CHAPTER I.

Produced by Clare Graham & Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature

CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW.

A NOVEL.

BY

MRS. M. C. DESPARD.

_Ham._ If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: Be

thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

----HAMLET, Act III. Scene I.

[1874]

CONTENTS.

PART I.

A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD.

CHAP.

I. A PICTURE AND A FACE.

II. ADÈLE AND MARGARET.

III. A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD.

IV. MORNING THOUGHTS--A RESOLVE TAKEN.

V. FOUND--A FRIEND.

VI. THE YOUNG HEIR.

VII. A CUNNING TEMPTER.

VIII. ARTHUR FALLS INTO THE SNARE.

IX. ARTHUR'S SECRET.

X. HOW ADÈLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE.

XI. A FACE AT THE WINDOW.

XII. FLIGHT.

XIII. LESSONS IN WORLD-WISDOM.

XIV. LAURA.

XV. A DREAM OF THE SEA.

XVI. UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE.

PART II.

A MAN AT WAR WITH HIMSELF.

I. MAURICE GREY.

II. SOCIETY VERSUS SOLITUDE.

PART III.

A DOUBLE MYSTERY.

I. PARTIAL DISCOVERIES.

II. GO AND SEE HER.

III. THE HOUSE IS EMPTY.

IV. JANE'S REVENGE.

V. THE LAWYER IN HIS OWN DOMAIN.

VI. MR. ROBINSON PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST.

VII. THE TWO FRIENDS.

VIII. THE INDIAN SCARF.

IX. ARTHUR ARRIVES AT MIDDLETHORPE.

X. ON THE BRINK OF MADNESS.

XI. THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD.

XII. "I SHALL LIVE AND NOT DIE."

XIII. ARTHUR AT WORK.

XIV. TWO INTERVIEWS.

XV. THE YOUNG PEOPLE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST.

XVI. A STORM.

XVII. WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT.

XVIII. LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

XIX. GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BYE.

PART IV.

AT WORK WITH A WILL.

I. LAURA'S TASK.

II. A WASTED LIFE.

III. A TALE ABOUT THE STARS.

IV. MOSCOW.

V. A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD.

VI. THE LIFE OF A SOLITARY.

VII. THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER BEGUN.

VIII. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER AT THE HOTEL.

IX. A TORMENTED SPIRIT.

X. PEACE, BE STILL.

XI. HAUNTING MEMORIES.

XII. TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS.

PART V.

THE MYSTERY SOLVED--THE WORKERS REWARDED.

I. WAITING.

II. THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT.

III. THREATENED SEPARATION.

IV. A DREAM INTERRUPTED, AND A STRANGE REVELATION MADE.

V. ES IST NUR EIN KINDLEIN--ONLY A CHILD.

VI. HADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT?

VII. FOR A SECOND TIME SAVED FROM HIMSELF.

VIII. A PARTING.

IX. THE NEST IS EMPTY.

X. LAURA AND HER FATHER.

XI. UNITED AT LAST.

XII. A LONG SLEEP.

PART I.

A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.

_A PICTURE AND A FACE._

There was a woman, beautiful as morning,

Sitting beneath the rocks upon the sand

Of the waste sea--fair as one flower adorning

An icy wilderness--each delicate hand

Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band

Of her dark hair had fallen, and so she sat

Looking upon the waves.

London and May. What visions of gayety and beauty, of life and

brightness, the conjunction of those two words brings before the mind!

London in May, when, as it might almost seem, the first gleam of

sunshine had called forth, from the essential nothing of obscurity,

gay flutterers of a million colored hues, to spread their wings and

float joyously in an atmosphere of hope.

For, let who will speak of the balmy breezes and deep azure skies of

the children of the South, there are some who would maintain that in

the resurrection of the fashionable corners of England's great city

from their winter sleep, in the sometimes keen wind that rouses the

island spirit of opposition and braces the nerves of the idlers,

even in the rapid changes that pass over the sky, there is more

exhilaration, more strong incitement to courage and hope, than in the

full flush of radiant summer which May often brings in climes held to

be more highly favored by Nature.

London, in May, when the streets are filled with gay equipages, whose

prancing steeds seem to rejoice in the dignity of their position,

taking a part in the great saturnalia of rank and fashion--when the

dresses of the ladies are only eclipsed by the brilliancy of the

shop-windows which they daily haunt--when the artist and musician

bring forth their choicest wares to delight the senses and gratify the

perceptions of the great and the little who throng busy London in this

fairest season of the year.

It was in London, then, and the month was May. So much being said,

little more description is needful: like bold divers, we must leave

the coast, and plunge at once into the great sea of humanity, drawing

thence, it may be, a pearl which but for our efforts had remained

there still. For all this humanity, which our vast London so fitly

represents, is composed of individuals; each individual has a separate

tale to tell, though all have not the voice to tell it; and in the tale

of the hidden life there is sometimes a beauty and pathos, a dignity

and wonder, that the dramatist and poet might do well to seize. But

it is seldom that they are caught and transferred. Beside the hidden

tragedies and heartrending emotions of the every-day life of humanity

these transcripts are often pale and colorless--a body that waits for

the breath of life to kindle it into beauty.

It was early in the afternoon of a bright May day. Even for that season

London seemed unusually crowded. In Regent street the difficulty was to

move forward at all, and in Pall Mall and the Strand matters were not

much better. Woe to the unlucky foreigners or country cousins who found

crossing the street an absolute necessity! They might have been seen

generally at the most crowded spots, shivering on the brink of what for

the moment was worse than the vague, shadowy Jordan of the pilgrims,

and too often submitting ignominiously to the guidance of that being

almost superhuman in his callous indifference to rattling wheels and

horses' heads--the policeman.

But in and about a certain corner of Charing Cross the crowd seemed

to culminate. To tell of the pedestrians of every shade and hue, the

carriages, the omnibuses, which kept up a constant stream in this

direction, would take volumes, for the Exhibition of the Royal Academy

had only been open a week, and had not, therefore, lost the first charm

of novelty.

Thither many were hastening, mostly ladies of the fashionable class,

gayly dressed in all the freshness of early summer coloring. But those

who thronged to the Royal Academy on this May afternoon were not all

of the fashionable class; there were besides some who went from a true

love of art, a patient thirst for the beautiful--pale students, whose

eyes had long grown used to dusky streets, and to whom the yearly

vision of the something that always lies beyond was a revelation and a

power; governesses and female artisans who had taken a holiday for the

express purpose of enjoying the image of that which hard reality had

denied to them. Many of these were shabbily dressed, and pallid from

the wasting effects of hard work and care; they enjoyed, however, more

perhaps than their brilliant sisters, who could glibly criticise this

style and that, with the true art-jargon and an appearance of intimate

knowledge, but to whom this, that charmed those others, was only a

matter of course, a somewhat tiresome routine, that must of necessity

be performed as a part of the season's work.

On a corner of a seat in a central hall one seemingly of this latter

class had found a place. She could not certainly have belonged to

the fashionable world, for her scanty black dress was made with no

pretension to style, and she wore a close bonnet, from under which a

plain white border, that resembled a widow's cap, was peeping. There

was one detail, however, in her dress that drew the attention of some

who passed her. She wore, fastened gracefully round her shoulders in

rather a foreign style, a silk Indian scarf of the richest coloring and

workmanship. It harmonized strangely with the rest of her dress and her

general appearance, but it was not unbecoming. Those who, attracted by

this incongruity, looked at her attentively, saw a face that was almost

startling in its pure beauty of outline, and a form whose refined

grace did not require the assistance of the toilet to add to its

charms.

"That woman could wear anything," was the reflection of one or two who

glanced at her in passing.

She knew nothing of their criticism. Hour after hour passed away, and

still she remained in the same place--a solitude to her, peopled by

the multitude of thoughts to which the sight of one small picture had

given rise. And that picture was, to many of those who had admired

her in their rapid transit from one flower of art to another, a very

commonplace affair. We see with such different eyes, for is not the

perception of beauty a birthright of spirit? Where soul illumines there

beauty lies, but only for the soul that sees.

Her eyes saw the picture, and her _spirit_ saw beyond it. Hence the

beauty that drew and enchained her. Besides, the picture had a history.

From her own consciousness she translated its meaning.

Probably few will remember the picture, for it did not write its name

on the art-history of the period, and its author is unknown to fame;

but it certainly possessed power. Perhaps it was one of those flashes

thrown off in the fire of youth by what might have been a grand genius

if it had not been swamped in the great ocean of modern realism, thus

losing for ever the divine breath of imaginative power. The picture was

small. In its quiet corner it lived its life unnoticed by the crowd.

This is what it represented. In the background a sea just tinged with

the gold of sunset, and skirting it a barren, rocky shore; on the

shore a woman in an attitude of eager, waiting expectation; in the far

distance a sail that has gathered on its whiteness some of the bright

evening coloring; overhead a deepening sky, in which faint stars seem

to be struggling into sight. The woman's face is traced sharply against

the sky. It is beautiful, the blessed dawning of a new-born hope

seeming to glimmer faintly from the deep horrors of a past despair.

She leans over a projecting ledge of rock, not heeding in her rapt

eagerness the sharp point that seems to pierce her tender hand, only

gazing, as if her soul were in her eye, at the white point in the

distance, which holds, as she imagines, the object of her hope.

There were pictures in the close neighborhood of this one that, to the

art-critic, possessed far greater claims to admiration, but the woman

with the shabby dress saw none of them. She sat on her crimson-covered

seat, her hands folded and her eyes fixed, looking at the one picture

that had touched her; she looked at it until she saw it no longer; a

film gathered over her eyes; the picture, the room, the crowds, all

her surrounding, had vanished. She was living in the region of thought

alone, busying herself with the problem which the picture had evoked.

And as she sat rooted to the one spot, herself a fairer picture

than any which that roof covered, the afternoon waned away and the

galleries thinned. The fashionable crowd were beginning to think of

their dinner-toilet. The woman was left alone on her seat in the centre

of one of the halls, a somewhat conspicuous object, for her singular

style of dress and her strange beauty would have gained her observation

anywhere.

It was at about this time that a young gentleman dressed in the height

of fashion, with an eye-glass carefully adjusted in his right eye,

strolled leisurely through the hall. He was evidently a very young man,

one who had not yet been aroused from the delusion so pleasing while it

lasts of his own vast superiority to--almost everything; it is scarcely

necessary to particularize--his own sex, with perhaps a few exceptions,

certainly all women and lesser creatures. His walk revealed this small

weakness to any one who chose to take the trouble of observing him

closely and the carriage of his head, which was held very erect, the

chin being slightly elevated.

He held a catalogue in his hand, but he very seldom consulted it. To

have compared the number of the picture with that of its description

would have been, to use a pet phrase with young men, an awful bore. And

an awful bore he seemed to find the whole affair as he walked through

the picture-lined galleries, smothering a yawn from time to time. He

was evidently looking out for some one who had appointed this place

as a rendezvous, and as evidently he was rather more indignant than

disappointed at not finding directly the object of his search.

At last, as it seemed, he had enough of it. Considering himself a

sufficiently conspicuous object not to be lightly passed by by any who

had once been favored with the honor of his acquaintance, he threw

himself on one of the seats, fully determined to take no more trouble

in the matter, but to leave the _dénouement_ to fate.

There was one other on the seat he had chosen, but our young gentleman,

in spite of his small vanities, was too truly a gentleman to honor the

solitary woman who occupied it with that supercilious stare which,

unconsciously to herself, had more than once been cast on her that day.

In sheer idleness, and for want of something better to do, he looked

rather attentively at the picture which faced him, and presently he too

had fallen under its spell.

The beauty of the woman by the sea-shore, her sadness, her desolation,

attracted him powerfully. Before many moments had passed he found

himself tracing every line of her face and form, and dreaming out the

tragedy which her face revealed.

He was awoke from his reverie by a faint sobbing sigh, and looking

round he discovered that the woman who shared his seat was struggling

with a faintness that seemed gradually to be overpowering her. Before

he could rise to offer her assistance her head had fallen back upon the

crimson cushion, the little close bonnet had dropped off, and the white

face, in its chiselled beauty, lay stricken with a death-calm close to

his shoulder.

CHAPTER II.

_ADÈLE AND MARGARET._

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Very young men are not, as a rule, passionate admirers of the fair

sex. They like to be flattered and caressed by women, they delight

in imaginary conquests, treating the sex generally with a sort of

compassionate condescension. Their chief cultus is the _ego_ that is to

do and to dare such great things in the untried future.

There are some who cherish this pet delusion through life, who are

always superior. Should such have women dependent upon them the fate

of those women is scarcely enviable. They are expected to walk through

life inferior. But in the lives of most men there is an awakening.

Sometimes the favorite pursuit--science, art, literature--rising

gradually into vaster proportions as it is more ardently followed,

dwarfs the man in his own estimation by contrast with what he seeks.

The ideal being ever so far in advance, he begins to take a truer

estimate of his powers and to try to enlarge them. Sometimes it is

the world of life, contact with other minds and the feeling of their

superiority; sometimes it is the world of nature, its beauty and its

mystery. These are the majority.

To a few perhaps--a very few--the awakening comes from another power.

It _is_ a power, whatever may be said to the contrary, a great power

for good or for evil--the power of beauty, as it rests brooding on

God's last and fairest gift to man--woman.

The mind, the imagination, the heart, all that had lain hidden under

the crust of self-seeking, rises into play in a moment, and the man is

changed. Such a man can never despise woman, for the one particular

star--distant, unattainable in all probability--sheds its lustre upon

all that partake of its nature.

If the woman who has gained this power can only use it, not selfishly,

but grandly, truly, the change for the man is a resurrection into new

life. If not--Who shall say how many young souls have been ruined,

perhaps for ever, by this same "if not"?

To return to the May afternoon and the scene in the picture-gallery. If

any painter had been near he could scarcely have chosen a more powerful

subject. The young man who had first discovered the fainting woman did

not consider himself a very emotional person, but for a moment he was

absolutely staggered. He had risen hastily to his feet and stooped

over her unconsciously. There he remained, helpless as a child in the

presence of a mystery it is unable to solve. It was only for a moment

that the stupor held him; then, with a feeling that was very strange

and new, he summoned courage to raise her head upon his arm, and with

trembling fingers to loosen her scarf and bonnet-strings.

What was to be done next? Water, smelling-salts, a fan--he had not

one of these appliances to restore her, and he shrank painfully from

gathering a crowd by asking assistance; for as yet the back of the seat

had hidden her from the very few who were still walking through the

galleries, those few being mostly lovers of art, and too much absorbed

in the pictures to have ears or eyes for anything beyond them.

If he could only manage the matter alone! and rapidly the various

modes of treating fainting-fits passed through his mind. He lifted the

beautiful head and laid it down upon the seat, raising her feet to the

same level; then, kneeling beside her, he opened her white fingers and

rubbed the palms of her hands, watching eagerly for a sign of life.

But it would not do: the dark eyelashes rested still on the pale, calm

face, no quivering of the eyelids showed dawning consciousness. If he

could have imparted to her some of his own exuberant life--for the

warm blood was throbbing and tingling through his veins till his very

finger-tips seemed instinct with consciousness--he would have stooped

and breathed into her lips; but he dared not: there was a majesty in

her helpless beauty that only a very coarse mind could have resisted.

It takes long to relate, but in reality only a few moments had passed

from the time of the woman's first faintness to the instant when the

young man, finding his efforts fruitless, turned with a sigh to seek

assistance from any lady who might be passing through the gallery.

The first face that greeted him was one he knew. It was that of a

young girl, very bright and pleasant in appearance, decked out in

the brilliancy of light muslin and fluttering ribbons. She saw him

instantly, and went smilingly across the room with extended hand. "Oh,

Arthur, you naughty boy!" she began, but catching sight of the fainting

woman, she broke off hastily: "Some one in a faint? Heavens! what a

lovely face! Poor thing! it is the heat. Go off quickly and get some

water, Arthur; I should think you could get it at the door: you boys

are such helpless beings."

She was down on her knees as she spoke, fluttering her fan gently and

applying her smelling-salts; but her volubility had already collected

in a little crowd the few people who remained in the galleries. She put

them off with pretty gestures and ready wit: "My friend wants air; I

assure you it is only a fainting-fit--nothing to alarm."

But she was relieved when Arthur's appearance with the water put

the lookers-on to a sudden flight, and they were once more left to

themselves.

"Oh, Arthur," said the young girl earnestly, "how beautiful she is!

I _must_ give her a little kiss before she awakes, as she will, I am

sure, with the water. There, there, my beauty!" for the kiss seemed to

be the most effectual remedy. Her eyelids quivered, causing thereby

such excitement to Arthur that part of the contents of the glass of

water he held fell over her feet, and Adèle--for that was the name of

the young lady who had given such timely assistance--told him with mock

indignation to go off, and not come again till he was called. Without

a word Arthur turned away. He would scarcely have been so obedient the

day before, but the incident of that afternoon seemed to have robbed

him of his power. He stood in the entrance of the hall, watching until

he should be sent for by the ladies.

For the first time in his life Arthur wished he had been a girl. His

thoughts, to tell the truth, were rapidly becoming very sentimental.

Adèle, happy Adèle! he thought of her with a new respect. She could

carry on these gentle ministries impossible to the rougher hands of

men. With what tenderness and skill she had used her remedies! And then

the kiss! Yes, women, after all, possessed certain advantages. And her

first look would be for Adèle. If he had been more expert, it might

have been for him. Had any one told Arthur, even an hour before, that

he could ever have been jealous of his cousin, he would certainly have

scorned the idea: he had always considered himself so vastly superior

to women in general, and his pretty little playmate in particular. He

had not much time, however, to indulge in these brilliantly novel

ideas, for before many moments had passed Adèle appeared. "You may

offer her your arm," she said. "I want to get her out of this place as

quickly as possible."

"Have you found out anything about her?"

"Only that her name is Margaret Grey. A letter dropped out of her

pocket, and I saw the signature, or rather she pointed it out to me as

I handed it back to her. I fancy she is a widow, though she has not

actually told me so. She is staying in lodgings at some distance. Poor

thing! I am afraid she is very poor."

Adèle's pretty face was clouded as she spoke, but she said no more, for

they were very near the spot where Margaret had been left.

"Margaret!" thought Arthur, "Margaret!" and the one word seemed to

cling about his brain like a sweet, indefinable music as awkwardly

enough, it must be confessed, he approached her to offer his arm.

She rose when she saw him, a slight blush on her cheek, but as she

looked up at his frank young face the blush faded and her composure

returned.

"I have to thank you for great kindness, sir," she said with a gentle

dignity. "I cannot think what came over me just now. It must have

been the heat of the place; but I feel much stronger now, and if you

will add to your goodness the further favor of giving me your arm for

the length of the galleries, I can find my way home without any more

assistance."

Her voice was almost as overpowering to Arthur as her face had been.

He tried to stammer out a reply, when Adèle came happily to his

assistance. Taking one of the lady's hands in her own, she said with

gentle earnestness, "Pray allow me to manage for you. My cousin will

tell you how much I like to arrange everything for my neighbors; it is

my pet weakness. Then, you know, you are my patient, and I expect you

to be obedient. Mamma has sent the carriage for me, for she was not

quite certain that I should meet Arthur. We can drive you to any point

you like to mention. Please do not deny me this pleasure."

