This famous specimen of art hung up in Mr. Robinson's office, and was frequently exhibited in all its fulness of detail to lady-clients. They were often obliging enough to interest themselves specially in the lowest branch, where Mr. Robinson had written in a small clear handwriting the names of six boys, happy fruit of wedlock, destined no doubt to be illustrious, and—not elevate; that would scarcely be possible, considering their antecedents, but—preserve the character of the Robinson family and honor its traditions.
"In the mean time," Mr. Robinson would say, opening the account-book, settlement or will which his lady-client had come to consult, and laughing out a clear hearty laugh which told of noarrière-pensée, "I keep the young beggars in good order."
Mr. Robinson was always very busy. If clients, ladies principally, did not happen to be with him during the whole morning, he had a vast arrear of letters to finish. He therefore possessed a large gloomy-looking room, where applicants for the favor of admission to a private interview generally waited until he could be disengaged.
It was into this room that Margaret was shown when, her determination having outlasted dressing and breakfast, she presented herself to ask if she might see Mr. Robinson.
The clerk said that a gentleman was with Mr. Robinson, but no doubt he would be disengaged presently. He took up her card, and Margaret sat down in the waiting-room, rather glad of the opportunity afforded her of collecting her thoughts, and considering how she could open the subject, for, now that she was actually bound on the errand of asking a guarantee of respectability from the man she had hitherto looked upon simply as the person who sent her money and transacted her business, it seemed rather harder than she had imagined.
She had a longer time for preparation than she could have desired. Mr. Robinson, as he afterward informed her, was literally overwhelmed with work.
He rose when she entered, set a chair for her, then resumedhis own. His manner was nonchalant, even, some might have said, unpolished in its freedom, as he expressed his pleasure at seeing Mrs. Grey, and his hope that nothing unpleasant had brought her so far from home.
Mr. Robinson was much commended for his easy natural manners, but on this occasion, as on a few others, an acute observer might have detected something of nervousness underlying his expansive gestures.
When he had exhausted his vocabulary, Mrs. Grey spoke. Lifting her veil, she fixed her soft brown eyes on Mr. Robinson's face. "I have come to consult you," she said.
"Most happy, I am sure," he replied briskly—"any assistance in my power. It was an unfortunate business. Happily, we secured enough for maintenance."
"You allude to my losses, Mr. Robinson. I am, unfortunately, no woman of business, so I have scarcely understood how it comes that my income is so diminished; but I assure you that I have full confidence in your judgment. Perhaps, as I have come, you will be able to explain these matters to me."
"And delighted," he answered with some eagerness; "it is one of my peculiar crotchets in business to keep all my clients very conversant with their own affairs. Others act differently, but 'Do unto others,' you know, is one of my chief rules. I live by rule, Mrs. Grey—the highest of all rules, I hope. See here, now," and he laid his hand on a pile of account-books, "this is a case in point. Mrs. Herbert, a widow, large estates, before consulting me scarcely knew what she possessed; now looks regularly over the books, spends an hour here once a month. Danvers, again: young lady about to be married, sent for me to draw up the settlement. 'You know all about me, Mr. Robinson,' she said; 'draw it up as you like.' 'Excuse me, Miss Danvers,' said I. 'I should prefer you to use your own judgment in the matter.' She has done so, and in the course of conversation on the subject has made some very sensible suggestions."
Mr. Robinson did not say to how many different interviews the sensible suggestions had given rise; certainly, however, he had been no loser by them.
"I could quote hundreds of instances, all tending the same way," he continued.
Poor Margaret shook her head: "I am afraid I should find it very difficult to understand."
"Not at all, not at all. Look here, now. What are you anxious to know? I venture to say I'll make it clear to you before you leave this room."
Margaret smiled. This man's frankness pleased her. His manner, though a little unpolished, was, she thought, anything but displeasing; then he seemed to understand business thoroughly. Perhaps he would show that, after all, her affairs were not so desperate as they seemed.
"I am first anxious to know what you mean by writing to me that one of the mortgages has turned out badly," she said.
"Easy to explain," he answered, with a self-satisfied smile. "Only, perhaps, by the bye, I shall have to begin with the A B C, as one may say, and acquaint you with the nature of a mortgage."
"If you please, Mr. Robinson; I am afraid I am ignorant even to that extent."
"So much the better, Mrs. Grey, so much the better: 'A little knowledge'—you know the proverb. Ladies take upsuchideas when they know, as they imagine, something of business! I had far rather deal with total ignorance on these points; but don't be discouraged. We must begin at the very beginning. Forsaking business terms altogether for the moment, I will, if you please, put this to you simply. You take me, Mrs. Grey?" He smiled with a frankness that was charming to behold. "Do at Rome as Rome does. With ladies talk of business as they are able to understand."
Mrs. Grey smiled her acquiescence.
"Agreed," cried the lawyer effusively. "Well, then, to work. Say now, by way of illustration"—he took a pencil as he spoke and drew a line, writing A at the one end, B at the other and C in the centre—"A represents a person who has a landed estate, houses, what not; B has no landed property, but the value of A's estate in money. B wants to put out his money in some safe way; A, who does not care to sell his property, wants money; steps in C, the intermediate person—a lawyer, we shall say—known to both parties. He negotiates between them, finally arranging for B to lend hismoney to A on the security of A's property. A deed of mortgage is then drawn up, which makes the agreement binding. A has B's money, pays a half-yearly interest, and if, after a six months' notice, the sum originally lent is not forthcoming, A's property may be sold to make good the default. Do you follow me, Mrs. Grey?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Robinson. You have made clear to me what I never understood before; but under these circumstances I cannot see how my money was actually lost. The property would always be there."
"True, Mrs. Grey." Mr. Robinson gave a somewhat peculiar smile. "I am glad to see that you understand me so thoroughly; your suggestion is in the highest degree practical; there is one consideration, however, which we have not taken into account. Land, unfortunately, depreciates in value, so that at times it would be highly dangerous to the interests of the mortgagee to press a sale. At other times the title of the mortgagor is not perfectly clear. All these things should be carefully looked into beforehand. In your case everything was done, but one cannot be always certain. However, excuse me for correcting your slight inaccuracy. IthinkI never said that this sum of money was lost. I like to be perfectly certain on these points. Perhaps you can refer to the passage in my letter in which I announced this unfortunate business."
He looked at her with some anxiety—nervousness perhaps an acute observer might have said, but Margaret was not an acute observer.
She smiled and shook her head: "Quite impossible, Mr. Robinson. I never keep my letters, especially business ones. Ihavebeen told that this habit is a bad one; butà quoi bon?It is really too much trouble."
