A WEDDING FORESHADOWED.
When her heart was all dreary and burdened with fears,
Hope came like a seraph and touched it with light,
Like sunshine or rain-drops it kindled her tears
Till they trembled like stars 'mid her soul's quick delight.
Florence had taken up her pencil again, but still remained inactive,
gazing wistfully through the lace curtains, at the little fountain
flinging up a storm of spray amid flowers gorgeous with autumn tints and
the crisp brown that had settled on the little grass-plat.
Notwithstanding the dahlias were in a glow of rich tints, and the
chrysanthemums sheeted with white, rosy, and golden blossoms, there was
a tinge of decay upon the leaves, very beautiful, but always productive
of mournful feelings. Florence had felt this influence more than usual
that morning, and now to her excited nerves there was something in the
glow of those flowers, and the soft rush of water-drops, that made her
heart sink.
If the autumn and summer had been so dreary, with all the warmth and
brightness of sunshine and blossoms, what had the winter of promise to
her? Spite of herself she looked down to the thin, white hand that lay
so listlessly on the paper, and gazed on it till tears swelled once more
against those half-closed eye-lids. "How desolate to be buried in the
winter, and away from all----" These were the thoughts that arose in
that young heart. The objects that gave rise to them were flowers,
autumn flowers, the richest and most beautiful things on earth. Thus it
often happens in life, that lovely things awake our most painful and
bitter feelings, either by a mocking contrast with the sorrow that is
within us, or because they are associated with the memory of wasted
happiness.
As Florence sat gazing upon the half veiled splendor of the garden
flowers, she saw a man open the little gate, and move with a slow, heavy
step toward the door. The face was unfamiliar, and the fact of any
strange person seeking that dwelling was rare enough to excite some
nervous trepidation in a young and fragile creature like Florence.
"There is some one coming," she said, addressing Robert, who was
thoughtfully pacing the room, with a tone and look of alarm quite
disproportioned to the occasion. "Will you go to the door, I believe
every one is out except us?"
Robert shook off the train of thought that had made him unconscious of
the heavy footsteps now plainly heard in the veranda, and went to the
door.
Jacob Strong did not seem in the least embarrassed, though nothing could
be supposed further from his thoughts than an encounter with the young
man in that place. Perhaps he lost something of the abruptness
unconsciously maintained during his walk, for his mien instantly assumed
a loose, almost slouching carelessness, such as had always characterized
it in the presence of Leicester or his protégé.
"Well, how do you do, Mr. Otis? I didn't just expect to find you here!
Hain't got much to do down at the store, I reckon?"
"Never mind that, Mr. Strong," answered the youth, good-humoredly, "but
tell me what brought you here. Some message from Mr. Leicester, ha!"
"Well, now, you do beat all at guessing," answered Jacob, drawing forth
the billet-doux with which he was charged. "Ain't there a young gal
a-living here, Miss Flo--Florence Craft? If that ain't the name, I can't
cipher it out any how!"
"Yes, that is the name--Miss Craft does live here," said Robert. "Let me
have the note--I will deliver it."
"Not as you know on, Mr. Otis," replied Jacob, with a look of shrewd
determination. "Mr. Leicester told me to give this ere little concern
into the gal's own hand, and I always obey orders though I break owners.
Jest be kind enough to show me where the young critter is, and I'll do
my errand and back again in less than no time."
"Very well, come this way; Miss Craft will receive the note herself."
Florence was standing near the window, her bright, eager eyes were
turned upon the door, she had overheard Leicester's name, and it
thrilled through every nerve of her body.
Jacob entered with his usual heavy indifference. He looked a moment at
the young girl, and then held out the note. Robert fancied that a shade
of feeling swept over that usually composed face, but the lace curtains
were waving softly to a current of air let in through the open doors,
and it might be the transient shadows thus flung upon his face. Still
there was something keen and intelligent in the glance with which Jacob
regarded the young girl while she bent over the note.
Suddenly he bent those keen, grey eyes, now full of meaning, and almost
stern in their searching power, upon the youth himself. Robert grew
restless beneath that strict scrutiny, the color mounted to his
forehead, and as a relief he turned toward Florence.
