24. CHAPTER XXIV.
“QUEEN AND HUNTRESS.”
Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she
had just scattered the fragments of the drawing Arthur Merlin
had given her. The night was soft and calm, and trees,
not far away, entirely vailed her from observation.
She thought how different this window was from that other
one at home, also shaded by the trees; and what a different
girl it was who looked from it. She recalled that romantic,
musing, solitary girl of Pinewood, who lived alone with a silent,
grave old nurse, and the quiet years that passed there
like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She remembered
the dark, bandsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate
poems that girl had read, and the wild dreams she had
dreamed in the still, old garden. In the hush of the summer
twilight she heard again the rich voice that seemed to that
other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of the verses,
and felt the penetrating glance that had thrilled the heart of
that girl until her red cheek was pale.
How well for that girl that the lips which made the music
had never whispered love! Because—because—
Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill
as the thought flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if
straightened by a sudden, sharp, almost insupportable pain—
“because,” she went on saying in her mind, “had they done
so, that other romantic, solitary girl at Pinewood”—dear child!
Hope's heart trembled for her—“might have confessed that
she loved!”
Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim
room, flushed, and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor
settled on her face, so that if Arthur Merlin could have
seen her he would have called her Diana.
During the moment in which she thought these things—for
it was scarcely more—the little white bits of paper floated and
fell beneath her. She watched them as they disappeared, conscious
of them, but not thinking of them. They looked like
rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silently they sank
into the darkness below!
And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how
would it be with that girl now? Might she not be standing
in the twilight, watching her young hopes scattered like rose-leaves
and disappearing in the dark?
She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and
down the room. The full moon was rising, and the tender,
tranquil light streamed through the trees into her chamber.
But, she thought, since she did not—since the young girl
dreamed, perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely,
of what might have been—she has given nothing, she has lost
nothing. There was a pleasant day which she remembers, far
back in her childhood—oh! so pleasant! oh! so sunny, and
flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when something came
that never comes—that never can come—but once.
She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she
could yet discover any signs of the scattered paper. She
strained her eyes down toward the ground. But it was entirely
dark there. All the light was above—all the light was
peaceful and melancholy, from the moon.
She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill,
and covered it with her hands. The low wind shook the
leaves, and the trees rustled softly as if they whispered to her.
She heard them in her heart. She knew what they were saying.
They sang to her of that other girl and her wishes, and
struggles and prayers.
Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping — the
spring freshet of a woman's soul.
—She heard a low knock at the door. She remained perfectly
silent. Another knock. Still she did not move.
The door was tried.
Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing.
There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt:
“Miss Wayne, are you asleep? Please let me in.”
It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the
door, and Fanny Newt entered. Hope sat down with her
back to the window.
“I heard you come in,” said Fanny, “and I did not hear
you go out; so I knew you were still here. But I was afraid
you would oversleep yourself, and miss the ball.”
Hope replied that she had not been sleeping.
“Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?” said
Fanny. “How romantic!”
“Is it?”
“Yes, of course it is! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are romantic
every evening. He will come and sit in the moonlight,
and listen to the music. What an agreeable fellow he
is!” And Fanny tried to see Hope's face, which was entirely
hidden.
“He is my cousin, you know,” replied Hope.
“Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship
it is too,” said Fanny.
“How dangerous?”
“Why, cousins are such privileged people. They have all
the intimacy of brothers, without the brotherly right of abusing
us. In fact, a cousin is naturally half-way between a
brother and a lover.”
“Having neither brother nor lover,” said Hope, quietly, “I
stop half-way with the cousin.”
Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. “And you mean to
go on the other half, I suppose?” said she.
“Why do you suppose so?” asked Hope.
“It is generally understood, I believe,” said Fanny, “that
Mr. Alfred Dinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beautiful
and accomplished cousin, Miss Hope Wayne. At least,
for further information inquire of Mrs. Budlong Dinks.” And
Fanny laughed again.
“I was not aware of the honor that awaited me,” replied
Hope.
“Oh no! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose—”
“My mind is as much in the dark as my body,” said Hope.
“I really do not see the point of the joke.”
“Still you don't seem very much surprised at it.”
“Why should I be? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers.”
“Exactly,” said Fanny. “They've had me engaged to I
don't know how many people. I suppose they'll doom Alfred
Dinks to me next. You won't be jealous, will you?”
“No,” said Hope, “I'll congratulate him.”
Fanny Newt could not see Hope Wayne's face, and her
voice betrayed nothing. She, in fact, knew no more than
when she came in.
“Good-by, dear, à ce soir!” said she, as she sailed out of
the room.
Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she
rang for candles, and sat down to write a letter.
