_GO AND SEE HER._
Love's very pain is sweet.
Miss Churchill was not allowed to indulge long in the luxury of
solitude. Her mother had scarcely left her before there was a
well-known knock at the hall door, followed after a few moments'
interval by a short, intimate tap at the door of the sitting-room, and
Adèle rose from her sofa and held out both hands eagerly to greet her
cousin.
Perhaps he did not respond with sufficient warmth to her impulsive
welcome, for the light of pleasure died quickly out of her face, she
sank languidly into a chair and plunged headlong into commonplaces.
"Are you going to Lady C----'s to-night, Arthur?" she asked; "I hear
there's to be some first-rate music."
"That means, I suppose, that you and Aunt Ellen want an escort."
"That _means_ nothing of the kind, Arthur. Surely mamma is old enough
to take care of herself and me without _your_ assistance."
"Pray don't take offence at such a small thing, Adèle. They say, you
know, that people who take offence lightly are in want of a real
grievance."
"Heaven knows I needn't look far for a grievance when you are
concerned," said Adèle bitterly.
"You are the most forbearing of your sex, my fair cousin," returned he
with provoking coolness. "In humble emulation of your patience behold
me a willing listener to this list of grievances."
He spoke with a half smile, then threw himself back in an arm-chair
and assumed an appearance of rapt attention; but Adèle turned away to
hide a treacherous tear. "I wonder how it is that we never meet without
quarrelling now," she said plaintively.
He shrugged his shoulders: "That, I fancy, is your affair, my little
cousin; you seem to take a delight in snapping me up, now-a-days; which
being the case, what can I do but submit and give your woman's wit
material to work upon?"
Adèle pouted: "Of course it is anybody's fault but your own, Arthur;
but that's always the way with boys--_they_ can't possibly be in fault."
Arthur rose from his seat: "This may be, and no doubt is, highly
interesting to you, Adèle. I can't say that I feel the charm of
sparring; but then, as you politely observe, I am only a boy, and boys
are often unappreciative of women's fine sallies, therefore I think the
_boy_ must beg to be excused."
He held out his hand. Adèle was on the point of taking him at his
word and allowing him to leave her, but when she looked up at him
her mood changed suddenly, for, after all, only her affection had
made her peevish. It was a difficult task Adèle had set herself on
that day when Arthur first let her into the secret of his love. She
had begun grandly. In her, as in many of her sisters, the spirit of
self-sacrifice was strong. On the altar of her great love for her
cousin, her enthusiastic admiration for the woman of his choice,
she had been ready to immolate everything; she would throw her own
wishes, her hopes, her future joy to the winds, so that they might
be happy; and if in that first moment she could have consummated her
sacrifice, could have given them one to the other, she would have done
it freely, whatever it might have cost herself. But the daily annoyance
her sacrifice entailed; the obligation of listening to her cousin's
rhapsodies; the knowledge that though with her in body his mind was far
away; even the light way in which he treated her unselfish exertions in
his interest,--all these were somewhat hard to bear.
In the conflict Adèle's health was giving way; she grew peevish and
irritable. Her gayety and lightheartedness departed, she was not the
amusing companion she had once been, and her cousin's visits were in
consequence fewer. When he _did_ come, it was only to pour out his
heart on the subject which engrossed him--Margaret Grey. Generally she
listened patiently, with an appearance of interest and sympathy; and
this was all he desired. Arthur did not mean to be unkind--he was one
of the most good-natured of his sex--but he had been so much accustomed
to consider that what interested him would of necessity interest Adèle
that he could not have thought he was giving her pain, and with his
every visit planting pin-pricks in her poor little heart.
When, therefore, as sometimes happened in these days--for Adèle's
weakness was beginning to prey upon her nerves--she showed herself
impatient, was unsympathetic or irritable, Arthur was, as on this
occasion, surprised and offended, and deprived her for some days of the
pleasure of his society.
But this time Adèle would not let him go off in ill-temper. She looked
up, and her woman's heart was moved to self-forgetfulness. "Don't go
yet, dear," she said, her voice trembling in spite of strenuous efforts
to be calm; "you must forgive my pettishness. I think what mamma says
is true. I can't be very well just now. And _you_ look pale and ill,
my poor old fellow; you shut yourself up too much with your books. You
should leave London and go to some seaside place for a time."
