The next afternoon Tom Fuller came down to the island again.
Elizabeth and Elsie were quite alone, for Mellen had driven over to the village on some matter of business; but the sisters were not taking advantage of their solitude to indulge in one of those long, cozy, confidential chats which had been their habit in former years.
Elsie was in the upper part of the house amusing herself after her own fashion, and Elizabeth sat in the little morning-room which had become her favorite apartment of late.
It was a small room in the old part of the house, somewhat sombre in its character, but on a bright day relieved by a beautiful view of the sea which was afforded from the French windows, the only modern feature which Mellen had added to it.
On a dark morning the apartment was gloomy enough; the ceilings were low, crossed with heavy carved beams that made their want of height still more apparent; the upper portion of the walls were hung with dark crimson cloth, met half way down by a wainscoating of unpolished oak, dark and stained with age.
The furniture had been in the house since the Revolution; the massive chairs, each one of which was a weight to lift, had been covered with a fabric to match the hangings. The whole room had a quaint aspect, and was filled with a store of relics and curiosities which would have delighted a lover of the antique.
Elsie detested the apartment and never would occupy it, but when alone Elizabeth sought it from choice; the darker and drearier the day the more pertinaciously she clung to the old room, where the shadows lay heavy and grim, and every sound was echoed with preternatural sharpness.
But this day was bright and beautiful as summer itself. The apartment looked cheerful and picturesque, and Elizabeth made a pretty picture, seated by one of the open windows, with her light dress forming an agreeable contrast to the sombre draperies about her.
She had a work-basket on the little spider-legged table by her side and a mass of embroidery on her lap, but the needle had fallen from her hold, her hands lay idly upon her knee, and she was looking out over the bright waters with a dreamy, wistful gaze, which had become habitual with her whenever the necessity for self-restraint was removed and she was free to suffer, unobserved.
Tom entered the room in his usual haste, and found her sitting in this dreamy attitude; she started at the sound of his tread, and with the caution she was daily acquiring changed her listless position, and threw the mask of a smile over her face, which it was so dangerous to lift even for an instant.
"Here I am," cried Tom; "back again, like a bad penny. I hope you are not beginning to hate the sight of my ugly face."
He rushed towards her, upset the spider-legged table that was always ready to topple over on the least provocation, made a hopeless labyrinth of her embroidery silks, gave her a kiss of greeting, and hurried on with numberless questions, just as if he were in the greatest possible haste, and it was a necessity of life and death that he should throw off everything that happened to be on his mind before he dashed away.
"And you are not tired of seeing me, Bessie, you are sure of that?" he repeated.
"You are a silly fellow to ask such questions," she replied; "you know how glad I am to have you come."
"You're a darling old girl," cried Tom, "and there's no more to be said about it."
"Then, if you have finished, please pick up my unfortunate table. See what a state these poor silks are in."
"I'm always in mischief," said Tom, contritely, restoring the table to its equilibrium with great difficulty; "I'm more out of place in a lady's parlor than an owl in a canary bird's cage."
"Your mistakes are better than other men's elegancies," said Elizabeth, heartily.
It rested her to be in Tom's society; with him she was not forced constantly to play a part, and he had been a great resource to her ever since his return.
Many times she said to herself:
"He would love me, whatever came—I can always depend on him."
She was thinking something of the kind, just then, while she began assorting her silks; and Tom stood meekly by, longing to repair the mischief he had occasioned, but perfectly certain that he should only do a good deal more harm if he attempted it.
Besides that, something else was in his mind—there always was before he had been five minutes in the house if Elsie did not make her appearance.
He shuffled about, answered Elizabeth's questions haltingly, and at last burst out:
"Where is the little fairy—has she gone out, too?"
"Elsie, do you mean?"
"Who else, of course? Where is she?"
"Up in her room, I fancy," replied Elizabeth.
"I don't see how you can bear her out of your sight for an instant," cried Tom; "I'm sure I couldn't if I lived in the house with her."
"Nonsense, Tom!"
"There is no nonsense about it; it's just the truth."
Several times Elizabeth had attempted to point out to him the folly of going on in his old insane fashion, but either he would not listen or something interrupted their conversation. Now she determined to take advantage of the present opportunity and speak seriously with him.
"I have brought her a paper of Maillard's sweet things," said Tom; "might I call or send for her?"
He darted towards the door as he spoke, but Elizabeth stopped him.
"Wait a moment, Tom," she said; "come back here."
"Yes, of course; I'll be back in a flash—I'll just send her these traps," and he pulled a couple of tempting packages from his pocket, nattily tied with pink ribbons and got up generally in the exquisite taste which distinguishes everything from our Frenchman's establishment.
"No," urged Elizabeth, "come here first; I have something to say to you, Tom—Elsie can eat her bon-bons after."
Tom came back, rather unwillingly though, and stood leaning against the window like a criminal.
"Sit down," said Elizabeth.
"No, no! I like to stand! Well, what is it, Bessie?"
"Tom," she said, seriously, "I am afraid you have forgotten the experience which cost you so much pain and drove you off to Europe; I fear you are making other and deeper trouble for yourself."
"Oh, no, Bessie—it's of no consequence any way," returned Tom, turning fifty different shades of red at once, "What a pretty green that silk is."
"It is bright blue, but no matter! So you wont listen to me, Tom?" continued Elizabeth.
"My dear girl, did I ever refuse to listen in all my life!" cried Tom. "But you see, you're a little mistaken, Bessie; I'm not such a goney as I used to be."
"That has nothing to do with the matter."
"Oh, yes, it has; I mean, I don't allow myself to be such a dunce, even in my own thoughts. I never even think about—about—you know what I mean."
Tom broke down and made a somewhat lame conclusion.
"Oh, Tom, Tom!" Elizabeth said.
"Well, there!" cried he, with sudden energy; "there is no use in standing here and telling you fibs! I do love her—I must love her—I always shall love her—hang me if I shan't!"
He was in a state of great agitation now, and trembled all over as if he had been addressing Elsie herself.
Elizabeth sighed wearily.
"I thought so," she said; "I feared so."
"You mean the dear girl will never care for me. How could any one expect her to—I couldn't—'tisn't in reason."
"Then, Tom, she certainly ought not to treat you as she does and lead you on."
"She doesn't lead me on."
"But her manner does not forbid your attentions, and you are too worthy, dear cousin, for anything but honest dealing."
"It's my fault—all my fault."
