OLD LOVERS.
They stood under the shade of a tall drooping tree, starred with soft,
yellow blossoms, that rose out of a little jungle of tropical plants in
one end of the conservatory. Around them was the soft glow of moonlight,
literally shed from alabaster lamps.
From the distance came subdued bursts of music, and close by a fountain
sent its diamond drops through the neighboring blossoms, and their
bell-like tinkle sounded clear and silvery as they fell upon the
tesselated marble of the floor.
Of all places on earth, this was the brightest for a meeting of lovers.
But these two persons had grey hairs upon their temples, and a look of
such unutterable pain in their faces that all this perfume, and the
musical fall of water-drops, seemed but a mockery of something that had
been.
“You wished to speak with me,” said Herman Ross in a low, sad voice. “I
think we are alone here.”
“Yes, Herman!”
The man started. Something in the tone of Mrs. Lambert’s voice, as she
uttered the name, sent a pang through his whole system. Still he seemed
calm, and his voice changed but little when he spoke again.
“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
Ross asked this question earnestly, and his eyes dwelt on the troubled
face of the woman with almost imploring earnestness.
“Anything I wish to tell?” repeated the lady, with a startled look.
“What could I have, that you do not already know? I—I wished rather to
ask a question?”
“Well, I am here and have nothing to conceal.”
“Ah! how coldly you speak, Herman!”
“How else should I speak, Mrs. Lambert?”
“I do not know—I ought not to care; but I do—I do!”
The woman spoke with anguish; she did not weep, but there was something
more thrilling than tears in her voice.
“There was a time when I believed you,” said Ross.
“That was when I had a right to ask. Then you would have believed me
against the world.”
“Yes, I would have believed you against the whole world.”
“But now——”
“Now I believe nothing, without proof.”
“But I will believe you, asking no better proof than your bare word.”
“In what?”
The woman hesitated. In her first passion she had thought it an easy
thing to question him; but his chilling calm daunted her.
“Herman, tell me, and, oh! let it be truth! Do you love that girl?”
The woman clasped her hands, and wrung them together as she spoke. Ross
looked at her a moment in grave silence.
“I suppose you mean Miss Laurence.”
“Yes, I mean her.”
“You ask if I love her?”
“Yes, yes! Oh, tell me!”
Ross paused a moment, but he did not remove his eyes from the woman’s
face.
“Will you never speak?” she cried, passionately.
“You ask if I love this girl, and I answer. Is there any reason against
it?”
“You do! You do! And almost confess it to me?”
“To you, above all other persons, I deny any right to question me.”
“Right! I have no rights; only it would be merciful if you would set my
mind at rest.”
“But I do not wish to answer.”
“Oh, God help me! This is hard!” cried the woman, looking wildly around,
as if a power of help lay in the beautiful shrubs.
“Is this conscience?” said Ross, bending his eyes sternly upon her.
“Conscience! Conscience!”
“Madam, once for all, if you have anything to confess——”
“To confess!”
Mrs. Lambert’s face was white as snow; her lips grew cold, and her voice
failed.
“Confess, or confide. I am willing to use the softer term,” answered
Ross, touched, in spite of himself, by those contracted features.
“But I have nothing to confess, or confide—nothing!”
Ross turned away, bitterly disappointed. Something he had evidently
hoped to learn from the lady, which she either did not understand, or
purposely avoided.
“I ask you a question, vital to us both, and you refuse to answer,” said
the lady, still clasping her hands, where the jewels shone, and cut into
the tender flesh unnoticed, in her agony of impatience.
“First,” said Ross, sternly, “I will ask you a question.”
“Then, you will answer mine? Ask it! Ask it!” cried the lady.
Ross gave a glance around, as if fearing that they were not quite alone,
then he took the woman’s two hands in his, drew her, not unwillingly,
toward him, and whispered a few words. She uttered a low cry, wrung her
hands from his clasp, and stood mute and pale, gazing on him with a wild
gleam in her eyes, that shone like madness.
“Are you mad, or am I?” she exclaimed at last, pressing both trembling
hands on her bosom.
“The time of madness for me has long since passed,” said Ross; “but you
have not answered my question.”
“Answered your question! No, then! No, no! A thousand times no! I—I——”
Here the lady fell to trembling violently; for there was a look
of-unbelief in the man’s face, that struck her to the heart, and he
turned to leave her in silence. Then the old idea shot through her
brain, and she approached him closer.
“I have answered you. Now answer me. Do you love this girl, Eva
Laurence!”
“Yes!”
Ross spoke in a low distinct voice, which scarcely rose above the fall
of water-drops in the fountain; but it seemed to fill the whole
conservatory. The flowers, the water, and the moon-like lamps, had heard
it with herself, and seemed to rejoice over it—triumph over her. The
last hope went out from her heart then, and she believed herself to be
dying.