"I scarcely think the _books_ are to blame, Adèle." Arthur gave a
little sigh and glanced furtively at the mirror. Through all his new
earnestness he had preserved the boyish weakness of a certain pleasure
in interesting delicacy. "One must do something," he continued, pacing
the room restlessly, "and I've been too long an idle good-for-nothing.
I think I have literary tastes. I have been looking up the classics
with a view to a novel--something in Bulwer's style, you know, the
scene laid in Athens during her palmy days; or perhaps Palmyra, with
all the details in the true antique. My heroine must be Greek, fine
classic features, and that kind of thing. I have a grand description in
my head. Shall I give it to you?"
Adèle smiled: "I think I could give it myself. Certainly I know the
model. Am I right?"
Arthur had taken a seat again; he buried his head in his hands: "I
have had such a mad idea, Adèle. But no; to do _her_ justice in any
description would be impossible, absolutely impossible. It's easy
enough to write about dark eyes and fine features and golden hair, but
that would not be Margaret. It is the wonderful look in her face, that
kind of spiritual beauty belonging neither to form nor coloring, which
gives it its chief charm."
"You are eloquent, dear," said Adèle with a little sigh; "if you write
your book in that way, I think it must certainly be a success."
"Yes," said he pensively, "the public like reality, but, you see, one
can't always give it. These kinds of things look cold on paper. If I
could show you my multitudinous attempts in prose and verse to give
some idea of her! but they were all poor and wishy-washy. The greater
number enriched the ashes of my grate. I am a good-for-nothing, and I
_shall be_ a good-for-nothing to the end of the chapter."
There was something of weariness and bitter self-contempt in Arthur's
voice. It made Adèle's heart ache for him. She knelt down by his side
and put one of her arms round his neck. It was more the gesture of a
tender little mother with her child than of a woman with the man she
loves, for this protecting motherliness was one great element in the
affection of Adèle for her cousin. No doubt it was this in a great
measure that rendered it so unselfish. As a little child she had taken
upon herself the punishment of his small faults--as a grown-up girl she
sought to shield him from every kind of ill.
"Don't despair, dear," she said gently; "there is something for you to
do--to do for _her_, if you can be wise and generous, and put yourself
out of the way altogether. Do you remember, Arthur" (Adèle's voice
grew soft and the tears were in her eyes), "how you used to come and
sit here in the afternoon while I read to you from the _Faërie Queene_
about those grand young knights going out in search of adventures--to
rescue women and kill dragons and evil things? And sometimes we used
to wish that those days would come back, and I imagined how I would
send you out, all clothed in bright armor, to do great deeds in the
world. Dear, I think your time for this has come. You are a true
knight, you will forget yourself, you will burn to redress a great
wrong--especially when she, your Margaret, is the victim."
Adèle's words were exciting. Arthur could barely listen with patience
to the end of her tender little harangue, for a great light was burning
behind it which set his spirit on flame. "Adèle," he cried eagerly,
"you have heard something new about her. Tell me at once."
"I heard it from mamma," she answered. And then, in as few words as
possible, she repeated the story of the young Russian. "I have no doubt
whatever about Margaret Grey being the Mrs. Grey in question," she
said in conclusion. "You remember what I told you about her strange
cry when she thought she was alone in the room. Maurice Grey must be
her husband. My idea is this: a misunderstanding is at the bottom of
their misery--for _he_ is evidently as miserable as she is--brought
about by some one who was in love with her before--that tall man,
very likely, who looked in at the window and frightened her so much.
A person who knew them both might possibly remove this and restore
them to happiness. Arthur, _you_ must be that person. There is only
_one_ drawback: _if_ the people in St. Petersburg should be right? if
he has killed himself? Can you conceive anything more dreadful, she
loving him all the time, as I know she does?" The idea turned Adèle
pale, but the hopefulness of youth reasserted itself. "I can't bring
myself to believe it," she said earnestly. "He got tired of all his
friends and the gayety, and they teased him, I dare say. It's not like
an Englishman to put an end to himself in that kind of way. No; I feel
convinced that he will be found yet; and, Arthur, _you_ must find him."