The lawyer showed his teeth. "A lady's view of matters," he said briskly; "and, after all, full of common sense. Whyshouldyou trouble yourself? However, to returnà nos moutongs, as the French would say" (Mr. Robinson had spent a year in a French school, and considered himself a perfect master of the language), "I am happy to say that your affairs are likely to take a favorable turn. I have a hold on the fellow for another little matter; indeed, I maysay that he is completely in my power. With your permission I will open proceedings against him."
Mr. Robinson always spoke the truth—at least, as some one said in the House of Commons lately, "what he thought the truth." But, though his affairs were open to the inspection of men and angels, he did not consider mental reservation a sin, even where it would seriously affect the character of a truth which he had ingenuously stated. He guarded himself from telling Mrs. Grey that the other little business was a large sum owed to himself by Mrs. Grey's debtor, and that he was fully determined to screw this out of him before another debt should be paid.
The knowledge of want or of something approaching it—want rather of the refinements of life than of its necessities—had made Margaret look with far more interest on money than she had ever done before. Formerly, it had been a certain something that always came at the right moment—for Mr. Robinson was as regular as clockwork in the transaction of his business—and that came in amounts amply sufficient to meet every need. What wonder that she thought little of how it came, and was tolerably lavish in its expenditure?
Now, everything was changed. Money meant education for Laura, the refinements and amenities of life for herself; above all, independence. The want of it meant servitude, drudgery, perhaps even the squalor of poverty. But she was not sufficiently acquainted with business to imagine that some one might be to blame for the failing mortgage—that it could be possible to call her solicitor to account.
She trusted Mr. Robinson implicitly. For was he not a good man? Righteous overmuch, some people said; one who conducted his business in an open, off-hand kind of way, which savored more of the harmlessness of the dove than of the wisdom of the serpent? Did not his frank smile and cheerful greeting speak of a quiet conscience? Did not worthy people of all denominations consult him in the management of their affairs?
Margaret could not have suspected Mr. Robinson, and his cheerful way of suggesting proceedings and their mysterious effect filled her with new hope. She looked up eagerly: "Oh, Mr. Robinson, then you really think there is hope?"
"My dear lady," he answered in his peculiarly lively way, "I have not the smallest doubt of it. Be content, for the time being, with your small income, and, take my word for it, before six months have passed over our heads we shall (by the Divine assistance—of course, we must never forget that, Mrs. Grey) be able to pay back into your account the larger part, if not all, of the sum in question."
The tears filled Margaret's eyes. Had she grown so very mercenary, then? I scarcely think so.Herdelight was that of the escaped captive. There would be no necessity now to prosecute her painful search for employment. The yoke that already, by anticipation, was galling her might be thrown off with a clear conscience. Mr. Robinson's word meant more than that of most people, and he gave six months as the duration of her penury. During that time her little daughter would scarcely require more instruction than she could give; they had still sufficient to enable them to live quietly; and even should she be a loser to some extent, there would no doubt be sufficient left for Laura's education. If not, it would be time enough then to think of ways and means.
She gave a sigh of intense relief, then looked up, smiling through a mist of gathering tears: "I am very foolish, Mr. Robinson, but your words have takensucha load from my mind! I had come here to-day to consult you about taking a situation as governess. They wanted—that is, I mean," she blushed as she spoke, "a reference, you know, was necessary, so I came to you about it."
"To give you a reference," replied he, with a smile that made Margaret wince, there was so much assurance in its cordiality. "You could not have come to a better person. My connection is very large, and, I may say without unduly boasting (these earthly gifts must all be looked upon as coming from above), where the name of Robinson is known it is respected. A curious proof of this occurred yesterday." Here Mr. Robinson was interrupted by one of his clerks, who brought up the intimation that Lord —— was waiting to see him. "Say I am with a lady-client; beg his lordship to wait a few moments." Then, as the clerk went down with the message, "You see," he continued, turning to Mrs. Grey,"all my clients stand on the same footing. If the prince of Wales came here to consult me on business-matters, I should request him to wait his turn. But as we need not keep any one unnecessarily in suspense, my little anecdote must be narrated on another occasion. Remarkable circumstance, too—fresh proof, if that were needed, of the existence of an overruling Providence."
Margaret rose from her seat, scarcely perhaps so impressed as she might have been with the noble impartiality of her solicitor.
"One moment," he said, drawing out his cheque-book. Now, Mr. Robinson loved his cheque-book. It was his sceptre, the insignia of his power. He always produced it with a certain consciousness of superiority, and made over the trifling pieces of paper which his name had rendered valuable as if they had been princely gifts.
"While this affair is pending," he continued pompously, "you are no doubt somewhat straitened. I shall be glad to relieve you from undue embarrassment. I will write out a cheque for twenty pounds. And you may draw upon me—from time to time—always in moderation, of course."
A blush dyed Margaret's cheek. For a moment she felt disinclined to put herself under any obligation to this man, whose style of offering assistance was not very palatable to her high spirits. Then she remembered that this was business—a thing, no doubt, done every day. And his manner—Well, it was simply that of a man not quite accustomed to polite society. It arose from ignorance, and was a proof, if any were needed, of his honesty. His worst faults lay evidently on the surface, covering over, as in many cases, a good and noble nature.
These, allow me to say, were Margaret's reflections; it does not, therefore, follow that they were absolutely correct. Women have a trick of rushing to conclusions. A man weighs and balances, sets this quality against that, thinks out the effect of one upon the other, and in many cases comes to a conclusion slowly and with difficulty. It is well. He is not so often deceived. A woman has generally a preconceived idea, a prejudice for or against. This being so, it is more than natural that some expression of countenance, sometone of voice, some trick of manner, should fall in with her preformed judgment, and cause, in the shortest time imaginable, a conclusion which scarcely anything will shake. She believes even against proof self-evident to the rest of the world. This, no doubt, is partly the reason why helpless, lonely women are so often cheated and robbed.
Margaret was in this position. I do not mean to say that she had been cheated and robbed. Her position was that of full confidence in the man who transacted her business. She had thought of him as a friend: she had found him frank and honest, no suspicion of the legal rogue in his face or manner. Therefore she came to this conclusion: Mr. Robinson was her friend, he looked after her interests very carefully, he would set her affairs right if any one could. This being so, what mattered a little want of polish? She could very well afford to dispense with it.
"Thank you," she said as Mr. Robinson handed her the cheque; "I cannot deny that this will be of present assistance to me."
Mr. Robinson then rose in his turn, shook his fair client's hand with perhaps more than necessary empressement, and escorted her to the door.
But the groundOf all great thoughts is sadness.
Arthur Forrest was certainly developing a taste for art—not at all a bad taste, his friends said one to the other, for a young man who had amply sufficient to live upon. It would fill up his time, keep him from the dangers of idleness, give him, in fact, something to think about. For art could easily be pursued in a most gentlemanlike manner. A person who fills the position, not of an artist indeed, but of an intelligent patron of the fine arts, is not only a useful member of society, but one who is held in some estimation by the world.
