VI

The young man's astonishment was immense. Recovering from the first

shock of it, he was taken with reprehensible irreverence towards the

sick man upstairs.

"The old sinner, how he has lied!" he said to himself. "A pretty ass he

has made of me with this card up his iniquitous, old sleeve all the

while!"

He debated momentarily whether good manners demanded his retirement

before his presence was perceived; or whether he was free to go forward

and make acquaintance with this unacknowledged member of his uncle's

household. Strong curiosity, coupled with a spirit of mischief, provoked

him to adopt the latter course. He owed it to himself, surely, not to

neglect so handsome an opportunity of turning the tables upon old Mr.

Rivers. While, astonishment and levity, notwithstanding, Laurence was

aware of a strong attraction drawing him towards the slender, rose-clad

figure. He began to question, indeed, whether it, like the room and its

furnishings, was not in a degree familiar to him? Whether it was not the

embodiment of just all that of which he had been so singularly expectant

when visiting the room this same morning?

Meanwhile the young lady's hands moved over the rounded cover of the

escritoire as though endeavouring to open it. The lace frills, edging

her muslin cape, flew upwards, showing her bare arms. These were thin,

but beautifully shaped; while the movement of her hands was singularly

graceful and rapid. She touched, yet seemed unable firmly to grasp the

gilded handles of the escritoire again and again; clasped her hands, as

it appeared to Laurence--for her back was still towards him--with a

baffled, despairing gesture, and then moved away across the room. She

appeared to flit rather than walk, so light and silent were her steps,

bird-like in their swift and dainty grace. Watching her, Laurence was

reminded of a certain Spanish _danseuse_, who, during the previous

winter, had excited the wild enthusiasm and considerably lightened the

pockets of the _jeunesse doree_ of New York. But the charm of the

dancer had, for him at least, been spoilt by the somewhat unbridled

pride of success perceptible in her bearing. Whereas the flitting figure

now before him, notwithstanding the beguiling loveliness of its motions,

struck him as penetrated with the sorrow of failure, rather than the

arrogance of success.

She wandered to and fro, regardless or unconscious of his presence,

searching--searching--as it seemed; passing her hands over the

work-table, sweeping them along the surface of the chimney-piece between

the ornaments and china, fingering the music upon the piano. He caught

sight of a delicate profile, a round and youthful cheek. But her

movements were so anxious and rapid that he could get no definite view

of her face. Indeed, her action was so quick that it was not without

effort Laurence followed it.

At first the young man's attitude had been one of slightly irritated

amusement at the concealment practised on him by his host. But as the

rose-clad lady's search continued, the sense of amusement was merged in

one of sympathy. She was so graceful a creature. She appeared so sadly

baffled and perplexed. A subtle anxiety laid hold of him--an

apprehension that something momentous and of far-reaching consequence to

himself was in act of accomplishment--that he was himself deeply

involved, and pledged by a long train of antecedent circumstances to

assist those delicately framed and apparently so helpless hands in their

unceasing search.

"Pardon me, but what have you lost?" he asked her at last, speaking

gently as to a timid and unhappy child. "Tell me, and let me try to help

you find it."

At the sound of his voice the flitting figure paused, stood a moment

listening, as though striving to collect the purport of his address.

Then it turned to him. For the first time Laurence saw his companion's

face clearly, and he shrank back, penetrated at once by a great

admiration and a vague dread of her. For it was a very lovely face, but

shy and wild as no other human face he had ever beheld. The sweet mouth

drooped at the corners, as with some haunting, but half-comprehended

distress. The eyes were serious; blue-purple--as are deep, high-lying,

mountain tarns, set in a soft gloom of pine-trees and of heather. A

gentle distraction pervaded the young lady's aspect. And this was the

more arresting, that each bow and curl of her pretty hair was in place;

every detail of her dress fresh and finished, from the string of pearls

about her white throat, to the toes of her rose-pink, satin slippers,

sparkling with an embroidery of brilliants, which showed beneath the

small flounce edging her rose-pink skirt.

Laurence had lived at least as virtuously as most men of his class; yet

it would be idle to declare Virginia his first and only flame. He had

married her, which constituted the difference between her and all those

other flames--and at times it occurred to him what a prodigiously great

difference that was! Since his marriage he had been guiltless of looking

to the right hand or to the left even in thought. But, before that

event, it must be owned, he had had his due share of affairs of the

heart. He was thoroughly conversant with the premonitory symptoms of

that fascinating disorder, commonly known as "falling in love." And, to

his dismay, as he looked on the sad and lovely person before him, he

was conscious that some of those premonitory symptoms were not entirely

absent. An immense pity and tenderness took him; a deepening conviction,

too, of recollection, as one who after a long lapse of years hears again

some almost forgotten melody, or sees again a once well-known and

well-beloved landscape. The sad face was new to him, not in itself, but

in its sadness only. The corners of the sweet mouth should not droop,

but tip upward in soft, discreet laughter. The serious eyes should

dance, as the surface of these same mountain tarns in sunlight under a

rippling breeze. The face, remembered thus, had indeed never been wholly

forgotten--he knew that. It formed part of inherent prenatal

impressions, of which, all his life, he had been potentially if not

actively aware.

All this flashed through him in the space of a few seconds; while he

repeated, somewhat staggered by the fulness of emotion which the tones

of his own voice implied--

"Only tell me what you have lost--tell me; and let me help you find

it."--Then he added more lightly, smiling at her with his sincere and

kindly smile:--"Really, my services are worth enlisting. I've always

been a rather famous hand at finding things, you know."

She gazed at the young man for a minute or more, a tremulous wonder in

her expression, while she fingered the string of pearls about her

rounded throat. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Her

attitude changed. She stood with her head raised, apparently listening.

Then reluctantly, as in obedience to some unwelcome summons, she moved

swiftly across the room to the outstanding, painted satin-wood

escritoire, passed at the back of it, and the young man found himself

alone.