CHAPTER XII.
It became necessary as George Voss sat at supper with his father andMadame Voss that he should fix the time of his return to Colmar, andhe did so for the early morning of the next day but one. He hadtold Madame Faragon that he expected to stay at Granpere but onenight. He felt, however, after his arrival that it might bedifficult for him to get away on the following day, and therefore hetold them that he would sleep two nights at the Lion d'Or, and thenstart early, so as to reach the Colmar inn by mid-day.
'I suppose you find the old lady rather fidgety, George?' saidMichel Voss in high good humour.
George found it easier to talk about Madame Faragon and the hotel atColmar than he did of things at Granpere, and therefore becamecommunicative as to his own affairs. Michel too preferred thesubject of the new doings at the house on the other side of theVosges. His wife had given him a slight hint, doing her best, likea good wife and discreet manager, to prevent ill-humour and hardwords.
'He feels a little sore, you know. I was always sure there wassomething. But it was wise of him to come and see her, and it willgo off in this way.'
Michel swore that George had no right to be sore, and that if hisson did not take pride in such a family arrangement as this, heshould no longer be son of his. But he allowed himself to becounselled by his wife, and soon talked himself into a pleasantmood, discussing Madame Faragon, and the horses belonging to theHotel de la Poste, and Colmar affairs in general. There was acertain important ground for satisfaction between them. Everybodyagreed that George Voss had shown himself to be a steady man ofbusiness in the affairs of the inn at Colmar.
Marie Bromar in the mean while went on with her usual occupationround the room, but now and again came and stood at her uncle'selbow, joining in the conversation, and asking a question or twoabout Madame Faragon. There was, perhaps, something of the guile ofthe serpent joined to her dove-like softness. She asked questionsand listened to answers--not that in her present state of mind shecould bring herself to take a deep interest in the affairs of MadameFaragon's hotel, but because it suited her that there should be somesubject of easy conversation between her and George. It wasabsolutely necessary now that George should be nothing more to herthan a cousin and an acquaintance; but it was well that he should bethat and not an enemy. It would be well too that he should know,that he should think that he knew, that she was disturbed by noremembrance of those words which had once passed between them. Atlast she trusted herself to a remark which perhaps she would nothave made had the serpent's guile been more perfect of its kind.
'Surely you must get a wife, George, as soon as the house is yourown.'
'Of course he will get a wife,' said the father.
'I hope he will get a good one,' said Madame Voss after a shortpause--which, however, had been long enough to make her feel itnecessary to say something.
George said never a word, but lifted his glass and finished hiswine. Marie at once perceived that the subject was one on which shemust not venture to touch again. Indeed, she saw farther than that,and became aware that it would be inexpedient for her to fall intoany special or minute conversation with her cousin during his shortstay at Granpere.
'You'll go up to the woods with me tomorrow--eh, George?' said thefather. The son of course assented. It was hardly possible that heshould not assent. The whole day, moreover, would not be wanted forthat purpose of throwing his thunderbolt; and if he could get itthrown, it would be well that he should be as far away from Marie aspossible for the remainder of his visit. 'We'll start early, Marie,and have a bit of breakfast before we go. Will six be too early foryou, George, with your town ways?' George said that six would notbe too early, and as he made the engagement for the morning heresolved that he would if possible throw his thunderbolt that night.'Marie will get us a cup of coffee and a sausage. Marie is alwaysup by that time.'
Marie smiled, and promised that they should not be compelled tostart upon their walk with empty stomachs from any fault of hers.If a hot breakfast at six o'clock in the morning could put hercousin into a good humour, it certainly should not be wanting.
In two hours after supper George was with his father. Michel was sofull of happiness and so confidential that the son found it verydifficult to keep silence about his own sorrow. Had it not beenthat with a half obedience to his wife's hints Michel said littleabout Adrian, there must have been an explosion. He endeavoured toconfine himself to George's prospects, as to which he expressedhimself thoroughly pleased. 'You see,' said he, 'I am so strong ofmy years, that if you wished for my shoes, there is no knowing howlong you might be kept waiting.'
'It couldn't have been too long,' said George.
'Ah well, I don't believe you would have been impatient to put theold fellow under the sod. But I should have been impatient, Ishould have been unhappy. You might have had the woods, to be sure;but it's hardly enough of a business alone. Besides, a young man isalways more his own master away from his father. I can understandthat. The only thing is, George,--take a drive over, and see ussometimes.' This was all very well, but it was not quite so wellwhen he began to speak of Marie. 'It's a terrible loss her going,you know, George; I shall feel it sadly.'
