Modern Management Concepts and Skills 14th Edition Certo Solutions Manual
Modern Management Concepts and Skills 14th Edition Certo Solutions Manual
Modern Management Concepts and Skills 14th Edition Certo Solutions Manual
Modern Management Concepts and Skills 14th Edition Certo Solutions Manual
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24. 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
25. 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!"
26. 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 débutante.
Instead of emerging from the crowd which seemed to swallow up his
identity and claiming acquaintance with her, he drew farther back
27. 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
28. 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
29. 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
30. 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
31. 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 Adèle 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.
32. 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
33. 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
34. 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."
35. 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
36. time all my thoughts of you shall be tinged by the deep respect
which is your due."
CHAPTER IX.
ARTHUR'S SECRET.
And I loved her—loved her, certes,
As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands—
As I loved pure inspiration, loved the Graces, loved the Virtues,
In a love content with writing his own name on desert sands.
A luxurious drawing-room, furnished with all the taste and elegance
that money can command; flowers here, there and everywhere—
flowers in the deep recesses of lace-veiled windows, flowers on the
multitude of tables that stood in every corner, flowers—and these
the sweetest of them all—in the lap of a young fair-haired girl who
filled a corner of one of the sofas.
She was paying no great attention to the flowers, only bathing one
of her hands in them from time to time, as though to refresh herself
with their cool fragrance. The other hand, her eyes and her whole
soul appeared to be given to the book she held, an elegant little
volume bound in fawn-colored calfskin.
She was so deeply engrossed that she did not hear the door open,
and her cousin had time to cross the long room, sit down by her side
and take possession of the hand that was trifling with the flowers
before she was aware of his presence.
Then she looked up, blushed charmingly and closed her book:
"Arthur dear, how delightful! I began to think you were never coming
near us again, and I wanted particularly to speak to you about
37. something that has been in my head ever since our visit to the
Academy."
"Four days!" answered Arthur, languidly, throwing himself back on
the sofa—"an enormous time, as young ladies would say, for one
subject to engross them, especially in this age of progress."
"I suppose it would be absurd to imagine that you even remember,
Master Arthur," replied Adèle, quite equal to the occasion—"boys, as
mamma always says, are so volatile."
"Boys!" Arthur shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "You are very
polite to-day, Adèle."
There was a shade of annoyance in his voice, which made Adèle look
up at him, for she was a kind little lady who never carried her jokes
too far. The result of the look was a rapid movement from her side
of the sofa to Arthur's, and an earnest inquiry: "Arthur dear,
something is wrong with you, you must surely be ill."
For Arthur's face was pale, and there was a wan, anxious contraction
on his broad white brow.
His only answer was a faint smile. Then, after a pause, "You were
reading, Adèle. Oh!" lifting the book from the small reading-table
that stood conveniently near the sofa, "The Faërie Queene. I thought
it would be something of the kind. Read some of it aloud, like a
good girl; I'm too done up with this hot weather to talk just now."
"Poor old fellow!" Adèle smoothed back his curly hair and imprinted
a kiss, that did not seem to excite her cousin particularly, between
his temples. "Your forehead is so hot, dear, let me bathe it with eau-
de-cologne for you."
She opened a little bottle of richly-cut, ruby-colored glass, and
pouring some of its sweet contents on her handkerchief pressed it
again and again to his brow, Arthur submitting with the delicate
grace of an invalid.
"There," he said at last, "that'll do, dear; you can read now."
38. And the obedient Adèle, having first carefully lowered one of the
Venetian blinds that no glare might offend her cousin's eyes,
proceeded to read her favorite book in a soft, measured cadence
that suited it admirably. There was no stumbling over the old English
words. Adèle was so thoroughly acquainted with the style that the
quaint language came naturally from her lips, even with a kind of
delicate grace. Love had given her the art, for she loved, more than
any book she had ever read, this dreamy, old-world poem, with its
fair women, its armed knights, its dragons and its myths. Perhaps
the force of contrast made these things specially dear to the young
girl's soul, for there was not much romance in the fashionable life
her mother taught her to think the best and wisest of all lives for a
nineteenth-century young lady to lead.
