The Laurel Bush: An Old-Fashioned Love Story

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  E-text prepared by Robin Eugene Escovado

  THE LAUREL BUSH

  An Old-Fashioned Love Story

  by

  DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

  Author of _John Halifax, Gentleman_,&c., &c., &c.

  Chapter 1.

  It was a very ugly bush indeed; that is, so far as any thing in naturecan be really ugly. It was lopsided--having on the one hand a stuntedstump or two, while on the other a huge heavy branch swept down to thegravel-walk. It had a crooked gnarled trunk or stem, hollow enough toentice any weak-minded bird to build a nest there--only it was so nearto the ground, and also to the garden gate. Besides, the owners ofthe garden, evidently of practical mind, had made use of it to placebetween a fork in its branches a sort of letter-box--not the governmentregulation one, for twenty years ago this had not been thought of; but arough receptacle, where, the house being a good way off, letters might bedeposited, instead of; as hitherto, in a hole in the trunk--near the footof the tree, and under shelter of its mass of evergreen leaves.

  This letter-box; made by the boys of the family at the instigation andwith the assistance of their tutor, had proved so attractive to someexceedingly incautious sparrow that during the intervals of the post shehad begun a nest there, which was found by the boys. Exceedingly wildboys they were, and a great trouble to their old grandmother, with whomthey were staying the summer, and their young governess--"Misfortune,"as they called her, her real name being Miss Williams--Fortune Williams.The nickname was a little too near the truth, as a keener observer thanmischievous boys would have read in her quiet, sometimes sad, face; andit had been stopped rather severely by the tutor of the elder boys, ayoung man whom the grandmother had been forced to get, to "keep them inorder!" He was a Mr. Robert Roy, once a student, now a teacher of the"humanities," from the neighboring town--I beg its pardon--city; and alovely old city it is!--of St. Andrews. Thence he was in the habit ofcoming to them three and often four days in the week, teaching ofmornings and walking of afternoons. They had expected him thisafternoon, but their grandmother had carried them off on some pleasureexcursion; and being a lady of inexact habits--one, too, to whom tutorswere tutors and nothing more--she had merely said to Miss Williams, asthe carriage drove away, "When Mr. Roy comes, tell him he is not wantedtill tomorrow."

  And so Miss Williams had waited at the gate, not wishing him to have theadditional trouble of walking up to the house, for she knew every minuteof his time was precious. The poor and the hard-working can understandand sympathize with one another. Only a tutor and only a governess: Mrs.Dalziel drove away and never thought of them again. They were meremachines--servants to whom she paid their wages, and so that they didsufficient service to deserve these wages, she never interfered withthem, nor, indeed, wasted a moment's consideration upon them or theirconcerns.

  Consequently they were in the somewhat rare and peculiar position ofa young man and young woman (perhaps Mrs. Dalziel would have takenexception to the words "young lady and young gentleman") thrown togetherday after day, week after week--nay, it had now become month aftermonth--to all intents and purposes quite alone, except for the children.They taught together, there being but one school-room; walked outtogether, for the two younger boys refused to be separated from theirolder brothers; and, in short, spent two-thirds of their existencetogether, without let or hindrance, comment or observation, from anymortal soul.

  I do not wish to make any mystery in this story. A young woman oftwenty-five and a young man of thirty, both perfectly alone in theworld--orphans, without brother or sister--having to earn their ownbread, and earn it hardly, and being placed in circumstances where theyhad every opportunity of intimate friendship, sympathy, whatever you liketo call it: who could doubt what would happen? The more so, as there wasno one to suggest that it might happen; no one to watch them or warnthem, or waken them with worldly-minded hints; or else to rise up, afterthe fashion of so many wise parents and guardians and well-intentionedfriends, and indignantly shut the stable door _after_ the steed isstolen.

