_THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD._
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial:
We should count time by heart-throbs.
And Margaret rested that night, for the first time since the evening
when exhausted Nature had failed utterly and she had slept at the foot
of her lost child's bed. There was a new feeling of rest and hope in
her spirit; the events of the day had stimulated her; there was an
uprising of the dormant courage and energy in her nature; she began to
feel that something might yet be done. Jane was astonished that evening
to find some small impertinence on her part rebuked by her mistress
with all her old dignity, and to hear that if matters did not mend
very considerably she would run the chance of losing her lodger. She
was slightly alarmed, not only on this account, but also because this
sudden resurrection of spirit might notify a change in her lodger's
circumstances; but she kept her own counsel.
Breakfast was to be prepared for two. "Strange goings on," muttered
Jane to herself, but this time she did not dare to express her feelings.
Arthur arrived early in the morning. He was excited and restless.
With the impulsiveness of youth he had thrown himself heart and soul
into the task that appeared to be opening out before him, and until
some light had been thrown upon it he could not rest. He and Margaret
breakfasted together, but by mutual consent nothing was said about the
subject which engrossed them both until they had again left the house
behind them, and were able to talk quietly, without need for caution,
under the broad open sky.
She seemed so quiet, so self-contained, that Arthur began at last to
fear that she had forgotten her promise, or rather that it had been
given impulsively and withdrawn after calmer thought. And something
of curiosity--which, by the bye, is pretty highly developed in the
male portion of humanity--mingled with the true interest he took in
Margaret's concerns. But she had not forgotten.
They had been sitting for a few moments by the sea-shore, talking of
indifferent matters, when all at once she turned to him. "You ask me no
questions," she said; "you are not curious to know more about me?"
Arthur reddened: "Not curious, Mrs. Grey. I am ready to hear whatever
you wish to tell me. I know it can be nothing unworthy of yourself, and
pray do not imagine that I wish to hear anything you care to conceal or
that would give you pain to tell. I only desire to help you to the best
of my ability."
For Arthur was a little hurt by the question. She smiled and rested
her hand on his shoulder as she had done the day before, and her touch
stirred the young man's heart to a strange mixture of feelings--pride,
for it seemed to show that she depended on him, that his presence was a
comfort to her, and yet a certain mortification. "She would not treat
him in this way," he said to himself with somewhat of bitterness, "if
she could understand in the slightest degree the feelings that had
brought him to her--if she felt the remotest danger to her own heart in
the companionship. He was a boy to her, nothing more."
But Margaret spoke, and her voice had a salutary effect. In its sweet
sadness, the remnant of selfishness was rebuked.
"Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might--
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight."
Thus it was with Arthur. Self trembled, but self passed. He was ready
to do everything for the sake alone of _her_ loveliness, of his love.
"You don't seem to care to ask me questions," she said gently, "so I
suppose I must take the matter into my own hands, and unasked let you
know something of my past life. I feel very old, Arthur--more fit to
be your mother than even your elder sister, as I called myself just
now; for life"--she looked across the sea, and her voice was low--"life
should be reckoned not by the years, the days, the moments, but by the
heart-pulses, the living, the battling, that the years and moments
hold. I am not really old. I married at the age of nineteen, and then
I had lived, I was older than my years; my little one was born when
I was twenty, just seven years ago; that gives you my age--an easy
piece of arithmetic. Many women are young at twenty-seven. I am old,
old; hush, Arthur! you must not protest. When life has lost all its
beauty and gladness, what can it be but dreary? And dreary days pass
slowly. The last eighteen months might have been eighteen years, and
that would make me old, even according to your reckoning. But I do not
seem to get on very fast with my story. Ah! I must go back--such a
long way--to the time when I was a girl, with a girl's freshness and
ignorance of life, and fervent belief in herself and the future. I lost
my parents even before that. I scarcely remember my mother. After her
death my father left me at school and took to wandering. He did not
survive her very long. But I was not left alone to battle with life.
An aunt, my mother's only sister, took her place with me. She, too,
had one daughter, and my cousin and I became like sisters; more than
sisters--friends. She was younger than I, but she was everything to me.
I don't think it can often be said of any woman that she loves another
verily better than herself, but this was actually the case with my poor
Laura. My loves, my accomplishments, my success were far more to her
than her own. We were one, absolutely one--never a breath of discord
between us; and now," Margaret paused and sighed deeply, "she has gone,
and my after-sorrows have been so bitter that I have not even a tear
to give to the memory of my first grief, the worst, I thought then,
that I could ever encounter. We had a passion for travelling--Laura and
I--and when she was about sixteen and I seventeen my aunt, who was then
a widow, indulged us by a six months' trip on the Continent. It was to
be strictly educational. My poor aunt! I can hear her now talking about
all we should do, the regular hours of study, the steady application.
