CHAPTER II.

_GO AND SEE HER._

Love's very pain is sweet.

Miss Churchill was not allowed to indulge long in the luxury of solitude. Her mother had scarcely left her before there was a well-known knock at the hall door, followed after a few moments' interval by a short, intimate tap at the door of the sitting-room, and Adele rose from her sofa and held out both hands eagerly to greet her cousin.

Perhaps he did not respond with sufficient warmth to her impulsive welcome, for the light of pleasure died quickly out of her face, she sank languidly into a chair and plunged headlong into commonplaces. "Are you going to Lady C----'s to-night, Arthur?" she asked; "I hear there's to be some first-rate music."

"That means, I suppose, that you and Aunt Ellen want an escort."

"That _means_ nothing of the kind, Arthur. Surely mamma is old enough to take care of herself and me without _your_ assistance."

"Pray don't take offence at such a small thing, Adele. They say, you know, that people who take offence lightly are in want of a real grievance."

"Heaven knows I needn't look far for a grievance when you are concerned," said Adele bitterly.

"You are the most forbearing of your sex, my fair cousin," returned he with provoking coolness. "In humble emulation of your patience behold me a willing listener to this list of grievances."

He spoke with a half smile, then threw himself back in an arm-chair and assumed an appearance of rapt attention; but Adele turned away to hide a treacherous tear. "I wonder how it is that we never meet without quarrelling now," she said plaintively.

He shrugged his shoulders: "That, I fancy, is your affair, my little cousin; you seem to take a delight in snapping me up, now-a-days; which being the case, what can I do but submit and give your woman's wit material to work upon?"

Adele pouted: "Of course it is anybody's fault but your own, Arthur; but that's always the way with boys--_they_ can't possibly be in fault."

Arthur rose from his seat: "This may be, and no doubt is, highly interesting to you, Adele. I can't say that I feel the charm of sparring; but then, as you politely observe, I am only a boy, and boys are often unappreciative of women's fine sallies, therefore I think the _boy_ must beg to be excused."

He held out his hand. Adele was on the point of taking him at his word and allowing him to leave her, but when she looked up at him her mood changed suddenly, for, after all, only her affection had made her peevish. It was a difficult task Adele had set herself on that day when Arthur first let her into the secret of his love. She had begun grandly. In her, as in many of her sisters, the spirit of self-sacrifice was strong. On the altar of her great love for her cousin, her enthusiastic admiration for the woman of his choice, she had been ready to immolate everything; she would throw her own wishes, her hopes, her future joy to the winds, so that they might be happy; and if in that first moment she could have consummated her sacrifice, could have given them one to the other, she would have done it freely, whatever it might have cost herself. But the daily annoyance her sacrifice entailed; the obligation of listening to her cousin's rhapsodies; the knowledge that though with her in body his mind was far away; even the light way in which he treated her unselfish exertions in his interest,--all these were somewhat hard to bear.

In the conflict Adele's health was giving way; she grew peevish and irritable. Her gayety and lightheartedness departed, she was not the amusing companion she had once been, and her cousin's visits were in consequence fewer. When he _did_ come, it was only to pour out his heart on the subject which engrossed him--Margaret Grey. Generally she listened patiently, with an appearance of interest and sympathy; and this was all he desired. Arthur did not mean to be unkind--he was one of the most good-natured of his sex--but he had been so much accustomed to consider that what interested him would of necessity interest Adele that he could not have thought he was giving her pain, and with his every visit planting pin-pricks in her poor little heart.

When, therefore, as sometimes happened in these days--for Adele's weakness was beginning to prey upon her nerves--she showed herself impatient, was unsympathetic or irritable, Arthur was, as on this occasion, surprised and offended, and deprived her for some days of the pleasure of his society.

But this time Adele would not let him go off in ill-temper. She looked up, and her woman's heart was moved to self-forgetfulness. "Don't go yet, dear," she said, her voice trembling in spite of strenuous efforts to be calm; "you must forgive my pettishness. I think what mamma says is true. I can't be very well just now. And _you_ look pale and ill, my poor old fellow; you shut yourself up too much with your books. You should leave London and go to some seaside place for a time."

