Probation

Sebastian did not find any opportunity that afternoon for carrying out his purpose. He was fully occupied; so was Adrienne, and he was forced to see her, half an hour before he could leave himself, walk away alone in the direction of Blake Street, without having been able to exchange a word with her. This annoyed him, and made him feel nervous and anxious. Three months ago he would, without any inordinate vanity, have felt almost secure of being accepted if he proposed to Adrienne; now he felt very far from sure of it. The unpleasant scene with Mrs. Mallory left him determined to wait no longer, no more to ‘fear his fate too much,’ but ‘to put it to the touch, and win or lose it all,’ that very day, be it early or late.

Accordingly, he returned home after the meeting, dined alone before the usual time, and, knowing that Adrienne was usually at home about half-past seven, set off a little after seven.

His shortest way to Blake Street was to go past the town-hall, and proceed through the pleasure-grounds on the hillside, through the park at the top, and so across the Townfield into Blake Street.

This he did, and having ascended the hill, entered the park by one of its gates, and found that it was almost deserted. There was a nursemaid, and some children playing about the croquet lawn; there was a man reclining upon a bench in a rocky recess—a man who seemed tired, for he was almost crouched together; his face was completely hidden by his arm and hand, which were stretched on the back of the bench. There was also a woman’s figure advancing from the other end of the park, and Sebastian’s heart gave a spring as he recognised Adrienne Blisset.

He walked up to her, and met her.

‘You here, Mr. Mallory, at this time? That is unusual, isn’t it?’

‘I am here because I was on my way to your house, hoping very much to find you in. I am glad I have not missed you altogether.’

‘I am glad too. I was going to see Mary Heywood, and should most likely have sat with her some time, for my conscience accuses me of having neglected her. But shall we return to my house?’

‘Not on any account—that is, if you are not tired, and do not object to walking about on this terrace for a short time.’

‘Not in the least. What a lovely evening it is! And how clear! Look at those purple moors to the north. I have often longed to get to the top of one of those moors. What do you think I should see at the other side?’

‘Yorkshire—and more moors.’

‘Those are the moors on the other side of which Charlotte and Emily Brontë lived,’ said Adrienne, her thoughts taking any direction but the one Sebastian wished.

‘Yes, I believe so. Haworth and Keighley, and all about there. You should go there some time. But don’t look at the prospect now. I want to ask you something.’

‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, turning to him with a half-smile.

The smile died away. She found his eyes fixed upon hers with an unmistakable meaning in their earnest gaze. Her own face flushed deeply, as he gently took her hand and said,

‘I have tried in vain to take an opportunity—at last I have had to make one. I must know something, certainly. I cannot wait any longer. Adrienne, I love you dearly—I have loved you ever since I lost sight of you on that unhappy morning after you left Wetzlar. I knew it then, and my love has only grown stronger ever since. Can you return it? Will you—some time—be my wife?’

He felt his happy confidence falling from him on all sides, as he beheld her face, and stood there, cold, as if a warm mantle had dropped from his shoulders.

‘You—I am very sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Oh, Mr. Mallory——’

‘Mr. Mallory!’ he echoed drearily. ‘Adrienne, I see what you are going to say, but think again! I must have been a terrible, conceited fool all this time; but will you not think again? Wait till to-morrow. Don’t speak to-day. Let me explain.’

Adrienne’s face was full of pain as she said, tremulously but decisively,

‘No. It would be wrong. I know what I feel, and must always feel, now. I admire you very much; I respect you, oh, more than I can tell you. I have a sort of affection for you. Indeed, I am very fond of you. You were so good to me,’ said Adrienne, with tears swimming in her eyes; ‘but I cannot marry you.... Oh, do not look like that!’ she exclaimed, in an agony, ‘I am so sorry; I am so sorry.’

‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Have I all along been so utterly indifferent to the woman I——’

‘Not indifferent. You were never indifferent to me. And once——’

‘Once!’ he echoed eagerly.

‘I thought—I believed——’

‘That you could love me—perhaps that you did love me?’

She bowed.

‘Ah, that was when I was away. But why should you not love me now, dearest? If you would only let me show you how I love you—you must—you could not help—so good and so loving as you are.’

‘No, no! Do not speak to me of it. It can never be. I know my own heart now—too well,’ she said, looking at him almost appealingly, and with distracted, troubled eyes.

‘And there is no love in it for me?’

‘Not that kind of love. Oh, heavens! why must I have such things to say to you! You must know that you ought to have a very different kind of wife from me. Your wife should be rich and beautiful, and quite different. You will see it yourself some day, when you meet a woman worthy of you, who will love you as you deserve to be loved.’

‘That is cold comfort when the woman I worship won’t have me. I cannot make you love me.’

‘Only because another man has all the love I have to give,’ said Adrienne, scarcely audibly, as she turned aside her face.

Sebastian stood still for a moment.

‘Forgive me!’ said he; ‘it is hopeless, I see. I will never speak to you of it again.’

‘Forgive me!’ she said, much moved. ‘I ought—no, I could not tell you. I have been distracted.... I——’

‘Do not reproach yourself,’ said he, chivalrously. ‘I understand. After this’ (they had begun to move towards the farther gate of the park, along the broad terrace where the man was sitting on the seat in the trees)—‘after this I have not another word to say. We shall have to meet as before, Adrienne. May I call you Adrienne sometimes?’

‘Always, if you like.’

‘Will you try to overlook this—to treat me as if I had not annoyed you thus?’

‘Annoyed me—you! Oh, how can you ask?’

‘And then slander will be silenced, and then there will be no more misunderstandings. All will be clear between us.’

The tenderness he felt he could not banish from his voice, and hers trembled as she answered.

‘Quite clear—as it should be.’

He raised her hand to his lips, and they passed on. The man on the bench had not moved, and they, as they uttered these last words, which were in effect a farewell, saw nothing and no one but each other.

‘I must go home. I cannot go on now,’ said Adrienne, as they arrived at the gate.

‘I will leave you. Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye,’ said she, putting her hand in his, but not looking at him. He kept her hand in his so long that at last she looked up.

‘Dear Sebastian, I——’

‘There, that is all I wanted,’ said he, with a rather faint smile. ‘God keep you, child. Good-bye!’

When Adrienne had left her home, it had been with the firm resolution to see Mary Heywood before returning. But she met Sebastian, and the visit was not accomplished.