WAITING FOR HIM.
Never had June seen such roses, never had lilies opened such white
chalices, never had the trees looked so green, or the grass so long and
thick, never had the birds sung as they sung this June, never had the
light of the sun been so golden bright. The smile of the beautiful
summer lay over the land, but in no place was it so fair as in River
View. It was a scene like fairyland.
So Leone thought it as she watched day by day the beauty of blossom and
leaf. It was in the month of May she first began to watch the signs of
coming summer; with the first breath of the hawthorn, her heart grew
light and a new beauty of hope came in her face. It was May and he was
coming in June. She worked harder than ever. She rose early and retired
late; these months of hard study and hard reading had changed her more
than she knew herself. One year ago she had risen a beautiful, strong,
healthy girl, full of fire, and life, and power. Now she was a refined,
intellectual woman, full of genius and talent, full of poetry and
eloquence, full of originality and wit; then she was a girl to be
admired, now she was a woman who could rule a kingdom, whose power was
unlimited.
She had acquired more in these few months of study than some people
learn in years. She knew how great his delight would be, and she smiled
to think how entirely at her ease she should be, even with his stately
lady mother; she should feel no great awe of her in the future, for if
Heaven had not given her the position of a lady by birth, she had made
herself one by study and refinement.
So he was coming, and their real married life was to begin. She thought
with a shudder of the pain she had passed through, of the horror of that
terrible discovery. It was all over now, thank Heaven. It had never been
any brand or stigma to her; she had never felt any false shame over it;
she had never bowed her bright head as though a blight had passed over
her. She said to herself it was not her fault, she was not in the least
to blame. She had believed herself in all honor to be the wife of Lord
Chandos, and she could not feel that the least shadow of blame rested on
her.
He was coming home. Through the long hours of the summer day, she
thought of nothing else. True, since the month of June, his letters had
been very few and much cooler. True, it had been a severe shock to her,
to hear that he had gone to Nice; but, as his letter said nothing of
Lady Marion, and she knew nothing even of the existence of such a
person, that did not matter. Why had he gone to Nice when June was so
near? She wrote to him to ask the question, but his answer was: Because
his parents had gone there. Then she said no more; that seemed quite
natural. The only thing that occurred to her was, he would have a longer
journey in June; he would come to her as he had promised, but he would
take a longer time in traveling.
Lose faith in him! She flung back her head, with a bright, proud laugh.
No, nothing could shake her faith in him; his proud lady mother had
managed to get him under her influence--what did that matter? He loved
her and her alone. She remembered the words spoken on her wedding-day;
when she had asked him if he was quite sure their marriage was legal,
his answer was, "Yes, and that nothing could part them except death."
How well she remembered those words, "except death"! He had taken her in
his arms and kissed her, as though even death itself should not claim
her. No shadow of fear entered her mind. She knew that he would come, as
surely as she knew that the sun would rise and the day would dawn.
The thirtieth of June. No gift of second sight came to her, to tell her
that on the twenty-seventh of June Lord Chandos had sat down and wrote
her a very long letter, telling her that it was impossible for him to be
at home on the thirtieth of June, as he had promised to go with his
parents to Spain. A large party were going, and he must join them; but
his heart would be with her on that day. He should think of her from
morning dawn until sunset, and he would be with her soon. He was vexed
that he had to take the journey; it was quite against his will, yet he
had been over-persuaded. He should soon see her now; and, whatever he
did, she must not feel in the least degree distressed, or put about.
Their happiness was only delayed for a short time.
A long letter. She had no gift of second sight; she could not see that
his face burned with a shameful flush as he wrote it; that for himself
he had no pity; that his heart went out to her with a warmer love than
ever, but that the fear of his mother's taunts and the pain on Lady
Marion's face kept him where he was.
Then, when the long letter was written, he directed it and sent it by
his valet to post; nor could she see how that same valet intended going
to post it at once, but was prevented, and then laid it aside for an
hour, as he thought, and forgot it for two whole days; then, fearing his
master's anger, said nothing about it, trusting that the delay might be
attributed to something wrong in the post; and so, on the very day it
should have been given to her, it was put into the post-office, three
days too late. She could not know all this, and she longed for the
thirtieth of June as the dying long for cold water, as the thirsty hart
for the clear spring.
It came. She had longed for it, waited for it, prayed for it, and now it
was here. She awoke early in the morning; it was to her as though a
bridegroom were coming; the song of the birds woke her, and they seemed
to know that he was coming--they were up and awake in the earliest dawn.
Then a great flood of golden sunlight came to welcome her; she hastened
to the window to see what the day was like, and whether the sky was
blue. It seemed to her that every little bird sung, "He is coming."
Here were the roses laughing in at the window, nodding as though they
would say, "This is the thirtieth of June." There flashed the deep,
clear river, hurrying on to the great sea over which he must have
crossed; the wind whispered among the leaves, and every leaf had a
voice. "He is coming to-day," they all said--"coming to-day."
There was a great stir even at that early hour in the morning between
the white and purple butterflies; there was a swift, soft cooing from
the wood-pigeons; the world seemed to laugh in the warm embrace of the
rising sun. She laughed too--a sweet, happy laugh that stirred the rose
leaf and jasmine.
"Oh, happy day!" she cried--"oh, kindly sun and kindly time, that brings
my love back to me."
She looked at the gate through which he would pass--at the rose tree
from which he would gather the rose; and she stretched out her hands
with a great, longing cry.
"Send him quickly--oh, kind Heaven!" she cried. "I have waited so long,
my eyes ache to look at him. I thirst for his presence as flowers thirst
for dew."
She looked at her watch, it was but just six--the laborers were going to
the field, the maids to the dairy, the herdsmen to their flocks. She
could see the hay-makers in the meadow, and the barges dropped lazily
down the stream. The time would soon pass and he would be here before
noon. Could it be possible that she should see him so soon?
"In six hours," she repeated, "she should see him in six hours."
Ah, well, she had plenty to do. She went round the pretty villa to see
if everything was as he liked best to see it, then she occupied herself
in ordering for his enjoyment every dish that she knew he liked; and
then she dressed herself to sit and wait for him at the window. She
looked as though she had been bathed in dew and warmed by the golden
sun, so bright, so sparkling, so fresh and brilliant, her eyes radiant
with hope and love, the long, silken lashes like fringe, the white lids
half-drooping, her face, with its passionate beauty heightened by the
love that filled her heart and soul. She wore a dress of amber muslin
with white lace, and in the rich masses of her dark hair lay a creamy
rose. Fair and bright as the morning itself she took her place at the
window to watch the coming of him who was so many miles away. It is thus
women believe men, it is thus that men keep the most solemn vows that
they can make.
The maid who brought her tea wondered why her young mistress chose to
sit at the window to drink it; indeed, she started with wonder at the
brilliant beauty of the face turned to her.
It struck her now that she might in very truth begin to expect him; the
sun was growing warmer, the flowers were wide awake, the brown bees were
busy among the carnations, the birds had done half their day's work;
some of the tall-plumed lilacs were beginning to droop, and the white
acacia blossoms had fallen on the long grass. Her whole soul in her
eyes, and those eyes fixed longingly on the white gate, she sat there
until noon.
Great city bells rang out the hour; in the villages it was told by sweet
old chimes. The hay-makers sat down to rest, the butterflies rested in
the great hearts of the red roses, the bees settled in the carnations,
the languid, odorous wind was still while the strokes rang out one after
another--fragrant, sunny, golden noon.
He had not come; but every moment was bringing him nearer. Some one
brought her a glass of wine, some fruit and biscuits. She would not
touch them because she would not take her eyes from the white gate
through which he had to pass.