CHAPTER L.—ON CONSOLATION AS A FINE ART.

HIS worst forebodings had come to pass. That was the one feeling which Harold had on leaving her.

He had scarcely ventured to entertain a hope that the result of his interview with her and of his confession to her would be different.

He knew her.

That was why he had gone to her without hope. He knew that her nature was such as made it impossible for her to understand how he could have practised a fraud upon her; and he knew that understanding is the first step toward forgiving.

Still, there ever pervades the masculine mind an idea that there is no limit to a woman’s forgiveness.

The masculine mind has the best of reasons for holding fast to this idea. It is the result of many centuries of experience of woman—of many centuries of testing the limits of woman’s forgiveness. The belief that there is nothing that a woman will not forgive in a man whom she loves, is the heritage of man—just as the heritage of woman is to believe that nothing that is done by a man whom she loves, stands in need of forgiveness.

Thus it is that men and women make (occasionally) excellent companions for one another, and live together (frequently) in harmony.

Thus it was that, in spite of the fact that his reason and his knowledge of the nature of Beatrice assured him that his confession of the fraud in which he had participated against her would not be forgiven by her, there still remained in the mind of Harold Wynne a shadowy hope that she might yet be as other women, who, understanding much, forgive much.

He left her presence, feeling that she was no as other women are.

That was the only grain of comfort that remained with him. He loved her more than he had ever done before, because she was not as other women are.

She could not understand how that cold distrust had taken possession of him.

She knew nothing of that world in which he had lived all his life—a world quite full of worldliness—and therefore she could not understand how it was that he had sought to bind her to him beyond the possibility (as he meant her to think) of ever being separated from him. She had laid all her trust in him. She had not even claimed from him the privilege of consulting with someone—her father or someone with whom she might be on more confidential terms—regarding the proposition which he had made to her. No, she had trusted him implicitly, and yet he had persevered in regarding her as belonging to the worldly ones among whom he had lived all his life.

He had lost her.

He had lost her, and he deserved to lose her. This was his thought as he walked westward. He had not the satisfaction of feeling that he was badly treated.

The feeling on the part of a man that he has been badly treated by a woman, usually gives him much greater satisfaction than would result from his being extremely well treated by the same, or, indeed, by any other woman.

But this blessed consciousness of being badly treated was denied to Harold Wynne. He had been the ill-treater, not the ill-treated. He reflected how he had taken advantage of the peculiar circumstances of the girl’s life—upon the absence of her father—upon her own trustful innocence—to carry out the fraud which he had perpetrated upon her. Under ordinary circumstances and with a girl of an ordinary stamp, such a fraud would have been impossible. He was well aware that a girl living under the conditions to which most girls are subjected, would have laughed in his face had he suggested the advisability of marrying him privately.

Yes, he had taken a cruel advantage of her and of the freedom which she enjoyed, to betray her; and the feeling that he had lost her did not cause him more bitterness than deserved to fall to his lot.

One bitterness of reflection was, however, spared to him, and this was why he cried again, as he threw himself into a chair, “Thank God—thank God!”

He had not been seated for long, before his servant entered with a card.

“I told the lady that you were not seeing any one, my lord,” said Martin.

“The lady?”

Not for a single instant did it occur to his mind that Beatrice had come to him.

“Yes, my lord; Miss Craven,” said Martin, handing him the card. “But she said that perhaps you would see her.”

“Only for a minute,” were the words written in pencil on Miss Craven’s card.

“Yes, I will certainly see Miss Craven,” said Harold.

“Very good, my lord.”

She stood at the door. The light outside was very low; so was the light in the room.

Between two dim lights was where Helen looked her best. A fact of which she was well aware.

She seemed almost pretty as she stood there.

She had made up pale, which she considered appropriately sympathetic on her part. And, indeed, there can scarcely be a difference of opinion on this point.

In delicate matters of taste like this she rarely-made a mistake.

“It was so good of you to come,” said he, taking her hand.

“I could not help it, Harold,” said she.

“Mamma is in the brougham; she desired me to convey to you her deepest sympathy.”

“I am indeed touched by her thoughtfulness,” said Harold. “You will tell her so.”

“Mamma is not very strong,” said Helen. “She would not come in with me. She, too, has suffered deeply. But I felt that I must tell you face to face how terribly shocked we were—how I feel for you with all my heart. We have always been good friends—the best of friends, Harold—at least, I do not know where I should look in the world for another such friend as you.”

“Yes, we were always good friends, Helen,” said he; “and I hope that we shall always remain so.”

“We shall—I feel that we shall, Harold,” said she.

Her eyes were overflowing with tears, as she put out a hand to him—a hand which he took and held between both his own, but without speaking a word. “I felt that I must go to you if only for a moment—if only to say to you as I do now, ‘I feel for you with all my heart. You have all my sympathy.’ That is all I have to say. I knew you would allow me to see you, and to give you my message. Good-bye.”

“You are so good—so kind—so thoughtful,” said he. “I shall always feel that you are my friend—my best friend, Helen.”

“And you may always trust in my friendship—my—my—friendship,” said she. “You will come and see us soon—mamma and me. We should be so glad. Lady Innisfail wanted me to go with her to Netherford Hall—several of your sister’s party are going with Lady Innisfail; but of course I could not think of going. I shall go nowhere for some time—a long time, I think. We shall be at home whenever you call, Harold.”

“And you may be certain that I shall call soon,” said he. “Pray tell Mrs. Craven how deeply touched—how deeply grateful I am for her kindness. And you—you know that I shall never forget your thoughtfulness, Helen.”

Her eyes were still glistening as he took her hand and pressed it. She looked at him through her tears; her lips moved, but no words came. She turned and went down the stairs. He followed her for a few steps, and then Martin met her, opened the hall-door, and saw her put into the brougham by her footman.

“Well,” said her mother, when the brougham got upon the wood pavement. “Well, did you find the poor orphan in tears and comfort him?” Mrs. Craven was not devoid of an appreciation of humour of a certain form. She had lived in Birmingham for several years of her life.

“Dear mamma,” said Helen, “I think you may always trust to me to know what is right to do upon all occasions. My visit was a success. I knew that it would be a success. I know Harold Wynne.”

“I know one thing,” said Mrs. Craven, “and that is, that he will never marry you. Whatever Harold Wynne might have done, Lord Fotheringay will never marry you, my dear. Make up your mind to that.”

Her daughter laughed in the way that a daughter laughs at a prophetic mother clad in sables, with a suspicion of black velvet and beads underneath.