"I wish you had a vacation too," said Richard Clyde, as we ascended
together the winding hill.
"Then we should not have these pleasant walks," I answered.
"Why not?"
"Why, I should not be returning from school at this hour every day, and
you would not happen to overtake me as you do now."
"How do you know it is accident, Gabriella? How do you know but I wander
about the woods, a restless ghost, till glad ringing voices chiming
together, announce that you are free, and that I am at liberty to play
guardian and knight, as I did three or four years ago?"
"Because you would not waste your time so foolishly, and because I do
not need a guardian now. I am in authority, you know, and no one molests
or makes me afraid."
"Nevertheless, you need a guardian more than ever, and I shall remain
true to my boyish allegiance."
Richard always had a gay, dashing way of talking, and his residence in
college had certainly not subdued the gay spirit of chivalry that
sparkled in his eye. He had grown much taller since I had seen him last,
his face was more intellectual and altogether improved, and his dress
was elegantly, though not foppishly, fashionable. He was an exceedingly
agreeable companion. Even when I was most shy and sensitive, I felt at
ease with him. When I say that I looked upon him something as an elder
brother, I mean what I express,--not the sickly affectation with which
young girls sometimes strive to hide a deeper feeling,--I remembered his
steady school-boy friendship, his sympathy in the dark days of anguish
and despair, and more than all, the rose, the sacred rose he had planted
at my mother's grave.
I thanked him for this, with a choking voice and a moistened eye.
"Do not thank me," said he; "I had a mother once,--she, too, is gone.
The world may contain for us many friends, but never but one mother,
Gabriella. I was only ten years old when mine was taken from me, but her
influence is around me still, a safeguard and a blessing."
Words so full of feeling and reverence were more impressive falling from
lips usually sparkling with gaiety and wit. We walked in silence up the
gradual ascent, till we came to a fine old elm, branching out by the
way-side, and we paused to rest under its boughs. As we did so, we
turned towards the valley we were leaving behind, and beheld it
stretching, a magnificent panorama, to the east and the west, the north
and the south, wearing every shade of green, from the deep, rich hue of
the stately corn to the brighter emerald of the oat fields, and the
dazzling verdure of the pasture-land; and over all this glowing
landscape the golden glory of approaching sunset hung like a royal
canopy, whose purple fringes rested on the distant mountains.
"How beautiful!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm.
"How beautiful!" he echoed with equal fervor.
"You are but mocking my words, Richard,--you are not looking at the
enchanting prospect."
"Yes, I am,--a very enchanting one."
"How foolish!" I cried, for I could not but understand the emphasis of
his smiling glance.
"Why am I more foolish in admiring one beautiful prospect than you
another, Gabriella? You solicited my admiration for one charming view,
while my eyes were riveted on another. If we are both sincere, we are
equally wise."
"But it seems so unnecessary to take the pains to compliment me, when
you know me so well, and when I know myself so well too."
"I doubt your self-knowledge very much. I do not believe, in the first
place, that you are aware how wonderfully you are improved. You do not
look the same girl you did a year ago. You have grown taller, fairer,
brighter, Gabriella. I did not expect to see this, when I heard you had
shut yourself up in the academy again, under the shadow of old Regulus's
beetling brows."
"I am sure he is not old, Richard; he is in the very prime of manhood."
"Well, Professor Regulus, then. We boys have a habit of speaking of our
teachers in this way. I know it is a bad one, but we all fall into it.
All our college professors have a metaphorical name, with the venerable
epithet attached to it, which you condemn.
"I do not like it at all; it sounds so disrespectful, and, pardon me for
saying it, even coarse."
"You have a great respect for Mr. Regulus."
"I have; he is one of my best friends."
"I dare say he is; I should like to be in his place. You have another
great friend, old Dr. Harlowe."
"There, again. Why, Dr. Harlowe is almost young, at least very far from
being old. He is one of the finest looking men I ever saw, and one of
the best. You college students must be a very presuming set of young
men."
I spoke gravely, for I was really vexed that any one whom I esteemed as
much as I did Richard, should adopt the vulgarisms he once despised.
"We _are_ a barbarous, rude set," he answered with redeeming frankness.
"We show exactly what a savage man is and would ever be, without the
refining influence of women. If it were not for our vacations, we would
soon get beyond the reach of civilization. Be not angry with my
roughness, most gentle Gabriella. Pass over it your smoothing touch, and
it shall have the polish of marble, without its coldness."
We had resumed our walk, and the granite walls of Grandison Place began
to loom up above the surrounding shade.
"That is a noble mansion," said he. "How admirably such a residence must
harmonize with your high, romantic thoughts. But there is one thing that
impresses me with wonder,--that Mrs. Linwood, so rich, so liberal too,
with only one daughter, should allow you, her adopted child, to devote
your young hours to the drudgery of teaching. It seems so unnecessary,
so inconsistent with her usual munificence of action."
The glow of wounded pride warmed my cheek. I had become happy in my
vocation, but I could not bear to hear it depreciated, nor the motives
of my benefactress misunderstood and misrepresented.
"Mrs. Linwood is as wise as she is kind," I answered, hastily. "It is my
happiness and good she consults, not her own pleasure. Giving does not
impoverish either her ample purse or her generous heart. She knows my
nature, knows that I could not bear the stagnation of a life of
luxurious ease."
"Edith can,--why not you?"
