"Tis but thy _name_ that is my enemy;--
Though art thyself though, not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is not hand or foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
----Doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
Even as water dropping on a granite rock will wear that rock away in
course of time, so, by the systematic tyranny of her parents, and by
their reiterated assurances, and even forged proofs, that Willie
Calderwood had fallen, sword in hand, at the battle of the Barricades,
was Annora worn and wearied into a state of acquiescence, in which she
accepted Mr. Elijah Howler as her husband.
This was the climax of years of a gloomy, sabbatical life, during which
the Judaical rigidity of religious observance made Sunday a periodical
horror, and Seafield Tower a daily hell.
So they were married, and he removed her from the tower to the adjacent
manse, from the more cheerful and ungrated windows of which she could
see in the distance the roofless turrets and open walls of Piteadie,
where the crows clustered and flapped their black wings, for the ruin
had become a veritable rookery.
The king was dead; he had perished on the scaffold, and Scotland, under
Cromwell and the false Argyle, was quiet, as we are told in that
poetical romance by Macaulay, entitled "The History of England."
On a Sunday in summer, in the year of Glencairn's rising in the north
for King Charles II., Annora sat in the Kirk of Calderwood about the
beginning of sermon. The reverend Elijah, with straight, lank hair, and
upturned eyes, Geneva bands and gown, after a glance at the dark oak pew
where his young bride and victim sat, like the spectre of her former
self, so pale, so crushed and heartbroken, twice repeated, in a dreary
and quavering tone, the text upon which he was about to preach, with
special reference to the rising in the north, inviting all sons of the
Kirk to arm against the loyal Highlanders--
"_He saith among the trumpets, Ha! ha! and he smelleth the battle afar
off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting! He is not affrighted,
neither turneth he back from the sword; he goeth forth to meet the armed
men._"--Job xxxix.
Having given this warlike text, he adjusted his cloak, and turned the
sand-glass, which, according to the fashion of those days, stood on the
reading-desk. The rustle of Bible leaves, as of those that lie strewn
in autumn, when gently stirred by the wind, passed through all the
church; but from Annora's trembling and wan fingers, her Bible fell
heavily to the ground.
At that moment a gaily-dressed young man, with the white rose in his
plumed hat and on his laced mantle, with slashed doublet and boots, as
he passed slowly up the aisle--the observed of all observers--as such
cavalier fripperies were supposed to have passed away with Montrose and
the king, stooped, and presented her with the fallen book.
Their haggard eyes met. He was pale even as death. A great wound, a
sword-cut that traversed his face like a livid streak, in healing, had
distorted the features; but like a glance of lightning that flashed into
her soul, she recognized Willie Calderwood!
She would have shrieked, but lacked the power; a little sigh could only
escape her, and so she swooned away.
There was a great commotion in the village kirk. She was borne forth
into the air, and laid for a time upon a throchstane, or altar tomb, and
was then conveyed to the manse, where she remained long as one on the
verge of madness or the grave. The face of Willie, so sweet, so sad and
earnest, but, alas! so sorely distorted, seemed ever before her,
together with his gallant air and courtly bearing, all of which were so
different from those of the sour-featured Whigs by whom she was
surrounded.
But she was informed by her younger brother, Philip, that she should
never see that face or bearing more, as her lover had come home, sorely
wounded and broken in health, not to seek vengeance on her or hers, but
only to die among his kinsmen, the Calderwoods of the Glen; and that he
had died there, three days after their meeting in the kirk; and was
buried at Eglise Marie, in the tomb of the lairds of Piteadie.
It was in one of the last evenings of autumn, when after hearing this
sorrowful narrative, and with it the knowledge that the only heart that
ever truly loved her was cold in the grave, that Annora--in the craving
for solitude and to be alone, left the old ivy-covered manse, and
passing through the garden, issued into the glebe--a spacious park,
surrounded by venerable trees--and seating herself upon a moss-grown
stile, strove to think calmly, if possible, and pray.
Resplendent in gold and purple, the sky threw out in strong contour the
summits of the Lomonds, from which the last rays of sunset had faded;
and where she sat alone. The darkness had almost set in, the woods were
so leafy and dense; yet in some places the twilight was liquid and
clear. The trees were already yellowing fast, and the sear and russet
leaves that had fallen before the strong gales that swept through the
Howe, or great midland valley of Fife, were whirling about the place
where she sat, as if to remind her that the year was dying.