The lady blushed again, but Adèle's gentle delicacy triumphed. She

bowed her head in acquiescence, and took Arthur's arm, leaning on it

somewhat heavily, for she was still weak. Adèle walked on her other

side, slightly supporting her from time to time; and so they passed

through the gallery, with not many thoughts for the pictures, just as

the daylight was beginning to wane.

"---- street, Islington," said Arthur to the stately coachman when,

having at last emerged from the galleries, the trio stood beside a

small, well-appointed carriage.

The coachman looked dignifiedly astonished. He took note of an

exceedingly shabby person who was evidently connected with this

strange fancy. Had his young lady been alone, he might have

respectfully demurred; but as Mr. Arthur was a trusted person in the

establishment--one, moreover, whom it was not safe to offend--he

hazarded no remark, and after one protest in the shape of repetition,

in an inquiring key, of the obnoxious address, turned his horses' heads

in this very unwonted direction.

He had to ask his way several times before he could find the

out-of-the-way street indicated by Arthur's brief order; but for at

least one of those inside the carriage the drive could not have been

too long. Arthur Forrest would have found it extremely difficult to

explain his feelings, even to himself. Happily, for the moment it was

not necessary. To analyze our enjoyment or its sources would be very

often to rob it of its charm.

Why is the transparent greenness of spring or its first balmy breeze

so delicious to the senses? Why does a certain melody echo and re-echo

in the brain with a sweetness we cannot fathom? Why does beauty--pure

outline, graceful form, rich coloring--awaken a thrill of gladness in

our being? We cannot tell. We can only rejoice that such things are.

And Arthur was very young, full of the freshness of youth and

inexperience. He would have been highly indignant could he have heard

such a remark applied to him, for he looked upon himself as a man

of the world whom it would be difficult to astonish in any way; but

nevertheless it was true. The very novelty of his sensations as he sat

on the back seat of the brougham, looking anywhere rather than in the

fair face before him, proved this.

It was well for him that the vision came when it did, when his heart

was young and his life vigorous, when the chivalry of youth had not

passed away, with other beautiful things, in the numbing surroundings

of a fashionable life.

At last the carriage stopped at the entrance of a dingy street in a

region where "apartments" looked out from almost every window. The lady

would not suffer her new friends to take her to her own door, and they

possessed sufficient refinement of feeling to refrain from pressing

the point. She seemed even to shrink from the prospect of any further

acquaintance.

"We live in different worlds," she said with a sad smile when Adèle,

in her girlish enthusiasm, pressed her to allow them at least to

inquire after her. For Adèle was almost as much in love as her cousin,

certainly more gushingly so; but there was no possibility of resisting

the quiet firmness with which all efforts after further intimacy were

set aside by the lady they had helped.

With warm thanks she bade them farewell, but they both noticed, with

youth's sympathetic insight, that her eyelids drooped as though she had

been weary, and her lips slightly quivered before she turned away.

Adèle's eyes filled with tears, and Arthur had to swallow a most

uncomfortable lump that seemed to impede his utterance. Then the

cousins became more sympathetic than they had ever been before in

discussing their adventure and forming theory after theory about the

mysterious stranger.

But Adèle was the talker, Arthur the listener, and perhaps his cousin's

conversation had never before been so much to his mind.

CHAPTER III.

_A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD._

How tedious, false, and cold seem all things! I

Have met with much injustice in this world.

Choking back the tears that seemed as if they _would_ well forth

from a fountain that had long been sealed, Margaret Grey turned from

her companions of an hour to go home. To a very desolate home in

truth. Walled in and bricked out from the fair sights and sounds of

Nature, even the sunbeams as they touched it seemed only to reveal its

dinginess.

But four walls cannot make a home, any more than a casket can enrich

its jewelled contents. The most desolate exterior may be endeared by

what it holds. It might be so with Margaret's home, yet no light came

into her pale face as she caught sight of her dwelling. For a moment

she even hesitated--it seemed bitter to meet its dull blankness--only a

moment; then with a half smile at her own weakness she walked languidly

up a few dirty steps and rang the bell.

It was answered by a servant in keeping with the steps, and passing

her by, Margaret went into her rooms. They consisted of a bed- and

sitting-room, separated by folding doors. The sitting-room was very

much what the exterior of the house had promised--very dull, very

shabby. A cracked mirror was over the chimney-piece, its frame

carefully veiled by yellow muslin that had lost its primal brightness.

A chandelier in the centre of the room was also enveloped with the same

dingy covering. A few shells and gay china ornaments were scattered

about on unsteady stands. On a table beside the window was a group of

dusty-looking paper flowers.

Tea was laid, the one cup and saucer telling their pathetic tale of a

lonely life. Margaret had left her lodgings that morning, desperate

with the feeling that either her eyes and her senses must have some

relief or her mind must give way. When she returned and looked round

her once more, she began to fear that her experiment had been worse

than useless. The force of contrast had increased the bitterness of her

lot.

She sank wearily into a stiff pretence of an arm-chair, and began again

thinking out the problem that beauty and dreariness alike presented to

her mind--the uncertain future. And then came over her like a flood the

vision of days and years without hope, without joy. Burying her face

in her hands, she gave way for a few moments to unrestrained weeping.

It was an unwonted exercise, for Margaret was brave, and none of the

last and deepest bitterness, that of remorse, cast its shadow on her

retrospect of the past. Thoughtless she might have been, sinning she

was not: of this thing the secret court of her inner consciousness, so

pitiless to the true offender, had freely acquitted her.

It would be a long story to tell what it was that overcame Margaret

Grey till she sobbed out her sadness alone in the stillness of the May

evening. Partly, perhaps, the squalor of her present surroundings,

for the beautiful face and form encased a soul attuned to highest

harmonies; partly the sweet womanly sympathy, which she had looked upon

only and then put resolutely away from her; partly the daily pinpricks

of disappointment and repulse that she had encountered in prosecuting

the business which had led her to London. For, like a multitude of

helpless women, Margaret was on the look-out for employment.

She had one little girl, a child about six years of age. With such a

sweet tie children-lovers might wonder at her utter desolation. Strange

to say, this tie, so sweet to many, was to her more of a care than a

pleasure. The future of her little one weighed heavily on her mind.

In the lonely seaside village where she had left her it would be

scarcely possible to educate her to fill the position that might be

hers in the future. Margaret's scanty means did not allow her to think

of a residence in town, or of the expenses of a school education for

her daughter, unless, indeed, she could earn the necessary money.

Hence her visit to London. She had been well educated herself; of

course her first thought was that by educating others she could pay

for the education of her child. If she had loved her little one very

much, perhaps she would have judged differently. She might have thought

it better to make a home for her child in any spot, however lonely,

feeling that the lack of some accomplishment would be well compensated

by the refining influence of a mother's constant love and care.

But Margaret did _not_ love her child so deeply as to find her presence

a sweet necessity. There was a cloud over her motherhood, which robbed

it of some of its fair charm. Duty to her child, not pleasure in her,

was her one idea of the tie that alone, at this period of her history,

bound her to life. It was _this_ made her anxiety that, whatever

her own lot might be, Laura should have every advantage in the way

of education and training. And with the anxiety came the need for

exertion. Up to the moment when the child's growth and development made

the mother think of that bugbear of mothers--her education--Margaret

had not been troubled with any money difficulties. She had lived in

her retirement, the one trouble of her life wrapping her in its gloomy

folds, but with no care for the provision of herself and her child in

the future. Suddenly, inexplicably, one source of income had failed.

Margaret had not been accustomed to trouble herself about money: the

sufficient came to her--that was all she required to know--and this

poverty was a new and dreadful thing which she found it very difficult

to realize.

She tried to fathom the mystery, but it eluded her; only this remained

as a hard fact: eighty pounds a year was all she received or seemed

likely to receive, and Laura had to be educated.

The spirit of self-sacrifice is strong in some women; it was very

strong in Margaret. She had loved her solitude by the great sea, and

had succeeded in making it almost pleasant. There she pondered and wept

and hoped; there, if anywhere, she thought that her trial must end.

She would not enter the great world, to be swamped and lost in its

multitude. Hiding her loss where none could know and none would blame,

she would live in the midst of a savage loneliness which seemed almost

sympathetic to her mood.

This suited her, but would it do for Laura? Was she a fit companion

for her child, already dreamy and imaginative beyond her years? No,

Margaret told herself; and, leaving the little one in the care of the

woman from whom she hired their little cottage, she went to London

alone, to try and find some occupation for herself.

She had been directed to Islington as a cheap neighborhood; and there

she had stayed in a wretched lodging-house for about three weeks--three

ages to poor Margaret, filled with dismal memories of humiliation and

disappointment. She was reviewing it all that evening--the rudeness,

the repulses, the cruel cross-examinations; for with these came the

fresher scenes which that day had brought--the chivalrous admiration

that had shone out of Arthur's young eyes, the gentle, womanly

tenderness of Adèle.

Employers--so it seemed to poor Margaret; they were a very new class

to her--were cast in a different mould. It was their duty to ask

disagreeable questions and to probe unhealed wounds; it was their

duty to be stiff and cross, and not at all impressed with the outward

advantages which Margaret knew she possessed. It seemed very hopeless,

but she felt it necessary to persevere, at least for a little while

longer. The thought aroused her. She raised her head, and became

suddenly conscious of the fact of hunger. She had not eaten a morsel

since breakfast. No wonder, she thought, that faintness had overpowered

her. So she went into her bedroom and washed away the traces of tears,

that the dirty maid-of-all-work might not read her weakness, then rang

the bell to order an egg or something a little more substantial than

usual for her tea.

The girl came in, holding out a card that had not been improved, in

point of coloring, by its transit through her fingers. She informed

Margaret that a lady had left it half an hour ago with a message.

The message, not very lucidly delivered, was to the effect that the

lady whose name appeared in minute letters on the card would, in all

probability, call again in the course of the evening.

Poor Margaret! she looked at the card. "Mrs. Augustus Brown." It had

not a very encouraging sound, but it might mean business, and business

meant provision for Laura's needs. But the thought of the impending

interview had robbed her of all appetite; so, after hastily swallowing

a cup of tea with a dry biscuit, she again rang the bell, had the

tea-apparatus cleared away, and then sat by the window trying to read.

The apparition of a yellow chariot which seemed to fill the narrow

street interrupted her, and before many minutes a thundering rap at the

door made her aware of the fact that the dreaded visitor was at hand.

Margaret's cheek burned. For one moment she longed desperately for a

refuge where she could hide her head from these intrusions, then she

remembered that she had invited them, and strove to brace her nerves

to endurance. When, therefore, the door was thrown open to its fullest

extent by the servant, who, never having seen so grand a person in her

life as Mrs. Augustus Brown, thought it necessary to give her plenty of

room, Margaret was herself again--the heightened color the struggle had

called forth alone testifying to her recent emotion.

Mrs. Augustus Brown was a little round individual, almost as broad as

she was long, decked out in flounces and laces and ribbons: it was one

of the chief trials of her life that none of these things made her look

important. Mrs. Augustus Brown was governess-hunting, for she possessed

no less than seven small likenesses of herself, who began to be unruly,

and to require, as she would have expressed it, a stricter hand over

them.

And this governess-hunting was by no means an uncongenial occupation

to Mrs. Brown. It could not but be pleasing, especially as the yellow

chariot and its attendant luxuries were of comparatively recent origin,

to dash up to registry-offices and through quiet streets, and to watch

the effect produced on the untutored minds of inferior persons by her

brilliant _tout ensemble_. But as yet she had not suited herself. In

a governess, as she said, "tong" was essential; _her_ children would

have to be brought up suitably, that they might adorn the position

Providence had evidently prepared for them, and "tong" seemed to be a

rare article in the market of female labor.

On the previous day Mrs. Augustus had dilated very largely upon this

point at a registry-office. She had been directed, in consequence, to

Mrs. Grey--a prize, as she was assured, in point of appearance and

manner. Curiosity was strong in Mrs. Brown. Certain allusions and hints

about Mrs. Grey's antecedents attracted her, and she lost no time in

looking her up; hence the apparition of the yellow chariot.

But Mrs. Augustus Brown has been left in the doorway to introduce

herself to Mrs. Grey. As she entered Margaret rose, with the true

instinct of a lady, and went forward to meet her, with a bow to which

her visitor did not deign to respond.

Mrs. Augustus Brown flattered herself that she had tact enough to put

people in their own places and keep them there--a notable piece of

wisdom, truly; the only difficulty being as to certain doubts about

what is the "own place." Were those rightly solved, perhaps a few

fine ladies would be slightly astonished by finding a level at some

unexpected layer of the social crust.

It was not Mrs. Brown's way to trouble herself with doubts. She waddled

across the room with great satisfaction to herself, but in a manner

that to the uninitiated could hardly have been called dignified, sank

down on a chair which directly faced Margaret, and began divesting

herself quietly of some of her wraps.

Never to appear too eager with any of these people was, in the code

of Mrs. Augustus, an essential point in their management. When this

business had been performed, and she had settled herself as comfortably

as might be in a not very luxurious arm-chair, Mrs. Brown felt for a

pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, adjusted them and looked Margaret

over from head to foot. "Bless me, how handsome!" was her mental

ejaculation: "my word for it, _she's_ no good."

It was not wonderful that this coarse mind found it difficult to

understand the strange anomaly, for Margaret was one of those rarely

beautiful beings who seem only made for the tenderest handling. Her

face might have been a poet's ideal, for the traces of suffering and

conflict it only too plainly revealed had removed it far from the

meaningless glory of mere form and coloring; and yet she was too young

perhaps for these to have bereft her of any charm; they rather endowed

her pale fair beauty with a certain refinement, an appealing pathos,

which spoke powerfully to the imagination.

She possessed a form, too, whose every line was perfect, well

developed, yet fragile--womanly, yet full of grace. And the deep

crimson which Mrs. Brown's studied rudeness had called to her face

heightened the effect of her beauty.

She sat before her visitor, her eyes cast down, her hands crossed in

her lap, like a fair Greek slave in the barbarian's market-place,

waiting for the decree of fate.

It was a relief when Mrs. Augustus Brown began to give her attention to

the ponderous carriage-bag in her hand. Some of its fastenings, being

the latest patents and the height of convenience, were difficult to

manage.

"Your name," she said, hunting for a letter--"ah, here it is!--_Mrs._

Grey."

Margaret bowed, shivering slightly. That fatal emphasis. This was the

way in which the inquisitions generally began.

Mrs. Augustus here coughed slightly, and looked over her gold-rimmed

spectacles in a way intended to be severe. Alas! how we deceive

ourselves! The look was only comic. "A married woman, I presume?"

Margaret bowed again.

Here Mrs. Brown consulted a set of ivory tablets: "With one little

girl, I am told, and small income, anxious to make enough for her

education. Is this correct?"

"Perfectly so, madam."

"A very laudable object: then, Mrs. Grey, you are, I presume, a widow?"

There was a moment's hesitation. Margaret pressed her hand to her side

as if she were in pain, and Mrs. Augustus eyed her suspiciously: "My

question, Mrs. Grey, is a simple one."

"And my answer, madam, can be equally simple. I am _not_ a widow."

"_Not_ a widow!" Mrs. Brown drew back her chair and took another long

look--one that expressed incredulous horror. "Not a widow! And pray,

Mrs. Grey, where is your husband?"

In spite of herself, Margaret smiled feebly, but the smile was a

nervous one. She looked up and shook her head: "I am sorry to say,

madam, that I cannot tell."

"Then," and Mrs. Brown again receded, as if to put as much space as

possible between herself and this naughty person--"then, Mrs. Grey, you

are separated from your husband?"

"I am."

The answer was spoken in a low, clear voice, very calmly, but with

a certain intonation of sadness that would have struck upon a more

sensitive ear. To Mrs. Augustus Brown this very quietness of demeanor

was in the highest degree brazen. She fluttered her fan, drew herself

up to her full height, and looked virtuous as a Roman matron (in her

own opinion, be it said parenthetically).

"You seem strangely forgetful, Mrs. Grey, of the importance of the

position which you seek to fill in my household. With the utmost

coolness you describe yourself as a woman living separated from her

husband. Goodness knows why. For all I can tell, you may have done

something very wrong." Here Mrs. Brown coughed and hid an imaginary

blush behind her fan. "And yet," she continued, when the blush had

been given time to fade, "you wish to take the entire charge of little

innocents, the eldest of whom is only ten, and seven of them. I had

my children so quick." Here Mrs. Brown lost her thread. To mothers of

large families these reminiscences are always bewildering.

Margaret's eyes were looking very weary; she filled up the pause:

"Perhaps it would be better then to inquire no farther. From what you

say I fear that I shall scarcely suit you." She rose as she spoke.

Mrs. Brown did not take the hint; she remained where she was, rooted to

the place by sheer astonishment. For a young woman to make so light of

such a position as that of governess in _her_ family was an unheard-of

thing. But Mrs. Grey rose in her estimation from that moment. Then she

was curious. "Sit down again, my dear," she said in a manner that was

intended to be gracious. "Mrs. Townley spoke highly of you, and you

certainly _look_ a respectable person. I'm not one always to blame my

own sex. I believe in these affairs the men are very often in fault.

You may not be aware that Mr. Augustus Brown and myself consider salary

no object, and masters for every branch. Rudiments and style, Mrs.

Grey, and of course character with children, you understand. If it

were as my confidential maid, now, I might not be so particular; but,

unfortunately, the young person I have I brought from Paris, and can't

get rid of her under three months. Not half so handy as I was given to

understand."

She fluttered her fan again, and waited for an answer. Margaret

hesitated. Had she consulted her own inclinations she would have

refused decidedly to have anything further to do with this vulgar

woman. Already she felt by anticipation what the yoke of servitude

in such a house as hers would be; but Laura--the high salary. The

servitude, though bitter, might be shortened. It ended in a compromise.

"Will you be kind enough to allow me a day or two's delay?" she asked.

"I have friends who will certainly not refuse to give me the necessary

references; but I have not seen many of them for some time, and they do

not know of my present position."

Mrs. Augustus Brown got up, her dignity gone for the time in her

anxiety to make this striking-looking person one of her household.

"Yes, yes," she said, "that's the best plan; I'm sick of looking up

governesses--one more pasty-looking and unstylish than the other--and

I fancy you'll suit. Let me hear soon, for the children get more

headstrong every day. I'm too gentle with them. And then so much in

society. Why, we have three engagements of an evening sometimes,

turning night into day, _I_ say. And the servants can no more manage

them than fly. I shall lose my health, as I tell Mr. Brown, if I'm

referred to every hour of the day by servants and children. Too great a

strain, Mrs. Grey. Well, good-bye, my dear."

She waddled off to the yellow chariot, and Margaret was left

alone--headstrong children, references, explanations, pictures and

unexpected kindness making one great riot in her brain. She went to bed

early that night, and the events of the day grouped themselves together

into fantastic dreams.

In the brain of Mrs. Augustus Brown one thought was pre-eminent; it

haunted her among the cream-colored cushions of the yellow chariot,

was present in the drawing-room, slightly interfering with her mild

contemplation of the sleeping face of a sandy-haired individual on the

sofa; it followed her even to the marital couch, mingling with her

dreams.

"She's mighty handsome: I hope to goodness Brown won't fall in love

with her."

