Very beautiful.
Yes, yes; you look so—to the eyes—to the eyes.
But don’t say there are none like you upon the Earth; for there are—there are.
I know one—ah! more—but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven!
I mean in beauty—in goodness, that’s another thing. I’m not thinking of goodness—no; no.”
“Maurice, dear Maurice! Why do you talk thus?
You are not in heaven; you are here with me—with Louise.”
“I am in heaven; yes, in heaven!
I don’t wish it, for all they say; that is, unless I can have her with me.
It may be a pleasant place. Not without her.
If she were here, I could be content.
Hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me!
Very beautiful, you are, I admit; but none of you like her—her—my angel.
Oh! there’s a devil, too; a beautiful devil—I don’t mean that.
I’m thinking only of the angel of the prairies.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer.
She bent over him with ears upon the strain—with eyes that marked every movement of his lips.
“Name? name?
Did some one say, name?
Have you any names here?
Oh! I remember—Michael, Gabriel, Azrael—men, all men.
Angels, not like my angel—who is a woman.
Her name is—”
“Is?”
“Louise—Louise—Louise.
Why should I conceal it from you—you up here, who know everything that’s down there?
Surely you know her—Louise?
You should: you could not help loving her—ah! with all your hearts, as I with all mine—all—all!”
Not when these last words were once before spoken—first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees—the speaker in full consciousness of intellect—in the full fervour of his soul—not then were they listened to with such delight.
O, happy hour for her who heard them!
Again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow—upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact.
She only stood up erect—triumphant;—her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations.
It was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever—in the fear of its being too soon interrupted. The last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared—a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway. The substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup.
There was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer.
On the contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical, heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place.
Still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species.
If anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as, stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken place in the occupancy of the hut.
“Mother av Moses!” he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; “Shure I must be dhramin?
Trath must I!
It cyant be yersilf, Miss Pointdixther?
Shure now it cyant?”
“But it is, Mr O’Neal.
How very ungallant in you to have forgotten me, and so soon!”
“Forgotten yez!
Trath, miss, yez needn’t accuse me of doin’ chat which is intirely impossible.
The Oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it.
Sowl! thare’s wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!”
The speaker glanced significantly towards the couch.
A delicious thrill passed through the bosom of the listener.