Often in happier times had she wandered here with Willie, and the bark
of more than one tree there bore their names and initials cut by his
knife or dagger. The woodcock was seeking his nest in the hedges, and
the snipe and the wild coot were among the reeds and rushes of the loch
and burn; and Annora, as she gazed around her, thought sadly that it was
the autumn of a year of married misery, and the winter of her aching
heart.
Suddenly some mysterious impulse--for there was no sound but the sense
of something being nigh, made her look round, and then a start, a
shudder, convulsed her, rooting her to the spot; for there by the stile
whereon she sat was Willie Calderwood, looking just as she had seen him
last, in his cavalier dress, with plumed beaver and white cockade, long
rapier and short velvet mantle: but his features, when viewed by the
calm, clear twilight, seemed paler, his eyes sadder, and the sword wound
on his cheek more livid and dark.
He was not dead--he lived yet, and her brother Philip had deceived her!
She made a start forward, and then drew back, withheld by an impulse of
terror, and holding up her poor thin hands deprecatingly, faltered out--
"Oh! come not nigh me, Willie. I am a wedded wife."
"And false to me, Annora. Is it not so?" he asked, with a voice that
thrilled through her.
She wept, and laid her hands upon her crushed heart, while Willie's sad
eyes, that had a glare in them, caused doubtless by his wound, seemed to
pierce her soul; they seemed so bright, so earnest, and beseeching in
the autumn twilight.
"They told you I was false to you, or slain in France, and you believed
them?"
"I did, Willie," she sobbed, as she covered her face.
"I have lain on many a field, lassie, where the rain of heaven and the
wind of night swept over me--fields where the living could scarce be
kenned frae the dead, yet I was never slain."
"But, oh," she urged, "Willie, never, never will ye ken----"
"I ken a'! They told you that I was dead, too, and graved in yonder
kirk."
"They did, Willie dear--they did."
"Yet I am here before you. I came home to wed you, lassie, and to join
my Lord Glencairn in the north, and to fight against this accursed
Cromwell and his Puritans, but it maunna be," he added, sadly, in a
hollow tone.
"Oh, leave me, Willie, leave me. If you should be seen wi' me----"
"Seen!" he exclaimed, with a bitter laugh.
"Oh, leave me; for what seek ye here?"
"But a lock o' your bonnie hair, lassie--a lock to lay beside my heart."
Her scissors were at the chatelaine that dangled from her girdle; she
glanced fearfully at the windows of the manse, where lights were
beginning to glimmer; but undoing her hair, she cut a long and ripply
tress, and handed it to Willie. As she drew near, the expression of his
eyes again froze her blood, they seemed so sadly earnest and glazed; and
as his fingers closed upon the coveted tress, and touched hers, they
felt icy cold and clammy, like those of a corpse.
Then a shriek of terror burst from her, and falling on the grass, she
became senseless, and oblivious of everything.
For days after this she raved of her meeting with Willie Calderwood, and
of the lock of hair she had given him. Some thought her mind wandered;
but others pointed significantly to the facts that her scissors had been
found by her side, and to where a large tress had been certainly cut
from her left temple.
The young laird of Piteadie was assuredly dead, and buried among his
kindred in St. Mary's Chapel; but the age was one of superstition, of
wraiths, and omens; and people whispered, and shook their heads, and
knew not what to think, save that she must have seen a spectre.
Ere a week elapsed, Annora died quietly in her mother's arms, forgiving
and blessing her; but adhering to the story of the gift to her dead
lover. So strong at last grew the excitement in the neighbourhood that
some began to aver that he was not dead at all, but was leading a troop
of horse, under Glencairn, in the north.
Even those who had seen the funeral cortege issue from the House of the
Glen were so sceptical on the subject, that the tomb was opened by order
of the next heir, and there, sure enough, was the body of Willie
Calderwood; but the leaden cerements were rent from top to bottom, the
grave-clothes were all in disorder, and in the right hand was clenched a
long and silky tress of Annora's hair![*]
[*] The plough has recently uprooted the last stone of this old chapel;
but its name, corrupted into "Legsmalie," is borne by the field where it
stood.