Brown was calmly unconscious of this want of conjugal trust. Had he

known to what it bore reference, he might have been slightly excited,

for Mr. Augustus, though his hair was sandy and his nose a decided

snub, was an admirer of female beauty, and considered himself highly

irresistible. Mrs. Brown was totally unaware of this fact.

"After years of life together" they were, on this point at least,

"strangers yet."

Sentimental young ladies, who croon over these pathetic words, thinking

perhaps, with an approach to soft melancholy, of the desolation

reserved for themselves in the future, when, their finest feelings

unappreciated, they must shut themselves up in mystery, might learn a

lesson from Mr. and Mrs. Augustus.

To be "strangers yet" on some points with that nearest and dearest,

the unappreciative husband of the future, may possibly be conducive to

harmony rather than desolation.

CHAPTER IV.

_MORNING THOUGHTS--A RESOLVE TAKEN._

Soul of our souls and safeguard of the world,

Sustain--Thou only canst--the sick of heart!

Restore their languid spirits, and recall

Their lost affections unto Thee and Thine.

Margaret awoke early the next morning. It was a sad waking. For the

first moment she could have wished to shut her eyes again, never to

open them more in this world. Life looked so blank. And what wonder?

However brave the spirit, it must be affected by its surroundings,

and to open one's eyes in a stifling room, with the consciousness

that the raised blind will show nothing but a dingy yard, and beyond

and on every side of it deserts of dingy yards, the yards shut in

by black-looking houses, in all of which the like stifling rooms

may reasonably be expected to be found, is, to say the least of it,

disheartening.

Margaret's troubles in the little cottage by the seaside, of which she

fondly thought as home, had not been less; but there was something in

the wide breadths of sea, in its fresh curling waves and in the grand

expanse of sky to soothe the dull aching of heart and brain, to give

scope to the great doctrine of possibilities, and freedom to dreams

that sometimes appeared wild and unreal.

Here it was different. In the narrowness of wall and enclosure life

itself was narrowed down till it seemed nothing but a dreary blank of

good; in the dull monotony of wood and brick what had been melancholy

became bitterness, what had been prayers for help and guidance became

one passionate outcry against Providence--one bitter complaint against

what the tortured heart too often calls cruel fate.

Young curates are fond of preaching about resignation, notifying to

their aged friends the desirability of persevering to the end. I think

if ever they come to feel this, that Fate and all her myrmidons are

against them, that life is cruel beyond measure, that even faith itself

can find no standing-point, they will speak less on this strange, sad

theme; but when the victory has been won, when fate and necessity have

taken a true place for them in the economy of nature, what they say

will be worth far more.

The first discouragement gone by, Margaret felt that she must act, and

then came the consciousness that something very disagreeable was before

her. She had promised Mrs. Brown to set herself right with her as far

as character was concerned, and for this it would be necessary to give

references.

A new trouble, and, strange to say, unthought of before. Margaret

was little used to the ways of the world: she had hitherto cherished

a vague notion that to present herself would be sufficient for the

attainment of her object. That she was a lady she imagined (and in this

she was not mistaken) could be seen at a glance.

That a lady's character should be looked into like a servant's had not

entered into her mind as a necessary part of that to which those who

seek for employment must subject themselves. And yet her common sense

told her, as she thought it all over in the gray of early morning, that

this was perfectly right, and only what she ought to have expected.

The necessity might certainly have been more delicately revealed than

by Mrs. Augustus Brown; but Margaret, in her morning review of ways

and means, thoroughly recognized the justice of the demand. To answer

it was none the less a great difficulty to one of her nature. The long

separation from all her friends, who before and after her marriage had

been very numerous; the solitary nature of her life during the last

four years; above all, that cloud, barely acknowledged even to herself,

which rested on her fair fame (she could not tell if _it_ had affected

her in the opinion of her former world, if many-tongued Rumor had

magnified it),--all these things made her task a very difficult one,

and as she thought she felt inclined to give up the struggle, to return

to her lonely lot and do her best for her child herself.

She had almost come to this conclusion, even the note refusing Mrs.

Brown's magnanimous offer was written in her mind, when suddenly an

idea flitted across her brain which caused her to hesitate. The thought

was of one who in all probability would stand her friend, whose word

was worth something, and who knew enough of the circumstances of her

history to render it unnecessary for her to enter into painful details.

The friend was a lawyer, the man who managed her affairs. He was well

known to her, not so much personally as in a business capacity, and she

felt great confidence in his friendliness and judgment. Then she knew

that he held a high position, especially in the religious world. Before

she rose she had decided at least to consult Mr. Robinson.

If he thought his reference would be sufficient guarantee of

respectability to ensure her an entrance into the carefully guarded

fold of Mrs. Augustus Brown, she would try to obtain the position; if

not, she would make no further effort.

CHAPTER V.

_FOUND--A FRIEND._

Most delicately hour by hour

He canvassed human mysteries,

And trod on silk, as if the winds

Blew his own praises in his eyes,

And stood aloof from other minds

In impotence of fancied power.

Mr. Robinson was a man whom women trusted almost instinctively, for, in

the first place, he was tall and well made, possessing the advantage of

strong, square shoulders and straight, capable-looking legs.

A rogue, especially in the lawyer world, is apt to be thought of as a

man of small type, with sharp features, sallow complexion and little,

piercing eyes.

Mr. Robinson was florid in complexion, large and muscular in type,

fair and frank in manner. He had a way of speaking about business

as if everything he did might, with no drawback to himself, remain

open for the inspection of men and angels; perhaps best of all, at

least so far as ladies and clergymen were concerned, was the pleasing

habit he possessed of throwing religion into everything: testamentary

dispositions, settlements, conveyancing, chancery suits, all could

be conveniently ticketed with a text, and laid away in the capacious

recesses of Mr. Robinson's memory, to be brought out on some suitable

occasion as notable proofs of his own high position in the favor of

Providence.

Mr. Robinson was married. He had thought it incumbent on him to leave

progeny on the earth when, to use his lightly-spoken phrase, "himself

should be gathered to his fathers." That he possessed, or had once

possessed, a father, was a self-evident fact. With regard to the

plural number some might be tempted to ejaculate, "The fathers! where

are they?" but these were skeptical individuals, verging no doubt on

infidelity, for Mr. Robinson considered faith a cardinal virtue, and

possessed a genealogical tree which threw its branches far and wide,

and traced back to unknown antiquity, or at least to William the

Conqueror and Rollo the Norman, the ancestors of the Robinson family,

and of those who had been so happy as to form any connection with it.

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 no _arrière-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 resumed his 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 up _such_ ideas 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 his money 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. I _think_ I 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. I _have_ been told that this

habit is a bad one; but _à 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. Why _should_ you

trouble yourself? However, to return _à 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 may say

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. _Her_ delight 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 taken _such_ a 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, some tone 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.

CHAPTER VI.

_THE YOUNG HEIR._

But the ground

Of 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 happened almost 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 free

_entrée_ into 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, was pleased 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 its surface, 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 Margaret _was_ a 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 saw the 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.

CHAPTER VII.

_A CUNNING TEMPTER._

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 to think 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

certainly _did_ enjoy. 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 was a 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, who _was_ to have been my

children's governess, Mr. Brown. Now I hope you _see_!"

Mr. Augustus did _not_ precisely 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 young _débutante_. 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.

_She_ looked 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 was a 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 seen _her_!

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.

"_Very_ good! _Very_ good!" 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, "How _dare_ you speak

of _her_ in 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 time _I_ have seen her, though," he added _sotto voce_.

Arthur was all attention in a moment: "_Where_ have you met her,

Captain Mordaunt?"

"Oh, that is _my_ secret. 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. Knock _me_ down, 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, the _ego_ Arthur 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 what a pleasant life _he_ led! 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:

_that_ point 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 had held its beautiful

poison to the young man's lips, and he could not tell that beneath the

glory lay dust and ashes.

CHAPTER VIII.

_ARTHUR FALLS INTO THE SNARE._

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 in the 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 a weak, 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."

CHAPTER IX.

_ARTHUR'S SECRET._

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 that _you_ even remember,

Master Arthur," replied Adèle, quite equal to the occasion--"_boys_, as

mamma always says, are _so_ volatile."

"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 wide room, 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 have _not_ forgotten, 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, "I _do_ remember; 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, _do_

you think it would be possible to help her in any way?"

"For you it might be," said Arthur with an appearance of sudden

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. Why _I_ look 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 had _one_ corner 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--I _think_--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: "I _am_ your 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."

CHAPTER X.

_HOW ADÈLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE._

The woman who loves should indeed

Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed

Not 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 this she 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: with _her_ he 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. _He_ was waiting to hear what she

would say; _she_ was for the first few moments unable to speak. On the

table before them lay the forgotten volume of the _Faërie 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 they have inspired the sentiment; and this

knowledge makes them, for the moment, strangely gentle and sympathetic.

Arthur drew nearer to his cousin, and put his arm around her waist. To

his surprise again, she pushed his arm gently aside.

"Not now, dear Arthur!" she said, in a soft, clear voice, lifting her

blue eyes to his face; "I want you to tell me all about it."

"About what?" said Arthur, somewhat taken aback at the result of his

impulsive frankness.

"Your love for Margaret Grey," she said gently, but not without a faint

tremor in her voice.

"Did I say I _loved_ her, Adèle?" It was Arthur's turn to speak with

a trembling voice and flushed face, but these told his tale only too

eloquently.

"Not in so many words," replied Adèle; "but, dear, you have revealed

your secret, and I am glad. It was like yourself, Arthur--frank and

true. I might have guessed it before, for she is beautiful as a dream,

like the lady Una; and I can imagine so well how a man's heart would go

out to that kind of sadness and helplessness. I wish I had been a man;"

Adèle sighed as she spoke; "but, perhaps, as a woman I shall be able

to help you more. Strange--isn't it?--I was thinking of her, her face

haunted me so, and longing to find out more about her--all for her own

sake; now I will do it for yours."

The words were spoken very quietly and with a certain determination,

that Arthur found it very difficult to understand.

"But, Adèle," he stammered out, "you forget--"

"That you and I are betrothed in a kind of way--is that what you mean?

Thank you for thinking of it; but I should be grieved for _that_ to

stand in your way." She smiled a rather watery smile. "I promised not

to be like Vivien, so, rather than make a prison of my spells, I shall

cast them all to the winds." Then, more gravely, "We were too young,

Arthur--I told my mother so--too young to know our own minds, as people

say--at least you were." Here Adèle stopped suddenly; she was on the

point of betraying the secret which--brave little maiden!--she thought

she had preserved so well. But her calmness had reassured Arthur.

"You are right, Adèle," he answered gravely--and for the moment, with

the unreasoning impulse of womanhood, she hated him for his quick

acquiescence--"we were both too young; we had seen too little of the

world; and even now I scarcely know how we ought to act. Our engagement

has been announced; then my aunt--"

Adèle smiled faintly: "It will be best to say nothing to mamma at

present, nor to anybody; we can surely be what we have been to one

another--brother and sister; we have never been more--we could not wish

to be less."

There was a tinge of bitterness in Adèle's voice as she said the last

words, but the ears of very young men, when not quickened by any

stronger feeling than brotherly affection, are not swift to catch these

slight intonations.

"You must let me be your friend and confidante, Arthur," she continued

more gently; "I shall still like to be the first to know everything

that nearly concerns you."

Her gentleness touched Arthur. He took one of her hands in his: "You

shall always be what you are to me, Adèle--my dearest friend and

counsellor. I shall come to you for advice and sympathy."

She rose, and stooping began to collect the fallen flowers--a pretext

only, for the tears were beginning to force their way to her eyes, and

she was determined to show no weakness in her cousin's presence.

"My poor flowers!" she said lightly, "they have been forgotten: go and

fetch another vase from the breakfast-room, like a good old fellow. I

have filled all here, and I want these up stairs."

By the time her cousin had returned with the vase Adèle was herself

again. Grouping the flowers delicately, with clever fingers well

accustomed to this kind of work, she began her gentle catechism: "Have

you seen her again, Arthur?"

Perhaps it was a relief to him to unburden himself, to pour out to

another the torrent of self-condemnation that had been oppressing him.

"Don't ask me, Adèle," he said, pacing the room excitedly. "I am a

wretch--a fool--an idiot! I mistook _her_--think of it! I wonder will

she ever be able to bear the sight of me again? I took the advice of a

villain, who knows nothing whatever about women like her."

"What _can_ you mean, Arthur?" broke in Adèle, whose flowers had fallen

from her hands in her astonishment.

He did not seem to hear the interruption. "I did knowingly what I knew

would offend her," he continued, clenching his fists and drawing his

brows together, as though challenging himself for his misconduct.

Adèle sighed: "I _wish_ you would explain yourself, dear."

"Explain myself!" Arthur came suddenly down from the heroic with a

little laugh: "Ah, yes, by the bye, you don't know, and really it's not

a very creditable story. Well--to make a clean breast of it--I went

to the Academy yesterday. _She_ was there, and I had the happiness of

seeing her. She didn't see me, but while I was looking at her with

feelings that you can imagine, Captain Mordaunt came up behind me."

"Not at all a good companion for you, dear," interrupted Adèle with the

wise air of a little mother, but blushing, girl like, as she spoke, for

Captain Mordaunt was an admirer of hers: he had once or twice seized a

quiet opportunity of looking into her blue eyes in a way that offended

as much as it bewildered her. "Please have nothing to do with him,

Arthur," she continued pleadingly.

"Why, Adèle, what have you against Captain Mordaunt? I thought you had

only met him once or twice."

"That once or twice was enough. He is one of those men who believe in

nothing good, who seem to delight in the wickedness of the world. I

always think such people must be particularly bad themselves. But it's

no use reasoning about it. I dislike Captain Mordaunt."

"A case, in fact, of 'I do not like you, Doctor Fell,'" put in Arthur

provokingly. "I shall send him to you when he wants a character, Adèle;

but, do you know, amongst ladies your opinion would be considered

rather singular? I certainly have never been able to see what they find

to admire in him."

"Nor I, and I must say I pity their taste; he's ugly and conceited.

But what did he say about her--Margaret Grey, I mean?"

Arthur's manner grew excited again: "What he said was not so bad as

what he implied with his odious hints. I was idiot enough to listen to

him, to believe him partially. I disobeyed her, Adèle, and called on

her in that wretched place at Islington."

Adèle looked up bewildered: "But I can't see why that should offend

her. Of course you were never properly introduced, but then the

circumstances were peculiar, and she must have seen that we were

tolerably respectable people."

"What a simple, innocent little girl you are, Adèle!" said Arthur

rather grandly. "You see what I say is quite true--with all your

romantic notions you know nothing whatever of the world. I can't very

well explain, as you don't seem to understand; but, anyway, what I did

was very stupid and wrong, and she showed me that in a moment. Oh, if I

could tell you how she looked--so beautiful, so sad!"

The remembrance was overpowering. Arthur hid his burning face in both

his hands, and Adèle was silent. To her pure young heart this passion,

which an older and more experienced woman would certainly have laughed

to scorn, was a sacred thing.

"She forgave me," he continued after a pause. "She said I would soon

_forget_ the infatuation."

There was a mournful incredulity in the boy's voice to which the young

girl's heart responded. That he could ever _forget_ the infatuation

seemed, for the moment, as impossible to one cousin as to the other.

Neither of them spoke for some minutes, then Adèle raised to her cousin

a face that was streaming with tears. "I can't help it, Arthur," she

said simply, "and please don't think it's for myself. I have everything

to make me happy. I was thinking of you and of her. You know they say

women's wits are sharper than men's in these matters. I will try and

help you in some way, for you _must_ meet her again, dear; but just

now everything seems confused. Mamma expects you to dinner, so you had

better go home at once and dress. I can easily arrange for a quiet talk

in the course of the evening, and then perhaps I shall have thought of

some plan, for we must lose no time, as I know she is only staying

temporarily in London."

She said it all in a broken way through the tears she could not keep

back. He tried to kiss her then, but she slipped out of his arms.

Poor child! The aching at her heart was too great to be borne any

longer. She finished her cry in her own room, but what she had said was

true--it was not all for herself.

The beautiful lonely stranger and her cousin's passion, which her

woman's insight told her was not very hopeful, had their share in

causing her sorrow. She could not indulge long, however, in the luxury

of tears. She too had to make her dinner-toilet, and that evening her

mother was not the only person at the dinner-table who thought she

looked even fairer than usual.

CHAPTER XI.

_A FACE AT THE WINDOW._

Sympathy

Must call her in love's name, and then, I know,

She rises up and brightens as she should,

And lights her smile for comfort, and is slow

In nothing of high-hearted fortitude.

Adèle kept her word. She set her wits to work with such good effect

that the next morning found her and her cousin in the carriage, under

the conduct of the stately coachman, on their way to that unfashionable

locality, the neighborhood of Islington.

They had started, presumably, on a shopping excursion, the delusion

being maintained by two or three stoppages in Regent street, after

which, by Arthur's direction, they drove to the vicinity of The Angel,

where carriage and coachman were left in waiting, the remainder of the

way being made on foot for the sake of the preservation of their secret.

It had been agreed between them that Adèle should pay a visit to

Margaret, Arthur waiting for her at the entrance of the narrow street

where she lodged. The object of her visit was in the present instance

only to inquire after Mrs. Grey's health, to take a kindly interest

in her welfare, and to try and persuade her to accept their offer of

friendship: it had been decided between them that upon this occasion

Arthur's name should not be mentioned. Adèle had taken upon herself the

office of simply paving the way for further intercourse--of preventing

Mrs. Grey from escaping them altogether. This, with her quiet tact

and gentle sympathy, she did not despair of accomplishing, if fate

would only be commonly propitious, for Adèle was really in earnest.

Putting self out of the way, she had thrown herself heart and soul into

her cousin's scheme, and all the more readily, it may be, from the

affection which had arisen spontaneously in her own heart at the sight

of Margaret's pure, calm beauty.

Adèle was only eighteen, and eighteen is an impressionable age, open

not only to accesses of what is called the tender passion, but to

feelings perhaps much tenderer and fairer, for the souls of the very

young, especially among women, are keenly susceptible to the subtle

influences of beauty and grace; it is not uncommon for a young girl

to be deeply, jealously enamored of one of her own sex; to experience

the delights, the tremors, the anxieties of love itself, and far more

palpably than in any of the necessary flirtations that diversify her

budding womanhood. Beauty is the embodiment of the young girl's dream,

and beauty she finds more visibly in her own sex than in the other.

The first loving emotion of Milton's Eve was for the fair watery

image that represented herself in all the radiant charms of female

loveliness. It was only afterward that she discovered

"How beauty is excelled by manly grace,

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair."

Adèle was in this first stage, and Margaret seemed to her the living

embodiment of all that had so often won and fascinated her in poetry

and romance. The evident mystery that surrounded the fair stranger, her

sadness, her lonely friendless position, all added to the spell.

The first emotion of wounded self-love over, Adèle ceased to wonder at

Arthur's desertion, or even to grieve over it, and was ready to go

through fire and water for their common divinity.

In spite of her grand resolutions, however, she felt rather nervous

when, Arthur having been left at the top of the dull-looking row of

houses, she stood alone on the doorstep of the one indicated by him,

inquiring for Mrs. Grey.

