He was very pale, and his lip quivered occasionally as he thought of
all he had lost, while a blinding headache, induced by strong
excitement, drove him nearly wild with pain. He had been subject to
headaches all his life, but he had never suffered as he was suffering
now but once, and that was on a rainy day in Rome, when, boasting of
her mesmeric power, Lucy had stood by him, and passed her dimpled
hands soothingly across his throbbing temples.
Those little hands, how soft and cool they were--but they had not
thrilled him as the touch of Anna's did when they hung the Christmas
wreaths and she wore that bunch of scarlet berries in her hair.
That time seemed very far away, farther even than Rome and the
moonlight nights of Venice. He did not like to think of it, for the
bright hopes which were budding then were blighted now and dead; and,
with a moan, he laid his aching head upon his pillow and tried to
forget all he had ever hoped or longed for in the future.
"She will marry Thornton Hastings. He is a more eligible match than a
poor clergyman," he said, and then, as he remembered Thornton's
letter, and that his man Thomas would be coming soon to ask if there
were letters to be taken to the office, he arose, and, going to the
study table, wrote hastily: "DEAR THORNE: I am suffering from one of those horrid headaches
which used to make me as weak as a helpless woman, but I will
write just enough to say that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven,
and you are free to press your suit as urgently as you please.
She is a noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings,
and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you than any
one I know. Only don't ask me to perform the ceremony.
"There, I've let the secret out; but no matter, I have always
confided in you, and so I may as well confess that I have offered
myself and been refused. Yours truly, "ARTHUR LEIGHTON."
The rector felt better after that letter was written. He had told his
grievance to some one, and it seemed to have lightened half.
"Thorne is a good fellow," he said, as he directed the letter. "A
little fast, it's true, but a splendid fellow, after all. He will
sympathize with me in his way, and I would rather give Anna to him
than any other living man."
Arthur was serious in what he said, for, wholly unlike as they were,
there was between him and Thornton Hastings one of those strong,
peculiar friendships which sometimes exist between two men, but rarely
between two women, of so widely different temperaments. They had
roomed together four years in college, and countless were the
difficulties from which the sober Arthur had extricated the luckless
Thorne, while many a time the rather slender means of Arthur had been
increased in a way so delicate that expostulation was next to
impossible.