As I cross the threshold and enter the old hall at Strangemore, a
great passionate rush of unrestrainable rapture flows over me.
Sudden recollections and emotions threaten to overpower me. I am
at home, at rest, at last! With an impulsive movement I put my
hand to my heart. Each well-remembered object sends out to me a
thousand welcomes. With silent joy I greet them.
Yet, compelled by the strange wilfulness that sorrow and
loneliness have bred within me, I conceal all this from
Marmaduke, and, returning the servants' salutations with a
courtesy kind but subdued, I go slowly up the stairs and into my
own room.
All is changed. I pause and gaze around me with much wonder.
Carpets, curtains all are unfamiliar, and where white once
mingled with the gold, pale pink appears.
The doors beyond are flung wide. What was formerly 'Duke's
dressing-room is now transformed into a boudoir, while the
apartment beyond that again is an exquisitely furnished
reception-room.
In the boudoir a small fire burns, and though we may count
ourselves now well into the summer, still the bright flames look
warm and homelike, and involuntarily I stretch out my hands to
their friendly warmth.
A knock at the door. Instead of calling out. "Come in," I go
forward, and, opening it, find myself face to face with my
husband.
"You will not come down to dinner?" he says; but his tone is a
question almost an entreaty.
"No!" I return, ungratefully; "I am too tired. I shall be better
alone."
His face expresses disappointment.
"I am sure you are right," he says, moving away. "Try to rest,
and forget your fatigue."
The remnant of conscience I still retain here smites me.
"My rooms are so pretty," I say, quickly, following him a step or
two; "they are lovely. Was it all your own taste? It was so good
of you to do it for me."
"You are pleased?" coloring. "I fancied you would like them
changed."
"It was more than good of you," I say again, remorsefully. "You
think of everything, and I am always ungrateful."
"Nonsense! Get back your old spirits, and I shall be richly
rewarded." Then with a sudden, unexpected movement, "You are
welcome home, Phyllis," he says, and bending, presses his lips to
mine.
It is the very first caress he has offered me since our second
marriage; and now it is the lightest, fleetest thing conceivable.
Confused and puzzled, I turn back into my room, with a sensation
that is almost fear at my heart. What a cold, unloving kiss! A
mere touching of the lips, without warmth or lingering pressure.
What if he has ceased to love me?
---
We toil, through pain and wrong,
We fight, and fly;
We love, we lose, and then, ere long,
Stone dead we lie.
O life! is all thy song
Endure--and die?
The sorrowful despairing words repeat themselves over and over
again in my brain. They fascinate and yet repel me. Why must the
wretchedness of this world so heavily overbalance the good?
I fling the small volume from me with some impatience as
Marmaduke comes in.
He has been studiously cold to me of late; indeed, he has shown
an open and marked avoidance of my company. It has at times
forced itself upon me that he bitterly repents his hasty
persistence at Hazelton, and would now gladly sever the tie that
binds us, were that possible.
At this moment he is looking bored and _ennuye_ to the last
degree, as he goes to one of the windows, and stands idly gazing
out over the park and woodlands. Not once, as he crosses the room
do his eyes fall upon me.
And yet surely I am now better worth regarding than on those
first days at Hazelton, when he appeared so anxious to make me
his own. It is the latter end of July, warm sultry, glorious
July, and I am once more the Phyllis of old. My cheeks are round
and soft and childlike as of yore, my eyes are bright and clear
and have lost their unnatural largeness, my figure has regained
its original healthy elasticity; yet Marmaduke heeds me not.
Suddenly, with some abruptness, and without turning to look at
me, he says:---
"Don't you think it would be an improvement to ask some people
down here, eh? It might make things more cheerful for you. Just
the old lot, you know."
So at last he has made an open confession of the dullness that I
feel sure has been consuming him; he has discovered that a very
little of my society, taken singly, would go a long way. Well, I
too will let _him_ see how gladly I shall welcome strangers to
our hearth.
