him. She understood the cause of his silence-or thought she did. Her heart was heavy-on his account, and on her own. Her words, when they came, were intended to convey the completeness of her comprehension.
"I am so sorry."
He turned, as if her words had startled him.
"Sorry?"
"I know all about it, Cyril."
This time it was not merely a question of appearance. It was an obvious fact that he was startled. He stood stock still and stared at her. Stammering words came from his lips.
"You know all about it? What-what do you mean?"
She seemed to be surprised at his surprise. "My dear Cyril, you forget that there are papers."
"Papers?"
Still he stammered.
"Yes, papers-newspapers. I've had every edition, and of course I've seen how Eries have fallen.
"Eries? Fallen? Oh! – of course! – I see!"
She was puzzled to perceive that he appeared positively relieved, as though he had supposed and feared that she had meant something altogether different. He took off his hat to wipe his brow, although the night was very far from being unduly warm. He began walking again, speaking now glibly enough, with a not unnatural bitterness.
"They have fallen, sure enough-just as surely as if, if I had gone a bear, they would have risen. As you were good enough to say last night, it was exactly the sort of thing which might have been expected."
"I am so sorry, Cyril."
"What's the use of being sorry?"
His tone was rough, almost rude. But she excused him still.
"Is it very bad?"
Then a wild idea came to him-one which, at the moment, seemed to him almost to amount to inspiration. In the disordered condition of his faculties-for, temporarily, they were disordered-he felt, no doubt erroneously enough, that in the girl's tone there was something besides sympathy, that there was contempt as well-contempt for him as for a luckless, helpless creature who was an utter and entire failure. And he suddenly resolved to drop at least a hint that, while she was despising him as so complete a failure, even now there was, actually within his grasp, wealth sufficient to satisfy the dreams of avarice.
"I don't know what you call very bad; as regards the Eries it is about as bad as it could be. But-"
He hesitated and stopped.
"But what?" She caught sight of his face. She saw how it was working. "Cyril, is there any good news to counteract the bad? Have you had a stroke of luck?"
Yet he hesitated, already half regretting that he had said anything at all. But, having gone so far, he went farther.
"I don't want you to reckon on it just at present, but I think it possible that, very shortly, I may find myself in possession of a larger sum of money than either of us has dreamed of."
"Cyril! Do you mean it?"
Her tone of incredulity spurred him on.
"Should I be likely to say such a thing if I did not mean it? I mean exactly what I said. To be quite accurate, it is possible, nay, probable, that before very long I shall be the possessor of a quarter of a million of money. I hope that will be enough for you. It will for me."
"A quarter of a million! Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, Cyril!"
"It sounds a nice little sum, doesn't it? I hope that it will feel as nice when it's mine!"
"But, Cyril, I don't understand. Is it a new speculation you are entering on?"
"It is a speculation-of a kind." His tone was ironical, though she did not seem to be conscious of the fact. "A peculiar kind. Its peculiarity consists in this, that, though I may not be able to lay my hands on the entire quarter of a million, I can on an appreciable portion of it whenever I choose."
"What is the nature of the speculation? Is it on the Stock Exchange?"
"That, at present, is a secret. It is not often that I have kept a secret from you; you will have to forgive me, Daisy, if I keep one now."
Something peculiar in his tone caught her ear. She glanced at him sharply.
"You are really in earnest, Cyril? You do mean that there is a reasonable prospect of your position being improved at last?"
"There is not only a reasonable prospect, there is a practical certainty."
"In spite of what you have lost in Eries?"
"In spite of everything." A ring of passion came into his voice. "Daisy, don't ask me any more questions now. Trust me! I tell you that in any case a fortune, or something very like one, is within my grasp."
He stopped, and she was silent. They went and stood where they had been standing the night before-looking towards the Worthing lights. Each seemed to be wrapped in thought. Then she said softly, in her voice a trembling-
"Cyril, I am so glad."
"I am glad that you are glad."
"And I am so sorry for what I said last night."
"What was it you said that is the particular occasion of your sorrow?"
She drew closer to his side. When she spoke it was as if, in some strange way, she was afraid.
"I am sorry that I said that if luck went against you to-day things would have to be over between us. I don't know what made me say it. I did not mean it. I thought of it all night; I have been thinking of it all day. I don't think that, whatever happens, I could ever find it in my heart to send you away."
"I assure you, lady, that I should not go unless you sent me!"
"Cyril!" She pressed his arm. Her voice sank lower. She almost whispered in his ear, while her eyes looked towards the Worthing lights. "I think that perhaps it would be better if we were to get married as soon as we can-better for both of us."
Turning, he gripped her arms with both his hands.
"Do you mean it?"
"I do; if you do the great things of which you talk or if you don't. If you don't there is my little fortune, with which we must start afresh, both of us together, either on this side of the world or on the other, whichever you may choose."
"Daisy!" His voice vibrated with sudden passion. "Will you come with me to the other side of the world in any case?"
"What-even if you make your fortune?"
"Yes; even if I make my fortune!"
She looked at him with that something on her face which is the best thing that a man can see. And tears came into her eyes. And she said to him, in the words which have been ringing down the ages-
"Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God; where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me!"
It may be that the words savoured to him of exaggeration; at any rate, he turned away, as if something choked his utterance. She, too, was still.
"I suppose you don't want a grand wedding."
"I want a wedding, that's all I want. I don't care what sort of a wedding it is so long as it's a wedding. And" – again her voice sank, and again she drew closer to his side-"I don't want to have to wait for it too long."
"Will you be ready to marry me within a month?"
"I will."
"Then within a month we will be married."
They were silent. His thoughts, in a dazed sort of fashion, travelled to the diamonds which were in somebody else's Gladstone bag. Her thoughts wandered through Elysian fields. It is possible that she imagined-as one is apt to do-that his thoughts were there likewise.
All at once she said something which brought him back from what seemed to be a waking dream. She felt him start.
"Come with me, and let's