Part 19 (2/2)

”Only he is perfectly ridiculous, and as a lover quite impossible?

My dear, I grant it you with all my heart, and I think he has all the qualities which make an excellent husband.”

As the young girl was still silent, unconvinced, she went on after a little while:

”You know, Mary, I have never tried to marry you. Frankly, my dear, I do not believe very much in pus.h.i.+ng marriages. My own, and most others that I have known intimately, might have been very reasonably made--let us say--in purgatory. But a girl must marry some time or other, if she be rich. And you will have plenty of money, my poor child! You shall do exactly as you please, but I must admit that Charles is a most un.o.bjectionable _parti_. After all, there is only one other man I would sooner give you to, Mary, and he is impossible.”

”Aunt Marcelle! Aunt Marcelle!” pleaded the young girl faintly, her dark head bent very low now over the arm of the chair.

Lady Garnett had been talking so far in a somewhat desultory fas.h.i.+on, interspersing her words with brief caresses to the pug who was curled up in her lap. Now she put down the little dog with a brusqueness which hurt his dignity; he pawed fretfully at Mary's dress, and, attracting no attention, trotted of to his basket on the rug, where he settled himself with a short growl of discontent. And Lady Garnett, with a sudden change of tone and a new tenderness in her voice, just stooped a little and touched the young girl's forehead with her thin lips.

”My poor child!” she said, ”my dear little Mary! Did you suppose I didn't know? Did you think I was blind, as well as very old, that I shouldn't see the change in you, and guess why?”

”Ah!” cried the girl with a break in her voice. ”What are you saying? What do you make me say?”

”Nothing! nothing!” said the old lady; ”you need not tell me anything. It is only I who tell you--like the old immortal in Daudet, _J'ai vu ca moi_!--and it will pa.s.s as everything pa.s.ses. That is not the least sad part, though now you will hardly believe it.

You see, I don't lie to you; I tell you quite plainly that it is no good. Some men are made so--_vois tu, ma cherie_!--to see only one woman, an inaccessible one, when they seem to see many, and _he_ would be like that. Only it is a pity. And yet who would have foreseen it--that he should charm you, Mary? He so tired and old and _use_--for he is old for you, dear, though he might be my son--with his humorous, indolent, mocking talk, and his great, sad eyes. It's wicked of me, Mary, but I love you for it; so few girls would have cared, for he _is_ a wretched match. And I blame myself, too.”

”Because I am foolish and utterly ashamed?” cried the girl from her obscurity, in a hard, small voice which the other did not know.

”Foolis.h.!.+” she exclaimed. ”Well, we women are all that, and some men--the best of them. But ashamed? Because you have a wise mother, my darling, who guesses things? I have never had any children but you and him. And no one but I can ever know. No; I was sorry because I had to hurt you. But it was best, my dear, because you are so strong. Yes, you are strong, Mary!”

”Am I?” said the girl wearily. ”What is the good of it, I wonder?

Except that it makes one suffer more and longer.”

”No,” said Lady Garnett. ”It makes one show it less, and only that matters. Aren't we going to Lady Dulminster to-night? Ah, my dear, the play must go on; we mustn't spoil the fun with sour faces, masks, and dominos except now and then! Believe me, _cherie_, underneath it all we are much the same--very sad people. Only it wouldn't do to admit it. Life would be too terrible then. So we dance on and make believe we enjoy it, and by-and-by, if we play hard enough, we do believe it for a minute or two. From one point of view, you know, it is rather amusing.”

Mary looked up at last; her eyes, s.h.i.+ning out of the white face, seemed to have grown suddenly very large and bright.

”Does it go on always, Aunt Marcelle?” she asked with a child's directness.

”Always!” said Lady Garnett promptly. ”Only there are interludes, and then sometimes one guest steals away with his bosom friend into a corner, and they look under each other's masks. But it isn't a nice sight, and it mustn't happen very often, else they wouldn't be back in their places when the music began. Ah, my child!” she broke off suddenly, ”I am talking nonsense to amuse you, and making you sadder all the time. But you know I think n.o.body was ever consoled by consolations unless it were the consoler.”

She drew the girl's blank face towards her, clasped the smooth brown head against her breast with two bird-like hands on which the diamonds glittered.

”Cry, my dear!” she said at last; ”that is the best of being young--that gift of tears. When one is old one laughs instead; but ah, _mon Dieu_! it is a queer kind of laughter.”

They sat locked together in silence until the room was quite dark, lit only by the vague lamplight which shone in through the fine lace curtains from the street. Then Mary rose and played a little, very softly, in the darkness, morsels of Chopin, until the footman came in with a bright lamp, announcing that dinner was on the table. And Charles Sylvester had not arrived.

He atoned for this breach of his habit, however, on the morrow by making an early call upon the two ladies, whom he found alone, immediately after luncheon. He was very clean shaven, very carefully dressed, and with his closely b.u.t.toned frock-coat and his irreproachable hat, which he held ponderously in his hand during his protracted visit, he had the air of having come immediately from church.

Lady Garnett taxed him with this occupation presently, suppressing her further thought that he looked still more like an aspirant to matrimony, and Charles admitted the impeachment; he had been in the morning with his sister, Mrs. Lightmark, to the Temple Church. His severe gaze was turned inquiringly upon Mary. Lady Garnett responded for her a little flippantly.

”Oh, Mary went nowhere this morning, Mr. Sylvester--not even to the church parade. We were very late last night, at Lady Dulminster's.

London grows later and later; we shall be dining at midnight soon.”

”I should like to go to the Temple Church sometimes,” said Mary, ”because of the singing, only it is so very far.”

<script>