CHAPTER XVI

A GARDEN OF EDEN

In a comic opera, once much appreciated by soldiers of the French nation, there occurs a quaint refrain, to the effect that the gathering of strawberries in a certain wood at Malieux is a delightful pastime,

"Quand on est deux, Quand on est deux--,"

and the sentiment, thus expressed, seems applicable to all solitudes, suburban or otherwise, where winding paths and rustic seats admit of two abreast. But however favoured by nature, the very smoothest of lawns and leafiest of glades surely lose more than half their beauty, if we must traverse them unaccompanied by somebody who makes all the sunshine, and perhaps all the shade, of our daily life.

To wait for such a companion, is nevertheless an irritating ordeal, even amidst the fairest scenery, trying both to temper and nerves. It has been said that none realise the pace at which time gallops, till they have a bill coming due. On the other hand none know how slow he can crawl, who have not kept an uncertain tryst with over-punctuality "under the greenwood tree!"

General St. Josephs was not a man to be late for any preconcerted meeting, either with friend or foe. It is a long way from Mayfair to Kensington Gardens; it seemed none the shorter for an impatient spirit and a heart beating with anxiety and hope. Yet the old soldier arrived at the appointed spot twenty minutes too soon, there to suffer torments from a truly British malady called "the fidgets," while diligently consulting his watch and reconnoitering his ground.

How many turns he made, pacing to and fro, between the round pond and the grove, through which he longed to behold his goddess advancing in a halo of light and beauty, he would have been ashamed to calculate.

Some women never _can_ be in time for anything, even for a lover; and after half an hour's waiting, that seemed a week, he drew a little note from his breast-pocket, kissed it reverently, and read it once more from end to end.

It said twelve o'clock, no doubt, and certainly was a very short epistle to be esteemed so sweet. This is what, through many perusals, he had literally learned by heart--

"My dear General,

"I want a long talk. Shall I find you in Kensington Gardens, where you say it's so pretty, at twelve o'clock?

"Ever yours,

"Blanche."

Now, in the composition, there appeared one or two peculiarities that especially delighted its recipient.

She had hitherto signed herself B. Douglas, never so much as writing her Christian name at length; and here she jumped boldly to "Blanche," the prettiest word, to his mind, in the English language, when standing thus, like Falstaff's sack, "simple of itself." Also, he had not forgotten the practice adopted by ladies in general of crossing a page on which there is plenty of space, to enhance its value, as you cross a cheque on your banker, that it may be honoured in the right quarter. One line had Satanella scrawled transversely over her note to this effect, "Don't be late; there is nothing I hate so much as waiting."

Altogether the General would not have parted with it for untold gold.

But _why_ didn't she come? Looking round in every direction but the right, she burst upon him, like a vision, before he was aware. If he started, and turned a little pale, she marked it, we may be sure, and not with displeasure.

It was but the middle of May, yet the sky smiled bright and clear, the grass was growing, butterflies were already on the wing, birds were singing, and the trees had dressed themselves in their fairest garments of tender, early green. She too was in some light muslin robe, appropriate to the weather, with a transparent bonnet on her head, and a pink-tinted parasol in her hand. He thought, and she _knew_, she had never looked more beautiful in her life.

She began with a very unnecessary question. "Did you get my note?" said she. "Of course you did, or you wouldn't be here. I don't suppose you come into Kensington Gardens so early to meet anybody else!"

"Never did such a thing in my life!" exclaimed the General, quite frightened at the idea--but added, after a moment's thought--"It was very good of you to write, and better still to come."

"Now what on earth do you suppose I wanted to speak to you about?" she continued, in rather a hard voice. "Let us turn down here. I daresay you'd like all London to see us together; but that wouldn't suit me at all."

This was both unprovoked and unjust, for a more discreet person in such matters than the accused never existed. He felt hurt, and answered gravely, "I don't think I deserve that. You cannot say I have ever shown myself obtrusive or impatient with regard to _you_."

"Don't look vexed," she replied; "and don't scold me, though I deserve it. I am in one of my worst tempers this morning; and who can I wreak it on but _you_?--the kindest, the bravest, the most generous of men!"

