“Sydney, what impelled you to introduce a lady into this assembly under a false name?”
“A woman’s curiosity,” he replied, “and a man’s promise. It had to be done, the promise being given. Fred, I exact no pledge from you. We speak as man to man, and I know you are not likely to fall away from me. I hate the soft current in which fashion lolls, and simpers, and lies—it palls upon the taste, and I do not intend to become its slave. I choose the more dangerous haven—sweetly dangerous, Fred—in which honesty and innocence (allied, of course, with natural human desires and promptings) find some sort of resting-place. It is a rocky haven, you say, and timid feet are bleeding there; but the bold can tread the path with safety. If you could see what underlies the mask of mock modesty, as from a distance it views its higher nature, you would see a yearning to share in the danger and the pleasure which honest daring ensures.”
It is not in my power to recall the exact words spoken by Sydney Campbell at this and subsequent conversations; all I can do is to endeavour to convey to you an idea of the kind of man he was, so that you may the better comprehend what kind of a woman she was who held him in her toils. Sydney continued:
“She wished so much to be here to-night! She has no parents and no family; she is absolutely alone in the world—or would be, but for me. Wait, old man; you shall know more of her, and you will be satisfied. It happened in this way. I was gasconading, I suppose—talking in heroics—flinging my words to the winds, and making a fool of myself generally. Then came up the subject of the ball. You know that the whole city has been ringing with it for a month past, and that a thousand women are in despair because they could not obtain an introduction. I dilated upon it, scornfully perhaps. A Prince was to be here—a Princess too. ‘And you are as good,’ said I to her, ‘as any Princess in the kingdom.’ ‘I hope I am,’ she answered softly—she has a voice of music, Fred—‘I hope I am, but I could not gain admission to the ball.’ I fired up. ‘Do you wish to go?’ ‘Do I wish to go?’ she echoed. ‘To dance with a Prince, perhaps! Am I a woman?’ A field of adventure was opened up to me. ‘You shall go,’ I said. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked eagerly. ‘It is a promise,’ I replied. After that there was but one thing left for me to do—to fulfil my promise, at any risk, at any hazard. I have fulfilled it, and I am content. It is like stolen fruit, old man—that is what she said to me. A very human creature, Fred, and a child at heart. And Grace is dancing with a Prince, and everybody is happy.”
“Child as she is,” I remarked, “she must be possessed of great courage to venture thus into a den of lionesses.”
“You mistake her,” said Sydney. “It is I who sustain her. She told me as much a few minutes since, and whispered that if I were not here she would run away. A certain kind of courage she must possess, however; liken it to the courage of a modest and beautiful wild flower which dares to hold up its head in the midst of its bolder and more showy sisters.”
I saw that he was in love with her, and I hinted it to him. He replied frankly,
“If I do not love her, love itself is a delusion.”
I asked him who she was, and he replied,
“A daughter of Eve, and therefore the equal of a queen.”