"Indeed, sir stranger, since thou hast given me such unwonted power, I must first use my sceptre of command in banishing all intruders into my august presence, and invaders of this 'hidden sanctum,' which is held sacred to mine own idle feet alone!"
And there was a merry look of mischievous meaning stealing in and out of those bright eyes as they were for a moment uplifted to the face of the stranger, and then again were shadowed by the drooping lid. Whether it was that said "intruder" detected a something in the tone or the demure glance of the fair girl which contradicted the words she spoke, or whether that very glance transfixed him to the spot, history telleth not, but stay he did; and if his tarrying was very heartily objected to by his companion, if the words which fell from his lip in utterance how musical, for the space of two fastly-fleeting hours, were not pleasing to the ear of the maiden, then, indeed, did that soft, bright glow which mantled her fair cheek, and the rosy lip, half-parted and eloquent of interest, sadly belie the beating heart within, as the twain walked lingeringly homeward, the dark shadows lengthening on the green grass, and the setting sun flinging a flood of golden-tinted light upon the myriad leaves which were trembling to the love-voice of the soft summer breeze.
Softly was the latch of the wicket lifted, and light was the maiden's step upon the stair, as she sought her own little chamber. Was she gazing forth from the open window to admire the brilliancy of that gorgeous sunset? Was it to drink in the beauty and brightness of that sweet summer eve, or to feel the soft breeze freshly fanning her flushed cheek? Nay, none of these. See how earnestly her gaze is bent upon the retreating form of the stranger; and now that he is lost to view, behold her sitting with head resting on one little hand, quite lost in a reverie that is not like those of Dream-dell memory, for now there comes a tangible shape in place of those ideal ones, and the echo of a manly voice, breathing devotion and deference in every tone, still is lingering in her enchained ear. For the first time she forgets to carry her offering of fresh flowers to her mother's room. Ah! her busy fingers have been strewing the bright leaves around unconsciously, and she blushingly gathers the few remaining ones, and, with a pang of self-reproach, hastens to her mother's side.
It is with a sigh of relief that Fanny beholds her invalid parent sleeping sweetly—a relief that was augmented by the question which burst suddenly upon her mind, "Can I tell her that I have had a stranger-companion in my wanderings?" Wonder not at the query, gentle reader, for remember that the life of our sweet Fanny had not been blessed with that loving confidence which is the tenderest tie in the relation of mother and child. Her love was ever intermingled with too much fear and restraint from earliest youth, for that interchange of counsel and trust which might have been a sure safeguard against many of earth's ills. And it was perhaps that very yearning to fill the only void left in her happy heart which prompted her to give the helm of her barque of life, so soon and so confidingly into the hands of a stranger.
Day succeeded day, and still the lovers, for they were lovers now, were found at their sweet trysting spot, seeking every pretext for frequent meetings, as lovers will, until many were the heads in Aberdeen which were shaken in wise prognostication; and the Misses Simpkins, to their unspeakable relief, had found a new theme whereon to exercise their powers conversational, while the children of the village mourned the absence of their kind "Fairy," and wished with all their little hearts that Miss Fanny would send away that "naughty man" who kept her from their homes.
Poor Fanny! the hidden seal had been touched at length, and on the deep waters beneath was shining Love's own meteor-light—a light that was reflected on every thing around.
"It was as her heart's full happiness
Poured over all its own excess."
How swiftly the days flew by, "like winged birds, as lightly and as free." And, oh! how priceless, peerless was the gift she was yielding to the stranger in such child-like confidence and trust. There was so much up-looking in her love for him; it seemed so sweet to recognize the thoughts which had lain dormant in her own soul, for want of fitting expression, flowing from his lip clothed in such a beauty-breathing garmenture. And now Fanny Layton was a child no longer. She had crossed the threshold, and the "spirit of unrest" had descended upon her, albeit as yet she knew it not. Her heart seemed so full of sunshine, that when she ventured to peep into its depths, she was dazzled by that flood of radiance—and how could she descry the still shadow. Alas! that on this earth of ours with the sunlight ever comes the shadows, too, which was sleeping there, but to widen and grow deeper and darker when love's waters should cease to gush and sparkle as at the first opening of that sweet fount.
But the day of parting came at length—how it had been dwelt upon with intermingling vows, promises, caresses on his part, with trust, and tenderness, and tears on hers! A sad, sad day it was for Fanny Layton, the first she had ever known that was ever heralded by sorrow's messenger. How she strove to dwell upon Edward Morton's words, "It will not be for long;" and banish from her heart those nameless, undefinable fears which would not away at her bidding. The sky looked no longer blue—the green earth no longer glad; and traces of tears, the bitterest she had ever shed, were on that poor girl's cheek, as she went forth to meet her beloved, for the last time.
It matters not to say how each familiar haunt was visited that day; how each love-hallowed spot bore witness to those low murmured words which are earth's dearest music; how time wore on, as time will, whether it bears on its resistless tide a freightage of joys or sorrows, pleasures, or pains, until at length the last word had been said, the last silent embrace taken; and now poor Fanny Layton stood alone, gazing through blinding tears upon the solitary horseman who rode swiftly away, as if another glance at the fair creature who stood with straining gaze and pallid cheek and drooping form, would all unman him. Was it this, or was it that in that hour he felt his own unworthiness of the sacred trust reposed in him?