"I think we have gone as far as we ought to go at present--and far enough to satisfy my poor father that we are the same as ever.
You see, Giles, my case is not settled yet, and if--Oh, suppose I NEVER get free!--there should be any hitch or informality!"
She drew a catching breath, and turned pale. The dialogue had been affectionate comedy up to this point. The gloomy atmosphere of the past, and the still gloomy horizon of the present, had been for the interval forgotten. Now the whole environment came back, the due balance of shade among the light was restored.
"It is sure to be all right, I trust?" she resumed, in uneasy accents. "What did my father say the solicitor had told him?"
"Oh--that all is sure enough. The case is so clear--nothing could be clearer. But the legal part is not yet quite done and finished, as is natural."
"Oh no--of course not," she said, sunk in meek thought. "But father said it was ALMOST--did he not? Do you know anything about the new law that makes these things so easy?"
"Nothing--except the general fact that it enables ill-assorted husbands and wives to part in a way they could not formerly do without an Act of Parliament."
"Have you to sign a paper, or swear anything? Is it something like that?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"How long has it been introduced?"
"About six months or a year, the lawyer said, I think."
To hear these two poor Arcadian innocents talk of imperial law would have made a humane person weep who should have known what a dangerous structure they were building up on their supposed knowledge. They remained in thought, like children in the presence of the incomprehensible.
"Giles," she said, at last, "it makes me quite weary when I think how serious my situation is, or has been. Shall we not go out from here now, as it may seem rather fast of me--our being so long together, I mean--if anybody were to see us? I am almost sure," she added, uncertainly, "that I ought not to let you hold my hand yet, knowing that the documents--or whatever it may be--have not been signed; so that I--am still as married as ever--or almost.
My dear father has forgotten himself. Not that I feel morally bound to any one else, after what has taken place--no woman of spirit could--now, too, that several months have passed. But I wish to keep the proprieties as well as I can."
"Yes, yes. Still, your father reminds us that life is short. I myself feel that it is; that is why I wished to understand you in this that we have begun. At times, dear Grace, since receiving your father's letter, I am as uneasy and fearful as a child at what he said. If one of us were to die before the formal signing and sealing that is to release you have been done--if we should drop out of the world and never have made the most of this little, short, but real opportunity, I should think to myself as I sunk down dying, 'Would to my God that I had spoken out my whole heart-- given her one poor little kiss when I had the chance to give it!
But I never did, although she had promised to be mine some day; and now I never can.' That's what I should think."
She had begun by watching the words from his lips with a mournful regard, as though their passage were visible; but as he went on she dropped her glance. "Yes," she said, "I have thought that, too. And, because I have thought it, I by no means meant, in speaking of the proprieties, to be reserved and cold to you who loved me so long ago, or to hurt your heart as I used to do at that thoughtless time. Oh, not at all, indeed! But--ought I to allow you?--oh, it is too quick--surely!" Her eyes filled with tears of bewildered, alarmed emotion.
Winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against her better judgment. "Yes--I suppose it is," he said, repentantly. "I'll wait till all is settled. What did your father say in that last letter?"
He meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, frankly spoke of the personal part. "He said--what I have implied. Should I tell more plainly?"
"Oh no--don't, if it is a secret."
"Not at all. I will tell every word, straight out, Giles, if you wish. He said I was to encourage you. There. But I cannot obey him further to-day. Come, let us go now." She gently slid her hand from his, and went in front of him out of the Abbey.
"I was thinking of getting some dinner," said Winterborne, changing to the prosaic, as they walked. "And you, too, must require something. Do let me take you to a place I know."