There were many who took a very close interest in the affairs of young Arthur Forrest, for he was, or would be in a few weeks—that was all the period that divided him from his majority—a young man of property. Then he was an orphan. What more natural than that tender, sympathetic young ladies and pious, well-conducted matrons should watch his proceedings with affectionate interest, and strive to do what lay within their power to save him from the evil influences which were popularly supposed to be immediately surrounding him?
Unfortunately for the pious matrons and sympathetic young ladies, Arthur was well taken care of.
Mrs. Churchill was his aunt. She had tended him in his infancy, as she often said pathetically to a circle of admirers; she had the first claim on his love and gratitude. The gratitude Mrs. Churchill was anxious to keep as her inalienable right in Arthur: the love she had already passed on to her daughter and representative, pretty Adèle.
And hitherto Arthur had shown himself dutifully content with the arrangement. He did not think much of girls as a class, and certainly Adèle was as good a specimen of them as he had ever met. Then he was accustomed to her; she generally knew how to keep him amused; she was pretty, lively and well dressed. Till Arthur met Margaret he had never admired a shabby person. In fact, he was languidly grateful to Aunt Ellen and the Fates for having arranged matters so comfortably, because matters were actually arranged.
Mrs. Churchill knew the world she lived in too well to allow such a thing as a tacit understanding between the cousins, which a young man's whim could break through in a moment. She did not intend that her daughter's first youth and beauty should be spent in a devotion which was destined to meet with no adequate return. Adèle was rich and pretty—she would have no difficulty in meeting with a suitable partner; only to keep Arthur and his money in the family was desirable. Besides, he was young; he would make an amenable son-in-law; then he was already accustomed to the yoke—no small point this, in Mrs. Churchill's estimation.
When, therefore, Adèle had reached the age of eighteen and Arthur that of twenty—events which had happenedalmost simultaneously shortly before my story opens—Mrs. Churchill, as she fondly hoped and believed, put the finishing stroke to the edifice she had been forming. It had been her aim, during the few years that had passed since Arthur had emerged into young manhood, to make her house the most agreeable place in the world to him, and in this she had been eminently successful. Adèle had ably assisted her, for she, poor child! had always cherished affection for her handsome cousin—an affection which the dawn of womanhood and her mother's fostering influence ripened without much difficulty into a tenderer feeling.
She found it not easy, then, when wise eighteen had arrived, to understand her mother's tactics, for Arthur the welcome guest began from that date to be less warmly received, and obstacles were thrown in the way of their meetings, which had been so delightfully frequent and unembarrassed. They came notably from Mrs. Churchill, and yet her personal affection for her nephew seemed only to have increased; there was a tinge of gentle regret in her manner even while she appeared to be sending him from them.
It was almost more inexplicable to Arthur than to Adèle and at last he could bear it no longer.
With the love of universal popularity so common to his age, he hated the idea of being in his relative's bad graces; besides, the charms of his cousin's society increased tenfold in his imagination as difficulties cropped up to interfere with his quiet enjoyment of them.
"By Jove!" he said to himself in the course of a cigar-fed meditation, "I must have it out with Aunt Ellen at once."
That was a memorable moment in his history. With the impulsiveness of youth he extinguished his cigar and repaired in haste to Mrs. Churchill's handsome residence. He found her alone in her drawing-room, pensive but loftily kind, and soon extracted from her what she would so much rather have kept to herself—that she was acting in Adèle's interests; the dear girl was impressionable, the relationship dangerous; much as she loved her nephew, she must not forget that a mother's first duty was to watch over her child; and much more of a like nature, to all of which Arthur listened dutifully.Of course he was no match for his aunt; before the evening of that day had arrived he occupied the position of an accepted lover, blessed by a happy parent, and possessed what perhaps, on some future day, he might possibly be led to imagine the dear-bought privilege of a freeentréeinto Aunt Ellen's house. Since then matters had progressed satisfactorily, as far as Mrs. Churchill was concerned, though Adèle, who took almost a motherly interest in her lover and future husband, was inclined to lament the absolute aimlessness of his life.
Women, generally speaking, have a quicker mental growth than men. The mind of a girl of eighteen is in many cases more mature than that of a man of twenty. Arthur had passed his twenty years without much thought beyond himself. Adèle, with the like luxurious surroundings, had already begun to look past herself—to feel that there was a world of which she knew nothing, but with which, nevertheless, she was very closely connected—a world of want and suffering, where wrong was too often triumphant.
She was fond of reading. Perhaps some of these thoughts had crept in through the medium of poet and historian. For Adèle's insight told her that there were many higher and nobler lives for a man and woman to lead than that of self-pleasing. She sometimes longed to be a man, that she might do something worth doing in a world that wanted the active and the strong. But the little she could do she did, and had she known how many blessed her for her gentle words and timely aid, she might have been less desponding about a woman's ability to take some place in the world.
For the rest she looked to Arthur, the hero of her imagination. Poor Adèle! Her hero did not quite see as she did the necessity for exertion. He took life languidly, and could not conceive why people should excite themselves about what did not concern them; at least this was what he always said when she tried to instill into him some of her ideas about human wrongs and human service.
But Adèle did not despair; she had a woman's supreme faith in "the to-come." Something would arouse Arthur's dormant energies and bring out the latent fire of his nature.
In the mean time she, with the rest of his world, waspleased to notice his growing interest in the fine arts, though she, wiser than they, felt inclined to put down his constant haunting of the picture-galleries to a growing restlessness that meant uneasiness with the aimless life of self-gratification he was leading and a stretching-out after something higher.
And Adèle was partially right. Arthur was changed. Perhaps it was more the sadness than the beauty of that fair woman's face which haunted him so strangely, mingling with all his thoughts a certain self-reproach which he found it very difficult to understand.
It may have been that in the pale, calm face, resolute in endurance, he saw for one moment what was going on for ever around him; he read the mystic law of nature—sacrifice of self. For life is glad; where gladness is not life may be borne, but not loved or rejoiced in, and in the calm surrender of life's gladness to the call of life's necessity there is a surrender of life itself, the most beautiful part of life.
Something of this he had seen in Margaret's pale face. A joy put away, surrendered, a burden taken up and patiently borne. This it was that filled his mind when the first impression of her loveliness had in a manner passed. He saw the suffering, and beside the suffering he saw himself, self-indulgent, careless, free of hand, light of spirit, with no thought, in a general way, beyond the enjoyment of the present hour.
Often before Arthur had expressed something of this: lolling in a luxurious arm-chair with his feet on the fender, while Adèle amused him by a song or read to him something that had been charming her, he would say with a comfortable sigh, "What a good-for-nothing sort of fellow I am, Adèle!"
