The Golden Silence | Page 7

coming."
"Would you like to be married in Canada?" Stephen asked; perhaps
partly to please her, but probably more to disguise the fact that he had
no impatient objections to raise against her plan. "If you wished, I
could go whenever----"
"Oh no, no!" she exclaimed quickly. "I wouldn't have you come there
for anything in the world. That is. I mean----" she corrected herself with
an anxious, almost frightened side glance at him--"I must fight it out
alone. No, I don't mean that either. What a stupid way of putting it! But
it would bore you dreadfully to take such a journey, and it would be
nicer anyhow to be married in England--perhaps at St. George's. That
used to be my dream, when I was a romantic little girl, and loved to
stuff my head full of English novels. I should adore a wedding at St.
George's. And oh, Stephen, you won't change your mind while I'm
gone? It would kill me if you jilted me after all. I shouldn't live a single
day, if you weren't true."
"Don't talk nonsense, my dear girl. Of course I'm not going to change
my mind," said Stephen. "When do you want to sail?"

"The end of this week. You're sure you won't let your brother and that
cruel Duchess talk you over? I----"
"There's not the slightest chance of their talking to me at all," Stephen
answered sharply. "We've definitely quarrelled."

II
When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the ship, leaving her
with as many flowers, novels, and sweets as even she could wish,
Stephen expected to feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle
way, he was more feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and
while planning to hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a
rather youthful sense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get
everything over." The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding
himself free, at least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet
Stephen vaguely understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free,
was an aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where
to go, now that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their
attraction.
Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and
especially since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he
disliked meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good
advice, or let him see that they were dying to do so.
If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love
for him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen
thought--to throw her over now. It would look to the world as if he
were a coward, and it would look to himself the same--which would be
more painful in the end. So he could listen to no advice, and he wished
to hear none. Fortunately he was not in love with any other woman. But
then, if he had loved somebody else, he would not have made the
foolish mistake of saying those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.

Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy
amusing himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland.
The Duchess was not reticent.
Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the sailing
of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long time
since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that he
had forgotten it.
"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been
reminded of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and
Caird had been very good friends, almost inseparable during one year
at Oxford. Stephen had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about
twenty-three. That would make him thirty-two now--and Stephen could
hardly imagine what "Wings" would have developed into at thirty-two.
They had not met since Stephen's