"O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"--SHAKESPEARE.
It is the gloaming,--that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all
the day. As yet, night crouches on the borders of the land, reluctant to
throw its dark shadow over the still smiling earth, while day is slowly,
sadly receding. There is a hush over everything; above, on their leafy
perches, the birds are nestling, and crooning their cradle songs; the
gay breeze, lazy with its exertions of the day, has fallen asleep, so
that the very grasses are silent and unstirred. An owl in the distance
is hooting mournfully. There is a serenity on all around, an
all-pervading stillness that moves one to sadness and fills unwittingly
the eyes with tears. It is the peace that follows upon grief, as though
the busy world, that through all the heat and turmoil of the day has
been weeping and groaning in anguish, has now for a few short hours
found rest.
The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington's garden, now that those gay
young sparks the bees have deserted them, are growing drowsy, and hang
their heavy heads dejectedly. Two or three dissipated butterflies, fond
of late hours and tempted by the warmth, still float gracefully through
the air.
Cecilia, coming down the garden path, rests her arms upon her wicket
gate and looks toward Chetwoode.
She is dressed in an exquisite white cambric, fastened at the throat by
a bit of lavender ribbon; through her gown here and there are touches of
the same color; on her head is a ravishing little cap of the mob
description, that lends an additional charm to her face, making her
seem, if possible, more womanly, more lovable than ever.
As she leans upon the gate a last yellow sunbeam falls upon her, peeps
into her eyes, takes a good-night kiss from her parted lips, and,
descending slowly, lovingly, crosses her bosom, steals a little
sweetness from the white rose dying on her breast, throws a golden shade
upon her white gown, and finally dies chivalrously at her feet.
But not for the dear devoted sunbeam does that warm blush grow and
mantle on her cheek; not for it do her pulses throb, her heart beat
fast. Toward her, in his evening dress, and without his hat, regardless
of consequences, comes Cyril, the quickness of his step betraying a
flattering haste. As yet, although many weeks have come and gone since
their first meeting, no actual words of love have been spoken between
them; but each knows the other's heart, and has learned that eyes can
speak a more eloquent language, can utter tenderer thoughts, than any
the lips can frame.
"Again?" says Cecilia, softly, a little wonder, a great undisguised
gladness, in her soft gray eyes.
"Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply.
He does not ask to enter, but leans upon the gate from his side, very
close to her. Most fair men look well in evening clothes; Cyril looks
downright handsome: his blonde moustache seems golden, his blue eyes
almost black, in the rays of the departing sun: just now those eyes are
filled with love and passionate admiration.
Her arms, half bare, with some frail shadowy lace falling over them,
look rounded and velvety as a child's in the growing dusk; the fingers
of her pretty, blue-veined hands are interlaced. Separating them, Cyril
takes one hand between both his own and strokes it fondly, silently, yet
almost absently.
Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his
expression, his eyes full of purpose. Instinctively she feels the
warmth, the tenderness of his glance, and changes from a calm lily into
an expectant rose. Her hand trembles within his, as though meditating
flight, and then lies passive as his clasp tightens firmly upon it.
Slowly, reluctantly, as though compelled by some hidden force, she turns
her averted eyes to his.
"Cecilia," murmurs he, imploringly, and then--and then their lips meet,
and they kiss each other solemnly, with a passionate tenderness, knowing
it is their betrothal they are sealing.
* * * * *
"I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago," he says,
presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this
shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes
ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this
_risque_ remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having
the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of
Cecilia!) never reproves him.
"Why?" she asks, smiling up at him.
"See how I have wasted seven good days," returns he, drinking in gladly
all the beauty of her face and smile. "This day last week I might have
been as happy as I am now,--whereas I was the most miserable wretch
alive, the victim of suspense."
"You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never
have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have
been so kind to you seven long days ago?"
"I know it,--because you love me."
"And how do you know that either?" asks she, with new-born coquetry that
sits very sweetly upon her. "Cyril, when did you begin to love me?"
"The very moment I first saw you."
"No, no; I do not want compliments from _you_: I want the very honest
truth. Tell me."
"I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your
arrival when I restored your terrier to you, I fell in love with you:
you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was
giving my heart also."
"No," in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, "how could
I? I am glad you loved me always,--that there was no time when I was
indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and
truest of all."
"You have the best of it, then, have you not?" with a rather forced
laugh. "Not only did I love you from the first moment I saw you, but you
are the only woman I ever really cared for; while you," with some
hesitation, and turning his eyes steadily away from hers, "you--of
course--did love--once before."
"Never!"
The word comes with startling vehemence from between her lips, the new
and brilliant gladness of her face dies from it. A little chill shudder
runs through all her frame, turning her to stone; drawing herself with
determination from his encircling arms, she stands somewhat away from
him.