Elizabeth shook her head.
"You have the best heart and the worst head in the world," said she.
"You musn't blame her," continued Tom; "I can't stand that! Pitch into me as often and as hard as you like, you never can say enough, but don't blame her."
"Let us leave her share in the matter, then, out of the question," continued Elizabeth. "If you believe what you say, is it wise to run into danger as you do?"
"There's no help for it, Bessie; I should die if I could not see her dear little face! Oh, you can't think what I suffered while I was gone—I didn't talk about it—I don't even want to think of it; but, Bessie, dear, sometimes I used to think I should go out of my senses."
He was speaking seriously now; his face was absolutely pale with emotion, and his eyes—the one fine feature of his face—were misty with a remembrance of old pain.
"Poor Tom," murmured Elizabeth, in her pitying way, always full of sympathy for the trouble of others, whatever her own might be; "poor, dear Tom, I know how hard it is."
"No; you can't know, Bessie; you can't have the least idea! You don't know what it is to have something to hide—to go about with a secret gnawing at your heart—never able to open your lips—suffering night and day—"
He stopped suddenly and looked at his cousin with wonder; she was leaning back in her chair, her face was pale as death, and her lips parted in a dreary sigh.
Tom drew close to her chair and bent over her, with a look of anxious surprise on his disturbed features.
"Are you sick, Bessie?" he asked.
"No, no," she answered, controlling herself.
His words brought up her own secret burden so vividly before her that for an instant she had been dreadfully shaken.
"You look so pale; I'm afraid you are going to be ill."
"Indeed, I am not," she answered.
Tom knelt down by her on both knees, played with her embroidery silks, and finally said:
"Bessie, since we're talking plainly, may I say something?"
"Yes, Tom."
"Somehow, since I came back from Europe, you don't seem so happy as you used—maybe it's only one of my blunders—but I have thought you looked troubled—like a person that was always expecting something dreadful to happen."
She forced a smile upon her lips and then compelled them to answer him:
"Oh, you foolish Tom!"
"Then it is not so!" he urged. "You are not unhappy?"
"How could I be unhappy—is not my life pleasant, prosperous beyond anything I could ever have hoped for?"
"It seems so; that made me think it must be just one of my silly fancies."
"Nothing more, Tom."
"Mellen's the most splendid fellow in the world," pursued he; "and you couldn't well be sad with that little darling about you."
Elizabeth took up her silks again.
"Dismiss all such thoughts from your mind, Tom."
"I shall be only too glad. But tell me once more that I am an over-anxious busybody, minding everybody's concerns but my own. You see, Bessie, I love you like a sister, and will stand by you, by Jupiter, always. But these stupid ideas of mine, there's no foundation for them?"
"How could there be?"
"That's what I say to myself always," cried Tom. "Well, dear, I won't think such nonsense again."
"Do not, I beg; and never mention it to anybody."
"There's no danger of that," said Tom. "But you know, if you should get unhappy or in trouble, there is always one old chap you could lean on."
"I believe that, Tom; I do indeed."
"And you would come to me, Bessie?"
"If you could help me, yes. But trouble must come to all, Tom; and, generally, we must each bear our burdens alone."
"How sad your voice sounds, Bessie."
She made an effort to speak playfully:
"You are getting all sorts of ridiculous fancies in your head; don't be so foolish."
Tom was relieved by her manner, and began to laugh at his own ridiculous mistakes, rising from his knees and brushing the dust away with his handkerchief.
"My head is a poor old trap," he said. "Well, well, I am glad you are happy—very glad."
"And I want you to be happy, Tom."
"I am, upon my word, I am! I don't allow myself to think any more or to look forward, but just live on, glad to be in the sunshine. 'Tisn't a bad world, after all, Bess; things usually come right in the end."
If she could only believe it—if she could but accept his cheerful philosophy and his unwavering trust; but, alas! the sleepless dread at her heart prevented that.
"And about my stupid self, Bessie," added Tom.
"Yes, about your dear, good self," answered Elizabeth, glad to remove the subject from any connection with her secret dread.
"And my useless bits of affairs," pursued Tom; "just let things rest as they are, it's the best way."
"I don't wish to do anything to annoy you," she replied; "and you know very well I am the last person in the world to interfere——"
"Oh, don't talk like that, or I shall think you are offended."
"Not in the least, Tom; I only meant to say that it was my regard for your happiness that made me speak."
"I know—I feel that, Bessie; but just let things go on! Perhaps I am asleep and dreaming, but the slumber is pleasant, so don't wake me; it's cruel kindness, dear."
Elizabeth said nothing more; it was useless to pursue the subject; where Tom was concerned she saw plainly that it could do no good, his heart was fixed.
Just as Elizabeth was thinking over this conversation, and giving another little sigh for Tom and what she feared for him, a blithe young voice rang in the hall, carolling like a bird.
"There she is!" exclaimed Tom.
His face lighted up, his whole frame seemed to expand with delight. Elizabeth watched him. She knew better than ever that his heartstrings were twined about that young creature, that his very soul had gone out in worship at her feet.
"And where are you hidden, Lady Bess?" sang Elsie, gayly.
Tom rushed to the door and flung it open, upsetting the table again, and this time leaving Elizabeth to pick it up herself.
"Here she is, my fairy princess!" he called, standing in the doorway and looking up at her as she paused on the stairs.
"In that dismal den and guarded by a dragon," cried Elsie, peeping at him through the banisters, mischievously. "Pray where did you come from, C[oe]ur de Lion?"
"If you knew what I had brought for my lady-bird, you would be on your prettiest behavior and give me your best welcome," said Tom.
"It's bon-bons!" cried Elsie with a shriek of delight. "The ogre means pralines and caramels and marons glacés!"
"Come down and see," said Tom, mysteriously.
Elsie danced downstairs and entered the room where her sister sat.
"Ugh, the ugly place!" said she. "It makes me shiver!"
"Better come into the den than lose the sweets," said Tom, opening the papers and pretending to eat greedily.
"He won't leave a drop!" cried Elsie, darting upon him.
Tom prolonged the playful struggle artfully enough; and when a truce was concluded it was only on condition that he should feed her with the sugarplums, and as he did not satisfy her greediness fast enough, there was a great deal of sport and laughter between the pair.
Elizabeth sat in the window and watched them, sighing sometimes and regarding Elsie with a strange pain in her eyes, as if annoyed and troubled that the happy creature could not leave her the full affection of this one heart.