  No. That something which was so sure to happen had happened; you mighthave seen it in their eyes, have heard it in the very tone of theirvoices, though they still talked in a very commonplace way, and stillcalled each other "Miss Williams" and "Mr. Roy." In fact, their wholedemeanor to one another was characterized by the grave and even formaldecorum which was natural to very reserved people, just trembling on theverge of that discovery which will unlock the heart of each to the other,and annihilate reserve forever between the two whom Heaven has designedand meant to become one; a completed existence. If by any mischance thisdoes not come about, each may lead a very creditable and not unhappylife; but it will be a locked-up life, one to which no third person isever likely to find the key.

  Whether such natures are to envied or pitied is more than I can say; butat least they are more to be respected than the people who wear theirhearts upon their sleeves for daws to peck at, and very often are all theprouder the more they are pecked at, and the more elegantly they bleed;which was not likely to be the case with either of these young folks,young as they were.

  They were young, and youth is always interesting and even comely; butbeyond that there was nothing remarkable about either. He was Scotch;she English, or rather Welsh. She had the clear blue Welsh eye, thefunny _retrousee_ Welsh nose; but with the prettiest little mouthunderneath it--firm, close, and sweet; full of sensitiveness, but asensitiveness that was controlled and guided by that best possession toeither man or woman, a good strong will. No one could doubt that theyoung governess had, what was a very useful thing to a governess, "a willof her own;" but not a domineering or obnoxious will, which indeed isseldom will at all, but merely obstinacy.

  For the rest, Miss Williams was a little woman, or gave the impression ofbeing so, from her slight figure and delicate hands and feet. I doubt ifany one would have called her pretty, until he or she had learned to loveher. For there are two distinct kinds of love, one in which the eyeinstructs the heart, and the other in which the heart informs and guidesthe eye. There have been men who, seeing an unknown beautiful face, havefelt sure it implied the most beautiful soul in the world, pursued it,worshiped it, wooed and won it, found the fancy true, and loved the womanforever. Other men there are who would simply say, "I don't know if sucha one is handsome or not; I only know she is herself--and mine." Bothloves are good; nay, it is difficult to say which is best. But thelatter would be the most likely to any one who became attached to FortuneWilliams.

  Also, perhaps to Robert Roy, though no one expects good looks in his sex;indeed, they are mostly rather objectionable. Women do not usually carefor a very handsome man; and men are prone to set him down as conceited.No one could lay either charge to Mr. Roy. He was only an honest-lookingScotchman, tall and strong and manly. Not "red," in spite of his name,but dark-skinned and dark-haired; in no way resembling his greatnamesake, Rob Roy Macgregor, as the boys sometimes called him behindhis back--never to his face. Gentle as the young man was, there wassomething about him which effectually prevented any one's taking thesmallest liberty with him. Though he had been a teacher of boys eversince he was seventeen--and I have heard one of the fraternity confessthat it is almost impossible to be a school-master for ten years withoutbecoming a tyrant--still it was a pleasant and sweet-tempered face. Veryfar from a weak face, though; when Mr. Roy said a thing must be done,every one of his boys knew it _must_ be done, and there was no use sayingany more about it.

  He had unquestionably that rare gift, the power of authority; though thisdid not necessarily imply self-control; for some people can rule everybody except themselves. But Robert Roy's cle
ar, calm, rather sad eye,and a certain patient expression about the mouth, implied that he too hadenough of the hard training of life to be able to govern himself. Andthat is more difficult to a man than to a woman.

  "all thy passions, matched with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine."

  A truth which even Fortune's tender heart did not fully take in, deep aswas her sympathy for him; for his toilsome, lonely life, lived more inshadow than in sunshine, and with every temptation to the selfishnesswhich is so apt to follow self-dependence, and the bitterness that to aproud spirit so often makes the sting of poverty. Yet he was neitherselfish nor bitter; only a little reserved, silent, and--except withchildren--rather grave.

  She stood watching him now, for she could see him a long way off acrossthe level Links, and noticed that he stopped more than once to look atthe golf-players. He was a capital golfer himself, but had never anytime to play. Between his own studies and the teaching by which heearned the money to prosecute them, every hour was filled up. So heturned his back on the pleasant pastime, which seems to have such anextraordinary fascination for those who pursue it, and came on to hisdaily work, with that resolute deliberate step, bent on going direct tohis point and turning aside for nothing.

