“It was not her, for whom I was waiting,” continued Holtspur, now more clearly comprehending the conduct that had surprised him. “It was for you, Marion—for you.”
“This shallow pretence is unworthy of you, sir; unworthy of a gentleman. How could you have expected to see me? Oh! weak that I have been to trust my reputation, to one who—”
“One who will lay down his life to guard it against being sullied by the slightest stain. Believe me, Marion Wade, it was to speak with you, I have stayed. I saw you as I was hastening away. Little had I been hoping for such a heaven-sent chance! I saw you approach the gate and go in. Need I declare to you the hope that thrilled through my heart, when I fancied your mission might be to myself? I cannot—words will not express what I felt—what I feel!”
Yieldingly did the proud maiden turn towards him—as the flower turns to its natural deity, the sun, from whom it derives all its delight.
Just as its petals are unclosed by his kissing rays after the long night of damp and darkness, so was the bosom of Marion Wade revivified with fresh life, and hope, and joy, while she stood listening to those earnest asseverations.
As yet she had not put her threat into execution. The shelter was near, but she had not availed herself of it; and, at the close of her lover’s speech, she seemed no longer to care for it.
Her hood was still hanging over her shoulders—her head uncovered to the storm. The raindrops sparkled upon her golden hair, losing themselves amid its profuse masses. They chased one another over her warm, flushed cheeks, as if in very delight. They streamed down the furrows of her rich robe, freely entering at its foldings—and still she regarded them not.
If misery, but the moment before, had rendered her insensible to the storm, happiness was now producing the like effect.
Holtspur’s appeal was no more rejected—his approach no longer repelled. He was left free to manifest the lover’s care; and, gently engaging the hand of his beloved, he conducted her within the verandah.
The storm raged on, but neither regarded it. They had escaped from a storm—far more to be dreaded than the conflict of the elements—that of the two most powerful passions of the human heart—jealousy and love. The struggle was over. The former had fled from the field—leaving the latter triumphant in the bosoms of both.