PART I.

LONDON.

I am an orphan. My father, who was a curate in the Church of England, died when I was sixteen years of age, leaving me totally unprovided for. I need not trouble the reader with the vicissitudes of fortune which left me, when I was entering my twenty-second year, a shopman in the establishment of Mr. John Conder, hosier and outfitter, of Holborn. I had been a clerk in a city firm; but the firm failed. For some months after that I was out of employment. At last I was compelled to enter Mr. Conder's service. I had been with him for two years, acting as salesman, errand-boy—anything, when one day an accident changed the whole course of my life.

It was about three o'clock on a broiling July afternoon, 187-. I had to leave a parcel at the Langham Hotel, and another at a house in Wimpole Street. Having discharged my mission at the Langham Hotel, I crossed Portland Place and turned down Chandos Street to get into Cavendish Square. Chandos Street is a very quiet street; and as I turned the corner of the Langham Hotel the only person I could see before me was a tall young lady with a very graceful and aristocratic carriage, who was walking in the direction that I was going. She was just under the tree that grows by the Langham Hotel opposite to the Medical Society of England, when she put her hand in one of those large pockets that ladies wear at the back of their dresses to take out her handkerchief. In taking out the handkerchief, she unconsciously dropped a blue velvet purse on the pavement, and walked on without noticing it. I immediately ran forward and picked it up, and came up to her, with the parcel under my left arm and the purse in my right hand, saying:

"I beg your pardon, madam; you have dropped your purse."

"Miss" would have been the expression that most men in my[Pg 180] position would have used; but I had a habit of saying ma'am, or madam, to ladies.

She started at being spoken to, but recovering herself at once said, in a very clear but soft and musical voice:

"Oh, thank you so very much. There are papers in it of great importance."

I put the purse in her hands, which I could not help noticing were very long and slender. She put down her parasol, and opened it, and having given in an instant a glance at a compartment in the purse in which there were some papers, and a glance at me, she took out what I could see must be several sovereigns, and said:

"The purse was of great importance to me on account of some papers that it contains. I would willingly have given a large reward for it. Will you allow me to offer you this for your kindness in restoring it to me? You cannot think how much obliged I am to you."

All this was said in the same clear and silvery tone, but with a diffident and apologetic manner, as if she were conscious that she was running the risk of giving offense. Perhaps it was this that affected me. Had she spoken in the way in which people usually do when they give such rewards, I should possibly have taken the shining sovereigns that she held in her slender hand, and there the matter would have ended. But there was something in the way in which she addressed me that touched me to the quick. She seemed, so at least I imagined, to feel that she was speaking to one that had belonged to her own class, to one at least to whom some apology was due for making him such an offer. Besides this, it was, perhaps, the first time in my life since I had grown up that I had ever spoken to a lady except on a mere matter of business. But here was a beautiful, refined, high-bred girl, speaking to me not merely as an equal, but actually in a tone of almost supplication. Beautiful? I took that on trust. Her slender, graceful figure was clad in a

rich but simple polonaise that showed its lovely contour to perfection. The upper part of her face was hidden, at least from my diffident gaze, by a rather heavy veil; but the piquant chin, the shining teeth, and mobile lips, with the transparency of her complexion, were enough. There are times when we experience the thoughts and emotions of a lifetime in a moment. That I was a gentleman by birth I had never forgotten—I was prevented from doing so by the contrast between my present and my past surroundings. That I was talking to a lady whose equal I was in rank, I now for the first time felt. It was then with an angry flush, and, I am afraid, a not very gracious manner, that I replied:

"No, thank you, madam. I don't require to be paid for such a small service."

"I beg your pardon," she said, while the blush on her face seemed to grow deeper. "I am very sorry if I have offended you; but you have done me a very great service, and I would like to have shown my gratitude if it were possible. You will forgive me, I hope, for my rudeness?"

[Pg 181]

"I have nothing to forgive, madam," I replied in a more courteous tone. "I am very happy to be of service to you, and I am only surprised that you should think so small a matter——"

I was trying to find words to finish the sentence, when she said:

"Excuse me for asking you a question, but are you in business?"

"Yes, madam," I said; "I am with Mr. Conder, of Holborn."

She paused for a minute, and then continued in a firmer and more collected manner:

"Do not think me rude if I ask whether you have been in business long?"

Something told me that she wanted to know my history. So, in a very few words, I told her who I was, and how I came to be in my present position.

When I had finished, she said in a manner that gave me more pleasure than I can describe:

"Then your father was a clergyman."

It was not the tribute that was paid to my parentage by the respectful manner in which the words were uttered that pleased me so much as the equality that both the words and the way in which they were spoken seemed in some indefinable manner to establish between us. It seemed to me to be the most deliciously delicate and pointed way of saying, "Then you are a gentleman, and my equal."

I could have thanked her more for the few words that had escaped her than if she had given me ten times the money that was in her purse. However, I merely acknowledged her last remark, which was spoken rather to herself than to me, by saying—

"Yes, madam."

