CHAPTER XXIII. TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE.

There is no position in the world more cruel than that of a young girl, born in a good condition of life and delicately brought up, who suddenly finds herself bereft of means, of home, of love. Into this position was Emilia Braham thrust on the day her father was carried dead to the house in which he and his only child had passed many happy years. A scaffolding, loosely constructed, had given way as he passed beneath it, and he lay under the ruins with the life crushed out of him.

It had been a home of love, and the anxieties of the father had not been shared by the gentle, beautiful girl whose presence brightened it, whose pure spirit sanctified it. For it was indeed a sanctuary to the loving father, whose only aim had been to provide for his daughter, so that she might be spared the pangs which poverty brings in its train. In this endeavor he would almost certainly have succeeded had he been spared; but the fatal accident nipped his hopes in the bud, and she was left penniless and alone. Mr. Braham had kept up his head, as the saying is, and none who knew him had any idea of the clever man?uvring he had practised to keep him and his daughter from falling out of the ranks in which they had moved all their lives. A rash speculation had brought him to this pass, and for years he had been struggling to extricate himself from its consequences. Another year and all would have been well; but death came too soon, and his daughter lived to reap what he had sown.

Even the home had to be sold to satisfy the creditors, and when this was done Emilia, a child of eighteen, faced the world with a shrinking heart. She had in her purse barely ￡5; the few trinkets she had possessed had been sold; she had set great store upon them, and was amazed to discover that their value was so small. For the last, last time she walked through the familiar rooms, and touched the walls, and knelt by her bed; and then she crept out of the house and proceeded to the two rooms she had taken in a street hard by. It would have quite broken her heart to go out of the neighborhood in which she and her dear father had lived.

Upon the first news of the dreadful loss she had sustained friends came and sympathized with her, but when it was known that her father died a ruined man, the sympathy expressed proved to be mere vaporing; those who had spoken so softly and kindly came no more. Emilia did not appeal to them; when they met her in the streets, and passed by with hasty nods, she did not stop and ask the reason why. Her heart was sorely wounded, but her pride also was touched. The offence and the slight were more against the dead than the living, and she suffered chiefly for the dear lost father's sake. She went to her lodgings, and looked around at the cold walls until she could look no more for the tears in her eyes.

She lived quietly and sadly for two weeks, at the end of which time she had but a guinea left of her ￡5. A terrible fear took possession of her. What would become of her when her purse was empty? She had not been entirely idle, but had made some efforts to obtain a situation as governess. She could speak French and German fluently; she could draw, she could paint, she was a good musician, she could dance, and her manners were refined. But with all these advantages she was unsuccessful. And now she had but a guinea to her fortune, and the future was before her. She took refuge in prayer; it comforted, but it was of no practical assistance to her. Sunrise and sunset, sunrise and sunset again, and again, and again; and now her purse was empty. But she was saved from absolute despair. At the supreme moment a visitor knocked at her door, and entered without waiting to be bidden.

Call her a lady if you will, our business with her will last but a brief space. Her name was Seaton.

"I hear, Miss Braham, that you require a situation," said Mrs. Seaton, unceremoniously.

"Yes, madam," said Emilia, her hand at her heart. This hard-featured, hard-voiced visitor had surely been sent from heaven to succor her. "Will you be seated?"

Mrs. Seaton took a chair without a word of thanks. "Have you been out before?"

"Out, madam?" says Emilia. Unused to worldly ways and idioms, she did not catch the meaning of the phrase.

"I suppose you have had other situations," explained Mrs. Seaton, with ungracious condescension.

"No, madam."

"That is not encouragement. You have no character, then."

"My character," faltered Emilia, "is well known. My dear father and I have lived in this neighborhood many years."

"I do not like evasions. You know the kind of character I mean. Fitness to teach young children, capacity, willingness, experience, cheerfulness, readiness to make yourself useful in any way."

