in a little while the lives of mrs. murray and christine had settled into a calm routine of work and talk, and the simple recreations of reading and house-decorating which were the only ones that christine ever seemed to think of. she never went out, and worked with as much application as mrs. murray would permit at the embroidery which, at her earnest request, the wise old lady had got for her. she and christine had a frank and loving talk, in which one was as interested as the other, in christine’s making her own living, and in which it was settled, to the joy of each, that their home in future was to be together. they were days of strange peace and calm for poor christine, and her heart would swell with gratefulness for them, as she sat over her beautiful embroidery, which was in itself a pleasure to her.

but the evenings were the best of all, for then noel invariably came—sometimes to look in and say a bright and cheery word, on his way to keep an engagement, sometimes to give them the benefit of the bright stories and good things he had heard at a dinner, and sometimes to spend a whole long evening, talking, laughing and reading aloud from new magazines and books which he brought with him in abundance. these were the sorts of delights utterly unknown to christine before. she had read very little, and the world of delight that reading opened up to her was new, inspiring and enchanting. noel read aloud his favorite poets, their two young hearts throbbing together, and their eyes alight with feeling at the passages which left the matured heart of mrs. murray undisturbed.

it had been in vain that mrs. murray had tried to induce christine to sing. it occurred to her at last to put it in the light of a favor to herself, and when she told christine that she loved music very dearly, and rarely had an opportunity to hear it, the girl went at once and played and sang for her, and then mrs. murray used the same argument—that of giving a friend pleasure—with regard to noel. at first it was difficult and awkward, but before very long christine and noel were singing duets together, and music now became a delightful part of their evening’s entertainment. how dull the evenings were when noel did not come!—for sometimes there were engagements from which he could not escape. mrs. murray missed him much herself and it pleased her to be sure that christine did also. sometimes he would come late after a dinner, and if it were only a brief half-hour that he spent with them it made the evening seem a success, instead of a failure.

after a little while mrs. murray succeeded in inducing christine to take walks with her along those quiet unfashionable streets, in the bracing air of the late autumn afternoons. she would return from these expeditions so refreshed, with such a charming color in the fair, sweet face to which peace and love and protecting companionship had given an expression of new beauty, that mrs. murray would be half protesting at the thought that the people that passed it, in the street, were deprived of a sight of its loveliness by that close, thick veil, which it never seemed to occur to christine to lay aside. it seemed an instinct with her, and her good friend felt hurt to the very heart when she thought what the instinct had its foundation in.

in proportion as the influence of these days and weeks brought peace and calm to christine, to noel they brought an excited restlessness. he was under the spell of the strongest feeling that he had ever known. all the circumstances of his intercourse with christine, the difficult self-repression to which he had compelled himself so long, and the sudden sense of her freedom which made vigilance harder still—all these things together brought about in him a state of excitement that kept him continually on a strain. it was only in her presence that he was calm, because it was there that he recognized most fully the absolute need of calmness and self-control. away from her, he sometimes rushed into rash resolves, as to a resolute manly sort of wooing which he felt tremendously impelled to, and in which he felt a power in him to succeed. he would even make deliberate plans, and imagine himself going to the house and insisting on seeing christine alone, and then his thoughts would fairly fly along, uttering themselves in excited words that burned their way to christine’s heart and melted it.

but when, in actuality, he would come to where she was, all these brave and manful purposes faded, like mist, before the commanding spell of her deep and solemn calm. she seemed so tranquil in her assured sense of his simple friendliness that he often thought she must have forgotten entirely, in the excitement that followed, that he had offered her his heart and hand and name, or else that she was so convinced of the fact that it had been done in pity that she had never given it a second thought.

so perplexed, bewildered, overwrought did he become with all these thoughts that he forced himself to make some excuse and stay away from christine. when at last he went again, it was late in the evening and his time, he knew, would be short. it was three days now since he had been, and his blood flowed quick with impatience. he had thought of little else as he sat through the long dinner, eating the dishes set before him while he talked with a certain preoccupation to the beautiful débutante whom he had brought in, and who made herself her most fascinating for him, noel being just the sort of man to represent such a girl’s ideal—older, graver, more finished in manner than herself, and possessed of the still greater charm of being thoroughly initiated in all the mysteries of the great world, across whose threshold only she had seen. she was exceedingly pretty, and noel was too much an artist not to be alive to it, but as he looked at the fair, unwritten page her face represented to him, he was seeing, in his mind’s eye, that far lovelier face on which the spiritualizing, beautifying hand of sorrow had been laid. he had not gone thus far on his journey of life without deep suffering himself, and the heart that had suffered was the one to which he felt his true kinship. at the close of the dinner the whole party adjourned to the opera, noel alone excusing himself, at the door of the débutante’s carriage, on the plea of an important engagement. the lovely bud looked vexed and disappointed, but noel knew his place at her side would be abundantly filled, and got himself away with all the haste decorum permitted.

