But long before our party arrived at this final stage appetite had succumbed, and Gerard had suddenly remembered he was the bearer of a letter to the Princess Marie, and, in an under-tone, had asked one of the servants if he would undertake to deliver it. The man took it with a deep obeisance: “He could not deliver it himself, but would instantly give it one of the Princess's suite, several of whom were about.”
It may be remembered that Peter and Margaret came here not to dine, but to find their cousin. Well, the old gentleman ate heartily, and—being much fatigued, dropped asleep, and forgot all about his cousin. Margaret did not remind him; we shall hear why.
Meanwhile, that Cousin was seated within a few feet of them, at their backs, and discovered them when Margaret turned round and screamed at the boar. But he forbore to speak to them, for municipal reasons. Margaret was very plainly dressed, and Peter inclined to threadbare. So the alderman said to himself:
“'Twill be time to make up to them when the sun sets and the company disperses then I will take my poor relations to my house, and none will be the wiser.”
Half the courses were lost on Gerard and Margaret. They were no great eaters, and just now were feeding on sweet thoughts that have ever been unfavourable to appetite. But there is a delicate kind of sensuality, to whose influence these two were perhaps more sensitive than any other pair in that assembly—the delights of colour, music, and perfume, all of which blended so fascinatingly here.
Margaret leaned back and half closed her eyes, and murmured to Gerard: “What a lovely scene! the warm sun, the green shade, the rich dresses, the bright music of the lutes and the cool music of the fountain, and all faces so happy and gay! and then, it is to you we owe it.”
Gerard was silent all but his eyes; observing which—
“Now, speak not to me,” said Margaret languidly; “let me listen to the fountain: what are you a competitor for?”
He told her.
“Very well! You will gain one prize, at least.”
“Which? which? have you seen any of my work?”
“I? no. But you will gain a prize.
“I hope so; but what makes you think so?”
“Because you were so good to my father.”
Gerard smiled at the feminine logic, and hung his head at the sweet praise, and was silent.
“Speak not,” murmured Margaret. “They say this is a world of sin and misery. Can that be? What is your opinion?”
“No! that is all a silly old song,” explained Gerard. “'Tis a byword our elders keep repeating, out of custom: it is not true.”
“How can you know? You are but a child,” said Margaret, with pensive dignity.
“Why, only look round! And then thought I had lost you for ever; and you are by my side; and now the minstrels are going to play again. Sin and misery? Stuff and nonsense!”
The lutes burst out. The courtyard rang again with their delicate harmony.
“What do you admire most of all these beautiful things, Gerard?”
“You know my name? How is that?”
“White magic. I am a—witch.”
“Angels are never witches. But I can't think how you—”
“Foolish boy! was it not cried at the gate loud enough to deave one?”
“So it was. Where is my head? What do I admire most? If you will sit a little more that way, I'll tell you.”
“This way?”
“Yes; so that the light may fall on you. There! I see many fair things here, fairer than I could have conceived; but the fairest of all, to my eye, is your lovely hair in its silver frame, and the setting sun kissing it. It minds me of what the Vulgate praises for beauty, 'an apple of gold in a network of silver,' and oh, what a pity I did not know you before I sent in my poor endeavours at illuminating! I could illuminate so much better now. I could do everything better. There, now the sun is full on it, it is like an aureole. So our Lady looked, and none since her until to-day.”
“Oh, fie! it is wicked to talk so. Compare a poor, coarse-favoured girl like me with the Queen of Heaven? Oh, Gerard! I thought you were a good young man.” And Margaret was shocked apparently.
Gerard tried to explain. “I am no worse than the rest; but how can I help having eyes, and a heart Margaret!”
“Gerard!”
“Be not angry now!”
“Now, is it likely?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, for shame! you must not say that to me,” and Margaret coloured furiously at this sudden assault.
“I can't help it. I love you. I love you.”
“Hush, hush! for pity's sake! I must not listen to such words from a stranger. I am ungrateful to call you a stranger. Oh! how one may be mistaken! If I had known you were so bold—” And Margaret's bosom began to heave, and her cheeks were covered with blushes, and she looked towards her sleeping father, very much like a timid thing that meditates actual flight.
Then Gerard was frightened at the alarm he caused. “Forgive me,” said he imploringly. “How could any one help loving you?”
“Well, sir, I will try and forgive you—you are so good in other respects; but then you must promise me never to say you—to say that again.”
“Give me your hand then, or you don't forgive me.”
She hesitated; but eventually put out her hand a very little way, very slowly, and with seeming reluctance. He took it, and held it prisoner. When she thought it had been there long enough, she tried gently to draw it away. He held it tight: it submitted quite patiently to force. What is the use resisting force. She turned her head away, and her long eyelashes drooped sweetly. Gerard lost nothing by his promise. Words were not needed here; and silence was more eloquent. Nature was in that day what she is in ours; but manners were somewhat freer. Then as now, virgins drew back alarmed at the first words of love; but of prudery and artificial coquetry there was little, and the young soon read one another's hearts. Everything was on Gerard's side, his good looks, her belief in his goodness, her gratitude;