Mrs. Grey was at home. The servant-girl threw open the door of the

small sitting-room without previous warning, and showed Margaret

herself on her knees before an obstinate trunk, which apparently

refused to be fastened. At the sound of the opening door she rose in

some embarrassment, looked at the card which the girl had thrust into

her hand, and then at Adèle, who was standing, with some hesitation in

her manner, on the threshold of the room. The card had been an enigma,

but Adèle's pleasant girlish face solved it in a moment.

"Come in," she said warmly, going forward to meet her. "It is

exceedingly kind of you to have thought of paying me a visit; but you

find me in great disorder. Let me see," looking round the room; "I must

try and find you an unoccupied chair."

"Forgive me," said Adèle with gentle courtesy. "I know it is too early

for a call, but ever since we met the other day I have been so anxious

to see you once more, and this is the only time in the day when I can

manage to come so far."

She blushed as she spoke, and Margaret was too kind to add to her

embarrassment by any expression of surprise at her unexpected visit.

She smiled pleasantly, and sat down by her side. "I am only too

delighted to see you, my dear Miss Churchill; my visitors are never

numerous, and they do not always come on such pleasant errands as

yours. You see I am preparing for flight; I can really stand London no

longer."

Adèle's sympathetic eyes were fixed on Margaret's face. She gave a

little sigh: "Yes, I am sure it must be very lonely for you, living all

by yourself here."

"Sometimes it is, I must confess. In my present home, a seaside

village, I know most of the country-people, and I have my little

Laura to go about with me. Then (at least this is _my_ feeling) the

loneliness of the country is very different from the loneliness of

towns."

"I can _quite_ understand that," said Adèle earnestly, "although I have

very little experience of loneliness of any kind. I sometimes wish,

indeed, to have a little more time to myself. But I must not forget

what specially brought me here to-day. My cousin and I have been very

anxious about you, Mrs. Grey, for your fainting-fit lasted so long we

feared it was the commencement of a serious illness."

Margaret smiled: "Thanks to your timely help, my dear Miss Churchill,

I have felt no after ill effects whatever. I scarcely know how it

might have been with me had I had to find my way home alone; but it

all arose from my own stupidity. The time passed so rapidly in the

picture-galleries that I forgot all about lunch. When I reached home I

remembered that breakfast had been my only meal that day. My faintness

must have been caused by want of food, so you see it was not very

interesting after all."

She spoke the words lightly, but Adèle wondered with a sudden pang

whether the want of food had anything to do with her poverty, for the

interior of the shabby-looking house confirmed her worst fears. To put

up with such a miserable place could be the result of nothing but dire

necessity.

Her voice was very tender as she spoke again after a little pause,

laying her hand affectionately on Margaret's arm and looking up

earnestly into her pale, sad face: "Dear Mrs. Grey, you look very

delicate, indeed you do; you should take more care of yourself."

Perhaps it was the sympathy that shone out of the young girl's

glistening eyes, a human longing for something like this warm young

love, that seemed to be offering itself so spontaneously, or a sudden

sickness of the self-contained life she had been leading, for Adèle's

gentle words and gestures broke the crust of calm reserve with which

Margaret had striven to surround herself. "Ah, child," she said, tears

in her eyes and in her voice, "it is for the young and happy to take

care of themselves; their lives are precious. From mine too much of

the sweetness has gone to make it worthy of preservation. How strange

it is! I used to live and to enjoy life; now, even pleasures are like

apples of Sodom--they turn to dust and ashes in my mouth. I feel

inclined to write 'Vanity of vanities' upon everything." She smiled

through her tears: "I should not speak of such things to you."

But tears, real, large, glistening tears, were in Adèle's eyes. "Why

not?" she said impetuously. Then, after another pause, for though the

young can give tears to sorrow, they are helpless very often to give

words (if they only knew it, how much more eloquent those tears are

than the after commonplaces with which the world teaches them to treat

suffering!), "Oh, Mrs. Grey, I wish I could help you in some way. Will

you let me be your friend?"

Margaret smiled: "You have done me good already, dear; your sympathy is

very sweet, and especially, I think, to me, for it brings back to my

mind a time when sympathy was never wanting. I had a friend once, but

she has gone, like other beautiful things, out of my life."

"Tell me about her," said Adèle.

Margaret shook her head: "No, no; enough of miseries for one day. I

scarcely know when I have talked so much about myself; and do you know

I am the least bit in the world curious?"

"What about, Mrs. Grey?"

"I want you to tell me honestly what brought you here to-day."

Adèle blushed. "Please don't be vexed with me, or think that my visit

was from idle curiosity. What I say is really true," her admiration

shone out of her eyes as she spoke: "ever since I saw you in the

Academy, your face has haunted me. You know one reads of those kinds of

attraction. Have you any spells, Mrs. Grey? I could not rest, in fact,

until I had seen you once more."

Margaret was sitting near the window, a faint smile, half of pleasure,

half of surprise, on her lips as she listened to Adèle's impulsive

words, but before she could frame an answer they both became aware by a

sudden intuition--the effect of that inexplicable mesmeric power which

the human eye possesses--that they were being watched. Instinctively

they looked out. A tall, dark-looking man, somewhat of an _élégant_ in

his appearance, was leaning quietly on the small iron railings that

skirted the area and kitchen steps. In this position his chin was on a

level with the top of the muslin blind; he could have a full view of

all that took place in the room.

He was availing himself without stint or scruple of the advantage.

CHAPTER XII.

_FLIGHT._

Next a lover--with a dream

'Neath his waking eyelids hidden,

And a frequent sigh unbidden,

And an idlesse all the day,

And a silence that is made

Of a word he dares not say.

Adèle gave a little scream. She looked at Margaret. Her face had turned

as pale as ashes. She had not generally much color, but this was no

ordinary pallor: a gray, livid look seemed to spread itself gradually

over her features till even her lips were blanched. For a moment she

seemed to be stunned. Then she rose, apparently with difficulty, and

leaning forward on the window-sash seized the blind to put it between

themselves and the audacious watcher.

He did not wait for it to be drawn down. Turning slowly, he passed away

down the quiet street, but before he did so, Adèle saw that his lips

curled themselves into a mocking smile. Astonishment and a vague sense

of alarm had rendered her helpless for the moment. When the blind was

drawn down and the man had gone, she leapt to her feet and threw both

her arms round Margaret's waist, for, leaning still as if for support

against the window-sash, Adèle saw that her friend was tottering, and

that in her widely-opened eyes there was a dazed, bewildered look. She

drew her down gently to the nearest seat, then, kneeling by her side,

rubbed one of her cold hands in both her own. "Mrs. Grey, what is it?"

she cried almost piteously. "Can I do anything for you?"

Her voice seemed to arouse Margaret. She passed one of her hands over

her forehead. "Was it a dream?" she said in a faint, low voice. "I

thought I saw him; and I had vowed, sworn that he should never set

eyes on me again; and he was smiling, I thought, a mocking, triumphant

smile, such as--" Then suddenly she caught sight of the lowered blind:

"Why did I draw down the blind? the sun is not on the street. Ah yes,"

with a heavy sigh, "I remember now. He was standing there--he has

tracked me; but, thank God! I am not at home. I am in big, endless

London. He shall find out no further; I will leave this place at once.

Oh! Maurice, Maurice!"

It might have been the cry of a tormented spirit passed away for ever

from hope and peace and joy. The misery of those last words was so deep

and poignant that the young girl shuddered.

She could not speak: she knelt helpless by her friend's side, not even

attempting consolation, while Margaret, covering her face with both

hands, wept hot tears, that streamed through her fingers and on to

Adèle's hand, which rested still upon her knees. And so they remained

for a few moments--moments that seemed ages to poor Adèle; then, unable

to bear it longer, she rose to her feet, and putting her arms round

Margaret's neck kissed her on the brow. It was the impulsive movement

of a helpless sympathy, a girl-like action. She could not help, but she

could comfort.

Mrs. Grey had forgotten her presence. The touch aroused her. She looked

up suddenly, and shaking off the flowing tears took the young girl's

hands in hers. "Poor child!" she said gently, "it is too bad of me to

frighten you like this. I fear I am very selfish and forgetful; but

you know nothing--God grant you never may!--of miseries like mine. And

now--will you think me ungrateful?--I fear I must ask you to leave me.

It is necessary for me to go from here at once. And yet," she continued

meditatively, "if you _could_ stay till the last; he might return--"

"I shall not think of leaving you till I see you out of this place,

Mrs. Grey," said Adèle authoritatively. "Listen," she continued, more

rapidly; "I can arrange it all. I told you before of my talent for

management, and now it has all come into my head quite suddenly. Ah, I

should have made a first-rate diplomatist. You want to escape this rude

man, and no wonder. If you do as I say we shall be off in a quarter

of an hour. Leave your boxes with their address; I can see to their

being sent after you. I see they are nearly packed. My cousin is at the

end of the street waiting for me; he will fetch the carriage, which

is only a few yards distant, and we can drive you to any station you

like to mention. There you can take a ticket--not, if you like, to your

own village, but to some place at no great distance, in case this man

should follow us, and to-morrow you can go on to your own home."

There was something enlivening in Adèle's energy. Margaret's face

brightened, she wiped away the remaining tears, and turning aside

renewed the struggle which Adèle's entrance had interrupted with the

obstinate trunk.

"Your plan would be perfection but for one thing," she said with the

quiet dignity which had characterized her before this excitement had

come. "My dear Miss Churchill, forgive me, you are young. I am a

total stranger to you. Your mother, your friends--would they not be

displeased? Is it right for you to do this?"

"It is, it is," said Adèle eagerly; "indeed, dear Mrs. Grey, mamma

allows me to go everywhere with Arthur. She has full confidence in him."

"And Arthur?"

"Is my cousin. You saw him the other day. He is waiting for me now." In

spite of herself Adèle blushed as she spoke.

Margaret looked at her in some surprise, but the ingenuous young face

told its own tale. In her turn she was filled with admiration and

love. She held out her hand. "Thank you," she said. That was all for

a moment, as the tears were ready to flow; then after a pause, "What

you have seen to-day will tell you more eloquently than I could that

neither you nor your friends need have any fear on my account. If

Arthur should become unmanageable at any future time, send him to me;

I promise to cure him. And now, dear, I suppose we must be setting to

work; I will accept your kind offer: it seems, after all, the best

course to pursue."

It was done without the slightest awkwardness.

Margaret might have been a queen accepting a favor from one of her

courtiers, and it was in this light that Adèle thought of the service

she was rendering to her friend, for Margaret was, in her young,

inexperienced eyes, a very queen by means of her beauty and charm.

And then they set themselves to work without further delay. In a very

few moments Margaret's hasty toilette was complete--a black shawl,

the little close bonnet, a crape veil, the bright Indian scarf,

from which she did not seem to care to separate herself, a tiny

morocco-leather case, which might contain valuables of some kind, and

a carpet-bag, which by Adèle's aid had been hastily filled with a few

necessaries,--these were all; then the boxes were locked and labelled,

the landlady's account was settled, and orders given to her to keep

the boxes until they should be called for, Adèle promising that Arthur

should perform this little service. It did not take very long. Adèle

had scarcely been half an hour in the house when they left it together,

Margaret closely veiled and not venturing to look around, Adèle gazing

right and left to assure herself that they were not followed. Not a

person was in sight on either side of the way, and she breathed more

freely.

Arthur meanwhile had been pacing the thoroughfare upon which the

street in which Mrs. Grey had been lodging opened out. He was not very

impatient, for his head had been full of Margaret; he had been forming

and reforming, always unsuccessfully to himself, her image in his

brain, and dreaming all kinds of mad dreams about the services he would

render her in the future, and the sweet returns of love and gratitude

he might be blest enough to gain. Adèle's concurrence in his plans was,

he felt, a grand step in the right direction; thenceforth everything

would go swimmingly, for it was not possible that she could set aside

Adèle's offered friendship--indeed, the very length of time that was

elapsing was a favorable sign.

But, not even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that he should see

her again that very day, that the means of doing her a service would

immediately be put into his hands; when, therefore, he saw two ladies

instead of one emerging from ---- street, he was beyond measure

astonished.

They stopped to let him reach them, and, rather embarrassed through

all his delight, he offered his greeting to Margaret Grey. She was

herself calm and quiet, only the heightened color in her beautiful face

betraying in any way a sign of her recent emotion.

Adèle was by far the more excited of the two. "Fetch the carriage,

Arthur," she said, "as quickly as ever you can. We shall follow slowly

to the place where we left it; you can come back with it to meet us.

Don't stop to ask why, like a good old fellow. There's no time to lose."

It was evidently for Margaret, so Arthur started off at such headlong

speed that many of the foot-passengers stood still to look after him,

wondering at his excitement. If some of his languid friends in that

other world, London of the West, could have seen him, I greatly fear he

would have been degraded for ever in their estimation; undue activity

or a public display of ultra eagerness is not among the list of

fashionable failings; in fact, it is bad form. But Arthur did not think

at the moment of his position in the world of fashion, and it was not

likely that any of his friends would have been benighted enough to put

such a space as that which separates Islington from Hyde Park between

themselves and their daily haunts.

Breathless he hailed the coachman, who crossed the street with unusual

alacrity. He could only imagine from Mr. Arthur's state of excitement

that Miss Adèle had fallen down in a fit or that some similar

misfortune had happened. He was an old servant, and took, as he often

said in the servants' hall, "a deep hinterest in the family."

"Nothing wrong sir, I 'ope," he said, stooping down confidentially from

his exalted position on the top of the coach-box.

"No," replied Arthur impatiently. "Drive me along this road until I

tell you to stop."

He jumped in, and the mystified coachman obeyed, stopping instinctively

at the sight of his young mistress with a person carrying a carpet-bag.

Even if Arthur had not used the check-string vigorously, astonishment

would have brought the worthy man to a stand-still. Imagination was not

his strong point, and it was difficult for him even to conceive what

all this meant.

"The Great Northern Station, and then home," said Adèle, not wishing

to mystify him too far; "and _please_ drive quickly."

He obeyed, and as easily and rapidly they drove along the streets

Margaret leant back among the cushions, closed her eyes and

sighed deeply. It was a sigh of intense relief. "To-morrow," she

said--"to-morrow I shall be at home."

Very little more passed between the three until the carriage stopped

before the station; there Adèle held out her hand very reluctantly.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye," she said gently; "I ought to be at

home. Mamma will be expecting me. I shall leave Arthur to take care of

you and see you into your carriage." With a glance Margaret thanked

Adèle for her noble trustfulness.

"We shall meet again?" said the young girl earnestly.

"I trust so, dear; you know my address. If anything should bring you in

my direction I shall be only too delighted to see you; but," and her

voice grew low and tender, "if we never should meet again, remember

this--I shall _never_ cease to thank you in my heart for the way in

which you have acted to-day."

She had got out of the carriage and was standing near the door, one

hand still in Adèle's, who seemed to wish to retain it to the last

moment. Arthur was beside them, looking interested but helpless, and

once more tempted to indulge in that very vain and foolish wish that

Providence had made him a woman.

Here was his cousin already Margaret Grey's dear friend: he was nothing

to her--a lacquey who might be permitted to see after luggage, to get

her ticket, to wait upon her. Nothing! Was that nothing? he asked

himself suddenly as Adèle closed the carriage door, waved her last

farewell and left him alone with Margaret in the busy station. Alone

and in a crowd, he her protector, she dependent upon him, he was a man

at once, gentle, thoughtful, considerate, ready for any emergency. Only

there was one drawback. All his attentions were received so pleasantly,

in such a matter-of-fact way--not as a something that was offered

personally, a tribute of homage to her whom he admired above all other

women, but as the most commonplace thing in the world, a lady's right

from the gentleman who has taken upon himself the task of helping her.

The fact was that Margaret Grey knew more of the world than her shabby

black dress and general want of style might have seemed to indicate.

Certain it is that she had hit upon the very best method of keeping her

young knight in his true place.

His heart was burning to show in some way the enthusiasm that devoured

him as he stood by her side on the platform, only venturing to glance

at her furtively from time to time, but abundantly laden with her small

items of property, of all of which she had allowed him to possess

himself without the smallest demur. None of this did he dare to show.

He could feel in anticipation the look of quiet surprise with which she

would greet any presumptuous speech.

Curious glances were cast on them by those who were not too busy in

the important stages of arrival and departure to give a thought to

anything but their own concerns, for Margaret was one of those women

who always attract notice, and once or twice, when she became conscious

of such observation, Arthur saw that she started painfully and turned

to scan the watcher. He cast his scowls to the right hand and to the

left, being quite ready to pick a quarrel with any one for the sake

of his divinity; but his scowls were shed abroad in vain; they did

not seem to have the slightest effect upon the situation, and at last

all necessity for such exercise of his faculties was over. The train,

longed for so eagerly by the one, dreaded by the other of these two

companions of an hour, came slowly, with majestic quiet, into the

station; porters, with anything but majestic quiet, began to bundle and

bustle the unfortunate luggage into the vans, lady passengers rushed

madly from various corners of the station, gentlemen passengers walked

leisurely with a defiant look at the engine (it could not start without

them) from the refreshment-rooms, where they had been taking in a stock

of strength that might enable them to live through the ennui of a six

hours' journey; parties that were about to part gathered woefully

together, tears in the eyes of some, an appearance of put-on sadness,

covering satisfaction, in the faces of others, and sounding along the

line came the voice of the stately guard, "Take your places, ladies and

gentlemen."

Then Margaret put out her hand. They had stopped together before a

second-class carriage, in which, with all the deference of a young

courtier, Arthur had taken her seat, arranged her parcels, placed

everything she might need within her reach, even to the little packet

of delicate ham sandwiches, flask of sherry and magazine of light

reading which he had obtained surreptitiously to add to her comfort

during the journey.

She smiled when she got in and saw what he had done. "Thank you," she

said, still in the same easy, pleasant way, a queen addressing her

subject; "I chose my knight well; and now good-bye. Tell your cousin

that I will send her a few lines to let her know of my safe arrival."

Arthur pressed the hand she held out to him. He could not resist it,

and then, shriek! puff! the waving of a flag, and the train was gone,

carrying her away from his lingering gaze. He turned aside with a

sigh and a singular contraction of heart; she, looking round at his

thoughtful arrangements, smiled faintly, then, leaning back on the hard

seat, closed her eyes and murmured almost audibly, "Thank God! escaped!"

Her thanksgiving, perhaps, was premature, for in her late

dwelling-place this was what was happening in the mean time.

She and Adèle had scarcely reached the top of ---- street before the

landlady, anxious to lose no time, ordered "Apartments" to be hoisted

in its usual place, the front-parlor window.

A tall, dark-looking man, who was walking in a leisurely manner down

the street with a cigar in his mouth, stopped suddenly and looked at

it with some attention. From below the landlady looked at him, and

feeling his earnestness prophetic arrayed herself hastily in clean cap

and apron, and smoothed from her brow the unquiet look which Betsy's

awkwardness had caused. She did not get herself up in vain; he rang the

bell and asked to see her rooms.

The landlady dropped a curtsey. This was a grand-looking gentleman

in her opinion, with a fine commanding manner--"looked a mili_tairy_

hofficer retired," she said afterward to a neighbor, describing

the interview. "They're not in the best of horder, sir," she said

deprecatingly--"not for a gentleman the likes of you to see; but

there," fearful of losing a lodger, "it _hain't_ all gold as glitters,

and if so be has you'll make hallowances, the lady--quite a lady and

lived very quiet, not gone above half an hour--says she, a going out of

that door, and a givin' me of her hand--"

"Show me the rooms as they are," broke in the gentleman, frowning with

impatience; but even this did not check the flow of the landlady's

eloquence.

