CHAPTER I.

_PARTIAL DISCOVERIES._

She seemed to be all nature, And all varieties of things in one; Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise All light and laughter in the morning; fear No petty customs nor appearances, But think what others only dreamed about, And say what others did but think, and do What others would but say, and glory in What others dared but do.

"I have no sympathy for you, Adele--not the slightest."

So spoke Mrs. Churchill, standing by a sofa in her boudoir with a glass of port in the one hand and a bottle of quinine in the other, giving careful attention to the dripping of a certain number of drops from the bottle to the glass.

Her young daughter was on the sofa, looking rather languid and worn. She raised her head, supporting it on her elbow, and her voice was a little peevish as she answered, "I have told you, mamma, that I don't want either sympathy or medicine."

"In the name of all that's sensible try and tell me what you _do_ want, child!"

"I want to see Arthur." Adele blushed as she spoke.

"To see Arthur, indeed!" Here Mrs. Churchill passed the carefully-prepared dose to her daughter. "You are a pretty pair! I imagine he wants quinine and sea-air as much as you do. And now, forsooth, he must turn studious, ambitious of literary distinction, and what not. The next thing I shall hear about him is that he has taken to the editing of a popular journal. Really, young people of the present day are past my comprehension altogether, and, Adele, you and Arthur carry matters to the verge of absurdity. You fall in love simultaneously with a pretty widow--whether a widow or not, Goodness alone knows--you suspend your own engagement for a time, as you assure one another, by mutual consent, and then begin the process of fading away, Arthur throwing himself into literature, and you into so-called charity; but, my dear"--here Mrs. Churchill grew severe--"_I_ have always heard that charity begins at home. If charity consists in making your mother's life miserable, and allowing all kinds of absurd notions in the head of the man who is to be your husband (for I believe that these new follies can't possibly outlive your teens), then, so far as I am concerned, the less of charity the better."

Adele during this harangue had turned her face from her mother. The answer came from the depths of the sofa-cushion in which she had buried her face: "I wish I hadn't told you, mamma."

"Happily, I found out the greater part for myself." Mrs. Churchill was still severe. "Upon my word, Adele, it was dutiful to begin such a correspondence without your mother's consent or knowledge; but perhaps I have spoken and thought enough on that subject already. Apropos of this Mrs. Grey of yours, I have heard something which will probably interest you. Of course it is not for me to say whether her name is really Mrs. Grey, but some of the incidents in the stories I heard seem to fit in rather strangely."

"Mamma!" In Adele's excitement she rose to a sitting posture on the sofa and her cheeks flamed suddenly into an angry crimson. "You may say what you like; _I_ know that Margaret Grey is good and true, and it's too bad to believe in nobody."

Her excitement rather alarmed good Mrs. Churchill. "Adele! Adele!" she said, "_do_, like a good child, make an effort to be reasonable. The next thing will be brain fever if you excite yourself in this way. Silly little goose! try and believe that your mother knows more of the world than you do. Some of these days you will be wiser."

"Never so wise, I hope, as to think ill of everybody," said Adele, half sobbing after her excitement.

"Well! well!" said her mother soothingly, "only be patient and I will admit that everybody is angelic; indeed, after all, why should I take the trouble of pointing out the fallacy? Circumstances will do that for you before you have lived many more years in the world. But about this Mrs. Grey. Very good I must call her to spare your feelings, and doubtless very beautiful, or she could not have taken such violent possession of the heart and head of my impulsive little daughter. It is a pity, by the bye, Adele, that Providence did not see fit to make you a boy. It would have been possible then for you to have devoted life and fortune to this interesting person, only I'm not so sure that there's not a lingering weakness for Arthur in your contradictory little heart. There, my dear! don't blush about it; you will certainly have no roses for the evening if you expend them so liberally now, and pale cheeks don't suit your style."

"As if I cared about my style, mamma!"

"Well, if you don't, Adele, I do; and as, at your age, rouge would be rather absurd, I must beg you to give us some of those pretty little blushes this evening. Perhaps you may be able to persuade Arthur to leave his books for a few hours and escort us to Lady C----'s. Is music, by the bye, among the vanities to which he has sworn undying hatred? Signor Mario has promised her a song, and--ah! I am so bad at names!--the great violinist--you remember, Mr. Godolphin was so wild about him--has promised to attend. But really, Adele," Mrs. Churchill gave an impatient sigh, "one might think you a worn-out woman of the world, or six seasons out at least; you take not the slightest interest in anything I tell you."

Adele reddened: "I beg your pardon, mamma. No doubt it will be pleasant, and the beautiful new necklace you gave me to-day will be the very thing to wear. If Arthur comes in I shall ask him; but what were you saying a few minutes ago about Mrs. Grey?"