His features quivered; the tears were not far from his eyes. A little boy with a hoop stood still, and stared up in his face, marvelling to see so tall a gentleman so greatly moved.

He took her hand. "You can always depend on _me_," he said softly; and, dropping it, walked on by her side in silence.

"I know I can," she answered. "I've known it a long time, though you don't think so. What a hideous little boy! Now he's gone on with his hoop, I'll tell you what I mean.--One of the things that first made me like you, was this--you're a gentleman down to the heels of your boots!"

"There's not much in that," he replied, looking pleased, nevertheless. "So are most of the men amongst whom you live. A fellow ought to have something more than a good coat and decent manners, to be worthy of your regard; and you _do_ like me, Miss Douglas? Tell me so again. It is almost too much happiness for me to believe."

"That's not the question. If I hated anybody very much, do you think I would ask him to come and walk with me in Kensington Gardens at an hour when all respectable people are broiling in the Park?" said she, with one of her winning laughs. "You're wrong, though, about the people in good coats. What I call a gentleman is--well--I can't think of many--King Arthur, for instance, in 'Guinevere.'"

"Not Launcelot?" he asked. "I thought you ladies liked Launcelot best."

"There are plenty of Launcelots," she answered dreamily, "and always will be. _Not Launcelot, nor another_, except it be _my_ General!"

Could he do less than take her arm and press it fondly to his side?

They had loitered into the seclusion of a forest glade, that might have been a hundred miles from London. The little boy had vanished with his hoop, the nursery-maids and their charges were pervading the broad gravel walks and more frequented lawns of this sylvan paradise; not a soul was to be seen threading the stems of the tall trees but themselves, and an enthusiastic thrush straining its throat in their ears, seemed to ensure them from all observation less tolerant than its own.

"Now or never!" thought Satanella. "It _must_ be done; and it's no use thinking about it!"

Turning round on her companion, she crossed her slender hands over his arm, looked caressingly in his face and murmured--

"General, will you do me a favour?"

Pages could not have conveyed the gratification expressed by his monosyllable, "Try!"

She looked about, as if searching for some means of escape, then said hurriedly--

"I am in a difficulty. I want money. Will you help me?"

Watching his face, she saw it turn very grave. The most devoted of lovers, even while rejoicing because of the confidence reposed in him, cannot but feel that such a question must be approached with caution--that to answer it satisfactorily will require prudence, fore-thought, and self-sacrifice. To do the General justice, which Satanella at the moment did _not_, his circumspection was far removed from hesitation; he had no more idea of refusing, than the gallant horse who shortens his stride, and draws himself together, for a larger fence than common, that he may collect his energies, and cover it without a mistake.

For one delightful moment Miss Douglas felt a weight lifted from her heart, and was already beginning to unsay her words as gracefully as she might when he stopped her, with a firm, deliberate acquiescence.

"Of course I will! And you ought to know by this time nothing can make me so happy as to be of use to you in any way. Forgive me, Miss Douglas--business is business--how much?"

Her face fell; she let go of his arm, and her lips were very dry, while she whispered, "Three thousand!"

He was staggered, and showed it, though he tried hard not to look surprised. Few men can lay their hands on three thousand pounds of hard money, at a moment's notice, without some personal inconvenience. Now the General was no capitalist, though in easy circumstances, and drawing the half-pay of his rank; to him such an outlay meant a decreased income for the rest of his life.

She was quite right about his being a gentleman. In a few seconds he had recovered his composure; in half a minute he said quietly--

"You shall have it at once. I am only so glad to be able to oblige you, that I wish it was more difficult. And now, Miss Douglas, you always say I'm a sad fidget, I'll go about it directly: I'll only ask you to come with me to the end of the walk."

She was crying beneath her veil; he saw the tears dropping on her hands, and would have liked to kiss them away on any other occasion but this.

"To the end of the world!" she answered, with the sobs and smiles of a child. "There's nobody like you--nobody!--not even King Arthur! Ask what you will, I'll never refuse you--never--as long as I live!"