"I am so glad you mentioned it," I say, briskly; "I have been
wishing of late for some break-in on our monotony. Harriet and
Bebe will come, I feel sure, and, oh! poor little Chips, I had
forgotten he is at present broiling in India; but Chandos will
not refuse, I think; and Blanche Going, and Sir Mark Gore." These
latter I add with some innocent malice.
"Sir Mark Gore is in Norway," replies 'Duke, stiffly.
"Indeed! Then we must put up with his loss. But Blanche
Going--where is she?"
"Probably in Jamaica, for all I know, or care," unaimiably.
"What an answer! Poor Blanche! if she could only hear you. You
should remember, 'Duke, that flippancy, though excusable in a
woman, is simply brutal in a man. Solitude disagrees with you;
you grow downright rude."
"If I was rude, I apologize," returns he, carelessly. Then,
having whistled straight through his favorite air most
successfully, and wound up with an elaborate flourish, he walks
through the open window on to the balcony outside.
"Very good; ask them all as soon as you like," He says, over his
shoulder with a languid nod; "and go for a stroll the day is too
fine to spend indoors."
---
"I was going to beg an invitation if I did not receive one," says
Harriet, a week later, as she returns my kiss of welcome. "I was
growing very uneasy about you. But," tapping my cheek, "I might
have spared myself any worry on the subject of your health, as
you are looking provokingly well."
Bebe declares I have caused them all more trouble than I am
worth, whereupon I take her in custody and march her upstairs and
run her into her bedroom.
Just before dinner Chandos arrives, having been driven over from
a country-house some miles distant, where he has been staying.
Bebe greets him with a light laugh that has nothing in it of
nervousness or suppressed pleasure. It is purely indifferent. For
the moment I feel puzzled and disappointed.
"Strangemore seems to be our established meeting-ground after
long absences," she says, giving him her hand. "Let me
congratulate you on having escaped cholera and lawless tribes in
the East."
"I have only been a week in England since my return," replies he,
ceremoniously, "and have been kept pretty busy all that time, or
I would have allowed myself the pleasure of calling upon you and
Mrs. Beatoun. I did not know you were again staying with Lady
Handcock?"
"Oh, Harriet cannot do without me now," says Bebe, with a little
saucy glance at Harry, who smiles and shakes her head. "She finds
me invaluable."
"How infinitely obliged your mother must be to Lady Handcock!"
says Chandos, mischievously.
"For taking me off her hands? Ah! see what comes of associating
with barbarians," retorts Bebe, with a shrug.
Yet, with all their badinage and apparent unconcern, I can
perceive an undercurrent of constraint between these two. During
all the first week, this forced gayety and determined
forgetfulness of the sweet and bitter past continues and then it
falls away. Silence and avoidance take their place, and in
Chandos especially I notice a distant avoidance of all converse
bordering on a _tete-a-tete_.
I am beginning to despair of any good result arising from this
second bringing together of them in my house, then one evening
shortly before the termination of their visit a something, a mere
trifle, occurs, that is yet sufficient to alter the tenor of more
lives than one.
It is the 27th of August. Dinner is at an end, and, tired of
strolling in the grounds and gardens--so softly perfumed by the
night flowers--we three women pass into the lighted drawing-room,
while Marmaduke and Chandos linger outside on the balcony to
finish their cigars.
I let my fingers wander idly over the piano, and now and again
hum softly some old air or ballad.
"Bebe, sing something for us to-night," I say, coaxingly rising
from the piano-stool. She is not fond of letting us hear her
perfectly beautiful voice. "Anything you like yourself; only
sing."
"Don't ask me," she objects, languidly. "It is so long since I
have sung that I scarcely know any song correctly. Harriet will
tell you I rarely if ever touch the piano."
"But you must," I persist. "Break down if you will, only let me
hear your voice. Remember there are no ungenerous critics here,
and nobody's singing pleases me so much as yours."
