CHAPTER IX.


Henry had not referred to their marriage after the first interview. From
day to day, and week to week, he had put off doing so, hoping that she
might grow into a more serene condition of mind. But in this respect the
result had sadly failed to answer his expectation. He could not deny to
himself that, instead of becoming more cheerful, she was relapsing into a
more and more settled melancholy. From day to day he noted the change,
like that of a gradual petrifaction, which went on in her face. It was as
if before his eyes she were sinking into a fatal stupor, from which all
his efforts could not rouse her.

There were moments when he experienced the chilling premonition of a
disappointment, the possibility of which he still refused to actually
entertain. He owned to himself that it was a harder task than he had
thought to bring back to life one whose veins the frost of despair has
chilled. There were, perhaps, some things too hard even for his love. It
was doubly disheartening for him thus to lose confidence; not only on his
own account, but on hers. Not only had he to ask himself what would
become of his life in the event of failure, but what would become of
hers? One day overcome by this sort of discouragement, feeling that he
was not equal to the case, that matters were growing worse instead of
better, and that he needed help from some source, he asked Madeline if he
had not better write to her mother to come to Boston, so that they two
could keep house together.

"No," she said in a quick, startled voice, looking up at him in a scared
way.