“All this affair with the Jervaises,” I said. “It has made me hate the possession of money and the power money gives. That farm of ours is going to be a communal farm. Our workers shall have an interest in the profits. No one is to be the proprietor. We’ll all be one family—no scraping for favours, or fears of dismissal; we’ll all be equal and free.”

She did not answer that, at once; and I had an unpleasant feeling that she was testing my quality by some criterion of her own, weighing the genuineness of my emotion.

“Did you feel like this about things this afternoon?” she asked, after what seemed to me an immense interval.

I was determined to tell her nothing less than the truth. “No,” I confessed, “much of it was a result of what you said to me. I—I had an illumination. You made me see what a poor thing my life had been; how conventional, artificial, worthless, it was. What you said about my plays was so true. I had never realised it before—I hadn’t bothered to think about it.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about your plays,” she interrupted me.

“Oh! you did,” I assured her; “very little; nothing directly; but I knew what you felt, and when I came to think it over, I agreed with you.”

“I’ve only seen one,” she remarked.

“They’re all the same,” I assured her, becoming fervent in my humility.

“But why go to Canada?” she asked. “Why not try to write better plays?”

“Because I saw my whole life plainly, in the wood this afternoon,” was my reply. “I did not know what to do then. I couldn’t see any answer to my problem. But when you were speaking to me a minute ago, I realised the whole thing clearly. I understood what I wanted to do.

“It’s a form of conversion,” I concluded resolutely.

“I’m sure you mean it all—now,” she commented, as if she were speaking to herself.

“It isn’t a question of meaning anything,” I replied. “The experiences of this week-end have put the whole social question in a new light for me. I could never go back, now, to the old life. My conscience would always be reproaching me, if I did.”

“But if you’re rich, and feel like that, oughn’t you to shoulder your responsibilities?” she asked.

“Do something? Wouldn’t it be rather like running away to give your money to the hospitals and go to Canada to work on a farm?”

“That’s my present impulse,” I said. “And I mean to follow it. I don’t know that I shall want to stay in Canada for the rest of my life. I may see further developments after I’ve been there for a few years. But…”

“Go on,” she urged me.

“But I want to—to stay near you—all of you. I can’t tell you how I admire your father and mother and Arthur and—all of you. And you see, I admit that this conversion of mine has been very sudden. I—I want to learn.”

“Do you always follow your impulses like this?” she put in.

“I’ve never had one worth following before,” I said.

“What about wanting to fight Frank Jervaise?” she asked. “And running away from the Hall? And suddenly taking Arthur’s side in the row? and all those things? Didn’t you follow your impulses, then?”

And yet, it had never before occurred to me that I was impulsive. I had imagined myself to be self-controlled, rather business-like, practical. I was frankly astonished at this new light on my character.

“I suppose I did, in a way,” I admitted doubtfully.

“To say nothing of…” she began, and stopped with a little, rather embarrassed laugh.

“Of what?” I urged her.

“How many times before have you imagined yourself to be head over ears in love?” she asked.

I was repaid in that moment for all the self-denials and fastidious shrinkings of my youth.

“Never once!” I acclaimed triumphantly. “It’s the one common experience that has passed me by. I’ve often wondered why I could never fall in love. I’ve admired any number of women. I’ve tried to fall in love with them. And I have never been able to, try as I would. I could deceive myself about other things, but never about that. Now, I know why.”

I waited for her encouragement, but as she did not speak I went on with more hesitation. “You’ll think me a romantic fool, I suppose, if I tell you why?”

“Oh! I know, I know,” she said. “You’ve told me already in so many words. You mean that you’ve been waiting for me; that you had to wait for me. You’ve been very frank. You deserve some return. Shall I tell you just how I feel? I will. I don’t mind telling you the truth, too. I did remember you last night. But not since; not even now. But I like you—I like you very much—as you are this evening. More than I’ve ever liked any man before. And if you went away, I should remember you; and want you to come back. But you must give me time. Lots of time. Don’t make love to me any more; not yet; not till I’ve really remembered. I think I shall—in a little while—when you’ve gone away. You’re so near me, now. And so new. You don’t belong to my life, yet.”

She paused and then went on in another tone. “But I believe you’re right about Canada. I’ll explain it all to the others. We’ll make some kind of arrangement about it. I expect it will have to be your farm, nominally, for a time—until we all know you better. I can feel that you do—that you have taken a tremendous fancy to all of us. I felt it just now, after supper. I was watching you and—oh! well, I knew what you were feeling about my father and mother; and it seemed to be just what I should have liked you to feel. But I don’t think I would give all my money to the hospitals, if I were you. Not without thinking it over a bit, first. Wait until we get to Canada and see—how we get on.”