"I want to go out on the water," said Elsie. "Will you take me, you ugly giant?"
"Won't I!" said Tom. "I'd take you to the moon if you liked."
"But I don't wish to try the moon, thank you; a nice long row will satisfy me. Come along, Bessie!"
"Not to-day," answered Elizabeth coldly.
"You're a hateful, poky thing!" cried Elsie. "Well, I shall go, the sun is lovely."
"I'll run down to the shore and get the boat ready," said Tom, ecstatically.
He darted away, and Elsie stood for a few moments crushing the candies between her white teeth and looking at Elizabeth, half frightened, half defiant.
"You are very busy," said she.
"One can't be idle," replied Elizabeth.
"Oh, can't one? It just suits me, thank you."
"Elsie," said her sister, suddenly, "I want to say something."
"If it is anything unpleasant, I won't hear. I won't hear. I want to be happy. Let me alone!"
"It is about yourself; don't be alarmed."
"Well, say it; but you are going to scold or something else dreadful, I know by your voice."
"Don't be such a baby," said Elizabeth, impatiently.
"There! I knew you were cross! How can I help being a baby? I like it, and I will be one."
"Do you think you are acting honestly with Tom?" said Elizabeth.
"I'm not acting at all," replied Elsie fretfully. "I can't help his coming here constantly. You wouldn't have me rude to your own cousin?"
"You know what I mean. He loves you, in spite of your conduct before he went abroad——"
"I can't help it," Elsie broke in again. "If people will fall in love with me it's their own fault; I don't ask them."
"But you can help encouraging him and leading him on to greater pain."
Elsie pouted.
"How do you know I shall?"
"You would not marry him," exclaimed Elizabeth, suddenly. "You—you—you——"
"You don't know anything about it. Let Tom and me alone. I think you are growing a cross old thing."
"Oh, Elsie, do be serious for one moment."
"Let me alone!" she repeated. "You are always spoiling my sunshine. I believe you hate me!"
"Don't talk so wildly, Elsie. But you cannot blame me for being anxious about Tom's happiness."
"And, pray, should I make him wretched if I married him?" she exclaimed defiantly.
"You won't do that. You——"
"I'll do what I please; and don't you meddle with me, just remember that!"
The voice was sharp and unlike Elsie's usual tone, but she quickly resumed her childish manner, and added:
"I'll be good—don't scold. There, I'm going now—good-bye!"
She danced out of the room and through the house, and Elizabeth heard her voice on the lawn, calling to Tom, to know if the boat was ready.
Elizabeth kept her seat, looking absently across the water. Presently she saw the little skiff shoot out from the shore, under the impetus of Tom's muscular arms, while Elsie leaned back in the stern, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, and reminding Elizabeth of the old German legend of the Lurlei.
She sat there a long time, with her former mournful thoughts all trooping back, like ravens to a desolated nest. The gloom upon her spirits waxed deeper, and the chill that had begun during the past days to creep about her heart tightened and grew cold, as if it were changing to an icy band, which would freeze her pulses in its tightening clasp. She looked out through the sunshine, watching the light boat till it became a mere speck in the distance, and finally disappeared among the windings of the long curve of land which stretched out into the ocean.
Thinking, thinking, always the same dreary round, till she grew so weary with the ceaseless anxiety, the constant necessity for plots and plans, the need of reflection, even, in slightest act, and, worse than all, the sleepless fear of discovery which hovered over her, asleep or awake, that it seemed sometimes that she could no longer uphold the burden, but must allow it to fall and crush her.
The afternoon was passing, but the little boat had not yet appeared in sight again. There was no danger that Tom would think of fatigue while he could sit looking in the face of his syren, listening to her low, sweet songs; nor was there the slightest possibility of her ever remembering that the strongest muscles must at last feel a little need of relaxation. Just as long as it pleased her to float over the sunlit waters, carolling her pretty melodies or talking gay nonsense to Tom, and blinding him utterly with the wicked lightning of her eyes, she would think of nothing else.
At last Mr. Mellen's step sounded in the hall. Elizabeth heard it, and immediately gathered up her embroidery silks, making a great pretence of being busy, lest he should enter suddenly, and pierce her with one of his dark, suspicious glances, which made her heart actually stand still with apprehension.
He came on towards the room, looked in at the door and saw his wife sitting there apparently quiet, comfortable, and wholly occupied with her pretty task.
She glanced up and nodded a welcome.
"So you have come back," she said; "I have been wishing for you."
He smiled, came forward and stood by her, saying:
"I thought you had given up any such weakness. You seem very busy."
"This tiresome embroidery has been lying about so long that I am working on it for very shame," she replied.
"Elsie began it and was delighted with it for three days, but she has not touched it since."
"Very like the little fairy," he said, with a smile any reference to the young girl always brought to his lips.
Elizabeth did not wish to talk, it was important that she should hide the real feelings that oppressed her even under an appearance of playfulness. She looked up and smiled:
"If you were good-natured you would sit down here and read to me. There is Bulwer's new book."
"I will, with pleasure; but where is Elsie?"
"Oh, Tom Fuller came, and she made him take her out for a row; so I have been alone in my den, as she calls it."
"The child can't bear the least approach to a shadow," he said; "she must have her sunshine undisturbed."
He drew an easy chair near the window where Elizabeth sat, took up the novel she had asked him to read, and began the splendid story.
He read beautifully, and Elizabeth was glad to forget her unquiet reflections in the melody of his voice and the rare interest of the tale. Mellen himself was in a mood to be comfortable and at rest.
The brightness of the sunset was flooding the waters before either of them looked up again. Then Mellen said:
"Those careless creatures ought to come back; it grows chilly on the water as evening comes on, and the least thing gives Elsie cold."
Elizabeth shaded her eyes with her hand and looked over the bay.
"They are coming," she said; "I can see them."
Mellen looked in the direction to which she pointed, and saw the boat rounding a point of land and making swiftly up the bay.
"Tom is as strong as a young Hercules," he said, watching the little skiff as it fairly flew through the water under the impulse of that powerful arm, and aided by the inward rush of the tide.
They remained watching it till it approached near enough for them to distinguish Elsie's white wrappings. Suddenly Mellen said:
"She is rocking the boat dreadfully! She is standing up—The girl is crazy to run such risks!"
Elizabeth looked and saw Elsie erect in the skiff, her shawl floating around her, rocking the boat to and fro with reckless force, while she could see by Tom's gestures that he was vainly expostulating with her upon her imprudence.
