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“They’ll see your blouse is dirty,” he said.

She looked at her sleeves and laughed for joy.

He was sharp with pride.

“What shall you do?” he asked.

“How?” she said.

He was awkward at a reply.

“About me,” he said.

“What do you want me to do?” she laughed.

He put his hand out slowly to her. What did it matter!

“But make yourself clean,” she said.

XIV

As they went up the hill, the night seemed dense with the unknown. They kept close together, feeling as if the darkness were alive and full of knowledge, all around them. In silence they walked up the hill. At first the street lamps went their way. Several people passed them. He was more shy than she, and would have let her go had she loosened in the least. But she held firm.

Then they came into the true darkness, between the fields. They did not want to speak, feeling closer together in silence. So they arrived at the Vicarage gate. They stood under the naked horse-chestnut tree.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said.

She laughed a quick little laugh.

“Come tomorrow,” she said, in a low tone, “and ask father. ”

She felt his hand close on hers.

She gave the same sorrowful little laugh of sympathy. Then she kissed him, sending him home.

At home, the old grief came on in another paroxysm, obliterating Louisa, obliterating even his mother for whom the stress was raging like a burst of fever in a wound. But something was sound in his heart.

XV

The next evening he dressed to go to the vicarage, feeling it was to be done, not imagining what it would be like. He would not take this seriously. He was sure of Louisa, and this marriage was like fate to him. It filled him also with a blessed feeling of fatality. He was not responsible, neither had her people anything really to do with it.

They ushered him into the little study, which was fireless. By and by the vicar came in. His voice was cold and hostile as he said:

“What can I do for you, young man?”

He knew already, without asking.

Durant looked up at him, again like a sailor before a superior. He had the subordinate manner. Yet his spirit was clear.

“I wanted, Mr Lindley—” he began respectfully, then all the colour suddenly left his face. It seemed now a violation to say what he had to say. What was he doing there? But he stood on, because it had to be done. He held firmly to his own independence and self-respect. He must not be indecisive. He must put himself aside: the matter was bigger than just his personal self. He must not feel. This was his highest duty.

“You wanted—” said the vicar.

Durant’s mouth was dry, but he answered with steadiness:

“Miss Louisa—Louisa—promised to marry me—”

“You asked Miss Louisa if she would marry you—yes—” corrected the vicar. Durant reflected he had not asked her this:

“If she would marry me, sir. I hope you—don’t mind. ”

He smiled. He was a good-looking man, and the vicar could not help seeing it.

“And my daughter was willing to marry you?” said Mr Lindley.

“Yes,” said Durant seriously. It was pain to him, nevertheless. He felt the natural hostility between himself and the elder man.

“Will you come this way?” said the vicar. He led into the dining-room, where were Mary, Louisa, and Mrs Lindley. Mr Massy sat in a corner with a lamp.

“This young man has come on your account, Louisa?” said Mr Lindley.

“Yes,” said Louisa, her eyes on Durant, who stood erect, in discipline. He dared not look at her, but he was aware of her.

“You don’t want to marry a collier, you little fool,” cried Mrs Lindley harshly. She lay obese and helpless upon the couch, swathed in a loose, dove-grey gown.