  Fortune knew it well by this time; had learned to distinguish it from allothers in the world. There are some footsteps which, by a pardonablepoetical license, we say "we should hear in our graves," and though thisgirl did not think of that, for death looked far off, and she wasscarcely a poetical person, still, many a morning, when, sitting ather school-room window, she heard Mr. Roy coming steadily down thegravel-walk, she was conscious of--something that people can not feeltwice in a life-time.

  And now, when he approached with that kind smile of his, which brightenedinto double pleasure when he saw who was waiting for him, she was awareof a wild heartbeat, a sense of exceeding joy, and then of relief andrest. He was "comfortable" to her. She could express it in no otherway. At sight of his face and at sound of his voice all worldly caresand troubles, of which she had a good many, seemed to fall off. To bewith him was like having an arm to lean on, a light to walk by; and shehad walked alone so long.

  "Good-afternoon, Miss Williams."

  "Good-afternoon, Mr. Roy."

  They said no more than that, but the stupidest person in the world mighthave seen that they were glad to meet, glad to be together. Thoughneither they nor any one else could have explained the mysterious fact,the foundation of all love stories in books or in life--and which thepresent author owns, after having written many books and seen a greatdeal of life, is to her also as great a mystery as ever--Why do certainpeople like to be together? What is the inexplicable attraction whichmakes them seek one another, suit one another, put up with one another'sweaknesses, condone one another's faults (when neither are too great tolessen love), and to the last day of life find a charm in one another'ssociety which extends to no other human being. Happy love or lost love,a full world or an empty world, life with joy or life without it--that isall the difference. Which some people think very small, and that doesnot matter; and perhaps it does not--to many people. But it does tosome, and I incline to put in that category Miss Williams and Mr. Roy.

  They stood by the laurel bush, having just shaken hands more hastily thanthey usually did; but the absence of the children, and the very unusualfact of their being quite alone, gave to both a certain shyness, and shehad drawn her hand away, saying, with a slight blush:

  "Mrs. Dalziel desired me to meet you and tell you that you might have aholiday today. She has taken her boys with her to Elie. I dare say youwill not be sorry to gain an hour or two for yourself; though I am sorryyou should have the trouble of the walk for nothing."

  "For nothing?"--with the least shadow of a smile, not of annoyance,certainly.

  "Indeed, I would have let you know if I could, but she decided at thevery last minute; and if I had proposed that a messenger should have beensent to stop you, I am afraid--it would not have been answered."

  "Of course not;" and they interchanged an amused look--thesefellow-victims to the well-known ways of the household--which, however,neither grumbled at; it was merely an outside thing, this treatment ofboth as mere tutor and governess. After all (as he sometimes said, whensome special rudeness--not himself, but to her--vexed him), they weretutor and governess; but they were something else besides; somethingwhich, the instant their chains were lifted off, made them feel free andyoung and strong, and comforted them with comfort unspeakable.

  "She bade me apologize. No, I am afraid, if I tell the absolute truth,she did not bid me, but I do apologize."

  "What for, Miss Williams?"

  "For your having been brought out all this way just to go back again."

  "I do not mind it, I assure you."

  "And as for the lost lesson--"

  "The boys will not mourn over it, I dare say. In fact, their term withme is so soon coming to an end that it does not signify much. They toldme they are going back to England to school next week. Do you go backtoo?"

  "Not just yet--not till next Christmas. Mrs. Dalziel talks of winteringin London; but she is so vague in her plans that I am never sure from oneweek to another what she will do."

  "And what are your plans? _You_ always know what you intend to do."

  "Yes, I think so," answered Miss Williams, smiling. "One of the fewthings I remember of my mother was hearing her say of me, that 'herlittle girl was a little girl who always knew her own mind.' I think Ido. I may not be always able to carry it out, but I think I know it."