Mellen went into the hall and out on the veranda, with some vague idea of trying to attract the imprudent girl's attention by signals; but the skiff was far off, and Elsie too much occupied to observe them.
Elizabeth threw down her work and followed him, standing by his side in silent apprehension.
"She is mad!" exclaimed Mellen, "absolutely mad!"
Elsie's gay laugh rang over the waters, and they could see Tom expostulating with more animated gestures.
"She will fall overboard, as sure as fate!" cried Mellen. "Oh! Elsie, Elsie!"
But the exclamation could not reach the reckless creature; probably she would have paid no attention had she heard it.
"Oh, see how it rocks!" cried Elizabeth with a shiver.
"She is frightened at her own recklessness," said Mellen, "but will not stop, because it disturbs Tom."
"Perhaps there is less danger than we think," began Elizabeth, but a cry from her husband checked the words.
She looked—the boat had tipped till the edge was even with the water; suddenly Elsie tottered, lost her balance—there was a smothered shriek from the distance—then she disappeared under the crested waves.
Mellen sprang down the steps and rushed across the lawn, with some mad idea of trying to rescue his sister; and, following as well as her trembling limbs would permit, Elizabeth saw Tom throw off his coat and plunge into the water.
"He will save her!" she cried; "he will save her!"
Mellen only answered by a groan; he was looking wildly about for a boat, but there was none in sight; thus powerless to aid his darling—he could only stand and watch the struggles of another to rescue her from that death peril. They saw an object rise above the waves—saw Tom swim towards it—seize it—he had caught the girl in his arms. The couple on the lawn could neither move nor cry out; but stood in breathless expectation, and watched him support his burthen with one arm, while with the other he swam towards the skiff, which the tide was bearing in towards the shore. It was a long pull; they could see that he began to falter after his exertions in rowing; a deathly fear crept over both those hearts, but they did not speak—scarcely breathed.
Suddenly an outgoing wave washed the helpless girl from Tom's grasp; she was sinking again. Strong man as he was, Grantley Mellen's courage gave way; then covering his face with his hands he sallied back, resting against a tree, afraid to look again. White and cold, Elizabeth watched the boat drift one way, and saw Tom snatch at the girl's dress and get her again in the grasp of his strong arm.
"He has caught her!" she gasped. "He has almost reached the boat. Grantley! Grantley! she is safe!"
Mellen looked up. Tom had just put his hand on the side of the skiff, and was lifting Elsie in. It was evidently the last effort of his mighty strength, for he floated for some distance, holding on to the boat before he had power to attempt more. The husband and wife watched him while he got into the boat himself, lifted Elsie's head on his knee, and allowed the tide almost entirely to wash them towards the beach.
As they approached the bank Elsie began to recover consciousness. As Tom took her in his arms and sprang with a staggering bound on shore, she opened her eyes and saw her brother and Elizabeth.
"I'm safe," she said, faintly, "quite safe. Don't be afraid."
It was not a moment for many words. With an exclamation of thankfulness, Mellen snatched Elsie from Tom's arms and carried her into the house. In a few moments their united exertions brought the reckless girl completely to herself. She looked up and saw the anxious faces bent over her.
"Don't scold," she cried, "Tom saved me, Grant, Tom saved me!"
Mellen grasped Fuller's hands.
"I can't thank you, I can't," he said. "God bless you, my friend."
Tom was shaking from head to foot, his drenched garments dripping like a river god's, but he answered as soon as his chattering teeth would permit:
"Don't say a word. I'd have drowned myself, if I hadn't saved her."
Elizabeth insisted upon Elsie's being carried upstairs to her room, and sent Tom off to change his dress; luckily, in his frequent visits, he had always forgotten some portion of his baggage, so dry clothes were found in his room.
Before Mellen had recovered from the shock sufficiently to be at all composed, Elsie was dressed and lying on the sofa in her own room, quite restored, with the exception of her unusual pallor. She had been wrapped in a rose-colored morning robe, trimmed with swansdown, and lay in delicate relief on the blue couch of her boudoir. Mellen was bending over her and holding her hands, as if he feared to let her free for an instant; while Elizabeth stood near, finding time, now that her labors were over, to watch her husband and wonder if danger to her would have brought a pang like this to his heart.
"I am quite well now," said Elsie, "and I didn't feel much frightened."
"Oh, child!" said her brother, "promise me never to run such risks again."
"But you mustn't scold," she pleaded; "think of the danger I was in! Oh! it was horrible to feel the water closing over my head—to go down—down!"
"Don't think of it," cried Elizabeth, making a sudden effort to change the conversation, from a fear that dwelling upon the danger which she had incurred might bring on one of Elsie's nervous attacks.
"No," added Mellen; "it is all over now, quite over—don't think of it any more."
"You look pale, Grant."
"No wonder, no wonder!"
The girl gave him one of her wilful smiles.
"Perhaps I tried the experiment to see how much you loved me?"
Mellen lifted her in his arms and rested her head upon his shoulder, while many emotions struggled across his face.
"Child!" he said, in a tremulous voice, "you knew before—you have always known. My mother's treasure—my pride—my blessing!"
There Elizabeth stood, forgotten, disregarded—so it seemed to her; but she made no sign which could betray the bitter anguish at her heart.
There came a knock at the door.
"That's Tom Fuller," said Elsie; "tell him to come in, Bessie."
Mellen started up and opened the door himself. There stood Tom, clad in dry garments, but still greatly agitated.
"How is she?" he asked. "Is she better?"
"You have saved her life!" exclaimed Mellen, grasping his two hands; "you have saved her life!"
"But is she better?" he repeated, quite too anxious for any thought of the credit due himself, and too unselfish to desire it even if he had remembered.
"Come in and see," called Elsie, in a tender voice from her sofa.
Tom brushed by Mellen, and down he went on his knees by the couch, exclaiming:
"She looks all right now. Oh, thank God!"
Mellen had been too profoundly disturbed himself for conjecture regarding this passionate outburst; to him it seemed natural that every one should be agitated, and Elsie soon brought them back to safer common-places by her gayety, which not even the peril from which she had been so recently rescued could entirely subdue.
"I declare, Tom," said she, "you are useful in a household located near the water, as a Newfoundland dog."
"Oh, I can't laugh," cried Tom.
"But you must!" said the wilful creature. "You will not put on long faces because I am saved, I suppose?"
