CHAPTER XXIX.
HELL ON HEAVEN IMPINGING.
As Mr. Parker only preached in the forenoon, they did not go to church again, but after dinner sat together all the afternoon in the library, reading aloud, and talking, and supremely happy.
So the sweet and peaceful day wore slowly on to sunset, and as the declining beams gilded the rich room, the trio sank, as if by mutual consent, into a lapse of silence, and sat enjoying the luxury of the happy hour, and glad in their own society. Mrs. Eastman reclined in a fauteuil, her cheek pensively resting on her hand, and her serene, poetic face musing between its graceful silver tresses on the lovers. The clouds had melted from her mind, and she only thought with tranquil joy of the beautiful change that had come so silently upon her daughter’s life, sundering no tie and marring no relation, and her soul was filled with gratitude to know that the love of her child was anchored on a heart so noble.
Unconscious that she was the subject of such sweet reflection, Muriel sat in reverie, and Harrington, sitting at a little distance, fondly dreamed upon her vision-like beauty. So exquisite in her delicate clear color, with the silken amber tresses rippling low around her cheeks, and the perfection of her form tenderly told by the pale, rose-hued robe, that she touched his imagination with a strange sense of faëry. He was so happy, as he gazed on her, that he could scarcely believe in his happiness. Mixed with his ethereal pleasure in her loveliness, was a dim feeling as of one who had wedded a princess in his dream, and knew that he dreamed, and would awaken soon to find himself unwedded and alone. Strange—strange to think that this surpassing woman was his wife. But it was true; it was indeed reality, and not a dream; it was indeed reality, and it had flooded life with the tranquil ecstasy of heaven.
Gazing upon her in deep abstraction, he became aware that her sweet eyes were fixed upon his face, and saw, by the suffusion on her countenance, as of the rosy color of the morning, that she was conscious of his ardent gaze. Confused a little at being thus detected in his admiration, he started, blushing, and then laughed, as she archly shook her finger at him.
“I caught you,” she said. “Now, John, what were you thinking of?”
“Of you, Muriel. Of our happiness. I am strangely happy to-night. Were not you conscious, and you, mother, of a singular happiness as we all sat here in silence together? The Sabbath peace of the evening was like the peace of heaven.”
They did not answer, but bowed their heads in assent, and lulled by the sweet influences of the hour, remained in silence. It was but a few moments, and the sunset light died from the room; and as it faded away, and the first grey of twilight filled the air, Muriel and Harrington both rose, as if its departure was the dissolution of a spell that had held them, and approached each other with loving faces and outstretched arms.
They were within a yard’s distance, when suddenly the door-bell rang with such a violent and furious clanging clatter, that they stood still. It was like the scream of a fury warning them asunder. The love-look dropped from their faces, and their arms fell. Only a second’s pause, and again the bell rang and rang and rang, clashing and clanging without intermission, like the startling peal of an alarum from a chamber where murder was being done, and the struggling victim had seized the bell-rope. Utterly amazed at this frightful clamor, and wondering who could be ringing in such a manner as this, they stood with a shock in their blood, blankly gazing at each other. Suddenly they recovered, as Mrs. Eastman flew past them with an indignant face, and flung open the library door.