CHAPTER IX. "I am betrayed by keeping company SHAKESPEARE. ALBERT GREY, on re-entering the cedar parlour, found that Constance had retired. He felt a momentary relief; for he considered that his intelligence, which must have been only too distressing under any circumstances, would now need a cautious and deliberate introduction. But he marvelled much that Constance should have quitted the apartment uninformed, after so long and such intense anxiety to know his tidings. The mystery, however, was soon explained. During the botanical conference in the conservatory, a messenger had arrived from the Haye a note from Henry Molyneux had been eagerly received; and Constance had withdrawn from the cedar parlour for a perusal of its contents, where interruption might not break in upon her. Mr. Grey was bewildered when he attempted to surmise the nature of a communication from such a person at such a time. That it dissipated the dreams with which he had, for years, amused Constance, he could not doubt; that it did so in terms as gentle and as delicate as circumstances would admit, he had scarcely courage to hope. The hypocrisy and treachery that had been accidentally discovered, had, in one moment, effaced the memory of every good and pleasing quality which had previously marked Henry Molyneux. Scarcely an hour had been required to transform, in the eyes of Mr. Grey, the perfection of spiritual and moral excellence into a monster of depravity. He lamented that he was a brother, not a sister. At such a time, he felt that a woman's heart must need the sympathy, the advice of a woman. A man may pity and may love his eye may moisten, and his lips speak comfort; his tenderness may be equally gentle, yet equally warm; but it is betrayed in a different manner. He cannot know the secret movements of her spirit, although he may own and love their result; for he himself has never experienced them: and often does it happen that, whilst he most desires to soothe, he inflicts a painful wound. Whilst wrapt in such musings, the anxiety of Mr. Grey was tempered by the entrance of Constance's attendant. Although Miss Grey had not awaited the return of her brother from his attendance upon Lady Windermere and her daughter, she had remembered him. The contents of her cousin's billet were rapidly scanned, and Constance hastily pencilled a line to her brother, thanking him for his exertions in her behalf, and assuring him that the kind communication from Henry Molyneux had given her full comfort. Mr. Grey was at loss to imagine by what magic Henry Molyneux had won Constance to resignation. Could it be possible that his note maintained the ancient tone of honourable affection? If that were the case, every confirmation of her trust in Henry Molyneux would add fearfully to the severity of the shock, when the disclosure of his falseness took place. Mr. Grey found himself in a painful difficulty, and saw no easy mode of escape. He alone was intrusted with the secret of that deep feeling which his cousin had long nourished in the bosom of Constance, yet which had been concealed from the scrutiny of the world by the allowable intimacy of relationship. Alice Windermere might, possibly, have suspected the truth; but, as Constance had not committed the secret even to her keeping, delicacy would have sealed her lips; and, excepting when occasion extorted a playful hint, Miss Windermere had uniformly maintained a degree of dulness creditable to her ingenuity. Colonel Grey, for his part, spent his life away from the "world," examining its secret springs, studying its movements, censuring its errors, seeing nothing distinctly, imagining that he accurately observed all things, and blaming le tout entier. Having adopted an idea, savouring of poetry and chemicals con joined, that society is but a chain of rusty links, worn and eaten by the perpetual rubbing and grating of one against another, he contented himself with the task of scraping together as much rust as he could discover, in order to satisfy himself that the quantity was vast, and the corrosion rapid; and, in so doing, he had acquired the habit of passing by without notice, as not aiding his theory, all such portions of the chain as chanced to be bright. The frequent appearance of Henry Molyneux at the Retreat, had caused no suspicion even in that quarter. Colonel Grey, having himself perceived no peculiar fascinations in his popular nephew, did not dream that Constance might possess less taste or more discrimination than himself. Although, however, no favourite, Henry Molyneux was not an object of dislike, further than he might be rendered so by the disinclination of Colonel Grey to meet unnecessarily any of his species. Albert Grey, the sole depository of his sister's confidence, had become the sole depository of her wrong-a wrong of which she |