“You don’t mean this very instant?  I could not go away without seeing father.”

“Why not?  You don’t intend to tell him you are going away with me?”

“No; it is not the sort of thing one generally tells one’s father, but—­I cannot go away with you now—­”

“When will you come?”

“Owen, don’t press me for an answer.  I don’t know.”

“The way of escape is still open to me,” he thought; but he could not resist the temptation that this girl’s face and voice presented to his imagination.

CHAPTER NINE

She sat in the music-room thinking, asking herself what use it would be to meet him in Berkeley Square unless to go away with him to Paris.  She sat engrossed in her emotion; it was like looking into water where weeds are carried by a current out of the dim depths into the light of day.  In a pensive atmosphere, a quiet daylight, his motives were revealed to her.  She was in the humour to look at things sympathetically, and she understood that for him to run away with her entailed as much sacrifice on his part as on hers.  It meant a giving up of his friends, pursuits and habits of life.  There were sacrifices to be made by him as well as by her, and she smiled a little sadly as she thought of the differences of their several renunciations.  She was asked to surrender her peace of mind, he his worldly pleasure.  Often the sensation was almost physical; it rose up like a hand and seemed to sweep her heart clear, and at the same moment a voice said—­It is not right.  Owen had argued with her, but she could not quench the feeling that it was not right, and yet, when he asked her to explain, she could give no other reason except that it was forbidden by the Church.

Each thought that very little was asked from the other.  To him her conscience seemed a slight forfeit, and worldly pleasure seemed very little to her.  She thought that she would readily forfeit this world for him....  But eternity was her forfeit; even that she might sacrifice if she were sure her conscience would not trouble her in this world.  She followed her conscience like a river; it fluttered along full of unexpected eddies and picturesque shallows, and there were pools so deep that she could not see to the bottom.

Suddenly the vision changed.  She was no longer in Dulwich with her father.  She saw railway trains and steamboats, and then the faint outline of the coast of France.  Her foreboding was so clear and distinct that she could not doubt that Owen was the future that awaited her.  The presentiment filled her with delight and fear, and both sensations were mingled at the same moment in her heart as she rose from her chair.  She stood rigid as a visionary; then, hoping she would not be disturbed, she sank back into her chair and allowed her thoughts their will.  She followed the course of the journey to France, and at every moment the sensation grew