I shall write a letter to Mr. Jacks, saying that I cannot marry him; when it has been sent, I shall tell my father."
Olga had begun to tremble. Her features were disturbed with an emotion which banished every sign of sorrow; which flushed her cheeks and made her eyes seem hostile in their fixed stare.
"How can you do that?" she asked, in a hard voice "How is it possible?"
"It seems to me far more possible then the alternative--a life of repentence."
"But--what do you mean, Irene? When everything is settled--when your house is taken--when everyone knows! What do you mean? Why shall you do this?"
The words rushed forth impetuously, quivering on a note of resentment. The flushed cheeks were turning pallid; the girl's breast heaved with indignant passion.
"I can't fully explain it to you, Olga." The speaker's tones sounded very soft and reasonable after that outbreak. "I am doing what many a girl would do, I feel sure, if she could find courage--let us say, if she saw clearly enough. It will cause confusion, ill-feeling, possibly some unhappiness, for a few weeks, for a month or two; then Mr. Jacks will feel grateful to me, and my father will acknowledge I did right; and everybody else who knows anything about it will have found some other subject of conversation."
"You are fond of somebody else?"
It was between an exclamation and an inquiry. Bending forward, Olga awaited the reply as if her life depended upon it.
"I am fond of no one--in that sense."
Irene's look was so fearless, her countenance so tranquil in its candour, that the agitated girl grew quieter.
"It isn't because you are _thinking_ of someone else that you can't marry Mr. Jacks?"
"I am thinking simply of myself. I am afraid to marry him. No thought of the kind you mean has entered my head."
"But how will it be explained to everybody?"
"By telling the truth--always the best way out of a difficulty. I shall take all the blame on myself, as I ought."
"And you will live on here, just as usual, seeing people----?"
"No, I don't think I could do that. Most likely I shall go for a time to Paris."
Olga's relief expressed itself in a sigh.
"In all this," continued Irene, "there's no reason why you shouldn't stay here. Everything, you may be sure, will be settled very quietly. My father is a reasonable man."
After a short reflection, Olga said that she could not yet make up her mind. And therewith ended their dialogue. Each was glad to go apart into privacy, to revolve anxious thoughts, and to seek rest.
That her father was "a reasonable man," Irene had always held a self-evident proposition. She had never, until a few days ago, conceived the possibility of a conflict between his ideas of right and her own. Domestic discord was to her mind a vulgar, no less than an unhappy, state of things. Yet, in the step she was now about to take, could she feel any assurance that Dr. Derwent would afford her the help of his sympathy--or even that he would refrain from censure? Reason itself was on her side; but an otherwise reasonable man might well find difficulty in acknowledging it, under the circumstances.
The letter to Arnold Jacks was already composed; she knew it by heart, and had but to write it out. In the course of a sleepless night, this was done. In the early glimmer of a day of drizzle and fog, the letter went to post.
There needed courage--yes, there needed courage--on a morning such as this, when the skyless atmosphere weighed drearily on heart and mind, when hope had become a far-off thing, banished for long months from a grey, cold world, to go through with the task which Irene had set herself. Could she but have slept, it might have been easier for her; she had to front it with an aching head, with eyes that dazzled, with blood fevered into cowardice.
Dr. Derwent was plainly in no mood for conversation. His voice had been seldom heard during the past week. At the breakfast-table he read his letters, glanced over the paper, exchanged a few sentences with Eustace, said a kind word to Olga; when he rose, one saw that he hoped for a quiet morning in his laboratory.
"Could I see you for half an hour before lunch, father?"
He looked into the speaker's face, surprised at something unusual in her tone, and nodded without smiling.
"When you like."
She stood at the window of the drawing-room, looking over the enclosure in the square, the dreary so-called garden, with its gaunt leafless trees that dripped and oozed. Opposite was the long facade of characterless houses, like to that in which she lived; the steps, the door-columns, the tall narrow windows; above them, murky vapour.
She moved towards the door, hesitated, looked about her with unconsciously appealing eyes. She moved forward again, and on to her purpose.
"Well?" said the Doctor, who stood before a table covered with scientific apparatus. "Is it about Olga?"
"No, dear father. It's about Irene."
He smiled; his face softened to tenderness.
"And what about Mam'zelle Wren? It's hard on Wren, all this worry at such a time."
"If it didn't sound so selfish, I should say it had all happened for my good. I suppose we can't help seeing the world from our own little point of view."
"What follows on this philosophy?"
"Something you won't like to hear, I know; but I beg you to be patient with me. When were you not? I never had such need of your patience and forbearance as now--Father, I cannot marry Arnold Jacks. And I have told him that I can't."
The Doctor very quietly laid down a microscopic slide. His forehead grew wrinkled; his lips came sharply together; he gazed for a moment at an open volume on a high desk at his side, then said composedly:
"This is your affair, Irene. All I can do is to advise you to be sure of your own mind."
"I _am_ sure of it--very sure of it!"
Her voice trembled a little; her hand, resting upon the table, much more.
"You say you have told Jacks?"
"I posted a letter to him this morning."
"With the first announcement of your change of mind?--How do you suppose he will reply?"
"I can't feel sure."
There was silence. The Doctor took up a piece of paper, and began folding and re-folding it, the while he meditated.
"You know, of course," he said at length, "what the world thinks of this sort of behaviour?"
"I know what the world is likely to _say_ about it. Unfortunately, the world seldom thinks at all."
"Granted. And we may also assume that no explanation offered by you or Jacks will affect the natural course of gossip. Still, you would wish to justify yourself in the eyes of your friends."
"What I wish before all, of course, is to save Mr. Jacks from any risk of blame. It must be understood that I, and I alone, am responsible for what happens."
"Stick to your philosophy," said her father. "Recognise the fact that you cannot save him from gossip and scandal--that people will credit as much or as little as they like of any explanation put forth. Moreover, bear in mind that this action of yours is defined by a vulgar word, which commonly injures the man more than the woman. In the world's view, it is worse to be made ridiculous than to act cruelly."
A look of pain passed over the girl's face.
"Father