spoke of inflexible determinations.
They turned to the things they meant to do. "Italy!" she whispered, "Italy!" Her face was alight with her burning expectation of beauty, of love, of the new heaven and the new earth that lay before them. The intensity of that desire blazing through her seemed to shame his dull discretions. He had to cling to his resolution, lest it should vanish in that contagious intoxication.
"You understand I shall come to your father," he said, as they drew near the gate where it seemed discreet for them to part.
"It will make it harder to get away," she said, with no apparent despondency. "It won't stop us. Oh! do as you please."
She seemed to dismiss the question, and stood hand-in-hand with him in a state of glowing gravity. She wouldn't see him again for four-and-twenty hours. Then a thought came into her head—a point of great practical moment.
"Oh!" she said, "of course, you won't tell father you've seen me."
She met his eye. "Really you mustn't," she said. "You see—he'll make a row with mother for not having watched me better. I don't know what he isn't likely to do. It isn't myself——This is a confidential communication—all this. No one in this world knows I am meeting you. If you must go to him, go to him."
"For myself?"
She nodded, with her open eyes on his—eyes that looked now very blue and very grave, and her lips a little apart.
She surprised him a little, but even this sudden weakness seemed adorable.
"All right," he said.
"You don't think that I'm shirking——?" she asked, a little too eagerly.
"You know your father best," he answered. "I'll tell you all he says and all the terror of him here to-morrow afternoon."
§ 7
In the stillness of the night Trafford found himself thinking over Marjorie; it was a new form of mental exercise, which was destined to play a large part in his existence for many subsequent years. There had come a shadow on his confidence in her. She was a glorious person; she had a kind of fire behind her and in her—shining through her, like the lights in a fire-opal, but——He wished she had not made him promise to conceal their meeting and their close co-operation from her father. Why did she do that? It would spoil his case with her father, and it could forward things for them in no conceivable way. And from that, in some manner too subtle to trace, he found his mind wandering to another problem, which was destined to reappear with a slowly dwindling importance very often in this procedure of thinking over Marjorie in the small hours. It was the riddle—it never came to him in the daytime, but only in those intercalary and detachedly critical periods of thought—why exactly had she engaged herself to Magnet? Why had she? He couldn't imagine himself, in Marjorie's position, doing anything of the sort. Marjorie had ways of her own; she was different.... Well, anyhow, she was splendid and loving and full of courage.... He had got no further than this when at last he fell asleep.