The Laurel Bush | Page 6

still, strongly
spiritualized light of such an afternoon, with the ruins, the castle,
cathedral, and St. Regulus's tower standing out sharply against the
intensely blue sky, and on the other side--on both sides--the yellow
sweep of sand curving away into the distance, and melting into the
sunshiny sea.
Many a time, in their prescribed walks with their young tribe, Miss
Williams and Mr. Roy had taken this stroll across the Links and round
by the sands to the mouth of the Eden, leaving behind them a long and
sinuous track of many footsteps, little and large, but now there were
only two lines--"foot-prints on the sands of Time," as he jestingly
called them, turning round and pointing to the marks of the dainty feet
that walked so steadily and straightly beside his own.
"They seem made to go together, those two tracks," said he.
Why did he say it? Was he the kind of man to talk thus without
meaning it? If so, alas! she was not exactly the woman to be thus talked
to. Nothing fell on her lightly. Perhaps it was her misfortune, perhaps
even her fault, but so it was.
Robert Roy did not "make love;" not at all. Possibly he never could
have done it in the ordinary way. Sweet things, polite things were very
difficult to him either to do or to say. Even the tenderness that was in
him came out as if by accident; but, oh! how infinitely tender he could
be! Enough to make any one who loved him die easily, quietly, if only
just holding his hand.

There is an incident in Dickens's touching Tale of two Cities, where a
young man going innocent to the guillotine, and riding on the
death-cart with a young girl whom he had never before seen, is able to
sustain and comfort her, even to the last awful moment, by the look of
his face and the clasp of his hand. That man, I have often thought, must
have been something not unlike Robert Roy.
Such men are rare, but they do exist; and it was Fortune's lot, or she
believed it was, to have found one. That was enough. She went along
the shining sands in a dream of perfect content, perfect happiness,
thinking--and was it strange or wrong that she should so think?--that if
it were God's will she should thus walk through life, the thorniest path
would seem smooth, the hardest road easy. She had no fear of life, if
lived beside him; or of death--love is stronger than death; at least this
sort of love, of which only strong natures are capable, and out of which
are made, not the lyrics, perhaps, but the epics, the psalms, or the
tragedies of our mortal existence.
I have explained thus much about these two friends--lovers that may be,
or might have been--because they never would have done it themselves.
Neither was given to much speaking. Indeed, I fear their conversation
this day, if recorded, would have been of the most feeble kind--brief,
fragmentary, mere comments on the things about them, or abstract
remarks not particularly clever or brilliant. They were neither of them
what you would call brilliant people; yet they were happy, and the
hours flew by like a few minutes, until they found themselves back
again beside the laurel bush at the gate, when Mr. Roy suddenly said:
"Do not go in yet. I mean, need you go in? It is scarcely past sunset; the
boys will not be home for an hour yet; they don't want you, and I--I
want you so. In your English sense," he added, with a laugh, referring
to one of their many arguments, scholastic or otherwise, wherein she
had insisted that to want meant Anglice, to wish or to crave, whereas in
Scotland it was always used like the French manquer, to miss or to
need.
"Shall we begin that fight over again?" asked she, smiling; for every
thing, even fighting, seemed pleasant today.

"No, I have no wish to fight; I want to consult you seriously on a purely
personal matter, if you would not mind taking that trouble."
Fortune looked sorry. That was one of the bad things in him (the best
man alive have their bad things), the pride which apes humility, the
self-distrust which often wounds another so keenly. Her answer was
given with a grave and simple sincerity that ought to have been
reproach enough.
"Mr. Roy, I would not mind any amount of trouble if I could be of use
to you; you know that."
"Forgive me! Yes, I do know it. I believe in you and your goodness to
the very bottom of my heart."
She tried to say "Thank you," but her lips refused to utter a word. It