“Nothing could induce me,” said Celia.
“Really.”
“Except being desperately in love with a pauper.”
“What, Celia, has it gone so far already?”
“It has gone very far, as far as my heart. Oh, Laura, if you only knew how good he is, how bravely he has struggled, his cleverness and enthusiasm, his ardent love of his profession, you could not help admiring him. Upon my word, I think there is more genius in such a career as his than in all Edward’s poetic efforts. I feel quite sure that he will be a great man by-and-by, and that he will live in a beautiful house at the West end, and keep a carriage and pair.”
“Are you going to marry him on the strength of that conviction?”
“He has not even asked me yet; though I must say he was on the brink of a declaration ever so many times when we were on the moor. We had a long walk on the moor, you know, on Monday afternoon. Edward was supposed to be with us, but somehow we were alone most of the time. He is so modest, poor fellow, and he feels his poverty so keenly. He lives in a dingy street, in a dingy part of London. He is earning about a hundred and fifty pounds a year. His lodgings cost him thirty. Quite too dreadful to contemplate, isn’t it, Laura, for a girl who is as particular as I am about collars and cuffs?”
“Very dreadful, my pet, if one considers elegance in dress and luxurious living as the chief good in life,” answered Laura.
“I don’t consider them the chief good, dear, but I think the want of them must be a great evil. And yet, I assure you, when that poor young fellow and I were rambling on the moor, I felt as if money were hardly worth consideration, and that I could endure the sharpest poverty with him. I felt lifted above the pettiness of life. I suppose it was the altitude we were at, and the purity of the air. But of course that was only a moment of enthusiasm.”
“I would not marry upon the strength of an enthusiastic moment, Celia, lest a lifelong repentance should follow. You can know so little of this Mr. Gerard. It is hardly possible you can care for him.”
“ ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’ ” quoted Celia, laughing. “I am not quite so foolish as to love at first sight; but in three days I seemed to know Mr. Gerard as well as if we had been friends as many years.”
“Your brother and he are intimate friends, are they not?”
“I cannot make out the history of their friendship. Edward is disgustingly reserved about Mr. Gerard, and I don’t like to seem curious, for fear he should suppose I take too much interest in the young man.”
“Mr. Gerard has gone back to London, has he not?”
“Yes,” sighed Celia. “He went early on Tuesday morning, by the parliamentary train. Fancy the Sir William Jenner of the future travelling by a horrid slow train, in a carriage like a cattle truck.”
“He will be amply rewarded by-and-by, if he is really the Jenner of the future.”
“Yes, but it’s a long time to wait,” said Celia, dolefully.
“No doubt,” assented Laura, “and the time would seem longer to the wife sitting at home by a shabby fireside.”
“Sitting,” echoed Celia; “she would never be able to sit. She would have no time for moping over the fire. She would always be dusting or sweeping, or making a pudding, or sewing on buttons.”
“I think you had better abandon the idea,” said Laura. “You could never bear a life of deprivation. Your home-nest has been too soft and comfortable. You had much better think of Mr. Sampson, who admires you very sincerely, and who has a nice house and a good income.”
“A nice house!” exclaimed Celia, with unqualified contempt. “The quintessence of middle-class commonness. I would rather endure George Gerard’s shabby lodgings. A nice house! Oh, Laura, how can you, living in these fine old rooms, call that stucco abomination of a modern villa, those dreadful walnut-wood chairs and sofas and chiffonier, all decorated with horrid wriggling scroll work, badly glued on; that sticky-looking mahogany sideboard, those all-pervading crochet antimacassars—”
“My dearest, the antimacassars are not fixtures. You could do away with them. Indeed, I dare say if Mr. Sampson thought his furniture was the only obstacle to his happiness, he would not mind refurnishing his house altogether.”
“His furniture the only obstacle,” echoed Celia, indignantly. “What have you ever seen in my conduct or character, Laura, that can justify you in supposing I could marry a stumpy little man, with sandy hair?”
“In that case we will waive the marriage question altogether. You say you won’t marry Mr. Sampson, and I am sure you ought not to marry Mr. Gerard.”
“There is no fear of my doing anything so foolish,” Celia replied, with a resigned air. “He has gone back to London, and heaven knows if I shall ever see him again. But I am certain if you saw more of him, you would like him very much.”
Laura shuddered, remembering that it was by means of George Gerard that her husband had been identified with the missing Chicot. She could not have a very friendly feeling towards Mr. Gerard, knowing this, but she listened with admirable patience while Celia descanted upon the young man’s noble qualities, and repeated all he had said upon the moor, where he really seemed to have recited his entire biography for Celia’s edification.
Comforted by her husband’s letter, Laura was able to support Celia’s liveliness, and so the long winter evening wore itself away pleasantly enough. The next day was Saturday. Laura had calculated that, if things went easily with him in Paris, it would be just possible for John Treverton to be home on Saturday night. This possibility kept her in a flutter all day.
