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Page 19
"Of me--you forget yourself, Dora!" cries Florence, with pale lips, but
head erect. "Speaking lightly of me!" she repeats.
"Young men are often careless in their language," explains Dora
hurriedly, feeling that she has gone too far. "He meant nothing unkind,
you may be sure!"
"I am quite sure"--firmly.
"Then no harm is done"--smiling brightly. "And now, good-night, dearest;
go to bed instead of sitting there looking like a ghost in those
mystical moonbeams."
"Good-night," says Florence icily.
There is something about her that causes Mrs. Talbot to feel almost
afraid to approach and kiss her as usual.
"Want of rest will spoil your lovely eyes," adds the widow airily; "and
your complexion, faultless as it always is, will not be up to the mark
to-morrow. So sleep, foolish child, and gather roses from your
slumbers."
So saying, she kisses her hand gayly to the unresponsive Florence, and
trips lightly from the room.
CHAPTER V.
Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. She
has thrown open the casement, and now--the sleeves of her dressing-gown
falling back from her bare rounded arms--leans out so that the
descending night-dews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.
She is wrapped in melancholy; her whole soul is burdened with thoughts
and regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed and
perplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the love
she once had deemed her own.
The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair falls
in a luxuriant shower about her shoulders; her plaintive face is raised
from earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfort
there.
The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long since
ceased their song; the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the stately
trees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats past
her and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar the
serenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.
Yet, hark, what is this? A footstep on the gravel path below arouses her
attention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and,
turning her head, glances in the direction of the sound.
Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as though
absorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward until
he stands beneath her window. Here he pauses, as though almost
unconsciously his spirit has led him thither, and brought him to a
standstill where he would most desire to be.
The moon, spreading its brilliance on all around, permits Florence to
see that his face is grave and thoughtful, and--yes, as she gazes even
closer, she can see that it is full of pain and vain longing.
What is rendering him unhappy on this night of all others, when the
woman she believes he loves has been his willing companion for so many
hours, when doubtless she has given him proofs of her preference for him
above all men?
Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian becomes conscious of the face in
the window above, and a thrill rushes through him as he recognizes the
form of the woman he loves.
The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so full of romance, that both their
hearts beat madly for awhile. They are alone; any one still awake within
the house is far distant.
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