But then he had scarcely felt it, or if he had it had been only with a kind of impression that the good-for-nothingness sat elegantly on the shoulders of a young man of property.
Clever Mrs. Churchill rather encouraged the impression. Young men with ideas are apt to become unmanageable, and she was earnestly desirous of keeping Arthur in her invisible leading-strings.
But this time Arthur felt it. There was suffering, sorrow, wrong in the world; he was doing nothing but vegetate on itssurface, keeping his comforts, his gladness, his fresh young life for his own selfish gratification. And the worst of it all was that he did not see a way out of it. In the days of chivalry young knights went out armed to fight for defenceless women and redress human wrongs. Arthur felt sure that his mysterious lady had been in some way cruelly wronged, and he longed to constitute himself her protector and knight; but in the first place she had persistently denied herself to him; in the second place her wrongs might prove to be such as he would find himself utterly unable to redress.
He was bound to Adèle, and if it had not been so he felt instinctively that he was scarcely a suitable husband for the beautiful widow. (Arthur had made up his mind that Margaretwasa widow.) Under such circumstances, even if so minor an evil as poverty were her trouble, there would be a certain incongruity in offering her half his fortune, and she would probably resent such a step. He could offer it anonymously, but even in such case it would be quite possible that she might think it right to decline acceptance, and Mrs. Churchill would reasonably consider Adèle and any children she might have wronged by the proceeding. Arthur, in fact, had wandered into a maze whence there really seemed to be no exit. His only hope was to see Margaret again. One more glimpse of her fair face might do more toward unravelling the mystery than hours of lonely pondering. This, then, it was, rather more than love of art, that led him to haunt the picture-galleries, and especially the one where he had first seen her.
But if it were this that led him, something else kept him. Wandering hither and thither by these trophies of mind, with this new earnestness in his spirit, he began to feel in them a power unsuspected in his former languid visits. They represented work, conflict, triumph. Each picture had its history, into each were wrought the mingled threads of human experience. In the dim glory that shone from one or two of these transcripts of Nature Arthur read the struggle of soul to express itself worthily, and his young spirit was stirred within him.
In the loving detail, all beautiful of its kind, with which the artist surrounded the fair queen of his homage, he sawthe earnestness of genius, and bowing his head he worshipped in the great temple of Humanity.
The young man's thoughts began to run, not on his own elegance and superiority, but on the great problems of Nature and Art. Self was removed from its lofty pedestal. What the fair woman's face had begun human genius carried on. Arthur Forrest was changed.
Thou art woman;And that is saying the best and worst of thee.
Margaret's business in London was over. The more she thought about her visit to Mr. Robinson, the more certain she felt that her affairs were in capable hands, and that her money difficulties would very soon disappear.
She wrote, therefore, to Mrs. Augustus Brown, declining the honor of becoming a member of her household.
That lady was considerably annoyed at first. Afterward she consoled herself by the reflection that her own presence of mind had saved her sweet innocents from a terrible danger. It was only too evident, she remarked to the passive Brown, that Mrs. Grey's antecedents would not bear looking into. It was a fresh instance of the danger to which the inexperienced were subjected in London. Had she not been very watchful she might have been misguided by that woman's remarkable appearance.
Mr. Augustus pricked up his ears at this.
"In what way was she remarkable, my love?" he blandly inquired.
To which civil question Mrs. Brown, recalling her former uneasiness, only replied by shaking her fat shoulders and descanting volubly on the fruitful theme of male curiosity.
It is highly probable that Margaret had a happy escape, in spite of "salary no object, and masters for every branch."
As soon as the letter had been despatched she began tothink of home and Laura, and to lay her plans for return. But, first, various articles of wearing apparel would have to be procured, for Margaret was not at all fond of shabbiness for its own sake, and her little girl's wardrobe was, she knew, sadly in need of replenishment.
So she put off her departure for a day or two, that this business, so much more pleasing than what had hitherto been occupying her, might be satisfactorily accomplished. Between shopping and needlewomen the next few days passed by with considerable rapidity and far more brightness of spirit; and then Margaret thought that before leaving London she might pay a farewell visit to the pictures, and, especially, to the one which had so powerfully attracted her.
Dressing herself with far more care than on the previous occasion—for the black stuff was replaced by silk, and over it the rich Indian scarf, for which Margaret seemed to cherish a peculiar affection, looked more in keeping—she started on a bright afternoon in an omnibus that took her to the very door of the Exhibition.
For this once Margaret wished to enjoy without fatigue. And she certainlydidenjoy. Coming from the brightness and life of the May day into the cool shade of the galleries (it was too early in the day for the fashionable crowd), with the wealth of coloring and suggestive beauty on every side, nothing to do but to wander from one gem of art to the other,—all this was really delightful to Margaret. It was easy work at first, but as the day wore on the usual crowds began to pour into the galleries, and moving about became somewhat more difficult.
Margaret was there to see the pictures and refresh herself with their beauty. She did not, therefore, pay much attention to the many who were coming and going, and was in consequence perfectly unconscious of the notice she herself attracted; for many who caught a glimpse of her fair face in passing turned instinctively and looked again. There was one who admired her specially.
He was a little sandy-haired individual who had been wandering about rather disconsolately with his wife. Having at last been able to escort her to a seat, he was venturing to look round when he caught sight of Margaret Grey. It wasa happy moment. She was looking up at one of Millais' suggestive pieces; the full appreciation of its meaning gave a certain spirituality to her face, and her lips were parted in a smile of calm enjoyment.
He was struck dumb with astonishment. Had it not been for the presence of his wife and a snub-nosed olive-branch he would have improved the occasion by trying to find out something about this new beauty.
As it was, he turned away his eyes from beholding vanity, and looked down on the opposite virtue, his wife, whose eyes, strange to say, were beholding vanity too. With the assistance of her eye-glasses they were scanning the object that had previously attracted the attention of her lord.
The heart of the sandy-haired throbbed with unusual excitement, but (oh the treachery of the male sex!) he smothered excitement under an appearance of utter indifference.
"Do you know that lady, my love?" he inquired in his blandest tones.
"Lady, indeed!" replied Mrs. Brown, for the moment forgetting her prudence in her indignation. "It's Mrs. Grey, whowasto have been my children's governess, Mr. Brown. Now I hope yousee!"
Mr. Augustus didnotprecisely see, but for the sake of peace and quietness he professed to be very much enlightened, and proceeded with a man's temerity to make some other trifling observation about the pseudo-governess.
He met with a smart rebuke for his pains, and then Mrs. Brown, feeling no doubt that the locality was dangerous, requested that her carriage should be found.
When the unhappy Brown returned dutifully to escort her to where it was in waiting for its dainty burden the vision of female loveliness had vanished, and though he paid more visits to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy than he had ever done before, the vision never returned. Alas, the cruelty of human nature as exemplified by watchful wives!
