Walter, however, was not long alone; the interview had been watched from a distance by Mary.  She now stole noiselessly on the scene, and laid her white hand upon her husband’s shoulder before he was aware of her.  The sight of her was heaven to him, but her first question clouded his happy face.

“Well, dear, have you propitiated him?”

Walter hung his head sorrowfully, and said hardly anything.

“He has been blustering at me all the time, and insists upon my cutting out Percy whether I can or not, and marrying Julia whether she chooses or not.”

“Then we must do what I said.  Indeed there is no other course.  We must own the truth; concealment and deceit will not mend our folly.”

“Oh, hang it, Mary, don’t call it folly.”

“Forgive me, dear, but it was the height of folly.  Not that I mean to throw the blame on you—­that would be ungenerous; but the truth is you had no business to marry me, and I had no business to marry you.  Only think—­me—­Mary Bartley—­a clandestine marriage, and then our going to the lakes again, and spending our honey-moon together just like other couples—­the recklessness—­the audacity!  Oh, what happiness it was!”

Walter very naturally pounced upon this unguarded and naive conclusion of Mary’s self-reproaches.  “Yes,” said he, eagerly; “let us go there again next week.”

“Not next week, not next month, not next year, nor ever again until we have told all the world.”

“Well, Mary,” said Walter, “it’s for you to command and me to obey.  I said so before, and I say so now, if you are not ashamed of me, how can I be ashamed of you; you say the word, and I will tell my father at dinner-time, before Julia Clifford and John Baker, and request them to tell everybody they know, that I am married to a woman I adore, and there is nobody I care for on earth as I do for her, and nothing I value compared with her love and her esteem.”

Mary put her arm tenderly around her husband’s neck; and now it was with her as it is often with generous and tender-hearted women, when all opposition to their wishes is withdrawn, they begin to see the other side.

“My dearest,” said Mary, “I couldn’t bear you to sacrifice your prospects for me.”

“Why, Mary,” said Walter, “what would my love be worth if it shrank from self-sacrifice?  I really think I should feel more pleasure than pain if I gave up friends, kindred, hope, everything that is supposed to make life pleasant for you.”

“And so would I for you,” said Mary; “and oh, Walter, women have presentiments, and something tells me that fate has great trials in store for you or for me, perhaps for both.  Yes, you are right, the true measure of love must be self-sacrifice, and if there is to be self-sacrifice, oh, let the self-sacrifice fall on me; for I can not think any man can love a woman quite so deeply as I love you—­my darling.”

He had only time to draw her sweet forehead to his bosom, whilst her arm encircled his neck, when in came an ordinary love by way of contrast.