While Adèle had been speaking Arthur had turned away from her. He was
standing by the window, apparently watching the passers-by, but she
could see, by the glimpse of his face that was still visible, that he
was listening with intense interest.
A fierce struggle was going on in his heart. Adèle had often let him
know that in her earnest belief all his hopes were futile. Arthur had
hoped against hope. In spite of all she could say--in spite even of the
cruel facts that supported her theory--he reared in secret his airy
fabric of hopes and dreams. He would work--work day by day and hour by
hour. He should be known for a student, an author, a man of genius; not
as a boy, but as a man, with an acknowledged place in the world--a man
worthy of her, if that were possible (which fact the ardent lover of
both sexes is wont to doubt)--he would present himself before her with
the tale of his ever-faithful love.
She would be weary of solitude, she would be touched with his
perseverance, she would grant him all he could desire. It was thus he
always crowned his edifice, though the number of ways to its summit
might have been named Legion. Now painting, now poetry, now science,
now politics, would be the friendly genius that might bring him at last
to her feet.
And in one moment the whole was changed. He was called upon to forget
his dream or to expunge his own name from the fluted columns of his
mansion in the clouds--never an easy task. I wonder who builds these
_châteaux en Espagne_ without self for at least one of the habitants.
Unhappily, Adèle's tale carried conviction. But "None are so blind
as those who _will_ not see." Arthur _could_ not believe, because
he would not. He did not answer for a few moments, then he turned,
with a light laugh that sorely belied a certain haggard look in his
young face: "_You_ had better turn novelist, Adèle. Your _plots_ would
certainly be first-rate. Why, you have reared a mountain of certainty
out of a grain of conjecture. I don't believe it," he continued
fiercely. But in his very fierceness was the contradiction of his
words. "You pretend to care for her, and yet you can listen to all
these foolish tales!"
It was rather an unkind accusation, since Adèle had been doing her very
utmost to show how implicitly she believed in Margaret's innocence and
truth; but pain blinded Arthur for the moment, and made him cruel and
unjust.
Adèle saw how it was with him, and she did not even appear to resent
his words. "Sit down again, Arthur dear," she said gently. "I am as
anxious as you can be to get to the bottom of this mystery, but if we
would do anything we must be calm and have our wits about us."
"Say, rather, _I_ must," returned Arthur, throwing himself down on a
small chair at her feet and seizing one of her hands in a sudden access
of penitence. "What a brute I am, exciting you in this way, my poor
pale little cousin! Adèle, you are wise and kind: I put myself in your
hands. What shall I do?"
Adèle's lips quivered as if with a sudden pain, but the answer came
out clear and firm: "Go and see her, Arthur; find out the truth about
all this. I think when you have once heard her story you will be in no
further difficulty."
Arthur started up, his eyes glittering: "Shall I, Adèle? Can I? What if
I offend her?"
"You will not, Arthur. Take my advice; this time, I think, it coincides
with your own will. Pass me my writing-desk, dear. Here! this is the
address I have kept from you so long. Take it, my poor old fellow, and
go."
He took it up and looked at it with gleaming eyes, for behind it he
seemed to see the vision for which he had been thirsting so long. Adèle
had thrown herself back upon the sofa; she looked pale and exhausted.
From the little piece of paper Arthur had been studying so earnestly
he turned his eyes to her. Something in her pale face touched him. He
felt a sudden pang of self-reproach, and kneeling down by her side he
pressed one of her hands to his lips: "Adèle, you are an angel! I say
it in sober earnest, worthy of one far better and worthier and nobler
than I. Dear little cousin, I will take your advice. You shall see me
again only when my fate is sealed--when I have seen her. Forgive me,
and keep a little corner of your heart for me till my return."
"Good-bye, dear."
It was all Adèle could say for the tears that would not be restrained.
But she was happier. There was a feeling of settled calm in her heart
to which it had long been a stranger. She had done what she could; she
was willing to leave the rest.
He left her then, and she rose from the sofa to prepare for dinner and
the gayeties of the evening.