I have said that Mary was romantic; and I don’t know that I could give
any clearer proof of the fact than this: as she lay sleepless that
night, reviewing the scenes and events of the last few months, and more
especially of the preceding day,—as she lay there silently pondering,
and realized that she knew nothing of the history, and was far from sure
that she knew even the name of the man to whom she had so thoroughly
committed herself,—she felt no wish that matters stood otherwise. Nay,
she even found herself rejoicing in the cloud of mystery that surrounded
her lover; and, to tell the truth, it was with a feeling of relief that
she had heard the sound of footsteps and the hum of voices, the day
before, announcing the return from the Hall, just as she had gathered
from the Don’s manner that he was on the verge of a revelation. But they
had been interrupted, and she had, for one more day, at least, the
privilege—a delicious one to a girl of her temperament—of allowing her
imagination, unshackled by hard fact, to play around this strangely
interesting man, who had shot like a meteor athwart her path. Singularly
enough,—or it would have been strange, did we not all know the
confidence without reserve which a woman ever places in the man to whom
she has given her heart,—strangely enough, Mary felt not the slightest
misgiving on the score of the revelation she had reason to look for on
the morrow. She had not the least dread that that revelation might prove
of such a character as to make imperative an instant breaking off of
relations with the Don. What she dreaded was the dispersal of her
illusions, the end of her sweet dreams. To-day she could
imagine—to-morrow she would know.
And so, next day, when our friends sallied forth for a walk, and it fell
out, partly through the manœuvering of Alice, that Mary and the Don
began to be farther and farther isolated from the rest, her heart began
to beat so quick and hard that utterance became difficult. Her
companion, too, seemed preoccupied, and their conversation became a
tissue of the baldest commonplace. At last he stood still, and with eyes
fixed upon the ground, was silent,—silent for an age, as it seemed to
Mary. At last he looked up.
“Mary,” he began,—it was the first time he had ever addressed her thus,
and her heart gave a quick beat of pleasure,—“Mary, there is something
I must say to you, and we could not find a better opportunity. There is
the Argo; let us take seats in it.”
She assented in silence and with a sudden sinking of the heart; for
there rushed before her mind, in tumultuous throng, all the dreadful
possibilities of the coming revelation.
“Is not this,” said she, as she took her seat upon one of the benches,
“the first visit that you and I have made to the ‘Fateful’?”
“‘The Fateful,’” she repeated to herself. Was the name ominous? And
she strove to hide, beneath a careless smile, the deep agitation that
she felt. “Do you know, I feel that I have a right to quarrel with you?
For I alone of all the girls have never been honored by you with an
invitation to visit the Argo. It almost looks like an intentional
slight. Was it?”
She was talking at random, hardly knowing what she said; anxious only to
put off for a few brief moments the explanation which she had suddenly
begun to look upon with genuine terror.
It is thus that, when, with swollen cheek, we have taken our seat in his
elaborate chair, we strive to delay the pitiless dentist (while he,
adamantine soul, selects from his jingling store the instrument most
diabolically suited to our case), happy with a happiness all too briefly
bright, if he will but turn and admit that the day is fine. [Jack’s
mocking pencil, again! I protest. _Alice._]
“Yes, it was intentional.”
She looked up.
“Well, not a slight, of course, but intentional.”
“Why? I cannot imagine.” But she did imagine why, though but vaguely.
“Ah! I am glad you ask that question. It enables me to begin.”
But he did not begin. He knit his brows instead, and fixed his eyes in
perplexity upon the shining sand. “I hardly know what to say to you.”
“Then don’t say anything,” exclaimed she, eagerly.
“Don’t say anything?”
“Well, not about _that_!”
“About _that_?”
“Well, you know—”
“Yes, I dare say we are both thinking about the same thing.”
“‘Great minds will,’ etc., you know—”
“Say loving hearts.” And he took her hand. “Yes, I admit that I have
studiously avoided finding myself alone with you.”
“Were you afraid of me? I am very little!”
“I was afraid of myself; yesterday proved how justly so.”
“Do you regret yesterday?”
“I am afraid I do not. But I ought to. I had no right to tell you I
loved you.”
“It is an inalienable right of every man to tell his love.”
“At any rate, I beg your pardon for having spoken mine.”
“I find forgiveness amazingly easy,” said she, laughing. Then,
seriously, “Indeed, your scruples are over-nice. The sweetest music that
can fall on the ear of a woman is, as Alice says, loving words. Why
should we be denied it? What else have we to live for?”
“But I owe it to you—”
“You owe me nothing!” exclaimed she, hastily.
“But I wish to tell you—”
“Tell me nothing! I know what you wish to say, but you shall not say
it,—not yet, at least.”
He smiled.
“No; I see you before me, hear your voice; I have known you, such as you
are, for months. I wish to know no more, just now. Let me dream on; do
not awaken me. Let me float on,” she continued, realistically clasping
the gunwale of the Argo, “over rose-tipped waves, careless what shores
lie beyond. Let me dream yet a little longer.” And rising from her seat,
she dropped on one knee in front of him, and bringing her two hands
together, placed them within his. “Not one word. I trust you; I am
_satisfied_,” said she, with a voice low yet ringing, ringing with proud
enthusiasm,—a voice full of strange thrills, vibrating, eloquent. This,
her speaking attitude, and the impassioned faith that illumined her
eyes, fired his breast with an indescribable glow of ecstasy. Pressing
her hands between his and raising his eyes, he exclaimed with a fervor
that was almost religious,—
“Adorable Mary! I have dreamed dreams, I have seen visions, but none
could compare with this!”
The exaltation of his voice, the spiritual glory of his upturned eyes,
the sudden burst of fervor, the overmastering force of his impetuous
manhood, hurried Mary’s imagination to giddy heights. She could have
fallen down and worshipped him.
“Come,” said he, more gently; “take that seat and listen to me for a
moment.”
She made as though she would place two fingers on his lips.
“No!” said he (placing his lips on the two fingers). “Since you wish it,
I will leave unsaid what I purposed saying. It is a strange whim on your
part, but an altogether charming one to me, since it gives me the right
to believe that you value me for myself alone. I shall, therefore,
respect this fancy of yours as long as you desire. But if I may not tell
you who I am, I may at least say what I am not. I am not an adventurer.
You toss your head; your faith is lovely, but you know I might have been
one. No? Well, at any rate, I am not. I am, in fact, your equal in
social position; so that, if you can spare a place for me in your heart,
without knowing who I am, you will not have to expel me when you
condescend to hear what I have to say.”
“Do you know,” said Mary, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, “I believe
you are just dying to tell me all about yourself?”
“And you wild to have me do so.”
The sun sparkled upon the River, the waves murmured softly at their
feet, beneath a gentle breeze laden with the mysterious breath of
awakening spring; and these two sat there bantering one another, like
children, gleefully. Mary no longer recognized the man who sat before
her. Every line had passed from his face; and but for his Olympic beard,
he might have seemed a great jolly boy just come home for his holidays.
She could not take her eyes off his face. She was scrutinizing it,
wondering where could be lurking those ambuscades of passion that she
thought she had detected more than once. And the fire-darting flashes,
where were they hidden, beneath those ingenuous glances, so tender, so
soft, so caressing?