Part 29 (1/2)

”The glory of life, the beauty of the world,”

that he had dared to dream wild and impossible dreams? He had set out that morning with a certain masterful sense that he would face his fate.

He had ”taken the world for his pillow,” as the Gaelic stories say. But at this sudden revelation of the incomparable grace, and self-possession, and high loveliness of this beautiful creature, all his courage and hopes fled instantly, and he could only stammer out excuses for his calling so early. He was eagerly trying to make himself out an ordinary visitor. He explained that he did not know but that she might be going to the theatre during the day. He was in London for a short time on business. It was an unconscionable hour.

”But I am so glad to see you!” she said, with a perfect sweetness, and her eyes said more than her words. ”I should have been really vexed if I had heard you had pa.s.sed through London without calling on us. Won't you sit down?”

As he sat down, she turned for a second, and without any embarra.s.sment shut the big book that had been lying open on the table.

”It is very beautiful weather,” she remarked--there was no tremor about _her_ fingers, at all events, as she made secure the brooch that fastened the simple morning-dress at the neck, ”only it seems a pity to throw away such beautiful suns.h.i.+ne on withered gardens and bare trees.

We have some fine chrysanthemums, though; but I confess I don't like chrysanthemums myself. They come at a wrong time. They look unnatural.

They only remind one of what is gone. If we are to have winter, we ought to have it out and out. The chrysanthemums always seem to me as if they were making a pretence--trying to make you believe that there was still some life left in the dead garden.”

It was very pretty talk, all this about chrysanthemums, uttered in the low-toned, and gentle, and musical voice; but somehow there was a burning impatience in his heart, and a bitter sense of hopelessness, and he felt as though he would cry out in his despair. How could he sit there and listen to talk about chrysanthemums? His hands were tightly clasped together; his heart was throbbing quickly; there was a humming in his ears, as though something there refused to hear about chrysanthemums.

”I--I saw you at the theatre last night,” said he.

Perhaps it was the abruptness of the remark that caused the quick blush.

She lowered her eyes. But all the same she said, with perfect self-possession,--

”Did you like the piece?”

And he, too: was he not determined to play the part of an ordinary visitor?

”I am not much of a judge,” said he, lightly. ”The drawing-room scene is very pretty. It is very like a drawing-room. I suppose those are real curtains, and real pictures?”

”Oh yes, it is all real furniture,” said she.

Thereafter, for a second, blank silence. Neither dared to touch that deeper stage question that lay next their hearts. But when Keith Macleod, in many a word of timid suggestion, and in the jesting letter he sent her from Castle Dare, had ventured upon that dangerous ground, it was not to talk about the real furniture of a stage drawing-room.

However, was not this an ordinary morning call? His manner--his speech--everything said so but the tightly-clasped hands, and perhaps too a certain intensity of look in the eyes, which seemed anxious and constrained.

”Papa, at least, is proud of our chrysanthemums,” said Miss White, quickly getting away from the stage question. ”He is in the garden now.

Will you go out and see him? I am sorry Carry has gone to school.”

She rose. He rose also, and he was about to lift his hat from the table, when he suddenly turned to her.

”A drowning man will cry out; how can you prevent his crying out?”

She was startled by the change in the sound of his voice, and still more by the almost haggard look of pain and entreaty in his eyes. He seized her hand; she would have withdrawn it, but she could not.

”You will listen. It is no harm to you. I must speak now, or I will die,” said he, quite wildly; ”and if you think I am mad, perhaps you are right, but people have pity for a madman. Do you know why I have come to London? It is to see you. I could bear it no longer--the fire that was burning and killing me. Oh, it is no use my saying that it is love for you--I do not know what it is--but only that I must tell you, and you cannot be angry with me--you can only pity me and go away. That is it--it is nothing to you--you can go away.”

She burst into tears, and s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from him, and with both hands covered her face.

”Ah!” said he, ”is it pain to you that I should tell you of this madness? But you will forgive me--and you will forget it--and it will not pain you to-morrow or any other day. Surely you are not to blame! Do you remember the days when we became friends? it seems a long time ago, but they were beautiful days, and you were very kind to me, and I was glad I had come to London to make so kind a friend. And it was no fault of yours that I went away with that sickness of the heart; and how could you know about the burning fire, and the feeling that if I did not see you I might as well be dead? And I will call you Gertrude for once only.

Gertrude, sit down now--for a moment or two--and do not grieve any more over what is only a misfortune. I want to tell you. After I have spoken, I will go away, and there will be an end of the trouble.”

She did sit down; her hands were clasped in piteous despair; he saw the tear drops on the long, beautiful lashes.