to excite, but resolute when roused—whether
for good or evil, positive, distinct, and firm,
—he had none of that half-hearted
temporising between the will that would, and the
feebleness that dare not, refuse, which so
often holds the balance between cruelty and
folly. His yes would be yes indeed, and
there would be no appeal from his first
denial. It was a serious matter to demand a
favour from him; but if a pain, at least it
was not a lingering one. Paul knew that his
refusal would be abrupt and decisive, and
that his promise would be religiously kept.
And when, after a long silence, he said in
that compressed manner of his, "You may
take her, I trust you," the young artist felt
that the worst of the danger was over, and
that his marriage with Magdalen was certain
now; for of her consent he never doubted.

Living in a dull country-house, with no
pleasures beyond the insipid occupations of a
young girl's drawing-room world, the visits
of Paul Lefevre, the artist-poet, had given
a new life to Magdalen. He had taught her
painting, which of itself opened exhaustless
mines of intellectual wealth before her; and
he had led her to think for herself on many
points which hitherto she had either never
touched at all, or else thought on by rote.
His gifted mind, full of beauty and poetry,
was a rare treasure to Magdalen, living alone
with her father,—a man who denied all
intellectual power and action to women; who
would give them so much education as would
enable them to read a cookery-book and the
Bible, but who thought that a higher class of
culture was both unnecessary and unfeminine.
In that lonely country-place, and in
that inactive life, Paul, and his beauty,
and his love, assumed a power and proportion
they would not have had in a busier
life. Want of contrast lent perfection, and
want of occupation created an interest which
assuredly was not born of moral sympathy or
fitness. But the world of mystery in country
places is always to be explained by these
conditions.

The result of all those long walks together
through the woods, and across the meadows,
and upon the craggy fells,—of all those
lessons on beauty by the piano and the easel,
when art made another language between
them, and interpreted mysteries which words
could not reach,—of those mutual studies of
poetry and history, when the extreme limits
of human thought and human emotion were
reached, and the echoes of the noble chords
struck then vibrated in their young hearts,
—the result of this friendship, which at
first was simply intellectual intercourse, was,
as might have been looked for, that Paul
loved Magdalen, and that Magdalen loved
Paul, or fancied that she loved him, in kind.
If there had been some one else whom she
could have loved—some other standard by
which to measure the requirements of her
nature and the needs of her heart—it would
then have been a choice; as it was, it was
only an acceptance. She accepted as likeness
what was simply ignorance of diversity,
and took that for understanding which was
want of opportunity of judgment. She
loved Paul from gratitude for his love of her,
from admiration of his beauty, and delight in
his intellect; she loved him as a sister might
love a brother, but scarcely as a woman of
her strong nature would love the husband of
her own free intelligent choice. But as she
knew no other love, this contented her, and
she believed implicitly in its strength and
entireness.

Paul came into the drawing-room, where
she was sitting in that deep cool shadow
which is so pleasant when the outside world
lies in such burning glare. Rushing in
from the sunshine, he could scarcely see her
at first, sitting by the open window, behind
the green blind, reading; reading one of his
favourite authors, marked and paged by
him. He came to her hurriedly, his face
lighted up with joy and burning with
blushes. Though he had never looked more
beautiful, he had never looked more boyish
than at this moment. Even Magdalen, who
was not accustomed to criticise, but rather to
regard him as an intellectual giant beyond
her stature—even she was struck by his
extreme youthfulness of air and manner, as
he came up timidly but joyously towards
her.

"Magdalen, your father has given his
consent!—we are engaged," he said, in a low
voice, which trembled so that it could
scarcely be heard.

Magdalen laid both her hands in his with
a frank smile. "I am very glad, Paul," she
said, her voice unchanged, her blue eyes as
calm and dreamy as ever, and not the faintest
tinge across her brow. Her betrothal was a
name, not the realization of a vision; a fact,
not a feeling. It was a necessary social ceremony
between two persons unmarried and
unconnected; it was no material ratification
of that dearer betrothal vowed in secret
before. And with the childlike kiss, given
so quietly by her, received so religiously by
him, began the initial chapter of their love
and banded lives. It ought to be the initial
chapter to a drama of happiness, for no
apparent element of happiness was wanting.
Youth, beauty, innocence, and intellect; what
more was needed for the searching crucible
of experience? One thing only. It might
be read in the calm still face of Magdalen,
bending so tranquilly over her book, while
her lover sat at her feet, his whole frame
convulsed with the passion of his joy. It
might be seen in the immeasurable distance
between their feelings as he buried his face in
her lap, his long hair falling like dusky gold
upon her white gown, and sobs expressing
his love; while she smoothed back his hair
with a tender but sisterly touch, wondering
at his fervour, and at the form which his