THE MORNING LESSON.
Like some poor cherub gone astray,
From out his native paradise,
Her gentle soul had lost its way,
And fed itself on tears and sighs.
Jacob Strong was alone in Mr. Leicester's chamber. His master had gone
out hurriedly, and left the room in considerable disarray. Papers were
scattered about loose upon the table. The small travelling desk, which
usually stood upon it, was open, and on the purple lining lay an open
letter, bearing a Southern post-mark, that had evidently arrived by the
morning mail.
We do not pretend to justify our friend Jacob, though he is an especial
favorite, in the course he pursued on that occasion. His reasons may
possibly be deemed justifiable by the reader, but in our minds there
still rests a doubt. Be this as it may, Jacob took up the open letter,
and glanced hurriedly over its contents: then he read it more
deliberately, while a new and singular expression stole over his
features. This did not seem sufficient gratification of his curiosity,
for he even opened a compartment of the desk, and pursued his research
among notes, visiting cards, bills and business papers, for a good half
hour, dotting down a hasty memorandum now and then, with a gold and
amethyst pen, which he took from Leicester's inkstand. Then he read the
open letter a third time, muttering over the words as if anxious to fix
them on his mind by the additional aid of sound.
"That will do--that will clinch the matter; he will never let this
escape!" he said, at last, replacing the letter. "Cautious, subtle as he
is, this temptation will be too strong. Then, then--"
Jacob's eyes flashed; he pressed the knuckles of one large hand hard
upon the desk, and firmly shut his teeth.
That moment a stealthy tread was heard near the door. Jacob instantly
commenced making a terrible noise and confusion among the chairs, and
while he was occupied in setting things right, after his awkward
fashion, Leicester glided into the chamber. Remembering the letter, he
had hurried back to secure it from the possible curiosity of his
servant. But Jacob was busy with the furniture, muttering his discontent
against the untidy chamber-maid, and seemed so completely occupied with
an old silk handkerchief, which he was flourishing from one object to
another, that all suspicion forsook Leicester. He quietly closed the
desk, therefore, and placing the letter in his pocket, sunk into an easy
chair, which Jacob had just left clouded in a dusky haze, while he
commenced operations on a neighboring sofa.
Something more exciting than usual must have occupied Leicester's
thoughts; or, with his fastidious habits, he would not for a moment have
endured the perpetual clouds of dust that floated over his hair and
clothes, whenever Jacob discovered a new object upon which to exercise
his handkerchief. As it was, he sat lost in thought, apparently quite
unconscious of the annoyance, or of the keen glances which the servant
now and then cast upon him.
"It will do," thought Jacob, gathering the duster up in his hand, with
an eager clutch; and while he seemed looking around for something to
employ himself with, those keen grey eyes were bent upon Leicester's
face. "I was sure of it; he has almost made up his mind. Let me hear the
tone of his voice, and I shall know how."
Jacob had not long to wait. After a reverie that was disturbed by many
an anxious thought, Leicester turned in his chair, opened the little
travelling desk, and began to write, pausing now and then, as if the
construction of his language was more than usually difficult. The note
did not please him. He tore it in two, and casting the fragments upon
the hearthrug, selected another sheet from the perfumed paper that lay
at his elbow. This time he was more successful. The note was carefully
folded, secured with a little antique seal, and directed in a light and
flowing hand. Leicester smiled as he wrote, and his face brightened as
if he had flung off a load of annoying doubts. "Here," he said, holding
the letter over his shoulder with a carelessness that was certainly more
than half assumed, "take this note, and observe how it is received. You
understand?"
Jacob took the snowy little billet, and bent over it wistfully, as if
the direction could only be made out with great effort.
"Well!" said Leicester, turning sharply upon him, "what keeps you?
Surely you understand enough to make out the address?"
"Well, yes!" answered Jacob, holding the note at arm's length, and
eyeing it askance; "it's rather too fine, that are handwriting; but then
I can manage to cipher it out if you give me time enough."
"Very well--you have had time enough. Go! and remember to observe all
that passes when you deliver it."
Jacob took up his drab beaver, planted it firmly on the back of his
head, and disappeared, holding the note between his thumb and finger.
While our friend Jacob is making his way up town, we will precede him,
and enter the pretty cottage which, with its fairy garden, has before
been an object of description.
