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136 |
THE CHIMES. |
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ha ! that airt often), and before I can turn my head, her voice is in my ear, saying, ' Richard, don't look round. For Heaven's love, give her this !' She brings it where I live; she sends it in letters ; she taps at the wiudow and lays it on the sill. What can I do ? Look at it!"
He held out in his hand a little purse, and chinked the money it enclosed.
" Hide it," said Meg. " Hide it! When she comes again, tell her, Richard, that I love her in my soul. That I never lie down to sleep, but I bless her, and pray for her. That, in my solitary work, I never cease to have her in my thoughts. That she is with me, night and day. That if I died to-morrow, I would remember her with my last breath. But that I cannot look upon it!"
He slowly recalled his hand, and crushing the purse together, said with a kind of drowsy thoughtfulness:
" I told her so. I told her so, as plain as words could speak. I've taken this gift back and left it at her door, a dozen times since then. But when she came at last, and stood before me, face to face, what could I do ?"
" You saw her !" exclaimed Meg. " You saw her ! Oh, Lilian, my sweet girl! Oh, Lilian, Lilian ! "
" I saw her," he went on to say, not answering, but engaged in the same slow pursuit of his own thoughts. " There she stood : trembling ! ' How does she look, Richard ? Does she ever speak of me? Is she thinner? My old place at the table: what's in my old place ? And the frame she taught me our old work on— has she burnt it, Richard !' There she was. I heard her say it."
Meg checked her sobs, and with the tears streaming from her eyes, bent over him to listen. Not to lose a breath.
With his arms resting on his knees; and stooping forward in his chair, as if what he said were written on the ground in some half legible character, which it was his occupation to decipher and connect; he went on.
"' Richard, I have fallen very low; and you may guess how much I have suffered in having this sent back, when I can bear to bring it in my hand to you. But you loved her once, even in my memory, dearly. Others stepped in between you; fears, and jealousies, and doubts, and vauities, estranged you from her; but you did love her, even in my memory !' I suppose I did," he said, interrupting himself for a moment. " I did ! That's neither here nor there. ' 0 Richard, if you ever did ; if you have any memory for what is gone and lost, take it to her once more. Once more ! Tell her how I begged and prayed. Tell her how I laid my head |
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