Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow: A Novel

by C. Despard

"You are eloquent, dear," said Adèle with a little sigh; "if you write your book in that way, I think it must certainly be a success."

"Yes," said he pensively, "the public like reality, but, you see, one can't always give it. These kinds of things look cold on paper. If I could show you my multitudinous attempts in prose and verse to give some idea of her! but they were all poor and wishy-washy. The greater number enriched the ashes of my grate. I am a good-for-nothing, and I shall be a good-for-nothing to the end of the chapter."

There was something of weariness and bitter self-contempt in Arthur's voice. It made Adèle's heart ache for him. She knelt down by his side and put one of her arms round his neck. It was more the gesture of a tender little mother with her child than of a woman with the man she loves, for this protecting motherliness was one great element in the affection of Adèle for her cousin. No doubt it was this in a great measure that rendered it so unselfish. As a little child she had taken upon herself the punishment of his small faults—as a grown-up girl she sought to shield him from every kind of ill.

"Don't despair, dear," she said gently; "there is something for you to do—to do for her, if you can be wise and generous, and put yourself out of the way altogether. Do you remember, Arthur" (Adèle's voice grew soft and the tears were in her eyes), "how you used to come and sit here in the afternoon while I read to you from the Faërie Queene about those grand young knights going out in search of adventures—to rescue women and kill dragons and evil things? And sometimes we used to wish that those days would come back, and I imagined how I would send you out, all clothed in bright armor, to do great deeds in the world. Dear, I think your time for this has come. You are a true knight, you will forget yourself, you will burn to redress a great wrong—especially when she, your Margaret, is the victim."

Adèle's words were exciting. Arthur could barely listen with patience to the end of her tender little harangue, for a great light was burning behind it which set his spirit on flame. "Adèle," he cried eagerly, "you have heard something new about her. Tell me at once."

"I heard it from mamma," she answered. And then, in as few words as possible, she repeated the story of the young Russian. "I have no doubt whatever about Margaret Grey being the Mrs. Grey in question," she said in conclusion. "You remember what I told you about her strange cry when she thought she was alone in the room. Maurice Grey must be her husband. My idea is this: a misunderstanding is at the bottom of their misery—for he is evidently as miserable as she is—brought about by some one who was in love with her before—that tall man, very likely, who looked in at the window and frightened her so much. A person who knew them both might possibly remove this and restore them to happiness. Arthur, you must be that person. There is only one drawback: if the people in St. Petersburg should be right? if he has killed himself? Can you conceive anything more dreadful, she loving him all the time, as I know she does?" The idea turned Adèle pale, but the hopefulness of youth reasserted itself. "I can't bring myself to believe it," she said earnestly. "He got tired of all his friends and the gayety, and they teased him, I dare say. It's not like an Englishman to put an end to himself in that kind of way. No; I feel convinced that he will be found yet; and, Arthur, you must find him."

While Adèle had been speaking Arthur had turned away from her. He was standing by the window, apparently watching the passers-by, but she could see, by the glimpse of his face that was still visible, that he was listening with intense interest.

A fierce struggle was going on in his heart. Adèle had often let him know that in her earnest belief all his hopes were futile. Arthur had hoped against hope. In spite of all she could say—in spite even of the cruel facts that supported her theory—he reared in secret his airy fabric of hopes and dreams. He would work—work day by day and hour by hour. He should be known for a student, an author, a man of genius; not as a boy, but as a man, with an acknowledged place in the world—a man worthy of her, if that were possible (which fact the ardent lover of both sexes is wont to doubt)—he would present himself before her with the tale of his ever-faithful love.

She would be weary of solitude, she would be touched with his perseverance, she would grant him all he could desire. It was thus he always crowned his edifice, though the number of ways to its summit might have been named Legion. Now painting, now poetry, now science, now politics, would be the friendly genius that might bring him at last to her feet.

And in one moment the whole was changed. He was called upon to forget his dream or to expunge his own name from the fluted columns of his mansion in the clouds—never an easy task. I wonder who builds these châteaux en Espagne without self for at least one of the habitants.