"Elsie," said her brother, "you ought to sleep awhile; Tom and I will go out."
"No, no," she persisted, "I am not in the least sleepy—you must not go away—I shall only get nervous if you leave me alone; I shall be quite well by dinner-time. Tom Fuller, don't go!"
They did not oppose her; every one there knew that it was of no use, for in the end they would surely yield to her caprices.
"I haven't thanked you yet, Tom," she said.
"I don't know what there is to thank me for."
"Indeed!" said Elsie; "so you don't think my life of enough importance to have the saving of it a matter of consequence?"
"You know that wasn't what I meant," said Tom, rubbing his damp hair with one hand.
"You are too bad," said Mellen, laughing, "too bad, Elsie."
"Indeed, I shall tease him more than ever," replied Elsie; "he will grow conceited if I don't. Tell him how much you like me to tease you, old Tom."
"Well," said he, a little ruefully, "you have always done it, and I suppose you always will—I shouldn't think it was you if you stopped now."
Even Elizabeth laughed, and Elsie said:
"There, there, old Tom, don't get sentimental. Perhaps I'll be good-natured for three days by way of reward for pulling me out of the water."
"I'd like to save your life every day in the week at that rate," cried Tom in ecstasy.
"No, no!" added Mellen; "I think one such exploit is quite enough."
Elsie seized Tom's hand, and said with real feeling:
"Tom, I do thank you—I can't tell you how much."
"Don't, don't!" he pleaded. "If you say another word I'll run off and never show my face again."
Elsie began to laugh once more, and the lingering trace of seriousness died quite out of her face.
"Tom is good at a catastrophe," said she, "but he can't carry on the blank verse proper to the after situation."
"Blank enough it would be," rejoined Tom, and then he was so much astonished to find that he had made a sort of joke, that the idea covered him with fresh confusion.
Elsie's disaster passed off without dangerous consequences to the reckless girl, and she had half forgotten the occurrence long before Mellen recovered composure enough to thank, with sufficient fervor, the noble-hearted man who had saved her life.
From that day Tom Fuller took a place in Mellen's esteem which he had never held before; his gratitude was unbounded, and as he learned to know and appreciate the young man, he found a thousand noble qualities to admire under that rugged exterior. And as Elsie softened into gentler earnestness, and drew closer to him day by day, Tom became so completely engrossed in his happy love-dream that he had not a single thought beyond it. In her loneliness and her anxieties which separated her so completely from those three hearts, Elizabeth Mellen watched, sighed sometimes, whispering to herself:
"She has taken even Tom from me. I have nothing left—husband—relative—all, all abandon me for her."
Elsie was twenty now, but looking younger from her fragile form and the extreme delicacy of her complexion. The reader knows how winsome and playful her manners were; how she was loved and cherished by her brother, and it seemed hard that a creature like her, so innocent and winsome, should have even a knowledge of the secret which oppressed Elizabeth. It seemed to prove more depth of character than one would have expected, that she was in any way able or willing to help her sister-in-law to bear her secret burthen, let that burthen be what it might.
The vague thoughts which had troubled Grantley Mellen on the night of his arrival, had died out. On calm reflection he could understand that it was quite in keeping with the restrained intensity of Elizabeth's nature, that the very violence of the storm should have forced her into it. That the sudden sound of his voice and step should have brought on the nervous weakness to which she so seldom gave way, was equally natural after so much excitement.
Then Elsie came back so blithe and blooming, brought so much sunshine into the house, and drew them both so much into her amusements, that the first days of Mellen's return were pleasant indeed.
The weather had been delightful; they enjoyed rides and drives, moonlight excursions upon the water; there had been visits to receive and return among neighbors and friends; people had heard of Mellen's return, and came uninvited from New York, bringing all that festal bustle and change which puts holidays every now and then into the ordinary routine of our lives.
The first days passed and still the sky was unclouded. Grantley Mellen began to think that he was at last to be happy, and grew cheerful with the thought. So for a time love cast out all fear in the husband's heart.
There had been no further return of that inexplicable nervousness in Elizabeth; the strained, anxious look almost entirely left her face; she was even more lively than was customary with her. It was not that the fear and dread had left her mind, but she was on her guard, and there was a reticence and strength in her character which even those who knew her best did not fully understand. A stern, settled purpose would keep her through her course, whatever might lie behind.
During those happy days there had been no more confidences between her and Elsie; indeed it seemed almost as if Elizabeth avoided the girl—not in a way to be noticed even by Mellen's quick eyes—if it was so, Elsie on her side did not attempt to break through these little restraints that had fallen around them. It was natural that she should be glad to escape from the gloom which surrounded Elizabeth, and in this respect the fickleness of her character was fortunate; from her lack of concentrativeness, the girl was able to throw off any trouble the moment its actual danger was removed from her path.
Thus the first days had passed, allowing them to settle down into tolerable quiet, but not too much of it, for Elsie could not endure that. Society was her element; trifle and champagne seemed her natural nourishment, and she drooped so quickly if compelled to seclusion, that, with his usual weakness where she was concerned, Mellen relinquished his own desires to gratify her caprices.
You may think this not in keeping with his character and habits, but reflect a little and you will see that it was perfectly natural. The promise which he had made to his mother was always in his mind; he never forgot his fears for Elsie's health; she was more like a daughter than a sister to him, and her very childishness was a great charm to a man of his grave nature. The very servants delighted in waiting on her, though her requirements were numerous; but they did it all willingly, and put a great deal more heart into her service than they ever exhibited in obeying Elizabeth's moderate and reasonable requests. They mistook Mrs. Mellen's quiet manners for pride, and held her in slight favor in consequence; so dazzled by Elsie's manner, that when she gave them a cast-off garment or a worthless ornament, it seemed a much greater boon than the real kindness Elizabeth invariably displayed when they were in sickness or trouble.
Elizabeth humored her sister-in-law with the rest, but there was a soreness at her heart all the while; for sometimes when she saw this young creature clinging about her husband, her face wore the strange expression it had done while she watched their meeting after his return.
The domestic life at Piney Cove was nearly happiness at this time. But for Elizabeth's hidden anxieties, Mellen's return would have made that old house almost like heaven. As it was, this haunted woman would sometimes forget her causes of dread, and break out into gleams of loving cheerfulness in spite of them.