Her voice sounded like the echo of a dream in the wide room, and
she herself, in her light summer dress, might well have answered to
the description of one of the fair "maydes" whose woes and joys the
gentle poet of another age has illumined with his silvery pen, while
Arthur, as he rested on the sofa in an attitude of careless grace, his
dark, lazy-looking eyes half closed, his head thrown back upon the
cushions, might have been one of the brave young knights
refreshing himself in his lady's bower after some terrible encounter
with the many-headed, many-handed monster from whom it was his
grand mission to free humanity in general, fair womankind in
particular.
But the afternoon wore away. Adèle had just finished the account of
a mighty encounter between Arthur of the magic sword and three
unknightly knights who had attacked him together.
It had apparently aroused Arthur, for he rose suddenly and stood by
her side, looking down upon her with a certain earnestness.
"Shut the book for the present, Adèle," he said, "I am ready to talk
now; it has awoke me."
"What has awoke you, dear?"
39. "Your favorite poet, I suppose, my little cousin; but come, what were
you so anxious to say to me when I came in just now?"
"Oh, Arthur, you cannot surely have forgotten. I wanted to speak to
you about that beautiful fainting lady in the Academy."
"Perhaps I have not forgotten, Adèle." Arthur turned away from his
cousin as he spoke, for he did not wish her to see the sudden flush
which not all the proud consciousness of manhood and superiority
had been strong enough to restrain.
"Well," he continued after a pause, as his cousin remained
thoughtfully silent, "I do remember; but what of her?"
"I have been thinking of her, Arthur." Adèle's eyes looked sorrowful.
"And whenever I think of her I remember those miserable houses,
the shabby black dress and the quiet sadness in her face. Oh, Arthur,
do you think it would be possible to help her in any way?"
"For you it might be," said Arthur with an appearance of sudden
interest. "Unfortunately," he added bitterly, "women have the habit
of looking upon any attempt at friendliness in one of the opposite
sex as a species of insult."
This was rather too much for Adèle. With every respect for her
cousin and fiancé, he was still too young, in her estimation, to be
capable of exciting indignation in the breast of any woman. She
laughed merrily: "I like your vanity, sir. As if any one could be
insulted with you! You would have to pin on a false moustache, draw
your hat over your brows to hide those ingenuous-looking eyes of
yours, and button an enormous rough great coat up to your chin,
before any one—any stranger, I mean—could imagine you even
grown up. Why I look ages older than you!"
Adèle got up and looked at herself in the mirror.
"Yes, ages!" she repeated, with provoking emphasis and in eager
expectation of a delightful torrent of self-vindication from her cousin.
They often indulged in this kind of wordy war, and Adèle's feminine
volubility and quickness of wit generally gave her the advantage.
40. No answer came from Arthur to the rash challenge. He was standing
behind her, not looking into the mirror, but, as though utterly
unconscious of her light words, gazing away into vacancy. Adèle
caught sight of his face in the mirror, and a sudden silence seized
her, for even as she spoke she saw that in her young cousin's face
which warned her he was a boy no longer.
He had drawn himself up to his full height, and stood seemingly rapt
in earnest thought, for his brows were slightly contracted, and his
ingenuous-looking eyes had taken a deep, fixed look that strangely
moved his cousin. With the quickness of a woman's insight she saw
that her jest had been ill-timed, that a certain indescribable change,
perhaps that for which she had hoped and longed, had come to the
beautiful boy whom she had loved and caressed with almost
maternal tenderness, for manhood's strength of purpose was written
on his face. Her first feeling was a sense of foreboding. If Arthur was
indeed changed, would he be changed to her?
The next was a determination, strong as the womanhood which with
her love the young girl had put on early, to share his secret,
whatever it might be.
She was too young and too inexperienced to understand all that this
change, which she certainly felt, might mean; she could not reason
about the new earnestness, nor trace it to any cause which he might
think it well to hide, for Adèle was eminently generous and
unsuspicious. She was accustomed to her cousin's light, boyish
affection, and did not expect him to be a passionate lover; she was
therefore ready with all her soul to rejoice in anything that would
make him less frivolous, less absorbed in self and the mere
enjoyment of life.
For a few moments she stood silently at the mirror, looking into it,
but looking absently, for her mind was engaged in the problem of
how to approach him, how to gain his confidence at this time which
the young girl instinctively felt to be critical in her cousin's history. If
he had ambitious dreams, was it not right that she should share
41. them? She had always been his confidante; the bare idea, indeed, of
being shut out from any of Arthur's secrets gave Adèle keen pain.
