I held her away from me in astonishment.  For the first time in our lives we had changed places—­the resolution was all on her side, the hesitation all on mine.  I looked into the pale, quiet, resigned young face—­I saw the pure, innocent heart, in the loving eyes that looked back at me—­and the poor worldly cautions and objections that rose to my lips dwindled and died away in their own emptiness.  I hung my head in silence.  In her place the despicably small pride which makes so many women deceitful would have been my pride, and would have made me deceitful too.

“Don’t be angry with me, Marian,” she said, mistaking my silence.

I only answered by drawing her close to me again.  I was afraid of crying if I spoke.  My tears do not flow so easily as they ought—­ they come almost like men’s tears, with sobs that seem to tear me in pieces, and that frighten every one about me.

“I have thought of this, love, for many days,” she went on, twining and twisting my hair with that childish restlessness in her fingers, which poor Mrs. Vesey still tries so patiently and so vainly to cure her of—­“I have thought of it very seriously, and I can be sure of my courage when my own conscience tells me I am right.  Let me speak to him to-morrow—­in your presence, Marian.  I will say nothing that is wrong, nothing that you or I need be ashamed of—­but, oh, it will ease my heart so to end this miserable concealment!  Only let me know and feel that I have no deception to answer for on my side, and then, when he has heard what I have to say, let him act towards me as he will.”

She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my bosom.  Sad misgivings about what the end would be weighed upon my mind, but still distrusting myself, I told her that I would do as she wished.  She thanked me, and we passed gradually into talking of other things.

At dinner she joined us again, and was more easy and more herself with Sir Percival than I have seen her yet.  In the evening she went to the piano, choosing new music of the dexterous, tuneless, florid kind.  The lovely old melodies of Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond of, she has never played since he left.  The book is no longer in the music-stand.  She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might find it out and ask her to play from it.

I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose of the morning had changed or not, until she wished Sir Percival good-night—­and then her own words informed me that it was unaltered.  She said, very quietly, that she wished to speak to him after breakfast, and that he would find her in her sitting-room with me.  He changed colour at those words, and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to my turn to take it.  The event of the next morning would decide his future life, and he evidently knew it.

I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bed-rooms, to bid Laura good-night before she went to sleep.  In stooping over her to kiss her I saw the little book of Hartright’s drawings half hidden under her pillow, just in the place where she used to hide her favourite toys when she was a child.  I could not find it in my heart to say anything, but I pointed to the book and shook my head.  She reached both hands up to my cheeks, and drew my face down to hers till our lips met.