when he rang at mrs. murray’s door harriet ushered him into the little drawing-room where christine was seated at the piano singing. mrs. murray was not present. motioning the servant not to announce him he took his position behind a screen, where he could see and hear without being seen. christine had heard neither his ring nor his entrance, so she was utterly unconscious of any presence but her own, and indeed most probably not of that, for there was a strange abandonment to sway of the song as her voice, rich and full and deep, sang softly:

“i am weary with rowing, with rowing,

let me drift adown with the stream.

i am weary with rowing, with rowing,

let me lay me down and dream.”

noel knew the little song well, and in his fancy the full, pathetic voice gave it a sound and meaning that his longing heart desired to hear in it. the thrilling voice sang on, low and deep and full:

“the stream in its flowing, its flowing,

shall bear us adown to the sea.

i am weary with rowing, with rowing,

i yield me to love and to thee.

i can struggle no longer, no longer,

here in thine arms let me lie,

in thine arms which are stronger, are stronger

than all on the earth, let me die.”

the sweet voice trembled as the song came to an end, and christine, with a swift, impulsive movement, put her elbows on the keys of the piano, making a harsh discord of sound, and dropped her face in her hands. she remained so, without moving, for several minutes, while noel, thrilling in all his senses to the power of that subtly sweet song, kept also profoundly still. he felt it was his only safety. if he had moved, it must have been to clasp her in his arms.

at last she rose to her feet and began to put the music in order. it was a moment when life, for each of them, seemed very hard. and yet, to one who looked and saw them so, it seemed as if the best that earth could offer might be theirs, and that they were made and fashioned to have and to enjoy it.

the pretty room was a soft glow of firelight and lamplight mingled. the rich harmonies of dark color made by carpets, hangings and furniture were lighted here and there by an infinite number of the charming little things that are the perfecting touches of a tasteful room. a bunch of freshly-gathered autumn leaves was massed under the light from the shaded lamp. near by sat christine. she had taken up a strip of gorgeous embroidery in her hands, and was bending above it and trying hard to put her stitches in with care. to-night there was a steady flush in her cheeks that made her look more beautiful than he had ever seen her. he advanced a step or two, and stood, unseen, at a little distance from her, making unconsciously a complement to the picture. he took a step forward—and she heard the sound and lifted her head. he came nearer and his voice was sweet and thrilling as he said her name:

“christine.”

she raised her eyes and looked at him; but they dropped before his steady gaze, and she did not answer.

“let me speak to you a little, dear christine,” he went on, taking a seat near her. he had himself well in hand and was determined not to blunder. christine sat opposite and drew her needle through and through, saying neither yes nor no. “i want to be very careful not to hurt you,” noel went on, “but i have had it on my mind a long, long time to talk to you about yourself. do you intend to lead always, without change or variation, the isolated, dull, restricted life you are leading now?”

“oh, don’t speak to me of any change!” she said entreatingly. “you have been so good to me. be good to me still. let me stay here, as i am, in this heaven of rest and peace. mrs. murray will keep me. she is not tired of me. she loves to have me, and it is my one idea of blessedness and comfort and rest.”

her voice was agitated almost to tears, and she had dropped her work and clasped her hands together with a piteousness of appeal.

“no one will hinder you, christine,” he said. “mrs. murray is made better and brighter and happier by your presence every day, and it would be only the greatest grief to her to part with you. this is your sure and safe and certain home as long as she lives, unless, of your own choice, you should choose to change it.”

christine shook her head with a denial of the thought that was almost indignant.

“never,” she said, “oh, never, never! i only ask to stay here, as i am, until i die.”

“christine,” he said, and she could feel his strong gaze on her, through her lowered lids, “try to be honest with your own heart. listen to its voice and you will have to own you are not happy.”

“happy! how could i ever expect to be? it would be a shame to me even to think of it. oh, you do not know a woman’s nature, or you could not talk to me of happiness.”

“i know your woman’s nature, christine—well enough to reverence it and kneel to it, and i am not afraid to tell you you are outraging and wronging it, by shutting out happiness from your heart. what is there to hinder you from being happy? and oh, christine, i know at least, there is no happiness but love.”

a silence, solemn and still as death, followed these fervent, low-toned words. he could see the fluttering of her breath, and the look of deep, affrighted pain upon her face made his heart quiver.

