Laurie sat, dumb and bewildered.
“Now all you have to do,” continued the medium serenely, “is to find out whether what has been said is correct or not. If it is not correct, there will be an end of the matter, if you choose. But if it is correct—”
“Stop; let me think!” cried Laurie.
He was back again in the confusion from which he thought he had escaped. Here was a definite test, offered at least in good faith—just such a test as had been lacking before; and he had no doubt whatever that it would be borne out by facts. And if it were—was there any conceivable hypothesis that would explain it except the one offered so confidently by this grave, dignified man who sat and looked at him with something of interested compassion in his heavy eyes? Coincidence? It was absurd. Certainly graves did sink, sometimes—but … Thought-transference from someone who noticed the grave? … But why that particular thought, so vivid, concise, and pointed? …
If it were true? …
He looked hopelessly at the man, who sat smoking quietly and waiting.
And then again another thought, previously ignored, pierced him like a sword. If it were true; if Amy herself, poor pretty Amy, had indeed been there, were indeed near him now, hammering and crying out like a child shut out at night, against his own skeptical heart … if it were indeed true that during those two hours she had had her heart’s desire, and had been one with his very soul, in a manner to which no earthly union could aspire … how had he treated her? Even at this thought a shudder of repulsion ran through him. … It was unnatural, detestable … yet how sweet! … What did the Church say of such things? … But what if religion were wrong, and this indeed were the satiety of the higher nature of which marriage was but the material expression? …
The thoughts flew swifter than clouds as he sat there, bewildering, torturing, beckoning. He made a violent effort. He must be sane, and face things.
“Mr. Vincent,” he cried.
The kindly face turned to him again.
“Mr. Vincent. …”
“Hush, I quite understand,” said the fatherly voice. “It is a shock, I know; but truth is a little shocking sometimes. Wait. I perfectly understand that you must have time. You must think it all over, and verify this. You must not commit yourself. But I think you had better have my address. The ladies are a little too emotional, are they not? I expect you would sooner come to see me without them.”
He laid his card on the little tea-table and stood up.
“Good night, Mr. Baxter.”
Laurie took his hand, and looked for a moment into the kind eyes. Then the man was gone.
II
That was a little while ago, now, and Laurie sitting over breakfast had had time to think it out, and by an act of sustained will to suspend his judgment.
He had come back again to the state I have described—to nervous interest—no more than that. The terror seemed gone, and certainly the skepticism seemed gone too. Now he had to face Maggie and his mother, and to see the grave. …
Somehow he had become more accustomed to the idea that there might be real and solid truth under it all, and familiarity had bred ease. Yet there was nervousness there too at the thought of going home. There were moods in which, sitting or walking alone, he passionately desired it all to be true; other moods in which he was acquiescent; but in both there was a faint discomfort in the thought of meeting Maggie, and a certain instinct of propitiation towards her. Maggie had begun to stand for him as a kind of embodiment of a view of life which was sane, wholesome, and curiously attractive; there was a largeness about her, a strength, a sense of fresh air that was delightful. It was that kind of thing, he thought, that had attracted him to her during this past summer. The image of Amy, on the other hand, more than ever now since those recent associations, stood for something quite contrary—certainly for attractiveness, but of a feverish and vivid kind, extraordinarily unlike the other. To express it in terms of time, he thought of Maggie in the morning, and of Amy in the evening, particularly after dinner. Maggie was cool and sunny; Amy suited better the evening fever and artificial light.
And now Maggie had to be faced.
First he reflected that he had not breathed a hint, either to her or his mother, as to what had passed. They both would believe that he had dropped all this. There would then be no arguing, that at least was a comfort. But there was a curious sense of isolation and division between him and the girl.
Yet, after all, he asked himself indignantly, what affair was it of hers? She was not his confessor; she was just a convent-bred girl who couldn’t understand. He would be aloof and polite. That was the attitude. And he would manage his own affairs.
He drew a few brisk draughts of smoke from his pipe and stood up. That was settled.
It was in this determined mood then that he stepped out on to the platform at the close of this wintry day, and saw Maggie, radiant in furs, waiting for him, with her back to the orange sunset.
These two did not kiss one another. It was thought better not. But he took her hand with a pleasant sense of welcome and homecoming.
“Auntie’s in the brougham,” she said. “There’s lots of room for the luggage on the top. … Oh! Laurie, how jolly this is!”
It was a pleasant two-mile drive that they had. Laurie sat with his back to the horses. His mother patted his knee once or twice under the fur rug, and looked at him with benevolent pleasure. It seemed at first a very delightful homecoming. Mrs. Baxter asked after Mr. Morton, Laurie’s coach,
