“I WILL BE YOUR WIFE.”

Miss Bourdon’s visit to the family of Mr. Abel Merryweather lasted just three weeks and two days, and unspeakably dull and empty the old red farm-house seemed without her.  Uncle Joe had gone out with her trunk on Saturday, and with the news that everybody was well, and Mr. Thorndyke was to go for good the following Monday.

“To New York?” Norine asked, turning very pale.

“I reckon so,” Uncle Joe responded, coolly; “that’s to say, he’s to stop a few days in Portland with his friends there; he’s going to spend the rest of the winter South-so he told Hetty-down to Maryland somewhere.”

Norine set her lips, and turned away without a word.  She would have given half her life to be able to return with Uncle Joe, but she was far too proud to ask.  Some dim inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn upon her.  For some cruel reason they did not wish her to be with Mr. Thorndyke, and they had sent her here to be out of his way.

They were the dullest three weeks of the young lady’s life.  It was a pleasant place, too-Mr. Abel Merryweather’s, with a jolly, noisy houseful of sons and daughters, and country frolics without end.  Two months ago, Norine had looked forward to this visit with delight.  But in two months the whole world had changed; and now, there was no sunshine in heaven, no gladness on earth, since a well-looking, well-dressed young man from the city would light her life with his smile no more.

Mr. Thorndyke did depart the following Monday.  He had been considerably surprised on first missing Norine, and inquired of Aunt Hetty where she was.  The reply was very brief and reserved.

“Uncle Reuben has taken her away to visit some friends.”

Mr. Thorndyke fixed his large, blue eyes full upon the speaker’s face.  Aunt Hester, never looking at him, went on arranging the furniture.

“How long will she be gone?” he asked, at length.

“That depends upon circumstances,” replied Miss Kent; “probably some weeks.”

Mr. Thorndyke said no more.  Aunt Hetty poured out his tea, arranged his buttered toast and boiled eggs, and left the room.  It had been Norine’s labor of love hitherto, Norine’s bright face that smiled across the little round table, instead of the withered, sallow one of Aunt Hetty.  He sat alone now over his noon-day breakfast, an inexplicable look on his handsome face.

“So,” he thought, “they have gone even farther than I anticipated, they have spirited her away altogether.  Poor little girl! pretty little Norry!  I believe I am really fond of you, after all.  I wonder if she went willingly?” he smiled to himself, his vanity answered that question pretty accurately.  “It’s rather hard on her, a modern case of Elizabeth and the exiles.  It’s all my friend Gilbert’s doing, of course.  Very well.  It is his day now, it may be mine, to-morrow.”

The intervening days were hopelessly long and dreary to Mr. Laurence Thorndyke.  How fond he had grown of that sparkling brunette face, those limpid eyes of “liquid light,” he never knew until he lost her.  That pleasant, homely room was so full of her-the closed piano, the little rocker and work-stand by the window, her beloved books and birds.  Life became, all in an hour, a horrible bore in that dull red farm-house.  Come what might to ankle and arm, ailing still, he would go at once.  He dispatched a note to his friends in Portland, and early on Monday morning drove away with Mr. Thomas Lydyard, his friend.

“Good-by Miss Kent,” he said, as he shook hands with her on the doorstep.  “I can never repay all your kindness, I know, but I will do my best if the opportunity ever offers.  Give my very best regards to Miss Bourdon, and tell her how much I regretted her running away.”

And so he was gone.  Uncle Reuben watched him out of sight with a great breath of relief.

“Thank the Lord he’s gone, and that danger’s over.”

Ah, was it?  Had you known Mr. Laurence Thorndyke better, Reuben Kent, you would have known, also, that the danger was but beginning.

Mr. Thorndyke remained four days with his friends in the city, and then started for New York.  Reuben Kent heard it with immense relief and satisfaction.

“He’s gone, Hetty,” he said to his sister, “and the good Lord send he may never cross our little girl’s path again.  I can see her now, with the color fading out of her face, and that white look of disappointment coming over it.  I hope she’s forgot him before this.”

“Will you go for her to-day?” Aunt Hetty asked.  “It’s dreadful lonesome without her.”

“Not to-day.  Next week will do.  She’ll forget him faster there than here, Hetty.”

It wanted but three days of Christmas when Uncle Reuben went for his niece, and it was late on Christmas eve when they returned.  The snow was piled high and white everywhere.  The trees stood up, black, rattling skeletons around the old house.  All things seemed to have changed in the weeks of her absence, and nothing more than Norine Bourdon.

She sank down in a chair, in a tired, spiritless sort of way, and let Aunt Hetty remove her wraps.  She had grown thin, in the past fortnight, and pale and worn-looking.

“You precious little Norry,” aunt Hetty said, giving her a welcoming hug.  “You can’t tell how glad we are to have you back again; how dreadfully we missed you.  I expect you enjoyed your visit awfully now?”

