CHAPTER VII.

_A CUNNING TEMPTER._

Thou art woman; And that is saying the best and worst of thee.

Margaret's business in London was over. The more she thought about her visit to Mr. Robinson, the more certain she felt that her affairs were in capable hands, and that her money difficulties would very soon disappear.

She wrote, therefore, to Mrs. Augustus Brown, declining the honor of becoming a member of her household.

That lady was considerably annoyed at first. Afterward she consoled herself by the reflection that her own presence of mind had saved her sweet innocents from a terrible danger. It was only too evident, she remarked to the passive Brown, that Mrs. Grey's antecedents would not bear looking into. It was a fresh instance of the danger to which the inexperienced were subjected in London. Had she not been very watchful she might have been misguided by that woman's remarkable appearance.

Mr. Augustus pricked up his ears at this.

"In what way was she remarkable, my love?" he blandly inquired.

To which civil question Mrs. Brown, recalling her former uneasiness, only replied by shaking her fat shoulders and descanting volubly on the fruitful theme of male curiosity.

It is highly probable that Margaret had a happy escape, in spite of "salary no object, and masters for every branch."

As soon as the letter had been despatched she began to think of home and Laura, and to lay her plans for return. But, first, various articles of wearing apparel would have to be procured, for Margaret was not at all fond of shabbiness for its own sake, and her little girl's wardrobe was, she knew, sadly in need of replenishment.

So she put off her departure for a day or two, that this business, so much more pleasing than what had hitherto been occupying her, might be satisfactorily accomplished. Between shopping and needlewomen the next few days passed by with considerable rapidity and far more brightness of spirit; and then Margaret thought that before leaving London she might pay a farewell visit to the pictures, and, especially, to the one which had so powerfully attracted her.

Dressing herself with far more care than on the previous occasion--for the black stuff was replaced by silk, and over it the rich Indian scarf, for which Margaret seemed to cherish a peculiar affection, looked more in keeping--she started on a bright afternoon in an omnibus that took her to the very door of the Exhibition.

For this once Margaret wished to enjoy without fatigue. And she certainly _did_ enjoy. Coming from the brightness and life of the May day into the cool shade of the galleries (it was too early in the day for the fashionable crowd), with the wealth of coloring and suggestive beauty on every side, nothing to do but to wander from one gem of art to the other,--all this was really delightful to Margaret. It was easy work at first, but as the day wore on the usual crowds began to pour into the galleries, and moving about became somewhat more difficult.

Margaret was there to see the pictures and refresh herself with their beauty. She did not, therefore, pay much attention to the many who were coming and going, and was in consequence perfectly unconscious of the notice she herself attracted; for many who caught a glimpse of her fair face in passing turned instinctively and looked again. There was one who admired her specially.

He was a little sandy-haired individual who had been wandering about rather disconsolately with his wife. Having at last been able to escort her to a seat, he was venturing to look round when he caught sight of Margaret Grey. It was a happy moment. She was looking up at one of Millais' suggestive pieces; the full appreciation of its meaning gave a certain spirituality to her face, and her lips were parted in a smile of calm enjoyment.

He was struck dumb with astonishment. Had it not been for the presence of his wife and a snub-nosed olive-branch he would have improved the occasion by trying to find out something about this new beauty.

As it was, he turned away his eyes from beholding vanity, and looked down on the opposite virtue, his wife, whose eyes, strange to say, were beholding vanity too. With the assistance of her eye-glasses they were scanning the object that had previously attracted the attention of her lord.

The heart of the sandy-haired throbbed with unusual excitement, but (oh the treachery of the male sex!) he smothered excitement under an appearance of utter indifference.

"Do you know that lady, my love?" he inquired in his blandest tones.

"Lady, indeed!" replied Mrs. Brown, for the moment forgetting her prudence in her indignation. "It's Mrs. Grey, who _was_ to have been my children's governess, Mr. Brown. Now I hope you _see_!"

Mr. Augustus did _not_ precisely see, but for the sake of peace and quietness he professed to be very much enlightened, and proceeded with a man's temerity to make some other trifling observation about the pseudo-governess.

He met with a smart rebuke for his pains, and then Mrs. Brown, feeling no doubt that the locality was dangerous, requested that her carriage should be found.

When the unhappy Brown returned dutifully to escort her to where it was in waiting for its dainty burden the vision of female loveliness had vanished, and though he paid more visits to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy than he had ever done before, the vision never returned. Alas, the cruelty of human nature as exemplified by watchful wives!

Margaret did not know what mischief she was causing. She had found her way to the little sea-piece which had already spoken so powerfully to her imagination. And there it was that at last Arthur Forrest's eyes were gladdened once more with a sight of the face that had haunted him.