How it came there none could say, though many averred it had been buried
with him at his own request, and was the gift of other years; but the
next heir, his nephew, William Calderwood, whose initials we may see
above the eastern gate of the old fortalice, when he repaired it in
1686, in lieu of the palm branch of his name, placed above the helmet an
arm and clenched hand, which holds a lock of hair--the same crest we all
saw this morning.
From that time the Moultrays of Seafield never prospered. The last of
the family was killed during the insurrection of 1715. Their line
passed away. It was long represented by the Moultrays of Rescobie, also
now extinct, and their tower is a crumbling ruin by the sea-shore.
* * * * *
Such was Cora's strange story, to which we all, myself included,
listened with attention, though, sooth to say, I had heard it frequently
before. Berkeley declared it to be "doocid good, but doocid queer."
In another land I was yet to hear a story still more gloomy and
improbable than this--a story to be related in its place, and in some
points not unlike the legend of the clenched hand.
While Cora had been rehearsing her gloomy story of the two ruined
towers, my eyes had scarcely ever wandered from Louisa Loftus, who, with
Miss Wilford and I, was seated in the same flirting, or tete-a-tete
chair, and who, on this night, was in all the pride of her calm, pale,
aristocratic beauty.
She was in the zenith of her charms; her figure, finely rounded, was
full--almost voluptuous; her features were remarkably expressive to be
so regular; and her eyes and glorious hair were wondrously dark when
contrasted with the pure whiteness of her skin.
Seated under the brilliant crystal gaselier, the fine contour of her
head, and the exquisite proportions of her bare shoulders and neck, on
which a circlet of brilliants sparkled, were seen to perfection, and I
felt bewildered while I watched her. Thus, I fear, Miss Wilford, in
whose blue eyes a mischievous expression was twinkling, did not find me
very entertaining company.
Down that fair neck a long black ringlet wandered, as if to allure, and
at times it almost touched, my hand. Intoxicated by her beauty and
close vicinity, I determined to do something to express my passion, even
if I should do it--miserable timidity and subterfuge--under cover of a
jest--a mockery.
Tremulously, between my fingers, unnoticed by others, I took the stray
ringlet, and whispered in her ears--
"A strange story, that of my cousin's, Lady Louisa."
"And the lock of hair! such a terrible idea!" said she, shuddering,
while her white shoulders and brilliants shone in the light together.
"Does it terrify you?"
"More than it gratifies me."
"As the chances are that I may be killed and buried in the East,
will--will you give me _this_ to lie in the trenches with me?" said I,
curling the soft ringlet round my finger, with mock gallantry, while my
heart beat wildly with hope and expectation.
She turned her dark, full eyes to mine, with an expression of mingled
surprise and sweetness.
"Take it _now_, Mr. Norcliff, for heaven's sake, rather than come for
it, as William Calderwood came," said the sprightly Miss Wilford, taking
a pair of scissors from a gueridon table that stood close by; and ere
Lady Loftus could speak, the dark ringlet was cut off, and consigned to
my pocket-book, while my lips trembled as I whispered my thanks, and
laughingly said--
"What says Pope?
'The meeting points the sacred hair dissever,
From the fair head for ever, and for ever.'"
"This is all very well, Mr. Norcliff," said she, laughing behind her
fan; "but I cannot submit to be shorn in jest, and shall insist on
having that lock of hair from you to-morrow."
She had a lovely smile in her dark eyes, and a half-pout on her
beautiful lip; but Cora--I know not why--looked on me sadly, and shook
her pretty head with an air of warning, that seemed as much as to say I
had erred in my gallantry, if not in my generalship.
That night my heart beat happily; I went to sleep with that jetty tress
beneath my pillow; thus, for me, Cousin Cora had not in vain told her
quaint old legend of "The Clenched Hand."
*CHAPTER X.*
I loved--yes. Ah, let me tell
The fatal charms by which I fell!
Her form the tam'risk's waving shoot,
Her breast the cocoa's youngling fruit.
Her eyes were jetty, jet her hair,
O'ershadowing face like lotus fair;
Her lips were rubies, guarding flowers
Of jasmine, dimned with vernal showers.
STONE TALK.
The next day was to see a crisis in my fate which I could not have
anticipated, combined with the narrow escape from mutilation or death of
more than one of our pleasant party assembled at the Glen.
