El Dorado HTML version

The News
The grey January day was falling, drowsy, and dull into the arms of night.
Marguerite, sitting in the dusk beside the fire in her small boudoir, shivered a little
as she drew her scarf closer round her shoulders.
Edwards, the butler, entered with the lamp. The room looked peculiarly cheery
now, with the delicate white panelling of the wall glowing tinder the soft kiss of
the flickering firelight and the steadier glow of the rose-shaded lamp.
"Has the courier not arrived yet, Edwards?" asked Marguerite, fixing the
impassive face of the well-drilled servant with her large purple-rimmed eyes.
"Not yet, m'lady," he replied placidly.
"It is his day, is it not?"
"Yes, m'lady. And the forenoon is his time. But there have been heavy rains, and
the roads must be rare muddy. He must have been delayed, m'lady."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said listlessly. "That will do, Edwards. No, don't close
the shutters. I'll ring presently."
The man went out of the room as automatically as he had come. He closed the
door behind him, and Marguerite was once more alone.
She picked up the book which she had fingered idly before the light gave out.
She tried once more to fix her attention on this tale of love and adventure written
by Mr. Fielding; but she had lost the thread of the story, and there was a mist
between her eyes and the printed pages.
With an impatient gesture she threw down the book and passed her hand across
her eyes, then seemed astonished to find that her hand was wet.
She rose and went to the window. The air outside had been singularly mild all
day; the thaw was persisting, and a south wind came across the Channel--from
Marguerite threw open the casement and sat down on the wide sill, leaning her
head against the window-frame, and gazing out into the fast gathering gloom.
From far away, at the foot of the gently sloping lawns, the river murmured softly
in the night; in the borders to the right and left a few snowdrops still showed like
tiny white specks through the surrounding darkness. Winter had begun the
process of slowly shedding its mantle, coquetting with Spring, who still lingered in
the land of Infinity. Gradually the shadows drew closer and closer; the reeds and
rushes on the river bank were the first to sink into their embrace, then the big
cedars on the lawn, majestic and defiant, but yielding still unconquered to the
power of night.
The tiny stars of snowdrop blossoms vanished one by one, and at last the cool,
grey ribbon of the river surface was wrapped under the mantle of evening.
Only the south wind lingered on, soughing gently in the drowsy reeds, whispering
among the branches of the cedars, and gently stirring the tender corollas of the
sleeping snowdrops.
Marguerite seemed to open out her lungs to its breath. It had come all the way
from France, and on its wings had brought something of Percy--a murmur as if
he had spoken--a memory that was as intangible as a dream.