"If I had been in love with her in her fainting condition, I tell you honestly that when I saw her eyes open, when I heard her voice—above all, when I read that deep sadness in her face—I was ten times more in love than before. But such was the influence of her gentle womanly dignity I dared express nothing either by word or sign. She thanked us with all the cordiality of a lady, but utterly and absolutely denied herself to us for the future, and I could not think of disobeying. In accepting our services she was like a queen dispensing her favors. All I could hope was that kindly chance would favor me. For the next few days I could think of nothing else: her face followed me like a dream of beauty that haunts the soul. My one hope was in the picture-galleries. As you may believe, I attended them daily, and some days later I saw her again in the same place. This time she did not see me. I watched her, myself unseen. Unhappily, a false counsellor was at hand. He had traced the direction of my glance before I knew he was near. I took his odious advice; I was weak enough to believe him. In disobedience to her express commands I visited her at the address to which we had taken her."
Maurice's cigar had died down; he was listening with apparent interest. "And you received a rebuff for your pains," he said lightly.
Arthur flushed: "A rebuff! say rather a rebuke; and such a gentle, womanly one that it cut me to the very soul. I felt that, coûte que coûte, I must know more of her; but I could not do it in that way, you know. I was puzzled and baffled, doubtful how to act. Then came in the gentle self-denial, the noble trustfulness of another woman to my assistance. My cousin Adèle read my sadness, and was not long in putting her finger on the cause. She helped me; she made herself Margaret's friend—"
Arthur stopped suddenly. He had let out the name, which he had intended to bring in at the end of his tale—a grand finale.
His sudden and evidently conscious pause gave the error significance. In a moment Arthur saw what he had done. A tremor passed through Maurice's frame. He turned round sharply and fixed the young man with his stern eyes. "Why do you stop?" he said. "Go on, if your tale be worth the telling."
And Arthur continued falteringly: "We were able to give her some assistance—that is, my cousin did. In her lonely and unprotected condition she had been tortured by the persecutions of the man who, as I afterward found out, had wrought the wrong from the effects of which she had been suffering during those long years. To live out her solitary life in peace, she had hidden herself in an out-of-the-way seaside village. Her visit to London had been made for the purpose of gaining some employment, her income proving insufficient for the education of her only child, a daughter, whom she had brought up in strict seclusion."
Maurice's face was turned from Arthur, but as, almost insensibly to himself, the young man's voice grew stern and deep, he saw that his companion winced and cowered. It was almost as though he had received some unlooked-for blow.
"In London," continued Arthur, "the ruffian came upon her traces. Mrs. Grey feared and hated him—the very sight of him was odious to her. It was only to save her name—her husband's name, as I afterward learnt—from public notice that she refrained at this time from calling in the strong arm of the law.
"To baffle him and preserve her privacy she took refuge in flight; my cousin helped her, and from that day dated their warm friendship. She returned then to her own home—the little village by the seaside. Adèle knew her address. I was not taken into their confidence; I was suffered to be useful, but I knew nothing, and yet even in that usefulness I reckoned myself happy.