After the night on which the bracelet was lost, the sunshine which had brightened the little household at Piney Cove was dimmed by a thousand intangible shadows. In spite of all his efforts, Grantley Mellen's suspicions were aroused and kept on the alert, searching for proofs that could only bring unhappiness when found.
You would not have said that he was suffering from jealousy; there was nothing upon which his mind settled itself that gave rise to that feeling, but he fretted absolutely because he had no power to discover every thought of Elizabeth's soul during his absence. Then as he reflected upon the mystery connected with his arrival, came up afresh the disappearance of the bracelet, and he lost himself in a maze of irritating conjecture, of which his fine judgment often grew ashamed.
Elizabeth wore her old proud look for several days after the night of the dinner-party. Grantley felt that the ice of the past was freezing between them once more, and the idea caused him acute pain.
He sat watching her one day as she bent over her needlework, talking a little at intervals, listening occasionally to passages from his book; oftener sitting there with her fingers moving hurriedly, as if she were pressed for time, but her anxious face proving how far from this occupation her thoughts had wandered.
More than once Mellen saw the dark brows contract as if under actual distress, and as he ceased to speak, and seemed wholly absorbed in his book, he could see that her reverie became more absorbing and painful.
"Elizabeth!" he said suddenly.
His wife started. In her preoccupation she had forgotten that he was in the room—forgotten that she was not alone with those dark reflections which cast their shadow over her face.
"Did you speak, Grantley?"
"Yes; how you started!"
"Did I start?" she asked, trying to laugh. "I don't know how it is that I grow so nervous."
"You never were so afflicted formerly."
"No; I don't remember," she replied quickly. "But you know I had a good deal of care and responsibility during your absence; it may be that which has shaken me a little."
"Do you believe it?" he asked, in a constrained voice.
She shot one glance of indignant pride at him; for an instant she looked inclined to leave the room, as had frequently been her habit during the first months of their marriage, when he irritated her beyond endurance.
But if Elizabeth had the inclination she controlled it. After a moment's silence she laid down her work and approached the sofa where he was lying.
"Don't be severe with me, Grantley," she said, with a degree of humility unknown to the past; "my head aches drearily—I don't think I am well."
His feelings changed as he looked at her; she was not well; he could see the traces of pain in the languid eyes and the contracted forehead, but whether the suffering was mental or physical even a physiognomist could not have told.
He reached out his hand and drew her towards him; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder with a little sigh of weariness.
"I can rest here," she whispered; "it is my place, isn't it, Grantley?"
There was tender, almost childish pleading in her voice; he lifted her face, looked into her eyes and saw tears there.
"What is it, Bessie?" he asked. "Have I hurt you?"
The recollection of all the doubts and suspicious thoughts which had been in his mind came back, and forgetful of his idea that some recent anxiety made the change in her manner, he reproached himself with having brought a cloud between them by his own actions.
"Have I pained you in anything, Bessie?" he repeated.
"I feared the old trouble was coming back," she whispered.
"No, no; it must not, it shall not, Bessie! I am to blame—but if you knew what this wretched disposition makes me suffer! Every heart I trusted in my early life deceived me. I have only you left now—you and Elsie."
Perhaps it was natural that she should feel a little wifely jealousy at having his sister forced in, even to their closest confidence; her face was overclouded for an instant, but she subdued the feeling and said, kindly:
"I know what you have suffered, dear; I can understand the effect it has had upon your character—but you may trust me—indeed you may."
"I know that, dear wife; I believe that!"
He drew her closer to him; for a few moments she sat with her hand among the short, dark curls of his hair, then she said, abruptly:
"Grantley?"
"What is it, dear?"
"I want to ask you something."
"It can't be anything very terrible; you need not hesitate so."
"Only because it sounds foolish!"
"Nothing ever can seem foolish from your lips," he said, softly; and she blushed like a girl at his praise.
"That woman you—you loved once," she said; "was she dearer to you than I am?"
Grantley Mellen's face darkened.
"Let me blot out all thought of that time," he exclaimed, passionately; "I would like to burn out of my soul every trace of those years in which she had a part. I loved her with the passion of youth—no, Bessie, it was not a feeling so deep and holy as my love for you, and it is over for ever."
His face softened, and his voice trembled with a more gentle emotion, for he thought of that lone grave on the hillside, which he had so lately seen closed over his first love.
"Then you do love me?" whispered his wife; "you do love me?"
"What a question, darling!"
"Yes, I know it is silly."
"Bessie," he exclaimed, after a moment's thought; "I cannot help the feeling—you seem changed."
"I—changed, Grantley?"
"It may be my fault; but I feel as if there was a something which kept us apart—a mystery which I cannot penetrate—a gulf which no effort of mine can bridge."
She was a little agitated at first, but that passed.
"What mystery could there be?" she asked. "I don't understand you, Grantley."
"I hardly know what I mean myself. Is it my fault, Elizabeth? Are you angry still at what I said the night you lost your bracelet?"
She did not stir; she kept the hand he held even from quivering, but the face he could not see grew white and contracted under a sterner pain.
"Were you angry, Bessie?" he repeated.
"Not angry," she said, in a low voice, hesitating somewhat. "I was hurt and indignant—you ought to trust me, my husband."
"I do, dearest, I do trust you! Why should I not? There is no secret between us, Bessie—no mystery—nothing which keeps our hearts asunder!"
She was silent—she was struggling for power to speak, knowing that every second of hesitation told against her in a way which volumes of protestation could never counteract.
"There is no such cloud between us?" he said again.
"No, Grantley, no!"
She spoke almost sharply.
"Don't be angry with me, Elizabeth."
"I am not, indeed I am not!"
She was speaking firmly now—her voice was a little hard, like that of a person making an effort to appear natural.
"I am not angry, but I ask you to reason—to reflect. What secret could I have—what mystery?"
"None, wife, none; I know that!"
"And yet you cannot be at rest?"
"I am—I will be."
For a few moments they sat together in silence, then Mellen said:
"Even in your past, Bessie, you have no secret!"
"None," she answered, and her voice was perfectly open and sincere now. "There is not in all my girlhood the least thing that I could wish to conceal from you; it passed quietly, it was growing very dreary and cold when you came with your love and carried me away to a brighter life."
"It is so sweet to hear this, Bessie!" he whispered, as his face grew gentle with the tenderness which warmed his heart. "We have been separated so much, had so little time to realize our happiness, that neither of us have quite learned to receive it quietly—don't you think it is so, dear child?"
