CHAPTER XL.UNDER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.
One beautiful day in August, about a month after the events just narrated, Miss Charlotte came over to see Clara. She was looking quite radiant with some new happiness, and Clara noticed that the plain Quakerish knot in which she was wont to confine her really pretty dark hair had undergone considerable change in its structure. It was less rigidly twisted, and from the mass depended several natural curls. She wore a pretty silver-gray barêge, flounced to the waist, and with the upper skirt open, short, and looped up at the sides with ribbon.
Seating herself in an arm-chair, she said, “Now stand right there, Clara—no, just behind a little, and fan me while I tell you something.” Clara obeyed.
“Dear me! How shall I ever commence? I begin to repent.”
“Take your own time, Miss Delano. I will wait as long as you wish.”
“No; I won’t wait. If I do, I shall never tell you—The old maid is going to make a fool of herself. There!”
“Oh, that is splendid! You are going to marry Paul’s cousin Felix. This is most agreeable news. From all I hear of him, he is an admirable gentleman.”
“Yes; but I wish he’d cut off that terrific Blue-Beard moustache. Do you like moustaches? I can’t endure them. They are too signal a confirmation of Darwin’s Origin of Species, according to which I believe we lose our hair as we advance to higher types. Is that so?”
“Papa says,” replied Clara, laughing, “that the coming man’s head is going to be as smooth as an ostrich egg; but I think, myself, the moustache will change. I think it is ugly just in proportion as it hides the contour of the lips.”
“I see you are thinking of Paul’s blonde, silky affair. Well, that is very different. It stays where he puts it. At table a little twist of his fingers, and his mouth is free; but Felix—well, I’m sure I must be in love with him, or I should never have consented to marry him after seeing him eat soup every day for a year.”
Miss Charlotte then told Clara they were to be married in a month, and move into an elegant suite of apartments in the left wing of the Social Palace. She was going to Boston in a day or two, to choose the most charming furniture she could find. Felix was to organize the schools, and she was to have a share of that work. The idea of having something useful to do, seemed to inspire her. “In my old life,” she said, “I used to spend days and days helping to get up articles for fairs for charitable purposes; but there was never the right kind of satisfaction about it.”
“How could there be?” asked Clara. “Charity is an insult to human nature. What we want is to give the poor the conditions for a comfortable, independent life. Now my mother and Mrs. Kendrick have won a reputation for benevolence on about the poorest stock of virtueimaginable; though of course they have acted from good motives. They ride around in their carriages among the poor, and carry food and clothing—cast-off garments of their own children and themselves. My father has been trying for years to get the ladies here to establish acrèche, as they do in foreign cities—a place for poor women to leave their little children when they wish to go out to do work. This would enable them to keep their elder children in school, instead of at home to nurse the little ones. Then he would have them establish some industry by which the poor women could earn money; but he could never get them to do it.”
“No,” said Charlotte; “women’s lives are so narrow, their ambition so dwarfed, that most of them actually enjoy going in their carriages and rich clothing into the homes of the poor and patronizing them. I confess I always felt like a fish out of water, and generally contrived to give money, and let somebody else do the rest. You may palliate wretchedness by charity, but you can never raise the condition of the poor by it.”
“Dependence and degradation are synonymous,” said Clara; “and now you see why this workingmen’s palace is a mighty work. There, for their labor, all the industrious can have comforts and luxuries beyond even the power of the rich to enjoy, while their rents go to pay for their homes.”
“Oh, it is a noble work!” exclaimed Miss Delano. “I am catching, imperceptibly, the great enthusiasm of Paul and Felix. I see what must be the educational influence of these daily baths, these walks in beautiful gardens and groves, with music, and rare green-houses filled with exotics, the splendid schools, the reading-room,the library, the societies. Why, it is enough to inspire the coldest and most selfish heart.”
“And you see clearly, if all this was given to the people as a charity——”
“Why, it would not have a thousandth part of the good effect. The hope of owning all this, will so elevate the honest pride of these people, give them such strength and courage to work. Why, they will not care how much rent they pay.”
“No; the count says the great trouble will be, that these laborers will deny themselves leisure and proper clothing, and put everything into their rents; but he is sure that it would not be well to have them own it too soon. They will be so much better able to appreciate and enjoy the ownership after ten or fifteen years, when the new and better educated generation will come on the stage to help preserve the order and prosperity of the institution. It does my heart good that you are going to live there and help on the education.”