Music was to be taken up in Germany, singing in Italy, languages
everywhere. She was too gentle for the management of such volatile
young ladies as we were. Laura and I had pretty much our own way. It
was a pleasant time. How intensely we enjoyed the fresh, new life, the
constant variety, the enlargement of ideas! Ah, if that could have been
all! But I must hasten on. You see," she smiled faintly, "I am like a
shivering mortal; afraid of the first plunge into icy waters, I hover
about the brink."
"If it is painful to you, say no more, Mrs. Grey," said Arthur
earnestly; "nothing you could possibly tell me would alter my feelings
toward you."
She shook her head: "It is kind of you to wish to spare me, but I
_must_ go on. You know you are to be my friend, and if you are ever
to help me you must know all. Laura and I were admired. Young English
ladies are thought much of abroad. And very innocently, I think, we
enjoyed the attention we excited. One of our admirers was continually
appearing and reappearing. He seemed to find out our plans as if by
intuition, was always on the spot when we wanted assistance, and on
more than one occasion saved us much trouble and annoyance by a little
timely help. A strange man who interested and puzzled us all, though
to this day I fail to understand him. As far as we could make out, he
was half Spanish, half French. Certainly he had the ease and grace
belonging so peculiarly to France, with the fire and enthusiasm of the
Spaniard. My aunt, I imagine, had full confidence in him, because his
hair was gray, though at that time he could not have been more than
forty, and his face was particularly plain. She could not have thought
of his cherishing anything but friendly feelings for girls like Laura
and me; indeed, I always have a kind of suspicion that she took his
manifold attentions to our party as a tribute of homage to herself,
for my aunt was a pretty woman, and by no means old to be Laura's
mother. M. L'Estrange did everything he could to foster this feeling.
How clever he was! his delicate flatteries! his personal kindnesses!
his assiduous courtesy! Laura and I enjoyed them often, for we were
wiser: _we_ knew that he thought himself neither too old nor too ugly
to fascinate _les demoiselles Anglaises_. And we both fell in love with
him, though in different ways. Laura had no scruple in speaking of her
affection. He was her 'bon père, her frère ainé;' she liked him better
than any one she had ever seen; and he in return petted and caressed
her, brought her cakes and bon-bons, took and demanded a thousand
and one little daughterly attentions, at all of which my good aunt
smiled complacently. But _she_ did not know what _Laura_ knew--that
he seized every opportunity for speaking to me of love. She made
opportunities--my sweet little cousin--for in her beautiful, unselfish
way she could imagine nothing more delightful than this love-making
ending in marriage, her sister and her _bon père_ living together, with
her for their little one, their 'chère fillette'--this last being one
of his pet names for Laura.
"We met in Paris, we met again in many of the Italian towns, and he and
I corresponded. I was very young; I knew nothing whatever of the world;
it seemed to me strange that with all his professions of devotion
he never mentioned marriage; but I believed his mode of living was
precarious and that as soon as something settled should be offered him
he would ask me to pledge myself. This was Laura's view, too, for my
little darling was older than her years, and she and I discussed the
matter frequently. But at last we--or I should say I--found out what he
was. Laura would scarcely believe anything against her bon père, but
_I_ knew that of him which I could not tell her. He and I parted, and
were to one another as if we never had been even so much as friends.
_I_ suffered, for though I believe now that my imagination rather than
my heart had been touched, still he had formed so large a part of my
life that the parting could not but be painful for the time. I should
have told you that all this had filled about two years; we had been
twice in England, and twice again on the Continent, before I could make
up my mind to break finally with my lover.
"It was in the course of the winter following my second visit, when
my heart was still aching with the kind of loneliness which the
withdrawal from my life of the one who had made all its romance for so
many months could not but cause, that I met my husband, Maurice Grey.
There could not have been a greater contrast. He had the fire of the
Frenchman, but he lacked his dissimulation. He was in those days--God
only knows how this trial may have changed him!--a true gentleman,
frank, manly, courageous, but with none of the delicate finish, the
courtly ease, the wily fascination of L'Estrange. I soon saw he loved
me--so deeply that my refusal to become his wife would cause him the
intensest pain--And when he made me an offer I accepted him at first
only because I was sorry for him and tired of my solitary position; but
I came to love him, and with a _far_ deeper, truer love than the former
had been, for that had a certain sense of dissatisfaction about it. I
never thoroughly understood M. L'Estrange; Maurice I honored as well
as loved, and with my whole heart. Ah!"--she covered her face with her
hands and moaned--"_if_ he could only have known! But to return: I told
him the whole story of my former love. It did not affect his feelings
toward me. We were married, and two, three years passed by happily.
I don't say we had _never_ little breaks. I suppose in every married
life these occur; and Maurice had one fault: he loved me too much--he
was inclined to be jealous of my affection. I think, when I look back
over that time, that the old story rankled in his mind; he could not
quite shake off the idea that my duty was his, my love still another's.
