Page:The Love Charm.pdf/4

158 shall have a thunder-shower soon," had been his prophecy the whole day,—"The wish had been father to the thought;"—still hour after hour the dark clouds had passed provokingly away, taking their showers with them; however, they were now gathering in good earnest. A low clap of thunder growled in the distance, and the wind awoke on the branches. A shower of leaves, green fresh leaves falling before their time, whirled through the air. This was followed by the pelting rain, and Edward shut down the window. The gardener congratulated himself and his peas and beans, and the supper went on with added cheerfulness. Suddenly Edward exclaimed, "Look, Marion, how beautiful!" She turned and saw the clear silvery crescent of the new moon just emerged from a black cloud; a ring of blue sky was around, and the edges of the dense vapour were touched with light. "Ah!" exclaimed Marion, who had all the ready superstition of a mountaineer, "I have seen the new moon through glass for the first time, and you, Edward, have shown it me." "It is very unlucky," continued her uncle, "to see the new moon through glass for the first time." Edward tried to laugh at the superstition, but unshared mirth only damps the spirits of a small circle, and he gave up the attempt. That night they parted somewhat sooner and less cheerfully than usual. The next morning was too glad and sunny for any ill omen to be recollected, and by a sort of tacit agreement the moon was kept quite out of the conversation, Marion a little ashamed of a belief which she could not reason upon, and Edward as little liking to renew any subject in which he could not agree with her. A fortnight passed away, and the moon was at its full; Edward was now later of an evening than he usually had been, for an extreme pressure of business on the house in which he was employed made the work of extra hours necessary, and he was only too glad to do anything that put him forward in his master's favour. One night he was returning very late, but the tide served, the night was a lovely night in June, and he enjoyed it, as those enjoy whose naturally poetic temperament is checked by their ordinary circumstances, but which lends the keenest delight to any touch of romance or beauty that breaks in upon the commonplace. He floated down the noble river with a navy resting on its dark stream. The light arched bridges, with the long lines of light trembling through them, were left far behind. The huge dome of St. Paul's arose bathed in the moonlight, that giant fane of a giant city, a hundred spires were shining silvery in the soft gleam, and all meaner objects were touched with a picturesque obscurity: all around was silence and rest. The myriad voices of London were still, and nothing vexed the lulled ear of midnight. The only sounds were those that might have soothed even the ear of sleep—there was the languid waving to and fro of some loose sail, and the dip of Edward's oars. His little boat was the only moving thing on the water, for if the black colliers, whose gloomy canvass was still spread, moved, the movement was imperceptible. But his light boat went on and left behind a train of glittering bubbles, like the small stars that meet and mingle on the milky way. He had now arrived at that more lonely portion of the river which preceded his landing. A little tired with rowing, he let the oars drop,