“No,” the young girl answered, with an impatient sigh; “it was dull.”

“Dull, Norry! with four girls and three young men in the house?”

“Well, it was dull to me.  I didn’t care for their frolics and sleighing parties and quilting bees.  It was horridly stupid, the whole of it.”

“Then you are glad to be home again?”

“Yes.”

She did not look particularly glad, however.  She leaned her head against the back of the chair, and closed her eyes with weary listlessness.  Aunt Hetty watched her with a thrill of apprehension.  Was her fancy for their departed guest something more than mere fancy?-had she not begun even to forget yet, after all?

She opened her eyes suddenly while Aunt Hetty was thinking this, and spoke abruptly.

“What did Mr. Thorndyke say when he found I was gone?”

“Nothing.  Oh-he asked how long you were going to stay.”

“Was that all?”

“That was all.”

“Did he not inquire where I had gone?”

“No, my dear.”

Norine said no more.  The firelight shone full on her face, and she lifted a book and held it as a screen.  So long she sat mute and motionless that Aunt Hetty fancied she had fallen asleep.  She laid her hand on her shoulder.  Norine’s black, sombre eyes looked up.

“I thought you were asleep, my dear, you sat so still.  Is anything the matter?”

“I am tired, and my head aches.  I believe I will go to bed.”

“But, Norry, it is Christmas eve.  Supper is ready, and-

“I can’t eat supper-I don’t wish any.  Give me a cup of tea, aunty, and let me go.”

With a sigh, aunty obeyed, and slowly and wearily Norine toiled up to her room.  It was very cosy, very pleasant, very home-like and warm, that snug upper chamber, with its striped, home-made carpet of scarlet and green, its blazing fire and shaded lamp.  Outside, the keen, Christmas stars shone coldly, and the world lay white in its chill winding sheet of snow.

But Norine thought neither of the comfort within nor the desolation without.  She sank down into a low chair before the fire and looked blankly into the red coals.

“Gone!” something in her head seemed beating that one word, like the ticking of a clock; “gone-gone-gone forever.  And it was only thirty miles, and the cars would have taken him, and he never came.  And I thought, I thought, he liked me a little.”

It was a dismal Christmas eve at Kent Farm; how were they to eat, drink and be merry with Norine absent.  No she had not begun to forget; the mischief was wrought, every room in the house was haunted by the image of the “youth who had loved, and who rode away.”

The New Year dawned, passed, and the ides of February came.  And Norine-she was only seventeen, remember, began to pluck up heart of grace once more, and her laugh rang out, and her songs began to be as merry, almost, as before the coming and going of Prince Charming.  Almost; the woman’s heart had awakened in the girl’s breast, and the old childish joyousness could never be quite the same.  He never wrote, she never heard his name, even Mr. Gilbert had ceased to write.  March came.  “Time, that blunts the edge of things, dries our tears and spoils our bliss,” had dried all hers long ago, and the splendor of Laurence Thorndyke’s image was wofully dimmed by this time.  Life had flown back into the old, dull channels, comfortable, but dull.  No letters to look for now from Mr. Gilbert, no books, no music, everybody forgot her, Richard Gilbert, Laurence Thorndyke-all.

She sighed a little over the quilt she was making-a wonderful quilt of white and “Turkey red,” a bewildering Chinese puzzle to the uninitiated.  It was a dull March afternoon, cheerless and slushy, the house still as a tomb, and no living thing to be seen in the outer world, as she sat alone at her work.

“What a stupid, dismal humdrum sort of life it is.”  Miss Bourdon thought, drearily, “and I suppose it will go on for thirty or forty years exactly like this, and I’ll dry up, and wrinkle and grow yellow and ugly, and be an old maid like Aunt Hetty.  I think it would be a great deal better if some people never were born at all.”

She paused suddenly, with this wise generality in her mind.  A man was approaching-a tall man, a familiar and rather distinguished-looking man.  One glance was enough.  With a cry of delight she dropped the Chinese-puzzle quilt, sprang up, rushed out, and plumped full into the arms of the gentleman.

“Oh, Mr. Gilbert!” she cried, her black eyes, her whole face radiant with the delight of seeing some one, “how glad I am to see you!  It has been so dull, and I thought you had forgotten us altogether.  Come in-come in.”

She held both his hands, and pulled him in.  Unhappy Richard Gilbert!  Who is to blame you for construing that enthusiastic welcome to suit yourself?  In fear and foreboding, you had approached that house-you had looked for coldness, aversion, reproaches, perhaps.  You had nerved yourself to bear them, and defend yourself, and instead-this.

His sallow face flushed all over with a delight more vivid than her own.  For one delicious moment his breath stopped.

