CHAPTER XXIV.
“LOVE, I WILL LOVE YOU EVER!”
Among the passengers on a steamer homeward bound from England to America were a man and his daughter who attracted much admiring attention from all the other passengers.
The man was Leon Lyndon, and he was returning with his daughter Jessie after nearly two years’ absence from New York. Lyndon, tall, fair, middle-aged, with a most serious expression, did not cultivate acquaintances, but rather repelled advances, preferring to devote himself to his beautiful daughter, who in turn gave him all her attention.
It was most provoking to all the young men, who were simply wild to know the dainty beauty, and to tempt her to flirtations on the deck these balmy September evenings when the sea shone like silver and the full moon rode in gleaming majesty through the pathless blue sky.
It was too bad, they said, for her father to monopolize her always, hanging around her chair with books that they read together all day, and in the evenings strumming on his mandolin while she warbled tender love songs in a voice so sweet that the very winds and waves seemed to hush themselves to listen.
Curiosity was rife concerning the attractive pair, but no one could satisfy it, and when they had been three days out no one had secured anything but a bowing acquaintance with either.
It was about this time that a young man who had been confined to his stateroom all these days by sea-sickness now made his appearance on deck.
It was no less a person than Frank Laurier, who had been abroad almost a year, and was returning at the summons of his betrothed.
It was almost two years since Cora’s terrible accident had so abruptly interrupted their wedding, and never, since the first hour, had he been permitted to gaze on her face.
The restoration of her health and beauty had consumed many months, and though he had entreated to see her, the request had always been sorrowfully denied.
Cora’s heart ached for the sight of his face and the touch of his hand, but she dared not risk the shock he must have experienced at sight of her poor, marred face. Still believing in his love that had ceased to exist, she feared his disenchantment.
Afraid of the weakness of her own will, anxious to place herself out of temptation, she entreated him to go abroad while she was in the hands of the doctors, to remain until she summoned him with the glad news that they might meet again to part no more forever.
He had been absent almost a year now, and they had corresponded in a desultory fashion, when suddenly he received the letter of recall, telling him she was well and beautiful again, and he must return, because her heart was breaking to see him once more.
Laurier’s heart was touched by her faithful love, and he reproached himself for the way he had neglected her letters, often not answering them for weeks, almost forgetting her existence in the indifference that had stolen over him and made him wish in secret that something would happen to break the irksome bond that fettered his changed heart.
Many a man would not have hesitated to own that he had ceased to love, and claimed his freedom from her hands, but not so Laurier, who prided himself on his honor, and pitied Cora too sincerely to wound her loving heart.
He was going home to marry her and make her as happy as he could. For himself it did not matter greatly. Even if his heart was cold to her, she had at least no living rival, and that must suffice.
That evening when he came on deck—the young men had persuaded him—begging him to come and listen to the sweet voice singing in the moonlight, the voice of a girl as lovely as an angel, but with such a selfish, cruel papa that he would not permit any of them to approach within arm’s length.
“I wish you would storm the citadel of her heart, Laurier, and avenge us!” laughed one.
“You forget that I am going home to be married!” he replied gravely.
“Oh, a little flirtation beforehand need not matter.”
“I beg your pardon. A young girl’s love is too sacred to be trifled with. I will go on deck and listen because I adore singing, but I shall not try to make the young lady’s acquaintance.”
So in the silvery moonlight of that balmy September evening he went on deck with his friends, and saw, sitting apart, the man lightly touching the strings of a mandolin, while by his side stood his daughter, a slender, classically gowned girl in a simple robe of warm, white cashmere falling in straight folds, her pure, lovely face crowned with golden hair, lifted to the sky while she sang in notes of liquid melody:
Frank Laurier stood apart, looking and listening spellbound, while something sweet and tender to the verge of pain stabbed his heart.
What was there in the pure, uplifted face and in the sweet, sad voice that seemed to strike a mournful chord in memory like some familiar strain? He had never heard the song before, and surely never seen the exquisite face, else it had never been forgotten.
He said to himself that she had only made him think of love again—love that had grown a stranger to his heart, though once as sweet and welcome as the song she sang.
She rested a few moments, without observing her rapt listeners, then the sweet voice rose again, following the chords of the mandolin:
The sweet voice was inexpressibly pathetic. Laurier felt a lump rise in his throat and a moisture in his eyes. He longed to clasp the singer in his arms and soothe her tender grief.