It was the fate of Margaret Aubyn's memory to serve as a foil to Miss Trent's presence, and never had the poor lady thrown her successor into more vivid relief.

 

     Miss Trent had the charm of still waters that are felt to be renewed by rapid currents. Her attention spread a tranquil surface to the demonstrations of others, and it was only in days of storm that one felt the pressure of the tides. This inscrutable composure was perhaps her chief grace in Glennard's eyes. Reserve, in some natures, implies merely the locking of empty rooms or the dissimulation of awkward encumbrances; but Miss Trent's reticence was to Glennard like the closed door to the sanctuary, and his certainty of divining the hidden treasure made him content to remain outside in the happy expectancy of the neophyte.

 

     "You didn't come to the opera last night," she began, in the tone that seemed always rather to record a fact than to offer a reflection on it.

 

     He answered with a discouraged gesture. "What was the use? We couldn't have talked."

 

     "Not as well as here," she assented; adding, after a meditative pause, "As you didn't come I talked to Aunt Virginia instead."

 

     "Ah!" he returned, the fact being hardly striking enough to detach him from the contemplation of her hands, which had fallen, as was their wont, into an attitude full of plastic possibilities. One felt them to be hands that, moving only to some purpose, were capable of intervals of serene inaction.

 

     "We had a long talk," Miss Trent went on; and she waited again before adding, with the increased absence of stress that marked her graver communications, "Aunt Virginia wants me to go abroad with her."

 

     Glennard looked up with a start. "Abroad? When?"

 

     "Now--next month. To be gone two years."

 

     He permitted himself a movement of tender derision. "Does she really? Well, I want you to go abroad with me--for any number of years. Which offer do you accept?"

 

     "Only one of them seems to require immediate consideration," she returned, with a smile.

 

     Glennard looked at her again. "You're not thinking of it?"

 

     Her gaze dropped and she unclasped her hands. Her movements were so rare that they might have been said to italicize her words. "Aunt Virginia talked to me very seriously. It will be a great relief to mother and the others to have me provided for in that way for two years. I must think of that, you know." She glanced down at her gown which, under a renovated surface, dated back to the first days of Glennard's wooing. "I try not to cost much--but I do."

 

     "Good Lord!" Glennard groaned.

 

     They sat silent till at length she gently took up the argument. "As the eldest, you know, I'm bound to consider these things. Women are such a burden. Jim does what he can for mother, but with his own children to provide for it isn't very much. You see, we're all poor together."

 

     "Your aunt isn't. She might help your mother."

 

     "She does--in her own way."

 

     "Exactly--that's the rich relation all over! You may be miserable in any way you like, but if you're to be happy you've got to be so in her way--and in her old gowns."

 

     "I could be very happy in Aunt Virginia's old gowns," Miss Trent interposed.

 

     "Abroad, you mean?"

 

     "I mean wherever I felt that I was helping. And my going abroad will help."

 

     "Of course--I see that. And I see your considerateness in putting its advantages negatively."

 

     "Negatively?"

 

     "In dwelling simply on what the going will take you from, not on what it will bring you to.