"It may be," she exclaimed, and her voice deepened with sudden intensity. "Only trust me, my husband; trust and love me always. I will deserve it. Only trust me!"
"Always, Bessie, always! My darling, I have only you in the whole world—all my hopes, my love, centre upon you—I am like a miser with one treasure which he fears to lose."
"Only a treasure to you," she said, playfully; "you would be astonished to see what a common-place pebble it is to other people."
"That is not so; you know it, Bessie."
"Never mind how it may be; if I am precious in your eyes it is all I ask."
So they talked each other into serenity for the time. Their married life had been so broken up that it was natural that much of the enthusiasm of lovers should remain—even in their old difficulties there had been none of the common-place quarrels which degrade love, and wear it out much more quickly than a trouble which strikes deeper ever does.
"Since I came back," Grantley said, "I have sometimes thought it might be a little feeling towards Elsie which made you so strange."
"What feeling but kindness could I have?" she asked.
"True; it would not be like you, Bessie. You love her, don't you? It was through her we knew each other—remember that!"
"I do, and very pleasantly; but I have no need to think of that to be kind and gentle with her—when have you seen me otherwise?"
"Never; I can honestly say never!"
"Has Elsie complained?"
"No, dear, and never had such a thought, I am certain."
"When I married you, Grantley, your sister became mine—I could not be more anxious for her, more willing to guard and cherish her, if she had been a legacy from my own dead mother, than I am now."
"I am certain of that, and I love and honor you for it. But in your place I should perhaps be annoyed even to have a sister share affection with me."
"It is not like your love for me?"
"No, no; no love could be like that! But Elsie is such a child, such a happy, innocent creature, and I never look at her without remembering my dying mother's last words. If any harm came to her, Bessie, I think I could not even venture to meet that lost mother in heaven."
"No harm will come to her, Grantley—none shall!"
"I think she is one of those creatures born to be happy; I trust she may never have a great trial in all her life. I don't believe she could endure it; she would fade like a flower."
"It is impossible to tell how any one would receive suffering," Elizabeth replied; "sometimes those very fragile natures are best able to bear up, and find an elasticity which prevents sorrow taking deep root."
"It may be so; but I could not bear to have any pain come near her—It would strike my own heart."
"Could any one be more light-hearted and careless than she is?"
"Oh, she is happy as a bird—only let us keep her so."
Even into the utmost sacredness of their affection, that sister's image must be brought—it did cause Elizabeth pain in spite of all her denials—Mellen might have discovered that if he had seen her face. But the feeling passed swiftly, the face cleared, and while it brightened under his loving words the strength of a great resolution settled down upon it.
They sat in that old fashioned room talking for a long time. It was the happiest, most peaceful day they had spent since Mellen's return.
After a time, Mellen proposed that they should go out to ride, for the afternoon was sunny and delightful.
"A long gallop over the hills will do you good," he said; "it is a shame to spend such weather in the house."
While he ordered the horses, Elizabeth went up to her dressing-room to put on her habit.
She dressed herself without assistance, and with a feverish haste which brought the color to her face and light to her eyes.
"I will be happy," she muttered; "I will not think. There is no looking back now; it is too late; only let me keep the past shut close and go on toward the future."
As she stood before the glass, gazing absently at the reflection of her own face and repeating those thoughts aloud, her husband's voice called her from the hall below.
"Bessie, come down—the horses are at the door."
She broke away from her reverie and hurried downstairs, where he met her with a fond smile and a new pride in her unusual beauty.
"The very thought of the fresh air has done you good," he said.
"It is not that, Grantley—not that."
He looked at her tenderly, understanding all that her words meant.
"Because we are happy?" he whispered.
"With your love and confidence to bless my life I have all the happiness I can ask," she said, earnestly.
He led her down the steps, seated her upon her horse, and they rode away down the hill, and dashed out upon the pleasant road.
"We will go over the hills," Grantley said; "the air is so delightful there, and one has such a magnificent view of the ocean."
"I believe you would be wretched away from the boisterous old sea," said Elizabeth, laughing.
"I do love it; when I was a boy my one desire was to be a sailor. Some time, Bessie, we will have a yacht and go cruising about to our heart's content; after Elsie is married though, for she suffers so dreadfully from fright and illness."
"It would be very pleasant, Grantley."
"Would it not? Just you and I alone; it would be like having a little world all to ourselves.Allons, Bessie; here is a nice level place for a gallop; wake Gipsy up."
They rode on swiftly, growing so light-hearted and joyous that they were laughing and talking like a pair of happy children, seeming quite out of reach of all the shadows which had darkened their hearts during the past days.
While Mellen and Elizabeth rode off through the golden afternoon, Elsie and Tom Fuller came in from a stroll about the grounds. They had seen the husband and wife galloping down the avenue, and as they entered the hall, Elsie said:
"They have left us to amuse ourselves the best way we can; what shall we do, Tom Fuller?"
"I'm ready for anything."
"We might go out rowing."
"Oh, Elsie!"
"Only Grant would be angry, and you have grown afraid of the water."
"No wonder, where you are concerned," cried Tom. "I can't think of that dreadful day without a shudder."
"I don't allow myself to think of it at all," said Elsie.
She led the way into the library and sat down in a low chair, throwing off her garden-hat, and beginning to arrange the wild flowers which she held in her hands around the crown.
"What color is this, Tom?" she asked, holding up a delicate purple blossom that drooped its head, as if faint with its own perfume.
Tom's ignorance of color was a never-failing source of amusement to her. He looked at the flower very seriously; then after reflection said, in the tone of a man who was certain of being perfectly correct for once:
"That's blue, of course; I am not quite blind, whatever you may think."
Elsie screamed with delight.
"Oh, you delicious old goose! I suppose you call this one pink?"
"Yes," said Tom, confident that he must be right this time; "I suppose the most prejudiced person would have to call that pink."
"It's the most delicate lavender," cried Elsie, in fresh shrieks of ecstasy at Tom's blindness. "Oh, I never saw such a stupid in all my life."
Tom rubbed his forehead for an instant, then Elsie's laughter proved so contagious that he burst into merriment as hearty as her own.
"I don't suppose," said Tom, "there's such an idiot on the face of the earth as I am."
"I really don't suppose there is," replied Elsie, candidly.
"It is absolutely beyond belief," said Tom.
"It is," answered Elsie.
"And I shall never be any better," cried Tom.
