CHAPTER LI.

BY ALICE FROBISHER, LOVE-EDITOR.

They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretched hand to receive the goblet which she held.

“I’d rather help myself.”

“Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And he stood aside.

She glanced at his face. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. Help me, then; thank you.” And barely moistening her lips (for somehow a choking sensation seized her), she handed him back the tumbler.

It is in our premonitions that we women have some compensation for our inferiority in strength to men. It was not an accident that the Pythia and the Sibyl were women. The delicate, responsive fibre of her nervous system makes every woman half a prophetess.

“You must have been parched with thirst,” said he, holding up the goblet, with a smile.

“I suppose it was only imagination.”

Trivial words; yet he knew and she felt that a crisis in their lives was at hand. It is thus, I am told, that soldiers will often joke and babble of nothings when crouched along the frowning edge of battle.

“Only imagination,” said he, catching at the words. (They were walking slowly, side by side, from the dining-room to the parlor.) “And is there anything else in life worth living for? The facts of life, what are they but dry crusts, the merest husks, which content the body, perhaps, while leaving the soul unsatisfied?”

It was to minor chords, as I have said somewhere above, that Mary’s nature gave readiest response; and these had been struck with no uncertain hand.

“You speak feelingly,” said she, without looking up.

“And no wonder; for of these husks of life—husks without a kernel—I have had my share; but of late—”

They had reached the parlor window and found the piazza deserted. How inconsistent is the human heart, more especially that of woman. Mary had longed to find herself alone, for one short quarter of an hour, with this man who had so troubled her peace. She had confidence in her woman’s tact,—felt sure that, if opportunity were given, she could pluck away the mask which concealed his heart, without revealing her own. Strangely enough, during all the time they had been under one roof, she had not had such an opportunity. This had, in fact, been one cause of her troubled curiosity. He had seemed studiously to avoid finding himself alone with her, and with her only of all the girls. It had come now,—come so suddenly,—and she trembled. She leaned out of the window.

“They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her head and looking up at the Don with a scared look.

Was not that sinking of the heart a presage of sorrow? Would it not have been better for thee, poor child, to have hearkened to the voice of its Cassandra-throbs? Better to have hastened to the Hall, whence thou couldst even now hear issuing the sounds of merry music, and found safety in numbers? Something whispered this in her fluttering heart.

“But of late,” repeated the man of her destiny.

“Let us join our friends in the Hall,” said she, faintly.

Wise words, but spoken too late. Too late; for she felt herself compassed round about by a nameless spell that would not be broken; entwined in cords soft as silk but strong as fate.

“They seem to be getting on famously without us.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“Thought what?”

“I thought you must be longing to hear Lucy play.” And she gave a hasty glance at his face.

There was a revelation in the look that met hers. The veil that had darkened her vision fell away. Through those glorious eyes of his, so full of tender flame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no image of Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been. ’Twas her own, instead, sat enthroned there.

Wrung as she had been, for weeks, with conflicting emotions, the revulsion of feeling that now came over her was too great for her strength. Her knees tottered beneath her; the room swam before her eyes.

“Somehow I feel a little tired,” said she; and she sank down upon a sofa which stood near.

Where was all her tact gone? Was she not to unveil his heart while hiding her own?

All is fair in love and war; and in both the best-laid schemes are undone by a surprise. The enemy had found the citadel unguarded and rushed in.

“Will you allow me?” said he.

She made no reply beyond a faint smile, and he took his seat beside her.

“You spoke of music just now. Lucy has a charming touch; but I know a voice that is, to me at least, richer than all the harmonies of a symphony, softer than an Æolian harp, gentler than the cooing of a dove.”

She made a brave effort to look unconscious. “Oh, how beautiful it must be! How I should like to hear such a voice!”

“I hear it now! I am drinking it in!”

It was a draught which seemed to intoxicate him; and the circle of the spell which bound them grew narrower. She could feel his eager, frequent breath upon her cheek, whose burning glow lent a more liquid lustre to her dark eyes. They spoke little. What need of multiplying words? Did they not know all? Ah, supremest moment of our lives, and restfullest, when two souls rush together, at last, and are one!

Somehow, by chance, just then—if things which always manage to happen can be said to come by chance—somehow their hands met. Met somewhere along the back of the sofa, perhaps—but no matter.

Hardly their hands, either. It was the forefinger tip, merely, of his right hand that chanced to rest its weight across the little finger of her left.

A taper and a soft and a dainty little finger,—and a weak, withal. Why should it scamper off before it was hurt? After all, it was but an accident, perhaps, and a neighborly sort of accident, at the worst. Who could say that it was a bold, bad forefinger? Perhaps it did not know it was there!

And so that weak little digit lay there, still as a mouse, though blushing, blushing (ah me, how it did blush!), and all of a flutter.

After all, are not even strangers continually shaking hands? And if that be so, why should one run away, merely because—but the thing is not worth a discussion.

I have been much longer in telling it than it was in happening. The thrill had barely flashed through that rose-tipped little digit when he seized her hand, and taking it in both his, pressed it again and again to his heart; then the other; and drawing her towards him, bent over her and breathed into her ear words never to be forgotten. Not many, but strong,—vehement with long-suppressed passion.

As though a mountain-torrent had burst its bonds.

She had read of innumerable wooings and imagined many besides; but never one like this. She tried to speak, she knew not what, but her tongue refused to do its office.

“And have you no word for me? No little word of hope?”

She raised her eyes to his. It was but for a moment; for she could not longer withstand his impassioned gaze. But in that brief glance, half wondering, half shrinking, he read his answer, and in an instant she found herself enveloped in those mighty arms,—found herself lying across that broad chest, his right arm around her, his left supporting her head, that nestled with upturned face against his shoulder. With upturned face and closed eyes.

She had surrendered at discretion. When she felt herself, again and again, pressed to his heart, she made no protest;—gave no sign when he devoured her cheeks, her lips, with kisses, countless, vehement-tender,—lay upon that broad shoulder in a kind of swoon.

She had waited so long and it had come so suddenly, this cyclone of love!

Lay there upon that broad chest,—she so little,—with upturned face but closed lids, from beneath which forced their way drop after drop of happy tears. Happy tears? Did not they too tremble, tremble, as they lingered, waiting to be kissed away?

Lay there, nestled upon that strong arm, and drunk with the wine of young love; the past forgot, the future banished,—living in the present alone. A present, delicious, dreamy, and wrapped in rose-colored incense-breathing mist. Shutting out all the world save only him and her. From afar comes floating to her ear, from the Hall, the sound of muffled laughter,—comes floating the drowsy tinkling of the piano, meaningless and inane! All things else are shams. Love alone is real!

Yes, pillow thy head upon that arm, thy heart upon that hope, while yet thou mayest!

For dost not heed how within that deep chest, against which thy fair young bosom palpitates and flutters,—markest thou not how ’tis a lion-heart seems to beat therein? To beat thereunder with tempestuous thud, ominous of storm and wreck?

And those eyes, so wondrous tender now, and soft (for even if thou hast not stolen a look between thy dewy lids, thou hast felt their caressing glances), and those loving eyes? Hast forgotten how their changeful, bickering flashes once filled thy heart with dread, even before he was aught to thee?

If thou hast, dream on—dream on while thou mayest!