"That interests you far more than either soiree or necklace, I do believe. I wonder how it is, Adele, that you are so _very_ different from other girls at your age? What I have heard is, after all, not much; and mind, if it excites you I shall leave off telling you _at once_. It does not redound particularly to the credit of your friend."

Again Adele buried her face in the sofa-pillow: "Who told you, mamma?"

"You remember that handsome young Russian at Mrs. Gordon's the other night. He took me in to supper, and we got into conversation. Very frank and open these foreigners are--there is none of that English reserve about them. He told me at once what brought him to London. It seems he is in search of an English friend, a certain Maurice Grey, who, after having made himself quite the rage in St. Petersburg (he was staying with the young count's father), suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace behind him. He would not let his friends know where he was going, nor did he write a single line to tell of his safe arrival at any point in his journey. It appears that one and another in St. Petersburg began talking about him, and it came out that he had let fall certain mysterious hints about a great sorrow, weariness of life, and so on--in your romantic style, Adele. Whether he only wished to make himself interesting to the ladies--who seem to have been the chief movers of the rumor--does not precisely appear: I should think it highly probable. However, St. Petersburg society took a different view. When a week passed and nothing was heard of Maurice Grey, his friends killed him--that is, they determined among themselves that he had killed himself. There seems to have been quite a fever of anxiety about the young man's fate. At last the young count, to satisfy his fair relatives and friends--himself also, for he firmly believes in his English guest, mystery and all--came over here, thinking that in London he might find some clue to his whereabouts. And now comes the part of the story which may perhaps fit in with yours. There are a good many Greys, so I did not particularly interest myself until Count ---- informed me by way of sequel that during a former visit of his to London his friend, Maurice Grey, had married one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. It was, of course, the prevailing idea in St. Petersburg that a woman had something to do with the Englishman's gloom, and as he never made the faintest allusion to his wife, it had been presumed that her conduct after marriage had caused a separation or a scandal of some kind. Count ---- has set on foot an inquiry about this person. Mrs. Grey--Margaret, he told me, was her Christian name--must certainly be still living. He heard of her from her man of business, but her place of residence is, for some reason, kept a profound secret."

Adele had risen from the sofa. She was listening to her mother's tale with earnest eyes fixed on her face. When it was over she gave a low, deep-drawn sigh: "Maurice, mamma? Are you sure his name was Maurice?"

"The Englishman's, Adele? Yes, Count ---- called him by that name once or twice in the course of our conversation."

Adele clasped her hands: "Then there can be no doubt it is the same. That will explain her sadness. Some fearful misunderstanding has come between them. Oh how I wish I could see Count ----! or if Arthur would only come! Perhaps--mamma, how delightful it would be!--perhaps we shall be able to set it all right--to make her happy again!"

Mrs. Churchill groaned: "I thought my story would have had the effect of curing you, Adele; and now I believe you are actually farther gone than ever with your enthusiasm and your poetic notions. _When_ shall I teach you that all this is childish? '_Perhaps_ you will set all right'--'make her life happy!' Perhaps, rather, you will obey your mother, and have nothing further to do with a person who has deceived her husband and is otherwise not at all correct. Why, if I don't very much mistake--and I can say, without boasting, I think that I am always pretty well up in these matters--before the season is over your Mrs. Grey will be the talk of every dinner-table in London, for Count ---- tells his story freely, and he seems to have the _entree_ everywhere. 'Miss Churchill's particular friend'--that would be a pleasant addition to the tale when repeated with sundry additions, my dear, in our circle of acquaintance. Thank Goodness! Arthur is the only person who knows anything of your absurd adventure, and his tongue is happily tied."

Adele looked up indignantly: "Don't think that _I_ shall hide from anybody my friendship for Margaret Grey," she said; "_you_ may feel ashamed--_I_ glory in it. All I regret is that I did so little for her when I had the opportunity." Then, softening, "If you had once seen her, mamma, you could never have believed these cruel tales."

"I should have instantly fallen under the spell, no doubt, like you and Arthur? No, Adele, it is long since a pretty face affected me so powerfully; indeed, I never remember being so absurdly romantic as you are. But, dear me! there are visitors; you look rather pale, so I suppose, for this one afternoon, I must let you off and leave you here with your book."

Mrs. Churchill really loved her daughter, though she did not quite understand her, but she was certainly tolerably gentle toward what she looked upon as her follies. She stooped and kissed her on the brow before she left the room, saying, with something between a smile and a sigh, "Ah, my dear, perhaps some day you will understand your mother better."

Adele returned the caress affectionately, but it was a relief to her when the door of her mother's boudoir closed behind her and she was left alone to think and plan, for the story of the Russian had thrown a new light on the subject that had engrossed her so much since that May afternoon in the Academy.