"I have told you so a thousand times," rejoined Elsie, humming a tune, inclined to perfect truthfulness for once.
Tom's face lengthened for an instant, he gave his hair another unmerciful combing with his fingers.
"And you think there's not the least help for it?"
"Not the very least in the world, Tom, not a gleam of hope! But don't feel bad about it; I am tired of brilliant men; everybody is something wonderful now-a-days; it's really fatiguing."
"Do you think so?" demanded he; "do you really?"
"Upon my honor."
"Then I'm glad I am a donkey," said Tom, energetically.
"And so am I," returned Elsie. "There, see, isn't that a lovely wreath?"
She held up the hat for Tom to scent the delicious fragrance of the garland twisted around it.
"You take the color quite out of them, holding them near your cheeks," said Tom, with a glance of admiration.
"I declare you are getting complimentary! You shall have a wild rosebud for your button-hole in payment; kneel down here, while I put it in."
Tom dropped on his knees while Elsie leisurely selected the flower. She was talking all the while, and Tom on his part would have been glad to prolong the situation indefinitely, for the pleasure of having her little face so close to his, and her hands flirting the blossoms about his lips was entrancing.
"No," pursued she, "I am tired of brilliant men; they always make my head ache with their grand talk. You know I'm a childish little thing, Tom, and learned discussions don't suit me."
"You're a fairy, a witch, an enchanted princess!" cried Tom.
"Exactly," replied Elsie. "Perhaps a verbena would look better than a rosebud, Tom."
Tom cared very little what she put in his button-hole; a thistle, thorns and all, would have been precious to him if her hands had touched it, and he would have torn his fingers against the prickles with an exquisite sense of enjoyment.
"No, the rose is the prettiest," said Elsie, and she threw the verbena away, and began her task again.
"Are you tired; do you want to get up, Tom?"
"You know I'd rather be here than in heaven!" he exclaimed.
Elsie gave him one of her bewildering glances.
"You don't mean that," said she; "you know you don't!"
"I do, I do! Oh, Elsie!"
"Keep still, keep still. You jump about so that I can't fasten the rose; there, I've lost the pin; no, here it is."
She was so busy with her work now that her face bent quite close to his, her fair curls touched his cheeks, her breath stirred the hair on his temples; the intoxication of the moment carried Tom beyond all power of self-restraint.
He snatched Elsie's two hands and cried out:
"I must speak; I shall die if I don't! I haven't said a word since I came back; I know it's useless; but I love you, Elsie, I do love you."
She struggled faintly for an instant, then allowed him to keep her hands, and looked down into his face through her drooping lashes with an expression that made Tom's head fairly reel.
"Don't be angry with me," he pleaded; "don't drive me away! I'll never open my lips; just let me speak now! You can't think how much I love you, Elsie. I'd cut myself into inch pieces if it would do you any good. I'd die for you."
"I would rather you lived," whispered Elsie.
Tom caught the words; a mad hope sprang up in his honest heart; he knew that it was folly, but he could not subdue it then.
"If you could only learn to love me," he went on, hurriedly; "I'd be a slave to you, Elsie! I am rich now; I could give you everything your heart desired; if you could only care for me; such lots of candies and pretty things."
"You saved my life, Tom," she returned, in that same thrilling whisper which shook the very heart in his bosom.
"Oh, don't bring that up as a claim," he said; "what was I born for except to be useful to you? But I love you so; if you could only make up your mind to endure my ugliness and my awkward ways, and—and——"
"You are a great big fellow and I like that, and don't think you ugly," said Elsie; "and I don't care if you are awkward. I am sick of men that walk about like ballet-dancers."
"You only say that out of good-nature," said Tom; "you are afraid of hurting my feelings."
"Don't I always say what I think?" rejoined she.
"But you don't care for me—you couldn't love me!"
"You have told me so three times already," said Elsie.
But all the while there was something in her face and voice which made him persevere. He had never thought to speak of his love to her again. This was the last, last time; but he would open his whole heart now, she should see the exact truth.
In his great excitement, Tom forgot all bashfulness; he did not halt in his speech, but poured out his story in strong, manly words, that must have awakened at least a feeling of respect in any woman's bosom.
"I tried to cure myself," continued Tom. "I thought absence—entire change—might make a difference in my feelings. But when the two years ended I came back, only to find my love grown deeper from the lapse of time, with every feeling more firmly centred there. You speak kindly to me sometimes. You pity me—at least you pity me! But you couldn't love me, of course; that is impossible! Let me get up—I mustn't talk any more—let me go!"
But Elsie's hand still rested upon his shoulder,—she did not stir.
"You could not love me," repeated Tom; "never, never: you have told me so ever so many times."
"I was silly and wicked," she whispered; "I am wiser now."
Her words lifted Tom into the seventh heaven. He cried out:
"Don't trifle with me, Elsie—not just now—I couldn't stand it!"
"I am not trifling with you, Tom."
"You don't mean that you care for me?"
His voice was broken and low. He waited for her to push him away, to break the spell rudely, but her hand never moved from his shoulder. It seemed to rest there with a caressing pressure, as a bird settles on a fondling hand, and still the fair curls swept his cheek.
"Elsie! Elsie!" he cried, half-wild with struggling emotions.
"Dear Tom," she murmured again.
"Oh, are you in earnest?" he almost sobbed. "Could you take me, Elsie? Let me be your slave—ready to tend you—to care for you—only living for your happiness!"
Elsie shook her head archly:
"You would grow tired of petting me."
"Never, never! You know it!"
"I should be a dreadful little tyrant—it is in my nature; you would never have a will of your own."
"I wouldn't want it; I wouldn't ask it!"
"I should flirt and drive you wild."
"I would never try to stop you."
"I should tease you incessantly."
"You'd only make me the happier."
"I should tell you all sorts of fibs."
"There would be no necessity, for I would not dispute your wishes."
"You would grow tired of that."
"Only try me."
"You couldn't love me always, and pet me, and never get out of patience, and think I was perfect."
"I could—I should—I always shall! Oh, Elsie, Elsie, I love you so—I love you so!"
"Get up, Tom; you are a foolish old goosey!"
Tom started to his feet; those playful words were a cruel waking. He stood before her painfully white, and there was a suppressed sob in his voice as he cried, in passionate reproach:
"Oh, Elsie! Elsie!"
She gave a wicked laugh at his distress.
"So you really were in earnest?" she demanded.
"You know that I was," he said. "You are cruel—cruel!"