| Share page |
|
THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 295 |
||
|
now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest • when the music gave in, and the dance was over.
Hot and breathless as the Doctor was, it only made him more impatient for Alfred's coming.
"Anything been seen, Britain ? Anything been heard?"
"Too dark to see far, Sir. Too much noise inside the house to hear."
" That's right! The gayer welcome for him. How goes the time ?"
" Just twelve, Sir. He can't be long, Sir."
" Stir up the fire, and throw another log upon it," said the Doctor. " Let him see his welcome blazing out upon the night— good boy !—as he comes along !"
He saw it—Yes ! From the chaise he caught the light, as he turned the corner by the old church. He knew the room from which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees between the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically in the summer time at the window of Marion's chamber.
The tears were in his eyes. His heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness. How often he had thought of this time—pictured it under all circumstances—feared that it might never come—yearned, and wearied for it—far away !
Again the light ! Distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him welcome, and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand, and waved his hat, and cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him, as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire, triumphantly.
Stop ! He knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. If the orchard gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant.
He dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver—even that was not easy in his agitation—to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard.
There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But |
||