'Oh that I were rich, Florian, or that you were so!' exclaimed the girl, as a great pity filled her heart, when she thought of her lover's blighted life, their own baffled hopes, and the humble and most perilous course that was before him in South Africa, where the clouds of war were gathering fast. 'I, too, am poor, Florian—very poor; dear papa died involved, leaving me penniless, and I must cast about to earn my own bread.'
'This is horrible—how shall I endure it?' said he fiercely, while regarding her with a loving but haggard expression in his dark eyes.
'What would you have done if you had not met me by chance here?'
'Loafed about till the last moment, and then done something desperate. I would have seen you, and after that—the Deluge! In two days we embark at Plymouth,' he added, casting a glance at the old church of Revelstoke and its burying-ground. 'There our parents lie, Dulcie—yours at least, and those that I, till lately, thought were mine. There is something very strange and mysterious in this change of relationship and position between Shafto and myself. I cannot understand it. Why was I misled all my life by one who loved me so well? How often have I stood with the Major by a gravestone yonder inscribed with the name of Flora MacIan and heard him repeat while looking at it—
'A thousand would call the spot dreary
Where thou takest thy long repose;
But a rude couch is sweet to the weary,
And the frame that suffering knows.
I never rejoiced more sincerely
Than at thy funeral hour,
Assured that the one I loved dearly
Was beyond affliction's power!
Why did he quote all this to me, and tell me never to forget that spot, or who was buried there, if she was only Shafto's aunt, and not my mother?'
Florian felt keenly for the position of Dulcie Carlyon, and the perils and mortifications that might beset her path now; but he was too young, too healthy and full of animal life and spirits, to be altogether weighed down by the thought of his humble position and all that was before him; and now that he had seen her again, restored to her bosom the locket, and that he knew she was true to him, and had never for a moment wavered in her girlish love, life seemed to become suddenly full of new impulses and hopes for him, and he thought prayerfully that all might yet be well for them both.
But when?
To Dulcie there seemed something noble in the hopeful spirit that, under her influence, animated her grave lover now. He seemed to become calm, cool, steadfast, and, hap what might, she felt he would ever be true to her.
He seemed brave and tender and true—'tender and true' as a Douglas of old, and Dulcie thought how pleasant and glorious it would be to have such a handsome young husband as he to take care of her always, and see that all she did was right and proper and wise.