Turkish boys, turbaned, spangled, jewelled, and gilt, came offering on bended knee golden troughs of rose-water and orange-water to keep the guests’ hands cool and perfumed.
But long before our party arrived at this final stage, appetite had succumbed, and one or two circumstances had occurred apparently trifling. 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 to 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.
Meantime, their cousin, William Johnson, alderman of Rotterdam, 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 did not speak to them, for the following reason. Margaret was very plainly dressed, and Peter inclined to thread-bare. So the alderman said:
“’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. And it was a relief to them when the dessert came and the valets retired a few steps, and they could talk without being overheard. 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 it is to you we owe it.”
Gerard was silent.
“Now, don’t speak 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.
“Don’t speak,” 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 I 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!”
“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 deafen 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 beautiful things here, more beautiful than I could have conceived; but the finest 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, O what a pity I did not know you before I sent in my poor efforts 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.”
“O fie! it is wicked to talk so. Compare a poor, coarse-favoured girl like me with the Queen of Heaven! O Gerard! I thought you were a good young man.”
“So I am. But I can’t help having eyes—and a heart—Margaret.”
“Gerard?”
“Don’t be angry!”
“Now, is it likely?”
“I love you.”
“O for shame! you must not say that to me.”
“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. O 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 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. 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