He had spoken in hasty, jerky, broken sentences. In a pleading manner he held out his hand to her. But the girl stood with downcast eyes and did not see it, and the hand fell nerveless to his side.
Slowly she raised the white lids. In the uncertain light of the starlit night he could not see into the depths of the dark eyes, but as he bent closer he thought they were dimmed, and that her voice was vibrating as she now in turn extended to him her hand and simply said:
“I forgive you.”
Hastily the hand was grasped and bending over it with the same pleading accents in his voice he said:
“May I?”
“Yes,” came in soft accents from the trembling lips. An indescribable sensation stole over her as she felt the pressure of the warm bearded lips upon her hand. A feeling of gladness filled her heart. She felt that the emotion displayed by this man was genuine, and that she knew she might safely trust him. She laid her other hand gently over his that was holding hers and softly spoke:
“It is enough, please. I feel that you have spoken the truth, in recognition of which I feel bound to pay you honor. Let me hereafter see on your face the light of self-contained manhood. I am more glad to be able to respect you, the father of my two precious charges. Now let us return. Alice was not feeling well and Cora may wonder.” His only answer was to again kiss the hand that was still resting in his; then again placing it upon his arm together they retraced their steps to join their friends in the parlor.
As Imelda and Westcot re-entered the drawing room they found Cora and Norman so deeply interested in conversation that their entrance was not heeded. Cora’s cheeks were glowing and her eyes shone like twin stars as the words flowed in a stream from her lips. Alice was sitting quiet and unobserved in the shadow of the aforementioned group of exotic plants, listening to every word that fell from the ruby lips. Cora spoke well. Norman had said but little, but that little to advantage. Adroitly asking a question here and making a remark there he had succeeded in drawing her out and was surprised to find how well informed she was on many subjects of which most young women have absolutely no understanding. Cora had studied to advantage; for with love to teach, it had not been so much a task as a pleasure. It was also a pleasure for her to converse with this refined and handsome gentleman. Until now Owen Hunter had been the only man of that type she had ever come in contact with. It had seemed to her that there was none other. But to her surprise and great pleasure she found that her sister’s lover was in every respect the equal of the man who until now had stood out in her life alone.
Just as Imelda and Westcot were entering, the poets, both American and foreign, were being discussed, and Norman felt a little surprise when Cora said that Shelley and Byron were her favorites. In speaking of these he found her most familiar with Byron,—“Queen Mab” being the only production of Shelley’s she had as yet read, while he could mention scarce any of Byron’s works that she was not familiar with. When asked, which she liked best, she unhesitatingly replied, “Manfred.”
“What! that gloomy pessimist, who continually takes you to the very depths of despair, and finally closed so tragically?”