"I know all that; but it's confoundedly hard that those vultures should have it all their own way."
CHAPTER XXIX.
"MAIR SWEET THAN I CAN TELL."
On an evening at the close of February, when the mercury has risen so high that all nature is in a melting mood; the snowy mantle of winter disappearing fast on the warm bosom of dear old mother earth, while Holmnest is a very bower of love, a very haven of peace. Upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber, everything is warm, home-like, sweet and fresh; with dreamy, turned down lights, showing the dainty sleeping apartment of its mistress, with its blue and white prevailing tints, its lace bed-spread and pillow shams; its pretty feminine adornments, with three or four pictures, and a vase of fresh flowers giving life to its repose. But we notice in the dim and shadowy light, a something unusual, a something different, a new element in this, the bed-chamber of Elaine Gower; a something that makes the heart throb faster, and a look of wonder, with a smile of content come to the face, a something which gives a tone of strength, of completeness to this bower of rest; it is, that here and there, one can dimly see a man's belongings, and one remembers to have read, "it is not good for man to be alone."
But; and we start with fear, for the inanimate cannot speak and tell us if Mr. Cobbe has had his way, and those manly belongings are his; if so, if so, alas!
But the kitchen says, no, as with a broad grin of content it sits over the debris of a late dinner; when, at the tinkle, tinkle of the library bell, Thomas is away like a flash; we follow, peep in and see Mr. Blair, reclining on a lounge, holding between his fingers a cigarette; he forgets to smoke, a look of ineffable content and happiness on his manly face. He has rolled the sofa over beside the Davenport, at which sits his twin-spirit, the mistress of Holmnest, who is within easy reach of his hand, as she sits writing. She wears a gown couleur de rose, and is looking very lovable, her face transfigured with quiet happiness. As Thomas appears, she says, in her sweet tones:
"No one is aware of our return, Thomas, so we don't expect visitors; but in any case, we are not at home."
"Very well, ma'am."
"My bride of a week; my ain wife, my other self," he says, his heart in his eyes, "bend down your sweet face and kiss me." Holding her in a close embrace, he says, "and so you are not sorry that a great, rough man like myself has crept into your bonnie Holmnest, and stolen your heart?"