It had stopped raining. Dove let down his umbrella, and carried it stiffly, at some distance from him, by reason of its dampness. "Believe me, Miss Madeleine," he said, as he emerged from beneath it. "Believe me, I make all allowance for your feelings, which do you credit. A woman's way of looking at these things is, thank God, humaner than ours. But it's a man's duty not to let his feelings run away with him. I agree with you, that it's a shocking affair. But Guest went into it with his eyes open. And that he could do so—but there was always something a little ... a little peculiar about Guest."
"I suppose there was. One can only be thankful, I suppose, that he's more or less of an exception—among his own countrymen, I mean, of course. Englishmen are not, as a rule, given to that kind of thing."
"Thank God they're not!" said Dove with emotion.
"We'll, our ways part here," said Madeleine, and halted. As she took her music from him, she asked: "By the way, when shall we be at liberty to congratulate you?"
It was not at all "by the way" to Dove. However, he only smiled; for he had grown wiser, and no longer wore his heart on his coat-sleeve. "You shall be one of the first to hear, Miss Madeleine, when the news is made public."
"Thanks greatly. Good-bye.—Oh, no, stop a moment!" cried Madeleine. It was more than she could bear to see him turn away thus, beaming with self-content. "Stop a moment. You won't mind my telling you, I'm sure, that I've been disappointed with you this afternoon. For I've always thought of you as a saviour in the hour of need, don't you know? One does indulge in these fancy pictures of one's friends—a strong man, helping with tact and example. And here you go, toppling my picture over, without the least remorse.—Well, you know your own business best, I suppose, but it's unkind of you, all the same, to destroy an illusion. One has few enough of them in this world.—Ta-ta!"
She laughed satirically, and turned on her heel, regardless of the effect of her words.
But Dove was not offended; on the contrary, he felt rather flattered. He did not, of course, care in the least about what Madeleine called her illusions; but the mental portrait she had drawn of him corresponded exactly to that attitude in which he was fondest of contemplating himself. For it could honestly be said that, hitherto, no one had ever applied to him for aid in vain: he was always ready, both with his time and with good advice. And the idea that, in the present instance, he was being untrue to himself, in other words, that he was letting an opportunity slip, ended by upsetting him altogether.
Until now, he had not regarded Maurice and Maurice's doings from this point of view. By nature, Dove was opposed to excess of any kind; his was a clean, strong mind, which caused him instinctively to draw back from everything, in morals as in art, that passed a certain limit. Nothing on earth would have persuaded him to discuss his quondam friend's backsliding with Madeleine Wade; he was impregnated with the belief that such matters were unfit for virtuous women's ears, and he applied his conviction indiscriminately. Now, however, the notion of Maurice as a Poor erring sheep, waiting, as it were, to be saved—this idea was of undeniable attractiveness to Dove, and the more he revolved it, the more convinced he grew of its truth.
But he had reasons for hesitating. Having valiantly overcome his own disappointments, first in the case of Ephie, then of pretty Susie, he now, in his third suit, was on the brink of success. The object of his present attachment was a Scotch lady, no longer in her first youth, and several years older than himself but of striking appearance, vivacious manners, and, if report spoke true, considerable fortune. Her appearance in Leipzig was due to the sudden burst of energy which often inspires a woman of the Scotch nation when she feels her youth escaping her. Miss MacCallum, who was abroad nominally to acquire the language, was accompanied by her aged father and mother; and it was with these two old people that it behoved Dove to ingratiate himself; for, according to the patriarchal habits of their race, the former still guided and determined their daughter's mode of life, as though she were thirteen instead of thirty. Dove was obliged to be of the utmost circumspection in his behaviour; for the old couple, uprooted violently from their native soil, lived in a mild but constant horror at the iniquity of foreign ways. They held the profession of music to be an unworthy one, and threw up their hands in dismay at the number of young people here complacently devoting themselves to such a frivolous object. It was necessary for Dove to prove to them that a student of music might yet be a man of untarnished principles and blame less honour. And he did not find the task a hard one; the whole bent of his mind was towards sobriety. He frequented the American church with his new friends on Sunday after noon; gave up skating on that day; went with the old gentleman to Motets and Passions; and eschewed the opera.