Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir. May Agnes Fleming
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That negligent, graceful walk, that uplifted carriage of the head—surely, surely she knew both. She leaned forward in breathless expectation—her lips apart, her eyes alight. Nearer and nearer he came, and the face she had longed to see, had prayed to see, looked down upon her once more with the old familiar smile.
Laurence Thorndyke!
She leaned against the gate still in breathless hush, pale, terrified. She could not speak, so intense was her surprise, and the voice for whose sound she had hungered and thirsted with her whole foolish, romantic heart sounded in the silence:
"Norine!"
She made no answer; in her utter astonishment and swift joy she could only stand and gaze, speechless.
"Norine, I have come back again. Have you no word of welcome for your old friend?"
Still she did not speak—still she stood looking as though she never could look enough—only trembling a little now.
"I have startled you," he said very gently, "coming so unexpectedly upon you like a ghost in the moonlight. But I am no spirit, Norine—shake hands."
He leaned across the closed gate, and took both her hands in his warm, cordial clasp. They were like ice. Her eyes were fixed almost wildly upon his face, her lips were trembling like the lips of a child about to cry.
"Won't you speak then, Norine? Have I startled you so much as that? I did not expect to see you or any one at this hour, but I had to come. Do you hear, Norry? I had to come. And now that we have met, Norine, won't you say you are glad to see me again?"
She drew away her hands suddenly—covered her face and broke into a passion of tears. Perhaps she had grown hysterical, her heart had been full before he came, and it needed only this shock to brim over. He opened the gate abruptly and came to her side.
"Speak to me, Norine! My own—my dearest, don't cry so. Look up, and say you are not sorry I have come!"
She looked up at him, forgetful of Richard Gilbert and her wedding day, forgetful of loyalty and truth.
"I thought you had forgotten me," she said. "I thought I would never see you again. And oh, I have been so miserable—so miserable!"
"And yet you are about to be married, Norine!" At that reproachful cry she suddenly remembered the New York lawyer, and all the duties of her life. She drew her hands away resolutely in spite of his resistance and stood free—trembling and white.
"You are going to be married to Richard Gilbert, Norine?"
"Yes," she said, falteringly; "and you—you are going to be married, too?"
"I?" in astonishment; "I married! Who can have told you that?"
"Mr. Gilbert."
"Then it is the first time I have ever known him—lawyer though he be—to tell a falsehood. No, Norine, I am not going to be married."
She caught her breath in the shock, the joy of the words.
"Not going to be married! Not going—Oh, Mr. Thorndyke, don't deceive me—don't!"
"I am not deceiving you Norine—why should I? There is but one whom I love; if she will be my wife I will marry—not unless. Can you not guess who it is, Norine? Can you not guess what I have come from New York to say before it is too late? I only heard of your projected marriage last week—heard it then by merest accident. Ah, Norine! if you knew what a shock that announcement was. Ever since I left here I have been trying to school myself to forget you, but in vain. I never knew how utterly in vain until I heard you were the promised wife of Richard Gilbert. I could stay away no longer—I felt I must tell you or die. It may seem like presumption, like madness, my coming at the eleventh hour, and you the promised bride of another man, but I had to come. Even if you refused me with scorn, I felt I must come and hear my doom from your lips. They have urged me to marry another, an heiress she is, and a ward of my uncle's—he even threatens to disinherit me if I do not. But I will be disinherited, I will brave poverty and face the future boldly so that the girl I love is by my side. Helen is beautiful, and will not say no, they tell me, if I ask, but what is that to me since I love only you. Norine, tell me I have not come too late. You don't, you can't care for this elderly lawyer, old enough to be your father. Norine, speak and tell me you care only for me."
"Only for you—only for you!" she cried, "O, Laurence, I love you with all my heart!"
There was a sound as she said it, the house door opening. In the moonlight Aunt Hetty's spare, small figure appeared in the doorway, in the silence her pleasant voice called:
"Norine! Norine! come in out of the dew dear child."
Some giant hemlocks grew near the gate—Laurence Thorndyke drew her with him into their black shadow, and stood perfectly still. Brilliant as the moonlight was, Aunt Hetty might brush against them and not see them in the leafy gloom.
"I must go," whispered Norine; "she will be here in a moment in search of me. Laurence, let me go."
"But first—I must see you again. No one knows I am here, no one must know. When does Gilbert arrive?"
"To-morrow," she answered, with a sudden shiver.
"My darling, don't fear—you are mine now, mine only. Mine you shall remain." His eyes glittered strangely in the gloom as he said it. "We cannot meet to-morrow; but we must meet to-morrow night."
"No," she faltered, "no—no. It would be wrong, dishonorable. And I dare not, we would be discovered."
"Not if you do as I direct. What time do you all retire? Half-past ten?"
"Mostly."
"Then at eleven, or half-past, the coast is sure to be clear. At eleven to-morrow night I will be here just without the gate, and you must steal out and meet me."
"Laurence!"
"You must—you will, if you love me. Are you not my wife, or going to be in a few days, which amounts to the same thing. Will Gilbert stop here?"
"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so."
"Well, even if he does it will not matter. You can steal out unheard and unobserved, can you not?"
"Yes—no. I don't know. Laurence! Laurence! I am afraid."
"Of what? Of whom? not of me, Norine?"
She shivered a little, and shrank from his side.
"It seems so strange, so bold, so wrong. I ought not, it is wicked—I don't know what to do."
"Then you don't care for me at all, Norine?"
He knew how to move her. The reproachful words went to her heart. Care for him! He doubted that.
"You will come," he said, that exultant gleam in his eyes again, "my loyal little girl! I have a thousand things to say to you, and we can talk uninterruptedly then. When was your wedding to be?"
"Next Thursday."
"And this is Sunday night. To-morrow afternoon Gilbert will be here. You see how little time we have to spare, Norine. You must meet me, for on Thursday you shall be my wife—not his!"
"Norry! Norry!" more loudly this time, called the voice of Aunt Hetty, still in the doorway, "where on earth is the child?"
"Let me go—let me go!" Norine cried in terror, "she will be here directly."
"You will meet me to-morrow night, promise first?"
"Yes—yes—yes! Only let me go."
He obeyed. Retreating into the shadow of the trees, he watched her glide out in the moonlit path, and up to the gate. He heard her ascend the steps, and then Aunt Hetty's voice came to him again.
"Goodness gracious, child! where have you been? Do you want to get your death, out in your bare head and the dew falling like rain?"
He