“Dreaming, Gloria? Of what, pray?”
She starts. The voice thrills her, for she loves it well. Gloria’s contact with the world in her self-imposed duties has not blunted or dulled the instincts of Nature. In past days, it was a favourite remark with our grandmothers and grandfathers, that woman’s connection with the coarser things of life would degrade her by constant familiarity with them. Poor things! They judged of Nature from the narrow-minded platforms on which they had been educated, knew nothing of and cared nothing for the sighs of liberty, or the rights of Nature.
Yes! though her life has been one of constant intercourse with man, though she has been and is familiar with the coarser things of life, Gloria loves, and loves truly and well. Hers is not the love of a timid, ignorant girl, longing to escape the captivity in which she has been reared, or the selfish, guilty love of the intriguante, whose love would fade and disappear were it not deemed unholy. Hers is the love of one who, knowing the world well, understanding the character of man, drilled to a knowledge of the laws of Nature, yet elects to love one being above all others. Gloria’s love is one that once given, can never die.
As with her, so it is with Evie Ravensdale. The world has courted his love, but its wiles have not awoke it. Often, when in loving commune with his friend Hector D’Estrange, the thought would flash through the young duke’s mind, that if Hector had been a woman, the great love of which he felt himself capable, would have gone out to her absolutely and without reserve. What was the subtle power that had attracted him to Hector D’Estrange, which had made him pause on the verge of pleasure’s precipice, and, casting to the winds his hitherto selfish existence, had made him body and soul the devoted adherent of the young reformer?
Evie Ravensdale knows the reason now. From the moment that he learnt that in Hector D’Estrange was embodied the person of Gloria de Lara, he understood that the influence of a noble, high-minded, and genuine woman, had allured him from the false glare and glitter of the world, and had given him an aim in life.
“Ah, dear Evie! have I not much to think of? In such times as these, thought does not take much rest.”
She rises as she speaks, and links her arm in his. Men have often watched Hector D’Estrange and the Duke of Ravensdale in this friendly attitude before. Such an ape is Fashion, that it has become the proper thing for men to walk arm-in-arm. Doubtless, however, in view of the change which has come about in the altered fortunes of Hector D’Estrange, it will be suddenly discovered that such an attitude is both unbecoming and improper. So much for the monkey Custom and its cousin ape Fashion!
“Let us go for a stroll, Gloria,” he pleads, “the evening is so glorious; and it may be long before we have the chance again of a quiet chat together. We used to enjoy those tête-à-têtes at Montragee when you were Hector D’Estrange, did we not?”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I did love them, Evie. In fact, I think I set too great a store upon them, more than was good for me to do; but they were a true rest and pleasure after toil and anxiety, and I accepted them as such.”
They have descended a gentle slope as she speaks and entered a glade in the forest. The warm, red glow of the setting sun pierces in parts the thickly grouped pines, and plays upon the ferns and bracken that grow in green luxuriance beneath. The evening commune of the birds is dying into a low twitter, and the rabbits have commenced to peep forth from their burrows to see if all is still, preparatory to indulging in the evening meal, as is their wont and custom at this hour.