"No, no," she said, "you must not go, I have rung for tea. I know the English habit, and you must be thirsty after so much talking," and she laughed merrily.
"Thank you," he said. "I shall be glad of a cup of tea," and he sat down again.
Over the teacups conversation became more general, and flowed more freely in consequence. They talked about St. Gaved, about the Tregonys, and Captain Tom Hendy, and Dr. Pendarvis, and Mrs. Tuke. She related some of her experiences at Trewinion Hall, and in London and Nice, and how and why she escaped from the guardianship of Sir Charles. The afternoon sped like a dream, and when he rose to go, he felt as though a new vision of life had been vouchsafed to him.
"You will call again?" she said, when he was leaving.
"May I?" he asked eagerly.
She laughed brightly in his face. "Does our American freedom or our lack of British formality shock you?" she questioned.
"No, no. I was not thinking of that at all," he answered, hurriedly.
"May I call again to-morrow?"
"At the same hour?"
"Yes."
"I will wait in for you."
Rufus remained in New York as many weeks as he had expected to remain days. He fixed the date of his return to Reboth time after time, but when the day arrived he found some excuse for remaining a day or two longer. He did not call to see Madeline every day. Indeed, sometimes for days on the stretch he did not go near her house, but he discovered that New York furnished endless opportunities for meeting. He got to know when she went shopping, and when she rode or drove in the park, and so he way-laid her at all sorts of unexpected times, and discovered that his interest in her movements was the all-absorbing concern of his life.
Their conversation that winter evening on the Downs was picked up at the point at which it broke off, and Madeline got a yet clearer insight into the human doc.u.ment that had fascinated her from the first.
Rufus opened his heart to Madeline as he never did to any other. Her sympathy touched the deepest chords of his emotion, her generosity won his confidence.
Bit by bit the truth was revealed to her that she, under G.o.d, had been his salvation. Her quick imagination saw the path along which he had travelled. His loss of faith, his gropings in the desert of a barren philosophy.
She saw, too--not that he told her in so many words--that the loss of all sense of accountability was destroying the moral basis of conduct.
That his honour was saved to him because he won back his faith.
It was no small satisfaction to her that she, in the supreme crisis of his life, had been his helper and his inspiration. If he had saved her, she, in a yet deeper sense, had saved him.
That the same thought should grow almost unconsciously in the minds and hearts of both was natural--perhaps inevitable. In due course it would blossom into speech.
He returned to Reboth in December--business demanded his presence--but he was back in New York again in January. Madeline looked up with a start of surprise when he was shown into the room in which she was reading.
"I hope I do not intrude?" he said, hesitatingly.
"No, no," she replied, with almost childish delight. "I am so glad to see you again. But I was not aware you were in New York."
"I arrived this morning," he answered, "and so took an early opportunity of looking you up."
"You are just in time for afternoon tea, and you must be almost frozen,"
and she rang the bell at once.
Rufus watched her moving about the room with almost hungry eyes. She was so dainty, so lissom, so strong. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her more than all else on earth, but he had not the courage yet.
He remained not only to tea, but to dinner; and during the evening conversation strayed over many subjects.
He was naturally reticent, and greatly disliked talking about himself.
But when he was with Madeline all reticence disappeared. She was the warm sun that thawed the ice. He would have deemed it impossible once that he could have told anyone of his spiritual struggles, of the mental strain and agony through which he pa.s.sed before his feet touched the rock. But Madeline was like a second self; there was nothing he wanted to hide from her.
Before the evening was out he found himself discussing the moral effects of materialism.
"It takes away the moral basis of conduct," he said, in reply to one of her questions. "I found myself losing the true sense of right and wrong--_as_ right and wrong. Things might be wise or foolish, profitable or unprofitable, politic or impolitic; but right and wrong were becoming meaningless words in any moral sense. If there is no G.o.d there is no moral law, and the highest authority is the State."
"But materialists are sometimes very good people?" she questioned.
"Yes, that is true; but not because of their philosophy, but in spite of it. And yet is not their goodness mainly negative? Do they build hospitals, or endow charities, or sacrifice themselves in fighting the battles of Temperance and peace and purity? I speak from experience; it dulls the moral sensibilities. For a man to lose his sense of G.o.d is to lose his best. The n.o.blest work of the world is done by the men who believe, who endure as seeing Him who is invisible."
"Then you think if you had remained a materialist----"
"I should have perished," he interrupted, gravely, "and I use that word in no thoughtless sense. But G.o.d sent me you----" then he paused, and for awhile silence fell.
When they began to talk again it was about some entirely different matter.
A few days later he called to say good-bye. He was going back to Reboth again the following day. For a full hour they chatted in the freest manner about matters of no importance. Then he rose suddenly and began to b.u.t.ton his coat. He shook hands with her in silence and reached the door. For a moment he paused with his hand on the k.n.o.b, then turned hurriedly round and faced her. His face was very pale, his lips were trembling.
"Madeline," he said, "I cannot go away without telling you that I love you. I belong to you. To you I owe more than life. I owe all that makes life worth living. You befriended me in my hour of greatest need. You led me out of darkness into the light. Will you be my inspiration still, my companion, the light of my eyes?"
He paused, almost breathless with the earnestness of his speech.
She stood looking at him, all the colour gone out of her face.
"Forgive me if I am presumptuous," he went on, in lower tones. "But I have loved you so long, so hopelessly, so pa.s.sionately, that I could not keep the truth back any longer. Yet if you say there is no hope for me I will not trouble you again."
She came toward him slowly, a great light shining in her eyes, and placed her hands in his.
"You are sure you are not mistaken?" she said, and her eyes grew full of tears.
"Mistaken? Oh! Madeline, if I were only so sure of heaven! I have loved you since the day you read "Snow Bound" to me--loved you with an ever-growing pa.s.sion. I have never loved but you--I shall never love another!"
"Do not all men say that?" she questioned, with a pathetic smile.
"I know not what other men say," he replied, earnestly. "I only know that without you life will be dark. Oh! Madeline, have you no word of hope for me?"
"Do you need words?" she asked, smiling through her tears into his face.
"Have I not shown my heart all too plainly?"
"Do you mean that----"
But the sentence was never finished. Swiftly he gathered her in his arms till she could feel the beating of his heart against her own. Silently their lips met in a pa.s.sionate seal of love. Then he led her to a couch and sat down by her side, and for an hour they talked and the hour seemed but as the flying of a shuttle.