With all the intensity of my soul, I wished to learn my chances of
success with the brilliant Lady Louisa, yet trembled to make the essay.
Why, or how was this?
Timid and irresolute, fearing to know the best or the worst from the
lips of a mere girl, I asked myself was it I--I, who, at the bombardment
of Rangoon, at the storm of the Dagon Pagoda, and in the night attack on
Frome, had feared neither the bullets nor poisoned arrows of the
two-sworded barbarians whom it was our ill-luck to encounter in those
tropical regions; I, who, without fear or flinching, was now ready to
meet the Russians in Turkey, or anywhere else; was it I that could not
muster hardihood to reveal the emotions, the honourable love, of an
honest heart? It was; and, at times, I felt inclined to utter a malison
on that which General Napier so truly and happily termed, "the cold
shade of aristocracy;" for that it was which chilled and baffled me.
In the drawing-room the first who met me was my Cousin Cora, looking
pale, but bright-eyed, with her pure complexion, and in all her morning
prettiness.
"Lady Loftus, I presume, has not appeared yet?" said I.
"It is always Lady Loftus with you, Cousin Newton," said she, pettishly,
"though you came here to see papa and me. What have you done with that
celebrated lock of hair? Put it in the fire, eh?"
"In the fire, Cora! It is here, in my pocket-book."
"Doubtless you are very proud of it?"
"I cannot but be, Cora," said I, taking her hands in mine, and drawing
her into the recess of an oriel window; "and she is herself so proud and
reserved. I am sure that she knows what you have seen, Cora; at least,
what my uncle says you have detected,--that--that----"
"What, Newton? How rambling and mysterious you are!"
"That I love her."
"You are sure she knows this?" asked Cora.
"Yes, my dear cousin; it is impossible that the regard with which she
has inspired me could fail to be known, seen, or felt by her--I mean
that it must have been apparent to her, by a thousand mute indications,
since we first met in England. It is so to you, is it not?"
"Ye--yes," replied Cora, with her face averted, for no doubt she was
smiling at my earnest simplicity.
"Do you think she would tolerate attentions that were valueless, or
would trifle with me?"
"I cannot say."
"But you are her particular friend. Oh, Cora, be mine too!"
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Cora, showing me still only her
pretty profile; "you cannot wish _me_ to propose to her for you?"
"No; but you hide your sweet face, Cora. You are laughing at me!"
"Oh, no, I am not laughing," replied Cora, in a rich, low tremulous
voice. "Heaven knows, Newton, how far my thoughts are removed from
laughter."
"And--what is this, Cora dear? Your eyes are full of tears!"
"Are they?" she exclaimed angrily, as she withdrew her hands from mine.
"Yes--ah, I see it all," said I, bitterly; "you know Lady Louisa's heart
better than I do, and deem my love for her a hopeless one."
"It is not so," replied Cora, while her cheek flushed, and, though her
long lashes drooped, an air of hauteur stole over her usually gentle and
lovable bearing. "I know nothing of the matter. Search her heart for
yourself; assist you I cannot; and what is more, Newton Norcliff," she
added haughtily, "I will not!"
"Cora!" I exclaimed, with surprise; "but be it so. Myself then must be
my own advocate, and if my love for Lady Louisa----"
What I was about to add, or how I meant to finish the sentence, I know
not, for at that moment she approached, with her calm, somewhat
conventional, but beautiful smile, to kiss Cora, and present her hand to
me. The rest of our party rapidly assembled.
Had she heard the _last_ words of my interrupted speech? I almost
feared, or rather hoped, that she had.
"This, I find, is to be the day of another expedition, Mr. Norcliff,"
she observed.
"So it appears. We are to see the Fifeshire hounds throw off at Largo
House; and afterwards we are to drive home by a circuit, through half
the country, to let Lady Chillingham see the scenery."
"In a January day!" drawled Berkeley. "Do we--aw--start before tiffin?"
"If by that you mean luncheon, I say after it, decidedly," said Lady
Chillingham, in her cool, determined manner, which few--the earl, her
husband, especially--could gainsay. "I have to write to my Lord Slubber
and others."
"Pardon me, my dear Lady Chillingham, but this arrangement is
impossible," said my uncle; "we must leave this in time to see the
hounds throw off."