'I can understand that,' said George.
'But of course I had my duty to do to the girl. I had to see thatshe should be well settled, and she will be well settled. There's acomfort in that;--isn't there, George?'
But George could not bring himself to reply to this with good-humouredzeal, and there came for a moment a cloud between the father and son.But Michel was wise and swallowed his wrath, and in a minute or tworeturned to Colmar and Madame Faragon.
At about half-past nine George escaped from his father and returnedto the house. They had been sitting in the balcony which runs roundthe billiard-room on the side of the court opposite to the frontdoor. He returned to the house, and caught Marie in one of thepassages up-stairs, as she was completing her work for the day. Hecaught her close to the door of his own room and asked her to comein, that he might speak a word to her. English readers will perhapsremember that among the Vosges mountains there is less of a sense ofprivacy attached to bedrooms than is the case with us here inEngland. Marie knew immediately then that her cousin had not cometo Granpere for nothing,--had not come with the innocent intentionof simply pleasing his father,--had not come to say an ordinary wordof farewell to her before her marriage. There was to be somethingof a scene, though she could not tell of what nature the scene mightbe. She knew, however, that her own conduct had been right; andtherefore, though she would have avoided the scene, had it beenpossible, she would not fear it. She went into his room; and whenhe closed the door, she smiled, and did not as yet tremble.
'Marie,' he said, 'I have come here on purpose to say a word or twoto you.' There was no smile on her face as he spoke now. Theintention to be savage was written there, as plainly as any purposewas ever written on man's countenance. Marie read the writingwithout missing a letter. She was to be rebuked, and sternlyrebuked;--rebuked by the man who had taken her heart, and then lefther;--rebuked by the man who had crushed her hopes and made itabsolutely necessary for her to give up all the sweet poetry of herlife, to forget her dreams, to abandon every wished-for prettinessof existence, and confine herself to duties and to things material!He who had so sinned against her was about to rid himself of theburden of his sin by endeavouring to cast it upon her. So much sheunderstood, but yet she did not understand all that was to come.She would hear the rebuke as quietly as she might. In the interestof others she would do so. But she would not fear him,--and shewould say a quiet word in defence of her own sex if there should beneed. Such was the purport of her mind as she stood opposite to himin his room.
'I hope they will be kind words,' she said. 'As we are to part sosoon, there should be none unkind spoken.'
'I do not know much about kindness,' he replied. Then he paused andtried to think how best the thunderbolt might be hurled. 'There i
shardly room for kindness where there was once so much more thankindness; where there was so much more,--or the pretence of it.'Then he waited again, as though he expected that she should speak.But she would not speak at all. If he had aught to say, let him sayit. 'Perhaps, Marie, you have in truth forgotten all the promisesyou once made me?' Though this was a direct question she would notanswer it. Her words to him should be as few as possible, and thetime for such words had not come as yet. 'It suits you no doubt toforget them now, but I cannot forget them. You have been false tome, and have broken my heart. You have been false to me, when myonly joy on earth was in believing in your truth. Your vow was forever and ever, and within one short year you are betrothed toanother man! And why?--because they tell you that he is rich andhas got a house full of furniture! You may prove to be a blessingto his house. Who can say? On mine, you and your memory will be acurse,--lasting all my lifetime!' And so the thunderbolt had beenhurled.
And it fell as a thunderbolt. What she had expected had not been atall like to this. She had known that he would rebuke her; but,feeling strong in her own innocence and her own purity, knowing orthinking that she knew that the fault had all been his, notbelieving--having got rid of all belief--that he still loved her,she had fancied that his rebuke would be unjust, cruel, butbearable. Nay; she had thought that she could almost triumph overhim with a short word of reply. She had expected from him reproach,but not love. There was reproach indeed, but it came with anexpression of passion of which she had not known him to be capable.He stood before her telling her that she had broken his heart, and,as he told her so, his words were half choked by sobs. He remindedher of her promises, declaring that his own to her had ever remainedin full force. And he told her that she, she to whom he had lookedfor all his joy, had become a curse to him and a blight upon hislife. There were thoughts and feelings too beyond all these thatcrowded themselves upon her heart and upon her mind at the moment.It had been possible for her to accept the hand of Adrian Urmandbecause she had become assured that George Voss no longer regardedher as his promised bride. She would have stood firm against heruncle and her aunt, she would have stood against all the world, hadit not seemed to her that the evidence of her cousin's indifferencewas complete. Had not that evidence been complete at all points, itwould have been impossible to her to think of becoming the wife ofanother man. Now the evidence on that matter which had seemed toher to be so sufficient was all blown to the winds.
