336 THE MESSENGER OF LOVE.
of Gerald's perpetual care for my pleasure and amusement, and at the idea of this little white messenger flying between us ; but pride at the recollection of Gerald's abrupt departure at the beech-tree closed my lips . I said a few unsatisfactory words of thanks and bent over my new treasure, pressing my lips repeatedly to its glossy head.
"Madge," said my lover, " cross over with me to clematis -gate. Your mother has, probably, many charges to give you before she goes, so I will not further occupy your attention.”
"Oh, no!" I began; but checked myself to remember that never before had Gerald parted from me so soon. I surely could not stoop to intreat.
The clematis-gate was at the further end of a winding path, which led through a thicket of evergreens to a fanciful rustic gate which formed one of the exits from my father's estate. The hemlocks, young cedars, and larches, which bordered the path were overgrown with a tangled web of clinging roses and white clematis, which in the soft summer air of that afternoon poured out all their golden perfume, never too rich or too heavy for me.
Gerald and I walked silently and soberly along. The sweet scent of the jasmines, the little bird resting so quietly in my arms—a thousand dear recollections brought to me by every turn of that path, all conspired to soften my bitter and resentful feelings. I was just about to make a timid little overture for peace when Gerald spoke,
"Madge," he said, "you have chosen, why I do not know, to show me such lightness of manner, and such entire disregard to my feelings, that I have come to the conclusion that I have, perhaps, made myself unwelcome by my frequent presence, and that it will, therefore , be more agreeable to you if I stay away until next week, in which interval you may discover that I am not as agreeable to you as you would wish your future husband to be."
At this speech my hesitating repentance fled away; grief and anger struggled so in my heart that I could not trust my voice for a moment. When I spoke, it was proudly.
"Stay as long as you think proper, Mr. Livingstone, I will never be the one to recall you."
We stopped at the rustic gate. I leaned upon it, heedlessly crushing the clustering clematis flowers, stroking and smoothing my pigeon diligently. Gerald looked at me steadily for a few minutes, then, bending over me, he whispered passionately,
"Madge, my own Madge, you know that I love you deeply. Madge, tell me that you love me, do not part from me so coldly. With that averted head and those proud lips, give me one kiss, my darling Madge.”
I made no reply. Gerald, with flashing eyes, vaulted over the low gate, and was out of sight directly. The spirit of evil had regained complete possession of me, and as I leaned, like Sir Launcelot,
"Half in disgust at life, love, all things,"
I heard the rustling of a silk dress, and there stood by my side a slight, little woman. The white cap drawn closely around the pale face, heavy mourning garments draping her form, told the tale of widowhood but too plainly. Her eyes were rather remarkable, black, and the whites strongly tinged with blue-eyes which were always raised to you imploringly, though their owner did hot speak to give words to their petition; but there was a certain look in those beseeching eyes not altogether pleasant to see, which came across them from time to time, a look of despair, which changed to one of brooding purpose; but if you did not like the eyes, you could not help being interested in the air of deep, unconquerable sadness which pervaded her whole demeanor. This was Madame Bassigny, who had been a school-mate of mine for many years. She was a Creole, and whilst a mere school- girl, had been passionately attached to a French gentleman, whom she had known at ber home in New Orleans. He was much her senior, and from all I could hear, of a most cold, forbidding temper, but this seemed to attract all the more strongly the ardent, impulsive nature of the Southern girl. Cecile Herron was very wealthy, and I strongly suspected that pleasure-loving, selfish Monsieur Bassigny was willing, for the sake of her tempting thousands, to accept the heart of Cecile, and feign a preference which he never felt. However it was, Cecile's married life had been anything but well-ordered; and she awoke from her happy dream to find herself wretched beyond measure, in being united to a man who not only treated her with absolute neglect, but stooped to render her still more unhappy by a system of petty persecutions. Added to this, her unfortunate love still clung to her despite all. When Monsieur Bassigny was suddenly killed in an affair of honor, Cecile fell into a settled melancholy. I was in New Orleans at the time, and insisted upon bringing my poor friend home with me, hoping that entire change of scene would make Cecile what my dear school companion had been. Her habits had not endeared her in the least to my family. She would wander alone for
