The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 98, December, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics — John Shaqi
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 98, December, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 98, December, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Kate Peyton glanced from lover to lover, and shuddered at Griffith. She
was familiar with petty jealousy; she had even detected it pinching or
coloring many a pretty face that tried very hard to hide it all the
time. But that was nothing to what she saw now: hitherto she had but
beheld the feeling of jealousy; but now she witnessed the livid passion
of jealousy writhing in every lineament of a human face. That terrible
passion had transfigured its victim in a moment: the ruddy, genial,
kindly Griffith, with his soft brown eye, was gone; and in his place
lowered a face older, and discolored, and convulsed, and almost
demoniacal.
Women (wiser, perhaps, in this than men) take their strongest
impressions by the eye, not ear. Catharine, I say, looked at him she had
hitherto thought she knew,--looked and feared him. And even while she
looked and shuddered, Griffith spurred his mare sharply, and then drew
her head across the gray gelding's path. It was an instinctive impulse
to bar the lady he loved from taking another step towards the place
where his rival awaited her.
"I cannot bear it," he gasped. "Choose you now, once for all, between
that puppy there and me": and he pointed with his riding-whip at his
rival, and waited with his teeth clenched for her decision.
The movement was rapid, the gesture large and commanding, and the words
manly: for what says the fighting poet?--
"He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who fears to put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all."
CHAPTER II.
Miss Peyton drew herself up and back by one motion, like a queen at bay;
but still she eyed him with a certain respect, and was careful now not
to provoke nor pain him needlessly.
"I prefer _you_,--though you speak harshly to me, Sir," said she, with
gentle dignity.
"Then give me your hand, with _that man_ in sight, and end my torments;
promise to marry me this very week. Ah, Kate, have pity on your poor,
faithful servant, who has loved you so long!"
"I do, Griffith, I do," said she, sweetly; "but I shall never marry now.
Only set your mind at rest about Mr. Neville there. He has never asked
me, for one thing."
"He soon will, then."
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