CHAPTER VIII.

_ARTHUR FALLS INTO THE SNARE._

Let me not think I have thought too well of thee. Be as thou wast.

She came out at last. Arthur saw her, and began with feverish anxiety to trace every line of her face and form. Her veil was thrown back, he noticed that, and even while he did so hated himself for his suspicion. "She knows her beauty," said the false self within him; "it will not be difficult to show her that others know it too."

But he noticed something more, something that aroused the warm sympathies of his nature: the face that a few moments ago had glowed with excitement was very pale, and the sweet lips were quivering slightly--it might be with fatigue, it might be with nervousness. A woman feels so lonely in great London, and loneliness in a crowd is the bitterest kind of loneliness to a sensitive nature.

In a very few moments Arthur's measures were taken. Waiting until she had passed on her way, he hailed a hansom, shouted out to the driver the address of the shabby street which he had visited with his cousin a few days previously, and was presently on his way to Margaret's temporary home.

With what view? She had requested him expressly not to follow up the acquaintanceship--she was living by herself in close retirement. She might very probably be offended at his visit.

Arthur was young and impulsive: he said nothing of all this to himself, or rather, with Captain Mordaunt's hateful hints in his mind, he persuaded himself that it would be only too easy to gain her forgiveness for his disobedience. As he was whirled along through the streets the young man's heart throbbed. Be it remembered that he was inexperienced in the world's ways, and had lived up to this time under strict petticoat-government. The very breaking free was exhilarating to his senses--so much so, indeed, that he did not even stop to reflect on the course he should pursue when, as he hoped and trusted, he would meet her face to face.

And Margaret in the mean time, knowing nothing of the temporary madness her face had caused, was making her way as quickly as she could through the throng and bustle of London to her lodgings in Islington.

Arthur had purposely delayed, and she arrived at the house before him. As the hansom dashed into the street, the young man caught a glimpse of her black dress disappearing behind one of the dingiest doors.

Now first he began to tremble a little at the thought of his own impulsive folly. He stood irresolute; he half made up his mind to return at once. But the voice of the tempter, "I know something of women, and they're all alike," rang in his ear.

"I will at least try," said the foolish young man to himself, and with a certain tremor at his heart he rang the door-bell.

The dirty maid-servant looked at him in astonishment. Mrs. Grey had received some distinguished visitors, notably the brilliant owner of the yellow chariot, but as yet no handsome, fashionably-dressed young gentleman had presented himself.

Margaret, as we know, had only one sitting-room. Judging from the elegance of his appearance that this visitor would be surely welcome, the girl took upon herself, without waiting for Mrs. Grey's permission, to usher the young gentleman into the dingy parlor.

Margaret was seated there. She had thrown off her bonnet, and smiling half pleasantly, half sadly, was examining a little frock, which had just been sent home by the dressmaker she employed.

Instinctively, Arthur paused on the threshold. This rapid crowning of his hopes was so unexpected as almost to take his breath away. But looking at her he dared not presume. There was in the solitary woman's face at the moment that beautiful mother-look, that calm Madonna tenderness, which makes the human charm of Raphael's divine conceptions of the Virgin. Feeling that he had been presumptuous and vain, Arthur would fain have turned and fled from this calm woman's presence, but now it was too late.

The opening of the door had disturbed Margaret's dream. She turned round, the tender mother-look changed into utter astonishment. Poor Arthur! She did not even seem to know him. Certainly, the room was rather dark, and his appearance had taken her completely by surprise; still, this swift forgetfulness was a terrible blow to his youthful vanity.

Scarcely knowing what to do with himself or how to account for his visit, he advanced, awkwardly enough, into the little dull room, and Margaret rose from her seat. To the excited imagination of the young man the lonely, shabby woman had passed suddenly into a stately queen of society.

As if awaiting his explanation she stood, but now his lips were sealed, his fine phrases deserted him, he could not stammer out a word of explanation.

It was Margaret who broke the embarrassing silence: "Sir, to what do I owe--"

He broke her short: "Mrs. Grey, you are cruel. Surely you must remember, you must know, I mean--understand--the interest, the enthusiasm--"

She was looking at him fixedly as he spoke, and at last his confusion became so overpowering that he stopped short. Then he could have bit out his tongue for his audacity, for the astonishment in her face was replaced by a keen and bitter pain.

"I remember you now," she said very slowly. "Yes, you are the young gentleman who some few days ago received the fervent thanks of a lonely woman for his chivalrous kindness."

The red blood mounted to Arthur's cheek. Unable longer to bear the gaze of those mournful eyes, he threw himself down on the nearest chair and covered his face with his hands.

"You did not understand me then," she continued very sadly; "you thought that--"

"Stop, for pity's sake, stop!" cried the young man, lifting up an agitated face. "I know all you would say. I am a weak, miserable fool, not worthy of having even been allowed to assist you; but if you only knew."

His penitence seemed to subdue her indignation. "Foolish boy!" she said with one of her rarely beautiful smiles. "I know perfectly well, and therefore it is that I forgive this impertinence. A little experience of the world will teach you your mistake. Three days ago I read in your young frank face that you judged me rightly, and I thanked you in my heart. I will not retract the judgment I formed of you then; but remember, what you have done is foolish and ought never to be repeated."

"I know it--I know it," moaned Arthur; "but may I never see you again? Ah! if by any service, however hard, I could make you happier than you are!"

She put out her hand, smiling kindly into his earnest face: "The best service you can render me now is to shake hands and say good-bye. As I said to you before, we move in different worlds. You will soon forget this infatuation, or only remember it as a warning against taking any advantage, however slight, of an unprotected woman. In that case I shall have rendered you a service."

Where was Captain Mordaunt's wisdom? Banished by a few words from a weak but noble woman. Happy for Arthur that the fair face hid a fairer soul! The poison was drawn out of his heart, and youth's own chivalry took its right place in his nature.

Bowing low over the offered hand, he answered in a broken voice, "I obey you, and I thank you. I cannot promise to forget, but from this time all my thoughts of you shall be tinged by the deep respect which is your due."