"It is time I told you my history," she says, in cold, changed tones,
through which quivers a ring of pain, while her face grows suddenly as
pale, as impenetrable as when they were yet quite strangers to each
other. "Perhaps when you hear it you may regret your words of to-night."
There is a doubt, a weariness in her voice that almost angers him.
"Nonsense!" he says, roughly, the better to hide the emotion he feels;
"don't be romantic; nobody commits murder, or petty larceny, or bigamy
nowadays, without being found out; unpleasant mysteries, and skeletons
in the closet have gone out of fashion. We put all our skeletons in the
_Times_ now, no matter how we may have to blush for their nakedness. I
don't want to hear anything about your life if it makes you unhappy to
tell it."
"It doesn't make me unhappy."
"But it does. Your face has grown quite white, and your eyes are full of
tears. Darling, I won't have you distress yourself for me."
"I have not committed any of the crimes you mention, or any other
particular crime," returns she, with a very wan little smile. "I have
only been miserable ever since I can remember. I have not spoken about
myself to any one for years, except one friend; but now I should like
to tell you everything."
"But not there!" holding out his hands to her reproachfully. "I don't
believe I could hear you if you spoke from such a distance." There is
exactly half a yard of sward between them. "If you are willfully bent on
driving us both to the verge of melancholy, at least let us meet our
fate together."
Here he steals his arm round her once more, and, thus supported, and
with her head upon his shoulder, she commences her short story:
"Perhaps you know my father was a Major in the Scots Greys; your brother
knew him: his name was Duncan."
Cyril starts involuntarily.
"Ah, you start. You, too, knew him?"
"Yes, slightly."
"Then," in a curiously hard voice, "you knew nothing good of him. Well,"
with a sigh, "no matter; afterward you can tell me what it was. When I
was eighteen he brought me home from school, not that he wanted my
society,--I was rather in his way than otherwise, and it wasn't a good
way,--but because he had a purpose in view. One day, when I had been
home three months, a visitor came to see us. He was introduced to me by
my father. He was young, dark, not ugly, well-mannered," here she pauses
as though to recover breath, and then breaks out with a passion that
shakes all her slight frame, "but hateful, vile, _loathsome_."
"My darling, don't go on; I don't want to hear about him," implores
Cyril, anxiously.
"But I must tell you. He possessed that greatest of all virtues in my
father's eyes,--wealth. He was rich. He admired me; I was very pretty
then. He dared to say he loved me. He asked me to marry him, and--I
refused him."
As though the words are forced from her, she utters them in short,
unequal sentences; her lips have turned the color of death.
"I suppose he went then to my father, and they planned it all between
them, because at this time he--that is, my father--began to tell me he
was in debt, hopelessly, irretrievably in debt. Among others, he
mentioned certain debts of (so-called) honor, which, if not paid within
a given time, would leave him not only a beggar, but a disgraced one
upon the face of the earth; and I believed him. He worked upon my
feelings day by day, with pretended tears, with vows of amendment. I
don't know," bitterly, "what his share of the bargain was to be, but I
do know he toiled for it conscientiously. I was young, unusually so for
my age, without companions, romantic, impressionable. It seemed to me a
grand thing to sacrifice myself and thereby save my father; and if I
would only consent to marry Mr. Arlington he had promised not only to
avoid dice, but to give up his habits of intemperance. It is an old
story, is it not? No doubt you know it by heart. Crafty age and foolish
youth,--what chance had I? One day I gave in, I said I would marry Mr.
Arlington, and he sold me to him three weeks later. We were married."
Here her voice fails her again, and a little moan of agonized
recollection escapes her. Cyril, clasping her still closer to him,
presses a kiss upon her brow. At the sweet contact of his lips she
sighs, and two large tears gathering in her eyes roll slowly down her
cheeks.
"A week after my wretched marriage," she goes on, "I discovered
accidentally that my father had lied to me and tricked me. His
circumstances were not so bad as he had represented to me, and it was on
the condition that he was to have a certain income from Mr. Arlington
yearly that he had persuaded me to marry him. He did not long enjoy it.
He died," slowly, "two months afterward. Of my life with--my husband I
shall not tell you; the recital would only revolt you. Only to think of
it now makes me feel deadly ill; and often from my dreams, as I live it
all over again, I start, cold with horror and disgust. It did not last
long, which was merciful: six months after our marriage he eloped with
an actress and went to Vienna."
"The blackguard! the scoundrel!" says Cyril, between his teeth, drawing
his breath sharply.
"I never saw him again. In a little while I received tidings of his
death: he had been stabbed in a brawl in some drinking-house, and only
lived a few hours after it. And I was once more free."
She pauses, and involuntarily stretches forth both her hands into the
twilight, as one might who long in darkness, being thrust into the full
light of day, seeks to grasp and retain it.
"When I heard of his death," she says, turning to Cyril, and speaking
in a clear intense tone, "I _laughed_! For the first time for many
months, I laughed aloud! I declared my thankfulness in a distinct voice.