"I would be willing to make myself useful, madam, to do all I was told. I think I could teach young children. Will you try me? I beg of you to do so. I am in a dreadful position; I have not a shilling in the world, and not a friend, I am afraid. Try me, madam. I will do everything you wish."

"Umph! Not a shilling in the world! And not a friend! Still more discouraging, because, Miss Braham, we generally get what we deserve."

"I think I deserve friends, madam," said Emilia, striving to keep back her tears, "but I have been unfortunate. I think you would be satisfied with me. I would try very, very hard."

She held out her trembling hands; to a tender hearted woman the affecting appeal would have been irresistible.

"A lady," said Mrs. Seaton, "has to be careful whom she takes into her home. I have six young children. What can you teach?"

In timid accents Emilia went through her accomplishments.

"I have only your word for it," said Mrs. Seaton.

"I am telling the truth, indeed, madam."

"People are so deceitful, and what is almost as bad, so, ungrateful. I'll take you on trial, Miss Braham, will you promise to teach my sweet children and do everything that is required of you?"

"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, eagerly, "everything; and you will find me very grateful--indeed, indeed you will."

"I will wait to convince myself of that. When can you come?"

"At once, madam. To-day, if you wish.

"Not to-day; to-morrow, early. Servants invariably come at night, which shows their unwillingness and the spirit in which they accept a situation. Here is my address. You understand? I take you on trial only."

"Yes, madam, I understand, and I thank you with all my heart."

"Of course, in these circumstances I can give you no wages for the first month. If we suit each other we will arrange terms afterward. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Quite agreeable, madam. I will come to-morrow morning."

"Very well; I shall expect you before twelve."

That night Emilia went to bed without food; but her week's rent was paid and she left her lodgings without disgrace.

Then commenced a life of torture. The children she had to teach were quarrelsome and vicious, and no taskmaster could have been harder than Mrs. Seaton was to the servants in her house. Two had left; two had given notice to leave. The consequence was that Emilia's mistress called upon her to do every kind of menial office, and willing as Emilia was, she found herself unequal to them. She sat up late at night, and rose early in the morning, played the part of nurse, schoolmistress, lady's maid, and housemaid, never receiving a word of thanks, until existence became unbearable. Driven to despair, without a home, without a friend, without money, she did not know which way to turn. Delicately nurtured, a lady by instinct and education, refined in her manners, and unused to menial work, no more deplorable position could be imagined. It was while she was in this sore strait that she made the acquaintance of Gerald Paget.

Twice in each week she had the privilege of walking out alone for an hour in the afternoon. Gerald, passing her, was attracted by the gentle beauty of her face, and blessed his good fortune when he met her for the second time. On this second occasion chance assisted him to an introduction. She was crossing the road, engrossed in sad thought, when warning shouts aroused her from her musings. There were cabs coming one way, carts another, and between them she was in danger of being run over. She slipped and fell, and Gerald, rushing forward, caught her up and bore her to the pavement. But fright and weakness had prostrated her, and she lay in his arms in a fainting condition. He carried her into a chemist's shop, where she revived. The words of kindness and sympathy which fell upon her ears when she opened her eyes, the tender consideration expressed in Gerald's voice, overpowered the suffering girl, and she burst into a passion of hysterical tears. With difficulty he soothed her, but every word he uttered rendered more profound the impression he had already produced upon the young girl. The unaccustomed notes of tenderness touched Emilia's heart, and that night as she lay in bed she recalled the words and the voice and dwelt with infinite gratitude upon the image of the young gentleman who had treated her with so much gentleness and consideration. But he did not leave her before he saw her safely to Mrs. Seaton's door; she would have had it otherwise, but he would not allow her to have her way, and on their road he heard from her lips the pitiful story of her misfortunes, He made inquiries, and learnt that her story was true, and this increased his pity for her. As she dwelt upon his image on that night, so did he on hers, and thus from their first meeting was established a spiritual connection between them. On the following day he called at Mrs. Seaton's house to inquire how Miss Paget was after her accident, and as this was the first time that lady had heard of it she was not in the most amiable of moods when she next spoke to the young lady she had engaged, and whom she was treating as a slave.