"Do, Miss Beatoun," says some one.
It is Chandos. He and Marmaduke have come in through the open
window, and are now standing in its embrasure, framed in by the
hanging curtains on either side.
The tone of his voice strikes me as being odd. He is looking
eagerly, fixedly at her; will she refuse this sudden unexpected
request of his? Coming after his late coldness it surprises even
me.
Bebe raises to his a face smiling, but pale.
"Well yes, I will sing you something," she says, and taking my
place, strikes a few lingering chords.
"I have no music with me," she continues, with her face turned
from us, "so you must be satisfied with what overcomes first to
me." Then she begins:---
'Along the grass sweet airs are sown
Our way, this day in spring
Of all the songs that we have known,
Now which one shall we sing?
Not that, my love, ah! no;
Not this? my love? why so?
Yet both were ours, yet hours will come and go.
The branches cross above our eyes,
The skies are in a net,
And what's the thing beneath the skies
We two would most forget?
Not birth, my love, no, no,
Not death, my love, no, no;
The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.'"
As she comes to the last line, a curious wild sadness that is
almost despair, mingles with the petulant defiance that has
hitherto characterised her tone. And the music, where has she got
it--so weird, so pathetic, so full of passionate recklessness.
When she is finished we are silent. I feel horribly inclined to
cry, yet scarcely know why, and am certain Marmaduke's eyes are
fastened upon me.
Somebody says, "Thank you," and then we all follow suit. Chandos
alone is silent.
"Why will you sing sad songs, Bebe?" exclaims 'Duke, Impatiently;
and Bebe laughs.
"I suppose because I am such a dismal animal myself" she replies
lightly, and, rising, comes over to me.
The moonlight streams across the carpet, rebuking the soft
radiance of the lamps, A hush has fallen upon us. Her song's
refrain almost repeats itself aloud through the stillness. Two
tears fall quietly upon my clasped hands. "The love _once_
ours---"
Pushing the curtain aside with one hand, Chandos says, in a low,
determined tone:---
"Will you come and see how the gardens look by moonlight?"
He addresses no one, he mentions no name, but his eyes are fixed
on Bebe; he has forgotten all, everything, but her. Putting my
own thoughts from me, I listen with breathless eagerness for her
answer. Well do I know it is the third and last appeal. Should
she reject this she will indeed lose forever the heart that truly
loves her. At length she speaks.
"Yes, if you wish it," she says, letting the words fall from her
lips with singular sweetness.
She joins him, and together they go out on the balcony, down the
steps, and so disappear.
"I am so rejoiced!" exclaims Harriet, plaintively, when they are
well out of hearing. "Now I do hope they will marry each other,
and bring their little comedy to a successful close. I am sure we
must all confess it has been a sufficiently long run."
---
"Yes, I sang it on purpose. I don't mind acknowledging it to
you," cries Bebe, hours afterwards, flinging her arms around my
neck, and hiding her face out of sight.
"And was it not well I did?--was it not well? Oh, Phyllis, though
I sang it so bravely, there was a terrible fear at my heart all
the time. I wished him to know, yet I dreaded his knowing. Can
you understand? I dreaded his guessing my motive too clearly, and
yet it was my last chance."
"Dearest, I am so glad."
"Ah! what tortures I have endured this past fortnight? I felt
convinced he no longer cared for me, and I know I could not be
happy without him. But he does love me--more than ever, he says
and now I shall have him always." She pauses to indulge in a
little rapturous sob. "Phyllis, never mistake obstinacy for
pride!"
Harriet and I agree in thinking them the most charming of lovers.
Indeed, as an engaged pair, they are a pattern to all lovers
similarly afflicted. They never glower at us when we enter the
room unexpectedly, and they don't blush. They get rid of all
inevitable spooning by going for long walks together, where no
one can witness or be distressed by their absurd appreciation of
each other's society. And they actually refrain from making eyes
at each other across the dining-table. When I say that they
manage to keep themselves alive to the fact that there are other
people in the world besides themselves, I consider I have spoken
volumes in their favor and have done them every justice.