“Oh, you needn’t say anything to inspire or encourage me. I tell you I am a radical, a social reformer of the deepest dye,” replied Miss Charlotte gayly, as she took her leave.
Later in the day Paul came. He walked with Clara and Susie through the green-houses and nurseries, now largely occupied by the stock for the Social Palace. Already thousands of trees had been set out in the new grounds, and were doing well, while the great conservatory in the court of the right wing was being rapidly filled, under Susie’s direction. The great palm, of historical fame, was in its place, having borne its journey in May without the slightest injury. The great pink blossomsof Susie’s banana-trees had long since fallen, and the bunches of young fruit were ripening, while the rich perfume of exotics in great variety filled the air. Passing back to the house, through the old conservatory, the little one first built, and which Susie kept now only for flowers in blossom, the count expressed great admiration for the two quite large orange-trees, laden with blossoms, and he asked her how she managed to make these flower so long after the usual time. “Why, it is very simple,” said Susie; “by keeping them back; that is the technical term for denying them water and plenty of sunlight. Then when you are ready, you bring them right under the glass, in a warm room, and sprinkle them lavishly every day at sunset. They can’t resist; they are powerless, and must send out their blossoms, whether they like it or not.”
When they re-entered the house, Susie left them. The count stayed only a short time, during which Clara tried to overcome her repugnance to speak of the divorce—that hideous divorce, that was ever in her thoughts; but she could not. If anything outside of themselves could have broken down the invisible barrier that separated these two, Min on this occasion certainly would have accomplished it. As Paul rose to go, she climbed up on the head of the sofa beside where he stood, and taking the ends of his long moustache in her dimpled hands, she pressed her little lips to his very demonstratively. Then jumping down with a bound, she ran to Clara, and standing on tip-toe beside her chair, she kissed “auntie,” laughing, as she exclaimed, “Oh, auntie, am I not good?”
“Why, my child, are you specially good just now?”
“Because I’ve given you thesweetestkiss! Oh, you don’t see,” persisted Min. “Why, I’ve given you Paul’s own kiss, and you didn’t know it!”
“You insufferable magpie!” exclaimed Clara, blushing in spite of herself. “Go away now and don’t come back—hear?” Min, much discomfited, shot a Parthian arrow as she edged toward the door, where she turned while hunting for a chocolate-drop in the bottom of a little white paper-bag, and having crammed it into her mouth, said, “I don’t care, I don’t; auntie don’t like Paul’s kisses, but Min does; so!”
The count laughed quietly, and commenced at once to talk of some new plans for the stage of the theatre. “May I bring them for you to see this evening,” he asked.
“I should like to see them; but do not make any excuse to come. Come freely whenever you wish. That will please me best.”
“I thank you. That is very gracious, but the margin is wide—wheneverIwish. You do not know,” he said, passing her hand to his lips, “how boundless and insatiable aremywishes. I even wish to create wishes sometimes; but that is when I am not wise. You know the one supreme desire of my heart, embracing and holding in abeyance all others, is that I may be worthy of Clara. The dear words that you wrote me, the written page just as I saw it, is burned into my memory. I can imagine no sweeter praise than that ‘in no way have I ever offended you in the slightest word, or tone, or motion.’ You see how I remember.” He would have said more, but Clara was troubled. He could almost hear her heart beating as she answered, without looking directly in his face, as she spoke,“And yet it was only a negative praise. It seems to me there were other words more worthy of remembering.”
“You are right; but not even a lover’s vanity could justify him in repeating those.”
“You have no vanity, Paul. You havenoimperfections; or if you have, it will be my fault if you ever manifest them—no, I don’t mean that: I mean if you ever manifest any faults, they must be new possibilities created by my folly. No—don’t answer. Go now and return by-and-by.” Paul kissed her hand again, and with the pressure of his lips came the words, just above a whisper, “Tu es adorable.”
“Oh, he’s getting very bold,” said Clara to Susie, who entered the moment the count left, and she involuntarily looked at the fingers of her right hand.
“Because he kissed your hand? Oh, that is nothing for a gallant foreigner. It is, indeed, only a mark of respect and obedience, such as that due to queens.”
