“No story can move me much, dear,” she
answered rather faintly, for any excitement stayed
with her; “since I know your strength of kindness,
scarcely any tale can move me, unless it be of yourself,
love; or of my poor mother.”
“It is of your poor mother, darling. Can
you bear to hear it?” And yet I wondered why
she did not say as much of her father.
“Yes, I can bear anything. But although
I cannot see her, and have long forgotten, I could
not bear to hear ill of her.”
“There is no ill to hear, sweet child, except
of evil done to her. Lorna, you are of an ill-starred
race.”
“Better that than a wicked race,” she
answered with her usual quickness, leaping at conclusion;
“tell me I am not a Doone, and I will—but
I cannot love you more.”
“You are not a Doone, my Lorna, for that, at
least, I can answer; though I know not what your name
is.”
“And my father—your father—what
I mean is—”
“Your father and mine never met one another.
Your father was killed by an accident in the Pyrenean
mountains, and your mother by the Doones; or at least
they caused her death, and carried you away from her.”
All this, coming as in one breath upon the sensitive
maiden, was more than she could bear all at once;
as any but a fool like me must of course have known.
She lay back on the garden bench, with her black hair
shed on the oaken bark, while her colour went and came
and only by that, and her quivering breath, could
any one say that she lived and thought. And yet
she pressed my hand with hers, that I might tell her
all of it.
[Illustration: 504.jpg Tailpiece]
JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR
[Illustration: 505.jpg Lorna]
No flower that I have ever seen, either in shifting
of light and shade, or in the pearly morning, may
vie with a fair young woman’s face when tender
thought and quick emotion vary, enrich, and beautify
it. Thus my Lorna hearkened softly, almost without
word or gesture, yet with sighs and glances telling,
and the pressure of my hand, how each word was moving
her.
When at last my tale was done, she turned away, and
wept bitterly for the sad fate of her parents.
But to my surprise she spoke not even a word of wrath
or rancour. She seemed to take it all as fate.
“Lorna, darling,” I said at length, for
men are more impatient in trials of time than women
are, “do you not even wish to know what your
proper name is?”
“How can it matter to me, John?” she answered,
with a depth of grief which made me seem a trifler.
“It can never matter now, when there are none
to share it.”
“Poor little soul!” was all I said in
a tone of purest pity; and to my surprise she turned
upon me, caught me in her arms, and loved me as she
had never done before.
“Dearest, I have you,” she cried; “you,
and only you, love. Having you I want no other.
All my life is one with yours. Oh, John, how can
I treat you so?”
