PARTIAL DISCOVERIES.
She seemed to be all nature,
And all varieties of things in one;
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs nor appearances,
But think what others only dreamed about,
And say what others did but think, and do
What others would but say, and glory in
What others dared but do.
"I have no sympathy for you, Adèle—not the slightest."
So spoke Mrs. Churchill, standing by a sofa in her boudoir with a glass of port in the one hand and a bottle of quinine in the other, giving careful attention to the dripping of a certain number of drops from the bottle to the glass.
Her young daughter was on the sofa, looking rather languid and worn. She raised her head, supporting it on her elbow, and her voice was a little peevish as she answered, "I have told you, mamma, that I don't want either sympathy or medicine."
"In the name of all that's sensible try and tell me what you do want, child!"
"I want to see Arthur." Adèle blushed as she spoke.
"To see Arthur, indeed!" Here Mrs. Churchill passed the carefully-prepared dose to her daughter. "You are a pretty pair! I imagine he wants quinine and sea-air as much as you do. And now, forsooth, he must turn studious, ambitious of literary distinction, and what not. The next thing I shall hear about him is that he has taken to the editing of a popular journal. Really, young people of the present day are past my comprehension altogether, and, Adèle, you and Arthur carry matters to the verge of absurdity. You fall in love simultaneously with a pretty widow—whether a widow or not, Goodness alone knows—you suspend your own engagement for a time, as you assure one another, by mutual consent, and then begin the process of fading away, Arthur throwing himself into literature, and you into so-called charity; but, my dear"—here Mrs. Churchill grew severe—"I have always heard that charity begins at home. If charity consists in making your mother's life miserable, and allowing all kinds of absurd notions in the head of the man who is to be your husband (for I believe that these new follies can't possibly outlive your teens), then, so far as I am concerned, the less of charity the better."
Adèle during this harangue had turned her face from her mother. The answer came from the depths of the sofa-cushion in which she had buried her face: "I wish I hadn't told you, mamma."
"Happily, I found out the greater part for myself." Mrs. Churchill was still severe. "Upon my word, Adèle, it was dutiful to begin such a correspondence without your mother's consent or knowledge; but perhaps I have spoken and thought enough on that subject already. Apropos of this Mrs. Grey of yours, I have heard something which will probably interest you. Of course it is not for me to say whether her name is really Mrs. Grey, but some of the incidents in the stories I heard seem to fit in rather strangely."