In the parlor of this beautiful but monotonous dwelling sat Florence
Craft. Cold as it was becoming, she still wore the pretty morning dress
of fine India muslin, with its profusion of soft lace, but over it was a
scarf of scarlet cashmere, that gave to her cheek its rosy shadow, as a
crimson camilla sometimes casts a trace of its presence on the marble
urn against which it falls. But for this warm shadow her face was coldly
white, and even traced with mournful lines, as if she had been suffering
from illness or some grief unnatural to her youth, and weighing sadly
upon her gentle nature. Her soft brown eyes seemed misty and dulled by
habitual tears, and the long curling lashes flung a deeper shadow on the
cheek just beneath; for a faint circle, such as disease or grief often
pencils, was becoming definitely marked around those sad and beautiful
eyes. The imprint of many a heavy heart-ache might have been read in
those shadowy circles, and the paler redness of a mouth that smiled
still--but oh, how mournfully!
Florence sat by a sofa-table, one foot, too small now for the satin
slipper that had so beautifully defined its proportions a little while
before, rested upon the richly carved supporter. She had become
painfully fragile, and the folds of her dress fell around her drooping
form like a white cloud, so transparent that but for the red scarf, you
might have defined the slender arms and marble neck underneath with
startling distinctness. She was occupied with her drawing lesson, but
even the pencil seemed too heavy for the slender and waxen fingers that
guided it; and to one that understood the signification, there was
something ominous in the bright, feverish tinge that spread over her
palm, as if she had been crushing roses in that little hand, and might
not hope to wash the stain away.
Robert Otis leaned over the unhappy girl. He too was changed, but not
like her. The flesh had not wasted from his limbs; the fire of youth had
not burned out prematurely in those bright eyes; but his look was
unsettled, restless, nay, sometimes wild. His very smile was hurried and
passed quickly away; all its soft, mellow warmth was gone. The change
was different, but terribly perceptible both in the youth and the young
girl.
It was no boyish passion which marked the features of that noble face as
it bent lower and lower over the drooping girl. Tenderness, keen, deep
sympathy was there, but none of the ardent feeling that had fired his
whole being when only the semblance of that beautiful form first met his
eye. If Robert Otis loved Florence Craft, it was with the tender
earnestness of a brother, not with the fiery ardor natural to his age
and temperament.
"You seem tired; how your hand trembles; rest awhile, Miss Craft. This
stooping posture must be oppressive," said Robert, gently attempting to
remove the pencil from the fair hand that could really guide it no
longer.
"No, no," said Florence, raising her eyes with a sad smile, "you do not
give lessons every day, now, and we must improve the time. When Mr.
Leicester comes he should find me quite an artist, I must not disgrace
you with my idleness. He would feel hurt if we did not meet his
expectations. Don't you think so?"
"Perhaps, I cannot exactly tell. Mr. Leicester is so unlike other men,
it is difficult to decide what his wishes really are," said Robert. "He
certainly did take great interest in your progress at first!"
"And now that interest has ceased! Is that what you mean to say,
Robert?" questioned the young girl, and even the scarlet reflection of
her shawl failed to relieve the deadly paleness of her countenance.
"No, I did not say that!" answered Robert, gently, "he questions me of
your progress often."
Florence drew a deep breath, and now there was something more than a
scarlet reflection on her cheek.
"But then," continued Robert, "he contents himself with questions; he
does not come to witness the progress you are making."
"You have noticed it, then?--you have thought it strange?" said
Florence, while the red upon her cheek began to burn painfully, and
tears rushed to her eyes. "Yet you do not know--you cannot even guess
how hard this is to bear!"
"Perhaps I can guess," answered Robert, casting down his eyes and
trembling visibly.
Florence started from her chair, and stood upright. In the violence of
her agitation, she lost the languid, willowy stoop of frame that had
become habitual. For a moment the full energies of her nature were
lighted up, stung into sharp vitality by surprise and terror. But she
did not speak, she only stood upright a single moment, and then sunk to
the couch helplessly and sobbing like a child. Robert knelt by her
greatly agitated, for he had anticipated no such violent effect from his
words.
"Do not weep, Miss Craft, I did not intend to pain you thus. What have I
said?--what have I done that it should bring so much grief?"
She looked at him earnestly, and whispered in a low voice, while the
lashes fell over her eyes, sweeping the tears downward in fresh gushes.
"What was it that you said? Something that you could guess, was not that
it? Now tell me all you guess. What is it that you think?"
"Nothing that should overwhelm you in this manner," said Robert,
struggling against the convictions her agitation was calculated to
produce. "I thought--I have long thought--that you were greatly attached
to Mr. Leicester, more than a ward usually is to her guardian."
"You are with him so much--surely you did not think that my love--for I
do not deny it, Robert--was unwelcome or unsought?"
Robert hesitated; he could not find it in his heart to give utterance to
his thoughts.
