It would not be true to say, that Marion Wade reflected after this philosophic fashion; and yet it would be equally untrue, to allege that her mind was altogether free from such a reflection. Though beautiful as an angel, she was but a woman—imbued with all a woman’s sensibilities—her sensualities too, though divinely adorned!
With the reckless air of one crossed in love, she strode forth into the darkness—taking no heed of the direction.
She walked with hasty steps; though not to avoid the pelting of the rain, or shun exposure to the storm.
On the contrary, she seemed to court these assaults: for, having arrived at the end of the verandah—whither she had strayed by chance—instead of seeking shelter under its roof, she stayed outside upon the open sward.
Although within a very short distance of the door—by which she might have found easy ingress to the mansion—she refrained from entering. Flinging the hood back upon her shoulders, she turned her face upward to the sky, and seemed as if seeking solace from, the cold deluge that poured down from the clouds—the big drops dancing upon her golden tresses, and leaving them as if with reluctance to saturate the silken foldings that draped her majestic form.
“Oh! that I could weep like you, ye skies!” she exclaimed, “and, like you, cast the cloud that is over me! Alas! ’tis too dense to be dissolved in tears. To-morrow ye will be bright again, and gay as ever! To-morrow! Ah! ’twill be the same to me—to-morrow and for ever!”
“Marion!”
The voice pronouncing her name came not from the sky she was apostrophising; though it was one that sounded in her ear sweet as any music of heaven!
Were her senses deceiving her? Was it the distant thunder that muttered “Marion?”
No thunder could have spoken so pleasantly: it was the voice of a lover, uttering the accents of love!