Hearts Afire - By J. D. Rawden Page 0,39

said; “let us go away.”

She put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her voice, “O Harleigh!”

They both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the grand stake of their existence.

There was a long pause; Charlotte was the first to break it.

“Listen, Harleigh. Before we part ways let me make one last attempt. You have spoken to father; you have told him that you love me, and that I adore you; but he didn’t believe you.”

“It is true. He smiled incredulously.”

“My father is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. He is cold and solitary. He never speaks of love, but he believes in love. He’s a miserable, arid creature.”

“Can’t you first persuade your mother? There we’d have an affectionate ally” said Harleigh, tentatively.

“My mother is worse than father,” Charlotte answered, with a slight tremor of the voice; “I should never dare to depend on her.”

“You are afraid of her?”

“Please don’t speak of her, don’t speak of her. It’s a subject which pains me.”

“We need her.”

“No, no. mother will not help; she must not be involved; it would be dreadful if she were involved. I’d a thousand times rather speak to father. I will speak with him; he will believe our love.”

“And if he shouldn’t believe?”

“He will believe me.”

“But, Charlotte, Charlotte, if he shouldn’t?”

“Then—we will elope. But I ought to make this last attempt. Love will give me strength. Afterward—I will write to you, I will tell you everything. I daren’t come here anymore. It’s too dangerous. If anyone should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. I’ll write to you. You’ll arrange your own affairs in the meantime—as if you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this country never to return. You must be ready at any instant.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Surely?”

“Surely.”

“Without a regret?”

“Without a regret.” But his voice died on his lips.

“Thank you; you love me. We shall be so happy! You will see. Happier than anyone in the world!”

“So happy!” murmured Harleigh, faithful but sad.

“And may Heaven help us,” she concluded, fervently, putting out her hand to leave him.

He took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere.

She moved slowly away, as if tired. He remained where he was, waiting a little before returning to his carriage. Not until some ten minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that Charlotte had safely reached her room.

Charlotte was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she had passed. An immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house.

When she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. A light was burning within the room.

Charlotte stood still a long while. She could hear a sound as of the pages of a book being turned. Mother was reading.

At last Charlotte pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold.

Lysbet Morgan looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak.

Charlotte fell on her knees before her, crying, “Forgive me. For pity’s sake, mother, forgive me!”

But the Lysbet Morgan remained silent, white and cold and statue like, never ceasing to smile scornfully.

Charlotte lay on the floor, weeping. And the morning dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; while her mother slept peacefully in her own bed.

The letter ran thus:

“Dearest Love,—I have had my talk with father. What a man! His mere presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. There is something in his silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says.

“And yet this morning when he came for breakfast, I was bold enough to speak to him of my love for you. I spoke simply, briefly, without trembling, though I could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. Mother was present, silent and absent-minded as usual. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth.

“Father smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting