Since that white night with its unspoken protestation, Time seemed to
have taken unto himself new, strong wings, on which he bore the lovers
through the bright weeks of the spring-tide of love all too swiftly.
Few words of explanation had been necessary; each understood the other,
except when that chill, impalpable something seemed to come between them
like a cloud, as it had done in the first days of their acquaintance.
The one note which was never absolutely in tune in their love harmony,
at these times made a discord, and disagreements which grieved them both
sprang up between them; but these were rare, and the pale face of the
artist was less shadowy than in other days; while Millicent seemed
transformed from a statue to a living being, with a heart tender and
full of love towards all her kind. But her cheek grew less round than
it had been in the days before this new life was poured into her veins,
and long, sleepless vigils told upon her strength. She was happy with a
joy of which she had never before dreamed, and yet weary nights of
weeping traced dark circles about her eyes. What struggle could it be
that left her pale and broken, and drew pitiful sighs from her white
lips when she found herself between the four walls of her own room? One
word from Graham, the sound of his horse’s hoofs as he drew near the
house, would banish the pained look, call back the color to the lips and
cheek, and give the old brightness to her deep eyes; but when he was
gone, the painful thoughts winged swiftly back to torture her.
To the sweet, open-hearted Barbara, Millicent’s state of mind was
incomprehensible. The cool, indifferent, somewhat scornful girl had
been transformed into an excitable, impulsive creature, always in one of
the extremes of spirits, by turns gay with a gayety contagious,
irresistible, committing every sort of extravagance; and again serious
with a tragic sadness, more pathetic than the wildest weeping. Mrs.
Deering, with that sublime unconsciousness which sympathetic women know
how to assume at will, saw nothing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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