When they leave at the end of the week I positively miss them,
and wish them back again; but, as the wedding is to take place
almost immediately, further delay in the country is impossible.
Marmaduke and I fall once more into our old ways, seeing as
little as may be of each other.
Although I will not confess it even to myself, I am sick at
heart. With the return of my good health has come back my old
horror of loneliness, and the girlish longing for some one to
sympathise with me in all the pleasures and troubles of my daily
life. Not even the frequent visits of mother, and Dora--who with
her husband is staying at Summerleas--can make up to me for what
I believe I have lost.
When it is too late, I learn how precious a thing I have cast
away. By my own capricious folly, and through wilful temper, I
have forever alienated 'Duke's affection. Very rarely does he
speak to me; still more rarely of his accord does he seek my
presence. I no longer afford him any joy. It is only too
apparent that he has ceased to care for me.
Full of such thoughts and misgivings, I one day creep upstairs to
the little turret chamber, where--while still Phyllis Vernon--I
once stood with Marmaduke to gaze down upon the crowded parterre
beneath. In another tiny apartment opening off this, is a
deeply-cushioned window, in which it is my usual practice to sit
and read such works as serve to distract my mind from the vague
regrets that now forever haunt it.
I have at length brought myself to feel some interest in the hero
of my tale, when approaching voices warn me that foes to my
solitude draw near. Not wishing to be disturbed I move still
further into my window, and pull the curtains across me, so that
no one in the adjoining room could by any chance see me.
I can distinguish George Ashurst's jerky tones, and then
Marmaduke's, distinct, though low. There seems to me something
argumentative in their discourse, and the footsteps come slowly,
as though every now and then they stood to dispute a point.
Suddenly now my own name is mentioned, and putting down my book,
I wait to hear what will follow.
Of course I know perfectly well in my own mind that I ought to
rise at once and honorably declare myself, but decide equally
well in my own mind that I will do no such thing. What can 'Duke
be saying about me? As they enter the turret, his words ring out
plain and stern.
"I tell you Ashurst, I can stand the life I am leading no longer.
You cannot understand what it is to see the woman you love--to
see your wife--treat you as the very commonest stranger. Good
feeling alone, I honestly believe, prevents her from showing me
absolute hatred."
"Pooh! my dear fellow," says George, "I don't believe A word of
it. She is too kind a little soul to hate any one; and you least
of all. Of course the whole thing, you know, was unfortunate, you
know, and that, but it will all come right in the end."
"I dare say. When I am in my grave," says Marmaduke, bitterly.
"You are a good fellow, George, but you can't know everything,
and I am not to be persuaded in this matter. She is right; I
should never have insisted on the second marriage: it has only
made her life more miserable, and placed a fretting chain around
her neck. But indeed I meant it for the best."
"What else could you have done, you know?" interposes kindly
George.
I have gained my feet, and am standing, trembling with hope and
fear, in my hiding-place, my hand grasping the sheltering curtain
for protection and support. At this moment I no longer deceive
myself; by my passionate eagerness to hear what more 'Duke may
say I know that all my heart is his. And he loves me! Oh, the
relief--the almost painful rapture--this certainly causes me!
Hush! he speaks again.
"I shall torment her no longer with my presence. I have delayed
here too long already, but I hoped recovered health, and the old
associations, might give her a kindlier feeling towards me. Now I
feel convinced she never loved me. Let her live her life in
peace. She will grow gay and bright, and like the child Phyllis I
first knew when she feels sure she has seen the last of me."
"Well, well, well," says George, "I suppose there is no use in
any one's speaking; but to me it is incomprehensible; why she
cannot be content and happy in this charming; place, with the
best fellow in the world for her husband, is more than I can
fathom. But it seems to me now, Carrington, really, you
know--that _you_ very seldom speak to _her_; eh?"