"I scarcely think the _books_ are to blame, Adele." Arthur gave a little sigh and glanced furtively at the mirror. Through all his new earnestness he had preserved the boyish weakness of a certain pleasure in interesting delicacy. "One must do something," he continued, pacing the room restlessly, "and I've been too long an idle good-for-nothing. I think I have literary tastes. I have been looking up the classics with a view to a novel--something in Bulwer's style, you know, the scene laid in Athens during her palmy days; or perhaps Palmyra, with all the details in the true antique. My heroine must be Greek, fine classic features, and that kind of thing. I have a grand description in my head. Shall I give it to you?"

Adele smiled: "I think I could give it myself. Certainly I know the model. Am I right?"

Arthur had taken a seat again; he buried his head in his hands: "I have had such a mad idea, Adele. But no; to do _her_ justice in any description would be impossible, absolutely impossible. It's easy enough to write about dark eyes and fine features and golden hair, but that would not be Margaret. It is the wonderful look in her face, that kind of spiritual beauty belonging neither to form nor coloring, which gives it its chief charm."

"You are eloquent, dear," said Adele with a little sigh; "if you write your book in that way, I think it must certainly be a success."

"Yes," said he pensively, "the public like reality, but, you see, one can't always give it. These kinds of things look cold on paper. If I could show you my multitudinous attempts in prose and verse to give some idea of her! but they were all poor and wishy-washy. The greater number enriched the ashes of my grate. I am a good-for-nothing, and I _shall be_ a good-for-nothing to the end of the chapter."

There was something of weariness and bitter self-contempt in Arthur's voice. It made Adele's heart ache for him. She knelt down by his side and put one of her arms round his neck. It was more the gesture of a tender little mother with her child than of a woman with the man she loves, for this protecting motherliness was one great element in the affection of Adele for her cousin. No doubt it was this in a great measure that rendered it so unselfish. As a little child she had taken upon herself the punishment of his small faults--as a grown-up girl she sought to shield him from every kind of ill.

"Don't despair, dear," she said gently; "there is something for you to do--to do for _her_, if you can be wise and generous, and put yourself out of the way altogether. Do you remember, Arthur" (Adele's voice grew soft and the tears were in her eyes), "how you used to come and sit here in the afternoon while I read to you from the _Faerie Queene_ about those grand young knights going out in search of adventures--to rescue women and kill dragons and evil things? And sometimes we used to wish that those days would come back, and I imagined how I would send you out, all clothed in bright armor, to do great deeds in the world. Dear, I think your time for this has come. You are a true knight, you will forget yourself, you will burn to redress a great wrong--especially when she, your Margaret, is the victim."

Adele's words were exciting. Arthur could barely listen with patience to the end of her tender little harangue, for a great light was burning behind it which set his spirit on flame. "Adele," he cried eagerly, "you have heard something new about her. Tell me at once."

"I heard it from mamma," she answered. And then, in as few words as possible, she repeated the story of the young Russian. "I have no doubt whatever about Margaret Grey being the Mrs. Grey in question," she said in conclusion. "You remember what I told you about her strange cry when she thought she was alone in the room. Maurice Grey must be her husband. My idea is this: a misunderstanding is at the bottom of their misery--for _he_ is evidently as miserable as she is--brought about by some one who was in love with her before--that tall man, very likely, who looked in at the window and frightened her so much. A person who knew them both might possibly remove this and restore them to happiness. Arthur, _you_ must be that person. There is only _one_ drawback: _if_ the people in St. Petersburg should be right? if he has killed himself? Can you conceive anything more dreadful, she loving him all the time, as I know she does?" The idea turned Adele pale, but the hopefulness of youth reasserted itself. "I can't bring myself to believe it," she said earnestly. "He got tired of all his friends and the gayety, and they teased him, I dare say. It's not like an Englishman to put an end to himself in that kind of way. No; I feel convinced that he will be found yet; and, Arthur, _you_ must find him."