We had nearly got to the corner of Cavendish Square by this time. There was another momentary pause, and then she startled me by saying in a perfectly easy and unconstrained manner:

"Pardon me for asking you another question. You must for the present give me credit for not being actuated by any idle or impertinent motive. Are you married, or, if not, is there any one that you at present think of marrying?"

"No, madam," I answered, "I am not, and I have not any thought of being married."

She paused for a moment, and I was beginning to wonder what would come next, when she asked abruptly:

"At what time will you be disengaged this evening?"

I use the word "abruptly" to denote the suddenness and precision with which the question was put, for her manner was too refined and self-possessed to be characterized as abrupt in the usual sense of that word.

"We leave business at a little after eight," I replied.

"Then you could be at York Place, Baker Street, at nine—or say half-past nine?" she said.

[Pg 182]

"Yes, madam," I answered, "I could easily be there by half-past nine."

"Then would you call at No. 41 York Place at half-past nine to-night?"

"Certainly, madam."

"Now one word," she said. "Ask for Miss Grey when the door is opened. But do not tell any one about this interview. You will see to-night why you ought not to do so in your own interest. In the meantime keep your own counsel. You will promise me that?"

"Certainly, madam."

"You remember the address—or had you not better take it down?"

"Not at all, madam; the address is No. 41 York Place; Baker Street."

"Then I shall expect you at half-past nine o'clock. Good-bye."

She bowed, and, turning round the corner of Cavendish Place, walked quickly toward Regent Street.

Was I married, or was there any one that I thought of marrying? What could she mean, I wondered, as I looked for a moment after the slight and graceful figure? My coming to see her that evening must have something to do with my marrying somebody? Was it herself? If so, would I marry her? I never thought for a moment about money in connection with the matter. Partly on account of the veil she wore, partly from the strangeness and hurry of our interview, and my own bashfulness, I had not seen her face, at least not so as to be able to form any picture of it. And yet, there was no doubt in my mind as to the answer. Marry her? Why, already I was madly in love with her. In love with a woman whose face you have never clearly seen? It may seem absurd, but so it was. I could not recognize her face since I had never really seen it. But the erect and graceful form, and the dignified carriage of the head, I could have recognized amongst ten thousand figures, and with the mind that gave the grace and loveliness to her presence and words, I felt that I was in love forever. How far all this was

due to the effect of the peculiar circumstances of our interview on my imagination, at that time of life when the imagination is most powerful, and how long my passion would have lasted if things had taken any ordinary course, I cannot say; but for the present I was, in downright earnest, madly in love with a form, a voice, and a presence, to which my fancy, taking the key from the little of the face that I had seen, added a countenance whose loveliness and wisdom and purity the mere imagination could not bring into being.

So I went on to Wimpole Street, where I delivered the parcel, and then returned to Holborn, speculating all the way on the one momentous question, Whom did she want me to marry? Was it herself? Now I had learned in what somebody has termed the University of Adversity an art which appears to me to be of even greater practical importance than the arts that are taught at the better-endowed universities. It was the art of[Pg 183] taking a candid and unprejudiced view of my own affairs. And, before I got back to Mr. Conder's, my facility in this art had assured me that, whatever might be the ultimate solution of the mystery, there was not, as far as she was concerned, a scintilla of love in the matter. For a few minutes I had some idea of its being a case of love at first sight on her part. But on a little reflection I saw that the quiet business-like manner in which she had asked her questions, and made the appointment, were quite inconsistent with the enthusiasm and self-forgetfulness which accompany the sentiments that arise from love.

After what seemed to me to be the longest evening I had ever known, I found myself at the door of 41 York Place.

Then a question arose that gave me keen anxiety for a minute or two. Ought I to ring or knock? To ring seemed timid—almost cowardly. Yet what sort of knock could I give? As a messenger from a shop I had no right to give other than that single knock which had often given me so much anguish. Coming on such an invitation such a knock was clearly out of place. And yet a double knock—at least a loud one—might seem presumptuous—seem imperative. So at last I gave a knock which I intended to be a very quiet double knock, but which, I am afraid, was a very queer and tremulous one, and in a minute or so the door was opened by a maid-servant.

"Is Miss Grey——" I was going, in my nervousness, to say "at home," but I checked myself and substituted the more general particle "in?"

"She will be here in a few minutes, sir. Will you walk into the parlor?"

"Sir!" I had not been addressed as such before since a time that seemed like a phase of my being in another world. She showed me across the hall into a large room that was only partly lighted by an oil-lamp on a round table, and said:

"Will you be seated, sir? Miss Grey will be here in a minute or two." Saying this, she closed the door.

It was a large room, papered with a rich but gloomy-looking red paper. Several bookcases stood against the walls, stored as far as I could see with well-bound volumes. The furniture was simple but massive. Two or three substantial-looking arm-chairs, several equally substantial-looking ordinary chairs, a mantel-piece of solid-looking marble on which were a few somber-looking ornaments, and a marble clock, and in the center of the room, a heavy round mahogany table on which were a few books, and the lamp, which seemed only to show the darkness of the room. I sat down with a palpitating heart, for there was something weird about the whole scene. It was twenty-seven minutes past nine by the clock when the servant shut the door, so that I was three minutes before my time. The minute hand of the clock was just pointing to the half-hour when a carriage drove up to the house, and a minute afterward the hall-door opened, and then a tall female figure glided noiselessly into the room, and, having shut the parlor door, said, as I rose:

"Please be seated; you must excuse me for wearing this veil[Pg 184] until we have finished a conversation which I shall make as brief as possible."