Margaret did not know what mischief she was causing. She had found her way to the little sea-piece which had already spoken so powerfully to her imagination. And there it was that at last Arthur Forrest's eyes were gladdened once more with a sight of the face that had haunted him.
He was standing near the entrance of the room, lost in the crowd, which was every moment increasing, when she passed by him so closely that her silk dress touched him. He had been watching for her daily, but at the fateful moment her appearance took him by surprise.
He had formed plans without number for addressing her, without showing himself obtrusive or inquisitive. The very words of polite inquiry after her health, the manner in which, by courtesy and chivalrous deference, all her fears would be set at rest, had been rehearsed again and again in colloquy between himself and a Margaret evoked by his dream; but when the moment had come, when the real Margaret was near, all his plans vanished like mists before the sun—he was bashful and timid as a youngdébutante. Instead of emerging from the crowd which seemed to swallow up his identity and claiming acquaintance with her, he drew farther back into its friendly shelter. He could not address her yet, he said to himself; he must seize the opportunity of gazing once more on her fair face.
He saw her walk quietly through the gallery and pause near one of the seats, the scene of their memorable rencontre only a few days previously. It was full, so she stood beside it, gazing with dreamy pleasure at the picture of the westering sea.
Shelooked at the picture, and Arthur in his safe retirement looked at her; indeed, he was so absorbed in the contemplation that it needed a very smart tap on the shoulder from a gentleman who had come up behind him, and who had already addressed one or two remarks to him utterly in vain, to awake him to a sense of things as they were, and to the consciousness of the existence of some few people in the world besides himself and Margaret Grey.
As he looked round he reddened with annoyance, and yet Captain Mordaunt, the gentleman who had broken in upon his reverie, was a man with whom most young men liked to be seen. Not that he was particularly attractive, for his hair was turning gray, his face was blotchy, his neck red and long, and his nose beginning to take the hue of the purple grape. Then, too, his manner was apt to be snappish and sarcastic, especially to young men. But what was all this when it wasa certain fact that he knew, as they would have said, "an awful lot;" that he was the fashion; that he counted his intrigues by the hundred? Indeed it was whispered, and not without foundation, some said, that not only actresses and inferior people of that description were concerned in them; the names of ladies of high rank had been associated with that of Alfred Mordaunt. But this of course may have been only rumor, for rumor is thousand-tongued and not particularly charitable. In any case, the gallant captain did not seem to care to deny the soft imputations. He considered it his chief mission in life to be a lady-killer.
Arthur was not above the weaknesses of his day and generation; he had often courted Captain Mordaunt in the past. The past! How soon those few days had become the past, the great blank of existence, when he had lived without having seenher!
What annoyed Arthur so particularly was this. He saw in a moment that he had betrayed his secret by his own folly—that Captain Mordaunt, the last person in the world to whom he would have spoken of his romantic devotion, had traced the direction of his glance, and with eye-glass fixed was taking a look on his own account. The look was followed by another tap, a congratulatory one, on Arthur's shoulder. "By Jove, Master Arthur! you have taste! The finest woman I've seen for some time, 'pon my solemn word and honor! And beauties are something in my line too. Not of the pink-and-white sort either, that generally goes down with you young fellows. There's refinement, intelligence, and what d'you call it, that painters make a fuss about, in that face."
His comments sent the indignant blood to the very roots of young Arthur's hair. He made an heroic effort at indifference. "I am really at a loss to understand you, Captain Mordaunt," he stammered.
The gallant captain laughed, holding his sides as if the merriment overpowered him utterly.
"Verygood!Verygood!" he cried between the paroxysms. "Sly boy! Didn't know you were so deep. Want to keep all to yourself, eh? I'll warrant the fair cousin knows nothing."
The color faded from Arthur's face, but there came a dangerous light into his eyes. "I wish you would keep your remarks and your ill-timed jokes to yourself, Captain Mordaunt," he said sullenly.
The captain looked astonished, and whistled softly for a moment. "Gently, gently, young spitfire!" he said lightly. "But come, who is she? Let an old friend into the secret. Why, I declare, ——" (mentioning a lady of more repute for beauty than character) "couldn't hold a candle to her."
This was almost too much for Arthur. He turned round with flashing eyes, and there was a subdued force in his voice as he answered, using the first rash words that came to his lips, "Howdareyou speak ofherin such a connection? I am a younger man than you, but, by Heaven! if you should repeat such an insult I could strike you down where you stand."
The captain laughed again, with a trifle of uneasiness this time, and he turned a little pale. Rumor said that he was a coward, but probably his fear in the present instance was of a row in this public place. However that might be, he certainly took Arthur's challenge rather coolly. "Calm yourself, young man," he said more seriously than he had yet spoken. "I scarcely knew I was treading on such dangerous ground, and certainly could not mean to insult any friend of yours. You know this lady, I presume, since you are so hot in her defence?"
Again Arthur blushed. What a fool he felt himself! Captain Mordaunt in this mood was less easy to escape than in his former one. "I know her," he answered after a pause, "only very slightly."
"Very slightly, I imagine so," replied the other satirically. "It is not the first timeIhave seen her, though," he addedsotto voce.
Arthur was all attention in a moment: "Wherehave you met her, Captain Mordaunt?"
"Oh, that ismysecret. We can all be close when it suits our turn. A word in your ear, young man. Ultra modesty, faith in the immaculate—you take me?—never goes down with women. I know something of them, and they're all alike. There! don't look indignant. Follow up your advantage,if you've gained any, and before long you may find out that I am right, and thank me for the hint."
Margaret had found a place at last on the crimson seat. As the last words were spoken she was leaning forward, her head resting on one of her hands, from which she had taken the glove. There was marvellous grace in her position. The long white fingers, the flushed cheek, the dark weary eyes and the slender bowed form made such a picture as few could have looked upon unmoved.
Captain Mordaunt, whose eyes had never stirred from her face, smiled softly (a smile that made Arthur writhe mentally), and clapped his thumb-nails together as though he had been applauding some favorite actress.
"Bravo!" he said in a low tone to his companion: "there's a pose for you—knows she's being admired. Bless you, lad! it's women's way; and so innocent all the time, the pretty pets! By ——, I'd like awfully to follow this up on my own account. But," and he gave a deep sigh, "I've too many on hand already—won't do. Like the Yankee, I shall be 'crowded out.' I leave the field clear for a younger knight. By-bye, old fellow—best wishes. I must be off—was due at Lady ——'s an hour ago."
In another moment he was gone, but before he left the hall he turned and looked at his young companion, and as he looked his lips curled. Arthur did not see him, nor did he hear his muttered comment: "Poor fool! he'll have his wings singed for him, but serve him right for his impertinence. Knockmedown, indeed!"
