An
antique brooch of curiously wrought silver confined the jacket at the
throat. The collar, made either to stand up or fall, was this evening
unclosed and thrown black, its silver fringe gleaming through the
clustering tresses that fell in all their native richness and raven
blackness over her shoulders, parted and braided on her brow, so as to
heighten the chaste and classic expression of her features.
On a stranger that beautiful vision must have burst with bewildering
power: to Arthur Stanley she united _memory_ with _being_, the _past_
with the _present_, with such an intensity of emotion, that for a few
minutes his very breath was impeded. She turned, without seeing him,
in a contrary direction; and the movement roused him.
"Marie!" he passionately exclaimed, flinging himself directly in her
path, and startling her so painfully, that though there was a strong
and visible effort at self-control, she must have fallen had he not
caught her in his arms. There was an effort to break from his hold, a
murmured exclamation, in which terror, astonishment, and yet joy, were
painfully mingled, and then the heroine gave place to the woman, for
her head sunk on his shoulder and she burst into tears.
Time passed. Nearly an hour from that strange meeting, and still they
were together; but no joy, nor even hope was on the countenance of
either.
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