"The lady as has gone--" she began.

"Show me the rooms, woman, without any more jabber," interrupted he so

fiercely that, as Mrs. Jones said afterward to a neighbor, "she was all

of a tremble, and her feet as nigh as possible giv' way under her from

fright."

She did not hazard another remark, but threw open the door of

Margaret's sitting-room, still warm, as it were, with the evidences of

her presence. The sight appeared to excite the gentleman; he breathed

hard and his eyes sparkled; then, not appearing to notice the landlady,

who stood respectfully in the doorway, he cast round the room one

searching glance.

It seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the landlady, took out his

pocket-book and pencil, as if to make a note of her answers, and asked,

"Your name, Mrs.--"

"Jones, sir, at your service," she answered, curtseying.

"Mrs. Jones? ah!" He wrote down something in his pocket-book, then

looked at her again: "Your rent?"

"Thirty shillin's _hand_ hextras," she replied, audaciously clapping on

ten shillings for the military appearance.

"Ah!" he answered once more, nothing else; no bargaining, as Mrs.

Jones informed her next-door neighbor, nothing of the kind; he only

shut up his pocket-book with a snap and turned aside, apparently quite

satisfied. Mrs. Jones flattered herself that his satisfaction arose

from prepossession with her rooms and her personal appearance. Quite

other was the consideration that caused the prospective lodger such a

pleasant glow of satisfaction.

Something indeed was written down in his note-book by that busy-looking

pencil. It was not Mrs. Jones's name and address, nor even her

exceedingly moderate terms.

If the solitary lady who was leaving London that day to hide her sorrow

and loneliness could only have known what was written there, her

satisfaction would have flown, for she had left her secret behind her,

tacked in large letters to the boxes that were to follow her the next

day, and the secret had been transferred to the pocket-book of the man

she thought she had escaped.

Poor Adèle's diplomacy! It had given way at only one point, but

unhappily that point was all important.

CHAPTER XIII.

_LESSONS IN WORLD-WISDOM._

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart;

They were dangerous guides, the feelings: she herself was not exempt.

"Well, Adèle, what have you done with Arthur?"

The speaker was a comely, elderly lady who had sailed, in the full

magnificence of brocade and lace, into the dining-room of her handsome

house. A substantial lunch was on the table, an obsequious butler was

in waiting, a fair-haired girl was seated in one of the arm-chairs, her

head resting on her hand.

At the sound of her mother's voice she looked up. "Dropped him _en

route_, mamma," she said pleasantly.

"And why did you not bring him in?"

"He had business, I believe, in town."

"Business, indeed! You should be his first business. Mark my words,

Adèle--though it seems impossible to instill worldly wisdom into _your_

brain--boys are volatile and require keeping in hand. A girl ought to

be tolerably _exigeante_ if she would either make or keep a conquest,

especially when a boy of Arthur's age and character is in question."

Then to the butler: "Take the covers, James; after that you can go

down stairs. Miss Churchill and I will wait upon ourselves to-day. One

always forgets James," she continued as he retired, "he is so quiet and

unobtrusive; but then--faithful creature!--I feel very sure _he_ could

make no mischief of anything he hears."

"I wish, all the same, mamma," said Adèle rather fretfully, "that you

would not always talk of my affairs and Arthur's before the servants.

Burton, James, Elizabeth, it seems not to matter at all before which of

them you speak."

"My dear Adèle, you are a child. These people know your character and

mine, and are pretty well acquainted with all our affairs, without our

taking the trouble of informing them. I wonder who leaves Arthur's

letters about sometimes."

"Arthur's letters?" Adèle shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly.

"All the world is at liberty to see them."

"There it is again, my dear; we return to the subject we were

discussing a few minutes ago. When do you intend to make a lover

of your cousin? You know you cannot possibly remain in this

brother-and-sisterly stage. You must give him one or two lessons or

he'll slip through your fingers yet."

Adèle was accustomed to her mother's style of conversation, so it did

not particularly shock her; she only smiled rather strangely: "Arthur

wants no lessons from _me_, mamma."

"Ah! then you are further advanced than I thought; but really, Adèle,

you have been brought up so simply I wonder sometimes if you know at

all what it means to have a lover. _I_ was very different with _my_

first lover, a cousin too, though we didn't marry after all. A very

good thing; he was poor and idle: I should have been a wretched woman.

Now, Arthur is well off, and not at all extravagant; no strong tastes

either; just the kind of man whom a woman can mould to her will; but

then she must know how, and I fear, Adèle, you are a sad baby in these

matters."

"It's not for want of instruction, mamma," said Adèle rather

maliciously.

But the good-natured Mrs. Churchill scarcely saw the point of her

daughter's satire. "You are right," she said. "I have done my very

best to instill into your mind some knowledge of the world you live

in, Adèle. I considered it a duty," she sighed faintly. "Had your poor

father been alive, the case might have been different. Women who are

thrown on their own resources, like you and me, my child, _must_ be

equal to the task of taking care of themselves."

It was a task in which, apparently, Mrs. Churchill had never failed:

she did not certainly look the worse for care and anxiety. She pressed

her handkerchief to her eyes--a habit, simply, for not the faintest

moisture was there to remove, but to mention the departed Mr. Churchill

without paying this tribute of regard to his dear memory would have

been most unseemly. A pause for this trivial operation then Mrs.

Churchill continued: "I have wished for some time to speak to you about

this matter, Adèle. I have managed for you so far; I can do so no

further."

The last words seemed to astonish the young girl. She looked up: "_You_

have managed, mamma? What _can_ you mean?"

"Why, little goose! to whom do you think you owe your lover? Not to

Arthur, certainly. He would have gone on droning about the house for

ever, without the slightest consideration for your feelings or mine,

engrossing you and shutting out others. I brought him to book and

showed him his duty." (The fond mother showed her white teeth at the

remembrance.) "When they were all laying themselves out to entrap

him, too! Lady Lacy and her pretty nieces, Mrs. Campbell and her ugly

daughters; even gaunt Mr. Godolphin, with that extensive motherless

child of his. Ha! ha! it was _too_ good!"

But Adèle did not seem to join in her mother's mirth. She had dropped

her knife and fork in a kind of despair, while a sudden pallor, quickly

succeeded by a vivid flush, showed her distress.

"Good gracious, child! what is wrong?" cried her mother.

Her answer was given through a flood of tears: "Oh, mamma! mamma! how

could you? And I was so happy, and I thought he liked me a little--only

a very little--and that, in spite of everything, it might be all right

some day? Now--now--"

The last part of the sentence was lost in the folds of her

pocket-handkerchief.

Poor Adèle was rather upset with the events of the morning, following

as they did upon the knowledge of what she looked upon as Arthur's

desertion; to hear now that even their engagement, in which she had

rejoiced as a proof of his real affection for her, as a kind of pledge

for his return, was due not to his own unbiassed freedom of choice,

but to her mother's machinations,--this was a kind of finishing-stroke

to her misfortunes. She continued to sob, somewhat to her mother's

annoyance.

"What a perfect baby you are still, Adèle!" she said; "it's well, after

all, that I sent James out of the room. Come, dry up your eyes, and

tell me what is the meaning of this. To say that anything I told you

just now could have caused such an outburst is perfectly absurd. What

has Arthur been saying or doing? _I_ shall have to take him in hand."

Adèle lifted up her glistening eyes and carmine cheeks from the

grateful shade of her pocket-handkerchief. "You must do nothing of the

kind, mamma," she said indignantly--she was quite unlike herself for

the moment--"you have done mischief enough already."

"Mischief enough!" Mrs. Churchill's glass paused half-way between the

table and her lips; she was absolutely petrified with surprise. Adèle

was an only daughter, and something of a spoilt child; but hitherto

she had always been gentle and obedient, for she was naturally docile;

then she and her mother had such different tastes that their wills very

seldom clashed. This vigorous assertion of personality was a new thing,

and for the moment clever, good-natured Mrs. Churchill, with all the

knowledge of human nature upon which she plumed herself, scarcely knew

how to treat it.

"This is what comes of romantic notions," she said severely. "I always

thought the poetry-reading bad; if this kind of thing goes on I shall

have to put a stop to it altogether. Now-a-days it seems to be the idea

for young ladies and gentlemen to fall desperately in love, indulge in

pretty poetic love-scenes and do a little wasting away for the benefit

of one another. I suppose something of this has got into your silly

little head, Adèle. You and Arthur should have been moved spontaneously

to fall into one another's arms, like the hero and heroine of a play.

Bah, child! there's a behind-the-scenes to life as well as the stage,

and lovers are generally only puppets; they _act_ the drama and

other people pull the strings. Don't look so very woebegone: I tell

you more than half the marriages in the world would never have taken

place without some such helping hand as mine. You ought to be grateful

instead of indignant."

Adèle had dried her eyes. She was rather ashamed of her outburst; she

ought to have known long ago that her mother's matter-of-fact nature

and keen common sense would never chime in with her own ultra-refined,

high-flown notions of life and action; and hers, after all, were

the ideas of a young girl to whom the great world was still a land

of visions and dreams; her mother's were those of a woman who knew

something of the world, who had passed through very varied experiences,

who, with all her good-nature--for Mrs. Churchill was what might

have been called a comfortable matron--had grown a little hard and

unsympathetic by reason of the rubs and raps she had encountered,

making some of her fine gold dim.

"We need not discuss the matter," said Adèle; "what is done _is_ done,

and after all perhaps it makes very little difference in the end. I am

sorry if I was rude to you, mamma, as no doubt you do what you think

best for me; but in these matters I do wish that you would let me have

_some_ voice. If I had known Arthur's proposal was brought about by

you, I should have certainly refused him without any hesitation."

"So I supposed, my dear; therefore I was wise enough not to let either

of the wise young people see my hand. Why, you romantic child! without

me you would soon float on to misery. Grand notions are all very well

in their way, but they can scarcely carry one through the world with

any satisfaction to one's self, Adèle; you'll find that out sooner or

later. But come, enough of worldly wisdom for one day. Wash your eyes

and make yourself look nice; I want you to pay some visits with me this

afternoon."

Poor little Adèle! she obeyed, but it was with a languid step. A few

days before her life had been all sunshine; her love, her pleasant

tastes, her bright hopes--everything had combined to make her happy;

now, a change seemed impending--unreality was around her; what she

had thought to be a firm standing-point turned out only shifting

quicksands; the love was departing, and the revelation of how it had

come robbed its past of all charm; even her pleasant tastes seemed

deceptive, for if her mother's views of life were correct, farewell

to the _Faërie Queene_, farewell to poetic imagery: it was the mirage

that betrays the unwary soul, and in spite of the poet's vision the sad

knowledge which that day's glimpse of another life had brought showed

too clearly that beauty and joy were only too often divorced.

Adèle appeared in the drawing-room in the course of half an hour

dressed in pale silk, a rose-colored bonnet crowning her fair hair

and pink-tinted gloves on her small hands, but nothing for the moment

could remove the gloomy veil through which she viewed life and its

surroundings.

Her mother was obliged to reprove her a little sharply. "My dear

Adèle," she said as they left one of the houses to which they had

been bound, "you must really make an effort to be more agreeable and

sprightly; melancholy does not suit you. Dark girls, with chiselled

features and creamy complexions, may be allowed to move through society

like beautiful mutes, but with golden hair and bright blue eyes like

yours vivacity, let me tell you, is the only rôle. Sulking makes you

look absolutely plain."

No girl likes to look "absolutely plain," and although Adèle loudly

disclaimed any sort of regard for what would or would not suit her

style, she made an effort, and that evening Arthur, who came back, pale

and exhausted, from the parting scene at the station, and who looked to

Adèle for sympathy, was rather hurt with what he was pleased to term

her frivolity. Young men are so selfish!

Mrs. Churchill saw the little by-play--Adèle's forced gayety, Arthur's

sentimental-looking eyes following her inquiringly, and somewhat

reproachfully, round the room. She congratulated herself on the success

of her lesson.

CHAPTER XIV.

_LAURA._

Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,

Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth--

A gem that glitters while it lives.

Margaret was at home. In a little village on the coast of Yorkshire,

far from any town, not fashionable even in the season, and somewhat

dull at all times, was the cottage to be found which she fondly looked

upon as home. The village consisted of one street running up into the

land, where butcher and baker and grocer, who all of them sold a medley

of articles, displayed their small wares; a collection of fisher-huts

on the coast, and some few respectable little houses, whitewashed and

green-shuttered, which were only tenanted in the summer months. It was

not even a particularly pretty place. Of course there was the sea, the

grand wide ocean, stretching its interminable breadths away to the

horizon, and it crept up upon yellow sands that were a perfect delight

to the eye and to the feet, they were so bright and clean and smooth.

But for this the scenery was somewhat monotonous; no mountains or hilly

grounds were to be seen far or near, save, indeed, the few sand-cliffs

that rose up gradually from the borders of the sea to a vast table-land

of moor and meadow, stretching into the distance with scarcely a tree

to break the line. A few huge boulders carved by time and water into

fantastic shapes, a little scanty herbage on the sandhills, some

stunted shrubs and trailing yellow flowers,--these were all that broke

the monotony of sea and moor; in fact, it was a desolate place, but

its desolation in no way resembled that of a city like London, the

dreary monotony of a human desert. It was Nature's desolation, grand

and weird, and, to the soul that could understand, full of ever-varied

mystery and charm.

The sunrise over the moor when, itself purple with the rich tints of

autumn coloring, it blushed into mistlike dreamy splendor; the mellower

sunset over the ocean, and after the sunset the pale streaks of

horizon-light and the broad ribbons of silvery moonbeams; the black

mystery of a winter night, space above, space around, space infinite on

every side; the clash and flash of foam-crowned waves shining through

the darkness,--these were some of the charms this little seaside

village possessed, these were what Margaret had missed in her miserable

visit to great, lonely London. She slept at a hotel in York on the

first night after leaving town. On the next day, partly by rail, partly

by carriage, she reached her own home.

They did not expect her. She wondered plaintively as she drove in the

little chaise, hired at the nearest station, along the low road that

skirted the sea, whether her little Laura would be pleased to see her

again--would have found the time long without her. Laura was not so

dear to her mother as she might have been, but she was her only tie to

life, the one creature who was dependent on her, to whom she was, in a

certain sense, a necessity. In the course of that long drive Margaret

began to reproach herself for having loved her child so little. Her

heart yearned over the tiny creature whose fate was bound up with her

own, fatherless, or worse than fatherless, in the tender dawning of

life--mysteries around her that her poor little soul might perhaps

already be trying to fathom, and trying in vain; for, as Margaret

recalled with a sudden pang, it was not an ordinary child's soul that

had looked at her once or twice out of Laura's dark, pensive eye. It

was a soul upon which the shadow seemed to have fallen--the shadow that

so early falls upon some, chilling their life in its first glad spring.

Margaret had shrunk from looking into this mystery; she had answered

the inquiring earnestness with which her little daughter had seemed to

look into her sadness by sweetmeats, toys and diversions, and the child

had gone back upon herself, dreaming her dreams alone.

Perhaps it is little known in the wise, busy world of grown-up people

how keen and sensitive are the sympathies and feelings of a child, how

easily the little soul can be driven in upon itself, and in some cases,

rare it may be, how great the suffering that follows.

Margaret had a vague consciousness of all this, but there was something

so bitter in her sadness that it shrank even from the light touch

of her child, and then the dark, pensive eyes that sometimes looked

so melancholy under their deep fringe veiled a memory--a memory that

cut and wounded, and that in some moods she felt herself absolutely

powerless to bear. So had another pair of eyes, dark too, and wistful

and infinitely sad, looked out at her on a stormy night long ago--the

night when her trouble had begun. Long ago--it looked long ago, yet

as mortals reckon time perhaps it could only have been said to be

short--one, two, three, four, long years. The remembrance of that

strange sadness in her little daughter's face had brought Margaret to

this again, as what did not? She reckoned the time and marvelled at its

flight.

As she pondered the little chaise progressed, with abundant clacking of

the whip and plunges forward and vigorous shouts from the boy-driver,

and scarcely a corresponding rate of speed, for Middlethorpe was an

out-of-the-way village, and no very stately vehicle of the hired

species would have been permitted, under some very large gratuity, to

explore its wilds. Evening was beginning to fall before the outskirts

of the village had been sighted, and between the jolting of the

carriage, the energy of the driver and the haunting thoughts that

tormented her, Margaret began to feel that any change would be a relief.

Her little cottage was rather out of the village. It lay at some little

distance, near the edge of one of the sandhills. When they entered the

village she stopped her driver and told him to take on her carpet-bag;

she would do the remainder of the way on foot. The boy listened to her

directions, nodded his head good-humoredly, and leaving her upon the

sands, started off in the direction indicated--to a little white point

at some distance reached by a road winding up through the village.

Margaret proceeded leisurely along the coast toward a narrow path that

led up the cliff to her cottage by a nearer way.

She gazed over the wide sea, for the gray which had been its abiding

characteristic through the not very brilliant May day was blushing

gradually into golden brightness under the magic touch of sunset, and

Margaret paused in the full enjoyment of its rich coloring. Then, with

the light still in her eyes, she looked landward on to the sandhills.

There was a little figure crouching under one of them, evidently that

of a child, and a child in sorrow, for the face was hidden by a pair of

tiny hands and the little frame was shaken with sobs. It looked like a

blot in the dazzle the sunset radiance had cast over Margaret's sight.

But the child was at her feet; her heart was moved for its little

trouble. She stooped to ask about the sorrow, and with a sudden shock

recognized in the weeping little one her own Laura. The child's dress

was in disorder; the pretty, fair hair was uncovered by hat or bonnet

and flying wildly over her face and neck; her cheeks were stained with

tears which seemed to have been flowing abundantly; her little hands

were red and sore.

She looked up, and a faint smile came into her weary little face as

she recognized her mother. "I thought you were never coming back,

mamma," she said in a voice so sad and low that it pierced her mother's

heart. "I am glad you're come, because now perhaps I sha'n't always be

naughty."

"Naughty! my little Laura naughty? Who says so?" The tears were in

Margaret's eyes, and a passion of penitence and love was welling

up in her heart. It was like the opening of a sealed-up fountain.

All the sweet motherliness that untoward circumstances seemed to

have stifled in Margaret's heart awoke suddenly at the sight of her

daughter's sorrow. She kissed the little flushed face, smoothed back

the disordered hair, and lulled the child to rest in her arms with the

pretty baby-language that mothers know. And at first the little Laura

looked surprised, then her tears ceased, she clasped her arms round her

mother's neck, and into the dark, wide-open, pensive eyes there came a

look of rest.

So they remained for a few moments--the mother and the child, with

the soft, cool yellow sand around them and the westering seas before

them; Margaret thinking only of these little clinging arms, of this

sweet child-love--of the blessing that was still left her; the little

one rejoicing, with the unreasonable delight of childhood, in the soft

pressure of her mother's arms. She had always been given a morning and

evening kiss, but this warm, protecting tenderness was, she could not

tell why, something new to her.

She looked up languidly at last from her mother's breast where her

head had been resting. "Jane says I've been very naughty, mamma," she

murmured; "she whipped me for telling a story, but I know I didn't take

the sugar."

