She turned to him with a glance and a smile that fully answered his question.
“I am too happy to improvise, Philip,” she said, dropping her beautiful head on his bosom, as he passed his arm around her, bent down and buried his face on the rich and fragrant tresses of her hair.
I present them to you in their wedded joy this evening, because it was the very last happy evening of their united lives. Even then a step was fast approaching, destined to bring discord, doubt, suspicion, and all the wretched catalogue of misery that follow in their train. While Marguerite’s head still rested lovingly on Philip’s bosom, and his fingers still threaded the lustrous black ringlets of her hair, while gazing down delightedly upon her perfect face, a sound was heard through the wind, that peculiar, heavy, swashing sound of a ferryboat striking the beach, followed by a quick, crunching step, breaking into the crusted snow and through the brushwood toward the house.
“It is my messenger from the post office—now for news of Nellie!” said Marguerite.
Philip looked slightly vexed.
“‘Nellie!’—how you love Mrs. Houston, Marguerite! I do not understand such intimate female friendships.”
“Doubtless you don’t! It is owing to the slight circumstance of your being a man,” said Marguerite, gayly, compensating for her light words by the passionate kiss she left on his brow as she went from his side to meet the messenger—ah! the ill-omened messenger that had entered the house and was hastening toward the parlor.
“Any letters, Forrest?” she eagerly inquired, as the boy came in.
“Only one, madam, for you,” replied the man, delivering the missive.
“From Nellie, I judge!” she exclaimed, confidently, as she took it; but on seeing the postmark and superscription, she suddenly caught her breath, suppressing a sharp cry, and sank upon a chair.