University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
ON A MAY EVENING.

The voice was like a fairy's; all the old Hall rang with it,
and the bright-winged birds without laughed gayly for pure,
honest, artist-joy at hearing it. Kate almost excelled herself;
but yet it was plainly without thought she sang, coming
along from the staircase, tripping toward the portico in
the mild, tender evening.

Upon that portico—the portico of Effingham Hall—sat
several of the personages who have illustrated this history—
contributing their gay utterances and honest countenances to
the narrative.

The Captain sat there, merrily laughing with Miss Henrietta,
who, ever and anon, tossed her bright laughing head,
scattering the snowy powder through the sun-flushed atmosphere,
as her admirer—nay, her lord to be—uttered some of
his jovial and heretical sentiments on the subject of the fair
sex. As for the Captain, he was plainly in a very joyous
mood, and vented more morbleus than ever graced that
ditty of the youthful poet, chronicling the journey to Mos
cow.

Near them sat—mirabile dictu—Lanky and his mistress.
This was a freak of the Captain, who, passing by the
Oldfield school in his fine chariot, had discovered Lanky
holding a confidential interview with Donsy after school
under an elm; and so, addressing the astonished Corydon
by the name of “villain,” brought him—nothing loth—and
Donsy with him, to the Hall; it being understood that the
chariot would have to return by nightfall round by Williamsburg.
Lanky looked amazed when he was spoken to, and
shook his pine knot head unconsciously, and regarded his huge
feet and striped stockings with the air of a bewildered scaramouch,

as the Captain afterwards confidentially informed
him. As for Donsy, she was a very quiet, well-bred little
lady, and answered everybody with soft courtesy and simplicity.
She was clad simply but very neatly, and seemed
to wish to be away with Lanky laughing and talking.

Behind all sat Mr. Effingham and Clare—silent; gazing
upon the fair spring sunset. It was not plain at first where
the soft little hand of Clare had betaken itself; but this
mystery upon a nearer scrutiny was soon explained. It
rested in his own.

Lastly, the squire read his brown, heavy-typed “Gazette,”
and grumbled at his Excellency; and from time to time
rolled back his wristbands and looked out upon the fields,
and spoke to Miss Alethea near.

So they sat, when Kate, singing like a bird, came to them;
and behind her, Will—Will, with devoted love; Will, with
perfect abnegation of his personal identity; Will, devoured
by his tender and everlasting devotion, which caused him to
blush, and cast beseeching glances, and extend his arms, and
only grasp the air. The rustle of a document shrined in his
bosom—so to speak—however, consoled him. And drawing
forth the true love indenture, he threw his eyes upon
that fascinating document, and seeing the signature, was
comforted.

Kate put her arms round Mr. Effingham's neck, covered
his eyes with her fingers, and his face was wrinkled into a
smile. He guesses very soon who it is; and she entreats
him and cousin Clare to come and see her fine new book,
given her by Willie.

They go into the library and admire the book: and Kate,
admiring it more, and clasping it to her breast, runs to show
it to Captain Waters and cousin Henrietta; still singing,
ever singing.

The light of the dying sun streams through the tall, old
windows on them, and the hand still nestles in his own.

They stand before the fireplace and gaze into each other's
faces, and unspeakable happiness lights up the tender lips of
Clare, the pale brow of her lover.

Again she speaks, in her low, tender voice, of all that
past which now is but a dream to them—almost a marvel.
Again, she tells him how she had thought of him through

all; and even when her rebellious woman's nature filled her
heart with bitterness toward him, and with resolutions never to
look upon him more, how still the old childhood had risen up
again, and how her feelings had all changed, and bitterness
gave way to pity for the wan face she had heard of, pity
finally to a love more deep than ever—what she speaks of now.

And so the sunset dies away in rosy splendor, laughing
through the woods: flaming on windows, gilding every brook;
and streaming on the gothic bookcases, and old carven
chairs, and on them as they stand before the fireplace, and
the portrait.

And gazing upon that portrait, the man's heart is melted
in his breast, and tears come to his eyes; and his heart is
full of holy love, and on his lips trembles a word which is
addressed to one far from him, past the sunset—“mother.”

He draws her head down on his bosom, and then pointing
to the picture, tells how he had thought to die when she
died; his dear mother, now an angel up in heaven; but that
God had let him live to cry for her like a little child, and pray
to be united to her once again; and now to have a bosom on
which even such tears as these might be wept trustingly,
without fear, ever.

And so the sunset streams upon them, going far away;
and as the red light dies, he draws her closer to him; and
his hand smooths her hair; and pressing on the pure white
forehead a long, tranquil kiss, he murmurs “Clare!”