George W. M. Reynolds - The Mysteries of London

Richard could not help liking this volatile, but artless and innocent creature—as a man likes his daughter or his sister; and she, on her part, appeared to become greatly attached to her tutor.

Although Mr. Gregory followed no profession, being a man of considerable independent property, he was nevertheless much from home, passing his time either at the library of the British Museum or at his Club. Richard and Mary-Anne were thus much together—too much for the peace of that innocent and fascinating girl!

She speedily conceived a violent passion for her tutor, which he, however, neither perceived nor returned.

She was herself unaware of the nature of her own feelings towards him;—she knew as much of love and its sensations as a beauteous savage girl, in some far-off isle, knows of Christianity;—and hers was an attachment which could only be revealed to herself by some accident, which might excite her jealousy or awaken her grief.

One morning, before the usual lessons of the day commenced, Mr. Gregory entered the study, and, addressing himself to Markham, said, "We must now give the young people a holiday for a short time. Proper relaxation is as necessary to their bodily welfare as education to their mental well-being. We will suspend their studies for a month, if you be agreeable, Mr. Markham. I shall, however, be always pleased to see you as often as you choose to call during that interval; and every Sunday, at all events, we shall expect the pleasure of your company to dinner as usual."

"What!" cried Mary-Anne; "is Mr. Markham to discontinue his daily visits for a whole month?"

"Certainly, my dear," said her father. "Mr. Markham requires a holiday as well as you."

"I want no holiday," exclaimed Mary-Anne, pouting her lips in a manner that was quite charming, and which might remind the reader of the petite moue that Esmeralda was accustomed to make in Victor Hugo's admirable novel Notre Dame de Paris .

"But you always take a holiday, my dear," returned her father with a smile; "and therefore you fancy that others do not require a temporary relaxation. Gustavus and Lionel want a holiday; and Mr. Markham cannot be always poring over books and drawings."

"Well, I wish Mr. Markham to take the trouble to come every morning and give me my drawing lesson," said the young lady, with a little air of decision and firmness, which was quite comic in its way; "and if he will not," she added, "then I will never learn to draw any more—and that is decided."

Mr. Gregory surveyed his daughter with an air of astonishment.

Probably he half penetrated the secret—for her passion could not be called her secret, because she was totally unconscious of the nature of her feelings, and sought to conceal nothing.

Had she been aware of the real sentiment which she experienced, she would have at once revealed it; for she was guileless and unsuspicious—ignorant of all deceit—devoid of all hypocrisy—and endowed with as much simplicity and artlessness as a child of six years old.

"Mr. Markham must have a holiday, my dear," said Mr. Gregory, at length, with a peculiar emphasis; "and I beg that no further objection may be offered."

Mary-Anne instantly burst into tears, exclaiming, in a voice almost choked with sobs, "Mr. Markham may have his holiday, if he likes; but I will not learn any thing more of him when the studies begin again."

And she retired in a pet to another apartment.

Markham was himself astonished at this singular behaviour on the part of his interesting pupil.

He was, however, far from suspecting the real cause, and took his leave with a promise to return to dinner on the following Sunday, until which time there was then an interval of five days.

Three days after the one on which the above conversation took place, Markham was about to issue from his dwelling to proceed into town for the purpose of calling upon the manager, as he had that morning seen his drama advertised for early representation—when Whittingham informed him that a young lady desired to speak to him In the drawing-room.

The idea of Isabella instantly flashed through the mind of Richard:—but would she call upon him, alone and unattended? No—for Isabella, was modesty and prudence personified.

Then, who could it be?

Markham asked this question of his butler.

"A remarkable sweet creatur," said Whittingham; "and come quite spontaneous like. Beautiful flaxy hair—blue eyes—pale complexion—"

"Impossible! you do not say that , Whittingham?" cried Markham, on whom a light now broke.

"Do I look like a man that speaks evasiously, Master Richard?" demanded the butler, shifting his inseparable companion—the white napkin—from beneath one arm to the other.

Markham repaired to the drawing-room:—his suspicions were verified;—the moment he entered the apartment, he beheld Miss Gregory seated upon the sofa.

"Well, Mr. Markham," she said, extending to him her hand, and smiling so sweetly with her vermilion lips, which disclosed a set of teeth not quite even, but as white as ivory, that Richard could not find it in his heart to be angry with her; "I was resolved not to pass the day without seeing you; and as you would not come to me, I was compelled to come to you."

"But, Miss Gregory," said Markham, "are you not aware that you have taken a most imprudent step, and that the world would highly censure your conduct?"

"Why?" demanded Mary-Anne, in astonishment.

"Because ladies, no matter whether single or married, never call upon single gentlemen; and society has laid down certain rules in this respect, which—"

"My dear Mr. Markham, you are not giving me a lesson now, remember, in my father's study," interrupted Mary-Anne, laughing heartily. "I know nothing about the rules of society in this respect, or that respect, or any other respect. All I know is, that I cried all night long after you left us the other day; and I have been very miserable until this morning, when I suddenly recollected that I knew your address, and could come and call on you."

"If your father were to know that you came hither," said Richard, "he would never forgive you, nor ever see me again."

"Well, then, all we have to do is not to tell my father any thing about the matter," said Mary-Anne, with considerable ingenuousness. "But how cross you look; and I—I thought," she added, ready to cry, "that you would be as pleased to see me as I am to see you."

"Yes, Miss Gregory—I am pleased to see you—I am always pleased to see you," answered Markham, by way of soothing the poor girl; "but you must allow me to assure you that this step is the most imprudent—the most thoughtless in the world. I really tremble for the consequences—should your father happen to hear of it."

"I tell you over and over again," persisted Miss Gregory, "that my papa shall never know any thing at all about the matter. Now, then, pray don't be cross; but tell me that you are glad to see me. Speak, Mr. Markham—are you glad to see me?"

"How shall I ever be able to convince this artless young creature of the impropriety of her conduct?" murmured Richard within himself. "To argue with her too long and too forcibly upon the subject would be to instruct her innocent mind in the evils and vices of society, and to imbue her with ideas which are as yet like a foreign and a strange tongue to her! Innocence, then, is not a pearl of invaluable price to its possessor, in this world—since it can so readily prepare the path which might lead to ruin!"

"You do not answer me—you are thoughtful—you will not speak to me," said Mary Ann, rising from the sofa, with tears in her eyes, and preparing—or rather affecting an intention to depart.