He was angry with himself that he had not refrained from speaking to Miss Pembroke, or that, having spoken, he had not been more persistent. He would not believe that he could give so much and receive no return; and it seemed to him certain that by waiting he could at least have succeeded so far as to render it impossible for her to refuse him without a regret too great for concealment. That was all he now thought attainable, and, in comparison to what he had, it appeared to him happiness. That is a cruelty without which no love can exist; it demands the power to make its object unhappy in parting, if it is denied the privilege of making it happy in union.
"I was a fool!" he muttered, tossing the hair back from his burning face and head. "I took my refusal as promptly as though I had asked for a flower. A woman who is ready with her confession of love at the first word of asking must have expected and prepared herself for the proposal. Even a profound affection may be a little hidden from her till after it is asked for, though visible to others. Besides, she sometimes draws back from timidity, or to see if a man is really in earnest. That proposal which he foresees and intends takes her by surprise, and, even when willing to advance, her instinct is to retreat at first. How inconsistent we are to expect and require that shrinking modesty in a woman, and then complain of her for it!"
He wandered on through street after street, glancing at the lighted windows of many a city home. In some houses, the curtains had been pleasantly left up, and he could see the charming tableau of a family gathered about the evening lamp. They read or sewed, raising their faces now and then to smile at each other; they conversed, or they rested, leaning back in their chairs.
Coming to a secluded little cottage in a quiet street, he leaned on the garden fence, and looked into the sitting-room. He was acquainted with the people there; they met him pleasantly in public, but it had never occurred to them, apparently, to invite him to their home. All his friends, indeed, were of that public kind.
The room was lighted by a shaded lamp that made a bright circle on the table under it. A man sat at one side sketching what a nearer view would have shown to be a Holy Family. Now and then he lifted his head and gazed at the group opposite him, the models of his Mother and Child; and the expression of his fine, spiritual face showed how his soul strove to fan that visible spark of human affection into a flaming vision of divine love.
The woman sat weaving bright wools into some fleecy shape, her slight fingers flying as the work progressed under them. Her eyes were downcast, and a faint smile shone on her happy face. One foot kept in gentle motion a cradle, wherein a babe slept, its rosy little hands curled up under its chin, like closed flowers. Now and then the mother bent above the sleeper, seemed to hover over it, like a bird over its nest, when the drapery her artist-husband had arranged on her hair would drop forward and hide her profile from him. Once, when he wanted an outline, he stretched his arm, drew her face round by the chin, and seemed playfully to chide her excessive baby-worship. But it seemed that the soft, blue fold had hidden something more than a mere loving gaze; for a tear slipped from the brown lashes as they appeared. She clasped the chiding hand in hers, and uttered a few words.
How well the looker-on outside could guess what sad thought had called up that tear! She had feared that her happiness was too great to last.
The husband's answer was, evidently, cheerful and reassuring; and soon the work and the drawing went on, and the smiles were restored.
Recollecting himself, Mr. Schöninger continued his walk. What had he to do with such scenes? He was as shut out from all intimate friendships as though he had been invisible to those about him. If he should be ill, the doctor and the hired nurse would take care of him; if he should die, strangers would bury him, without pity and without grief; and his possessions in Crichton, such little belongings as friends cherish when those they love are gone, would be tossed about and prized only at their money value.
Never had he felt more despondent. The momentary pleasure derived from the friendship of F. Chevreuse faded away like sunlight from rocks, leaving only hard and sombre facts behind. There never could be a real friendship between him and the priest. An insurmountable obstacle separated them.