“The marriage arranged between Lord Romiaux and Miss Blanche Morgan, only daughter of Austin Morgan, Esq., will take place on the 30th instant, at Christ Church, Lancaster Gate.”
She was half-frightened at the sudden rage which took possession of her, at the bitterness of the indignation which burned in her heart. What right had Blanche Morgan to play with men? to degrade love to a mere pastime? to make the most sacred thing in the world the sport of a summer holiday? to ruin men’s lives for her own amusement? to lure on a mere boy and flatter and deceive him; then quietly to throw him over?
“And how about yourself?” said a voice in her heart. “Are you quite free from what you blame in Blanche Morgan? Will you not be tempted to hope that he may like you? Will you not try to please him? Will it not be a pleasure to you if he cares for your singing?”
“All that is quite true,” she admitted. “I do care to please him; I can’t help it; but oh, God! let me die rather than do him harm!”
Her quiet life with the vague feeling of something wanting in it had indeed been changed by the Norwegian holiday. Now, for the first time, she realized that her uneventful girlhood was over; she had become a woman, and, woman-like, she bravely accepted the pain which love had brought into her life, and looked sadly, perhaps, yet unshrinkingly into the future, where it was little likely that anything but grief and anxiety awaited her. For she loved a man who was absolutely indifferent to her, and her love had given her clear insight. She saw that he was a man whose faith in love, both human and divine, had been crushed out of him by a great wrong; a man whose whole nature had deteriorated and would continue to deteriorate, unless some unforeseen thing should interfere to change his whole view of life.
But the scalding tears which rose to her eyes were not tears of self-pity; they were tears of sorrow for Frithiof, of disappointment about his ruined life, of a sad humility as she thought to herself: “Oh! if only I were fit to help him! If only!”
Meanwhile in the study a very matter-of-fact conversation was being held.
“What I want to find out,” said Mr. Boniface, “is whether you are really in earnest in what you say about work. There are thousands of young men saying exactly the same thing, but when you take the trouble to go into their complaint you find that the real cry is not ‘Give me work by which I can get an honest living!’ but ‘Give me work that does not clash with my tastes—work that I thoroughly like.’”
“I have no particular tastes,” said Frithiof coldly. “The sort of work is quite indifferent to me as long as it will bring in money.”
“You are really willing to begin at the bottom of the ladder and work your way up? You are not above taking a step which would place you much lower in the social scale.”