"I cannot," she said, "have young gentlemen calling at my house after my domestics."

But Emilia's spirit had been roused by the adventure. The consciousness that she was not entirely friendless gave her confidence and courage.

"It was not improper that he should call to inquire," she said. "He would have done so had I been living at home with my father."

"The cases are different," observed Mrs. Seaton, loftily. "Not entirely, madam," said Emilia, with a certain firmness. "Mr. Paget is a gentleman, and I am a lady."

"You! A lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, in great astonishment.

"Yes, madam. Poverty does not degrade one."

Upon this Mrs. Seaton commenced to storm and use bad language, and was so violent that Emilia was glad to escape from the room. From that day the unkind woman practised a system of oppression which almost drove Emilia mad. Had she possessed sufficient means to keep herself for even a week she would have fled from the house; but although she had now been in Mrs. Seaton's service for longer than the stipulated month not a word had been said about salary, nor had she received a shilling from her mistress. She remained because she was compelled to remain, and because she was powerless. Had Gerald been a lady instead of a gentleman she would have mustered courage to ask assistance from him, but as it was such a request was impossible. Mrs. Seaton's character, however, was well known to her neighbors, and from one with whom he had a slight acquaintance Gerald obtained information which made him unusually serious and grave. He had continued to call at the house, and had contrived to meet Emilia upon her afternoon walks; but Mrs. Seaton had received him with unbending stiffness, and he could not fail to observe Emilia's unhappiness. He loved the young girl, and it was not long before he made his sentiments known to her, but she, contrasting their positions, hardly dared to listen to him. For this he had partly to thank Mrs. Seaton, who, seeing that Gerald was strongly inclined to Emilia, treated the young girl to long and bitter dissertations upon the "infamy "--it was the word she used--of encouraging his attentions. She declared that such conduct was indelicate, unwomanly, disgraceful, and heaven knows what; there was no limit to her vituperation, and the unhappy girl, conscious that she loved Gerald and was not his equal, passed long nights in tears and sighs. When he commenced to speak upon the theme which was nearest his heart, she said, "I must not listen to you. I must not, I must not! If you have any respect for me, do not continue." Having more than a respect for her, having now a love as honest as it was profound, he obeyed her for a time; but still when he parted from her at the door he said, "Good-by, Emilia," as he pressed her hand, and she did not chide him for the familiarity. This gave him what he lacked, courage, and he did not lose hope. At length he resolved to put an end to this uncertainty, and as she begged him not to speak, he did the next best thing. He wrote, and entreated her to reply. But no reply came; and on the next occasion of her hour's holiday he did not see her at the accustomed place. What was the reason? Had he offended her? Had he been mistaken in believing that she loved him? Why did she not write to him? Why did she keep away from him? Lovers only who have gone through the stages of doubt and uncertainty can understand what he suffered.

But on the next occasion she did appear. He hastened to her side.

"Emilia!" he cried.

"Oh! hush," she sighed. "It is not right--it is not right!"

"It cannot be wrong," he said, tenderly, leading her to a sequestered spot. "You are unhappy, Emilia."

"Very very unhappy. And I am born to make others so."

"I will not hear you say that and be silent. You were born to make me happy, and can--if you only will, Amelia; if you only will!"

His ardor, his impetuosity, his sincerity, made her weak. She clung to him for support, and the next moment released herself and stood upright, inwardly reproaching herself, for being so foolish. Had she been the most artful of her sex she could not, all through, have acted more cunningly to fasten the chains which bound him to her; but she was only a weak and innocent girl, and when one such as she meets with a genuine, honest soul like Gerald, love is more powerful than cunning.

"Emilia, why did you not reply to my letter?"

"What letter?" she asked, in surprise.

"The letter I wrote to you. Five days I sent it, and I have counted the minutes. It is not like you, Emilia, to make me suffer so."

