Round Anvil Rock: A Romance

by Nancy Huston Banks

"I hope he is jealous of me," trying to speak lightly.

"He's a great tyrant. He has driven away all the other birds. He will not allow them to have one of the crumbs that I put out. Most of them are sitting in a forlorn little row on the nearest tree. I wonder what he is saying to them in that rough voice, yet maybe it is better not to know. It must be something very rude, the redbird's bearing makes me think so. He is standing very straight and holding his head very high, but he isn't saying a word—of course. He is too much of a gentleman to quarrel with a rowdy like the blue jay. Just hear how he is domineering! These little song sparrows must surely be ladybirds—they are talking back in such a saucy twitter. Can you hear them? I wish you could see them. They are turning their pretty heads from side to side as much as to say, that he can't keep them from speaking their minds if he does keep them from getting the crumbs. Can you hear the silvery ripple of their plaints? Nothing could be sweeter. There! I will raise the window just a hair's breadth. Listen! Isn't it like a chime of fairy bells, heard in a dream? But I hope you haven't felt any draught. It is much colder than yesterday."

Dropping the sash she went to the fireplace and laid several sticks on the blaze. She stood still for a moment, gazing down at the fire and then she took a low chair beside the hearth. She knew that Paul Colbert was looking at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze. For she also knew that he was merely biding his time, merely gathering strength to speak, merely waiting till he had found words strong and tender enough. If her eyes were to meet his, she must go to him—she could not resist—and yet she felt that she must not go while her plighted word was given to another man. It did not matter that the promise had been made under persuasion and in ignorance of what love meant. It made no difference that she was sure that William, too, longed to be free. The promise had been made, and she was bound by it, until she could tell William Pressley the truth and ask him to set her free. Soft and feminine as her nature was, she had nevertheless a singularly clear, firm sense of honor as most men understand that term—and as few women do. She had already tried more than once to tell him, but he had been almost constantly away from home of late. It was to her mind simply a question of honor. The dread of giving him pain which she had shrunk from at first, had now wholly passed away. It was so plain that he also recognized the mistake of this engagement and would be glad to be free, that the last weight was lifted from her heart. She had been truly attached to him as she was to almost every one with whom she came in daily contact, and this affection was not altered. Hers was such a loving nature that it was as natural for her to love those about her as for a young vine to cling to everything that it touches. Every instinct of her heart was a tender, sensitive tendril of affection, and all these soft and growing tendrils reaching out in the loneliness of her life had clung even to William Pressley, as a fine young vine will twine round a hard cold rock when it can reach nothing softer or warmer or higher. Her own rich, warm, loving nature had indeed so wreathed his coldness and hardness that she could not see him as he really was. And now—without any change in either the vine or the rock—everything was wholly different. It was as if a tropical storm had suddenly lifted all these clinging tendrils away from the unresponsive rock and had borne them heavenward into the eager arms of a living oak.

She knew now the difference between the love that a loving nature gives to all, and the love which a strong nature gives to only one. Her heart was beating so under this new, deep knowledge of life, that she feared lest the man whom she loved might hear. Yet she sat still with her little hands tightly clasped on her lap, as if to hold herself firm, and she held herself from looking round, though the silence continued unbroken. William must be told before she might listen to the words which she so longed to hear from Paul's lips. It was noble of him to hold them back. Every moment that she had been sitting by the hearth she had been expecting to hear them. So that she sat now in tense, quivering suspense, waiting, fearing, longing, dreading, through this strange, long silence; filled only by the sighing of the wind-harp and the crackling of the fire. And then, being a true woman, she could endure it no longer, and turning slightly she gave him a shy, timid glance. As she looked she cried out in terror.

His head, which had been so eagerly raised a moment before, had fallen; his eyes, which had been aglow but an instant since, were closed. The effort, the agitation, had been too great for his slight strength. The strong spirit, impatient of the weak flesh, was again slipping away from it.

She thought he was dying, and forgetting everything but her love for him, she flew to him and fell on her knees by his side. Raising his heavy head in her arms she held it against her bosom. She did not know that her lips touched his, she was seeking only to learn if he breathed. When his eyes opened blankly, she kissed them till they closed again, because she could not bear to see the dreadful blankness that was in them. When he moaned she fell to rocking gently back and forth, holding his head closer against her breast, and presently began to croon softly. She never once thought of calling for help; it was to her as if there had been no one but themselves in the whole world. And presently his faintness passed away, and when his arms, so weakly raised, went round her, she did not try to escape. After a little he found strength to speak a part of all that was in his heart, and she told him what she could of all that was in hers. And both spoke as a great love speaks when it first turns slowly back from facing death.

XXII

"A COMET'S GLARE FORETOLD THIS SAD EVENT"

When the barriers had thus been broken down, she had spoken of the breach between William and herself. There had not been a bitter word or a harsh thought in all that she said. It had been merely a mutual mistake; they had both mistaken the affection which grows out of familiar association, for the love that instantly draws a man and a woman together, though they may never before have seen one another, and holds them forever, away from all the rest of the world.

"I know the difference now," she said several days later, with a deeper tint in her cheeks and a brighter light in her blue eyes. "And I am sure that William does, too. It's plain enough that he will be glad to be free, but he cannot say so, because he is a gentleman. Don't you see? For that very reason, just because he is so high-minded, I am all the more bound to do what is right. You do see, don't you?"