(Good George--dear George.) "Why should I put myself in the way
of a cold reply? I detest forcing myself upon any one--and when
she is by her own avowal happier when absent from me. Bah! let us
forget the subject: to me it is a hateful one."
"Then why on earth, when you knew all this beforehand, did you
insist on marrying her again?"
"Because there was nothing else to be done. Better to bear a name
distasteful to her than to bear none at all. I did it for her
sake."
"Then do you mean me to understand that you yourself had no
interest in the matter?"
There is a pause--a long one--and my heart actually stops
beating; at length:---
"Do not think that," says 'Duke, in a low tone. "The love I felt
for her on our first wedding-morning is, if possible, deeper and
truer now. Though at times my chains gall and almost madden me,
yet I would not exchange them for fetters soft as down. At least
she is mine, insomuch that no other man can claim her. And I have
this poor consolation in my loneliness, that, though she does not
love me, she at all events cares for no one else."
"Poor little Phyllis!" murmurs George Ashurst, tenderly.
"You are a happy man, George," says 'Duke, adopting a lighter
tone. "Do not let my troubles depress you."
"Yes: Dora is a perfect wife," declares my brother-in-law, with
honest content. "Good-bye Carrington; I will come over about that
house either to-night or to-morrow morning early."
"Better come to-night and sleep," urges 'Duke and George, half
consenting, goes noiselessly down the stairs.
When he has been gone at least five minutes, I steal from my
concealment, and, entering the turret chamber, walk softly
towards Marmaduke, who is standing with his back turned to me,
gazing down through the window upon the lawn beneath. His
attitude betokens deep thought. I go lightly to his side, and let
my eyes follow the direction his have taken.
"Dreaming, 'Duke?" I ask, gayly.
He starts violently as I wake him from his reverie, and betrays
astonishment not only at my presence at this moment, but also at
my altered demeanor.
"Almost, I think," he says, after a moment's hesitation. It is
so long since I have addressed him with anything approaching to
_bonhomie_.
"How short the evenings are getting!" I go on, peering out into
the dusk. "Marmaduke, do you remember the large party you had in
these gardens before we were married?"
"Yes."
"And how we two stood just here and looked down upon them?"
"I remember well." He is evidently intensely puzzled by my
manner, which is cordial to the last degree.
"How long ago it seems now! does it not."
"Very long."
I am not progressing; I feel this, and pause for a moment.
"You are dressed for dinner," I remark, presently "So early?"
"Not to very early; It is half-past six."
"Indeed! how the time has flown I Well, let me add this to your
appearance to make you perfect." I detach a little red rose-bud
from the bosom of my dress, and place it with lingering
carefulness in his coat. I believe as I do it he imagines I have
developed the crowning phase of my malady, by going mad. "'Duke,"
with perfect unconcern, and with my head a little on one side to
mark the effect made by my rose--"'Duke, don't you think it is
time now I should give up my invalid habits, and learn to change
my dress every evening like a civilized being?"
"I think you would be very foolish, Phyllis, to try any changes
just yet."
"But don't you think me much better and stronger in every way?"
"Very much better. Your face has gained its old color, and your
arms have regained the pretty soft roundness they had when you
were--that is--before we were married."
I pull up the loose sleeve of my dress and look with some
satisfaction upon the "pretty soft roundness." My old weakness
for compliments is strong upon me.
"Why did you not finish your sentence?" I ask, slyly: "you were
going to say when I was a _girl_."
"Because you look such a girl still--such a mere child,
indeed--that I thought it would sound absurd."
"I am glad of that. I would wish to be young and fresh always.
"There was a time," with a faint smile, "when you longed with
equal vigor to be old and worldly-wise."
"Ah, yes! what a goose I was then! But really, though, I am
growing horribly fat. My hands, even--see how plump they are."