"And the hour, Sir Nigel?"
"Sharp twelve. Binns will take luncheon for us in the boot of the drag.
Berkeley, you, I believe, are to don the pink, and ride with me. I
shall cross the country to-night, but not in my official capacity, as I
have not yet assumed all the duties appertaining to the honourable
office of the master of the Fifeshire hounds. And now to breakfast.
Lady Chillingham, permit me--your hand, and we shall lead the way."
"When I do take the hunting of the country into my own care," resumed my
uncle, "I shall show you as noble a pack as ever drew cover; ay, dogs as
smart as ever had their tails running after them, even before
cub-hunting begins next season; and so compactly shall they go, that a
tablecloth might cover them all when in full cry."
"By that time, uncle, I shall be testing the mettle of the Russian
cavalry; but my heart will be with you all here in Calderwood Glen."
Lady Louisa's eyes were upon me as I said this; their expression was
unfathomable, so I was fain to construe it into something sympathetic or
of interest in my fate.
The day was clear and beautiful; the air serene, though cold, and the
swelling outlines of the green and verdant hills were sharply defined
against the blue of the sky, where a few fleecy clouds were floating on
the west wind.
Our party lost no time in preparing for the expedition of the day, and,
ere long, the vehicles, the horses, and even the ladies, were all in
marching order. I had too much tact to attempt to engross Lady Loftus
at the beginning of the day; but resolved, as she was to be with "mamma"
in the drag, to become one of its occupants when returning home, if I
could achieve nothing better.
My man Pitblado, and other grooms, brought forth the saddled horses, and
my uncle appeared in a red hunting-coat, boots and tops, with whip and
cap complete, his cheek glowing with health and pleasure, and his eyes
sparkling as if he were again sixteen.
"By the way, Newton," said he, slapping his boot-tops, "that lancer
fellow of yours----"
"Willie Pitblado, my servant?"
"Yes, well, he has tumbled Lady Chillingham's French soubrette about, as
if he had known her from infancy; and what suits the meridian of
Maidstone barracks won't do at Calderwood Glen, so tell him. And now,
Mr. Berkeley, here are Dunearn, Saline, and Splinter-bar. You can have
your choice of cavalry; but shorten your stirrups. I always take the
leathers up two holes for hunting."
"Aw--haw, thanks," drawled this Dundreary (whose fashionable hunting
suit, in cut and brilliancy of colour, quite eclipsed the well-worn
costume of the jolly old baronet), as he proceeded leisurely to examine
the bridle and girths, observing the while to me--
"Louisa looks well this morning."
"Louisa!" I repeated, with astonishment: "is it the mare--her name is
Saline, so called from some hills in Fife--or whom on earth do you
mean?"
"Why, Lady Loftus, to be sure."
"And you speak of her thus freely or familiarly?"
"Ya--haw--yes."
"By Jove, you surprise me!"
"By what, eh?"
"Your perfect assurance, to be plain with you, my friend."
"Don't deem it such, my dear fellaw, though it is doocid dangerous when
one comes to speak of so charming a girl by her Christian name; it shows
how a fellaw thinks or _feels_, and all that sort of thing; do you
understand?"
"Not very clearly; but consider, Berkeley, what you are about, and don't
make a deucid fool of yourself," said I, with undisguised anger.
"No danger of that; but--haw--surely you are not spooney in that quarter
yourself? Eh--haw--if I thought so, curse me if I wouldn't draw stakes,
and hedge. You know that I like you, Newton; and your old uncle, Sir
Nigel, is a doocid good kind of fellaw--a trump, in fact," he added,
while lightly vaulting into his saddle, and gathering up his reins, but
eying me like a lynx, through his glass, as if to read my most secret
thoughts.
Disdaining to reply, I drew haughtily back.
"So-oh," said my uncle, who was now mounted. "I know that grey mare,
Saline, well; so, Mr. Berkeley, by gently feeling her mouth, and
grinding her up to the requisite pitch of speed, she'll soon leave the
whole field behind her."