“But he said ‘Thou art adorable.’ Surely that is more than a gentleman would say to a mere queen,” replied Clara, delighting, like all those in love, to linger over the trifles that make up their bliss, when they are so fortunate as to have a friend wholly worthy of confidence.
“Did he say ‘tu es,’ really? Then you are lost,” replied Susie, laughing. “He must feel very sure of his position, or he would never daretutoyer.”
“Oh, Susie!” said Clara, embracing her friend, “I am going to be wonderfully sweet to Paul to-night—that is, if I can. He is coming back.”
“Are you? I doubt it. You are so cold to him. I would not be so cruel as you are. I should appreciatesuch respect, such delicacy. Most men, when you show them the slightest favor, behave like bears.”
“Do I not know that well? If men only knew where their power lay! You know papa says, in the Golden Age women will always take the initiative in love. You believe that, Susie?”
“If the coming man is to have a head like an ostrich egg, I think he’ll be incapacitated for gentle, seductive arts,” said Susie, laughing.
“When you speak of women taking the initiative in love, vulgar people think you mean proposals of matrimony, or caresses at least. The initiative is that which the word implies—the first movement; it is but the slightest thing. When Paul has pressed my hand, I have always drawn it away after a few seconds. He is waiting for me to leave it in his just one second longer. I have never given him a really tender glance. If I were to do so, the ‘bear,’ as you say, would instantly be developed; though I should not apply that word to him. He is the perfect gentleman in everything. Hecouldnot offend. I mean to speak to him about that hateful divorce, which forbids me to marry ‘until the said defendant be actually dead.’ I say I mean to; but I have not the slightest certainty that I shall have the courage. I don’t believe you can imagine how I feel about it.”
“Yes I can, dear. Don’t trouble your precious soul about it. Only be sweet and good to Paul, and everything will be well. You are not going to wear that dress? Do put on that lovely white organdie. Will you? I will loop up the skirt with ivy.”
The vision that met the count’s eyes as he entered Clara’s parlor must have charmed the most fastidioustaste. The white, gauze-like organdie was looped with ivy by Susie’s cunning hand. It was that rare, silver-edged ivy, with a light crimson flush in some of the leaves. Over the low corsage she wore a Louis-Quinze basque of white duchess lace, the graceful folds of which fell over her exquisite hands that were without ornament of any kind. In the coronal roll of her hair, which fell in many curls from the mass behind, she wore a tiny bouquet of mignonnette and white Neapolitan violets, relieved by a border of green. The basque was closed at top of the corsage with a beautiful cameo of her father’s head in profile. Paul knew she had dressed for him, and the thought was delicious. He expressed warmly his admiration for her toilet—a thing foreign gentlemen are as careful to remember as Americans are to forget; not that they are not sensitive to the beauties of woman’s dress, but it is a habit with very many to ignore the fact that dress can enhance beauty; and then, perhaps from a feeling of delicacy, for American gentlemen are among the most refined in their sentiments toward women. With the older civilizations, dress is a pure art, and artistic effects are always a fit subject for study.
Edward Page and Susie were present when the count entered, but after a half hour or so Susie left, and the young man soon followed. The conversation then turned upon the engagement of Miss Delano and Felix Müller. “It will be a very happy union,” said Paul. “If the theory of opposites hold true, they are well suited to each other, and they are certainly much in love. They are constantly together. They sit up evenings after all are abed, and then take long strolls in the park before breakfast. It is a most happy courtship. They are bothamong friends who give them full sympathy, and there is never a straw in the way of their bliss.”
“The old adage, then, about the course of true love, is likely to prove false in this instance,” said Clara; and then changing the subject abruptly, as women are wont to do—when they see fit—she asked the count if he had brought the theatre plans.
“Ah! I forgot them. From the time I left you until I returned, I don’t think I was once conscious of the existence of business. Are you disappointed?”
“In what? In which?” asked Clara, a little mischievously, perceiving that his question was susceptible of ambiguity; but she repented in a moment, seeing how gravely the count regarded her, and added, “I know you mean the plans. I don’t care to see them to-night. I wish you would sing to me.”
Paul sat down to the piano almost hurriedly, and as his deft fingers ran over the key-board, he said—the music making his low words even more distinct—“Hear what Paul says to his love.” He looked at her as she stood on his left, but her eyes were studiously fixed upon his hands.