Deciding at last that frankness was her best policy, she turned to her
cousin and putting both hands on his shoulders looked earnestly into
his eyes. "Arthur," she said with a slight tremor in her voice, "what
are you thinking about? Tell me."
He might have been called from a distant land, so great was the
interval that separated his mind from hers at that moment, and at
first he seemed even to have difficulty in recalling his scattered
ideas.
She repeated the question, with an added earnestness that lent
pathos to her voice.
Then he looked down upon her:
"Why do you wish so much to know, Adèle?"
"Oh, Arthur, how can you ask?" Her voice trembled, she was very
near tears. "Dear," she continued in a lower voice, taking his hand in
hers, "if I thought you had one corner in your heart of which I knew
nothing, I scarcely know what I should do. 'Trust me all in all,'
Arthur. I say it in all sincerity." She smiled faintly. "I promise not to
be like that naughty Vivien, wrapping you up in spells, even if—if you
should have any secret—"
"That would pain you very much to know, little cousin."
Adèle looked up bravely: "I should prefer to know it, Arthur—indeed
I should; I think, dear—I think—I could put myself out of the
question altogether, and help you as a sister might."
He did not notice the tremulousness, the slight choking of voice with
which her brave little sentence ended.
"I wish with all my heart that you were my sister, Adèle: then I could
tell you without any hesitation."
Adèle turned a little pale: "I am your sister, Arthur. Tell me."
42. He looked down upon her kindly: "I will tell you, Adèle, for in these
matters I believe frankness to be the best policy; and, after all, it
may be only a dream. I was thinking of Margaret Grey."
CHAPTER X.
HOW ADÈLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE.
The woman who loves should indeed
Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed
Not her selfish and often mistaken desires,
But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires.
And this, then, was the awakening? Like almost every thing in this
wayward world of ours, it scarcely chimed in with the ideas and
plans that had been formed concerning it.
Adèle had often mourned her cousin's frivolity, but she was young
and hopeful. He was only a boy, she had told herself. Some of the
great things in the world—its art, its literature, its science, the grand
sphere of politics or the grander field of benevolence—would sooner
or later throw chains about his spirit, so that, following where it led,
he too, with herself perhaps as a twin attendant star, like the "Laon
and Laone" of Shelley, might take a place in the poet's divine temple
of genius, and live a life not utterly in vain in its influences on
humanity.
She had even thought to arouse him herself, that by love he might
rise, as others had done before him, to something higher than the
fashionable life of self-pleasing. But of this she had never thought—
that love indeed, but the love of another woman, should be the
motive-power rousing his soul to earnestness. For she could not be
mistaken. The change that had come to him—which change, she
could not but remember as she cast her thoughts over the past few
43. days, had dated from that memorable afternoon at the Academy—
the impressive way in which he had told her of his thought, the quiet
earnestness of his manner, all tended to the revelation of a fact—one
that she would have put away indignantly had she not been forced
to look it in the face. Arthur was in love, and not with her.
The beautiful woman whom in her youthful enthusiasm she had
admired—loved even for her very loveliness—had won her cousin's
heart. He loved Margaret Grey as he had never loved her, his cousin,
the friend of his youth and childhood: with her he had remained a
boy; her beautiful rival had roused the dormant fire within him, and
suddenly the boy had put on his manhood.
These were some of the thoughts that crowded bewilderingly on
Adèle's brain as they sat together on the sofa—she and her cousin—
with his strange confession between them. He was waiting to hear
what she would say; she was for the first few moments unable to
speak. On the table before them lay the forgotten volume of the
Faërie Queene; at their feet, in sweet confusion, were the scattered
flowers fallen from Adèle's lap. She sat perfectly still, her hands
crossed and her eyes cast down; he looked at her with some
earnestness, and perhaps a little surprise.
Arthur's affection for Adèle was of a calm, brotherly kind, and he had
always imagined that she cared for him in very much the same
manner.
Hitherto, indeed, he had not been in a position to gauge the heights
and depths of that mysterious, volatile essence which young mortals
dignify by the fair name of love. But now, with this new light in his
own heart, he was better able to understand his cousin's, and in her
downcast face he thought he read her secret.
It made him tender instantly. Young men and old men are alike in
this. Whether loving or not themselves, they are pleased when they
find out, by indubitable signs, that they have inspired the sentiment;
and this knowledge makes them, for the moment, strangely gentle
and sympathetic.
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