"I have given up the search."
"Well," I said, "some day when you find that you have made a great mistake, remember I told you so."
He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by the exercise of his reason.
"Has it ever occurred to you that _you_ may have made a great mistake?"
"Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later."
That's what I said to him; but I didn't say that the question, pointed by his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force than it had ever had before.
And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had been so especially happy.
PARIS, _December_ 17th.--A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence--a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.
"My dear General--I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear. Things that involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen from the inside.--Yours ever, E. S.
"P. S.--A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my happiness!"
His happiness makes him very clever. I hope it will last--I mean his cleverness, not his happiness.
LONDON, _April_ 19th, 1877.--Last night, at Lady H---'s, I met Edmund Stanmer, who married Bianca Salvi's daughter. I heard the other day that they had come to England. A handsome young fellow, with a fresh contented face. He reminded me of Florence, which I didn't pretend to forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparage that woman to him. I had a complete theory about her. But he didn't seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter. I asked him if his wife were there. I had to do that.
"Oh yes, she's in one of the other rooms. Come and make her acquaintance; I want you to know her."
"You forget that I do know her."
"Oh no, you don't; you never did." And he gave a little significant laugh.
I didn't feel like facing the _ci-devant_ Scarabelli at that moment; so I said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honour of calling upon his wife. We talked for a minute of something else, and then, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on my arm. I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous.
"Depend upon it you were wrong!" he said.
"My dear young friend," I answered, "imagine the alacrity with which I concede it."
Something else again was spoken of, but in an instant he repeated his movement.
"Depend upon it you were wrong."
"I am sure the Countess has forgiven me," I said, "and in that case you ought to bear no grudge. As I have had the honour to say, I will call upon her immediately."
"I was not alluding to my wife," he answered. "I was thinking of your own story."
"My own story?"
"So many years ago. Was it not rather a mistake?"
I looked at him a moment; he's positively rosy.
"That's not a question to solve in a London crush."
And I turned away.
22d.--I haven't yet called on the _ci-devant_; I am afraid of finding her at home. And that boy's words have been thrumming in my ears--"Depend upon it you were wrong. Wasn't it rather a mistake?" _Was_ I wrong--_was_ it a mistake? Was I too cautions--too suspicious--too logical? Was it really a protector she needed--a man who might have helped her? Would it have been for his benefit to believe in her, and was her fault only that I had forsaken her? Was the poor woman very unhappy? God forgive me, how the questions come crowding in! If I marred her happiness, I certainly didn't make my own. And I might have made it--eh? That's a charming discovery for a man of my age!