  "Of course," said Mr. Roy, absently and somewhat vaguely, as he stoodbeside the laurel bush, pulling one of its shiny leaves to pieces, andlooking right ahead, across the sunshiny Links, the long shore ofyellow sands, where the mermaids might well delight to come and "takehands"--to the smooth, dazzling, far-away sea. No sea is more beautifulthan that at St. Andrews.

  Its sleepy glitter seemed to have lulled Robert Roy into a suddenmeditation, of which no word of his companion came to rouse him. Intruth, she, never given much to talking, simply stood, as she often did,silently beside him, quite satisfied with the mere comfort of hispresence.

  I am afraid that this Fortune Williams will be considered a veryweak-minded young woman. She was not a bit a coquette, she had not theslightest wish to flirt with any man. Nor was she a proud beautydesirous to subjugate the other sex; and drag them triumphantly at herchariot wheels. She did not see the credit, or the use, or the pleasureof any such proceeding. She was a self-contained, self-dependent woman.Thoroughly a woman; not indifferent at all to womanhood's best blessing;still she could live without it if necessary, as she could have livedwithout anything which it had pleased God to deny her. She was not acreature likely to die for love, or do wrong for love, which some peoplethink the only test of love's strength, instead of its utmost weakness;but that she was capable of love, for all her composure and quietness,capable of it, and ready for it, in its intensest, most passionate, andmost enduring form, the God who made her knew, if no one else did.

  Her time would come; indeed, had come already. She had too muchself-respect to let him guess it, but I am afraid she was very fondof--or, if that is a foolish phrase, deeply attached to--Robert Roy.He had been so good to her, at once strong and tender, chivalrous,respectful, and kind; and she had no father, no brother, no other manat all to judge him by, except the accidental men whom she had met insociety, creatures on two legs who wore coats and trousers, who had beencivil to her, as she to them, but who had never interested her in thesmallest degree, perhaps because she knew so little of them. But no; itwould have been just the same had she known them a thousand years. Shewas not "a man's woman," that is, one of those women who feel interestedin any thing in the shape of a man, and make men interested in themaccordingly, for the root of much masculine affection is pure vanity.That celebrated Scottish song,

  "Come deaf, or come blind, or come cripple, O
come, ony ane o' them a'! Far better be married to something, Than no to be married ava,"

  was a rhyme that would never have touched the stony heart of FortuneWilliams. And yet, let me own it once more, she was very, very fond ofRobert Roy. He had never spoken to her one word of love, actual love, nomore than he spoke now, as they stood side by side, looking with the sameeyes on the same scene. I say the same eyes, for they were exceedinglyalike in their tastes. There was no need ever to go into longexplanations about this or that; a glance sufficed, or a word, to showeach what the other enjoyed; and both had the quiet conviction that theywere enjoying it together. Now as that sweet, still, sunshiny view mettheir mutual gaze, they fell into no poetical raptures, but just stoodand looked, taking it all in with exceeding pleasure, as they had donemany and many a time, but never, it seemed, so perfectly as now.

  "What a lovely afternoon!" she said at last.

  "Yes. It is a pity to waste it. Have you any thing special to do? Whatdid you mean to employ yourself with, now your birds are flown?"

  "Oh, I can always find something to do."

  "But need you find it? We both work so hard. If we could only now andthen have a little bit of pleasure!"

  He put it so simply, yet almost with a sigh. This poor girl's heartresponded to it suddenly, wildly. She was only twenty-five, yetsometimes she felt quite old, or rather as if she had never been young.The constant teaching, teaching of rough boys too--for she had had thewhole four till Mr. Roy took the two elder off her hands--the necessityof grinding hard out of school hours to keep herself up in Latin, Euclid,and other branches which do not usually form a part of a feminineeducation, only having a great natural love of work, she had taughtherself--all these things combined to make her life a dull life, a hardlife, till Robert Roy came into it. And sometimes even now the desperatecraving to enjoy--not only to endure, but to enjoy--to take a little ofthe natural pleasures of her age--came to the poor governess very sorely,especially on days such as this, when all the outward world looked sogay, so idle, and she worked so hard.