In Arthur's mind very different thoughts and feelings were struggling for ascendency. Indignation, disgust, loathing of this world-sated man and his wisdom—these the better side of his nature prompted, rejecting with spiritual insight the unholy poison; but there was a lurking demon within him, theegoArthur had been striving to trample upon, and to it all this was sympathetic.
Perhaps, after all, Captain Mordaunt was right. Chivalry and its attendant virtues belonged rather to the region of the imagination than to the matter-of-fact life of humanity. It was the way of the world for men to amuse themselves while they could. It had been Captain Mordaunt's way, and whata pleasant lifeheled! Petted, caressed, flattered, at home in some of the noblest mansions in England, his word law in all matters of etiquette, grand ladies considering it an honor to entertain him. He had not gained this position by squeamishness:thatpoint he allowed every one to know.
Arthur's heart told him that all this was false—that whatever or whoever the light loves of Captain Mordaunt might have been, the lady whom he admired was pure, true, unconscious of evil. He felt instinctively, with the insight lively sympathy often gives to the young, that to take advantage in any way of her lonely position would be to shut himself out from the place he had been so happy as to gain in her kindly remembrance, and to preclude himself from all hope of rendering her any further assistance in the future.
But the demon of self is strong, and the voice of the heart when opposed to it is weak. The pathetic voice of Arthur's heart was soon silenced by the echo which self-love gave to Captain Mordaunt's words of falsest wisdom. He looked at his fair ideal, but his feelings had changed. The animal within him was loudly asserting its right to be heard; the self-indulgent nature, which a life of luxury had fostered, persuaded itself easily that all was right, and his fair woman only as others. Cherishing such feelings, he could not look calmly on her face. With a new fire in his veins he turned away to wait outside the building until Margaret should make her appearance.
The waiting seemed long, but it did not cool his ardor or recall his former wisdom. Backward and forward he paced, up and down, with careful observation of all who left the building, until at last he began to fear either that he had suffered her to escape him, and thus lost all chance of finding out more about her—this was the vague way in which his plans were laid—or that something had delayed her, another fainting-fit perhaps. The bare idea maddened him; he put his hand to his head, he felt dizzy; this was very different from his nonchalant waiting for Adèle a few days previously, even from that daily hope—calm through all its earnestness—of looking once more on the face of his ideal.
That fatal tree! How many young souls are lost by the passionate craving for its fruit! The man of the world hadheld its beautiful poison to the young man's lips, and he could not tell that beneath the glory lay dust and ashes.
Let me not think I have thought too well of thee.Be as thou wast.
She came out at last. Arthur saw her, and began with feverish anxiety to trace every line of her face and form. Her veil was thrown back, he noticed that, and even while he did so hated himself for his suspicion. "She knows her beauty," said the false self within him; "it will not be difficult to show her that others know it too."
But he noticed something more, something that aroused the warm sympathies of his nature: the face that a few moments ago had glowed with excitement was very pale, and the sweet lips were quivering slightly—it might be with fatigue, it might be with nervousness. A woman feels so lonely in great London, and loneliness in a crowd is the bitterest kind of loneliness to a sensitive nature.
In a very few moments Arthur's measures were taken. Waiting until she had passed on her way, he hailed a hansom, shouted out to the driver the address of the shabby street which he had visited with his cousin a few days previously, and was presently on his way to Margaret's temporary home.
With what view? She had requested him expressly not to follow up the acquaintanceship—she was living by herself in close retirement. She might very probably be offended at his visit.
Arthur was young and impulsive: he said nothing of all this to himself, or rather, with Captain Mordaunt's hateful hints in his mind, he persuaded himself that it would be only too easy to gain her forgiveness for his disobedience. As he was whirled along through the streets the young man's heart throbbed. Be it remembered that he was inexperienced inthe world's ways, and had lived up to this time under strict petticoat-government. The very breaking free was exhilarating to his senses—so much so, indeed, that he did not even stop to reflect on the course he should pursue when, as he hoped and trusted, he would meet her face to face.
And Margaret in the mean time, knowing nothing of the temporary madness her face had caused, was making her way as quickly as she could through the throng and bustle of London to her lodgings in Islington.
Arthur had purposely delayed, and she arrived at the house before him. As the hansom dashed into the street, the young man caught a glimpse of her black dress disappearing behind one of the dingiest doors.
Now first he began to tremble a little at the thought of his own impulsive folly. He stood irresolute; he half made up his mind to return at once. But the voice of the tempter, "I know something of women, and they're all alike," rang in his ear.
"I will at least try," said the foolish young man to himself, and with a certain tremor at his heart he rang the door-bell.
The dirty maid-servant looked at him in astonishment. Mrs. Grey had received some distinguished visitors, notably the brilliant owner of the yellow chariot, but as yet no handsome, fashionably-dressed young gentleman had presented himself.
Margaret, as we know, had only one sitting-room. Judging from the elegance of his appearance that this visitor would be surely welcome, the girl took upon herself, without waiting for Mrs. Grey's permission, to usher the young gentleman into the dingy parlor.
Margaret was seated there. She had thrown off her bonnet, and smiling half pleasantly, half sadly, was examining a little frock, which had just been sent home by the dressmaker she employed.
Instinctively, Arthur paused on the threshold. This rapid crowning of his hopes was so unexpected as almost to take his breath away. But looking at her he dared not presume. There was in the solitary woman's face at the moment that beautiful mother-look, that calm Madonna tenderness,which makes the human charm of Raphael's divine conceptions of the Virgin. Feeling that he had been presumptuous and vain, Arthur would fain have turned and fled from this calm woman's presence, but now it was too late.
The opening of the door had disturbed Margaret's dream. She turned round, the tender mother-look changed into utter astonishment. Poor Arthur! She did not even seem to know him. Certainly, the room was rather dark, and his appearance had taken her completely by surprise; still, this swift forgetfulness was a terrible blow to his youthful vanity.
Scarcely knowing what to do with himself or how to account for his visit, he advanced, awkwardly enough, into the little dull room, and Margaret rose from her seat. To the excited imagination of the young man the lonely, shabby woman had passed suddenly into a stately queen of society.
As if awaiting his explanation she stood, but now his lips were sealed, his fine phrases deserted him, he could not stammer out a word of explanation.
It was Margaret who broke the embarrassing silence: "Sir, to what do I owe—"
He broke her short: "Mrs. Grey, you are cruel. Surely you must remember, you must know, I mean—understand—the interest, the enthusiasm—"
She was looking at him fixedly as he spoke, and at last his confusion became so overpowering that he stopped short. Then he could have bit out his tongue for his audacity, for the astonishment in her face was replaced by a keen and bitter pain.
