The Missing Bride Part 18

"And when will that be, fairest?"

"I do not know; but do not visit me at the cottage, dear Thurston, it would be indiscreet."

"Marian! I must see you often. Will you meet me on the beach to-morrow afternoon?"

"No," answered Marian, gravely, "in this single instance, I must not meet you, though my heart pleads like a sick child with me to do it, Thurston, dear Thurston."

She raised her eyes to his as she spoke, and giving way to a sudden impulse, dropped her head upon his shoulder, put her arms around his neck, and embraced him. And then his better angel rose above the storm of pa.s.sion that was surging through his veins, and calmed the tumult, and spoke through his lips.

"You are right, Marian--fairest and dearest, you are right. And I not only love you best of all women, but honor you more than all men. It shall be as you have said. I will not seek you anywhere. As the mother, dying of plague, denies herself the parting embrace of her 'unstricken'

child--so, for your sake, will I refrain from the heaven of your presence."

"And, dear Thurston," she said, raising her head, "it will not be so hard to bear, as you now think. We shall see each other every Sunday in the church, and every Monday in the lecture-room. We shall often be of the same invited company at neighbors' houses. Remember, also, that Christmas is coming, with its protracted festivities, when we shall see each other almost every evening, at some little neighborhood gathering.

And now I must really hurry; oh! how late I am this morning! Good-by, dearest Thurston!"

"Good-by, my own Marian."

Blushingly she received, his parting kiss, and hurried along the little foot-path leading to the village.

Thurston had been perfectly sincere in his resolution not to seek a private interview with Marian; and he kept it faithfully all the week, with less temptation to break it, because he did not know where to watch for her.

But Sunday came again--and Thurston, with a little bit of human self-deception and _finesse_, avoided the forest path, where he had met her the preceding Sabbath, and saying to himself that he would not waylay her, took the river road, refusing to confess even to himself that he acted upon the calculation that she also would take the same road, in order to avoid meeting him in the forest.

His "calculus of probabilities" had not failed him. He had not walked far upon the forest-shaded banks of the river before he saw Marian walking before him. He hastened and overtook her.

At first seeing him her face flushed radiant with surprise and joy.

She seemed to think that nothing short of necromancy could have conjured him to that spot. She had no reproaches for him, because she had no suspicion that he had trifled with his promise not to seek her. But she expressed her astonishment.

"I did not know you ever came this way," she said.

"Nor did I ever before, love; but I remembered my pledge, not to follow or to seek you, and so I avoided the woodland path where we met last Sunday," said Thurston, persuading himself that he spoke the precise truth.

It is not necessary to pursue with them this walk; lovers scarcely thank us for such intrusions. It is sufficient to say that this was not the last one.

Blinded by pa.s.sion and self-deception, and acting upon the same astute calculus of probabilities, Thurston often contrived to meet Marian in places where his presence might be least expected, and most often in paths that she had taken for the express purpose of keeping out of his way.

Thus it fell that many forest walks and seash.o.r.e strolls were taken, all through the lovely Indian summer weather. And these seemed so much the result of pure accident that Marian never dreamed of complaining that his pledge had been tampered with.

But Thurston began to urge her consent to a private marriage.

From a secret engagement to a secret marriage, the transition seemed to him very easy.

"And, dearest Marian, we are both of age, both free--we should neither displease G.o.d nor wrong man, by such a step--while it would at the same time secure our union, and save us from injustice and oppression! do you not see?"

Such was his argument, which he pleaded and enforced with all the powers of pa.s.sion and eloquence. In vain. Though every interview increased his power over the maiden--though her affections and her will were both subjected, the domain of conscience was unconquered. And Marian still answered:

"Though a secret marriage would break no law of G.o.d or man, nor positively wrong any human creature, yet it might be the cause of misunderstanding and suspicion--and perhaps calumny, causing much distress to those who love and respect me. Therefore it would be wrong. And I must do no wrong, even for your dear sake."

CHAPTER XIV.

CLOUDY.

It was Christmas Eve and a fierce snow-storm was raging.

Old Mr. Willc.o.xen sat half doubled up in his leather-covered elbow chair, in the chimney corner of his bedroom, occupied with smoking his clay pipe, and thinking about his money bags.

f.a.n.n.y was in the cold, bleak upper rooms of the house, looking out of the windows upon the wide desolation of winter, the waste of snow, the bare forest, the cold, dark waters of the bay--listening to the driving tempest, and singing, full of glee as she always was when the elements were in an uproar.

Thurston was the sole and surly occupant of the sitting-room, where he had thrown himself at full length upon the sofa, to lie and yawn over the newspaper, which he vowed was as stale as last year's almanac.

Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and some one came, followed by the driving wind and snow, into the hall.

Thurston threw aside his paper, started up, and went out.

What was his surprise to see Cloudesley Mornington standing there, with a face so haggard, with eyes so wild and despairing, that, in alarm, he exclaimed:

"Good heaven, Cloudesley. What is the matter? Has anything happened at home?"

"Home! home! What home? I have no home upon this earth now, and never shall have!" exclaimed the poor youth, distractedly.

"My dear fellow, never speak so despondently. What is it now? a difficulty with the commodore?"

"G.o.d's judgment light upon him!" cried Cloudy, pushing past and hurrying up the stairs.

Thurston could not resume his former composure; something in Cloudy's face had left a feeling of uneasiness in his mind, and the oftener he recalled the expression the more troubled he became.

Until at length he could bear the anxiety no longer, and quietly leaving his room, he went up-stairs in search of the youth, and paused before the boy's door. By the clicking, metallic sounds within, he suspected him to be engaged in loading a pistol; for what purpose! Not an instant was to be risked in rapping or questioning.

With one vigorous blow of his heel Thurston burst open the door, and sprung forward and dashed the fatal weapon from his hand, and then confronted him, exclaiming:

"Good G.o.d, Cloudy! What does this mean?"

Cloudy looked at him wildly for a minute, and when Thurston repeated the question, he answered with a hollow laugh:

"That I am crazy, I guess! don't you think so?"

"Cloudy, my dear fellow, we have been like brothers all our lives; now won't you tell me what has brought you to this pa.s.s? What troubles you so much? Perhaps I can aid you in some way. Come, what is it now?"

"And you really don't know what it is? Don't you know that there is a wedding on hand?"

"A wedding!"

"Aye, man alive! A wedding! They are going to marry the child Jacquelina to old Grimshaw."

"Oh, yes, I know that; but, my dear boy, what of it? Surely you were never in love with little Jacko?"