She turned her sweet face to him.

"I have received no letter, Mr. Paget."

"You have received no letter from me--and you will not call me Gerald!"

"I have received no letter," she repeated, "and I cannot call you--what you desire."

"Well," he said, with hot impatience, "let that rest awhile; we will speak of it again, and you will make me happy, I am sure, by doing such a very little thing as that. But my letter? I sent it to you--posted it with my own hands. Do you think I would entrust it to another?"

"How can I say? I do not even know what was in it. Five days ago! And why did you write to me? Oh, Mr. Paget, have you no regard for my helpless position?"

"Can you ask me such a question, Emilia?" he said, reproachfully. "Do you think there lives in the world a man who has a more sincere respect and esteem for you than I have?"

"No, no," she cried. "I did not intend to do you an injustice. I beg you to forgive me."

"Freely," he said, and spoke now with less impetuosity. "Whenever I have approached the subject of my love for you--do not stop me, Emilia; the words are spoken--whenever I have done that, you have begged me to desist. Well, I obeyed you; not for all the wide world, Emilia, would I cause you one moment's pain. But you did not tell me not to write, and so I wrote--what was in my heart, what is in it now, and I implored you to send me an answer soon. I am sure you would have done so had you received it."

"I do not know. The letter never reached me."

"I addressed it to the care of Mrs. Seaton."

"If it was delivered to her, she did not give it to me."

"It must have been delivered to her; it must have been left at her house, and to keep it from you is a crime. She shall be punished for it."

"Oh, Mr. Paget, do not make things harder for me than they are already!"

It was an involuntary confession, the first she had made to him, and it opened his eyes.

"You are not happy with her?" he asked.

She did not reply. To have admitted it would have been almost like asking protection from him. Her sensitive nature shrunk from such an indelicacy.

"I must go back now," she said, presently. "I have been away too long."

"I will go with you, Emilia."

"I entreat you not to do so. It will subject me to further indignity."

In this was conveyed a second involuntary confession; he noted it with burning indignation against Mrs. Seaton, but made no open comment upon it.

"I obey you," he said, "in this as in everything else. You are suffering, and I pity you from my heart of hearts. I am also suffering. Will you not give me a little pity?"

"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Paget; indeed, indeed I am. It would have been better for you had we never met."

"Can you utter such a heresy--you, the soul of truth and honesty? I bless the day on which I met you; it will live forever in my memory as the happiest in my life. Give me your hand. Why do you shrink? You would give it to the commonest friend, and I am at least that. Thank you. There! I merely press it, as an ordinary friend would do--only you must feel the pulses of my heart in my fingers. That is not my fault. I cannot help it beating, and beating for you, Emilia. May I walk with you a little way?"

"Not far. You will not come with me to the door?"

"No, if you insist. I will leave you before we reach it."

"Before we are in the street, Mr. Paget."

"Yes, before we are in the street. But I give you fair warning, Emilia. I must have an answer to my letter, and I must find out what has become of it. Is not that right?"

"I suppose it is."

"It is not a matter of supposing. It is or it is not. Be as frank with me as I am with you, Emilia."

"It is right that you should ascertain what has become of it."

"Of course. It is mine or yours. No one else's. We have something that is ours, in which no other person has any business to interfere. I shall think of that with satisfaction."

"A simple letter, Mr. Paget."

"A simple letter," he said, very gravely, "in which the happiness of an honest gentleman's life is enclosed. There! Do not tremble. I am not going to say anything more serious just now, but said it must be soon, Emilia, and then I shall know what the future will be for me. And even if I were dumb and that letter was never recovered, another can be written which shall reach its destination. Why do you stop? Oh, yes, you wish me to say good-by here. Well, good-by, Emilia!"

"Good-by, Mr. Paget."

"Will you not call me Gerald? Such a little word, Emilia!"

She fled; but not before she had given him a sweet and timid look which caused his heart to throb with hope, as it was already throbbing with love.