And with a kiss on her carnation mouth, that brought the rich blood to her face like fire, he sprang up gaily with an exulting countenance, and flung himself into his chair.
“Bravo!” cried Muriel, with a flash of her usual gaiety, “Cupid and Mars in arms! Richard,” she added more seriously, “you have my thanks. And you, too, flower of Episcopalians, bright battle-rose of womankind. Yes, John, you must take Richard with you.”
“I will, I will,” he impetuously cried. “Oh, why should I despond when there are hearts like these! Would to God, that I could sow the world with such as you, Emily; with such as you, Richard! Yes, Richard, you shall go. And you, Muriel,” he added, sinking into mournful playfulness, “you, too, give me leave of what may prove eternal absence from you.”
“Not eternal,” she answered, with a radiant smile; “not in the worst event eternal. Go, then, and even were it eternal, still go!”
A vapor of fire mounted to his brain, and his heart beat thick and fast. He did not reply, but sat motionless, with his eyes covered by his hand, and all his being pulsing in solemn sweetness.
“Hark!” whispered Muriel, “she is coming. I hear her step on the stairs.”
Her ear must have been fine indeed, for listening they could hear nothing.
“No, I am not mistaken,” she said, seeing their incredulous faces. “Well I know that soft, slow step. She is coming, and she has failed. Oh, Lemuel Atkins, I pity you!”
There was a moment’s pause, and then the library door swung slowly open, and with a face severe and ashen, and a decrepit step, Mrs. Eastman came in. They all rose.
“I have seen him,” she said, in a low, frigid, desolate voice. “I have told him everything. I have knelt to him in supplication. Useless—useless. He refused me.”