He was standing near the entrance of the room, lost in the crowd, which was every moment increasing, when she passed by him so closely that her silk dress touched him. He had been watching for her daily, but at the fateful moment her appearance took him by surprise.

He had formed plans without number for addressing her, without showing himself obtrusive or inquisitive. The very words of polite inquiry after her health, the manner in which, by courtesy and chivalrous deference, all her fears would be set at rest, had been rehearsed again and again in colloquy between himself and a Margaret evoked by his dream; but when the moment had come, when the real Margaret was near, all his plans vanished like mists before the sun--he was bashful and timid as a young _debutante_. Instead of emerging from the crowd which seemed to swallow up his identity and claiming acquaintance with her, he drew farther back into its friendly shelter. He could not address her yet, he said to himself; he must seize the opportunity of gazing once more on her fair face.

He saw her walk quietly through the gallery and pause near one of the seats, the scene of their memorable rencontre only a few days previously. It was full, so she stood beside it, gazing with dreamy pleasure at the picture of the westering sea.

_She_ looked at the picture, and Arthur in his safe retirement looked at her; indeed, he was so absorbed in the contemplation that it needed a very smart tap on the shoulder from a gentleman who had come up behind him, and who had already addressed one or two remarks to him utterly in vain, to awake him to a sense of things as they were, and to the consciousness of the existence of some few people in the world besides himself and Margaret Grey.

As he looked round he reddened with annoyance, and yet Captain Mordaunt, the gentleman who had broken in upon his reverie, was a man with whom most young men liked to be seen. Not that he was particularly attractive, for his hair was turning gray, his face was blotchy, his neck red and long, and his nose beginning to take the hue of the purple grape. Then, too, his manner was apt to be snappish and sarcastic, especially to young men. But what was all this when it was a certain fact that he knew, as they would have said, "an awful lot;" that he was the fashion; that he counted his intrigues by the hundred? Indeed it was whispered, and not without foundation, some said, that not only actresses and inferior people of that description were concerned in them; the names of ladies of high rank had been associated with that of Alfred Mordaunt. But this of course may have been only rumor, for rumor is thousand-tongued and not particularly charitable. In any case, the gallant captain did not seem to care to deny the soft imputations. He considered it his chief mission in life to be a lady-killer.

Arthur was not above the weaknesses of his day and generation; he had often courted Captain Mordaunt in the past. The past! How soon those few days had become the past, the great blank of existence, when he had lived without having seen _her_!

What annoyed Arthur so particularly was this. He saw in a moment that he had betrayed his secret by his own folly--that Captain Mordaunt, the last person in the world to whom he would have spoken of his romantic devotion, had traced the direction of his glance, and with eye-glass fixed was taking a look on his own account. The look was followed by another tap, a congratulatory one, on Arthur's shoulder. "By Jove, Master Arthur! you have taste! The finest woman I've seen for some time, 'pon my solemn word and honor! And beauties are something in my line too. Not of the pink-and-white sort either, that generally goes down with you young fellows. There's refinement, intelligence, and what d'you call it, that painters make a fuss about, in that face."

His comments sent the indignant blood to the very roots of young Arthur's hair. He made an heroic effort at indifference. "I am really at a loss to understand you, Captain Mordaunt," he stammered.

The gallant captain laughed, holding his sides as if the merriment overpowered him utterly.

"_Very_ good! _Very_ good!" he cried between the paroxysms. "Sly boy! Didn't know you were so deep. Want to keep all to yourself, eh? I'll warrant the fair cousin knows nothing."

The color faded from Arthur's face, but there came a dangerous light into his eyes. "I wish you would keep your remarks and your ill-timed jokes to yourself, Captain Mordaunt," he said sullenly.

The captain looked astonished, and whistled softly for a moment. "Gently, gently, young spitfire!" he said lightly. "But come, who is she? Let an old friend into the secret. Why, I declare, ----" (mentioning a lady of more repute for beauty than character) "couldn't hold a candle to her."

This was almost too much for Arthur. He turned round with flashing eyes, and there was a subdued force in his voice as he answered, using the first rash words that came to his lips, "How _dare_ you speak of _her_ in such a connection? I am a younger man than you, but, by Heaven! if you should repeat such an insult I could strike you down where you stand."

The captain laughed again, with a trifle of uneasiness this time, and he turned a little pale. Rumor said that he was a coward, but probably his fear in the present instance was of a row in this public place. However that might be, he certainly took Arthur's challenge rather coolly. "Calm yourself, young man," he said more seriously than he had yet spoken. "I scarcely knew I was treading on such dangerous ground, and certainly could not mean to insult any friend of yours. You know this lady, I presume, since you are so hot in her defence?"