It is true that had all her feelings been guided by reason only, shemight have been as strong as ever. In truth she had not sinnedagainst him. In truth she had not sinned at all. She had not donethat which she herself had desired. She had not been anxious forwealth, or ease, or position; but had, after painful thought,endeavoured to shape her conduct by the wishes of others, and by herideas of duty, as duty had been taught to her. O, how willinglywould she have remained as servant to her uncle, and have allowed M.Urmand to carry the rich gift of his linen-chest to the feet of someother damsel, had she believed herself to be free to choose! Hadthere been no passion in her heart, she would now have known herselfto be strong in duty, and would have been able to have answered andto have borne the rebuke of her old lover. But passion was there,hot within her, aiding every word as he spoke it, giving strength tohis complaints, telling her of all that she had lost, telling her ofall she had taken from him. She forgot to remember now that he hadbeen silent for a year. She forgot now to think of the tone inwhich he had asked about her marriage when no such marriage was inher mind. But she remembered well the promise she had made, and thewords of it. 'Your vow was for ever and ever.' When she heardthose words repeated from his lips, her heart too was broken. Allidea of holding herself before him as one injured but ready toforgive was gone from her. If by falling at his feet and owningherself to be vile and mansworn she might get his pardon, she wasready now to lie there on the ground before him.
'O George!' she said; 'O George!'
'What is the use of that now?' he replied, turning away from her.He had thrown his thunderbolt, and he had nothing more to say. Hehad seen that he had not thrown it quite in vain, and he would havebeen contented to be away and back at Colmar. What more was thereto be said?
She came to him very gently, very humbly, and just touched his armwith her hand. 'Do you mean, George, that you have continued tocare for me--always?'
'Care for you? I know not what you call caring. Did I not swear toyou that I would love you for ever and ever, and that you should bemy own? Did I not leave this house and go away,--till I could earnfor you one that should be fit for you,--because I loved you? Whyshould I have broken my word? I do not believe that you thoughtthat it was broken.'
'By my God, that knows me, I did!' As she said this she burst intotears and fell on her knees at his feet.
'Marie,' he said, 'Marie;--there is no use in this. Stand up.'
'Not till you tell me that you will forgive me. By the name of thegood Jesus, who knows all our hearts, I thought that you hadforgotten me. O George, if you could know all! If you could knowhow I have loved you; how I have sorrowed from day to day because Iwas forgotten! How I have struggled to bear it, telling myself thatyou were away, with all the world to interest you, and not like me,a poor girl in a village, with no thing to think of but my lover!How I have striven to do my duty by my uncle, and have obeyed him,because,--because,--because, there was nothing left. If you couldknow it all! If you could know it all!' Then she clasped her armsround his legs, and hid her face upon his feet.
'And whom do you love now?' he asked. She continued to sob, but didnot answer him a word. Then he stooped down and raised her to herfeet, and she stood beside him, very near to him with her faceaverted. 'And whom do you love now?' he asked again. 'Is it me, oris it Adrian Urmand?' But she could not answer him, though she hadsaid enough in her passionate sorrow to make any answer to such aquestion unnecessary, as far as knowledge on the subject might berequired. It might suit his views that she should confess the truthin so many words, but for other purpose her answer had been fullenough. 'This is very sad,' he said, 'sad indeed; but I thoughtthat you would have been firmer.'
'Do not chide me again, George.'
'No;--it is to no purpose.'
'You said that I was--a curse to you?'
'O Marie, I had hoped,--I had so hoped, that you would have been myblessing!'
'Say that I am not a curse to you, George!'
But he would make no answer to this appeal, no immediate answer; butstood silent and stern, while she stood still touching his arm,waiting in patience for some word at any rate of forgiveness. Hewas using all the powers of his mind to see if there might even yetbe any way to escape this great shipwreck. She had not answered hisquestion. She had not told him in so many words that her heart wasstill his, though she had promised her hand to the Basle merchant.But he could not doubt that it was so. As he stood there silent,with that dark look upon his brow which he had inherited from hisfather, and that angry fire in his eye, his heart was in truth oncemore becoming soft and tender towards her. He was beginning tounderstand how it had been with her. He had told her, just now,that he did not believe her, when she assured him that she hadthought that she was forgotten. Now he did believe her. And therearose in his breast a feeling that it was due to her that he shouldexplain this change in his mind. 'I suppose you did think it,' hesaid suddenly.