Our party was numerous; including my uncle's guests, some thirty ladies
and gentlemen were about to start from the Glen. We were well off in
conveyances. There was the great old family carriage, cosily stuffed,
easily hung, pannelled and escutcheoned, with rumble and hammercloth;
there was a stately drag of a dark chocolate colour, with red wheels,
and a glorious team of greys; a dashing waggonette and tandem, with two
brilliant bays, that, in the shafts, were well worth three hundred
pounds each; and there was a dainty little phaeton, in which the general
was to drive Cora and Miss Wilford, drawn by two of the sleekest,
roundest, and sauciest little ponies that ever came out of Ultima Thule.
I was to drive the drag to the meet; and, after the hunt, Berkeley was
to meet us at a certain point on the Cupar Road, and drive the vehicle
home, if I felt disposed to yield the ribbons to him, which I had quite
resolved to do.
Of the noise and excitement, the spurring, yelping, and hallooing,
sounding of horns, and cracking of whips; the greetings of rough and
boisterous country friends; the criticisms that ensued on dogs, horses,
and harness; of how the cover was drawn, and the fox broke away; how
huntsmen and hounds followed "owre bank, bush, and scaur," as if the
devil had got loose, and life depended on his instant re-capture, and of
all the incidents of the hunt, I need give no relation here.
The afternoon was well-nigh spent before we saw the last of my uncle's
companions; and to the luncheon provided by Mr. Binns we had done full
justice, the roof of the drag being covered by a white cloth, and
improvised as a dining-table, whereon was spread a _dejeuner_ service of
splendid Wedgwood ware, the champagne sparkling in the sun, and the long
glasses of potash and Beaujolais foaming up for the thirsty; and Largo
Law, a green and conical hill, verdant to its summit a thousand feet
above the waters of the bay, was throwing its shadow to the eastward,
when we made arrangements for our return; and, thanks to dear Cora's
tact and management, rather than my own--for timidity and doubt
embarrassed me--I contrived to get Lady Louisa into the tandem. After
which, by giving a hint to Willie Pitblado, he managed to set the horses
kicking and plunging in such an alarming fashion that it was necessary
to give them their heads for a little way, as if to soothe their ruffled
tempers, just as he adroitly had got into the back seat.
Lady Chillingham, the M.P., the Misses Spittal, and Rammerscales were
all bundled into the drag; others were on the roof, great-coated or
well-shawled, for a cool drive home, and the whole party set out for the
Glen, _via_ Clatto and Collessie, a twenty-five miles' drive.
It was past the hour of three before all was packed up and we were all
ready to leave Largo. The grave old butler, Binns, looked at his watch,
and said--
"Mr. Newton, you know the route we go by."
"Yes; round by Dunnikier Law."
"That is the road Sir Nigel wished us to drive; but you'll require to
use your whip if we are to be home before dark."
"Never fear for that, Binns," said I, while leading the way in the
tandem with Lady Louisa beside me, and no attendant or other companion,
save Willie Pitblado, who had or had not ears and eyes just as occasion
required, Mamma Chillingham believing the while that she was with other
ladies in the close carriage.
"Keep a tight hand on the leader, sir," whispered Pitblado; "she's a
blood mare, rather fresh from the stall, and overcorned a bit."
"She is hard-mouthed," said I, "and pulls like the devil."
"As for the wheeler, I think the splinter-bar is too low, and she kicks
and shies at it; but the breeching is as short as we could make it.
Keep a sharp look out on both, sir," said he, warningly, and then
relapsed into apparent immobility.
For the _first_ time since our introduction had I been alone with Lady
Louisa--I say alone, for I did not count on my servant, who seemed
wholly intent on looking anywhere but at us, and chiefly behind, as if
to see how soon we could distance the four-in-hand drag and the rest of
our party.
The vehicle we occupied was a hybrid affair, which my uncle frequently
used, half gig and half dog-cart, four-wheeled, with Collinge's patent
axles, lever drag, and silver lamps, smart, strong, light, and decidedly
"bang up."
We went along at a spanking pace. My fair companion was chatty and
delightfully gay; her dark eyes were unusually bright, for the whole
events of the day, and the lunch _al fresco_, had all tended to
exhilaration of spirits.
She forgot what her rigid, aristocratic, and match-making mamma might
think of her being alone thus with a young subaltern of lancers; but
though her white ermine boa was not paler than her complexion usually
was, she had now a tinge, almost a flush, on her soft, rounded cheek
that made her radiantly beautiful, and I felt that now or never was the
time to address her in the language of love.