Again Arthur blushed. What a fool he felt himself! Captain Mordaunt in this mood was less easy to escape than in his former one. "I know her," he answered after a pause, "only very slightly."

"Very slightly, I imagine so," replied the other satirically. "It is not the first time _I_ have seen her, though," he added _sotto voce_.

Arthur was all attention in a moment: "_Where_ have you met her, Captain Mordaunt?"

"Oh, that is _my_ secret. We can all be close when it suits our turn. A word in your ear, young man. Ultra modesty, faith in the immaculate--you take me?--never goes down with women. I know something of them, and they're all alike. There! don't look indignant. Follow up your advantage, if you've gained any, and before long you may find out that I am right, and thank me for the hint."

Margaret had found a place at last on the crimson seat. As the last words were spoken she was leaning forward, her head resting on one of her hands, from which she had taken the glove. There was marvellous grace in her position. The long white fingers, the flushed cheek, the dark weary eyes and the slender bowed form made such a picture as few could have looked upon unmoved.

Captain Mordaunt, whose eyes had never stirred from her face, smiled softly (a smile that made Arthur writhe mentally), and clapped his thumb-nails together as though he had been applauding some favorite actress.

"Bravo!" he said in a low tone to his companion: "there's a pose for you--knows she's being admired. Bless you, lad! it's women's way; and so innocent all the time, the pretty pets! By ----, I'd like awfully to follow this up on my own account. But," and he gave a deep sigh, "I've too many on hand already--won't do. Like the Yankee, I shall be 'crowded out.' I leave the field clear for a younger knight. By-bye, old fellow--best wishes. I must be off--was due at Lady ----'s an hour ago."

In another moment he was gone, but before he left the hall he turned and looked at his young companion, and as he looked his lips curled. Arthur did not see him, nor did he hear his muttered comment: "Poor fool! he'll have his wings singed for him, but serve him right for his impertinence. Knock _me_ down, indeed!"

In Arthur's mind very different thoughts and feelings were struggling for ascendency. Indignation, disgust, loathing of this world-sated man and his wisdom--these the better side of his nature prompted, rejecting with spiritual insight the unholy poison; but there was a lurking demon within him, the _ego_ Arthur had been striving to trample upon, and to it all this was sympathetic.

Perhaps, after all, Captain Mordaunt was right. Chivalry and its attendant virtues belonged rather to the region of the imagination than to the matter-of-fact life of humanity. It was the way of the world for men to amuse themselves while they could. It had been Captain Mordaunt's way, and what a pleasant life _he_ led! Petted, caressed, flattered, at home in some of the noblest mansions in England, his word law in all matters of etiquette, grand ladies considering it an honor to entertain him. He had not gained this position by squeamishness: _that_ point he allowed every one to know.

Arthur's heart told him that all this was false--that whatever or whoever the light loves of Captain Mordaunt might have been, the lady whom he admired was pure, true, unconscious of evil. He felt instinctively, with the insight lively sympathy often gives to the young, that to take advantage in any way of her lonely position would be to shut himself out from the place he had been so happy as to gain in her kindly remembrance, and to preclude himself from all hope of rendering her any further assistance in the future.

But the demon of self is strong, and the voice of the heart when opposed to it is weak. The pathetic voice of Arthur's heart was soon silenced by the echo which self-love gave to Captain Mordaunt's words of falsest wisdom. He looked at his fair ideal, but his feelings had changed. The animal within him was loudly asserting its right to be heard; the self-indulgent nature, which a life of luxury had fostered, persuaded itself easily that all was right, and his fair woman only as others. Cherishing such feelings, he could not look calmly on her face. With a new fire in his veins he turned away to wait outside the building until Margaret should make her appearance.

The waiting seemed long, but it did not cool his ardor or recall his former wisdom. Backward and forward he paced, up and down, with careful observation of all who left the building, until at last he began to fear either that he had suffered her to escape him, and thus lost all chance of finding out more about her--this was the vague way in which his plans were laid--or that something had delayed her, another fainting-fit perhaps. The bare idea maddened him; he put his hand to his head, he felt dizzy; this was very different from his nonchalant waiting for Adele a few days previously, even from that daily hope--calm through all its earnestness--of looking once more on the face of his ideal.

That fatal tree! How many young souls are lost by the passionate craving for its fruit! The man of the world had held its beautiful poison to the young man's lips, and he could not tell that beneath the glory lay dust and ashes.