She was busy reading the note, apparently unconscious of the person,
but oh, how wildly beautiful her face had become! Her eyes absolutely
sparkled through the drooping lashes; her small mouth was parted in a
glowing smile--you could see the pearly edges of her teeth behind the
bright red of lips that seemed just bathed in wine. She trembled from
head to foot, not violently, but a blissful shiver, like that which
stirs a leaf at noonday, in the calm summer time, wandered over her
delicate frame. Twice--three times, she read the note, and then her soft
eyes were uplifted and turned upon Robert, in all their glorious joy.
"See!" she said, and her voice was one burst of melody--"Oh, what
ingrates we have been to doubt him!" In her bright triumph, she held
forth the note, but as Robert advanced to receive it, she drew back. "I
had forgotten," she said, "I alone was to know it; but you can
guess--you can see how happy it has made me."
Robert Otis turned away, somewhat annoyed by this half confidence.
Florence, without heeding this, sat down by the table, and, with the
open note before her, prepared to answer it, but her excitement was too
eager--her hand too unsteady. After several vain efforts, she took the
note and ran up stairs.
Thus Jacob and Robert were left alone together. The youth, possessed by
his own thoughts, seemed quite unconscious of the companionship forced
upon him. He sat down on the couch which Florence had occupied, and,
leaning upon the table, supported his forehead with one hand. Jacob
stood in his old place, regarding the varied expressions that came and
went on that young face. His own rude features were greatly disturbed,
and at this moment bore a look that approached to anguish. Twice he
moved, as if to approach Robert--and then fell back irresolute; but at
last, he strode forward, and before the youth was aware of the movement,
a hand lay heavily upon his shoulder.
"So you love her, my boy?"
Robert started. The drawling tone, the rude Down East enunciation was
gone. The man who stood before him seemed to have changed his identity.
Rude and uncouth he certainly was--but even in this, there was something
imposing. Robert looked at him with parted lips and wondering
eyes--there was something even of awe in his astonishment.
"Tell me, boy," continued Jacob, and his voice was full of
tenderness--"tell me, is it love for this girl, that makes you
thoughtful? Are you jealous of William Leicester?"
Robert lost all presence of mind--he did not answer--but sat motionless,
with his eyes turned upon the changed face bending close to his.
"Will you not speak to me, Robert Otis? You may--you should, for I am an
honest man."
"I believe you are!" said Robert, starting up and reaching forth his
hand--"I know that you are, for my heart leaps toward you. What was the
question? I will answer it now. Did you ask if I loved Florence Craft?"
"Yes, that was it--I would know; otherwise events may shape themselves
unluckily. I trust, Robert, that in this you have escaped the snare."
"I do not understand you, but can answer your question a great deal
better than I could have done three days ago. I do love Miss Craft as it
has always seemed to me that I should love a sister, had one been made
an orphan with me: I would do any thing for her, sacrifice anything for
her. Once I thought this love, but now I know better. There was another
question--am I jealous of William Leicester? I do not know; my heart
sinks when I see them together--I cannot force myself to wish her his
wife, and yet this repugnance is unaccountable to myself. He is my
friend--she something even dearer than a sister; but my very soul
revolts at the thought of their union. It was this that made me
thoughtful: I do not love Florence in your meaning of the word; I am not
jealous of Mr. Leicester; but God forgive me! there is something in my
heart that rises up against him! There, sir, you have my answer. I may
be imprudent--I may be wrong; but it cannot be helped now."
"You have been neither imprudent nor wrong," answered Jacob, laying his
hand on the bent head of the youth. "I am a plain man, but you will find
in me a safer counsellor than you imagine--a wiser one--though not more
sincere--than your good aunt."
"Then you know my aunt?" cried Robert, profoundly astonished.
"It would have been well had you confided even in her, on Thanksgiving
night, when you were so near confessing the difficulties that seem so
terrible to you. A few words then, might have relieved all your
troubles."