There came a time when our little child took ill. It was scarlet fever,
and after it was over the doctors recommended sea-air. This was in the
height of the London season, and my husband could not leave town. He
took lodgings for us in Ramsgate, and came to see us whenever it was
possible.
"Now comes the strange part of my story. Up to that time I had neither
seen Monsieur L'Estrange nor heard of him since my marriage.
"Of course I thought of him sometimes, and my poor Laura before she
died spoke of him often with lingering affection. At times I had a
kind of morbid curiosity about him. I felt as if I should like to meet
him, only to know whether I was perfectly cured--whether in my mature
age he could exercise the same strange fascination over me as in my
girlhood. This idea I never ventured to mention to Maurice. Would to
God I had! I was walking one day on the Ramsgate pier when suddenly I
saw him. My little girl and her nurse were with me. He recognized me
instantly, looked at me in his curious way and lifted his hat politely.
This chance meeting made a tumult in my brain, but I tried to treat
it as a matter of very small importance. On the next day Maurice was
to arrive, and here was my first false step. I said nothing to him of
the meeting. I noticed him once or twice look at me strangely, as if
trying to read my heart; but he said nothing and I said nothing. He
went away, and on that very morning arrived a letter in the small,
well-known handwriting. I knew it was from _him_, and yet, and yet--God
forgive me!--I opened and read it. It was a simple matter, after all,
claiming common acquaintanceship, asking permission to call on me.
He was waiting at the hotel; if I chose to forbid him he would go no
further; if he received no answer he would be with me in the course of
the afternoon. I persuaded myself that this meant nothing; we should
meet once more--meet as strangers. I should have the opportunity of
proving to myself how foolish my girlish weakness had been. And to
forbid his coming, what would it be but a tacit acknowledgment that he
still possessed a certain power over my heart? I decided to allow him
to come, and through the afternoon I sat indoors, waiting with (I will
always maintain) no stronger feeling than curiosity in my mind. It was
nearly evening before he arrived. I was in some trepidation, but he
behaved perfectly; his manner was easy and natural; he seemed to forget
there had been anything but simple friendship between us. We chatted
pleasantly for about half an hour, and then he rose to take his leave.
The room was in half darkness; I had sent my little one to bed. I put
out my hand carelessly, as I would have done to any ordinary stranger,
but a sudden change seemed to have come over him. To this day I have
never been able to account for it. He who had been so calm only a few
moments before was trembling with excitement. He seized my offered
hand, and before I knew where I was he was kneeling at my feet, pouring
out words that he had no right to speak nor I to hear. Before I could
thrust him away, before I could give voice to my indignation--ah! shall
I ever, ever forget that moment?--the door opened slowly, and I saw
my husband's face as I had never seen it before--dark, threatening,
suspicious. It all passed in a moment. I was conscious of sinking down
in a chair, and covering my face with my hands to hide my burning
shame, for my husband suspected me. I heard high words, and when I
looked up again Maurice and I were alone.
"'That man has escaped with his life,' he said sternly; 'he has you to
thank for it.' I tried to explain, but he stopped me harshly. It was a
stormy night. The wind was blowing about the house in fierce gusts. Oh
how every detail of that terrible time clings about my brain!
"My husband left me in the room alone. I sat there for it might be
an hour, as darkness had come before he returned. When he came in a
carpet-bag was in his hand; he was evidently dressed for travelling.
I sprang to my feet. I threw my arms around him; I implored him to
stay and listen to me, but he only answered with that dark suspicious
look. He loosened my hold at last--he reached the door; as he opened
it there swept a great blast of wind into the room. I shall always
feel thankful for that, for he saw me shivering as I lay exhausted on
the sofa, and he came back suddenly to cover me from head to foot in
his travelling-rug; then he kissed me--my poor Maurice!--and I saw
something like relenting in his sad eyes, but I was too weak to tell
him all: the soft moment passed, and I have never seen him since."
Margaret's voice sank into a wail. Her story had carried her away, so
much so that she had almost forgotten her companion, and when Arthur,
who had been listening intently, sprang suddenly to his feet, she was
almost startled.
"It is as we thought," he cried impetuously--"my cousin's very words;
she said it was some dreadful misunderstanding. But it shall be set
right. Mrs. Grey, you have given me your confidence nobly and truly. It
shall not be in vain. I have a kind of feeling that it will be given to
me to disentangle this coil."
And then he knelt down before her on the sands. "Margaret," he
said--and as he spoke the name with all a boy's timidity his young
face flushed and his eyes seemed to burn with a steady, lustrous
shining--"long ago, in the days of chivalry, ladies used to send out
their knights wearing their colors to fight for them and for truth and
for justice. Make me your knight, let me fight your battles. So help
me God, I will stand by you as your own brother might do; I will seek
through the world till I find your husband, I will never rest till I
have righted you! Will you accept my service?"
She smiled, and bending forward kissed him on the brow.
"It is the accolade of knighthood," she said. Then they rose together
and went toward the cottage, for the sun was high in the heavens.