Laura's tears began to break out afresh at the remembrance, but her

little simple story had aroused her mother, and indignation began to

mingle with sorrow in her heart. She started up: "_Who_ whipped you,

Laura? Jane? How could she have dared to do such a thing? There! there!

my sweet," for her vehemence had alarmed the child, "dry your eyes.

Mamma will never leave her little darling again; no one else shall have

anything to do with Laura."

Laura's tears gave place to a smile of contentment. "Yes, mamma dear,

it will be nice. I cried the day you went to London, a long time

ago, and Jane said it was naughty, and she locked the door and left

me by myself--oh, _such_ a long time! And she said you had gone away

because I was tiresome, and you didn't love me one little bit; and I

thought"--Laura wound her arms tightly round her mother's neck--"I

thought perhaps you'd never come back, and I was always to stay with

Jane. And oh, mamma, I was looking at the sea to-night--you know

gardener's little boy fell in, and when he came out I saw him; he was

white and quite cold, and they put him in the churchyard--and I thought

it would be better to fall in like poor little Jimmy than to live with

Jane."

"Poor little darling!" Margaret's tears were flowing fast. She rose

from her seat, but she would not loosen the pressure of those tiny arms.

Laura put her hand up to her mother's face: "Mamma, _you're_ crying

now. Is it about Jane? Poor mamma! never mind."

"Mamma is crying because they told her little daughter such dreadful

things," said Margaret as quietly as she could. "Listen, my child: you

must _never_ believe them. I love my Laura more than I can say. You are

_all_ that is left me, dear. It was for you I went to London, that you

might grow up wise and good, and learn like other little girls; and I

was going to such a wretched, miserable place or I would have taken my

child with me; but I will never leave her behind again, wherever I may

go."

Perfectly satisfied and with a little sigh of full content, Laura put

down her head again, and so they went back to the house, the child in

her mother's arms.

Jane Rodgers met them on the threshold of the front door. She had

looked forward to something like this when the boy had arrived with the

carpet-bag, notifying that the mistress was to follow, and she blamed

herself severely for her short-sightedness, which had arisen in this

way.

She had been shrewd enough to see that although Mrs. Grey never

neglected her daughter, yet there was none of that warm devotion

which mothers so often cherish for an only child; in fact, that the

very presence of her little one was sometimes a burden to her. The

circumstances of her lodger being peculiar and utterly unknown, so far

as she could learn, to any of her neighbors, Jane had come to certain

conclusions not very creditable to her ordinary good sense or knowledge

of human nature. When, therefore, for three weeks Mrs. Grey had

remained absent from her daughter, although her rent was fully paid up,

and amply sufficient had been left for the little Laura's maintenance,

Jane Rodgers, acting on her previous supposition, had come to this

conclusion: "The mother had left her child altogether. It would fall to

her" (Jane Rodgers's) "lot to take care of her and bring her up."

Now, Jane was by no means a cruel woman. Had any one told her that even

under such untoward circumstances she could have been absolutely unkind

to any child of seven years old, she would have indignantly repelled

the accusation. But Jane was a scrupulously conscientious woman (that

is, she thought herself so); she was unmarried, and hard by nature.

She had been a fine-looking girl in her youth--had been disappointed

in love, and as a domestic servant had perhaps had her full share

of the temptations incident to her position. She had preserved her

respectability, saved her money, and some years before the time when my

story opens had returned to her native village, the owner of a small

furnished house. Her living she was given in return for the service she

rendered, and the rent of the house was ample to keep her in clothes

and pocket-money, with a small sum accumulating year by year at the

savings bank.

Jane was a highly respectable person, and in this consisted her pride.

How people could ever be brought into the world the wrong way, or how

the hundred and one wicked actions so common in all societies, high

and low, could ever come to be committed, she professed herself wholly

unable to understand. _She_ had no sympathy for the tempted: her

theory was, that if they suffered in consequence of error, so much the

better--it served them right.

When, therefore, the little Laura was left on her hands--for Mrs.

Grey had scarcely been gone a week before Jane had made up her mind

that she would never return--a strict and stern course of education

was begun. That evil was very specially rooted in the heart of her

self-imposed charge was Jane's theory--that no indulgence should ever

be permitted her was the fit corrective. Laura very naturally resented

this treatment. She had been allowed to wander about as she liked; she

had never in her life been struck, and seldom punished. When she found

herself watched, corrected and snapped-up--her little sayings, that had

been admired and thought clever, snubbed and reproved--Laura became

first very angry, and then very miserable. The anger was punished by

whipping and bed--such perfectly new experiences to the lonely child

that her little heart throbbed with the agony of humiliation; the

misery was treated as sulkiness, and at last poor little Laura began to

think it was all true. As she plaintively said to her mother, she was

always naughty.

Jane had done it in good faith. She thought she was acting well, taking

a mother's part with the child--that when the evil in her heart had

been rooted out by strict discipline, she might in spite of her pretty

face and form, and the bad precedent of a mother whose antecedents

were not precisely known, turn out a good woman and a useful member of

society.

In the mean time she took the child into her own part of the house,

cleaned out Mrs. Grey's apartments, and was ready to offer them in the

summer time on moderate terms to that portion of the bathing public who

might find Middlethorpe a desirable watering-place.

These being her plans and ideas, the arrival of the boy and carpet-bag

on this May evening was somewhat disconcerting to Jane Rodgers. The

child was out sulking. She was ready with a rod in pickle, as she would

have said, to chastise her for running away without hat or bonnet after

she had been ordered to her room; but Mrs. Grey, should she find her on

the sands, might probably fail to take Jane's view of matters.

There would be time for revelations too, and Jane could scarcely

explain to her lodger all the reasons that had moved her to the mode of

treatment she had employed with her daughter in her absence. However,

matters being so, it was best to put a bold face on them. Jane prided

herself on her independence. Mrs. Grey was certainly a yearly lodger--a

rare kind of article at the seaside, and especially at Middlethorpe;

still, if she should choose to take offence she might go.

None of these latter reflections appeared in her face as she went

forward to meet Mrs. Grey, white-capped and aproned, the very picture

of quiet respectability.

"Glad to see you back, ma'am," she said respectfully, "and sorry you

should find Miss Laura in such a plight. She run out when my back was

turned. I was in such a fidget about putting on my bonnet to look after

her, when--"

"That will do, Jane," said Margaret quietly. "Bring up our tea and pay

the boy. When I have put Miss Laura to bed I will speak to you in the

parlor."

"As you please, ma'am."

Jane turned away with a slight toss of the head, quite determined to

let her lodger go. She was not a servant, she said to herself, to be

treated in such a way. But the sight of her comfortable kitchen and the

hour of delay brought calmer and more prudent thoughts to Jane's mind.

Instinctively she recalled the fate of Mrs. Brown and Miss Simpson, two

ladies of her calling, who, after trying in vain to make a living out

of their houses, had been obliged finally to sell their furniture and

take to service again; Mrs. Short, who let, indeed, in the summer, but

generally to large families, and had her things knocked about in such

a way that no charge for breakages could cover the necessary outlay

which followed their departure; Mrs. Dodd, who had taken in unaware a

lady recovering from the small-pox, and whose servant had taken the

disease, thus necessitating a general turn-out and white-washing before

her rooms could be considered habitable.

Whatever the antecedents or private history of _her_ lodger might

be, Jane Rodgers could not but recognize that she lived a quiet life

and gave wonderfully little trouble. Then, though she paid her rent

monthly, she was in reality a yearly lodger; she had already taken

Jane's house for more than a year, her rent having been all the time

regularly paid. It would manifestly be a pity to give her up by any

over-hastiness.

Jane resolved upon a compromise. She took up the tea, arranged the

bedrooms scrupulously, and then sat down in her kitchen to await Mrs.

Grey's summons.

Some time passed before it came, for Margaret would not leave her child

that evening until she had seen her in the quiet, peaceful sleep that

ought to come so readily at her age; and she noted with ever-increasing

indignation that her little daughter was feverish and restless, that

she started painfully now and then, and clung nervously to her hand.

Nothing calmed her like her mother's voice; so, after trying various

other methods, Margaret sang to her in a low, sweet undertone some of

the children's hymns she had taught her at different times.

It was long, long since Margaret had lifted her voice in song of any

kind, and tears once or twice almost choked her utterance as the "Sweet

Story of Old" and "Gentle Jesus" came falteringly from her pale lips.

She had sung them at her child's cradle with all the proud joy of a

young mother happy and beloved. Now all was changed--she and her child

were alone in the wide world. But the sweet old words were suggestive.

As she sang the spirit of the lonely woman grew calmer and her voice

faltered less.

_Then_--in that fair long ago--she had loved the words for their music,

their sweet, pleasant harmony; now she loved them for themselves, for

the healing rest they seemed to bring to her. Like the cool touch of a

loving mother on the fevered brow of a sick little one were the words

of these child-utterances to Margaret that evening. _She_ grew calmer

and her daughter slept.

CHAPTER XV.

_A DREAM OF THE SEA._

We dream what is

About to happen to us.

The language in which Margaret condemned Jane Rodgers's conduct to her

daughter was not very bitter, but it was effective. She would listen

to no excuses, no recapitulation of the grievous faults of children in

general, and of Miss Laura (Jane was very respectful when addressing

her mother) in particular--of the urgent necessity for some kind of

discipline. All this she set aside with a quiet dignity that severely

impressed Jane.

"No one but myself," she said, "shall have power to correct my child.

If you cannot make up your mind to promise never to attempt anything

of the kind for the future, I will leave your house to-morrow, and

_you_ know very well that under the circumstances I might refuse even a

month's notice."

"I only acted for the best," replied Jane. "Miss Laura was that

unmanageable! For the future I won't try to look after her."

"That's all I require, Jane. I need not tell you that my confidence in

you is severely shaken: I could never trust you with such an important

charge again. I cannot even tell you whether I shall be able to make

up my mind to remain in your house. But I shall narrowly watch your

behavior, and may hope to be convinced that ignorance rather than

downright badness of heart was the cause of your cruelty to my little

daughter."

Jane's mouth was open to reply, but Margaret stopped her: "You have

said quite enough; you may leave me now. Only remember this: I must

never be forced to complain of you in this way again."

She turned to her writing-table as she spoke, and Jane with heightened

color walked to the door.

She did not attempt to answer, for Margaret's severity of manner awed

her; but if Mrs. Grey had looked her way she might have seen an ominous

frown on her brow and a gleam of anger in her cold gray eye.

Jane prided herself on her spirit. It was next to respectability in her

estimate of necessary virtues, but she seldom displayed it imprudently.

When the door was between her and her mistress she clenched her fist

and shook it at the senseless boards. "Her and her beggar's brat!" she

muttered; "but mayhap I'll teach them yet." And with that she retired

to the kitchen, leaving Margaret, very spent and sad, undisputed

mistress of the field.

Perhaps it was a dear-bought victory. It might have been better for

herself and Laura if she had acted upon her first determination, and

left Jane Rodgers's house on the next day. But we cannot know all our

kind, its varieties are so infinite, and Margaret believed in Jane

still to a great extent; then the difficulties of a change of residence

were very great.

Moving was an expensive business, one she could not well afford, and

so far as that village was concerned (she had a certain repugnance

to going elsewhere) she did not know of another place that would

suit them; so the matter was decided. Margaret went to bed fully

determined to remain where she was. Her bedroom window commanded the

sea. She lifted the blind that night, as her habit was, and looked away

wistfully over the waters. How she longed sometimes for the freedom of

the white sea-gull, that skims those restless waves and passes on, on,

through the light and through the darkness till it reaches the haven

where it would be!

There was a haven for which _she_ longed so passionately that at times

the longing was a bitter pain: her haven was not in the heavenly

country. In those days Margaret seldom thought of that, for even the

passing away from things visible might not possibly put an end to her

pain. It was a haven in which she had once rejoiced, but from which she

had passed out into the black darkness of a dreary, shoreless ocean.

The love and confidence of _one_ poor human heart--that was the whole

of her desire; and day by day, night by night, the wished-for haven

seemed drifted farther away, till even hope died down, and she ceased

to think she could ever reach it.

She had a dream that night: with the strange perversity of nightly

visions it seemed to mingle in one and confuse inextricably the

experiences and thoughts of those last few days. She saw the sea as she

had seen it that evening, streaked with night-born radiance, and on

it a small boat--in the boat the dark form of the man she dreaded; in

her dream she loved him, and was stretching out her arms for a place

by his side in the tiny skiff. Then a gradual change: the gleaming

silver passed into ruddy gold, which tinged ocean and sands and rock,

and she knew that it was the hour of sunset. She was sitting on the

yellow sands gazing out to sea, and suddenly as she looked into the

flood of color a white speck rose from its midst--a sail, which grew

larger and whiter till she saw that it was no sail, but the vast wings

of a gigantic bird that was leisurely skimming the water till it rested

at last at her feet. And its eyes were dark and lustrous, full of

love and confidence. Ah, how well she knew them! Another change: she

thought that she looked up again, and the bird was gone, but in its

place Laura's father stood before her stretching out his arms to her

longingly. And then she woke with a start and a shiver, to see the gray

dawning begin to struggle with the darkness, and to feel at her heart a

cold, cold chill.

CHAPTER XVI.

_UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE._

And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead

For all that you miss and all that you need.

After this the days passed on in the little village by the sea somewhat

slowly and lingeringly. Spring blushed into summer, the bright early

freshness of grass and foliage deepened into summer's maturity, the

gray ocean wore a mild blue appearance as it rolled in on the yellow

sands, and began to reveal its depths to those who skimmed it in the

boats--some bound on pleasure and some on business--that left the

shore from time to time. Over the dim, vast distance Summer cast her

misty veil, shutting in earth and sea with her soft halos and vapors,

and to the yellow sands came women and children, vanguard of the great

army that later in the season would swoop down upon this village and

others of the same type.

Margaret was often there with a book in her hand or a piece of work,

and her child by her side; but generally she was unoccupied, her

hands listless, her eyes growing daily deeper and more weary. For the

strain on heart and spirit was rapidly becoming more than her physical

strength could bear. She was fading visibly, but there was no loving

eye near to note how her step grew more languid and her white fingers

thinner, and her beautiful face more worn and sad till its very beauty

seemed to be passing away. One noted the change, however, and took full

advantage of it.

Jane Rodgers was becoming a kind of household tyrant; not that she ever

again attempted the management of Laura--_that_ would have aroused what

little spirit Margaret still possessed; her tyranny was exhibited in

other ways. She would do precisely what she chose, leaving everything

else undone--would spend days visiting her friends under the plea of

change being an absolute necessity, and leave Mrs. Grey, who could

not afford extra help, to manage matters for herself in the house;

she would even reply insolently at times to some simple request made

by her lodger, for she saw her power. A kind of indifference to life

and its comforts was creeping gradually over Margaret, a numbing sense

of weakness, a languid desire for rest--only rest. In such a frame

she could scarcely have roused herself to undertake the exertion of

moving. She felt that between herself and her landlady matters were not

so pleasant as they had formerly been, but Laura was happy, and for

herself she cared very little. The _one_ great sorrow, like an open

wound whose throbbing engrosses every sense, made her comparatively

indifferent to the little pin-pricks of her daily life.

She had one joy in these dark days. It was in the clinging affection of

her daughter. Since the day of her return Laura and her mother had been

far more to one another than ever before. The child opened her heart

to her mother, told of all her little dreams and fancies, and Margaret

began to talk to the little one even about the long sealed-up subject;

not indeed her trouble and its origin--that would have been impossible

as yet--but about the vague hope toward which in her darkness her

thoughts ever turned. She spoke to Laura about her father, drew from

her the story of her recollections, and tried to awaken and nourish in

her young heart a reverent love for the parent she might perhaps never

see.

For sometimes when Margaret felt her strength failing, a sudden fear

for Laura's future would take possession of her. If--if--God should

take her too from the little one! But that was a possibility at which

she dared not glance. To live as she was living, lonely, unloved, was

bad enough, but through all its darkness was a gleam of something

bright, the hope of a vague, dim to-come, that might possibly bring

back her joy. To die was to shut even this out, and for ever; to pass

away unforgiven, misunderstood, a stain on her fair fame.

Would not that be past endurance?

Margaret could not face the idea of death, but with the bitter

consciousness that it might come she did her duty to her child, and,

though painful at first, it became sweet after a time. She trained her

to think of the father who seemed to have cast her off--to love his

memory, to look forward to his return: then, in any case, if indeed

he too were in the land of the living, Laura would have a refuge. She

would not pass from her mother's care and tenderness to the protection

of one of whom she knew nothing; her father would _be_ her father,

the longed, the looked-for, and perhaps in after days (it was seldom

Margaret had strength to carry her thoughts so far), when she would

have long been cold, he might hear from the lips of his daughter the

tale of her ever-faithful love.

It was one of those warm, languid June days. The very sea seemed lazy

as ripple after ripple crept in sighing to the shore. There was a blue,

hazy vapor on even the near horizon, and scarcely a breath of air was

stirring.

Margaret and Laura had found an approach to shelter from the fierce

midday sun far up on one of the sand-cliffs, under a stunted shrub.

They were sitting there together, the little Laura rather stiller than

usual.

She had been running about on the sands with some small friends picked

up among the visitors, and the heat had tired her. She sat at her

mother's feet, with her head buried in her lap to hide it from the sun.

"Mamma," she cried from her safe retreat, "I had _such_ fun just now."

Margaret's thoughts were far away. She recalled them to interest

herself in her child's amusements: "Had you, darling? Who were you

playing with?--those little children in blue frocks?"

"One of them's bigger than me, mamma," said Laura reprovingly. "You saw

me _then_, but you didn't see the tall gentleman with a big dog, for we

were far away along the sands. He made his dog go in the water for his

stick, oh, ever so many times! and then--Mamma, are you listening?"

"Yes, dear; what then?"

"He took me up on his shoulder and carried me a long way."

Margaret smiled languidly: "He must have taken a fancy to my little

girl."

"But wasn't it funny?" said Laura meditatively; then starting up

suddenly in her eagerness: "Mamma, do you know what I thought when he

was so kind?"

"No, darling, how can I?"

"I thought"--Laura's eyes were sparkling with excitement--"that perhaps

it was papa come back."

Her eager voice roused Margaret from her languor. She rose from her

improvised couch among the branches, and resting one hand on the

child's shoulder said as quietly as she could, "What brought such an

idea into your little head?"

"Why, mamma, don't you see? I always think papa will come like that;

he'll want to surprise us and see if we remember him. This gentleman

asked me about my papa, and if he lived here. And when I said no, but

he was coming back, he looked at me so funnily; then, before he let me

go, he kissed me--a big kiss, mamma, like my papa used to give me long

ago, when he lived here."

Margaret's heart had been swelling as the little voice flowed on. She

could never have told why the childish fancy took such a hold upon her

mind, but so it was; with Laura, she could not help feeling that the

gentleman took more than a common interest in her. Was it true, then?

Had he come back to them? Was her trouble to end? for she did not fear

her Maurice; one short half hour, face to face, would be sufficient for

them both--sufficient to break the icy barrier that lay between them,

and to make them one again.

"Laura," she said, still with that forced quiet in her voice, "try and

tell me what the gentleman was like."