"Then Mr. Leicester has told--has betrayed me to--to his servant, I
would not have believed it!" Robert grew pale as he spoke; there was
shame and terror in his face; deep bitterness in his tone; he was
suffering the keen pangs which a first proof of treachery brings to
youth.
"No, you wrong Mr. Leicester there--he has not betrayed you, never will,
probably, nor do I know the exact nature of your anxieties."
"But who are you then? An hour ago I could have answered this question,
or thought so. Now, you bewilder me; I can scarcely recognize any look
or tone about you--which is the artificial? which the real?"
"Both are real; I _was_ what you have hitherto seen me, years ago. I
_am_ what you see now; but I can at will throw off the present and
identify myself with the past. You see, Robert Otis, I give confidence
when I ask it--a breath of what you have seen or heard to-day, repeated
to Mr. Leicester, would send me from his service. But I do not fear to
trust you!"
"There is no cause of fear--I never betrayed anything in my life--only
convince me that you mean no evil to him."
"I only mean to prevent evil! and I will!"
"All this perplexes me," said Robert, raising one hand to his
forehead--"I seem to have known you many years; my heart warms toward
you as it never did to any one but my aunt."
"That is right; an honest heart seldom betrays itself. But hush! the
young lady is coming; God help her, _she_ loves that man."
"It is worship--idolatry--not love; that seems but a feeble word; it
gives one the heart-ache to witness its ravages on her sweet person."
"And does she feel so much?" said Jacob, with emotion.
Before Robert could answer, the light step of Florence was heard on the
stairs; when she entered the room, Jacob stood near the window, holding
his hat awkwardly between both hands, and with his eyes bent upon the
floor.
"You will give this to Mr. Leicester," she said, still radiant and
beautiful with happiness, placing a note in Jacob's hand--"here is
something for yourself, I only wish it could make you as happy
as--as--that it may be of use, I mean." Blushing and hesitating thus in
her speech, she placed a small gold coin upon the note. Poor girl, it
was a pocket-piece given by her father, but in her wild gratitude she
would have cast thousands upon the man whose coming had brought so much
happiness.
Jacob received the coin, looked at her earnestly for a moment, half
extended his hand, and then thrust it into his pocket.
"Thank you, ma'am, a thousand times--I will do the errand right off!"
and putting on his hat, Jacob strode from the house, muttering, as he
cast a hurried glance around the little garden, "It seems like shooting
a robin on her nest--I must think it all over again."
Robert would have followed Jacob Strong, for his mind was in tumult, and
he panted for some more perfect elucidation of the mystery that
surrounded this singular man. But Florence laid her hand gently on his
arm, and drew him into the window recess: her face was bright with
smiles and bathed in blushes. "You were ready to go without wishing me
joy," she said; "and yet you must have guessed what was in that
precious, precious note!"
Robert felt a strange thrill creep through his frame. He turned his eyes
from the soft orbs looking into his, for their brilliancy pained him.
"No," he said, almost bitterly, "I cannot guess--perhaps I do not care
to guess!"
"Oh, Robert! you do not know what happiness is; no human being ever was
so happy before. How cold--how calm you are! You could feel for me when
I was miserable, but now--now it is wrong: he charged me to keep it
secret, but my heart is so full, Robert; stoop and let me whisper
it--tell nobody, he would be very angry--but this week we are to be
married!"
"Now," said Robert, drawing a deep breath, and speaking in a voice so
calm that it seemed like prophecy--"now I feel for you more than ever."
The little, eager hand fell from his arm, and in a voice that thrilled
with disappointment, Florence said,
"Then you will not wish me joy!"
Robert took her hand, grasped it a moment in his, and flinging aside the
cloud of lace that had fallen over them, left the room. Florence
followed him with her eyes, and while he was in sight a shade of sadness
hung upon her sweet face--but her happiness was too perfect even for
this little shadow to visit it more than a moment. She sunk upon an
ottoman in the recess, and, with her eyes fixed upon the autumn flowers
without, subsided into a reverie, the sweetest, the brightest that ever
fell upon a youthful heart.