CLOUDS BREAKING.
The next morning Amy Waring came to Hope Wayne radiant with the prospect
of her Aunt Martha's restoration to the world. Hope shook her hand
warmly, and looked into her friend's illuminated face.
"She is engaged to Lawrence Newt," said Hope, in her heart, as she kissed
Amy's lips.
"God bless you, Amy!" she added, with so much earnestness that Amy looked
surprised.
"I am very glad," said Hope, frankly.
"Why, what do you know about it?" asked Amy.
"Do you think I am blind?" said Hope.
"No; but no eyes could see it, it was so hidden."
"It can't be hidden," said Hope, earnestly.
Amy stopped, looked inquiringly at her friend, and blushed--wondering
what she meant.
"Come, Hope, at least we are hiding from each other. I came to ask you to
a family festival."
"I am ready," answered Hope, with an air of quiet knowledge, and not at
all surprised. Amy Waring was confused, she hardly knew why.
"Why, Hope, I mean only that Lawrence Newt--"
Hope Wayne smiled so tenderly and calmly, and with such tranquil
consciousness that she knew every thing Amy was about to say, that Amy
stopped again.
"Go on," said Hope, placidly; "I want to hear it from your own lips."
Amy Waring was in doubt no longer. She knew that Hope expected to hear
that she was engaged. And not with less placidity than Hope's, she said:
"Lawrence Newt wants us all to come and dine with him, because my Aunt
Martha is found, and he wishes to bring Aunt Bennet and her together."
That was all. Hope looked as confusedly at the calm Amy as Amy, a moment
since, had looked at her. Then they both smiled, for they had, perhaps,
some vague idea of what each had been thinking.
The same evening the Round Table met. Arthur Merlin came early--so did
Hope Wayne. They sat together talking rapidly, but Hope did not escape
observing the unusual sadness of the artist--a sadness of manner rather
than of expression. In a thousand ways there was a deference in his
treatment of her which was unusual and touching. She had been very sure
that he had understood what she meant when she spoke to him with an air
of badinage about his picture. And certainly it was plain enough. It was
clear enough; only he would not see what was before his eyes, nor hear
what was in his ears, and so had to grope a little further until Lawrence
Newt suddenly struck a light and showed him where he was.
While they were yet talking Lawrence Newt came in. He spoke to Amy
Waring, and then went straight up to Hope Wayne and put out his hand with
the old frank smile breaking over his face. She rose and answered his
smile, and laid her hand in his. They looked in each other's eyes; and
Lawrence Newt saw in Hope Wayne's the beauty of a girl that long ago, as
a boy, he had loved; and in his own, Hope felt that tenderness which had
made her mother's happiness.
It was but a moment. It was but a word. For the first time he said,
"Hope."
And for the first time she answered,
"Lawrence."
Amy Waring heard them. The two words seemed sharp: they pierced her
heart, and she felt faint. The room swam, but she bit her lip till the
blood came, and her stout heart preserved her from falling.
"It is what I knew: they are engaged."
But how was it that the manner of Lawrence Newt toward herself was never
before more loyal and devoted? How was it that the quiet hilarity of the
morning was not gone, but stole into his conversation with her so
pointedly that she could not help feeling that it magnetized her, and
that, against her will, she was more than ever cheerful? How was it that
she knew it was herself who helped make that hilarity--that it was not
only her friend Hope who inspired it?
They are secrets not to be told. But as they all sat around the table,
and Arthur Merlin for the first time insisted upon reading from Byron,
and in his rich melancholy voice recited
"Though the day of my destiny's over,"
It was clear that the cloud had lifted--that the spell of constraint
was removed; and yet none of them precisely understood why.
"To-morrow, then," said Lawrence Newt as they parted.
"To-morrow," echoed Amy Waring and Hope Wayne.
Arthur Merlin pulled his cap over his eyes and sauntered slowly homeward,
whistling musingly, and murmuring,
"A bird in the wilderness singing,
That speaks to my spirit of thee."
His Aunt Winnifred heard him as he came in. The good old lady had placed
a fresh tract where he would be sure to see it when he entered his room.
She heard his cautious step stealing up stairs, for the painter was
careful to make no noise; and as she listened she drew pictures upon her
fancy of the scenes in which her boy had been mingling. It was Aunt
Winnifred's firm conviction that society--that is, the great world of
which she knew nothing--languished for the smile and presence of her
nephew, Arthur. That very evening her gossip, Mrs. Toxer, had been in,
and Aunt Winnifred had discussed her favorite theme until Mrs. Toxer went
home with a vague idea that all the young and beautiful unmarried women
in the city were secretly pining away for love of Arthur Merlin.
"Mercy me, now!" said Aunt Winnifred as she lay listening to the creaking
step of her nephew. "I wonder what poor girl's heart that wicked boy has
been breaking to-night;" and she turned over and fell asleep again.
That young man reached his room, and struck a light. It flashed upon a
paper. He took it up eagerly, then smiled as he saw that it was a tract,
and read, "A word to the Unhappy."
"Dear Aunt Winnifred!" said he to himself; "does she think a man's griefs
are like a child's bumps and bruises, to be cured by applying a piece of
paper?"
He smiled sadly, with the profound conviction that no man had ever before
really known what unhappiness was, and so tumbled into bed and fell
asleep. And as he dreamed, Hope Wayne came to him and smiled, as Diana
smiled in his picture upon Endymion.
"See!" she said, "I love you; look here!"
And in his dream he looked and saw a full moon in a summer sky shining
upon a fresh grave upon a hill-top.