Dora Thorne [119]
arm gently.
"Hugh," she said, "I am here."
Before she could prevent him, he was kneeling at her feet. He had clasped her hands in his own, and was covering them with hot kisses and burning tears.
"My darling," he said, "my own Beatrice, I knew you would come!"
He rose then, and, before she could stop him, he took the shawl from her head and raised the beautiful face so that the moonlight fell clearly upon it.
"I have hungered and thirsted," he said, "for another look at that face. I shall see it always now--its light will ever leave me more. Look at me, Beatrice," he cried, "let me see those dark eyes again."
But the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and dread. In the excitement of his joy he did not notice it.
"Words are so weak," he said, "I can not tell you how I have longed for this hour. I have gone over it in fancy a thousand times; yet no dream was ever so bright and sweet as this reality. No man in the wide world ever loved any one as I love you, Beatrice."
She could not resist the passionate torrent of words--they must have touched the heart of one less proud. She stood perfectly still, while the calm night seemed to thrill with the eloquent voice of the speaker.
"Speak to me," he said, at length. "How coldly you listen! Beatrice, there is no love, no joy in your face. Tell me you are pleased to see me--tell me you have remembered me. Say anything let me hear your voice."
"Hugh," she answered, gently, drawing her hands from his strong grasp, "this is all a mistake. You have not given me time to speak. I am pleased to see you well and safe. I am pleased that you have escaped the dangers of the deep; but I can not say more. I--I do not love you as you love me."
His hands dropped nervously, and he turned his despairing face from her.
"You must be reasonable," she continued, in her musical, pitiless voice. "Hugh, I was only a dreaming, innocent, ignorant child when I first met you. It was not love I thought of. You talked to me as no one else ever had--it was like reading a strange, wonderful story; my head was filled with romance, my heart was not filled with love."
"But," he said, hoarsely, "you promised to be my wife."
"I remember," she acknowledged. "I do not deny it; but, Hugh, I did not know what I was saying. I spoke without thought. I no more realized what the words meant than I can understand now what the wind is saying."
A long, low moan came from his lips; the awful despair in his face startled her.
"So I have returned for this!" he cried. "I have braved untold perils; I have escaped the dangers of the seas, the death that lurks in heaving waters, to be slain by cruel words from the girl I loved and trusted."
He turned from her, unable to check the bitter sob that rose to his lips.
"Hush, Hugh," she said, gently, "you grieve me."
"Do you think of my grief?" he cried. "I came here tonight, with my heart on fire with love, my brain dizzy with happiness. You have killed me, Beatrice Earle, as surely as ever man was slain."
Far off, among the trees, she saw the glimmer of the light in Lord Airlie's room. It struck her with a sensation of fear, as though he were watching her.
"Let us walk on," she said; "I do not like standing here."
They went through the shrubbery, through the broad, green glades of the park, where the dew drops shone upon fern leaves and thick grass, past the long avenue of chestnut trees, where the wind moaned like a human being in deadly pain; on to the shore of the deep, calm lake, where the green reeds bent and swayed and the moonlight shone on the rippling waters. All this while Hugh had not spoken a word, but had walked in silence by her side. He turned to her at length, and she heard the rising passion in his voice.
"You promised me," he said, "and you must keep your promise. You said you would be my wife. No other man must dare to speak to you of love," he cried, grasping her arm. "In the sight of Heaven you are mine, Beatrice Earle."
"I am not," she answered proudly; "and
"Hugh," she said, "I am here."
Before she could prevent him, he was kneeling at her feet. He had clasped her hands in his own, and was covering them with hot kisses and burning tears.
"My darling," he said, "my own Beatrice, I knew you would come!"
He rose then, and, before she could stop him, he took the shawl from her head and raised the beautiful face so that the moonlight fell clearly upon it.
"I have hungered and thirsted," he said, "for another look at that face. I shall see it always now--its light will ever leave me more. Look at me, Beatrice," he cried, "let me see those dark eyes again."
But the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and dread. In the excitement of his joy he did not notice it.
"Words are so weak," he said, "I can not tell you how I have longed for this hour. I have gone over it in fancy a thousand times; yet no dream was ever so bright and sweet as this reality. No man in the wide world ever loved any one as I love you, Beatrice."
She could not resist the passionate torrent of words--they must have touched the heart of one less proud. She stood perfectly still, while the calm night seemed to thrill with the eloquent voice of the speaker.
"Speak to me," he said, at length. "How coldly you listen! Beatrice, there is no love, no joy in your face. Tell me you are pleased to see me--tell me you have remembered me. Say anything let me hear your voice."
"Hugh," she answered, gently, drawing her hands from his strong grasp, "this is all a mistake. You have not given me time to speak. I am pleased to see you well and safe. I am pleased that you have escaped the dangers of the deep; but I can not say more. I--I do not love you as you love me."
His hands dropped nervously, and he turned his despairing face from her.
"You must be reasonable," she continued, in her musical, pitiless voice. "Hugh, I was only a dreaming, innocent, ignorant child when I first met you. It was not love I thought of. You talked to me as no one else ever had--it was like reading a strange, wonderful story; my head was filled with romance, my heart was not filled with love."
"But," he said, hoarsely, "you promised to be my wife."
"I remember," she acknowledged. "I do not deny it; but, Hugh, I did not know what I was saying. I spoke without thought. I no more realized what the words meant than I can understand now what the wind is saying."
A long, low moan came from his lips; the awful despair in his face startled her.
"So I have returned for this!" he cried. "I have braved untold perils; I have escaped the dangers of the seas, the death that lurks in heaving waters, to be slain by cruel words from the girl I loved and trusted."
He turned from her, unable to check the bitter sob that rose to his lips.
"Hush, Hugh," she said, gently, "you grieve me."
"Do you think of my grief?" he cried. "I came here tonight, with my heart on fire with love, my brain dizzy with happiness. You have killed me, Beatrice Earle, as surely as ever man was slain."
Far off, among the trees, she saw the glimmer of the light in Lord Airlie's room. It struck her with a sensation of fear, as though he were watching her.
"Let us walk on," she said; "I do not like standing here."
They went through the shrubbery, through the broad, green glades of the park, where the dew drops shone upon fern leaves and thick grass, past the long avenue of chestnut trees, where the wind moaned like a human being in deadly pain; on to the shore of the deep, calm lake, where the green reeds bent and swayed and the moonlight shone on the rippling waters. All this while Hugh had not spoken a word, but had walked in silence by her side. He turned to her at length, and she heard the rising passion in his voice.
"You promised me," he said, "and you must keep your promise. You said you would be my wife. No other man must dare to speak to you of love," he cried, grasping her arm. "In the sight of Heaven you are mine, Beatrice Earle."
"I am not," she answered proudly; "and