They did not miss nor want the world in this Eden. They were all in all to each other, this beautiful pair of lovers.
They roamed here and there with their arms about each other, speaking but little, only now and then Beresford would pause to draw her into his arms and caress her, murmuring between ardent kisses:
“My only love, my bride!”
Beautiful, dark-eyed, jealous Maybelle Maury was forgotten just as entirely as though she had never existed. They were blissfully happy in this dream that Floy was dreaming there that May night in the grim shadow of Suicide Place.
But suddenly a dark, portentous cloud overspread the sky, and a low rumble of thunder shook the earth.
The soft voice of the sea changed to a hollow roar, as though a storm were lashing its waves into fury, and the tender music wailed itself into silence like the cry of a broken heart. The winds rose and lashed the rose-trees in a furious gale, till the air was full of their flying petals and spicy perfumes. The song-birds fled affrighted, and their little nests were dashed upon the ground.
“Oh, I am so frightened! Save me!” sobbed pretty Floy, clinging to her fond lover, who clasped and kissed her again, whispering that there was no danger for her while he was by his little darling’s side.
But at that very moment a flash of lightning irradiated the gloom, and Floy saw a woman dashing toward her in insane fury.
She had the dark, beautiful, jealous face of Maybelle Maury, and she rushed between them and thrust Floy away.
“Go, girl, go! He is mine, mine, mine!” she was crying, madly, when all at once Floy awoke, as we do in dreams at some moment of unbearable grief and woe.