I recognized the voice of Miss Grey, but it was if anything more calm than when we parted. I sat down again on a chair at some distance from the table, whilst the lady drew her chair near to the table and took out of her pocket a notebook and pencil. She had on a cloak that hid her form, but I thought I could detect the same grace and dignity of carriage.

"As we are strangers," she continued, "you will, I hope, pardon me for making a remark that would otherwise be highly impertinent. But your conduct to-day has satisfied me that in speaking to you I am speaking to a high-minded gentleman, who, if he should decline the proposition which I am going to make, will at least feel in honor bound to observe silence both about this interview and the names I shall have to mention."

I bowed. This speech, with what had preceded it, taught me more of the art of love—an art that the reader will find, if he cares to follow my fortunes, was to become useless to me—than Ovid and all the other poets and philosophers could have done. It is not beauty, any more than dress or wealth, that creates affection, it is manner; and the essence of that manner which produces the mystic complex emotion which we denote by the term "love" is that it is an exposition of genuine deference for the individual—for himself or herself alone—and apart from all such accidents as rank, or wealth, or position. I therefore bowed, and she proceeded.

"My solicitor is Mr. Chambers, of 52 Bedford Row. You will find that he is a gentleman who holds the highest position in his profession. Another friend of mine who would act in this matter is Mr. Charles Duke, of Duke, Furnival & Company, the well-known bankers of Lombard Street. Now I have asked you to come here to-night to put this question to you. Would you marry me within the next week or fortnight, and promise on your word of honor never to attempt to know who I am, or to live with me, or to exercise any marital rights, if you had the guaranty of these two gentlemen that you would be paid five hundred pounds every quarter for the rest of your life? That would be two thousand pounds a year. But the condition is that we are married in this house; that you leave the house immediately after the ceremony, and that you never afterward try to know anything about me."

She had finished speaking, speaking throughout in the same calm, measured, and yet easy intonation. If she had carved the words out on marble they could not have stood more clearly before me. I was silent. "Two thousand pounds a year." All, more than all, the wealth I had ever hoped to acquire suddenly realized. And yet, what was the condition on which I was to possess it? The words of the condition seemed to stand before me, but their meaning was not very clear except in its effects. As well ask a man who has just received a stunning blow to diagnose the reasons why the blow has stunned him, as have asked me to explain why the condition on which I was to receive[Pg 185] this wealth seemed to turn the wealth itself into ashes. The tears came into my eyes, and I remained silent.

"You love some woman, and I should be taking you from her? If so, tell me. God forbid I should do so."

This time she spoke in a tone of sadness and feeling. Why did I not tell her that I did love a woman; that I loved her with my whole soul, and that that woman was herself? That is what a great many people will think a man of spirit would have done. As far as spirit means pride, it was pride that prevented me from even thinking of doing such a thing. Here was a lady, wealthy, refined, highly educated, and highly bred. She had made a plain, business-like proposition to me in a plain, business-like manner. What right had I to introduce into the discussion an element of the possibility of which she had clearly never even dreamt? True, I was a gentleman by birth, but I was a shopman by position. To have avowed my love for her would have been as grotesque as if I were to declare my passion for the next lady who came into Mr. Conder's shop. Of all this I was keenly sensible, for there could be no greater gall to my pride than the tone in which she spoke, which seemed as if she were unconscious that she could be loved by such as I. Instinctively

I knew that if I deviated in the least from the purely commercial programme she was dictating, the whole matter would come to an abrupt and final conclusion. I would have liked, goodness knows, to have said that I would obey her behest without reward. But that, I saw, would alter the whole spirit of the contract in such a way as to destroy the contract itself, and thus place us everlastingly apart. If we once went through the form of marriage, there was just a possibility of her yet being my wife in a higher sense. If I returned to Mr. Conder's shop we were parted forever.

This being clearly before my mind, I braced myself up by a strong effort, and said:

"No, madam. I told you the truth to-day. You are not taking me from any woman. But I am surprised, it is a great change for me—I perfectly understand the proposition you have made. We are to go through a form of marriage, and I am never to seek to know anything about you afterward. Yes, madam, I pledge my word of honor to abide by the contract."

She then asked me some questions about myself, taking notes of my answers—who my parents were, where I was born, and so forth. If she had been a barrister in full practice she could not have made the examination more searching and condensed. The examination over she took down my address both at Mr. Conder's and at 8 Charlton Crescent, High Street, Islington, and then said:

"To-day is Tuesday. You will hear from Mr. Chambers by Saturday morning at the latest—probably before that—in the meantime, will you promise me that you will not talk to anybody about what has occurred? You will see afterward that it will be for your own benefit not to let the world know how you have become possessed of the means that will be yours."

"You may be sure, madam," I answered, "that I shall keep[Pg 186] my own counsel. I know nobody that I should be disposed to make a confidante of. And even if I did, I should respect your wishes."