"
"How differently _cher_ Roland would range himself," said Lady
Esmondet, thinking of his hopeless love for Vaura; "that girl with her
bugs and beetles, her sandy locks and sharp elbows, would drive him
distracted. I wonder what affinity Robert can have with such an one."
"Why doth he love her? 'Curious fool, be still; is human love the
growth of human will?' saith the poet. So, god-mother dear, for aught
we can say, they must e'en join the legion of impossible unions. But
we are both weary, and had best to bed and sleep or dreams."
"Yes, 'tis late; good night, dear; we have both missed Lionel to-day."
"We have; he little dreams how much."
And as Vaura's robes were unfastened, and the deft fingers of her maid
made her comfortable for the night, a tall figure and handsome face,
tawny moustache, shading lips sweet yet firm in expression, tired eyes
that were generally grave, but could flash or be tenderly loving, rose
before her.
"'Twas only last night," she though, as she laid her soft cheek on the
pillow, "he was with us, and I feel as though we had been parted for
ages; and he suffers by all these rumours; and my dearest is in a
tangled web of difficulty and I am not near to give him my sympathy,
and poor dear uncle is not happy either; and it's a woman's work, but
this making of moans is unnatural to me; I must make Time fly, and
when I am once in England, my aim shall be to make those two men
regain their old happiness; good-night, Lionel, I am weary to see your
face again, to hear your words of love and feel your arms about me,
for the sweet feeling that I belong to you seems only a dream; come
back, come.
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