  So did Robert Roy. Life was not easier to him than to herself; she knewthat; and when he said, half joking, as if he wanted to feel his way,"Let us imitate our boys, and take a half holiday," she only laughed, butdid not refuse.

  How could she refuse? There were the long smooth sands on either sidethe Eden, stretching away into indefinite distance, with not a humanbeing upon them to break their loneliness, or, if there was, he or shelooked a mere dot, not human at all. Even if these two had been afraidof being seen walking together--which they hardly were, being toounimportant for any one to care whether they were friends or lovers, orwhat not--there was nobody to see them, except in the character of twoblack dots on the yellow sands.

  "It is low water; suppose we go and look for sea-anemones. One of mypupils wants some, and I promised to try and find one the first sparehour I had."

  "But we shall not find anemones on the sands."

  "Shells, then, you practical woman! We'll gather shells. It will beall the same to that poor invalid boy--and to me," added he, with thatinvoluntary sigh which she had noticed more than once, and which hadbegun to strike on her ears not quite painfully. Sighs, when we areyoung, mean differently to what they do in after-years. "I don't carevery much where I go, or what I do; I only want--well, to be happy foran hour, if Providence will let me."

  "Why should not Providence let you?" said Fortune, gently. "Few peopledeserve it more."

  "You are kind to think so; but you are always kind to every body."

  By this time they had left their position by the laurel bush, and werewalking along side by side, according as he had suggested. This silent,instinctive acquiescence in what he wished done--it had happened once ortwice before, startling her a little at herself; for, as I have said,Miss Williams was not at all the kind of person to do every thing thatevery body asked her, without considering whether it was right or wrong.She could obey, but it would depend entirely upon whom she had to obey,which, indeed, makes the sole difference between loving disciples andslavish fools.

  It was a lovely day, one of those serene autumn days peculiar toScotland--I was going to say Saint Andrews; and any one who knows theancient city will know exactly how it looks in the still, stronglyspiritualized light of such an afternoon, with the ruins, the castle,cathedral, and St. Regulus's tower standing out sharply against theintensely blue sky, and on the other side--on both sides--the yellowsweep of sand curving away into the distance, and melting into thesunshiny sea.

  Many a time, in their prescribed walks with their young tribe, MissWilliams and Mr. Roy had taken this stroll across the Links and round bythe sands to the mouth of the Eden, leaving behind them a long andsinuous track of many footsteps, little and large, but now there wereonly two lines--"foot-prints on the sands of Time," as he jestinglycalled them, turning round and pointing to the marks of the dainty feetthat walked so steadily and straightly beside his own.

  "They seem made to go together, those two tracks," said he.

  Why did he say it? Was he the kind of man to talk thus without meaningit? If so, alas! she was not exactly the woman to be thus talked to.Nothing fell on her lightly. Perhaps it was her misfortune, perhaps evenher fault, but so it was.

  Robert Roy did not "make love;" not at all. Possibly he never couldhave done it in the ordinary way. Sweet things, polite things were verydifficult to him either to do or to say. Even the tenderness that was inhim came out as if by accident; but, oh! how infinitely tender he couldbe! Enough to make any one who loved him die easily, quietly, if onlyjust holding his hand.

  There is an incident in Dickens's touching _Tale of two Cities_, where ayoung man going innocent to the guillotine, and riding on the death-cartwith a young girl whom he had never before seen, is able to sustain andcomfort her, even to the last awful moment, by the look of his face andthe clasp of his hand. That man, I have often thought, must have beensomething not unlike Robert Roy.

  Such men are rare, but they do exist; and it was Fortune's lot, or shebelieved it was, to have found one. That was enough. She went alongthe shining sands in a dream of perfect content, perfect happiness,thinking--and was it strange or wrong that she should so think?--that ifit were God's will she should thus walk through life, the thorniest pathwould seem smooth, the hardest road easy. She had no fear of life, iflived beside him; or of death--love is stronger than death; at least thissort of love, of which only strong natures are capable, and out of whichare made, not the lyrics, perhaps, but the epics, the psalms, or thetragedies of our mortal existence.

