Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir. May Agnes Fleming

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BEFORE THE WEDDING.

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      he sober March twilight lay low on the snowy earth when the sleigh whirled up to the door. The red firelight shone through the windows, and they could see Aunt Hetty bustling about the kitchen. Neither had spoken for a time, but now Norine turned to him, as she lightly sprang out.

      "Say nothing of this to-night," she said, hurriedly; "wait until to-morrow."

      She was gone before he could answer, and he drove round to the stable. Uncle Reuben was there, and Mr. Gilbert remained with him until Aunt Hetty's voice was heard calling them to supper. The lawyer was standing in the doorway, watching the solemn stars come out, a great silent gravity on his face. But oh, so happy, too—so deeply, unutterably happy.

      The supper table was spread, lamp-light beamed, firelight glowed, and Aunt Hetty awaited them impatient, lest her warm milk biscuits and sugared "flap-jacks" should grow cold.

      Norine stood leaning against the mantel, looking dreamily into the red fire. How pale she was, how strangely grave and thoughtful. Yet not unhappy, surely, for she glanced up in her lover's face with a quick blush and smile, and talked to him shyly throughout supper. Later still she played and sang for him the songs and pieces he liked best, played a game of euchre with him, and if she thought of Laurence Thorndyke, who had taught her the game, Richard Gilbert did not know it.

      "She will learn to love me," he thought. "My pretty, dark-eyed darling! I will love her so much. I will so gratify her in everything. I will be so devoted, in all ways, that she cannot help it. Please Heaven, her life shall be a happy one with me."

      Norine retired early. Her long drive had made her tired and sleepy she said; but she did not go to sleep.

      Moon and stars shone crystal clear, pearly bright. She blew out her lamp, wrapped a shawl about her, and sat down by the window. Weirdly still lay everything, ivory light, ebony shadows, no sound but the rattling of the skeleton trees in the wintry night wind. No living thing was visible far or near. There was only the star-gemmed sky above, the chill, white world below. She could read her heart in the holy hush of the night, and look into the life that was dawning for her, by its solemn light. Richard Gilbert's wife! How strange and unreal that seemed. She liked him very much as she might have liked an indulgent elder brother, but love him—no! She might have deluded herself into thinking so, had Laurence Thorndyke's splendid image never dazzled her. She knew better now—the knowledge had come upon her all at once, transforming her from a child to a woman.

      "If I had never met him," she thought, "I might have been a happy wife, but now! Now can I ever learn to forget him, and to give Mr. Gilbert his place?"

      She covered her face with her hands, alone as she was. Alas for Richard Gilbert! congratulating himself at that very moment on having won for his very own the fairest, the sweetest, the truest of her sex.

      Miss Bourdon sat mournfully musing there until long past bedtime, long past midnight. Moonlight and starlight paled presently, the prospect grew gloomy, the air bitter cold, and shivering and miserable, the girl crept away to bed. Even then she could not sleep—her nerves were all unstrung and on edge. She lay broad awake trying to imagine what her life would be like as Mr. Gilbert's wife. The fairy world of her dreams and her books would open to her. Costly dresses and jewels, a fine house in New York, her carriage and servants, summer travel and winter balls—all this he had promised her. And there in the midst of it all, once again she would meet Laurence Thorndyke. It would be part of the romance, she as the wife, he as the husband of another, and the weak silly heart fluttering under the bedclothes, gave a great bound. Then she remembered that it would be wicked to wish to see him—a sin to be happy in his presence; but do what she would, the hope of meeting him again, was at the bottom of her willingness to become the lawyer's wife.

      When Norine descended to breakfast next morning, she found Mr. Gilbert standing in the open doorway, looking out at the frosty sunshine. He came forward to meet her, his face suddenly radiant.

      "I have been waiting to waylay you," he said, smiling, "I want you to let me tell your uncle to-day."

      "You are in a hurry," Norine answered, rather impatiently.

      "Yes, my darling. Why should I not be? And I return to New York early next week. You say yes—do you not, Norine?"

      She smiled, and gave him her hand. She had said "yes" to a more important proposition, he had been very good to her, why should she not please him?

      "Do as you like, Mr. Gilbert. Tell my uncle if you choose."

      "And if he consents, Norine—as I think he will—when shall I tell him our marriage is to take place? I want it to be soon, my dearest girl, very soon, for I don't feel as though I could live much longer without you. Come, my little wife! name an early day."

      "Oh, I cannot! I don't know when. Next summer some time."

      "That is indefinite," he laughed. "Allow me to be definite. Say early next May."

      "No, no, no! that is too soon—greatly too soon! I couldn't be ready."

      "Then, when? I won't be selfish, but you must be merciful, mademoiselle, and not keep me in suspense too long."

      She laughed her old gay laugh.

      "Patience, monsieur; patience stands chief among the virtues. Will June do—the last?"

      "The first, Norine."

      Aunt Hetty was coming through the hall. Norine darted away.

      "Have it as you will! Don't you want me to help you with breakfast, auntie?"

      Mr. Gilbert smilingly looked after his bright little prize, so soon to be his bright little wife, then turned to Aunt Hetty.

      "Where is your brother this morning, Miss Kent? I wish to speak to him."

      "In the stable, I think. Shall I go and see?"

      "Not at all. I will go myself."

      He walked away, humming a tune, in the happiness of his heart. Ah! shone ever winter sun so brightly before, looked ever the work-a-day world so paradisiacal as now! The earth and all thereon was transformed as with an enchanter's wand to this middle-aged legal gentleman in love.

      Uncle Reuben, busy among his cattle, looked up in some surprise at sight of his early visitor.

      "Don't let me interfere with your work, Kent," the lawyer said. "You can attend to your horses and listen, too. I must leave the day after to-morrow; my business has been too long neglected, and I have something of importance to tell you before I go. Something I hope—I believe, you will not be sorry to hear."

      The eyes of the two men met. There was a peculiar smile on the lawyer's face, a happy light in his eyes, and Reuben Kent's countenance grew suddenly bright with intelligence.

      "Is it about Norry?"

      A smile and a nod answered him.

      "Then I reckon I can guess. You have asked her to marry you?"

      "Exactly. But how, in the name of everything wonderful have you found it out?"

      Uncle Reuben's eyes twinkled shrewdly.

      "I ain't a lawyer, Mr. Gilbert, but I can see as far into a milestone as any other man. Do you think I s'posed it was to see me and Joe and Hetty you came to Kent Hill so often? No, sir! I see you had a hankering after our little girl from the first."

      Mr. Gilbert actually blushed. And he had guarded his precious secret so carefully, he had thought.