"We are so different. She was born for the position she occupies. She is
one of the lilies of the valley, that toil not, neither do they spin,
yet they fulfil a lovely mission. Do not try to make me discontented
with a lot, so full of blessings, Richard. Surely no orphan girl was
ever more tenderly cherished, more abundantly cared for."
"Discontented!" he exclaimed, "heaven forbid! I must be a wretched
blunderer. I am saying something wrong all the time, with a heart full
of most excellent intentions. Discontented! no, indeed; I have only the
unfortunate habit of speaking before I think. I shall grow wiser as I
grow older, I trust."
He reached up to a branch that bent over the way-side, and breaking it
off, began to strip it of its green leaves and scatter them in the path.
"You do not think me angry, Richard?" I asked, catching some of the
leaves, before they fell to the ground. "I once felt all that you
express; and I was doubly wrong; I was guilty of ingratitude, you only
of thoughtlessness."
"When does Mrs. Linwood expect her son?" he asked abruptly.
"Next summer, I believe; I do not exactly know."
"He will take strong hold of your poetic imagination. There is something
'grand, gloomy, and peculiar' about him; a mystery of reserve, which oft
amounts to haughtiness. I am but very little acquainted with him, and
probably never shall be. Should we chance to meet in society, we would
be two parallel lines, never uniting, however near we might approach.
Besides, he is a number of years older than myself."
"I suppose you call him old Mr. Linwood," said I, laughing.
We had now entered the gate, and met Mrs. Linwood and Edith walking in
the avenue, if Edith could be said to walk, borne on as she was by her
softly falling crutches. She looked so exceedingly lovely, I wondered
that Richard did not burst forth in expressions of irrepressible
admiration. I was never weary of gazing on her beauty. Even after an
absence of a few hours, it dawned upon me with new lustre, like that of
the rising day. I wondered that any one ever looked at any one else in
her presence. As for myself, I felt annihilated by her dazzling
fairness, as the little star is absorbed by the resplendent moon.
Strange, all beautiful as she was she did not attract, as one would
suppose, the admiration of the other sex. Perhaps there was something
cold and shadowy in the ethereality of her loveliness, a want of
sympathy with man's more earthly, passionate nature. It is very certain,
the beauty which woman most admires often falls coldly on the gaze of
man. Edith had the face of an angel; but hers was not the darkening eye
and changing cheek that "pale passion loves." Did the sons of God come
down to earth, as they did in olden time, to woo the daughters of men,
they might have sought her as their bride. She was not cold, however;
she was not passionless. She had a woman's heart, formed to enshrine an
idol of clay, believing it imperishable as its own love.
Mrs. Linwood gave Richard a cordial greeting. I had an unaccountable
fear that she would not be pleased that he escorted me home so
frequently, though this was the first time he had accompanied me to the
lawn. She urged him to remain and pass the evening, or rather asked him,
for he required no urging. I am sure it must have been a happy one to
him. Edith played upon her harp, which had been newly strung. She seemed
the very personification of one of Ossian's blue-eyed maids, with her
white, rising hands, and long, floating locks.
I was passionately fond of music, and had my talent been early
cultivated I would doubtless have excelled. I cared not much about the
piano, but there was inspiration in the very sight of a harp. In
imagination I was Corinna, improvising the impassioned strains of Italy,
or a Sappho, breathing out my soul, like the dying swan, in strains of
thrilling melody. Edith was a St. Cecilia. Had my hand swept the chords,
the hearts of mortals would have vibrated at the touch; she touched the
divine string, and "called angels down."
When I retired that night and saw the reflection of myself full length,
in the large pier-glass, between the rosy folds of the sweeping damask,
I could not help recalling what Richard Clyde had said of my personal
improvement. Was he sincere, when with apparent enthusiasm he had
applied to me the epithet, _beautiful_? No, he could not be; and yet his
eyes had emphasized the language of his lips.
I was not vain. Few young girls ever thought less of their personal
appearance. I lived so much in the world within, that I gave but little
heed to the fashion of my outward form. It seemed so poor an expression
of the glowing heart, the heaven-born soul.
For the first time I looked upon myself with reference to the eyes of
others, and I tried to imagine the youthful figure on which I gazed as
belonging to another, and not myself. Were the outlines softened by the
dark-flowing sable, classic and graceful? Was there beauty in the oval
cheek, now wearing the warm bloom of the brunette, or the dark,
long-lashed eye, which drooped with the burden of unuttered thoughts?
As I asked myself these questions, I smiled at my folly; and as the
image smiled back upon the original, there was such a light, such a
glow, such a living soul passed before me, that for one moment a
triumphant consciousness swelled my bosom, a new revelation beamed on my
understanding,--the consciousness of woman's hitherto unknown
power,--the revelation of woman's destiny.
And connected with this, there came the remembrance of that haunting
face in the library, which I had only seen on canvas, but which was to
me a breathing reality,--that face which, even on the cold, silent wall,
had no repose; but dark, restless, and impassioned, was either a history
of past disappointment, or a prophecy of future suffering.
The moment of triumph was brief. A pale shadow seemed to flit behind me
and dim the bright image reflected in the mirror. It wore the sad, yet
lovely lineaments of my departed mother.
O how vain were youth and beauty, if thus they faded and vanished away!
How mournful was love thus wedded to sorrow! how mysterious the nature
in which they were united!
A shower of tears washed away the vain emotions I blushed to have felt.
But I could not be as though I had never known them. I could not recall
the guileless simplicity of childhood, its sweet unconsciousness and
contentment, in the present joy.
O foolish, foolish Gabriella! Art thou no longer a child?