She kissed his hand again, and leaned her head on his shoulder. That was her reply. He clasped her tenderly, fervently, more than fervently, and yet! while his mouth was on her neck, and his arms were round her body, the face of Catharine presented itself, and it was not altogether his wife whom he caressed.

Meanwhile Tom, pursuing his way homeward, overtook Miss Furze, to his great surprise.

"Tom, where have you been?"

"I have just left Mr. and Mrs. Cardew."

Catharine, on her way home, hesitating--for it was Catharine whom Tom and Mr. Cardew saw--had met Mrs. Cardew just about to leave the house.

"Why, Catharine! you here?"

"I was tempted by the night."

"Catharine, did you ever hear my husband preach better than he did to- night?"

"Never!"

"I was so proud of him, and I was so happy, because just what touched him touched me too. Come back with me: I know he has gone to the ferry."

"No, thank you; it is late."

"I am sure he will see you home."

"I am sure he shall not. What! walk up to the Terrace after a day's hard work!"

So they parted. What had pa.s.sed between Catharine and Mrs. Cardew when they lingered behind at the Rectory gate, G.o.d and they only know, but what we call an accident prevented their meeting. Accident! my friend Reuben told me the other day his marriage was an accident. The more I think about accidents, the less do I believe in them. By chance he had an invitation to go to Shott Woods one afternoon, and there he saw the girl who afterwards became his wife and the mother of children with a certain stamp upon them. They in turn will have other children, all of them moulded after a fashion which would have been different if his wife had been another woman. Nay, _these_ children would not have existed if this particular marriage had not taken place. Thus the whole course of history is altered, because of that little note and a casual encounter.

But, putting aside the theory of a G.o.d who ordains results absolutely inevitable, although to us it seems as if they might have been different, it may be observed that the attraction which drew Reuben to his dear Camilla was not quite fortuitous. What decided her to go? It was perfect autumn weather; it was just the time of year she most loved; there would be no crowding or confusion, for many people had gone away to the seaside, and so she was delighted at the thought of the picnic. What decided him to go? The very same reasons. They had both been to Shott during the season, and he had talked and laughed there with some delightful creatures before she crossed his path and held him for ever.

Why had he waited? Why had she waited? We have discarded Providence as our forefathers believed in it; but nevertheless there is a providence without the big P, if we choose so to spell it, and yet surely deserving it as much as the Providence of theology, a non-theological Providence which watches over us and leads us. It appears as instinct prompting us to do this and not to do that, to decide this way or that way when we have no consciously rational ground for decision, to cleave to this person and shun the other, almost before knowing anything of either: it has been recognised in all ages under various forms as Demon, Fate, or presiding Genius. But still further. Suppose they both went to Shott Woods idly; suppose--which was not the case--they had never heard of one another before, is it not possible that they were brought together by a law as unevadable as gravity? There would be nothing more miraculous in such attraction than there is in that thread which the minutest atom of gas in the Orion nebula extends across billions of miles to the minutest atom of dust on the road under my window. However, be all this as it may, it would be wrong to say that the meeting between Catharine and Mr.

Cardew was prevented by accident. She loitered: she went up Fosbrooke Street: if she had gone straight to Mr. Cardew she might have been with him before Tom met him. Tom would not have interrupted them, for he ventured to speak to Mr. Cardew merely because he was alone, and Mrs.

Cardew would not have interrupted them, for they would have gone further afield. Tom's appearance even was not an accident, but a thread carefully woven, one may say, in the web that night.

"I saw you at church to-night, Miss Catharine," said Tom, as they walked homewards.

"Why did you go? You do not usually go to church."

"I thought I should like to hear Mr. Cardew, and I am very glad I went."

"Are you? What did you think of him? Did you like him?"

"Oh, yes; it was all true; but what he said about Christ the Mediator was so clearly put."

"You did not care for the rest then?"

"I did indeed, Miss Catharine, but it is just the same with our minister; I get along with him so much better when he seems to follow the catechism, but"--he looked up in her face--"I know that is not what you cared for. Oh, Miss Catharine," he cried suddenly, and quite altering his voice and manner, "I do not know when I shall have another chance; I hardly dare tell you; you won't spurn me, will you? My father was a poor workman; I was nothing better, and should have been nothing better if it had not been for you; all my schooling almost I have done myself; I know nothing compared with what you know; but, Miss Catharine, I love you to madness: I have loved no woman but you; never looked at one, I may say.

Do you remember when you rode home with me from Chapel Farm? I have lived on it ever since. You are far above me: things come and speak to you which I don't see. If you would teach me I should soon see them too."

Catharine was silent, and perfectly calm. At last she said--

"My dear Tom."

Tom shuddered at the tone.

"No, Miss Catharine, don't say it now; think a little; don't cast me off in a moment."

"My dear Tom, I may as well say it now, for what I ought to say is as clear as that moon in the sky. I can _never_ love you as a wife ought to love her husband."

"Oh, Miss Catharine! you despise me, you despise me! Why in G.o.d's name?"

Tom rose above himself, and became such another self that Catharine was amazed and half staggered. "Why in G.o.d's name did He make you and me after such a fashion, that you are the one person in the world able to save me, and you cannot! Why did He do this! Why did He put me where I saw you every day and torment me with the hope of you, knowing that you would have nothing to do with me! He maimed my father and made him a beggar: He prevented me from learning what would have made me fit for you, and then He drove me to worship you. Do not say 'never'!"

They were close to her father's door at the Terrace. She stopped, looked at him sadly, but decisively, straight in the face, and said--

"Never! never! Never your lover, but your best friend for ever," and she opened the gate and disappeared.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. and Mrs. Furze were not disturbed because their daughter was late. A neighbour told them that she had gone to the Rectory with Mr. and Mrs.

Cardew, and Mrs. Furze was pleased that Eastthorpe should behold her daughter apparently on intimate terms with a clergyman so well known and so respectable. But it was ten o'clock, and they wished to be in bed.

Mrs. Furze had gone to the window, and had partly pushed aside the blind, watching till Catharine should appear. Just as the clock struck she saw Catharine approaching with somebody whom she of course took for Mr.

Cardew. The pair came nearer, and, to her astonishment, she recognised Tom. Nay more, she saw the couple halt near the gate, and that Tom was speaking very earnestly. Mrs. Furze was so absorbed that she did not recover herself until the interview was at an end, and before she could say a word to her husband, who was asleep in the arm-chair, her daughter was at the door. Mrs. Furze went to open it.

"Why, Catharine, that surely wasn't Tom!"

"Yes, it was, mother. Why not?"

"To-om!" half shrieked Mrs. Furze.

"Yes, Tom: I suppose father has gone to bed? Good-night, mother," and Catharine kissed her on the forehead and went upstairs.

Mrs. Furze shut the door and rushed into the room.

"My dear! my dear!" shaking him, "Catharine has come, and Tom brought her, and they stood ever so long talking to one another."

Mr. Furze roused himself and took a little brandy-and-water.

"Rubbish!"

"Rubbish! it's all very well for you to say 'rubbish' when you've been snoring there!"

"Well, where is she? Make her come in; let us hear what she has to say."

"She's gone to bed. Now take my advice: don't speak to her to-night, but wait till to-morrow; you know what she is, and you had better think a bit."

Mrs. Furze, notwithstanding her excitement, dreaded somewhat attacking Catharine without preparation.