"Nobody else wants me!" breathed Mabel in his ear, nestling within
the arm that enfolded and held her tightly in the corner of the
piazza shaded by the creeper. "The danger of losing me is not
imminent to-night, at all events," she resumed, presently, with a
touch of the sportiveness that lent her manner an airy charm in
lighter talk than that which had engrossed her for the past hour.
The evening was warm and still to sultriness, and the moonlight,
filtered into pensive pallor through a low-lying haze, yet sufficed
to show how confidingly Imogene leaned upon her attendant in
sauntering dowa the long main alley of the garden. Rosa was at the
piano in the parlor, singing to the enamored Alfred. Mrs. Sutton had
withdrawn to her own room to ruminate upon the astounding disclosure
of her nephew's engagement, while Winston bent over his study-table
busy with the interrupted letter his aunt had seen in his portfolio.
"There is no one here who has the leisure or the disposition to
contest your rights, you perceive," said Mabel, running through a
laughing summary of their companions' occupations.
"Betrothals are epidemic in this household and neighborhood,"
Winston was writing. "There are no fewer than three pairs of turtles
cooing down stairs as I pen this to you, my bird of paradise. The
case that next to mine--to ours--commands my interest is that of my
sister. I came home to learn that the little Mabel I used to hold on
my knee had entered into an engagement--conditional upon my
sanction--with that traditional tricky personage, a Philadelphia
lawyer--Mr. Frederic Chilton, at the door of whose manifold
perfections, as set forth by my loquacious aunt, you may lay the
blame of this delayed epistle. I know nothing of this aspirant to
the dignity of brotherhood with myself, saving the facts that he is
tolerably good looking, claims to be the scion of an old Maryland
family, and that self-conceit is apparently his predominant
quality."
"What is that?" asked Frederic, halting before the windows, of the
drawing-room, as a wild, sorrowful strain, like the wail of a
breaking heart, arose upon the waveless air.
Rosa was a vocalist of note in her circle, and she had never
rendered anything with more effect than she did the song to which
even the preoccupied strollers among the garden borders stayed their
steps to listen. Through the open casement Mabel and her lover could
see the face of the musician, slightly uplifted toward the
moonlight; her eyes, dark and dreamy, as under the cloud of many
years of weary waiting and final hopelessness. Her articulation was
always pure, but the passionate emphasis of every word constrained
the breathless attention of her audience to the close of the simple
lay: "Thy name was once the magic spell
By which my thoughts were bound;
And burning dreams of light and love
Were wakened by the sound.
My heart beat quick when stranger-tongues,
With idle praise or blame,
Awoke its deepest thrill of joy
To tremble at thy name.