"A fortune hunter? Well, can't a fellow who has yearned all his life to meet a high-bred, dainty, and elegant woman, dare to love her when he does meet such an ideal, for fear of being called by that contemptible name?" continued our hero, impatiently plucking another water-lily, and beginning to pace up and down the path in nervous haste, and resuming his meditations, saying, half audibly:—
"If she had only waited a few more days I could have shown her that Colonel Warlow's son was not the poor homesteader—that pariah of the cattle-king—which she seems to consider me in her high pride. But no; she must throw cold water on a poor devil before he has made too big a fool of himself to offend her pride by a declaration of his folly.
"But she has all the refined instincts of her class at any rate, and can send a disheartened, despairing wretch like me on a life-long journey of dreary longing, with a sweet graciousness that I must admire, though I curse it ever so bitterly!" Then, as there rose vividly to his mind a picture of that proud but vivacious face, lit by eyes of violet-blue, and framed by the mass of raven, wavy hair; the coral, tender lips and creamy, dimpled cheeks so soft and tinted; the graceful form, in its filmy, flower-wrought robe of white,—he leaned against the elm-tree, and covered his face with his hands as though to shut the lovely vision from his sight, and murmured in tones of deepest agony:—
"Oh, Mora, Mora, my lost love! how can I give you up? It seems as if I have loved you from eternity; and to lose you now is like the pangs of death!"
Rousing himself as the sound of retreating wheels was heard below the terrace, Clifford walked back to the hall-way, where he met several departing guests; and as he came into the hall, with a slow leaden step, he saw, with a start, that Miss Estill was standing alone by the stairs, where she had turned after bidding some of the guests good-night! When she saw his face, with its look of white, tense misery, she said quickly:—
"Oh, Mr. Warlow! I have missed you for an hour. You are ill, I fear."
"Yes, Miss Estill, I am—sick of the world; but it is a very slight matter—only a broken heart," young Warlow replied, in a low, husky tone, while his eyes flashed like purple amethysts.
She turned deadly white, and gave him a look wherein he read a proud pity, that sent a flash of hot indignation to his face; then he bowed and walked away without glancing back.
As he came into the glare of the lighted parlor, Maud met him, and, after giving him a glance of deep sympathy, she said with her accustomed tact:—
"Clifford, you are no better, I fear; so let's return home. Most of the guests are starting already, although it is only nine; but we have, like them, also a long drive before us to-night."