“She did more than a favour, Dr. John:
she pledged her very honour that she would make you
some return; and if she cannot pay you in affection,
she ought to hand out a business-like equivalent, in
the shape of some rouleaux of gold pieces.”
“But you don’t understand her; she is
far too disinterested to care for my gifts, and too
simple-minded to know their value.”
I laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every
jewel its price; and well I knew money-embarrassment,
money-schemes; money’s worth, and endeavours
to realise supplies, had, young as she was, furnished
the most frequent, and the favourite stimulus of her
thoughts for years.
He pursued. “You should have seen her whenever
I have laid on her lap some trifle; so cool, so unmoved:
no eagerness to take, not even pleasure in contemplating.
Just from amiable reluctance to grieve me, she would
permit the bouquet to lie beside her, and perhaps consent
to bear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening
of a bracelet on her ivory arm, however pretty the
trinket might be (and I always carefully chose what
seemed to me pretty, and what of course was
not valueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright
eyes: she would hardly cast one look on my gift”
“Then, of course, not valuing it, she would
unloose, and return it to you?”
“No; for such a repulse she was too good-natured.
She would consent to seem to forget what I had done,
and retain the offering with lady-like quiet and easy
oblivion. Under such circumstances, how can a
man build on acceptance of his presents as a favourable
symptom? For my part, were I to offer her all
I have, and she to take it, such is her incapacity
to be swayed by sordid considerations, I should not
venture to believe the transaction advanced me one
step.”
“Dr. John,” I began, “Love is blind;”
but just then a blue subtle ray sped sideways from
Dr. John’s eye: it reminded me of old days,
it reminded me of his picture: it half led me
to think that part, at least, of his professed persuasion
of Miss Fanshawe’s naivete was assumed;
it led me dubiously to conjecture that perhaps, in
spite of his passion for her beauty, his appreciation
of her foibles might possibly be less mistaken, more
clear-sighted, than from his general language was
presumable. After all it might be only a chance
look, or at best the token of a merely momentary impression.
Chance or intentional real or imaginary, it closed
the conversation.
THE CLEOPATRA.
My stay at La Terrasse was prolonged a fortnight beyond
the close of the vacation. Mrs. Bretton’s
kind management procured me this respite. Her
son having one day delivered the dictum that “Lucy
was not yet strong enough to go back to that den of
a pensionnat,” she at once drove over to the
Rue Fossette, had an interview with the directress,
and procured the indulgence, on the plea of prolonged
rest and change being necessary to perfect recovery.
Hereupon, however, followed an attention I could very
well have dispensed with, viz—a polite call
from Madame Beck.