While Adele had been speaking Arthur had turned away from her. He was standing by the window, apparently watching the passers-by, but she could see, by the glimpse of his face that was still visible, that he was listening with intense interest.

A fierce struggle was going on in his heart. Adele had often let him know that in her earnest belief all his hopes were futile. Arthur had hoped against hope. In spite of all she could say--in spite even of the cruel facts that supported her theory--he reared in secret his airy fabric of hopes and dreams. He would work--work day by day and hour by hour. He should be known for a student, an author, a man of genius; not as a boy, but as a man, with an acknowledged place in the world--a man worthy of her, if that were possible (which fact the ardent lover of both sexes is wont to doubt)--he would present himself before her with the tale of his ever-faithful love.

She would be weary of solitude, she would be touched with his perseverance, she would grant him all he could desire. It was thus he always crowned his edifice, though the number of ways to its summit might have been named Legion. Now painting, now poetry, now science, now politics, would be the friendly genius that might bring him at last to her feet.

And in one moment the whole was changed. He was called upon to forget his dream or to expunge his own name from the fluted columns of his mansion in the clouds--never an easy task. I wonder who builds these _chateaux en Espagne_ without self for at least one of the habitants.

Unhappily, Adele's tale carried conviction. But "None are so blind as those who _will_ not see." Arthur _could_ not believe, because he would not. He did not answer for a few moments, then he turned, with a light laugh that sorely belied a certain haggard look in his young face: "_You_ had better turn novelist, Adele. Your _plots_ would certainly be first-rate. Why, you have reared a mountain of certainty out of a grain of conjecture. I don't believe it," he continued fiercely. But in his very fierceness was the contradiction of his words. "You pretend to care for her, and yet you can listen to all these foolish tales!"

It was rather an unkind accusation, since Adele had been doing her very utmost to show how implicitly she believed in Margaret's innocence and truth; but pain blinded Arthur for the moment, and made him cruel and unjust.

Adele saw how it was with him, and she did not even appear to resent his words. "Sit down again, Arthur dear," she said gently. "I am as anxious as you can be to get to the bottom of this mystery, but if we would do anything we must be calm and have our wits about us."

"Say, rather, _I_ must," returned Arthur, throwing himself down on a small chair at her feet and seizing one of her hands in a sudden access of penitence. "What a brute I am, exciting you in this way, my poor pale little cousin! Adele, you are wise and kind: I put myself in your hands. What shall I do?"

Adele's lips quivered as if with a sudden pain, but the answer came out clear and firm: "Go and see her, Arthur; find out the truth about all this. I think when you have once heard her story you will be in no further difficulty."

Arthur started up, his eyes glittering: "Shall I, Adele? Can I? What if I offend her?"

"You will not, Arthur. Take my advice; this time, I think, it coincides with your own will. Pass me my writing-desk, dear. Here! this is the address I have kept from you so long. Take it, my poor old fellow, and go."

He took it up and looked at it with gleaming eyes, for behind it he seemed to see the vision for which he had been thirsting so long. Adele had thrown herself back upon the sofa; she looked pale and exhausted. From the little piece of paper Arthur had been studying so earnestly he turned his eyes to her. Something in her pale face touched him. He felt a sudden pang of self-reproach, and kneeling down by her side he pressed one of her hands to his lips: "Adele, you are an angel! I say it in sober earnest, worthy of one far better and worthier and nobler than I. Dear little cousin, I will take your advice. You shall see me again only when my fate is sealed--when I have seen her. Forgive me, and keep a little corner of your heart for me till my return."

"Good-bye, dear."

It was all Adele could say for the tears that would not be restrained. But she was happier. There was a feeling of settled calm in her heart to which it had long been a stranger. She had done what she could; she was willing to leave the rest.

He left her then, and she rose from the sofa to prepare for dinner and the gayeties of the evening.