“You don’t trust my impulses,” I said.

She laughed. “Wait till to-morrow anyway,” she replied.

And as she spoke I heard far away, across the Park, the sound of the stable-clock at the Hall, striking twelve. The artificial sound of it was mellowed and altered by distance; as different from that theatrical first striking I had noticed in the exciting atmosphere of the crowd, as was my present state of mind from that in which I had expectantly waited the coming of romance….

“To-morrow begins now,” I said.

“And I have to be up before six,” she added, in the formal voice she knew so well how to assume.

I felt as though she had by that one return to civility cancelled all that she said, and as we turned back to the house, I began to wonder whether the promise of my probation was as assured as I had, a minute earlier, so confidently believed.

We were nearly at the little porch that would for ever be associated in my mind with the fumbling figure of Frank Jervaise, when she said,

“One moment. I’ll get you something,” and left me standing in almost precisely the same spot from which I had gazed up at her window the night before.

She returned almost immediately, but it was not until we were inside the house and she had lighted my candle that she gave me the “something,” pressing it into my hand with a sudden delicious, girlish embarrassment.

She was gone before I recognised that the precious thing she had given me was a sprig of Rosemary.

Postscript
The True Story

It was by the merest accident that we gathered that delightful piece of information—on our first trip to England, not quite three years after we were married.

I did not know that “The Mulberry Bush” had been revived for a few weeks as a stop-gap, until we saw the boards outside the theatre. Anne insisted that we should go in, and the arbiters of coincidence ordained that I should take seats in the stalls immediately behind one of those well-informed society women who know the truth about everything.

We were somewhat amused by her omniscience during the first interval, but it was not until the second that she came to the priceless report of our own two selves.

I was not listening to her when she began, but Anne’s sudden grasp of my arm and the inclination of her head, awoke me to the fact that the gossip just in front of us must, for some reason or other, be instantly attended to.

There was a good deal of chatter going on in the auditorium and I missed an occasional sentence here and there in addition to the opening, but there could be no doubt as to the application of the reminiscence I heard.

“Got himself into a scrape and had to leave the country,” was the first thing that reached me. “As a matter of fact I had the whole story from some one who was actually staying in the house at the time.” She dropped her voice as she added something confidentially of which I only caught the sound of the name Jervaise. Anne was squeezing my arm violently.

“Yes, his father’s house,” the gossip continued in answer to a question from her companion. “A young man of great promise. He took silk last year, and is safe for a place in the Cabinet sooner or later.”

“Our Frank,” Anne whispered.

I nodded and waited eagerly, although I had not, then, realised my own connection with the story.

“Oh! yes, that other affair was four years ago—nothing to do with the dear Jervaises, except for the unfortunate fact that they were entertaining him at the time. He ran away with a farmer’s daughter; eloped with her in the middle of a dance the Jervaises were giving. Never seen her before that evening, I believe. The father was one of the Jervaises’ tenants…. A superior kind of young woman in some ways, I’ve heard; and a friend of the youngest Jervaise girl … you wouldn’t remember her … she went with her friend to Australia or somewhere … some quixotic idea of protecting her, I believe … and married out there. The farmer’s name was Baggs. The whole family were a trifle queer, and emigrated afterwards … yes, it was a pity about Melhuish, in a way. He was considered quite a promising young dramatist. This thing of his was a distinct success. Very amusing. But naturally, no one would receive him after he’d married this Baggs girl. Besides which …”

But at that point the orchestra began, the woman dropped her voice again, and the only other fragment I heard was, “… after the disgraceful scene at the dance … quite impossible….”

I looked at Anne and was surprised to find that she was white with indignation.

“I must tell them,” she whispered passionately.

“Oh! no, please,” I whispered back. “They wouldn’t believe you. It would only add another shocking detail to the next exposition of the scandal.”

“Detestable people,” she said, in a voice that must have been heard by our gossip, although she evidently did not realise the application of the description to herself and her friend.

“Let’s be thankful,” I whispered to Anne, “that I’m no longer writing this sort of piffle to amuse them. If it hadn’t been for you…”

The two women had left the theatre before the end of the third act, but long before that Anne had seen the humour of this true story of our elopement.