The consciousness of a well-trained voice, able to express with divine eloquence words that may not be fitly spoken without music, is perhaps the proudest gift a lover can possess. Paul played the prelude once, and then repeated it, as if waiting for the certainty of self-control. The music he was playing Clara had never heard; but she knew that it was his own; for there was a certain latitude of interpretation in Paul’s style, when playing his own compositions, which he would not presumeto attempt, in following the masters. Paul sang the words of some poet unknown to Clara.
“O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,But I that worship may not kiss her feet.“O mountain airs! where unconfined floatHer locks ambrosial, would that I were you,To wanton with the tangles of her hair.“O leaping waves! that press and lip and laveHer thousand beauties, when shall it be mineTo touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?“But she more loves the blossom and the breezeThan lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”
“O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,But I that worship may not kiss her feet.“O mountain airs! where unconfined floatHer locks ambrosial, would that I were you,To wanton with the tangles of her hair.“O leaping waves! that press and lip and laveHer thousand beauties, when shall it be mineTo touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?“But she more loves the blossom and the breezeThan lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”
“O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,But I that worship may not kiss her feet.
“O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!
Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,
But I that worship may not kiss her feet.
“O mountain airs! where unconfined floatHer locks ambrosial, would that I were you,To wanton with the tangles of her hair.
“O mountain airs! where unconfined float
Her locks ambrosial, would that I were you,
To wanton with the tangles of her hair.
“O leaping waves! that press and lip and laveHer thousand beauties, when shall it be mineTo touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?
“O leaping waves! that press and lip and lave
Her thousand beauties, when shall it be mine
To touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?
“But she more loves the blossom and the breezeThan lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”
“But she more loves the blossom and the breeze
Than lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,
O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”
The last line of each stanza was repeated. Clara realized that Paul had never sung to her before. “I don’t like your song,” she said, but doubtless with that glance which, according to her confession an hour ago to Susie, she had never given him; for he rose with a cry of tenderest passion, clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips long and silently upon her hair, holding her head the while softly against his breast. Clara heard his heart beating loud and fast. There they stood. Neither could desire to speak or move. It was heaven enough to know that the supreme moment that revealed them fully to each other, had come at last. From this close embrace to the folding-down of Love’s kiss upon the lips, in “perfect purple state,” as Mrs. Browning says, “the transition was easy,” which Mrs. Browning does not say. The kisses of these two were different from nearly all others. It was soul meeting and mingling with soul, and thesensitive lips were only the medium. That may seem obscure to philosophers who are always seeking in vain for the seat of the soul. Lovers of the nobler and finer type, emotional beings, who will not have their altars profaned by the contact of unholy offerings, never have any doubts about soul. To them it is not an entity which may be found here or there; it is life—the one thing infinitely precious, and they are not to be disturbed by nicely-studied definitions. Are not lovers of this rare type the truest philosophers?
It is like an impertinence to try to describe the unutterably perfect state of Paul and Clara as they stood there by the piano. A cynical observer would probably have said that they uttered more nonsense in the short space of ten minutes than he would have believed possible; but he would only thereby show his ignorance of the mysterious power they possessed of
“Kissingfullsense into empty words.”
“Kissingfullsense into empty words.”
“Kissingfullsense into empty words.”
“Kissingfullsense into empty words.”
After a time, Susie’s light step was heard passing the partially-open door, and Clara called her and said, as she entered, “Come and see how cold and cruel I am to your friend.”
“Oh, this is too good!” exclaimed Susie, embracing both with effusion. “My cup of joy runneth over. If you and Paul had not turned to each other, as naturally as flowers to the light, I should have lost faith in providence; but I never had any doubt. But come, my precious lovers, you will grow faint on your diet of the ineffable. I knew by intuition that you two would find your souls to-night, and so I have prepared a little feast in honor of the occasion. Edward and I, I mean, but itis not quite ready yet. In about fifteen minutes I shall call you. Into that fifteen minutes you have full liberty to crowd all the bliss you can. I know your capacity in that direction must be miraculous,” she added.
“What could be so gracious as this dear girl’s sympathy?” exclaimed the count, bending down and kissing her forehead.
“Why, when we love our friends dearly, we must naturally enjoy most that which makes them most happy.C’est bien simple,” said Susie, and with that she left.