I lay five slight little fingers in his, confidingly: I can see
how he reddens at my touch. He holds them softly, and turns them
over to see the pink palm at the other side, and then turns them
back again, but he does not speak: very slowly, but with
determination, he lets them go.
"No fear of my wedding-ring coming off now," I say, cheerfully,
though somewhat disconcerted at the failure of my last little
ruse; "not even when I wash my hands does it stir. I won't be
able to get rid of it in a hurry."
"That seems rather a pity, does it not?" remarks he, bitterly.
"A pity? Why, I would never forgive myself if I lost it."
"Would you have nothing in the past altered, Phyllis?" he asks,
suddenly, and curiously, turning for the first time to confront
me.
"Some things--yes. But not my wedding-ring, certainly."
"Good little Phyllis," murmurs he, somewhat sadly, "your
recovered health has restored to you your good-nature."
"It was not good-nature," I protest, eagerly, feeling strangely
inclined to cry. "I said it because I meant it. But come,"
hastily, fearing I have said too much, "dinner must be ready: we
had better go downstairs."
Marmaduke leaves the window, and moves toward the door, allowing
me to follow.
"Have you forgotten your manners?" I cry, playfully. "Will you
not conduct me downstairs? Give me your arm, 'Duke."
"Your spirits are very high to-night, are they not?" he says,
smiling. "I am glad to see you so like your old self, as now I
can with a clear conscience leave home."
"Are you leaving?"
"Yes. You know I promised myself to go abroad in the autumn. I
will arrange with Billy or your mother to stay with you while I
am away."
"If you are going, well and good," I return, quietly, "but do not
arrange matters for me. I will have no one to stay with me in
your absence."
"What! not even Billy?"
"Not even Billy," I say firmly.
---
We get through dinner almost without a comment. My sudden
overflow of geniality has entirely forsaken me. I am as mute, as
depressed, as in those first days at Hazelton.
Rising from the table as soon as custom will permit me I make my
way to the drawing-room, where I sit in moody discontent.
I am wretched--most miserable; doubly so in that I can see no
plan of escape from my troubles lying clear before me. I rest my
aching head on my hands and try to think; bit always his saddened
face and averted eyes are to be seen. We are so close, yet so
divided. Only a wall or two, a door, a passage, but miles might
be said to separate us, so far apart are we in sympathy. At this
moment I know he is sitting in the library, silent,
companionless.
And then a great desire rises within me. Throwing aside my book,
with a nervous determination, I walk down the drawing-room,
through the door, across the hall, never pausing until I find
myself before the library door.
I knock hurriedly, lest by any chance my ebbing courage should
entirely evaporate; and my heart almost dies within me, as the
well-known voice calls out, "Come in."
I open, and advance a few steps into the room. A slight fire is
burning in the grate it is the beginning of September, and
already the evenings show symptoms of coming cold; Marmaduke is
seated at the table, busily engaged, with writing materials all
around him.
"What is it, Phyllis?" he asks, expectantly, the pen still in his
hand.
"Oh, nothing," I return, awkwardly, failing miserably as I come
to the point; "nothing to signify; another time will do. You are
busy now. What are you writing, 'Duke?"
"I was drawing out my will," he replies, smiling. "I thought it
better to do so before leaving home for--for an indefinite time.
No one knows what may happen. I am glad you have come in just
now, as you may as well hear what I have written and see if you
wish anything altered. Now listen."
"I will not!" I cry petulantly. "I hate wills and testaments, and
all that kind of thing. I won't listen to a word of it; and--and
I hope with all my heart _I_ shall die before you."
"My dear Phyllis," then quickly, "you are excited; you have
something on your mind. What did you come to me for just now,
Phyllis? tell me."
Now or never. I am conscious of a chill feeling at my heart, but
I close one hand over the other tightly and, thus supported, go
on bravely.
"Yes, I did come to tell you something. That--that I love you.
And oh, 'Duke--if you leave me again, you will kill me."
