The Golden Silence

								

"No, I must run over to Canada first, Stephen. I've just begun to see
that. You might say, I could go there with you after we were married,
but it wouldn't be the same thing at all. I ought to stay with some of
my old friends while I'm still Margot Lorenzi. A lot of people were
awfully good to father, and I must show my gratitude. The sooner I sail
the better, now the news of our engagement has got ahead of me. I
needn't stop away very long. Seven or eight weeks--or nine at most,
going and coming."
"Would you like to be married in Canada?" Stephen asked; perhaps partly
to please her, but probably more to disguise the fact that he had no
impatient objections to raise against her plan. "If you wished, I could
go whenever----"
"Oh no, no!" she exclaimed quickly. "I wouldn't have you come there for
anything in the world. That is. I mean----" she corrected herself with
an anxious, almost frightened side glance at him--"I must fight it out
alone. No, I don't mean that either. What a stupid way of putting it!
But it would bore you dreadfully to take such a journey, and it would be
nicer anyhow to be married in England--perhaps at St. George's. That
used to be my dream, when I was a romantic little girl, and loved to
stuff my head full of English novels. I should adore a wedding at St.
George's. And oh, Stephen, you won't change your mind while I'm gone? It
would kill me if you jilted me after all. I shouldn't live a single day,
if you weren't true."
"Don't talk nonsense, my dear girl. Of course I'm not going to change
my mind," said Stephen. "When do you want to sail?"
"The end of this week. You're sure you won't let your brother and that
cruel Duchess talk you over? I----"
"There's not the slightest chance of their talking to me at all,"
Stephen answered sharply. "We've definitely quarrelled."

II

When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the ship, leaving her
with as many flowers, novels, and sweets as even she could wish, Stephen
expected to feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle way, he was
more feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and while planning
to hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a rather youthful
sense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get everything over."
The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, at
least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was an
aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, now
that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.
Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especially
since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he disliked
meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or let
him see that they were dying to do so.
If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love for