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.

PART II.

A MAN AT WAR WITH HIMSELF.

PART III.

A DOUBLE MYSTERY.

PART IV.

AT WORK WITH A WILL.

PART V.

THE MYSTERY SOLVED—THE WORKERS REWARDED.

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!