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DIY Homemade
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How to Create Watercolor
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Beginner's Step-by-Step
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DEDICATION
Fox turned the corner by the lilac, walking slowly, holding his hat
behind his back, his bare head bowed. His face was gloomy with
thought, and he almost passed the arbor. At the turn a glint of white
caught his eye and he looked up quickly and saw Rose industriously
sewing without a needle, her head down over her work and the
sunshine filtering through a trellis of vines on her soft bright hair and
her white gown.
He came toward her with an exclamation of unrestrained joy, but as
their eyes met a wave of mutual feeling swept over their souls and
left them mute. Between them seemed to lie the sorrow and the love
of that beautiful and unfortunate woman who had separated them.
The language of conventionality was no longer possible; Rose tried
to speak, but her words died in an inarticulate murmur. The anguish
of Margaret’s letter came back to her; it had saved Fox in her eyes;
she no longer condemned him, she no longer felt it a duty to avoid
him, but she found it impossible to tell him of the change in her heart
by any commonplace word of friendship. Her hand had slipped from
his eager grasp and lay trembling on her work. It was terrible to
betray herself so; her cheek reddened and tears of mortification
came into her eyes. But to speak to him of common things at such a
moment—how could she? And he made no effort to help her, but
only watched her, his soul in his eyes. The marks of suffering on his
face touched her, too; the lines had sharpened, the gaze deepened
and become more introspective, the shock of primitive passions had
really decentralized his life. He smiled at the sight of her, almost the
old eager smile, but even that light had died out of his face now, and
in the pause she seemed to hear her own heart beating against her
breast.
He stood looking at her. “How long must I be silent?” he asked at
last.
Rose busied herself in a fruitless attempt to thread an imaginary
needle, and her slender fingers shook. It had been in her mind to tell
him that Margaret had written her, but as he spoke a sudden intuition
of the truth arrested her impulse, a flood of light poured in upon her,
illuminating the twilight of her thought. She felt that he must not only
never know of Margaret’s confession—she had not meant to tell him
that—but not even of her letter. It was impossible to answer him; her
lips were tremulous as she looked up and met his grave, compelling
gaze. In her look, so full of buoyant and beautiful youth, there was
not even the shadow of reproach. Her simplicity, her renewal of
confidence in him, were profoundly touching; the bitterness and
humiliation of the past months seemed at last sanctified by her
forbearance. The secret agony which had torn his heart during the
long winter fell away from the present; it belonged at once to the
past, sinking into that long vista which leads to oblivion. To-day was
beautiful and strong with hope.
Before her youth and purity William Fox experienced a feeling of
sudden and complete humility. “Can you forgive me?” he asked, in a
low voice.
Margaret’s letter seemed to breathe its message in her ears.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Rose said simply.
“You understand?” there was passionate eagerness in his glance;
his love for her was sweeping away the obstacles from his mind,
leaping up again to demand its right to exist.
“Yes,” Rose said, with white lips, “I understand, not fully—but—”
“And now?” he was strongly moved; not knowing whose hand had
lifted the veil of her misunderstanding and far from divining the truth.
“And now?” the tears gathered in her eyes and fell unheeded; “I
cannot but think of her love—her unhappiness!”
“And you still blame me?” Fox stood motionless, his face resuming
its stern reserve.
Rose shook her head. “I—I cannot!” she murmured, remembering
that confession, and the thought of it sealing her lips.
He started, the color rushing to his temples, the kindling passion of
his glance transforming him. “Rose!”
She looked up through her tears, and as suddenly hid her face in her
hands. “I am afraid!” she murmured brokenly, “out of—of all this
sorrow can there be happiness?”
Fox sat down beside her and gently took her hand. “You mean you
cannot trust me?” he asked soberly.
For a moment she did not answer. He looked down at her drooping
profile, the lovely arch of her brow, the soft cheek and chin; her eyes
no longer met his. “Or is it that you do not love me?” he said quietly.
She raised her head at that, and the dawning sweetness of her
glance illumined his soul. “It is because I love you—that I can no
longer judge!” she faltered, with trembling lips.
He met her look without a word; language, for the moment, had not
significance for them.
Silence, filled with the sweet murmur of summer life, the fragrance of
flowers, the audible rustling of the magnolia leaves, seemed to
enfold them in a new and beautiful world.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been
standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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