  I have explained thus much about these two friends--lovers that may be,or might have been--because they never would have done it themselves.Neither was given to much speaking. Indeed, I fear their conversationthis day, if recorded, would have been of the most feeble kind--brief,fragmentary, mere comments on the things about them, or abstract remarksnot particularly clever or brilliant. They were neither of them what youwould call brilliant people; yet they were happy, and the hours flew bylike a few minutes, until they found themselves back again beside thelaurel bush at the gate, when Mr. Roy suddenly said:

  "Do not go in yet. I mean, need you go in? It is scarcely past sunset;the boys will not be home for an hour yet; they don't want you, and I--Iwant you so. In your English sense," he added, with a laugh, referringto one of their many arguments, scholastic or otherwise, wherein she hadinsisted that to want meant _Anglice_, to wish or to crave, whereas inScotland it was always used like the French _manquer_, to miss or toneed.

  "Shall we begin that fight over again?" asked she, smiling; for everything, even fighting, seemed pleasant today.

  "No, I have no wish to fight; I want to consult you seriously on a purelypersonal matter, if you would not mind taking that trouble."

  Fortune looked sorry. That was one of the bad things in him (the bestman alive have their bad things), the pride which apes humility, theself-distrust which often wounds another so keenl
y. Her answer was givenwith a grave and simple sincerity that ought to have been reproachenough.

  "Mr. Roy, I would not mind any amount of trouble if I could be of use toyou; you know that."

  "Forgive me! Yes, I do know it. I believe in you and your goodness tothe very bottom of my heart."

  She tried to say "Thank you," but her lips refused to utter a word. Itwas so difficult to go on talking like ordinary friends, when she knew,and he must know she knew, that one more word would make them--notfriends at all--something infinitely better, closer, dearer; but thatword was his to speak, not hers. There are women who will "help a manon"--propose to him, marry him indeed--while he is under the pleasingdelusion that he does it all himself; but Fortune Williams was not one ofthese. She remained silent and passive, waiting for the next thing heshould say. It came: something the shock of which she never forgot aslong as she lived; and he said it with his eyes on her face, so that, ifit killed her, she must keep quiet and composed, as she did.

  "You know the boys' lessons end next week. The week after I go--that is,I have almost decided to go--to India."

  "To India!"

  "Yes, For which, no doubt, you think me very changeable, having said sooften that I meant to keep to a scholar's life, and be a professor oneday, perhaps, if by any means I could get salt to my porridge. Well, nowI am not satisfied with salt to my porridge; I wish to get rich."

  She did not say, "Why?" She thought she had not looked it; but heanswered: "Never mind why. I do wish it, and I will be rich yet, if Ican. Are you very much surprised?"

  Surprised she certainly was; but she answered, honestly, "Indeed, you arethe last person I should suspect of being worldly-minded."

  "Thank you; that is kind. No, just; merely just. One ought to havefaith in people; I am afraid my own deficiency is want of faith. Ittakes so much to make me believe for a moment that any one cares for me."

  How hard it was to be silent--harder still to speak! But she did notspeak.

  "I can understand that; I have often felt the same. It is the naturalconsequence of a very lonely life. If you and I had had fathers andmothers and brothers and sisters, we might have been different."

  "Perhaps so. But about India. For a long time--that is, for manyweeks--I have been casting about in my mind how to change my way of life,to look out for something that would help me to earn money, and quickly,but there seemed no chance whatever. Until suddenly one has opened."

  And then he explained how the father of one of one of his pupils,grateful for certain benefits, which Mr. Roy did not specify, andnoticing certain business qualities in him--"which I suppose I have,though I didn't know it," added he, with a smile--had offered him asituation in a merchant's office at Calcutta: a position of great trustand responsibility, for three years certain, with the option of thengiving it up or continuing it.

