"QUEEN AND HUNTRESS."
Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she had just scattered the
fragments of the drawing Arthur Merlin had given her. The night was soft
and calm, and trees, not far away, entirely veiled her from observation.
She thought how different this window was from that other one at home,
also shaded by the trees; and what a different girl it was who looked
from it. She recalled that romantic, musing, solitary girl of Pinewood,
who lived alone with a silent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years that
passed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She remembered
the dark, handsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate poems
that girl had read, and the wild dreams she had dreamed in the still, old
garden. In the hush of the summer twilight she heard again the rich voice
that seemed to that other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of the
verses, and felt the penetrating glance, that had thrilled the heart of
that girl until her red cheek was pale.
How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had never
whispered love! Because--because--
Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill as the
thought flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if straightened by a
sudden, sharp, almost insupportable pain--"because," she went on saying
in her mind, "had they done so, that other romantic, solitary girl at
Pinewood"--dear child! Hope's heart trembled for her--"might have
confessed that she loved!"
Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flushed,
and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor settled on her face, so
that if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana.
During the moment in which she thought these things--for it was scarcely
more--the little white bits of paper floated and fell beneath her. She
watched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but not thinking of
them. They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silently
they sank into the darkness below!
And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be with
that girl now? Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching her
young hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark?
She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room.
The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed through
the trees into her chamber.
But, she thought, since she did not--since the young girl dreamed,
perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might have
been--she has given nothing, she has lost nothing. There was a pleasant
day which she remembers, far back in her childhood--oh! so pleasant! oh!
so sunny, and flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when something came
that never comes--that never can come--but once.
She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yet
discover any signs of the scattered paper. She strained her eyes down
toward the ground. But it was entirely dark there. All the light was
above--all the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon.
She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, and covered it
with her hands. The low wind shook the leaves, and the trees rustled
softly as if they whispered to her. She heard them in her heart. She knew
what they were saying. They sang to her of that other girl and her
wishes, and struggles and prayers.
Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping--the spring freshet of
a woman's soul.
--She heard a low knock at the door. She remained perfectly silent.
Another knock. Still she did not move.
The door was tried.
Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing.
There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt:
"Miss Wayne, are you asleep? Please let me in."
It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the door, and Fanny
Newt entered. Hope sat down with her back to the window.
"I heard you come in," said Fanny, "and I did not hear you go out; so I
knew you were still here. But I was afraid you would oversleep yourself,
and miss the ball."
Hope replied that she had not been sleeping.
"Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?" said Fanny. "How
romantic!"
"Is it?"
"Yes, of course it is! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are romantic every evening.
He _will_ come and sit in the moonlight, and listen to the music. What an
agreeable fellow he is!" And Fanny tried to see Hope's face, which was
entirely hidden.
"He is my cousin, you know," replied Hope.
"Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship it is too," said
Fanny.
"How dangerous?"
"Why, cousins are such privileged people. They have all the intimacy of
brothers, without the brotherly right of abusing us. In fact, a cousin is
naturally half-way between a brother and a lover."
"Having neither brother nor lover," said Hope, quietly, "I stop half-way
with the cousin."
Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. "And you mean to go on the other
half, I suppose?" said she.
"Why do you suppose so?" asked Hope.
"It is generally understood, I believe," said Fanny, "that Mr. Alfred
Dinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beautiful and accomplished
cousin, Miss Hope Wayne. At least, for further information inquire of
Mrs. Budlong Dinks." And Fanny laughed again.
"I was not aware of the honor that awaited me," replied Hope.
"Oh no! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose--"
"My mind is as much in the dark as my body," said Hope. "I really do not
see the point of the joke."
"Still you don't seem very much surprised at it."
"Why should I be? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers."
"Exactly," said Fanny. "They've had me engaged to I don't know how many
people. I suppose they'll doom Alfred Dinks to me next. You won't be
jealous, will you?"
"No," said Hope, "I'll congratulate him."
Fanny Newt could not see Hope Wayne's face, and her voice betrayed
nothing. She, in fact, knew no more than when she came in.
"Good-by, dear, _à ce soir!_" said she, as she sailed out of the room.
Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she rang for candles, and
sat down to write a letter.