"No, I did not think that," he said; "but Mr. Leicester is a strange
man, so much older than we are--so much wiser. I can fathom neither his
motives nor his feelings."
"And I--I have felt this so often--that is, of late," said Florence, "at
times I am almost afraid of him, and yet this very fear has its
fascination."
"Yes," answered Robert, thoughtless of the meaning that might be given
to his words, "the bird shivers with fear even as the serpent lures it,
and in this lies some subtle mystery; for while the poor thing seems to
know its danger, the knowledge yields it no power of resistance. Here
lies the serpent with its eyes burning and its jaws apart, exposing all
its venom; but the spell works in spite of this."
"Hush! hush!" said Florence, with a look of terror, "this is a cruel
comparison. It makes me shudder!"
"I did not intend it as a comparison," answered Robert. "With you it can
never be one, and with me such ideas would be very ungrateful, applied
to my oldest friend. I wish to heaven, no thought against him would ever
enter my head again."
"Conquer them--never breathe them even to yourself!" said Florence, with
sudden impetuosity. "They have killed me--those weary, base
suspicions--not mine! not mine! Oh, I am so thankful that they were not
formed in my heart?--they were whispered to me--forced on me. I would
not believe them--but the evil thing is here. I have no strength to cast
it out alone, and he never comes to help me."
"Perhaps he does not know how deeply you feel for him," said Robert,
anxious to console her.
Florence shook her head, and leaning forward, shrouded her eyes with one
hand. After a while, she turned her gaze upon Robert, and addressed him
more quietly.
"You must not think ill of him," she said, with a dim smile. "See what
suspicion and pining thoughts can do, when they have crept into the
heart." The poor girl drew up the muslin sleeve from her arm, and Robert
was startled to see how greatly the delicate limb was attenuated. Tears
came into his eyes, and bending down he touched the snowy wrist with his
lips. "I must tell him that you are ill--that you suffer--surely he
cannot dream of this!"
"Not yet--we must not importune him; besides, I am becoming used to this
desolate feeling. You will come oftener now. It is something to know
that he has been near you--touched your clothes--held your hand--the
atmosphere of his presence hangs about your very garments, and does me
good. This seems childish, does it not? but it is true. Sometime, when
you have given up your being to another, this will appear less strange.
Oh, how I sometimes envy you!"
"I might have loved, young as you think me, even as you love this man,"
said Robert, annoyed, spite of his sympathy, by the words which she had
unconsciously applied to his youth; "but that which has wounded you,
saved me. You do not know, Miss Craft, all that I have felt since the
evening when Mr. Leicester brought me here. What I saw that night awoke
me from the first sweet dream of passion I ever knew. I could have loved
you then, even as you loved Mr. Leicester."
"_Me!_" said Florence, and a momentary smile lighted her eyes--as if the
very thought of his young love amused her, sad as she was; "how strange!
to me you seemed so young and embarrassed--a mere boy--now----"
"Now I am changed, you would say--now I am a different person--older,
firmer, more self-possessed; yet it is only a few months ago. I may seem
older and less timid--for in this little time I have thought and
suffered--but then, I was more worthy of your love, for I had not
learned to distrust my oldest friend. Like you, I have struggled against
suspicion--and like you, I have failed to cast it forth. It has withered
your gentle nature--mine it has embittered."
"Ah! but you had not my temptation. It was not his own mother who
poisoned your mind against him."
"His mother? I did not know that either of his parents were living."
"That quiet, cold lady; the woman whom you have seen here! Did he never
tell you that she was his mother?"
"He never even hinted it!" said Robert, greatly surprised.
"She told me so with her own lips: she warned me against him--she, his
mother."
"Indeed!" said Robert, thoughtfully. "Yet with what coldness she
received him!"
"It is not her nature," answered Florence, and her eyes filled with
grateful tears. "To me, her kindness has been unvaried; there is
something almost holy in her calm, sweet affection: but for this I had
not been so unhappy. Had I detected prejudice, temper, anything selfish
mingled with her words, they would never have reached my heart; but now,
I cannot turn from her. With all her stately coldness she had something
of his power--I dare not doubt her. But I will not believe the warning
she gave me."
Robert walked up and down the room. New and stern thoughts were making
their way in his mind. Gratitude is a powerful feeling, but it possesses
none of the infatuation and blindness which characterizes the grand
passion. Suspicions that had haunted his conscience like crimes, were
beginning to shape themselves into stubborn facts. Still he would not
yield to them. Like the gentle girl, drooping before his eyes, he dared
not believe anything against William Leicester. Humiliation, nay, almost
ruin, lay in the thought.