'Think what, George?'
'That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word wasworth no reliance.'
'I thought no evil of you, George,--except that you were changed tome. When you came, you said nothing to me. Do you not remember?'
'I came because I was told that you were to be married to this man.I asked you the question, and you would not deny it. Then I said tomyself that I would wait and see.' When he had spoken she hadnothing farther to say to him. The charges which he made againsther were all true. They seemed at least to be true to her then inher prese
nt mood,--in that mood in which all that she now desiredwas his forgiveness. The wish to defend herself, and to standbefore him as one justified, had gone from her. She felt thathaving still possessed his love, having still been the owner of theone thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her own doubts;and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder. 'It is of nouse to think of it any more,' he said at last. 'You have to becomethis man's wife now, and I suppose you must go through with it.'
'I suppose I must,' she said; 'unless--'
'Unless what?'
'Nothing, George. Of course I will marry him. He has my word. AndI have promised my uncle also. But, George, you will say that youforgive me?'
'Yes;--I will forgive you.' But still there was the same blackcloud upon his face,--the same look of pain,--the same glance ofanger in his eye.
'O George, I am so unhappy! There can be no comfort for me now,unless you will say that you will be contented.'
'I cannot say that, Marie.'
'You will have your house, and your business, and so many things tointerest you. And in time,--after a little time--'
'No, Marie, after no time at all. You told me at supper to-nightthat I had better get a wife for myself. But I will get no wife. Icould not bring myself to marry another girl, I could not take awoman home as my wife if I did not love her. If she were not theperson of all persons most dear to me, I should loathe her.'
He was speaking daggers to her, and he must have known how sharpwere his words. He was speaking daggers to her, and she must havefelt that he knew how he was wounding her. But yet she did notresent his usage, even by a motion of her lip. Could she havebrought herself to do so, her agony would have been less sharp. 'Isuppose,' she said at last, 'that a woman is weaker than a man. Butyou say that you will forgive me?'
'I have forgiven you.'
Then very gently she put out her hand to him, and he took it andheld it for a minute. She looked up at him as though for a momentshe had thought that there might be something else,--that theremight be some other token of true forgiveness, and then she withdrewher hand. 'I had better go now,' she said. 'Good-night; George.'
'Good-night, Marie.' And then she was gone.
As soon as he was alone he sat himself down on the bedside, andbegan to think of it. Everything was changed to him since he hadcalled her into the room, determining that he would crush her withhis thunderbolt. Let things go as they may with a man in an affairof love, let him be as far as possible from the attainment of hiswishes, there will always be consolation to him if he knows that heis loved. To be preferred to all others, even though thatpreference may lead to no fruition, is in itself a thing enjoyable.He had believed that Marie had forgotten him,--that she had beencaptivated either by the effeminate prettiness of his rival, or byhis wealth and standing in the world. He believed all this no more.He knew now how it was with her and with him, and, let hiscountenance say what it might to the contrary, he could bringhimself to forgive her in his heart. She had not forgotten him!She had not ceased to love him! There was merit in that which wentfar with him in excuse of her perfidy.
But what should he do now? She was not as yet married to AdrianUrmand. Might there not still be hope; hope for her sake as well asfor his own? He perfectly understood that in his country--nay, foraught he knew to the contrary, in all countries--a formal betrothalwas half a marriage. It was half the ceremony in the eyes of allthose concerned; but yet, in regard to that indissoluble bond whichwould indeed have divided Marie from him beyond the reach of anyhope to the contrary, such betrothal was of no effect whatever.This man whom she did not love was not yet Marie's husband;--neednever become so if Marie could only be sufficiently firm inresisting the influence of all her friends. No priest could marryher without her own consent. He--George--he himself would have toface the enmity of all those with whom he was connected. He wassure that his father, having been a party to the betrothal, wouldnever consent to a breach of his promise to Urmand. Madame Voss,Madame Faragon, the priest, and their Protestant pastor would all beagainst them. They would be as it were outcasts from their ownfamily. But George Voss, sitting there on his bedside, thought thathe could go through it all, if only he could induce Marie Bromar tobear the brunt of the world's displeasure with him. As he got intobed he determined that he would begin upon the matter to his fatherduring the morning's walk. His father would be full of wrath;--butthe wrath would have to be endured sooner or later.