This was a difficult task for the little one. She looked up to the

sky for inspiration. "He was tall, mamma," she said at last, "and I

think--I think there was something funny about his eyes; but he looked

kind, and I haven't seen anybody like him before. Of course I don't

remember what papa was like. He had a great big dog--_so_ big" (she

extended both her arms by way of illustration)--"with a curly black

coat and brown eyes, and a tail that wagged so funnily."

The dog was evidently easier to describe than the gentleman. Perhaps

Laura was not singular in finding it rather difficult to string

together his merits and demerits, even physically considered. He had

been a puzzle to more than one in his transit through the world.

Margaret smiled at her child's enthusiasm. She was not much clearer

about the identity of the stranger than she had been before, but a

longing came over her to unravel the little mystery. She was ready to

ridicule her own folly for seeing any mystery in the matter. Probably

the gentleman was only some stray visitor at Middlethorpe's small hotel

who had been pleased with Laura's fair, childish beauty; and yet the

feeling was there. She must find him out and satisfy herself that he

_was_ a stranger.

"Run home, darling," she said to her little girl, "and tell Jane to

give you your dinner; afterward sit quietly in the parlor with your

new story-book; before tea-time I shall be at home."

Laura hesitated: "You won't go to London, mamma?"

"Certainly not, my little daughter; now run away like a good child."

There was no disputing this. Laura returned to the little cottage, and

Margaret remained alone on the cliff. She was anxious to find out her

daughter's friend, and thus put out of her mind at once the haunting

thoughts that Laura's simple fancy had implanted there.

It could not be a difficult task; there were few gentlemen with big

dogs at Middlethorpe, for the lords of creation had not begun to

indulge in the luxury of seaside idleness. They had sent some of their

womenkind before; themselves were still busy on the world's highways.

The gentleman who had taken so kindly an interest in her little

daughter would certainly be identified with ease.

With a view to his discovery Margaret looked below. The sands, so busy

a few minutes before, were dull and silent, for the flocks of little

ones, with their nurses and mammas, had gone in for the early dinner,

a necessary part of seaside life, and Middlethorpe might have been

perfectly empty.

It was the stillness of a summer noontide, strangely oppressive to a

restless heart. This way and that Margaret looked, up and down the

sands, across the sea; no gentleman or big dog was in sight, and with a

little sigh she turned to look for the book that had been lying by her

side, to while away in its company the hour of forced inaction.

She turned, and became suddenly conscious of the startling fact

that she was not alone--that while she had been looking down at the

sands and across over the sea she had been joined by an unlooked-for

companion, and he must have been there some minutes, for he had found

time to settle himself satisfactorily. He looked perfectly at his ease,

very near her in a reclining posture, his elbows on the sands and his

head in his hand; he was not looking at her. He seemed to be watching

the feathery clouds that were passing over the blue depths above or

counting the insects that flitted past unceasingly; but she, when she

caught sight of him, was not so calm. Her face blanched suddenly; she

covered it with her hands, and a low cry--it might be of anger, it

might be of dismay--came from her quivering lips.

At the sound he turned his gaze in her direction, showing as he did so

a broad square brow, deep-set eyes and a dark, strongly-lined face, its

plainness only relieved by the mouth, which was full yet delicately

formed, the lips soft and ripe as those of any woman. It was partially

veiled by a dark moustache, contrasting rather strangely with his

head, which was covered by a crop of short gray hair. He did not look

an Englishman; indeed, there was something strange in his appearance

which would have rendered the classification of his type a difficult

matter to the most skilful physiognomist. Only one point seemed to

be tolerably evident: he belonged to the ardent South rather than

the cold North, for even at the moment of her discovery, when he was

striving, with all the strength of a strong nature, to show nothing but

cool indifference, his breath was coming quick and hot, his eyes were

sparkling, his fine mouth was quivering with excitement, and in his

voice there was an unmistakable quiver as he spoke after a few moments'

silence, spent by her in averting her face from his gaze, by him in

watching curiously her every movement: "Marguerite!"

A deep musical voice and a slightly foreign accent. It seemed to excite

her. She trembled from head to foot, and tried to rise from her seat.

He put out his hand to detain her. "Not yet," he said sternly. "I must

know first what all this means."

She looked up wonderingly.

"Ah! you know well," he continued more rapidly, and his voice taking

a firmer timbre. "Why have you hid yourself? Why have you fled to the

outskirts of creation to avoid me? Why are you shocked, terrified, when

in my tenderest voice I speak the dear name you used to love to hear

from my lips? Have I grown so very monstrous, or do you wish to kill

yourself with this savage loneliness that your English nation so dearly

loves? Speak! speak!--or rather speak not at all. Let me sit here for

ever and feast my eyes on the loveliness a woman's whim has hid from me

so long. Marguerite! Marguerite! my white pearl, it will be difficult

for you to hide from me again."

She had risen to her feet, the angry color coming and going on her fair

face, but, crouching before her, he held her by the dress and refused

to let her stir.

"Marguerite," he cried, bitter pain in his voice, "I know I speak

folly; you are not one of _my_ warm race; you are a cold daughter of

proud England. But see, love, I will be patient. Sit down again. I

am not near you now; only," and his brow contracted into a frown so

fierce that it might mean a menace, "I am here now, and I must and

will be heard."

Margaret reseated herself, but her face grew pale with suppressed

anger. "If it is the manner of your race to insult the unprotected,"

she said bitterly, "I must congratulate myself on the fact that I do

_not_ belong to it."

His face kindled. "Spoken like yourself, _ma reine_," he said softly.

"I kiss your hands. I am, what I have ever been, your devoted servitor."

"If so, Mr. L'Estrange," she said, slowly and distinctly, but as if

speaking with some difficulty, "I must beg you to leave me at once."

He smiled--a smile that irradiated his face like sunshine: "I was rash,

_ma belle_; sometimes obedience is an impossibility. But see! what are

you afraid of? Look at me, devoted to you body and soul, your friend,

ready to do you the smallest service; only asking this in return, that

I may be permitted to stay where I can see you, can offer you kindly

greeting from time to time--a common acquaintance, nothing more."

She would not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on a distant speck

on the horizon--the sail of a ship or the long line of smoke from a

passing steamer.

"You have forced yourself upon me," she said in a low, constrained

voice; "you know your presence is distasteful, and you know why. But

for you these years of what you are pleased to call savage loneliness

would never have been."

He did not seem to hear her; he was carrying on a kind of soliloquy.

"She is changed," he said, gazing at her still, "yes, and fading. The

rich bloom in her cheek, the laughing sparkle in her eye, the fair

roundness of form, it is passing--passing; but, _hélas! mon Dieu!_ is

she not fairer than ever in her pure, sad whiteness? Ah, Marguerite, my

pearl! how could he ever have doubted you?"

Almost fiercely she answered, the fire of indignation giving back to

her eyes the sparkle of the olden days: "And _you_ can ask that--you

from whom all the misery came? _He_ knew what had passed between you

and me before our marriage. _He_ trusted me, my life was blest; _you_

came between us and destroyed my happiness."

"Gently, gently, my fair Marguerite," he said, pleadingly; "you English

are a justice-loving people. Is it not your law that allows what they

call extenuating circumstances? That meeting between you and me need

never have taken place. If you remember, I warned you. I received no

answer. Silence gives consent. Was I less or more than human not to

avail myself of it?"

It was true--too true. Margaret hid her face in her hands, and when she

next spoke her voice was low and pleading: "Mr. L'Estrange, you are

cruel. Yes--God forgive me!--I was to blame, and He has punished me

sorely; but have pity on me--leave me here."

A smile played over his lips, but she could not see it; he drew nearer

to her and touched the folds of her dress with a hand that was burning.

"It is time it should end," he said, trying to gaze into her hidden

face, "It was all a mistake, a grand mistake. I should never have

allowed it, only I wanted faith. I dared not drag _you_ into any

uncertain future. Ah, my white pearl! who understands you so well as I?

Do you remember--shall I, can I, ever forget?--those few blessed days?

We were happy, Margaret--happy as children to whom the present is all;

the future was not even named between us, for when a cloud, born of the

North, your childhood's home, passed over your gentle mind, I was able

to dispel it. Those moonlight excursions on the silver water of fair

Venice--your friends were with us, yet we were alone, for the kindly

darkness made us almost forget their presence; the serenades--ah! I see

your memory is no worse than mine; the soft harmonies dying away in the

far distance as we sat together in our gondola, our hands clasped, our

souls rapt to ecstasy; the lessons in astronomy on those clear spring

evenings when you and _notre chère fillette_ scanned in turns the deep,

star-spangled sky; that day spent in exploring, Margaret--your pretty

coquetry had vexed me, but the soft golden radiance of pictured glass,

the sculptured marbles in that beautiful church, the Scalzi, soothed

my soul and I was at rest, your softly gleaming eyes telling of your

sympathy in my joy; the pictures, Margaret--our delight when we were

able to trace the hand of the greatest masters, and pronounce, without

guide or cicerone, on the authorship of one of our favorites,--yes,

these were pleasures. I sometimes think that they were pleasures too

pure, too high, for any but the gods, and in their jealousy they

dashed the cup of bliss from our lips. But," his voice deepened; he

drew so near to her that his hot, passionate breath fanned her cheek,

"they have given us one more chance. Shall we be wise and seize it?

Ah, _ma belle_! I see it passing. Happiness! think what that is; it

is not often offered to the dull sons and daughters of humanity, and,

Margaret, we have once rejected it."

He spoke, and gradually the bitterness seemed to pass from Margaret's

face. There came into her eyes a lustrous shining to replace the fierce

light with which she had greeted his first words; she even leant over

toward him and allowed him to touch her pale face with his strong,

nervous hand. For all was on his side for the moment. The strange,

wellnigh overpowering fascination he possessed--memory, imagination,

present loneliness and a certain bitter rising of indignation which the

readiness of her husband's mistrust and desertion could not but cause

her at times.

He saw his advantage. "It is not all forgotten, then, _ma bien-aimée_?"

he whispered tenderly. "That past beautiful time is still there--there

in the shrine of your pure heart. Tell me once for all, shall it

return? _He_ has forsaken you, insulted you by his mistrust; you owe

him no duty; and what is it that I ask of you? The restoration of your

friendship--nothing more."

The voice was soft, thrilling, full of an unspeakable pathos, and at

first as she heard her brain felt dizzy and a delicious languor seemed

to steal over her senses. It would be so sweet to yield, to renew in

her dull prime some of the fair joys of youth. Could she not accept his

friendship, for that, after all, is an every-day matter? He knew her

too well to presume.

And while she pondered, with a weakness utterly new to this fair, proud

woman, he stood before her, looking down upon her fixedly. Her eyes

fell before his. What met them? Nothing more novel than the Indian

scarf she usually wore. It had dropped from her shoulders and was

hanging on her arm.

A trifle at such a time, but do not life and its issues hang

sometimes on a thread? The scarf recalled Margaret to herself, for it

brought another past to her mind. It had been her husband's gift to

her--presented on the occasion of the little Laura's birth--and as

she glanced on it there came to her mind a host of gentle memories.

_His_ words, _his_ looks, his pride in her, the glad confidence of his

strong, young manhood,--she felt them once more around her like the

pale ghosts of a happy time gone by for ever; but they had been real

once, warm, living flesh and blood; and with their holy power they

warded off the tempter's influence.

Her first feeling was of burning shame and penitence. Was she then so

absolutely weak? Should it be possible for misery and loneliness even

to degrade her, to take from her that in which, through all her misery,

she had rejoiced--the proud consciousness of unshaken rectitude? For

even to listen to this man's blandishments was infinite degradation,

the dragging down of her white soul to the base level of his.

Thoughts like these rushed tumultuously into her mind as she looked

down still upon her husband's gift; and suddenly she drew herself back

shivering, as one might do who had been standing unconsciously close to

the edge of a great abyss.

He did not understand her gesture. The soft look was still in his eyes,

and he made a movement to take her in his arms. But the new strength of

her soul, born of the agonizing penitence for that _one_ weak thought,

seemed to have given to her the power she needed. She thrust out both

her hands before her, pushing him back so rudely that he stumbled some

steps down the sand-cliff; but he soon recovered his footing. With

a look in which pleading and indignation were mingled he tried to

approach her; she kept him off still.

"Leave me! leave me!" she cried "What have I said, what have I done,

that you should look at me like this?" And then she covered her face

with both hands. "My God! my God!" she moaned, piteously; "has even

good forsaken me?"

Middlethorpe dinner-hour was over. The sun had passed its meridian

height, the shadows of shrub and cliff were beginning to lengthen,

and with the drawing on of evening came a moaning, sighing wind that

ruffled the pale waters at their feet. It seemed an echo of Margaret's

wail.

Her persecutor had turned from her; apparently he could control himself

no longer. Taking a stone, he threw it far out into the sea: it was

the angry gesture of a child whose will has been crossed. He walked a

few steps along the path that skirted the cliff, but it seemed as if

he could not go finally. He went back to where he had left her sitting

mute and helpless.

"I thought you had gone," she said, flashing up at him a glance that

was not pleasant to meet.

He looked down upon her with apparent calmness, though all his pulses

were quivering with rage and disappointment: "I have not much more to

say, _ma belle_, for I fear you are in earnest this time. What a fool I

was to imagine for one moment that you possessed a heart! Go your own

way, then; starve yourself of all happiness, die, for the sake of your

husband, the man who has cast you off. But--you remember the old days;

I was always something of a prophet, and my predictions came to pass--I

tell you this: a trouble--one _I_ could have averted--is hanging over

you still. You shake your head, you have suffered to the extent of

suffering. Bah! in all hearts there is one assailable point. You are

not superhuman, _ma reine_. It is possible that your husband, the man

who loved you once, may be nearer than you dream, and thinking other

thoughts than yours."

What could he mean? Margaret looked up wildly, for he was turning from

her to the winding path that led down the sand-cliff to the sea. "Stay,

stay!" she cried.

He looked round at her. "Madam," he said politely, with the bow of

a courtier, "it is my turn to be obdurate. I would fain obey you--I

cannot: your refusal of all friendly offices has sealed my lips, and

time presses. Farewell! The humblest of all your devotees kisses your

hands and wishes you joy."

PART II.

A MAN AT WAR WITH HIMSELF.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.

_MAURICE GREY._

But the living and the lost--

For _them_ our souls must weep;

For them we suffer a yearning pain

That will not let us sleep.

A change. From the shores of the gray British seas to those of the

grayer Baltic--from the yellow sands and purple moors of Yorkshire to

the wellnigh boundless forests and plains of Western Russia--thousands

of miles of wood, lake and river, only diversified by some few castles

and villages.

It was July, hot and radiant, but in the depths of those woods coolness

is always attainable. By one of the broad silver lakes, under a group

of birches that rose gracefully from its shores, a young man was

resting through the noontide.

He appeared to be a hunter, for his horse was tethered to one of the

trees and a brace of fine hounds were baying out their impatience at

his side. But for these dumb companions he seemed to be alone, and

yet all the accessories spoke of comfort. A kind of table had been

extemporized at his feet, and on it a large meat-pasty, some bread and

salt, a knife and fork and a flask of sherry were lying. He had not

done much justice to the provisions; he was leaning back against the

tree and looking out over the lake, a kind of disgust in his fine face.

Suddenly, bethinking himself, he raised two fingers to his lips and

gave a prolonged whistle.

It brought from the surrounding woods two stately-looking Russians,

long-bearded and sedate. Their master pointed to the provisions before

him--a gesture which was evidently understood without difficulty, for

they carried away the food, retired respectfully to some distance, and

soon made a great inroad into both pasty and bread, packing up what was

left in a small haversack which one of them carried on his back. The

other then approached his master and made a low bow.

"Time to mount?" said the young man, evidently English from his

appearance and accent. "Ha! so much the better."

The horse was untethered, wiped down admiringly, and held in readiness

by the bearded Russian, his companion in the mean time bringing out

two stout little ponies from the trees. And in a few moments the small

cavalcade was ranging the woods.

The black eagle was flapping its great wings above them, feathered

fowl of a thousand varieties were twittering on the branches of the

trees. Many of the coverts might harbor the wolf or lynx; in the reach

of meadow to which a forest-glade might lead the gigantic elk would

probably be resting with her young.

It was a position to exhilarate the coldest brain, and the Englishman,

who took the lead into the forest, did not look particularly torpid.

He was monarch, too, of all he surveyed, for one of the hospitable

nobles of Courland had given his guest a free permission to shoot not

only through his estates, which were sufficiently vast, but through

those of his neighbors; indeed, the whole province was free to Maurice

Grey. With gun and dogs he might traverse the wilds of Courland in all

their length and breadth.

To an Englishman, a lover of sport for its own sake, could any position

be more delightful? He seemed to feel this. Mounted on his horse, a

fine little mare of Arab extraction, his keen sportsman's eye scanning

the depths of wood, his ear intent on the faintest sound, he looked

another man from the jaded, weary traveller resting listlessly on the

shores of the silver lake.

But the dogs looked uneasy; there was a rustling in the underwood; the

dry fallen leaves crackled ominously. He cocked his gun. Hist! a long,

gray-looking animal, gliding ghost-like out of the bush, but not within

range. It was a fierce she-wolf--the terror of the neighborhood; this

the Englishman discovered, and then the chase began. The wily dogs

urged her out into the open; bewildered she fled before them--long,

swift, seemingly untiring. With bellies to the ground, and legs that

seemed barely to skim it, followed the noble hounds, and after them

their master, urging them on by his voice, till dogs, wolf and horseman

seemed to fly over the plain.

On, on, leaving the Russian servants and ponies in the far distance,

the forest behind, the blue distance before them, till at last the wolf

grew weary, her pace perceptibly flagged: she tried to stand at bay,

but exhaustion overcame her; the hounds were on her haunches; they

pinned her to the ground till the voice of their master called them

off, and a shot put an end for ever to the robber of Russian hen-roosts

and the terror of Russian babies.

Various other feats were performed that day, each exciting in its kind;

and when the young Englishman, who had ridden far into the short,

bright night of that season, rested at last in a kind of log-built

hunting-lodge, where the hospitable owner of the estate had always a

few necessaries in readiness for the guests of the hunt, he was quite

ready for refreshment and repose. He partook of the provisions put

before him by his servants, bathed in the river that flowed at no great

distance, and laid himself down to rest, rejoicing in the glorious

solitude, in the freedom from anxiety, in the triumph of having found

one pursuit that could put to flight, even for a time, haunting care

and cruel retrospect.

But the triumph was short. The few hours of night passed, and kindly

sleep would hold his restless spirit no longer. With the gray dawning

Maurice lifted his head from his couch and looked around him. The

Russian servants, wrapped in sheepskins, were lying on mats at his

feet, fast asleep; even the hounds were silent and motionless, wearied

with their day of hard work. The neighborhood of the sleepers was

oppressive. He rose and wandered out into the little clearing in the

midst of which the hut was built.

Yes, this was solitude, true solitude, without excitement of any kind

to fill it; and as Maurice looked listlessly at the sun rising over the

woods he tried to persuade himself that it was delightful. Far from the

babble of false men and falser women, not even the rising of a thin

wreath of smoke in the far distance telling of their existence,--this

was what he had been seeking, and hitherto seeking in vain. He seated

himself on the trunk of a fallen tree to look this great loneliness in

the face and realize the comfort of his position, but it would not do.