“christine,” he murmured in a voice grown softer and lower still, “try not to be frightened or distressed. i cannot hold back my heart any longer. i love you—dear and good and noble one. if you could only love me a little, in return, i could make you so happy. i know i could, christine, and as for me—why my life, if you refuse me your love, is worthless and wasted and dead. oh, christine, you are the very treasure of my heart, whether you will or no. be my wife. you can make my happiness, as surely as i, if you will let me, can make yours.”

he would not venture to take her hand, but he held out his to her, saying in a voice that had sunk to a whisper:

“only put your hand in mine, christine, in token that you will try to love me a little, and i will wait for all the rest.”

he had bent very close to her, and she felt his breath against her hair as his passionate whisper fell upon her ear. her heart thrilled to it, but she got up stiffly to her feet, bending her body away from him and covering her eyes, for a moment, with her hand.

noel, who had risen too, stepped backward instantly. he saw her lips compressed convulsively as if in pain, and, for her sake, he thrust down into his heart its great longing, and forced himself to think of her alone. it cut him like a knife to see that she drew away from him.

“don’t shrink from me, christine,” he said. “if it distresses you for me to speak i can be silent. i was obliged to tell you, but there it can stop. i have laid the offering of my love and life before you and there it is for you to take or leave. perhaps i have startled you. if you will only think about it and try to get used to the idea—”

but christine had found her voice.

“i cannot think of it!” she cried. “i utterly refuse to think of it. oh, i am more miserable than ever i have been yet! if i am to make you unhappy—if i am to spoil your life—”

“you have beautified and glorified and crowned it with love, christine. i should [pg 178]have gone to my grave without it, if you had not given it to me. it is a godlike thing to feel what i feel for you. come what may i shall never be sorry for it. you have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

christine was very pale. she felt herself trembling as she sank into a chair and clasped her hands about her knee. noel too sat down, but farther away from her than he had been before.

“i entreat you not to be distressed—” he began, but she interrupted him.

“oh, i feel—i cannot tell you what i feel,” she said. “was ever a woman at once so honored and so shamed? how could i give to any man a ruined life like mine, and yet god knows how it is sweet to me to know you have this feeling for me—to know that i may still arouse in such a heart as yours this highest, holiest, purest, best of all the heart can give. oh, i pray god to let you feel and know the joy it is to me—and yet i’d rather cut off my right hand than listen even to the thought of marrying you.”

noel could not understand her. the look in her face completely baffled him.

“christine,” he said, “there is but one thing to do. on one thing alone the whole matter rests. look at me.”

his voice was resolute, though it was so gentle, and in obedience to its bidding christine raised her eyes to his.

“answer me this, christine. do you love me?”

and looking straight into his eyes she answered:

“no.”

noel rose from his seat and crossed over to the fire, where he stood with his back toward her. he did not see the passionate gesture with which she strained her clasped hands to her breast a moment and then stretched them out toward him. in a second she withdrew them and let them fall in her lap. her heart reproached her for the falseness of her tongue, and this had been a passionate impulse of atonement to him for the wrong that she had done. but stronger than her heart was the other voice that told her to make her utmost effort to keep up the deceit, for in the moment that the knowledge came to her that her heart, for the first time, was possessed by a true and mighty love an instinct stronger than that love itself compelled her to deny it—to give any answer, go any length, do anything sooner than make an admission by which she might be betrayed into doing a great and ineradicable wrong to the man she loved. yes, the man she loved! for one second’s space she let the inward flame leap up, and then she forced it back and smothered it down, with all the power that was in her.

when noel turned, his face was calm and he spoke, too, in a controlled and quiet voice.

“we will not be the less friends for this, christine,” he said; “the best that is left to me is to be near you when i can. you will not forbid me this?”

he saw that her eyes consented. to save her life she could not deny him this—or deny herself. which was it that she thought of first?

“i think it best that mrs. murray should not know of it,” he said, and again she consented without speaking.

“i shall come as usual,” he went on, “and, christine, never reproach yourself. never dream but that it is more joy than i could ever have had in any other way, only to come and see you and be near you and hear you speak sometimes. good-night,” he added, taking her cold, little hand in a gentle clasp. “it is the last time. you will see how faithful i will be. but once for all—christine, christine, christine!—let me tell you that i love you with as great and true and strong a love as ever man had for woman. you seem to me a being between earth and heaven—better than men and women here, and only a little below the angels.”

she felt the hand that held hers loose its hold, the kind voice died away, a door far off shut to, and christine, rousing herself, looked about her and found that she was alone.