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.'