EDWARD C. BRUCE.

“FOR PERCIVAL.”

CHAPTER I.

THORNS AND ROSES.

It was a long, narrow and rather low room, with four windows looking out on a terrace.  Jasmine and roses clustered round them, and flowers lifted their heads to the broad sills.  Within, the lighted candles showed furniture that was perhaps a little faded and dim, though it had a slender, old-fashioned grace which more than made amends for any beauty it had lost.  There was much old china, and on the walls were a few family portraits, of which their owner was justly proud; and in the air there lingered a faint fragrance of dried rose-leaves, delicate yet unconquerable.  Even the full tide of midsummer sweetness which flowed through the open windows could not altogether overcome that subtle memory of summers long gone by.

The master of the house, with a face like a wrinkled waxen mask, sat in his easy-chair reading the Saturday Review, and a lady very like him, only with a little more color and fulness, was knitting close by.  The light shone on the old man’s pale face and white hair, on the old lady’s silver-gray dress and flashing rings:  the knitting-pins clicked, working up the crimson wool, and the pages of the paper rustled with a pleasant crispness as they were turned.  By the window, where the candlelight faded into the soft shadows, stood a young man apparently lost in thought.  His face, which was turned a little toward the garden, was a noteworthy one with its straight forehead and clearly marked, level brows.  His features were good, and his clear olive complexion gave him something of a foreign air.  He had no beard, and his moustache was only a dark shadow on his upper lip, so that his mouth stood revealed as one which indicated reserve, though it was neither stern nor thin-lipped.  Altogether, it was a pleasant face.

A light step sauntering along the terrace, a low voice softly singing “Drink to Me only with Thine Eyes,” roused him from his reverie.  He did not move, but his mouth and eyes relaxed into a smile as a white figure came out of the dusk exactly opposite his window, and singer and song stopped together.  “Oh, Percival!  I didn’t know you had come out of the dining-room.”

“Twenty minutes ago.  What have you been doing?”

“Wandering about the garden.  What could I do on such a perfect night but what I have been doing all this perfect day?”

She stood looking up at him as she spoke.  She had an arch, beautiful face—­the sort of face which would look well with patches and powder.  Only it would have been a sin to powder the hair, which, though deep brown, had rich touches of gold, as if a happy sunbeam were imprisoned in its waves.  Her eyes were dark, her lips were softly red:  everything about Sissy Langton’s face was delicate and fine.  She lifted her hand to reach a spray of jasmine just above her head, and the lace sleeve above fell back from her pretty, slender wrist:  “Give it to me.  Percival! do you hear?  Oh, what a tease you are!” For he drew it back when she would have gathered it.  Mrs. Middleton was heard making a remark inside.