cow? I want to talk of another beast."
"Trout?"
"No, not trout. Trout isn't a beast. If you're clever and smart, and that kind of thing, I won't talk about my beast."
"What is your beast?"
"A fool."
"Oh!"
"Are you not curious to know who the fool is?"
"There are so many, one cannot be interested in all."
"No; but you are interested in this one."
Silence.
"I say you are interested in Alfred."
"Alfred!" She looked quickly round for the first time since the cow had attracted her attention. Her colour was vivid, and her breath came short. "Alfred a fool!"
"Yes; he's hit-badly hit."
"You don't think him ill?" – in alarm. The colour faded quickly.
"I think him very bad."
"His brain again. Oh, do tell me!" – pleadingly.
"No. He told me all in the front room to-day. It's his heart this time."
"His heart?"
"Yes. Love."
"Love! In love with whom?"
"I forget."
"You forget whom he is in love with?"
"Yes. Another matter has put it out of my head. Madge, I'm a fool too. You needn't turn away. There are no more cows, Madge. Give up the salmon and cows, Madge, and have me instead! Will you, Madge? Give me your hand… Thank you, love. Madge!"
"Yes."
"The other two have turned back. There is no one else in the road. May I kiss you?"
She looked over her shoulder on the side away from him. Then she looked at him…
"Thank you, darling. Let us turn back. I have touched the limits of my happiest road. Madge!"
"Yes."
"Yes, Jerry. Say 'Yes, Jerry.'"
"Yes, Jerry."
"That's better. I won't kiss you again until we get into the house. Do you think you can last out till then?"
"I-I think so, Jerry."
"That's right. Cultivate self-denial and obedience. You don't think it is respectable for a man to kiss his sweetheart on a public road?"
"No."
"That's right. Cultivate self-denial and obedience, but chiefly obedience. Don't you think it is the duty of woman to cultivate obedience chiefly?"
"I do."
"And if I asked it, you would, out of obedience to me, trample self-denial under foot?"
"Certainly, Jerry, if you wished it."
"I do. Oh, my Madge-my darling-my gentle love! Once more."
"But Edith has turned round and sees us… And my hat-you have knocked off my hat… Thanks. Now pick up my hair-pin. It fell with the hat. What will Edith think?"
"I'll tell her. I'll tell Edith quite plainly it was your self-restraint gave way, not mine."
CHAPTER XXXIII
A FORTUNE LOST
That day settled many things. Alfred had told O'Brien that no matter how unwise or rash it might seem, he had made up his mind to try his fate with Mrs. Davenport-not, of course, at that time, perhaps not very soon, but ultimately, and as soon as possible.
Until that day-until he had seen her moved by the sense of her own loneliness, until he had seen the tears start into her eyes-he had not said even to himself that he loved her. He told himself over and over again that he would risk his prospects, his life, his honour for her. How his prospects or life could be imperilled he did not know, did not care. He had a modest fortune of his own, and her husband had left her the bulk of his great wealth. He would have preferred her poor rather than rich. But if she would marry him, he would not allow the fact that she had money to stand in the way of his happiness. She had for a while, owing to circumstances in which no blame attached to her, found herself labouring under a hideous suspicion. From the shadow of that suspicion she had emerged without blemish. She had been cruelly ill-used by fate, but it had been shown she was blameless. Where, then, could danger to his honour lie? Her beauty was undeniable; her family unexceptionable. She had been sold to an old man by a venal lover. In this lurked no disgrace to her. What could his father or mother find in her to object to? Nothing-absolutely nothing. That day his father and mother showed great pleasure in seeing her again. His father had suggested-nay, arranged-that he should accompany her on that long journey to Ireland.
When Jerry O'Brien left Carlingford House that afternoon, he had no intention of asking Madge to be his wife. All the way from Kilbarry to London he had been assuring himself that nothing could be more injudicious than to say anything to her on the subject at present. He believed she was not indifferent to him. Little actions and words of hers had given him cause to hope. He was sure she preferred him to any other man in whose society he had ever seen her. She had smiled and coloured at his approach, and once or twice, when he had ventured to press her hand, he had suffered no reproach by word or look. All this made it only the more necessary for him to be on guard and not allow himself to be betrayed into a declaration until his affairs were settled. But the opportunity came, and he could not resist the temptation of telling her he loved her, and of hearing from her that he was loved by her. It is true no word had been said between them of an engagement even. The mere formality of speech was nothing. Practically he had asked her to be his wife, and she had plainly given him to understand she was willing to marry him.
Madge got back to the house in a state of bewildered excitement. She confided nothing to her sister, and Edith behaved very well, never showing even a trace of curiosity or slyness. She persisted in talking of the most everyday topic. She wondered whether Miss Grant, the dressmaker, would keep her word? – whether this would be as bad a year for roses as last? She was of opinion the cold weather would not return. Nellie Cahill had told her the new play at the Ben Jonson was a complete failure, in spite of all said to the contrary, and so on. Madge replied in monosyllables or vacant laughs. When the girls got home, each went to her own room, and they did not meet again until dinner time. Madge decided she had no occasion to speak to her mother, or any one else, about what occurred on the Dulwich Road. It would be time enough to speak when Jerry said something more definite to her, or when either her father or mother spoke to her.
Jerry sought Alfred, whom he found alone in the library. He had been carried beyond himself that afternoon, and did not feel in the position to administer to his friend a lecture on prudence. Alfred was of full age, and, in the way of money, independent of his father. Let him do as he pleased and take his chance, as any other man must in similar circumstances. He himself, for instance, would take advice in his love affair from neither Fishery Commissioners nor John O'Hanlon.
"How far did you go?" asked Alfred, who looked flushed, radiant. He got up and began walking slowly about the room.
"Oh, a little beyond the College. It isn't a very pleasant day out of doors. We met an old flame of yours-Miss Cahill."
"Miss Cahill an old flame of mine! Why, I never was more than civil to the girl in all my life! Who invented that story for you?"
"I don't think it was pure invention. Edith mentioned it to us."
"'To us!' Good heavens, you don't mean to say she said anything of the kind in Miss Cahill's presence?"
"Well, no-not exactly in her presence, but when she was near us. How did you get on since?"
Jerry's object was to keep the conversation in his own hands, and prevent Alfred asking questions. To-morrow, when they were both clear of London, he might take his friend into his confidence, but not now.
"Oh, dully enough," answered Alfred, with a look of disappointment. "My father went out, my mother is busy about the house, and Mrs. Davenport is in her room. She will, I hope, be able to come down to dinner. You don't think, Jerry,"