She seemed so quiet, so self-contained, that Arthur began at last to fear that she had forgotten her promise, or rather that it had been given impulsively and withdrawn after calmer thought. And something of curiosity—which, by the bye, is pretty highly developed in the male portion of humanity—mingled with the true interest he took in Margaret's concerns. But she had not forgotten.
They had been sitting for a few moments by the sea-shore, talking of indifferent matters, when all at once she turned to him. "You ask me no questions," she said; "you are not curious to know more about me?"
Arthur reddened: "Not curious, Mrs. Grey. I am ready to hear whatever you wish to tell me. I know it can be nothing unworthy of yourself, and pray do not imagine that I wish to hear anything you care to conceal or that would give you pain to tell. I only desire to help you to the best of my ability."
For Arthur was a little hurt by the question. She smiled and rested her hand on his shoulder as she had done the day before, and her touch stirred the young man's heart to a strange mixture of feelings—pride, for it seemed to show that she depended on him, that his presence was a comfort to her, and yet a certain mortification. "She would not treat him in this way," he said to himself with somewhat of bitterness, "if she could understand in the slightest degree the feelings that had brought him to her—if she felt the remotest danger to her own heart in the companionship. He was a boy to her, nothing more."
But Margaret spoke, and her voice had a salutary effect. In its sweet sadness, the remnant of selfishness was rebuked.
"Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might—
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight."
Thus it was with Arthur. Self trembled, but self passed. He was ready to do everything for the sake alone of her loveliness, of his love.
"You don't seem to care to ask me questions," she said gently, "so I suppose I must take the matter into my own hands, and unasked let you know something of my past life. I feel very old, Arthur—more fit to be your mother than even your elder sister, as I called myself just now; for life"—she looked across the sea, and her voice was low—"life should be reckoned not by the years, the days, the moments, but by the heart-pulses, the living, the battling, that the years and moments hold. I am not really old. I married at the age of nineteen, and then I had lived, I was older than my years; my little one was born when I was twenty, just seven years ago; that gives you my age—an easy piece of arithmetic. Many women are young at twenty-seven. I am old, old; hush, Arthur! you must not protest. When life has lost all its beauty and gladness, what can it be but dreary? And dreary days pass slowly. The last eighteen months might have been eighteen years, and that would make me old, even according to your reckoning. But I do not seem to get on very fast with my story. Ah! I must go back—such a long way—to the time when I was a girl, with a girl's freshness and ignorance of life, and fervent belief in herself and the future. I lost my parents even before that. I scarcely remember my mother. After her death my father left me at school and took to wandering. He did not survive her very long. But I was not left alone to battle with life. An aunt, my mother's only sister, took her place with me. She, too, had one daughter, and my cousin and I became like sisters; more than sisters—friends. She was younger than I, but she was everything to me. I don't think it can often be said of any woman that she loves another verily better than herself, but this was actually the case with my poor Laura. My loves, my accomplishments, my success were far more to her than her own. We were one, absolutely one—never a breath of discord between us; and now," Margaret paused and sighed deeply, "she has gone, and my after-sorrows have been so bitter that I have not even a tear to give to the memory of my first grief, the worst, I thought then, that I could ever encounter. We had a passion for travelling—Laura and I—and when she was about sixteen and I seventeen my aunt, who was then a widow, indulged us by a six months' trip on the Continent. It was to be strictly educational. My poor aunt! I can hear her now talking about all we should do, the regular hours of study, the steady application. Music was to be taken up in Germany, singing in Italy, languages everywhere. She was too gentle for the management of such volatile young ladies as we were. Laura and I had pretty much our own way. It was a pleasant time. How intensely we enjoyed the fresh, new life, the constant variety, the enlargement of ideas! Ah, if that could have been all! But I must hasten on. You see," she smiled faintly, "I am like a shivering mortal; afraid of the first plunge into icy waters, I hover about the brink."
"If it is painful to you, say no more, Mrs. Grey," said Arthur earnestly; "nothing you could possibly tell me would alter my feelings toward you."
She shook her head: "It is kind of you to wish to spare me, but I must go on. You know you are to be my friend, and if you are ever to help me you must know all. Laura and I were admired. Young English ladies are thought much of abroad. And very innocently, I think, we enjoyed the attention we excited. One of our admirers was continually appearing and reappearing. He seemed to find out our plans as if by intuition, was always on the spot when we wanted assistance, and on more than one occasion saved us much trouble and annoyance by a little timely help. A strange man who interested and puzzled us all, though to this day I fail to understand him. As far as we could make out, he was half Spanish, half French. Certainly he had the ease and grace belonging so peculiarly to France, with the fire and enthusiasm of the Spaniard. My aunt, I imagine, had full confidence in him, because his hair was gray, though at that time he could not have been more than forty, and his face was particularly plain. She could not have thought of his cherishing anything but friendly feelings for girls like Laura and me; indeed, I always have a kind of suspicion that she took his manifold attentions to our party as a tribute of homage to herself, for my aunt was a pretty woman, and by no means old to be Laura's mother. M. L'Estrange did everything he could to foster this feeling. How clever he was! his delicate flatteries! his personal kindnesses! his assiduous courtesy! Laura and I enjoyed them often, for we were wiser: we knew that he thought himself neither too old nor too ugly to fascinate les demoiselles Anglaises. And we both fell in love with him, though in different ways. Laura had no scruple in speaking of her affection. He was her 'bon père, her frère ainé;' she liked him better than any one she had ever seen; and he in return petted and caressed her, brought her cakes and bon-bons, took and demanded a thousand and one little daughterly attentions, at all of which my good aunt smiled complacently. But she did not know what Laura knew—that he seized every opportunity for speaking to me of love. She made opportunities—my sweet little cousin—for in her beautiful, unselfish way she could imagine nothing more delightful than this love-making ending in marriage, her sister and her bon père living together, with her for their little one, their 'chère fillette'—this last being one of his pet names for Laura.