"I can give you a reason for that—I want you; my life will be one long sigh until I can say in very truth that you are my wife. Will you let me tell Lady Vaughan this evening, that I have been successful?"
She clung to him, her hand clasping his arm. "Not to-night," she said, softly. "Adrian, let me have this one night to myself to think it all over."
"It shall be just as you like, my darling; I will tell her to-morrow. Now, Cynthy, this is the 19th of July—why should we not be married in two months from to-day?" Ah, why not? She said nothing. The wind, that whispered so many secrets to the trees, did not tell them that.
[CHAPTER XV.]
When Hyacinth woke next morning, it was with difficulty that she disentangled dreams and truth; then the whole of her untold joys rushed over her, and she knew it was no fancy—no dream. She went down to breakfast looking, if possible, more beautiful than she had ever looked; the love-light on her face made it radiant; her eyes were bright as stars. Lady Vaughan gazed at her, as she had often done before, in sheer wonder. During breakfast she heard Sir Arthur complaining of his papers.
"I am told they will not come until night," he said. "I really do not see how I am to get through the day without my papers."
"What is the cause of the delay?" asked Lady Vaughan.
"Some accident to the mail train. The company ought to be more careful."
"Adrian will perhaps be able to do something to amuse you," said Lady Vaughan.