"I remember you now," she said very slowly. "Yes, you are the young gentleman who some few days ago received the fervent thanks of a lonely woman for his chivalrous kindness."
The red blood mounted to Arthur's cheek. Unable longer to bear the gaze of those mournful eyes, he threw himself down on the nearest chair and covered his face with his hands.
"You did not understand me then," she continued very sadly; "you thought that—"
"Stop, for pity's sake, stop!" cried the young man, lifting up an agitated face. "I know all you would say. I am aweak, miserable fool, not worthy of having even been allowed to assist you; but if you only knew."
His penitence seemed to subdue her indignation. "Foolish boy!" she said with one of her rarely beautiful smiles. "I know perfectly well, and therefore it is that I forgive this impertinence. A little experience of the world will teach you your mistake. Three days ago I read in your young frank face that you judged me rightly, and I thanked you in my heart. I will not retract the judgment I formed of you then; but remember, what you have done is foolish and ought never to be repeated."
"I know it—I know it," moaned Arthur; "but may I never see you again? Ah! if by any service, however hard, I could make you happier than you are!"
She put out her hand, smiling kindly into his earnest face: "The best service you can render me now is to shake hands and say good-bye. As I said to you before, we move in different worlds. You will soon forget this infatuation, or only remember it as a warning against taking any advantage, however slight, of an unprotected woman. In that case I shall have rendered you a service."
Where was Captain Mordaunt's wisdom? Banished by a few words from a weak but noble woman. Happy for Arthur that the fair face hid a fairer soul! The poison was drawn out of his heart, and youth's own chivalry took its right place in his nature.
Bowing low over the offered hand, he answered in a broken voice, "I obey you, and I thank you. I cannot promise to forget, but from this time all my thoughts of you shall be tinged by the deep respect which is your due."
And I loved her—loved her, certes,As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands—As I loved pure inspiration, loved the Graces, loved the Virtues,In a love content with writing his own name on desert sands.
A luxurious drawing-room, furnished with all the taste and elegance that money can command; flowers here, there and everywhere—flowers in the deep recesses of lace-veiled windows, flowers on the multitude of tables that stood in every corner, flowers—and these the sweetest of them all—in the lap of a young fair-haired girl who filled a corner of one of the sofas.
She was paying no great attention to the flowers, only bathing one of her hands in them from time to time, as though to refresh herself with their cool fragrance. The other hand, her eyes and her whole soul appeared to be given to the book she held, an elegant little volume bound in fawn-colored calfskin.
She was so deeply engrossed that she did not hear the door open, and her cousin had time to cross the long room, sit down by her side and take possession of the hand that was trifling with the flowers before she was aware of his presence.
Then she looked up, blushed charmingly and closed her book: "Arthur dear, how delightful! I began to think you were never coming near us again, and I wanted particularly to speak to you about something that has been in my head ever since our visit to the Academy."
"Four days!" answered Arthur, languidly, throwing himself back on the sofa—"an enormous time, as young ladies would say, for one subject to engross them, especially in this age of progress."
"I suppose it would be absurd to imagine thatyoueven remember, Master Arthur," replied Adèle, quite equal to the occasion—"boys, as mamma always says, aresovolatile."
"Boys!" Arthur shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "You are very polite to-day, Adèle."
There was a shade of annoyance in his voice, which made Adèle look up at him, for she was a kind little lady who never carried her jokes too far. The result of the look was a rapid movement from her side of the sofa to Arthur's, and an earnest inquiry: "Arthur dear, something is wrong with you, you must surely be ill."
For Arthur's face was pale, and there was a wan, anxious contraction on his broad white brow.
His only answer was a faint smile. Then, after a pause, "You were reading, Adèle. Oh!" lifting the book from the small reading-table that stood conveniently near the sofa, "The Faërie Queene. I thought it would be something of the kind. Read some of it aloud, like a good girl; I'm too done up with this hot weather to talk just now."
"Poor old fellow!" Adèle smoothed back his curly hair and imprinted a kiss, that did not seem to excite her cousin particularly, between his temples. "Your forehead is so hot, dear, let me bathe it with eau-de-cologne for you."
She opened a little bottle of richly-cut, ruby-colored glass, and pouring some of its sweet contents on her handkerchief pressed it again and again to his brow, Arthur submitting with the delicate grace of an invalid.
"There," he said at last, "that'll do, dear; you can read now."
And the obedient Adèle, having first carefully lowered one of the Venetian blinds that no glare might offend her cousin's eyes, proceeded to read her favorite book in a soft, measured cadence that suited it admirably. There was no stumbling over the old English words. Adèle was so thoroughly acquainted with the style that the quaint language came naturally from her lips, even with a kind of delicate grace. Love had given her the art, for she loved, more than any book she had ever read, this dreamy, old-world poem, with its fair women, its armed knights, its dragons and its myths. Perhaps the force of contrast made these things specially dear to the young girl's soul, for there was not much romance in the fashionable life her mother taught her to think the best and wisest of all lives for a nineteenth-century young lady to lead.
Her voice sounded like the echo of a dream in the wideroom, and she herself, in her light summer dress, might well have answered to the description of one of the fair "maydes" whose woes and joys the gentle poet of another age has illumined with his silvery pen, while Arthur, as he rested on the sofa in an attitude of careless grace, his dark, lazy-looking eyes half closed, his head thrown back upon the cushions, might have been one of the brave young knights refreshing himself in his lady's bower after some terrible encounter with the many-headed, many-handed monster from whom it was his grand mission to free humanity in general, fair womankind in particular.
But the afternoon wore away. Adèle had just finished the account of a mighty encounter between Arthur of the magic sword and three unknightly knights who had attacked him together.
It had apparently aroused Arthur, for he rose suddenly and stood by her side, looking down upon her with a certain earnestness.
"Shut the book for the present, Adèle," he said, "I am ready to talk now; it has awoke me."
"What has awoke you, dear?"
"Your favorite poet, I suppose, my little cousin; but come, what were you so anxious to say to me when I came in just now?"
"Oh, Arthur, you cannot surely have forgotten. I wanted to speak to you about that beautiful fainting lady in the Academy."
"Perhaps I havenotforgotten, Adèle." Arthur turned away from his cousin as he spoke, for he did not wish her to see the sudden flush which not all the proud consciousness of manhood and superiority had been strong enough to restrain.
"Well," he continued after a pause, as his cousin remained thoughtfully silent, "Idoremember; but what of her?"
"I have been thinking of her, Arthur." Adèle's eyes looked sorrowful. "And whenever I think of her I remember those miserable houses, the shabby black dress and the quiet sadness in her face. Oh, Arthur,doyou think it would be possible to help her in any way?"
"For you it might be," said Arthur with an appearance ofsudden interest. "Unfortunately," he added bitterly, "women have the habit of looking upon any attempt at friendliness in one of the opposite sex as a species of insult."
