“Grizel, I have come back!”

He saw himself say these words, as he opened her door in Gavinia’s little house.  And when he had said them he bowed his head.

At his sudden appearance she started up; then she stood pale and firm.

“Why have you come back?”

“Not to ask your forgiveness,” he replied hoarsely; “not to attempt to excuse myself; not with any hope that there remains one drop of the love you once gave me so abundantly.  I want only, Grizel, to put my life into your hands.  I have made a sorry mess of it myself.  Will you take charge of what may be left of it?  You always said you were ready to help me.  I have come back, Grizel, for your help.  What you were once willing to do for love, will you do for pity now?”

She turned away her head, and he went nearer her.  “There was always something of the mother in your love, Grizel; but for that you would never have borne with me so long.  A mother, they say, can never quite forget her boy—­oh, Grizel, is it true?  I am the prodigal come back.  Grizel, beloved, I have sinned and I am unworthy, but I am still your boy, and I have come back.  Am I to be sent away?”

At the word “beloved” her arms rocked impulsively.  “You must not call me that,” she said.

“Then I am to go,” he answered with a shudder, “for I must always call you that; whether I am with you or away, you shall always be beloved to me.”

“You don’t love me!” she cried.  “Oh, do you love me at last!” And at that he fell upon his knees.

“Grizel, my love, my love!”

“But you don’t want to be married,” she said.

“Beloved, I have come back to ask you on my knees to be my wife.”

“That woman—­”

“She was a married woman, Grizel.”

“Oh, oh, oh!”

“And now you know the worst of me.  It is the whole truth at last.  I don’t know why you took that terrible journey, dear Grizel, but I do know that you were sent there to save me.  Oh, my love, you have done so much, will you do no more?”

And so on, till there came a time when his head was on her lap and her hand caressing it, and she was whispering to her boy to look up and see her crooked smile again.

He passed on to the wedding.  All the time between seemed to be spent in his fond entreaties to hasten the longed-for day.  How radiant she looked in her bridal gown!  “Oh, beautiful one, are you really mine?  Oh, world, pause for a moment and look at the woman who has given herself to me!”

“My wife—­this is my wife!” They were in London now; he was showing her to London.  How he swaggered!  There was a perpetual apology on her face; it begged people to excuse him for looking so proudly at her.  It was a crooked apology, and he hurried her into dark places and kissed it.