University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
RECONCILIATION.

The eight-day clock in the corner of the
east room was on the stroke of ten, and the
old people were already deep in their punctual
slumbers. Miss Rachel, aided by Nancy,
was engaged in some last preparation for the
morrow, and Beatrice remained alone with
Mr. Monckton for the first time since his
arrival.

“Do you know why I came here to-day?”
asked he, after five minutes' silence had divided
his words from the gay jest he had last uttered.

“To try your adaptive powers in a new direction,
perhaps.”

“Why are you so bitter with me? I came
because you would not see me the last time
I called at your uncle's house. You have not
seen me since the evening when I displeased
you.”

“Not displeased me so much as —”

“Well?”

“Shocked me, disillusionized me — why
should I fear to say it?—told me a lie.”

“Your words are something more than cordial,
Miss Wansted, and they humiliate me,
as you mean that they should. Still, I thank
you for speaking them, for any thing is less
deadly to friendship than silent displeasure.”

“Friendship?”

“Yes; you gave me yours.”

“Cannot I reclaim it?”

“Not if it was true friendship. My theory
is that friendship means the complete harmony
of two natures—not to be discovered in
a moment, or perhaps in a year of study, but
once perceived, not to be disallowed without
some such convulsion of being as separates
soul and body. I have explained to you before
how sacred and holy a thing I felt this to
be, and with what incredulous joy I accepted
it at your hands. Can you deprive me of this
great joy? Will you try to do so?”

“Perfect friendship means perfect confidence,”
said Beatrice sadly. “You and
Juanita deceived me into thinking you almost
strangers, and I suddenly discovered you to
be—I know not what—confidents, lovers, conspirators—at
any rate, other than you had
taught me to believe. I asked you frankly
for an explanation, and you gave me —”

“A conventional answer, which I did not
expect or wish you to believe. Do you not
know that one of the first principles in social
ethics is to avoid betraying or forcing others
to betray emotions not to be publicly dealt
with?—in other words, to avoid `scenes,' and
keep the surface of matters smooth until the
time arrives when they may properly be disturbed?”

“That is not sincerity.”

“No; but it is good manners, and, like
paper-money, as good as what it represents so
long as we all agree to receive it as such. But
you and I, Beatrice—if you will allow me still
to call you by that name—you and I found in
each other something better than conventionality,
something truer than the life we both
were leading; you allowed me to call you my
friend, you gave me faith, and confidence, and
esteem. I cannot lose those gifts without a
struggle.”

“But still you offer no explanation,” murmured
Beatrice, half ashamed of her own
persistency.

“No; nor can I offer one. There is a secret
between Mrs. Charlton and myself—I do not
deny it; but the secret is not mine, and I cannot
reveal it. I saw her after your departure,
and asked her either to explain the matter to
you or allow me to do so. She would consent
to neither course, and I have come to you with
no means of exculpation in my hand, no
peace offering of confession or explanation.
I come, Beatrice, simply because I could not
rest away from you, knowing you to be displeased
with me.”

“It has been a sorrow to me also, for our
friendship was one of my most valued possessions,”
said Beatrice sadly.

“Do not speak of it as a thing in the past—
do not withdraw it from me,” pleaded Monckton.
“O Beatrice! if you knew how dry
and arid my life was before it felt this gracious
dew, and how all good things were springing
up under its influence! Beatrice, you do not
know the depths and darkness of a man's
heart who has no woman to make a link
between him and heaven.”

Never in all their intercourse had Monckton
spoken with such fervor and unreserve; never
before had he betrayed how much value he
attached to the friendship she had granted
him; and Beatrice was conscious of a thrill
of pride as well as joy. She turned her eyes
upon him with a shy smile.

“How can you care so much, you who have
seen all the wonders of the world, for a simple
girl like me?” asked she.

“No matter how, it is enough that I do,”
said Monckton eagerly. “Tell me, Beatrice,
will you still be my friend, will you forgive
me, trust me, believe in me again; or do you
send me forth, the hopeless, homeless wanderer
you found me?”

“And am I to trust you again as I did before,
with no pretence of explanation?” asked
Beatrice, arching her eyebrows and curving
her lips in mock disdain.

“Yes; for that is friendship.”

“Then you must promise that you will tell
me no more—what do you call them?—conventional
answers.”

“Well, I will promise you that, and run the
risk of appearing as a boor, or a lunatic escaped
from Madame de Genlis's Palace of
Truth, before the world,” said Monckton, leaning
toward Beatrice and taking her hand.

At this moment, Miss Rachel hastily opened
the door, noted the condition of affairs, without
appearing to look beyond the loaf of cake
she carried, and, crossing the room, opened
the door of a store-closet beside the fire, from
whose recesses came a rich odor of spices, tea,
coffee, syrup, and all the choicest treasures of
the housewife.

“You must excuse my going right on as if
you were not here, Mr. Monckton,” said she,
returning without the cake. “I hope Beatrice
is entertaining you.”

[ILLUSTRATION]

"The bees began to arrive"

[Description: 454EAF. Page 072. In-line image of women entering a building as men tend to horses.]

“Admirably, Miss Rachel,” said Monckton
with a smile; and Miss Rachel discovered
that Beatrice had fled