This was rather too much for Adèle. With every respect for her cousin and fiancé, he was still too young, in her estimation, to be capable of exciting indignation in the breast of any woman. She laughed merrily: "I like your vanity, sir. As if any one could be insulted with you! You would have to pin on a false moustache, draw your hat over your brows to hide those ingenuous-looking eyes of yours, and button an enormous rough great coat up to your chin, before any one—any stranger, I mean—could imagine you even grown up. WhyIlook ages older than you!"
Adèle got up and looked at herself in the mirror.
"Yes,ages!" she repeated, with provoking emphasis and in eager expectation of a delightful torrent of self-vindication from her cousin. They often indulged in this kind of wordy war, and Adèle's feminine volubility and quickness of wit generally gave her the advantage.
No answer came from Arthur to the rash challenge. He was standing behind her, not looking into the mirror, but, as though utterly unconscious of her light words, gazing away into vacancy. Adèle caught sight of his face in the mirror, and a sudden silence seized her, for even as she spoke she saw that in her young cousin's face which warned her he was a boy no longer.
He had drawn himself up to his full height, and stood seemingly rapt in earnest thought, for his brows were slightly contracted, and his ingenuous-looking eyes had taken a deep, fixed look that strangely moved his cousin. With the quickness of a woman's insight she saw that her jest had been ill-timed, that a certain indescribable change, perhaps that for which she had hoped and longed, had come to the beautiful boy whom she had loved and caressed with almost maternal tenderness, for manhood's strength of purpose was written on his face. Her first feeling was a sense of foreboding. If Arthur was indeed changed, would he be changed to her?
The next was a determination, strong as the womanhood which with her love the young girl had put on early, to share his secret, whatever it might be.
She was too young and too inexperienced to understand all that this change, which she certainly felt, might mean; she could not reason about the new earnestness, nor trace it to any cause which he might think it well to hide, for Adèle was eminently generous and unsuspicious. She was accustomed to her cousin's light, boyish affection, and did not expect him to be a passionate lover; she was therefore ready with all her soul to rejoice in anything that would make him less frivolous, less absorbed in self and the mere enjoyment of life.
For a few moments she stood silently at the mirror, looking into it, but looking absently, for her mind was engaged in the problem of how to approach him, how to gain his confidence at this time which the young girl instinctively felt to be critical in her cousin's history. If he had ambitious dreams, was it not right that she should share them? She had always been his confidante; the bare idea, indeed, of being shut out from any of Arthur's secrets gave Adèle keen pain.
Deciding at last that frankness was her best policy, she turned to her cousin and putting both hands on his shoulders looked earnestly into his eyes. "Arthur," she said with a slight tremor in her voice, "what are you thinking about? Tell me."
He might have been called from a distant land, so great was the interval that separated his mind from hers at that moment, and at first he seemed even to have difficulty in recalling his scattered ideas.
She repeated the question, with an added earnestness that lent pathos to her voice.
Then he looked down upon her:
"Why do you wish so much to know, Adèle?"
"Oh, Arthur, how can you ask?" Her voice trembled, she was very near tears. "Dear," she continued in a lower voice, taking his hand in hers, "if I thought you hadonecorner in your heart of which I knew nothing, I scarcely know what I should do. 'Trust me all in all,' Arthur. I say it in all sincerity." She smiled faintly. "I promise not to be like that naughty Vivien, wrapping you up in spells, even if—if you should have any secret—"
"That would pain you very much to know, little cousin."
Adèle looked up bravely: "I should prefer to know it, Arthur—indeed I should; I think, dear—Ithink—I could put myself out of the question altogether, and help you as a sister might."
He did not notice the tremulousness, the slight choking of voice with which her brave little sentence ended.
"I wish with all my heart that you were my sister, Adèle: then I could tell you without any hesitation."
Adèle turned a little pale: "Iamyour sister, Arthur. Tell me."
He looked down upon her kindly: "I will tell you, Adèle, for in these matters I believe frankness to be the best policy; and, after all, it may be only a dream. I was thinking of Margaret Grey."
The woman who loves should indeedBe the friend of the man that she loves. She should heedNot her selfish and often mistaken desires,But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires.
And this, then, was the awakening? Like almost every thing in this wayward world of ours, it scarcely chimed in with the ideas and plans that had been formed concerning it.
Adèle had often mourned her cousin's frivolity, but she was young and hopeful. He was only a boy, she had told herself. Some of the great things in the world—its art, its literature, its science, the grand sphere of politics or the grander field of benevolence—would sooner or later throw chains about his spirit, so that, following where it led, he too, with herself perhaps as a twin attendant star, like the "Laon and Laone" of Shelley, might take a place in the poet's divine temple of genius, and live a life not utterly in vain in its influences on humanity.
She had even thought to arouse him herself, that by love he might rise, as others had done before him, to something higher than the fashionable life of self-pleasing. But of thisshe had never thought—that love indeed, but the love of another woman, should be the motive-power rousing his soul to earnestness. For she could not be mistaken. The change that had come to him—which change, she could not but remember as she cast her thoughts over the past few days, had dated from that memorable afternoon at the Academy—the impressive way in which he had told her of his thought, the quiet earnestness of his manner, all tended to the revelation of a fact—one that she would have put away indignantly had she not been forced to look it in the face. Arthur was in love, and not with her.
The beautiful woman whom in her youthful enthusiasm she had admired—loved even for her very loveliness—had won her cousin's heart. He loved Margaret Grey as he had never loved her, his cousin, the friend of his youth and childhood: withherhe had remained a boy; her beautiful rival had roused the dormant fire within him, and suddenly the boy had put on his manhood.
These were some of the thoughts that crowded bewilderingly on Adèle's brain as they sat together on the sofa—she and her cousin—with his strange confession between them.Hewas waiting to hear what she would say;shewas for the first few moments unable to speak. On the table before them lay the forgotten volume of theFaërie Queene; at their feet, in sweet confusion, were the scattered flowers fallen from Adèle's lap. She sat perfectly still, her hands crossed and her eyes cast down; he looked at her with some earnestness, and perhaps a little surprise.
Arthur's affection for Adèle was of a calm, brotherly kind, and he had always imagined that she cared for him in very much the same manner.
Hitherto, indeed, he had not been in a position to gauge the heights and depths of that mysterious, volatile essence which young mortals dignify by the fair name of love. But now, with this new light in his own heart, he was better able to understand his cousin's, and in her downcast face he thought he read her secret.
It made him tender instantly. Young men and old men are alike in this. Whether loving or not themselves, they are pleased when they find out, by indubitable signs, that theyhave inspired the sentiment; and this knowledge makes them, for the moment, strangely gentle and sympathetic.