  "And continuing means making a fortune. Even three years means makingsomething, with my 'stingy' habits. Only I must go at once. Nor isthere any time left me for my decision; it must be yes or no. Whichshall it be?"

  The sudden appeal--made, too, as if though it was nothing--that terribleyes or no, which to her made all the difference of living or only halfliving, of feeling the sun in or out of the world. What could sheanswer? What could she answer? Trembling violently, she yet answered,in a steady voice, "You must decide for yourself. A woman can notunderstand a man."

  "Nor a man a woman, thoroughly. There is only one thing which helps bothto comprehend one another."

  One thing! she knew what it was. Surely so did he. But that strangedistrustfulness of which he had spoken, or the hesitation which thestrongest and bravest men have at times, came between.

  "Oh, the little more, and how much it is! Oh, the little less, and what worlds away!"

  If, instead of looking vaguely out upon the sea, he had looked into thispoor girl's face; if, instead of keeping silence, he had only spoken oneword! But he neither looked nor spoke, and the moment passed by. Andthere are some moments which people would sometimes give a whole lifetimeto recall and use differently; but in vain.

  "My engagement is only for three years," he resumed; "and, if alive, Imean to come back. Dead or alive, I was going to say, but you would notcare to see my ghost, I presume? I beg your pardon: I ought not to makea joke of such serious things."

  "No, you ought not."

  She felt herself almost speechless, that in another minute she mightburst into sobs. He saw it--at least he saw a very little of it, andmisinterpreted the rest.

  "I have tired you. Take my arm. You will soon be at home now." Then,after a pause, "You will not be displeased at any thing I have said? Wepart friends? No, we do not part; I shall see you every day for a week,and be able to tell you all particulars of my journey, if you care tohear."

  "Thank you, yes--I do care."

  They stood together, arm in arm. The dews were falling; a sweet, softlilac haze had begun to creep over the sea--the solemn; far-away sea thathe was so soon to cross. Involuntarily she clung to his arm. So near,yet so apart! Why must it be? She could have borne his going away, ifit was for his good, if he wished it; and something whispered to her thatthis sudden desire to get rich was not for himself alone. But, oh! If hewould only speak! One word--one little word! After that, any thingmight come--the separation of life, the bitterness of death. To the twohearts that had once opened each to each, in the full recognition ofmutual love, there could never more be any real parting.

  But that one word he did not say. He only took the little hand that layon his arm and pressed it, and held it--years after, the feeling of thatclasp was as fresh on her fingers as yesterday--the hearing the foot ofsome accidental passer-by, he let it go, and did not take it again.

  Just at this moment the sound of distant carriage wheels was heard.

  "That must be Mrs. Dalziel and the boys."

  "Then I had better go. Good-by"

  The daydream was over. It had all come back again--the forlorn, dreary,hard-working world.

  "Good-by, Mr. Roy." And they shook hands.

  "One word," he said hastily. "I shall write to you--you will allowme?--and I shall see you several times, a good many times before I go?"

  "I hope so."

  "Then, for the present, good-by. That means," he added, earnestly,"'God be with you!' And I know he always will."

  In another minute Fortune found herself standing beside the laurelbush, alone, listening to the sound of Mr. Roy's footsteps down theroad--listening, listening, as if, with the exceeding tension, herbrain would burst.

  The carriage came, passed by; it was not Mrs. Dalziel's after all. Shethought he might discover this, and come back again; so she waited alittle--five minutes, ten--beside the laurel bush. But he did not come.No footstep, no voice; nothing but the faint, far-away sound of the longwaves washing in upon the sands.

  It was not the brain that felt like to burst now, but the heart. Sheclasped her hands above her head. It did not matter; there was nocreature to see or hear that appeal--was it to man or God?--that wild,broken sob, so contrary to her usual self-controlled and self-containednature. And then she learned her forehead against the gate, just whereRobert Roy had accidentally laid his hand in opening it, and weptbitterly.