"Bernard, dearest, look at me. All things can be changed by fashion or expediency save a woman's love, and that is eternal. Don't think, please, of any of these terrible things that may be in store for us, or what other people would think or say. I want you to remember that love, even though it be personal love, is far above all circ.u.mstance. No power in this world can alter or change it. It belongs to that better part of ourselves which lifts us above all misfortune and trouble. You have given me a great happiness, Bernard, and you shall not take it away from me. Whatever happens to you, it is my right to share it. Remember, for the future, it is 'we,' not 'I.' You must not think of yourself alone in anything, for I belong now to everything that concerns you."

And so it was that for the first time in his life Bernard Maddison, who had written much concerning them, much that was both faithful and beautiful, saw into the inner life of a true woman. Only for the man whom she loves will she thus lift the curtain from before that sweet depth of unselfishness which makes even the homeliest of her s.e.x one of the most beautiful of G.o.d's creations; and he, if he be in any way a man of human sensibility and capacity, must feel something of that wondering awe, that reverence with which Bernard Maddison drank in the meaning of her words. The mute anxiety of her tearful gaze, the color which came and fled from her face--he understood all these signs. They were to him the physical, the material covering for her appeal. A life of grand thoughts, of ever-climbing ideas, of pure and lofty aims, had revealed to him nothing so n.o.ble and yet so sweetly human as this; had filled his being with no such heart-shattering emotion as swept through him at that moment. A woman's hand had lifted him out from his despair into a higher state, and there was a great humility in the silent gesture with which he yielded his will to hers.

And then again there were spoken words between them which no chronicles should report, and a certain calm happiness took up its settled place in his heart, defiant of that despair which could not be driven out. Then came that reawakening to mundane things which seems like a very great step indeed in such cases. She looked at the clock, and gave a little start.

"Bernard, it is nearly eleven o'clock," she cried. "We must go into the drawing-room at once. What will aunt think of us? You must come with me, of course; but you'd better say good night now. There, that will do, sir!"

She drew away and smoothed her ruffled hair back from her forehead, looking ruefully in the gla.s.s at her tear-stained cheeks, and down at the crushed violets in her corsage.

"May I have them?" he asked.

She drew them out and placed them in his hand.

"To-morrow----" she said.

"To-morrow I must go into the land of violets," he interrupted.

She turned round quickly.

"What do you mean? You are not going away without my permission, sir?"

"Then I must seek it," he answered, smiling. "You have given life such an exquisite sweetness for me, that I am making plans already to preserve it. My one hope lies in Italy."

"How long should you be away?" she asked anxiously.

"Not a week," he answered. "If I am permitted to leave England, which I fear is doubtful, to-morrow, I can be back perhaps in five days."

"Then you may go, Bernard," she whispered. "Take this with you, and think of me sometimes."

She had drawn out a photograph of herself from a folding case on the mantelpiece, and he took it from her eagerly.

"Nothing in the world could be so precious to me," he said.

"For a novice you say some very nice things," she answered, laughing softly. "And now you must go, sir. No, you needn't come into the drawing-room; I really couldn't show myself with you. I'll make your excuses to my aunt. Farewell--love!"

"Farewell--sweetheart!" he answered, hesitating for a moment over the words which seemed so strange to him. Then, as though loth to leave him, she walked down the hall by his side, and they looked out for a moment into the square. A footman was standing prepared to open the door, but Helen sent him away with a message to her maid.

"Do you know why I did that?" she asked, her clasp tightening upon his arm.

He shook his head, and looked down at her fondly.

"I can't imagine, unless----"

She glanced half fearfully behind and then up into his face again, with a faint blush stealing into her cheeks.

"I want one more kiss, please."

He looked into her soft trustful face, and he felt, with a sense almost of awe, the preciousness of such a love as this, a love which, comprehending the terrible period of anxiety through which he had to pa.s.s, was not ashamed to seek to sweeten it for him by the simple charm of such an offering. Then, at the sound of returning footsteps in the hall, he let go her hands, and with her fond farewell still lingering in his ears, he hurried out into the street.

CHAPTER XXV

MR. LEVY, JUNIOR, GOES ON THE CONTINENT

Mr. Benjamin Levy was standing in his favorite position before the office fireplace, with his legs a little apart, and his small keen eyes fixed upon vacancy. It was thus, in that very pose, and on that very hearthrug, that he had thought out more than one of those deep-laid schemes which had brought a certain measure of notoriety to the firm of which he was a shining light, and at that very moment he was engaged in deep consideration concerning the case in which his energies were at present absorbed.

A few feet away, his father was carefully calculating, with the aid of a ready reckoner, the compound interest on a little pile of bills of exchange which lay before him. Every now and then he paused, and, looking up from his task, glanced cautiously into his son's perplexed face. Curiosity at length culminated in speech.

"What was you thinking, Benjamin, my son?" he said softly. "The Miss Thurwell case is plain before us, is it not? There is nothing fresh, is there? No fresh business, eh, my son?"

Mr. Benjamin started, and abandoned his reflections.

"No; nothing fresh, dad. It was the Thurwell affair I was thinking of.

Give me the keys, will you?"

Mr. Levy leaned back in his chair and produced from his trousers pocket a jingling bunch of keys.

Mr. Benjamin took them in thoughtful silence, and, opening the safe, drew out a packet of faded letters tied up with ribbon. From these he selected one, and carefully replaced the rest.

"Those letters again," remarked his fond parent, chuckling. "Take care of them, Benjamin, take care of them. They was worth their weight in gold to us."

"They're worth a great deal more than that," remarked Mr. Benjamin carelessly. "There's only one thing, dad, that puzzles me a bit."

"It must be a rum thing, my boy, that does that," his fond parent remarked admiringly. "I never praise undeservedly, but I must say this, Benjamin, you've managed this Thurwell affair marvelously--marvelously!

Come, let me see what it is that is too deep for you."

He rose and looked over his son's shoulder at the letter which he was reading--one thin sheet of foreign note paper, covered with closely written lines of faint, angular writing, and emitting even now a delicate musky scent.

"What is it, Benjamin--what is it?"

His son laid his finger on a sentence toward the close of the letter, and read it aloud:--

"What that fear has been to me, and what it has grown into during my sad lonely life, I cannot hope to make you understand. Always those terrible words of vengeance ring in my ears as I heard them last.

They seem to roll over sea and land, and in the middle of the night, and out in the sunlit street, I seem to hear them still. It is not you I fear, Bernard, so much as him!"

Mr. Levy listened, and nodded approvingly.

"All is plain there, Benjamin, I think. The meaning is quite clear."

Mr. Benjamin laid his finger upon the last sentence.

"What do you make of that, dad?" he asked.

Mr. Levy adjusted his spectacles and read it slowly.