which had lately been a nothing; a purpose, which had lately been a
fancy; a finished temple, with the altar-fires lit and the voice of
worship ascending, where before had been but an architect’s confusion of
arid working plans, unintelligible to the passing eye and prophesying
nothing.
“Lady” Gwendolen! The pleasantness of that sound was all gone; it was an
offense to her ear now. She said:
“There–that sham belongs to the past; I will not be called by it any
more.”
“I may call you simply Gwendolen? You will allow me to drop the
formalities straightway and name you by your dear first name without
additions?”
She was dethroning the pink and replacing it with a rosebud.
“There-that is better. I hate pinks–some pinks. Indeed yes, you are to
call me by my first name without additions–that is,–well, I don’t mean
without additions entirely, but–”
It was as far as she could get. There was a pause; his intellect was
struggling to comprehend; presently it did manage to catch the idea in
time to save embarrassment all around, and he said gratefully–
“Dear Gwendolen! I may say that?”
“Yes–part of it. But–don’t kiss me when I am talking, it makes me
forget what I was going to say. You can call me by part of that form,
but not the last part. Gwendolen is not my name.”
“Not your name?” This in a tone of wonder and surprise.
The girl’s soul was suddenly invaded by a creepy apprehension, a quite
definite sense of suspicion and alarm. She put his arms away from her,
looked him searchingly in the eye, and said:
“Answer me truly, on your honor. You are not seeking to marry me on
account of my rank?”
The shot almost knocked him through the wall, he was so little prepared
for it. There was something so finely grotesque about the question and
its parent suspicion, that he stopped to wonder and admire, and thus was
he saved from laughing. Then, without wasting precious time, he set
about the task of convincing her that he had been lured by herself alone,
and had fallen in love with her only, not her title and position; that he
loved her with all his heart, and could not love her more if she were a
duchess, or less if she were without home, name or family. She watched
his face wistfully, eagerly, hopefully, translating his words by its
expression; and when he had finished there was gladness in her heart–
a tumultuous gladness, indeed, though outwardly she was calm, tranquil,
even judicially austere. She prepared a surprise for him, now,
calculated to put a heavy strain upon those disinterested protestations
of his; and thus she delivered it, burning it away word by word as the
fuse burns down to a bombshell, and watching to see how far the explosion
would lift him:
“Listen–and do not doubt me, for I shall speak the exact truth. Howard
Tracy, I am no more an earl’s child than you are!”
To her joy–and secret surprise, also–it never phased him. He was
ready, this time, and saw his chance. He cried out with enthusiasm,
“Thank heaven for that!” and gathered her to his arms.
To express her happiness was almost beyond her gift of speech.
“You make me the proudest girl in all the earth,” she said, with her head
pillowed on his shoulder. “I thought it only natural that you should be
dazzled by the title–maybe even unconsciously, you being English–and
that you might be deceiving yourself in thinking you loved only me, and
find you didn’t love me when the deception was swept away; so it makes me
proud that the revelation stands for nothing and that you do love just
me, only me–oh, prouder than any words can tell!”
“It is only you, sweetheart, I never gave one envying glance toward your
father’s earldom. That is utterly true, dear Gwendolen.”
“There-you mustn’t call me that. I hate that false name. I told you it
wasn’t mine. My name is Sally Sellers–or Sarah, if you like. From this
time I banish dreams, visions, imaginings, and will no more of them.
I am going to be myself–my genuine self, my honest self, my natural