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Show [Forever Part 2, continued from previous article] <br><br> the gifted man; the scholarly man a sympathy with the large hearted, intellectual woman which he had never known or experienced in any of her sex. "True," he said to himself, "she is not beautiful; indeed, measured by the rules of beauty, she is positive ugly. But who can gauge the charms of a melodious voice, or define the tenderness of an honest, kindly eye?" <br><br> And she, too, mused in this wise: "Dr. Charles Paulding is a marvelously gifted man. What powers of language, what treasures of imagination he possesses! What a noble career he has before him; and Edith" - here she would pause and think of that clinging tendril, not as helping the growth of the oak, but as drawing from its strength. Yet from all such thoughts as these her stauch [staunch] and loyal heart would resolutely turn away - yet for all this her speech would not come as "trippingly on the tongue," as in the old days, and he would oftentimes finish a sentence in the middle of it, and then lose himself in vague glances at the ceiling or out into the gardens. <br><br> O, it was a dangerous time for both of these awakening hearts. But they glided on this treacherous stream, seeming only conscious that the hours were sweet and that the sun shone on the waves. There was no thought of disloyalty in either heart. He was above all a man of honor, and she, of all else, a loyal woman. Yet how hearts delude themselves. In the very pride of his strength Samson was shorn of his locks. <br><br> One quiet evening in July, Dr. Paulding had taken tea at Bonnybrook, and Constance - "his hostess" only, she called herself - strolled down to the gate with him. His impatient horse was biting the rough old hitching post and throwing up clouds of dust with his fore feet. He had been kept there four hours, and he seemed more eager than his master to leave Bonnybrook behind him. The doctor idly plucked some heliotrope as they strolled down the rose-bordered paths, and mingled with the flowers some dainty mignonette and a pale bud or two of the tea rose. At last, he placed the bouquet in her hands and said dreamily: "Read the emblems, Constance - you are a priestess in Flora's beautiful temple." <br><br> She quickly looked over them. <br><br> "Ah," she said, "you choose well, Sir Botanist. Here you have ‘beauty in retirement,' ‘constancy' - that is good - and "I am not a summer friend - that is better than all. But you [unreadable] with your flowers nevertheless. <br><br> "Not you," he replied eagerly, almost tenderly, and in a voice that somehow frightened her. <br><br> She replied almost coldly - although her heart was strangely beating, and a warm, unusual color was in her face: ‘My best friends will tell you, Doctor, that I am ugly and commonplace. Believe them, I beg of you, and do not let your imaginations invest me with any charms." <br><br> He seemed all at once to be carried away by his passion. He leaned over her and replied, warmly: "I say you are beautiful, Constance Owen. I feel your beauty in my very soul." But he said no more. <br><br> The face of Constance was a study, the flesh that before had crimsoned her cheeks died out, and she became ghostly pale. Her fingers, which had grasped the flowers, slowly opened and they dropped to the ground at her feet. All at once the vision of the dead woman seemed to present itself to her mind, and the trust she was violating struck cold to her heart. Was this the "Forever" she has spoken? She staggered and would have fallen; the arms of Dr. Paulding were about her; but she waved him away in a moment with such a piteous, despairing gesture that he obeyed her without a word. She only had strength to falter. <br><br> "Go - and remember Edith" -- and she staggered back into the house, leaving him standing there, bent and trembling. <br><br> She did not know how she reached her own room; the strong woman had learned at the same moment she loved that she must sacrifice and renounce. <br><br> She stood for hours white and motionless, looking out at the sunset and the gathering gloom of evening, with wild thoughts chasing themselves through her brain and a dumb, aching pain in the heart, every hope trailing in the dust, like those sweet flowers he had given her. She laid her head after a while upon her hands, and wept through the long, long hours, until she heard the village bell strike the hour of midnight. She had prayed and wrestled with her grief and agony, and rose up at length quiet and calm. She had yielded to duty and her promise to the dead. <br><br> Somehow Constance Owen seemed to grow prettier as the months passed by; there was some refining change which was softening her rugged features and rounding every line her stately form. The summer into autumn had flown and still Edith Ormond had not returned to Bonnybrook. Her aunt had died, and letters came from time to time saying that ere long she would be home, yet she came not. Could she suspect the disloyalty of her lover? <br><br> It was later in the fall, when the woods had put on their pomp of glory, and the chill winds sent the fallen leaves through the valleys near Bonnybrook, when Dr. Paulding rode up to the house and asked for Constance. She had only received him twice before since the summer evening, and had then contrived by womanly tact not to be alone with him - although she no longer doubted her strength. Constance, on this occasion, received her guest alone; there seemed a strange embarrassment in his manner. After the first greetings were over, he said: <br><br> "Constance, I have much to say to you today. DO you think you can listen to me calmly?" <br><br> "Yes," she replied, "If it is upon a subject on which you should speak," and added trembling, "to which I should listen." <br><br> "Both," he said. "When first I saw Edith Ormond I was captivated by her beauty and girlish graces; I thought I loved her." <br><br> Constance would have stopped him by a gesture, but he begged her to listen - "for you can do so now," he said, "in all honor and reason." <br><br> He continued: "I had never had my heart stirred by the full knowledge of love, however, until I knew you and discovered the breadth of your sympathies and the womanliness of your character. I never respected you more than when you rejected me, knowing I was the engaged husband of Edith. But fate has been kind to us both." His voice was trembling with emotion. "Read the last part of this letter." <br><br> He handed a folded paper to Constance, who took it as one in a dream. <br><br> "From Edith?" she said. <br><br> "Yes." <br><br> The portion she read ran thus: <br><br> "So, you see, dear Dr. Paulding, it is better I should tell you now that I have met one here - my cousin Ray - whom I feel that I love better than anybody else in the world. I have promised to be his wife and I am sure you will forgive me, for you are so noble and grand and all that, and I should feel, I know, that I never could fill worthily the exalted sphere of Dr. Paulding's wife --"<br><br> Constance could read no more; a mist gathered over her eyes; but this time a strong arm was about her and a voice, deep and melodious, whispered to her: "Dearest Constance, will you be mine at last?" Their lips met for the first time in one long kiss of love, and her answer was: "Yes thine - forever!" |