When Paul and Clara entered the dining-room they were amazed at what Susie had accomplished. The folding-doors of the conservatory were flung wide open, revealing that fairy-like effect which all have noticed who have seen foliage and flowers lighted from beneath. The light of the central hanging-lamp was dimmed by the light of numerous sections of wax-candles, set in the earth under the plants and small trees. In the dining-room the table, decked with flowers, was laden with a choice collation.
“Am I in the land of fairies?” asked the count.
“How have you done all this in so short a time, you darling Susie?” Clara asked. “Why, it is like enchantment!”
“Why, we have had time enough,” answered Susie, glancing at young Page, who stood by the folding-doors enjoying the effect of the surprise. “We commenced,” he said, “when we heard the count’s beautiful song.” “Yes,” said Susie, “we knew then it was time to prepare for the bridal feast.”
“You see, Paul,” said Clara, “you are Orpheus, working magic through the music of your voice.”
“May I not meet the fate of Orpheus,” said Paul; “but I think I should be more patient than he was when his Eurydice was coming out of Hades.” Clara looked at Paul thinking her own sweet thoughts.
“Now you must be just as happy, just as free, as children; yes, a hundred times more happy. We are all lovers. I am in love with several people, and Edward, he is also, but with one especially. Is it not so?” Susie added, turning to the young man, who blushed as prettily as a girl as he answered, “I should be very sorry to contradict Madam Susie.”
“That is not a frank admission.”
“Then I admit frankly.”
“That is as it should be,” said Paul. “I sympathize with Claude Melnotte, who would ‘have no friends that were not lovers.’”
“Oh, we must have some of that deliciousSauternethatwebrought from France,” said Susie, addressing the count. “Red wine alone will never answer.” Edward disappeared in search of the wine.
“Why, Susie is as happy as we are, one would say,” said Clara.
“You think nothing but the prospect of marrying Paul ought to make any woman happy.”
“How sweet she looks, Paul!” said Clara, her whole face breaking into dimpling smiles. “I should think you would want to marry Susie too.”
“I do, of course,” answered the count gallantly; “but you know the wicked world has such prejudices! Susie had trouble enough abroad to convince people in hotels andaubergesthat we required separate apartments;”and he laughed, remembering certain scenes that had caused her vexation.
“Well, you know that was all Min’s fault; she was forever in your arms. Here comes ourChateau Yquem. What! who on earth can be ringing the door-bell at this hour?”
“I know that is my father,” said Clara, going to the front door. Edward, for some reason, disappeared at the same time.
“Now tell me what I am here for,” said the doctor, after laying down his hat and saluting the friends. “I sat in my studio for an hour, and resisted the impulse to come over. It is ten o’clock, and you know I never came here, or anywhere, at such an hour, unless I was called.”
“Well, you were called,” answered Susie, who loved to nurse little superstitions.
“Count, what do you think of it?” asked the doctor.
“I will not say it is impossible for us to act upon each other at a distance. I have known several instances that would seem to prove it.”
“We were so happy, papa,” said Clara, putting her arms around her father tenderly. “I think my own joy must have filled the world like an atmosphere, and so it embraced you, and you being a ‘sensitive,’ responded.”
“Papa’s own girl is radiant to-night,” he said, kissing her. “I never saw you look so well,” and glancing at the conservatory and the table, and then at Paul, he read the mystery. “Why this is very irregular,” he added, gayly. “Are my paternal rights to be disregarded? Are you going to marry my girl without my consent?”
“I trust not, sir,” said Paul, confidently.
“Oh, do you not know, papa, I cannot marry any one?”
“Why not, pray?” But as Clara did not answer her father’s question, Susie explained the clause in the divorce.
“Why, this is what has troubled you, darling,” said Paul, in his tenderest voice. “Be reassured. It is only a form. By marrying you might be liable to a charge of contempt of court, the penalty of which is only a fine. No one ever notices this injunction; at least, I never heard of a case.”
“Is that all?” asked Clara, amazed and almost ashamed that she had been so long disturbed by a mere bugbear. “But women are so ignorant of legal matters.”
“The Social Palace will make a wiser generation of women,” Susie said. “The children will learn politics in their cradles.”
“Andbambinswill commence to exercise the franchise by balloting for their little industrial leaders,” said Susie. “But come, ourChateau Yquemis waiting. There is only one thing wanting. If these two dear ones could only be married to-night, and have the bother all over!”