“And so you have thought of me, Norine!”

“Oh, so often!  And hoped, and longed, and looked for your coming.  But you never came, and you never wrote, and I was sure you had forgotten me altogether.”

Here was an opening, and-he let it fall dead!  He might be a clever lawyer, but certainly he was not a clever lover.  He was smiling, and yes, actually blushing, and tingling with delight to his finger ends.  Her radiant, blooming face was upturned to him, the black eyes lifted and dancing, and he looked down upon those sparkling charms, and in a flat voice-said this: 

“We have had a great deal of snow lately.  How are your uncles and aunts?”

But the young lady’s enthusiasm was not in the least dampened.  He was her friend, not her lover, he was a kindly gleam of sunshine across the dead level of her sad-colored life.

“They are all very well, thank you, Mr. Gilbert, and will be very glad to see you.  Sit down and take off your overcoat.  You’ll stay for tea, won’t you, and all night?  Oh, how pleasant it is to see you back here again!”

Happy Mr. Gilbert!  And yet, if he had stopped to analyze that frank, glad, sisterly welcome, he would have known it the most ominous thing on earth for his hopes.  Had he been Laurence Thorndyke she would never have welcomed him like this.  But just now he took the goods the gods provided, and never stopped to analyze.

“Perhaps I was mistaken after all about Thorndyke,” he thought, “he has gone for good, and I never saw her look more brightly blooming.  After all a girl’s fancy for a handsome face, and a flirting manner, need not be very deep or lasting.  It was only a fancy, and died a natural death in a week.  How fortunate I spoke in time, and how clear and true she rings!  I will ask her to be my wife before I leave Kent Farm.”

He had come to stake his fate-“to win or lose it all,” to lay his life at her feet, but he had hoped for nothing like this.  He loved her-he knew it now as your staid middle-aged men do once in a lifetime.  He had waited until he could wait no longer-she might refuse, he had little hope of anything else, but then at least, any certainty was better than suspense.

Mr. Gilbert’s greeting from the Kent family was all that mortal man could look for.  They had guessed his secret; perhaps they also guessed his object in coming now.  He was very rich, and above them no doubt, but was there king or kaiser in all the world too good for their beautiful Norine.

He stayed to tea.  After that meal, while Aunt Hetty was busy in the kitchen, and the men about the farm-yard, he found himself alone in the front room with Miss Bourdon.  She stood looking out through the undrawn curtains at the still, white, melancholy winter night.

The first surprise and delight of the meeting past, she had grown very still.  His coming had brought other memories rushing upon her as she stood here in that pretty attitude looking out at the frosty stars.

She was nerving herself to ask a question.  Without turning round, and speaking very carelessly, she asked it.

“I suppose Mr. Thorndyke is in New York.  Have you seen him lately?”

A jealous pang shot through the lawyer’s heart.  She remembered yet.

“I see him very often,” he answered, promptly, and a little coldly; “I saw him the day I left.  He is about to be married.”

She was standing with her back to him, fluttering in a restless sort of way.  As he said this she suddenly grew still.

“The match is a very old affair,” Mr. Gilbert went on, resolutely; “he has been engaged nearly two years.  His uncle, Mr. Darcy, wishes it very much.  The young lady is an heiress, and extremely handsome.  They are very much attached to one another, it is said and are to be married early in the spring.”

She did not move-she did not speak.  A blank uncomfortable silence followed, and once more poor Mr. Gilbert’s heart contracted with a painful jealous spasm.  If she would only turn round and let him see her face.  Who was to understand these girls!

“What! all in the dark, Norry?” cried Uncle Reuben’s cheery voice, as he came bustling in redolent of stable odors.  “Come, light up, and give Mr. Gilbert a song.”

She obeyed at once.  The glare of the lamp fell full upon her, what change was it that he saw in her face?  She was hardly paler than usual, she rarely had much color, but there was an expression about the soft-cut childish mouth, an unpleasant tightness about the lips that quite altered the whole expression of the face.

She opened the piano and sung-sung and played better than he had ever heard her before.  She sang for hours, everything she knew-Mr. Thorndyke’s favorites and all.  She never rose until the striking of ten told her that bedtime had come.

The lawyer stayed all night; but in that pleasant guest-chamber that had lodged his rival last, he slept little.  Was she in love with Thorndyke, or was she not?  Impossible to judge these women-any girl in her teens can baffle the shrewdest lawyer of them all.  He lay tossing about full of hope, of love, of jealousy, of doubt, his fever at its very climax.

“I’ll endure this torture no longer,” he resolved, sullenly.  “I’ll ask her to marry me to-morrow.”