Insensibly, as he thought and gazed, came visions of the past, dreams

of the future, like weird, shapeless demons whom memory had robed in

horrors to rob him of his peace and fill his solitude with care. For

Maurice Grey had loved as some men can and do love, throwing all the

strength of their nature into this one thing. And he had lost, not by

the hand of death--so pitiless when put forth to take the loved--but

by a something more dread, more pitiless still--the discovery of his

lady's falsehood. Oh, he had honored her, trusted her, given her his

all; and what had he found? That through the long years they had passed

together in such perfect harmony her heart had been not his, but

another's. He had given all; she had given nothing--worse than nothing.

And in the bitter revulsion of feeling consequent on the discovery he

had not waited for explanations; he had left her, vowing, in a vow that

came from the very depths of his stricken heart, not to look upon her

fair, false face again.

Since then he had been striving after forgetfulness. He would not hear

of her, he would not ask about her. In the various business letters

that necessarily passed between him and his solicitor in England--for

he was a man of some property--_her_ name was never mentioned. He had

left amply sufficient for her maintenance. The property she had brought

was paid over to her without the slightest reference to him. Thus, he

considered, bare duty was fulfilled, and for anything further--bah!

woman-like, would she not rejoice in the absence of restraint? It was

possible that he might desire to have a voice in the education of his

child; about his wife he would trouble himself no further.

But the mind is volatile and independent; it receives not the "Thou

shalt not" with which poor mortals would fetter it. Over flood and

field, through cities and solitudes, Maurice had been wandering with

this one idea--to banish for ever from his mind the beautiful, haunting

face of his lost Margaret--and all was in vain. More persistently than

ever it returned on this morning in the wilds, looking at him with her

lustrous eyes, speaking to him with her sweet, low voice, maddening him

with the cruel recollections it brought of loss and shame.

For in a case of this kind the man is, perhaps, a greater sufferer than

the woman. True, he can wander hither and thither, throwing himself

into the stirring life of the world--business, pleasure, excitement;

but in the deep, strong nature the sting remains, bitter, poignant,

ever present; not the soft sadness of the weaker sex, which in many

cases, stooping down under the stroke, reaps the reward of submission

in a certain gradual dulling of the pain; but the fierce, angry

plunging of a soul that will not yield to dire necessity--that will not

look its sorrow in the face and bear it.

And no trial is fitter to raise this ceaseless tempest in the spirit

than that under which Maurice was smarting. He had trusted in her as he

trusted in his God; she had been to him the embodiment of all that is

good, pure, beautiful in womankind, and the discovery of her treachery

was like the breaking away of solid ground from beneath his feet.

From that moment he believed in nothing. Writhing under the bitter pain

of the wound inflicted on him, he would yet show no signs of weakness.

He would forget; he would cut the ties that bound him to the past; he

would tear her from his heart. In the struggle his nature seemed to

change. He whom Margaret had loved for his gentle thoughtfulness, his

manly courage, his geniality, his bright, joyous spirit, became another

man. Irritable, morose, cynical, gayest among the gay at the festive

season, though of his laughter it might have been said that it was mad,

of his mirth that it was "the crackling of thorns under a pot;" at

other times dull and listless, uneasy, changeable, passionate. These

were some of his characteristics after many months' wandering. And

he felt the change; sometimes he professed to rejoice in it. He told

himself that he was getting hardened--that soon, soon, the past would

be as though it had not been; but there was a secret consciousness

within which told him that this could not be.

Such was the feeling which spoke to him on that still July morning

through the solitude till he could bear his own society no longer.

He returned to the hut, awoke his servants with some roughness, and

intimated to them, in the best Russian he could command, that he was

tired of wandering; he would return to their lord's castle that day,

and then join him and his family in St. Petersburg.

The Russians bowed simultaneously. They were accustomed to the caprices

of their lord, and did not show the least surprise at this sudden

termination, after two or three days, of an excursion that was to have

lasted at least a fortnight.

They escorted their lord's guest to the castle, and on the same evening

Maurice Grey left it for a St. Petersburg mansion.

CHAPTER II.

_SOCIETY VERSUS SOLITUDE._

Come, let us to the hills, where none but God

Can overlook us; for I hate to breathe

The breaths and think the thoughts of other men.

A few days later and the wilds of Courland were given up, as far as

Maurice Grey was concerned, to the animals that ranged them; he was in

St. Petersburg, installed as a welcome guest in the grand city mansion

of Count ----, one of the Courland nobles, his son, who had mixed in

the best society of both London and Paris, having been for some time

one of Maurice Grey's warmest friends.

Into the gay life of his brilliant city the young man welcomed his

English friend with the utmost cordiality, and Maurice was soon

immersed in a round of gayeties. It was a good time to see St.

Petersburg, for all the misery of the spring melting of ice and snow

was over. The stately Neva, clear as crystal and covered with craft of

every description, was flowing in full magnificence after its winter

sleep through the streets and piazzas of the city. The highways were

full of vehicles, from the grand carriage-and-four of the general or

prince to the plain hired droshki that seemed ubiquitous. Pleasure was

the order of the day in the city, for all, high and low, rich and poor,

were revelling in the charms of the short-lived summer-time.

Maurice threw himself into this new life with the utmost eagerness.

French is the language of the _crème de la crème_ in St. Petersburg,

and as he was master of the seductive mistress of conversation, his

ignorance of Russian by no means interfered with any of his amusements.

And he entered into them thoroughly. Lounging about on the Prospekt or

Grand English Quay in the morning with a few young Russians; flirting

with pretty French coquettes, or rarer Russian beauties, in the ladies'

afternoon receptions; floating at night in the grand barge of one of

the princes on the wide Neva, in company of the fair and gay and to the

sounds of delicious music; dancing far into the morning and supping

with the dawn;--this was the life of St. Petersburg, and for some days

he enjoyed it thoroughly. One thing was certain: it allowed very little

time for thought. But he had not the constitution or power of endurance

of some of his Russian friends. A week or two of this hard life knocked

him up. He was compelled to rest, whether he would or no. And then

reaction came. The crowd and bustle were once more hateful to him.

Biliousness, that great foe of the fashionable, cast its jaundiced veil

over his eyes. He began to loathe the luxurious saloons and crowded

rooms and made-up beauties--to long again for his own society, for the

scenes of Nature, for the solitude from which he had only just escaped.

"Be thine own heart thy palace, or the world's a jail,"

said the great Shakespeare. The world was a jail to Maurice Grey

because of the bitterness his heart contained; and, unhappily, go where

we will, we cannot escape the world, or that throbbing, torturing

consciousness of good and evil, of pain and delight, that mortals call

the heart. He could not hide his cynicism; like the thorn that the

rose-leaves conceal, it peeped out when it was least expected, and

the fair ladies with whose society he pleased himself began gayly to

question him on the mysterious cause of his gloomy ideas.

This alarmed Maurice. His wound was of such a kind as to be sensitive

to the lightest touch. He could not bear that what he looked upon as

his dishonor should be the common talk of his associates. It was this

that had made him leave England and break all connection with those

who had known him there. When, therefore, it became the custom of his

fair St. Petersburg friends to question him curiously about his past,

to suggest a probable history in his dark, melancholy eyes, to speak

to him with sentimental pathos about life and love, he took fright;

and to the grief of his many friends--for the Englishman had become

the fashion in St. Petersburg--announced his intention of departure.

Loud and long was the opposition, and Maurice grew weary of the delay

and sick of the great city before his friends would allow him to go;

but at last they were left behind him. With no companion, not even a

servant this time, he was travelling through the length and breadth of

Russia, by her scattered cities and vast plains, to Moscow, the ancient

capital; there only a few hours, and then on once more, for Russia had

become distasteful to him.

He would scarcely pause, for he was in a fever to be on, on and away,

far from the vexations of "towered cities" and their "busy hum"--far,

if it were possible, even from men. There was a little village that he

had known in happier days. It was far up in the Swiss mountains; it was

lonely, save for the coming and going of tourists, and even these did

not honor it with their presence for long. Two glaciers stooped down

into its valley, and it was watched evermore by pillars of purest snow.

There, perhaps, in the savage grandeur of holy Nature, he might find

the rest for which he craved, and with a feverish anxiety he pressed on

to his goal.

Switzerland at last!--a mountain-pass, snow-crowned hills, land-locked

lakes and white foaming torrents. A certain satisfaction glowed in the

breast of the world-weary man as he looked out upon it all.

He and his sorrow seemed dwarfed, for the moment, by the grand

magnificence of the world as God made it--not the world of cities, but

the world of Nature. _His_ hand was visible in the grouping of the

Alpine giants, in the variegated beauty of their hidden vales, and

beneath that hand the traveller felt himself.

Of carriages and mules he would have none. With his staff in his hand

he crossed the mountains, courting the healthy physical weariness,

sure precursor of that which denies itself to the brain overwrought by

excitement--blessed sleep. And with the exertion and consequent rest

his health returned, his muscles played freely, Life carried on her

great functions with ease. By the time he had reached Grindelwald, the

little village in which he intended to stay for some time, even some

of his cynicism had melted. Doubtless it was only for the time. Nature

can do much, but she cannot really draw the sting of bitter aching from

the heart, or give back to the spirit the brightness and elasticity of

that fresh time when men are divine and women are earth-angels, and

the world is a region of enchantment, a "palace of delights;" even the

eternal snows and the grand sights and sounds of the mountain-country

may pall upon the eyes and sicken the disappointed heart. For in human

nature are the elements of the divine--its infinite cravings only the

Infinite can fill. Beautiful as God's world may be, it is powerless to

fill the heart or satisfy the soul of man. Hither and thither he may

wander; like the dying poet Shelley's marvellous creation,

"Nature's most secret steps

He, like her shadow, may pursue;"

and yet for the haunting vision, the great unfound loveliness, the

unfelt joy, his spirit may sicken unceasingly.

PART III.

A DOUBLE MYSTERY.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.

_PARTIAL DISCOVERIES._

She seemed to be all nature,

And all varieties of things in one;

Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise

All light and laughter in the morning; fear

No petty customs nor appearances,

But think what others only dreamed about,

And say what others did but think, and do

What others would but say, and glory in

What others dared but do.

"I have no sympathy for you, Adèle--not the slightest."

So spoke Mrs. Churchill, standing by a sofa in her boudoir with a glass

of port in the one hand and a bottle of quinine in the other, giving

careful attention to the dripping of a certain number of drops from the

bottle to the glass.

Her young daughter was on the sofa, looking rather languid and worn.

She raised her head, supporting it on her elbow, and her voice was a

little peevish as she answered, "I have told you, mamma, that I don't

want either sympathy or medicine."

"In the name of all that's sensible try and tell me what you _do_ want,

child!"

"I want to see Arthur." Adèle blushed as she spoke.

"To see Arthur, indeed!" Here Mrs. Churchill passed the

carefully-prepared dose to her daughter. "You are a pretty pair! I

imagine he wants quinine and sea-air as much as you do. And now,

forsooth, he must turn studious, ambitious of literary distinction,

and what not. The next thing I shall hear about him is that he has

taken to the editing of a popular journal. Really, young people of

the present day are past my comprehension altogether, and, Adèle, you

and Arthur carry matters to the verge of absurdity. You fall in love

simultaneously with a pretty widow--whether a widow or not, Goodness

alone knows--you suspend your own engagement for a time, as you assure

one another, by mutual consent, and then begin the process of fading

away, Arthur throwing himself into literature, and you into so-called

charity; but, my dear"--here Mrs. Churchill grew severe--"_I_ have

always heard that charity begins at home. If charity consists in making

your mother's life miserable, and allowing all kinds of absurd notions

in the head of the man who is to be your husband (for I believe that

these new follies can't possibly outlive your teens), then, so far as I

am concerned, the less of charity the better."

Adèle during this harangue had turned her face from her mother. The

answer came from the depths of the sofa-cushion in which she had buried

her face: "I wish I hadn't told you, mamma."

"Happily, I found out the greater part for myself." Mrs. Churchill was

still severe. "Upon my word, Adèle, it was dutiful to begin such a

correspondence without your mother's consent or knowledge; but perhaps

I have spoken and thought enough on that subject already. Apropos of

this Mrs. Grey of yours, I have heard something which will probably

interest you. Of course it is not for me to say whether her name is

really Mrs. Grey, but some of the incidents in the stories I heard seem

to fit in rather strangely."

"Mamma!" In Adèle's excitement she rose to a sitting posture on the

sofa and her cheeks flamed suddenly into an angry crimson. "You may say

what you like; _I_ know that Margaret Grey is good and true, and it's

too bad to believe in nobody."

Her excitement rather alarmed good Mrs. Churchill. "Adèle! Adèle!" she

said, "_do_, like a good child, make an effort to be reasonable. The

next thing will be brain fever if you excite yourself in this way.

Silly little goose! try and believe that your mother knows more of the

world than you do. Some of these days you will be wiser."

"Never so wise, I hope, as to think ill of everybody," said Adèle, half

sobbing after her excitement.

"Well! well!" said her mother soothingly, "only be patient and I will

admit that everybody is angelic; indeed, after all, why should I take

the trouble of pointing out the fallacy? Circumstances will do that

for you before you have lived many more years in the world. But about

this Mrs. Grey. Very good I must call her to spare your feelings, and

doubtless very beautiful, or she could not have taken such violent

possession of the heart and head of my impulsive little daughter. It

is a pity, by the bye, Adèle, that Providence did not see fit to make

you a boy. It would have been possible then for you to have devoted

life and fortune to this interesting person, only I'm not so sure that

there's not a lingering weakness for Arthur in your contradictory

little heart. There, my dear! don't blush about it; you will certainly

have no roses for the evening if you expend them so liberally now, and

pale cheeks don't suit your style."

"As if I cared about my style, mamma!"

"Well, if you don't, Adèle, I do; and as, at your age, rouge would be

rather absurd, I must beg you to give us some of those pretty little

blushes this evening. Perhaps you may be able to persuade Arthur to

leave his books for a few hours and escort us to Lady C----'s. Is

music, by the bye, among the vanities to which he has sworn undying

hatred? Signor Mario has promised her a song, and--ah! I am so bad at

names!--the great violinist--you remember, Mr. Godolphin was so wild

about him--has promised to attend. But really, Adèle," Mrs. Churchill

gave an impatient sigh, "one might think you a worn-out woman of the

world, or six seasons out at least; you take not the slightest interest

in anything I tell you."

Adèle reddened: "I beg your pardon, mamma. No doubt it will be

pleasant, and the beautiful new necklace you gave me to-day will be the

very thing to wear. If Arthur comes in I shall ask him; but what were

you saying a few minutes ago about Mrs. Grey?"

"That interests you far more than either soirée or necklace, I do

believe. I wonder how it is, Adèle, that you are so _very_ different

from other girls at your age? What I have heard is, after all, not

much; and mind, if it excites you I shall leave off telling you _at

once_. It does not redound particularly to the credit of your friend."

Again Adèle buried her face in the sofa-pillow: "Who told you, mamma?"

"You remember that handsome young Russian at Mrs. Gordon's the other

night. He took me in to supper, and we got into conversation. Very

frank and open these foreigners are--there is none of that English

reserve about them. He told me at once what brought him to London. It

seems he is in search of an English friend, a certain Maurice Grey,

who, after having made himself quite the rage in St. Petersburg (he

was staying with the young count's father), suddenly disappeared,

leaving no trace behind him. He would not let his friends know where

he was going, nor did he write a single line to tell of his safe

arrival at any point in his journey. It appears that one and another

in St. Petersburg began talking about him, and it came out that he had

let fall certain mysterious hints about a great sorrow, weariness of

life, and so on--in your romantic style, Adèle. Whether he only wished

to make himself interesting to the ladies--who seem to have been the

chief movers of the rumor--does not precisely appear: I should think

it highly probable. However, St. Petersburg society took a different

view. When a week passed and nothing was heard of Maurice Grey, his

friends killed him--that is, they determined among themselves that he

had killed himself. There seems to have been quite a fever of anxiety

about the young man's fate. At last the young count, to satisfy his

fair relatives and friends--himself also, for he firmly believes in his

English guest, mystery and all--came over here, thinking that in London

he might find some clue to his whereabouts. And now comes the part of

the story which may perhaps fit in with yours. There are a good many

Greys, so I did not particularly interest myself until Count ----

informed me by way of sequel that during a former visit of his to London

his friend, Maurice Grey, had married one of the most beautiful women he

had ever seen. It was, of course, the prevailing idea in St. Petersburg

that a woman had something to do with the Englishman's gloom, and as

he never made the faintest allusion to his wife, it had been presumed

that her conduct after marriage had caused a separation or a scandal

of some kind. Count ---- has set on foot an inquiry about this person.

Mrs. Grey--Margaret, he told me, was her Christian name--must certainly

be still living. He heard of her from her man of business, but her

place of residence is, for some reason, kept a profound secret."

Adèle had risen from the sofa. She was listening to her mother's tale

with earnest eyes fixed on her face. When it was over she gave a low,

deep-drawn sigh: "Maurice, mamma? Are you sure his name was Maurice?"

"The Englishman's, Adèle? Yes, Count ---- called him by that name once

or twice in the course of our conversation."

Adèle clasped her hands: "Then there can be no doubt it is the same.

That will explain her sadness. Some fearful misunderstanding has come

between them. Oh how I wish I could see Count ----! or if Arthur would

only come! Perhaps--mamma, how delightful it would be!--perhaps we

shall be able to set it all right--to make her happy again!"

Mrs. Churchill groaned: "I thought my story would have had the effect

of curing you, Adèle; and now I believe you are actually farther gone

than ever with your enthusiasm and your poetic notions. _When_ shall

I teach you that all this is childish? '_Perhaps_ you will set all

right'--'make her life happy!' Perhaps, rather, you will obey your

mother, and have nothing further to do with a person who has deceived

her husband and is otherwise not at all correct. Why, if I don't very

much mistake--and I can say, without boasting, I think that I am always

pretty well up in these matters--before the season is over your Mrs.

Grey will be the talk of every dinner-table in London, for Count ----

tells his story freely, and he seems to have the _entrée_ everywhere.

'Miss Churchill's particular friend'--that would be a pleasant addition

to the tale when repeated with sundry additions, my dear, in our circle

of acquaintance. Thank Goodness! Arthur is the only person who knows

anything of your absurd adventure, and his tongue is happily tied."

Adèle looked up indignantly: "Don't think that _I_ shall hide from

anybody my friendship for Margaret Grey," she said; "_you_ may feel

ashamed--_I_ glory in it. All I regret is that I did so little for her

when I had the opportunity." Then, softening, "If you had once seen

her, mamma, you could never have believed these cruel tales."

"I should have instantly fallen under the spell, no doubt, like you

and Arthur? No, Adèle, it is long since a pretty face affected me so

powerfully; indeed, I never remember being so absurdly romantic as

you are. But, dear me! there are visitors; you look rather pale, so I

suppose, for this one afternoon, I must let you off and leave you here

with your book."

Mrs. Churchill really loved her daughter, though she did not quite

understand her, but she was certainly tolerably gentle toward what she

looked upon as her follies. She stooped and kissed her on the brow

before she left the room, saying, with something between a smile and a

sigh, "Ah, my dear, perhaps some day you will understand your mother

better."

Adèle returned the caress affectionately, but it was a relief to her

when the door of her mother's boudoir closed behind her and she was

left alone to think and plan, for the story of the Russian had thrown a

new light on the subject that had engrossed her so much since that May

afternoon in the Academy.