“Papa,” said Clara, “I must have inherited from you my repugnance to ceremonies. I would never get married in the world, if it wasn’t for my love for Paul,” she added, looking at him.
“We will have no ceremony, dear one,” he said. “The marriage contract, duly attested, is all that is necessary; besides, any one can perform the marriage ceremony. It is not necessary that it should be a priest, for marriage is a civil contract.”
“Why, let us draw up the contract now,” said Susie, forgetting the waitingSauterne. “Here is my desk and all proper materials.”
Paul did not need any urging. The contract was duly signed in less than ten minutes. As Clara signed her name, she exclaimed, “Why, I am a victim to a conspiracy! My consent to this precipitate act has not been even asked.”
“But there is your name,” said Paul. “It is too late for retraction. I shall at once assert my prerogatives.”
“Come, my children!” said the doctor, “let us have a gloriously radical marriage ceremony, after our wicked latitudinarian hearts.”
“Oh yes, do, Clara; just to make Susie happy. Here is Edward come for another witness.”
“You know my sentiments on this matter,” said the count, addressing the doctor. “As any one may perform the ceremony, I should choose you from all the world.”
Clara would have postponed further action after the signing of the marriage contract, but there was no resisting the enthusiasm of Susie, the doctor, and Paul. Susie would have them married in the little conservatory, among the flowers. And so it happened. There was no need of orange-blossoms, for the happy lovers stood beneath the two blossom-laden orange-trees, that dropped their fragrant petals on the united hands of Paul and Clara, as the doctor said, in his deep, solemn voice, “Paul von Frauenstein, do you take this woman to be your lawful and wedded wife?” Clara was a thousand times more deeply affected than she had been at her former marriage, when her heart was in rebellion all the time against the “show,” as the doctor called it. Shesobbed in the doctor’s arms for some time, and his own eyes were hardly dry. At last he said, handing Clara over to Paul, “I will not comfort your sorrowing wife any more.Thatis one of your prerogatives, unquestionably.”
“Sorrowing, papa; what a word,” replied Clara, looking divinely beautiful through her tears at her father, and then at Paul. “If this is sorrow, may I never be comforted;” and then, while the rest left the conservatory, she listened to words from Paul, which were far too sweet for repetition.
Susie was wild with delight. She poured out the choiceSauterne, proposed toasts, made everybody reply, and was so gay in herabandon, that her friends scarcely knew her.
In the midst of the hilarity there was heard in the hall the patter of little feet, and the next moment Min, aroused by the unusual noise, opened the door, in her long white gown, looked at the lighted conservatory, and then at theconvives, exclaiming with a very grave air:
“What is all this row about? I should like to know.”
“You little ghost!” said the doctor. “Where do you come from?” Min curled herself up in the doctor’s arms, and then directed her attention to the attractions of the table.
“Min, somebody is married to-night—can you guess who?” asked Susie, colloquially if not grammatically.
Min looked at Edward. “It isn’t you,” she said, “’cause Linnie isn’t here.”
“Ah! a cat out of the bag!” said the doctor, noticing the vivid reddening of the young man’s fair face.
“And it isn’t you, auntie, ’cause you don’t like Paul’s kisses.”
“Oh, but I do, Minnie. I have found out how sweet they are,” replied Clara, archly.
“Well, you were a long time finding out,” said the spoiled pet, changing her place to Paul’s lap.
It was difficult to get Min back to bed, but the promise of a ride with Paul the next day finally proved a sufficient inducement. Edward left soon after Min, but it was some time after midnight when the doctor took his hat to go. Clara handed Paul his.
“What!” exclaimed the doctor. “You to be sent away, Paul? That is wrong.” Susie wickedly confirmed the sentiment, but Paul, noticing a kind of distress in Clara’s face, said, as he held her a moment in his arms, “We do not recognize rights, dearest. All the events of this evening, so crowded upon each other, have quite unstrung your nerves. See, doctor, how cold her hands are!”
“Well,” said the doctor, taking his daughter’s hand, “you are right—right, I mean, in leaving all things to her; but you know how instinctively women cling to precedents. You may find this a dangerous one.”
“I have no fears,” replied Paul, embracing Clara tenderly. “Does she not love me? and is not love sure to respond to love’s needs? Her desire is mine always.”