Here I burst into a perfect passion of weeping, and cover my face
with my hands.
There is not a movement in the room, not a sound, except my heavy
bursting sobs. Then some one puts an arm round me, and presses my
head down upon his breast, I look up into Marmaduke's face. He is
white as death; and though he is evidently putting a terrible
restraint upon himself, I can see that his lips, beneath his fair
moustache, are trembling.
"You are tired, Phyllis, over-fatigued," he says, soothingly.
"Lie still here, and you will be better presently."
"It is not that," I cry passionately, "not that at all. Oh,
Marmaduke, hear me now: do not punish me for my past coldness. I
love you with all my heart; try to believe me."
"I cannot," he whispers, huskily, "I have been too long living in
the other belief. To hope again, only to be cast down, would be
my death. I do not dare imagine it possible you love me."
"But I do! I do!" I sob, piteously, flinging my arms around his
neck. "I always, always liked you better than any one else, but
during these past few months I have learned to love you so well
that I cannot be happy without you. When I heard you say this
evening you intended leaving me again, I thought my heart would
have broken."
Turning up my face so that the full glare of the lamp falls upon
it, Marmaduke gazes at me as though he would read the innermost
workings of my heart.
"Is this the truth?" he asks. "Are you sure you are not deceiving
yourself and me?"
"Must I say it again? Can you not see by me how it is?" I answer,
still crying: I am a perfect Niobe by this time, and am dismally
conscious that the tip of my nose is degenerating into a warm
pink. "I am sure I am unhappy enough for anything."
Not noticing the rather ungracious tendency of this last remark,
'Duke draws me closer to him, and, stooping his head, presses his
cheek to my wet one.
"My love! my life!" he whispers, and holds me as though he never
meant again to let me go.
We are quite silent for a few minutes--during which a great
content, such as I have never before know creeps into my heart.
Then 'Duke, with a long, happy sigh, partly releases me. His
eyelashes I can see are wet with tears, but there is the very
sweetest and tenderest smile upon his lips. "I have not waited in
vain," he says. "At last I can call you mine; at last: and just
when I had given up all hope--darling--darling!"
It is half an hour later, and we are now thoroughly comfortable,
full of rest and quiet joy.
We are sitting before the library fire, I on a low stool, with my
head leaning against 'Duke's knee, he with one hand round my
neck, while with the other he every now and then ruffles, or, as
he fondly believes, smoothes, my "nut-brown locks." For the last
three or four minutes no words have passed between us. I think we
are too happy to give way to the mere expression of our feelings.
Suddenly, all in one moment, as it seems to us, without any
warning, we hear a loud voice outside the door, a heavy footstep,
a rapid turning of the handle, and George Ashurst is in the room.
I make one desperate effort to rise and recover the dignity my
attitude has destroyed, but Duke, with a strong detaining grasp,
prevents me. I get only as far as my knees, and from that
position glare at my brother-in-law as though I would willingly
devour him.
"I took your offer of a bed, after all," he is beginning, when
something in the situation strikes him as odd. He meets my eyes,
and breaks down. "Oh, ah! I had no idea--I didn't know, you
know." He stops, hopelessly, looking as ludicrously silly and
puzzled as even I could wish him.
"Neither did I," declares Marmaduke, with a laugh, "until half an
hour ago. But it is all right, Ashurst; we have made it up; and
when I do go abroad, I will take my wife with me."
"Didn't I tell you all along how it was?" cries George,
enthusiastically (he had not; but by a superhuman effort I
refrain from contradicting him). "I declare to you," says he
subsiding into a chair, "I was never so glad of anything in all
my life before."
There is a minute's pause. Then 'Duke, turning, lays a light
caressing touch upon my shoulder as I kneel beside him. He speaks
in a very low tone.
"We are all very glad, I think--and thankful," he says, with the
softest, tenderest smile.
All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow;
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing;
All the dull, deep pain, and constant, anguish of patience!