AT SORRENTO.
he low light in the western sky was fading out; the bay of Naples lay rosy in the haze of the dying day; the soft, sweet wind floated over the waters; the fishing boats were coming in; and on this scene an invalid, looking from a window high up on the sea-washed cliff of Sorrento, gazed languidly.
For he was surely an invalid who sat in that window chair and gazed at the wondrous Italian sea, and that lovely Italian sky. Surely an invalid, with that pallid face, those spectral, hollow eyes, those sunken cheeks, those bloodless lips; surely an invalid, and one but very lately risen from the very gates of death, a pale shadow, worn and weak as a child.
As he sits there, where he has sat for hours, lonely and alone, the door opens, and an English face looks in—the face of an Englishman of the lower classes.
"A visitor for you, sir—just come, and a-foot; a lady, sir. She will not give her name, but wishes to see you most particular, if you please."
"A lady! To see me?"
The invalid opens his dark eyes in wonder as he speaks.
"Yes, sir; an English lady, sir, dressed in black, and a wearing of a thick veil. She asked for Mr. Rupert Thetford as soon as she see me, as plain, as plain, sir—"
The young man in the chair started, half rose, and then sunk back; an eager light lit in the hollow eyes.
"Let her come in, I will see her."
The man disappeared; there was an instant's pause, then a tall, slender figure, draped and veiled in black, entered alone.
The visitor stood still. Once more the invalid attempted to rise, once more his strength failed him. The lady threw back her veil with a sudden emotion.
"My God, Aileen!"
"Rupert!"
She was on her knees before him, lifting her suppliant hands.
"Forgive me! forgive me! I have seemed the most heartless and cruel of women. But I too, have suffered. I am base and unworthy; but, oh! forgive me, if you can."
The old love, stronger then death, shone in her eyes, plead in her passionate, sobbing voice, and went to his very heart.
"I have been so wretched, so wretched all these miserable years. While my father lived, I would not disobey his stern command, that I was never to attempt to see or hear from you, and at his death I could not. You seemed lost to me and to the world. Only by the merest accident I heard in Venice you were here, and ill—dying. I lost no time; I came hither at once, hoping against hope to find you alive. Thank God I did come. O Rupert! for the sake of the past forgive me."
"Forgive you!" and he tried to raise her. "Aileen—darling!"
His weak arms encircled her, and the pale lips pressed passionate kisses on the tear-wet face.
So while the glory of the sunset lay on the sea, and until the stars spangled the sky, the reunited lovers sat in the soft haze, as Adam and Eve may have sat in the loveliness of Eden.
"How long since you left England?" Rupert asked, at length.
"Two years ago; poor papa died in the South of France—you mustn't blame him too much, Rupert."
"My dearest, we will talk of blaming no one. And Guy and May are married? I knew they would be."
"Did you? I was so surprised when I read it in the Times; for you know May and I never corresponded—she was frantically angry with me. Do they know you are here?"
"No, I rarely write, and I am constantly moving about; but I know that Guy is very much beloved in St. Gosport. We will go back to England, one of these days, my darling, and give them the greatest surprise they have received since Guy Thetford learned who he really was."
He smiled as he said it—the old bright smile she remembered so well. Tears of joy filled the beautiful upturned eyes.
"And you will go back? O Rupert! it needed but this to complete my happiness."
He drew her closer, and then there was a long delicious silence, while they watched together the late-rising moon climbing the misty hills above Castellamare.