But it need hardly be said that the General would rather have cut off his right hand, than presumed on the position in which her confidence had placed him. Though she appreciated his consideration, she hardly understood why his manner became so unusually respectful and courteous, why his farewell under the supervision of a cabman and a gate-keeper--should be almost distant; why he lifted his hat to her, at parting, as he would to the queen--but, while he replaced it on his bald and grizzled head, Blanche Douglas was nearer being in love than she suspected with this true, unselfish admirer, who was old enough to be her father.

In women, far more than in men, there can exist an affection that springs from the head alone. It is the result of respect, admiration, and gratitude. It is to be won by devotion, consistency, above all, self-control; and, like a garden flower, so long as it is tended with attention, prospers bravely till autumn cools the temperature, and saddens all the sky. But this is a very different plant from the weed, wild rose, nightshade--call it what you will--that is sown by the winds of heaven, to strike root blindly and at haphazard in the heart; sweeter for being trampled, stronger for being broken, proof against the suns that scorch, the winds that shatter, the worm that eats away its core, and, refusing to die, even in the frown of winter, under the icy breath of scorn and unmerited neglect.

Which of these kindred sentiments the General had succeeded in awakening, was a problem he shrank from setting himself honestly to solve. He tried to hope it might be the one; he felt sadly convinced it was only the other. Traversing the gardens with swift, unequal strides, so as to leave them at the very farthest point from where his companion made her exit, for he was always loyal to _les convenances_, he argued the question with his own heart, till he dared not think about it any longer, subsiding at last into composure, with the chivalrous reflection, that, come what might, if he could but minister to the happiness of Blanche Douglas, he would grudge no sacrifice, even the loss of his money--shrink from no disappointment, even the destruction of his hopes.

Satanella meanwhile had selected a Hansom cab, in which to make her homeward journey, characteristically choosing the best-looking horse on the stand. To be seen, however, spanking along, at the rate of twelve miles an hour, in such a vehicle, she reflected, might be considered _fast_ in a young unmarried lady, and originate, also, surmises as to the nature of her expedition; for it is quite a mistake to suppose that people in London are either blind or dumb, because they have so much on hand of their own, that they cannot devote all their attention to the business of their neighbours. With commendable modesty, therefore, she kept her parasol well before her face, so as to remain unrecognised by her friends, while she scanned everything about her with the keen, bright glances of a hawk. Bowling past Kingston House, then, and wondering whether it would not be possible, in time, to raise a domestic pedestal for General St. Josephs, on which she might worship him as a hero, if she could not love him as a Cupid, her Hansom cab passed within six inches of another, moving rapidly in the opposite direction; and who should be seated therein, smoking a cigar, with a white hat and light-coloured gloves, but ruined, reckless, never-to-be-forgotten Daisy!

She turned sick, and white even to the lips. In one glance, as women will, she had taken in every detail of his face and person, had marked that the one seemed devoid of care, the other well dressed as usual. Like a stab came the conviction, that ruin to _him_ meant only a certain amount of personal inconvenience, irrespective of any extraneous sorrow or vexation; and in this she misjudged him, not quite understanding a nature she had unwittingly chosen for the god of her idolatry.

Though they passed each other so quickly, she stretched her arms out and spoke his name, but Daisy's whole attention was engrossed by a pretty horse-breaker in difficulties on his other side. Satanella felt, as she rolled on, that he had not recognised her, and that if she acted up to her own standard of right, this miserable glimpse must be their last meeting, for she ought never to see him again.

"He'll be sure to call, poor fellow!" she murmured, when she reached her own door. So it is fair to suppose she had been thinking of him for a mile and a quarter. "I should like to wish him good-bye, _really_ for the last time. But no, no! Honour, even among thieves. And I'm sure _he_ deserves it, that kind, noble, generous old man. Oh! I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!" Then she paid the cabman (more than his fare) told her servant, in a strange, hoarse voice, that "she was at home to nobody this afternoon--nobody, not even Mrs. Lushington!" and so ran fiercely upstairs, and locked herself into her room.