My heart beat with honest, undisguised delight when I knew I should
never see him again, should never in all the years to come shiver and
tremble in his hated presence. He was dead, and I was heartily glad of
it."
She stops, in terrible agitation. An angry fire gleams in her large gray
eyes. She seems for the moment to have utterly forgotten Cyril's
nearness, as in memory she lives over again all the detested past. Cyril
lays his hand lightly upon her shoulder, her eyes meet his, and then the
anger dies from them. She sighs heavily, and then goes on:
"After that I don't know what happened for a long time, because I got
brain-fever, and, but for one friend who all through had done his best
for me, I should have died. He and his sister nursed me through it, and
brought me back to life again; but," mournfully, "they could not restore
to me my crushed youth, my ruined faith, my girlish hopes. A few months
had changed me from a mere child into a cold, unloving woman."
"Don't say that," says Cyril, gently.
"Until now," returns she, looking at him with eyes full of the most
intense affection; "now all is different."
"Beloved, how you have suffered!" he says, pressing her head down again
upon his breast, and caressing with loving fingers her rich hair. "But
it is all over, and if I can make you so, you shall be happy in the
future. And your one friend? Who was he?"
She hesitates perceptibly, and a blush creeping up dyes her pale face
crimson.
"Perhaps I know," says Cyril, an unaccountable misgiving at his heart.
"Was it Colonel Trant? Do not answer me if you do not wish it," very
gently.
"Yes, it was he. There is no reason why I should not answer you."
"No?"
"No."
"He asked Guy to let you have the cottage?"
"Yes; I had wearied of everything, and though by some chance I had come
in for all Mr. Arlington's property, I only cared to go away and hide
myself somewhere where I should find quiet and peace. I tried several
places, but I was always restless until I came here." She smiles
faintly.
Cyril, after a pause, says, hesitatingly:
"Cecilia, did you ever care for--for--Trant?"
"Never: did you imagine that? I never cared for any one but you; I never
shall again. And you, Cyril," the tears rushing thickly to her eyes, "do
you still think you can love me, the daughter of one bad man, the wife
of another? I can hardly think myself as good as other women when I
remember all the hateful scenes I have passed through."
"I shall treat you to a crowning scene if you ever dare say that again,"
says Cyril, whose spirits are rising now she has denied having any
affection for Trant. "And if every relation you ever had was as bad as
bad could be, I should adore you all the same. I can't say any more."
"You needn't," returns she, laughing a little. "Oh, Cyril, how sweet it
is to be beloved, to me especially, who never yet (until now) had any
love offered me; at least," correcting herself hastily, "any I cared to
accept!"
"But you had a lover?" asks he, earnestly.
"Yes, one."
"Trant again?" letting his teeth close somewhat sharply on his under
lip.
"Yes."
"Cecilia, I am afraid you liked that fellow once. Come, confess it."
"No, indeed, not in the way you mean; but in every other way more than I
can tell you. I should be the most ungrateful wretch alive if it were
otherwise. As a true friend, I love him."
"How dare you use such a word to any one but me?" says Cyril, bending to
smile into her eyes. "I warn you not to do it again, or I shall be
dangerously and outrageously jealous. Tears in your eyes still, my
sweet? Let me kiss them away: poor eyes! surely they have wept enough in
their time to permit of their only smiling in the future."
When they have declared over and over again (in different language every
time, of course) the everlasting affection each feels for the other,
Cecilia says:
"How late it grows! and you are in your evening dress, and without a
hat. Have you dined?"
"Not yet; but I don't want any dinner." (By this remark, O reader, you
may guess the depth and sincerity of his love.) "We generally dine at
half-past seven, but to-night we are to starve until eight to oblige
Florence, who has been spending the day somewhere. So I dressed early
and came down to see you."
"At eight," says Cecilia, alarmed: "it is almost that now. You must go,
or Lady Chetwoode will be angry with me, and I don't want any one
belonging to you to think bad thoughts of me."
"There is plenty of time: it can't be nearly eight yet. Why, it is only
half an hour since I came."
"It is a quarter to eight," says Cecilia, solemnly. "Do go, and come
again as early as you can to-morrow."
"You will be glad to see me?"
"Yes, if you come very early."
"And you are sure, my own darling, that you really love me?"
"Quite, _quite_ sure," tenderly.
"What a bore it is having to go home this lovely evening!"
discontentedly. "Certainly 'Time was made for slaves.' Well,"--with a
sigh,--"good-night. I suppose I must go. I shall run down directly after
breakfast. Good-night, my own, my dearest."
"Good-night, Cyril."
"What a cold farewell! I shan't go away at all if you don't say
something kinder."
Standing on tiptoe, Cecilia lays her arms around his neck.
"Good-night, my--darling," she whispers, tremulously, and with a last
lingering caress they part, as though years were about to roll by before
they can meet again.