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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 80. Clouds Breaking |
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_ CHAPTER LXXX. CLOUDS BREAKING The next morning Amy Waring came to Hope Wayne radiant with the prospect of her Aunt Martha's restoration to the world. Hope shook her hand warmly, and looked into her friend's illuminated face. "She is engaged to Lawrence Newt," said Hope, in her heart, as she kissed Amy's lips. "God bless you, Amy!" she added, with so much earnestness that Amy looked surprised. "I am very glad," said Hope, frankly. "Why, what do you know about it?" asked Amy. "Do you think I am blind?" said Hope. "No; but no eyes could see it, it was so hidden." "It can't be hidden," said Hope, earnestly. Amy stopped, looked inquiringly at her friend, and blushed--wondering what she meant. "Come, Hope, at least we are hiding from each other. I came to ask you to a family festival." "I am ready," answered Hope, with an air of quiet knowledge, and not at all surprised. Amy Waring was confused, she hardly knew why. "Why, Hope, I mean only that Lawrence Newt--" Hope Wayne smiled so tenderly and calmly, and with such tranquil consciousness that she knew every thing Amy was about to say, that Amy stopped again. "Go on," said Hope, placidly; "I want to hear it from your own lips." Amy Waring was in doubt no longer. She knew that Hope expected to hear that she was engaged. And not with less placidity than Hope's, she said: "Lawrence Newt wants us all to come and dine with him, because my Aunt Martha is found, and he wishes to bring Aunt Bennet and her together." That was all. Hope looked as confusedly at the calm Amy as Amy, a moment since, had looked at her. Then they both smiled, for they had, perhaps, some vague idea of what each had been thinking. The same evening the Round Table met. Arthur Merlin came early--so did Hope Wayne. They sat together talking rapidly, but Hope did not escape observing the unusual sadness of the artist--a sadness of manner rather than of expression. In a thousand ways there was a deference in his treatment of her which was unusual and touching. She had been very sure that he had understood what she meant when she spoke to him with an air of badinage about his picture. And certainly it was plain enough. It was clear enough; only he would not see what was before his eyes, nor hear what was in his ears, and so had to grope a little further until Lawrence Newt suddenly struck a light and showed him where he was. While they were yet talking Lawrence Newt came in. He spoke to Amy Waring, and then went straight up to Hope Wayne and put out his hand with the old frank smile breaking over his face. She rose and answered his smile, and laid her hand in his. They looked in each other's eyes; and Lawrence Newt saw in Hope Wayne's the beauty of a girl that long ago, as a boy, he had loved; and in his own, Hope felt that tenderness which had made her mother's happiness. It was but a moment. It was but a word. For the first time he said, "Hope." And for the first time she answered, "Lawrence." Amy Waring heard them. The two words seemed sharp: they pierced her heart, and she felt faint. The room swam, but she bit her lip till the blood came, and her stout heart preserved her from falling. "It is what I knew: they are engaged." But how was it that the manner of Lawrence Newt toward herself was never before more loyal and devoted? How was it that the quiet hilarity of the morning was not gone, but stole into his conversation with her so pointedly that she could not help feeling that it magnetized her, and that, against her will, she was more than ever cheerful? How was it that she knew it was herself who helped make that hilarity--that it was not only her friend Hope who inspired it? They are secrets not to be told. But as they all sat around the table, and Arthur Merlin for the first time insisted upon reading from Byron, and in his rich melancholy voice recited "Though the day of my destiny's over," It was clear that the cloud had lifted--that the spell of constraint was removed; and yet none of them precisely understood why. "To-morrow, then," said Lawrence Newt as they parted. "To-morrow," echoed Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. Arthur Merlin pulled his cap over his eyes and sauntered slowly homeward, whistling musingly, and murmuring,
"Mercy me, now!" said Aunt Winnifred as she lay listening to the creaking step of her nephew. "I wonder what poor girl's heart that wicked boy has been breaking to-night;" and she turned over and fell asleep again. That young man reached his room, and struck a light. It flashed upon a paper. He took it up eagerly, then smiled as he saw that it was a tract, and read, "A word to the Unhappy." "Dear Aunt Winnifred!" said he to himself; "does she think a man's griefs are like a child's bumps and bruises, to be cured by applying a piece of paper?" He smiled sadly, with the profound conviction that no man had ever before really known what unhappiness was, and so tumbled into bed and fell asleep. And as he dreamed, Hope Wayne came to him and smiled, as Diana smiled in his picture upon Endymion. "See!" she said, "I love you; look here!" And in his dream he looked and saw a full moon in a summer sky shining upon a fresh grave upon a hill-top. _ |
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