With Richard Gilbert to resolve was to act.  Five seconds after they had met, shaken hands, and said good-morning, he proposed a sleigh ride.  The day was mild and sunny, the sleighing splendid, and a sleigh ride to a New Yorker a rare and delightful luxury.  Would she go?  Yes, she would go, but Miss Bourdon said it spiritlessly enough.  And so the sleigh was brought round, and at ten o’clock in the crisp, yellow sunshine, the pair started.

But it must have been a much duller spirit than that of Norine that could have remained dull in that dazzling sunshine, that swift rush through the still frozen air.  A lovely rose-pink came into her pale cheeks, a bright light into her brown eyes, her laugh rang out, she was herself as he had first known her once more.

“How splendid winter is, after all!” she exclaimed; “look at those crystallized hemlocks-did you ever see anything so beautiful?  I sometimes wonder how I can find it so dreary.”

“You do find it dreary, then?”

“Oh, so dreary-so long-so humdrum-so dull!” She checked herself with one of her pretty French gestures.  “It seems ungrateful to say so, but I can’t help it.  Life seems hardly worth the living sometimes here.”

“Here!  Would it be better elsewhere?”

“Yes-I think so.  Change is always pleasant.  One grows dull and stupid living in one dull stupid place forever.  Change is what I want, novelty is delight.”

“Let me offer it to you then, Norine.  Come to New York with me.”

“Mr. Gilbert!  With you!”

“With me-as my wife, I love you, Norine.”

It was said.  The old formula, the commonplace words that are to tell all that is in a heart full to overflowing.  He sat very pale, beyond that and a certain nervous twitching of his face there was nothing to tell that all the happiness of his life hung on her reply.  For her-she just looked at him blankly, incredulous-with wide open eyes of wonder.

“Your wife!  Marry you!  Mr. Gilbert!”

“I love you, Norine.  It seems strange you have not known it until I tell it.  I am double your age, but I will do my best to make you happy.  Ah, Norine, if you knew how long I have thought of this-how dearly I love you, you would surely not refuse.  I am a rich man, and all I have is yours.  The world you have longed to see, you shall see.  Be my wife Norine, and come with me to New York.”

The first shock of surprise was over.  She sat very still, looking straight out before her at the dazzling expanse of sun and snow.  His words awoke no answering thrill in her heart, and yet she was conscious of a sense of pleasure.  Be his wife-well, why not?  The prospect of a new life broke upon her-the bright, exciting, ever-new life of a great city.  She thought of that, not of Richard Gilbert.

“Speak to me, Norine,” he said, “for Heaven’s sake don’t sit silent like this-only to answer no.  For good or evil, let me have my answer at once.”

But still she sat mute.  She had lost Laurence Thorndyke-lost-nay he had never been hers for one poor second.  He belonged to that beautiful, high-bred heiress whom he was to marry in the spring.  She would read it in the papers some day, and then-her own blank, empty, aimless life spread before her.  She turned suddenly to the man beside her, with something of the look her face had worn last night when she had first heard of Thorndyke’s marriage.

“You are very good,” she answered, quite steadily.  “I will be your wife if you like.”

“Thank Heaven!”-he said under his breath.  “Thank Heaven!”

Her heart smote her.  She was giving him so little-he was giving her so much.  He had always been her good, kind, faithful friend, and she had liked him so much.  Yes, that was just it, she liked him so well she could never love him.  But at least she would be honest.

“I-I don’t care for-I mean I don’t love -” she broke down, her eyes fixed on her muff.  “Oh, Mr. Gilbert, I do like you, but not like that.  I-I know I’m not half good enough ever to marry you.”

He smiled, a smile of great content.

“You will let me be the judge of that, Norry.  You are quite sure you like me?”

“Oh, yes.  I always did, you know, but I never-no never thought you cared for- Oh, dear me! how odd it seems.  What will Uncle Reuben say?”

Mr Gilbert smiled again.

“Uncle Reuben won’t lose his senses with surprise, I fancy.  Ah, Norry, Uncle Reuben’s eyes are not half a quarter so bright nor so black as yours, but he has seen more than you after all.”

And then all the way home he poured into her pleased listening ear the story of her future life.  It sounded like a fairy tale to the country girl.  A dazzling vista spread before her, a long life in “marble halls,” Brussels carpets, satin upholstery, a grand piano, pictures, books, and new music without end.  Silk dresses, diamond ear-rings, the theatres, the opera, a carriage, a waiting-maid-French, if possible-her favorite heroines all had French maids, Long Branch, Newport, balls, dinners-her head swam with the dazzle and delight of it all.  Be his wife-of course she would be his wife-to-morrow, if it were practicable.

But she did not say this, you understand.  Her face was all rosy and dimpling and smiling as they drove home; and alas for Richard Gilbert, how little he personally had to do with all that girlish rapture.  He saw that well-pleased face, and, like a wise man, asked no useless questions.  She was going to be his wife, everything was said in that.