CHAPTER XVI.
SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM.
It was the last day, or rather the last night of the storm. The wind had subsided, and when the sun went down there was in the west a tinge of red as a promise of a fair to-morrow. But to Mildred there seemed no to-morrow better than to-day had been, and when after her early tea she sat down in her little sitting-room, there came over her such a sense of dreariness and pain as she had never before experienced. Once she thought of her husband, who had been so kind to her, and whispered sadly:
“I might have learned to love him, but he is dead and gone; everybody is gone who cared for me. Even Hugh has disappointed me,” and although she did not realize it this thought was perhaps the saddest of all. Hugh had disappointed her. During the two years since her return to the farm house, she had seen but little of him, for it was seldom that he called, and when he did it was upon her mother, not herself.
But he had not forgotten her, and there was scarcely a waking hour of his life that she was not in his mind, and often when he was busiest with his clients, who were increasing rapidly, he saw in the papers he was drawing up for them, her face as it had looked at him when she said:
“Oh, Hugh, don’t you know me?” He was angry with her then, and his heart was full of bitterness towards her for her deception. But that was gone long ago, and he was only biding his time to speak.
“While her mother lives she will not leave her,” he said; but her mother was dead, and he could wait no longer. “I must be decent, and not go the very first day after the funeral,” he thought, a little glad of the storm which kept every one indoors.
But it was over now, and wrapping his overcoat around him, and pulling his fur cap over his ears he went striding through the snow to the farm house, which he reached just as Mildred was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear the door opened by her maid, or know that he was there until he came into the room and was standing upon the hearth rug before her. Then, with the cry, “Oh, Hugh, is it you? I am glad you have come. It is so lonesome,” she sprang up and offered him her hand, while he looked at her with a feeling of regret that he had not come before. He did not sit down beside her, but opposite, where he could see her as they talked on indifferent subjects,—the storm,—the trains delayed,—the wires down,—the damage done in town,—and the prospect of a fair day to-morrow. Then there was silence between them and Mildred got up and raked the fire in the grate and brushed the hearth with a little broom in the corner, while Hugh watched her, and when she was through took the poker himself and attacked the fire, which was doing very well.
“I like to poke the fire,” he said, while Mildred replied, “So do I;” and then there was silence again, until Hugh burst out:
“I say, Milly, how much longer am I to wait?”
“Wha—at?” Mildred replied, a faint flush tinging her face.