THE INDIAN SCARF.
A man in love sees wonders.
A few hours later, and Arthur Forrest was lodged for the night in an hotel which looked out upon one of the quaint, old-fashioned streets in the ancient city of York.
The journey had by no means diminished his excitement. He was literally aflame with the fever of anxiety and suspense that consumed him, for this was his first young dream, and it mastered him with an absoluteness which only that first in the series that often diversifies the adolescence of humanity, male and female, can possess.
Afterward we know what to expect; then everything is new, wonderful, incomprehensible—the sweet waking up to a heavenly mystery. And it comes generally at a time when life is at its fullest; when imagination, passion, sentiment reign in the soul with undisputed sway; when the heart is uncontaminated—at least partially so—by the influences which those to whom youth's Eden is a forgotten land delight to throw round the inexperienced, giving them lessons, they would say, in the great art of living—lessons, alas! which the young are only too ready to receive and put into practice.
Arthur was in this first ecstatic stage. No doubt to the experienced onlooker it might appear highly ridiculous; to himself it was intensely real. His very existence seemed to have changed in the dazzling glamour that the treacherous little god had cast over his vision. He saw all his past, his present, his future in relation to this one thing—his chances of success with the fair Margaret.
It was late when he reached York—too late for him to think of going farther that night.
He ordered a private sitting-room, for no particular reason but the necessity he felt for quiet meditation, that he might unravel the tormenting problems of the how, the why and the wherefore which, in spite of Adèle's encouraging assurance, had begun to embarrass him sorely. How should he present himself to Mrs. Grey? What could he give as a reason for having left London to seek her out? In what light would she look upon his intrusion? These thoughts perplexed him as far into the night he paced the floor of his sitting-room, resting himself by the continual movement, but sorely interfering with the rest of the gentleman who occupied the room below his. He had taken many turns up and down before any light had dawned upon his mind, and in final despair he was about to retire to his bedroom and try the effect of darkness, when suddenly his eyes fell on something that had hitherto escaped them. It was an Indian scarf of great brilliancy which had been left lying on a small low chair in one of the corners of the room.
It brought a certain memory to Arthur's mind. He took it up, handling it with reverential tenderness. Where had he seen it before? Why did the sight of it affect him so strangely? He looked at it, he touched it; he laid it down and retiring to some distance examined it again. Then by degrees the sought-for link returned. The pictures, the crimson-covered seat, the pale woman, her shabby dress, and in striking contrast with it, the costly fabric on her shoulders. It was a coincidence, he said to himself—a very strange one—that here, when he was seeking Margaret, he should find the fac-simile of what she had worn on the occasion of their first meeting. Could it be the same—hers, left behind her? If so, here was an opening thrown by kind Fate into his lap.
The silken scarf should be his excuse; with it he would present himself to Mrs. Grey. It was valuable in itself, and she had evidently had some other reason besides its intrinsic worth for prizing it. She would be grateful for its preservation, and the bearer of her treasure would have a certain claim on her consideration.