“That we cannot fail to do,” said Vance. “There are incidents in our past that will compel a frequent interchange of remembrances; and to me they will be very dear. Besides, from every soul of a good man or woman, with whom I have ever been brought in communication (either by visible presence or through letters or books), I unwind a subtile filament which keeps us united, and never fails. I meet one whose society I would court, but cannot,—we part,—one thinks of the other, ‘How indifferent he or she seemed!’ or ‘Why did we not grow more intimate?’ And yet a friendship that shall outlast the sun may have been unconsciously formed.”
“You must write me” said Clara.
“I’m a poor correspondent,” replied Vance; “but I shall obey. And now my watch tells me I must go. I start in a few hours for Washington.”
They strolled back to the house. Vance took leave of all the inmates, not forgetting Esha. He went to Hyde’s cottage, and had an affectionate parting with that worthy; and then drove to a curve in the road where Clara stood waiting solitary to exchange the final farewell.
It was on an avenue through the primeval forest, having on either side a strip of greensward edged by pine-trees, odorous and thick, which had carpeted the ground here and there with their leafy needles of the last years growth, now brown and dry.
The mild, post-equinoctial sunshine was flooding the middle of the road, but Clara stood on the sward in the shade. Vance dismounted from his carriage and drew near. All Clara’s beauty seemed to culminate for that trial. A smile adorably tender lighted up her features. Vance felt that he was treading on enchanted ground, and that the atmosphere swam with the rose-hues of young romance. The gates of Paradise seemed opening, while a Peri, with hand extended, offered to be his guide. Youth and glad Desire rushed back into that inner chamber of his heart sacred to a love ineffably precious.
Clara put out her hand; but why was it that this time it was her right hand, when heretofore, ever since her rescue in New Orleans, she had always given the left?
Rather high up on the wrist of the right was a bracelet; a bracelet of that soft, fine hair familiar to Vance. He recognized it now, and the tears threatened to overflow. Lifting the wrist to his lips he kissed it, and then, with a “God keep you!” entered the carriage, and was whirled away.
“It was the bracelet, not the wrist, he kissed,” sighed Clara.