I will not clothe myself in wreck--wear gems
Sawed from cramped finger-bones of women drowned;
Feel chilly vaporous hands of ireful ghosts
Clutching my necklace: trick my maiden breast
With orphans' heritage. Let your dead love
Marry it's dead.
Gwendolen looked lovely and vigorous as a tall, newly-opened lily the next
morning: there was a reaction of young energy in her, and yesterday's self-
distrust seemed no more than the transient shiver on the surface of a full stream.
The roving archery match in Cardell Chase was a delightful prospect for the
sport's sake: she felt herself beforehand moving about like a wood-nymph under
the beeches (in appreciative company), and the imagined scene lent a charm to
further advances on the part of Grandcourt --not an impassioned lyrical Daphnis
for the wood-nymph, certainly: but so much the better. To-day Gwendolen
foresaw him making slow conversational approaches to a declaration, and
foresaw herself awaiting and encouraging it according to the rational conclusion
which she had expressed to her uncle.
When she came down to breakfast (after every one had left the table except Mrs.
Davilow) there were letters on her plate. One of them she read with a gathering
smile, and then handed it to her mamma, who, on returning it, smiled also,
finding new cheerfulness in the good spirits her daughter had shown ever since
waking, and said--
"You don't feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?"
"Not exactly so far."
"It was a sad omission not to have written again before this. Can't you write how--
before we set out this morning?"
"It is not so pressing. To-morrow will do. You see they leave town to-day. I must
write to Dover. They will be there till Monday."
"Shall I write for you, dear--if it teases you?"
Gwendolen did not speak immediately, but after sipping her coffee, answered
brusquely, "Oh no, let it be; I will write to-morrow." Then, feeling a touch of
compunction, she looked up and said with playful tenderness, "Dear, old,