The holydays had come, and Edith was at home for the summer. How
pleasant were her anticipations of her joyous freedom from dull books
and the restraint of school routine for months to come. The next year
she was to become a boarder in a fashionable school in Philadelphia, and
her mother decided that the intervening time should be spent with her
needle, in preparation for that event. Yes; how delightful! so Edith
thought, to sit in that sociable room sewing, where the air was redolent
with perfume, and the sunshine stole so coyly in through the vine-draped
windows, making shimmering and fantastic figures on the highly polished
and waxed floor of that peculiarly summer-room, as the sweet south wind
waved them to and fro. Oh! for her, with her young heart of hope, the
summer air was so delightful when it came through that window, where she
loved to sit gazing dreamily of a lucid, still morning, coming, too,
laden with sweets stolen from the dewy flowers; and then a glance at
those fleecy, shifting clouds in the blue sky—why ’twas better to her
than the fairy scenes of a magic lantern or gorgeous theatric spectacle.
And there, too, sat Lennard, quite domesticated by this time.
Notwithstanding he thought it would be so very pleasant to study in
_his_ room overlooking the garden, he as regularly walked into the
parlor every morning with his book, until quite a _small library_ began
to collect. Occasionally he would read favorite passages from them to
Edith, as she sat sewing, and, child as she was, looking into her eyes
for sympathy in his enthusiasm. But far oftener would he be wandering
into the garden with her, selecting flowers; sometimes holding the
tangled skein, and that, too, so intently, that often his dark brown
locks were mingled with her golden ones. The peals of merry laughter!
“How much amused they are,” repeated to herself Mrs. Morton; but on
entering and inquiring what caused their merriment, ’twas too little to
frame into an answer. Any thing—nothing—created a laugh or smile with
them, they were so happy—so very happy. Nor was music’s soft strains
neglected to gild the passing hours. There, in the witching, summer
twilight, still, soundless, save the low melody gushing from Edith’s
lips, as she sung to her simple accompaniment on the guitar, and with
the fuller, deeper music of Charles’ voice, they sat wrapt in their
happiness, unconscious—(at least one of them)—of the feelings rife
within their hearts of what heightened their enjoyment.
Edith _was unconscious_. She was fully aware, it is true, that life was
gaining every day fresh charms. To her eye the blue vault had never
looked “so deeply, darkly, so intensely blue.” The birds had surely
never sung so sweetly, nor the very flowers borne so bright a hue; and
yet, to all appearance, as time wore on, she was not so gleeful nor so
wildly frolicksome as usual. No longer would her voice be detected in
the ringing laugh, but smiles were rippling and dimpling o’er her face,
in her quiet heart happiness. Yes, in her heart of hearts, what a spring
of deep joy was bubbling up almost to overflowing, quietly unknown to
others, but thrillingly alive to herself; so intense at times, that
those sweet eyes would glisten with unshed tears at the very thought
that death might come and bear her off from so bright, so joyous a
world, where life _itself_ was bliss. Her unusual quietness—her fitful
and radiant blushes—the soul-full glances—the _manner_ that was
stealing so softly, yet so perceptibly o’er the young girl, _toning_
down, as it were, her high spirits, was noticed by her mother; but her
conclusion was simply “that Edith is growing into a woman, and will not
be such a hoyden as I dreaded.”
_Edith was unconscious!_ But not so the dreamy student. He, though
albeit as much a child in the actual business of life as Edith, was much
better skilled in the heart’s lore. He had seen the flash of joy which
brightened her eye—had watched the cheek kindling at his approach, and
the smile of womanly sweetness, wreathing her exquisite lip at his words
or glance of approval.
He had become, with Mrs. Morton’s acquiescence—having nothing to occupy
him, he had informed her—Edith’s instructor in French; and he saw how
any thing but wearisome was the daily task; and, in the solitude of his
chamber, stole welcomely into his mind the thought that _he_ had taught
her _practically_ to conjugate through all its inflections the verb
_aimer_. Mrs. Morton very often complained to Edith that she neglected
her sewing for her book, her guitar, her evening rambles—but she was
the widow’s only child, her bright gleam of sunshine; her idleness was
overlooked, and she was allowed to have her own will, and continued to
be the constant companion of Charles Lennard.
It was a moonlight evening in the latter end of October. Edith, Mrs.
Morton, an elderly lady-visitor, and Charles, rambled about a quarter of
a mile from the village, to a place called the Coolspring, to enjoy one
of the nights which October had stolen from summer, and, delighted with
the beauty of the lonely, sequestered spot, where the moonbeams rested
so brightly and reflectingly on the rustic spring—now bubbling up from
the rich green, velvetty sward—now hiding in the thick grass, and anon
revealing itself by its glitter—that the old ladies seated themselves
on the rude bench for a cozy chat of “auld lang syne,” and “when we were
girls, you remember.” Charles and Edith were standing some distance from
them, watching “the silver tops of moon-touched trees.” Very quietly had
they thus stood drinking in the quiet loveliness of this enchanting
scene, and no sound was heard but the mellowed hum of the village, borne
but echoingly to their ear, and the rustling of the foliage, as it was
kissed by the night-breeze.
“Edith!” and his voice was low, “is this not beautiful. I swear that I
could be here content forever, were you but with me. But would you, dear
Edith?”
A quick, eager, flashing gaze, as her eye was for the instant raised to
his own, was her answer. ’Twas the look of some wondering and awakened
child, as the consciousness of her feelings toward Charles stole upon
her beautifully, though strangely; and something of gladness was in the
melody of the child-like, trusting, and low-toned voice with which she
breathed, rather than uttered, “Oh, yes!”
“Dearest Edith!” was all that Charles said for some moments, as he held
the little trembling hand in his own, then placing it within his arm, he
drew her to the shade of a large tree, under whose foliage lay the
fallen trunk of an oak, upon which they sat.
“Dearest Edith,” he again said, as she, with downcast eyes, blushing
even in that dim light at his impassioned tones and loving words,
“promise me that you will love me and think fondly of me for the next
two years I am doomed to wander, and then, when I have fulfilled my
guardian’s wishes, that you will be my wife? My own Edith, say?”
You could almost hear the beating of that young heart, as she thus sat
listening at his side, shrinking and trembling from the arm thrown
around her waist, and turning in timid modesty from the eyes looking so
ardently loving into the glistening depths of her own, striving to hide
her feelings from those fondly searching eyes. And Charles—with the
lightning’s rapidity came into his mind the words of the poet:
“She loves me much, _because_ she hides it.
Love teaches cunning even to innocence;
And when he gets possession, his _first_ work
Is to dig deep within the heart, and there
Lie hid, and like a miser, in the dark
To feast alone.”
“_You_ will forget _me_ long ere you come back,” was her answer to his
reiterated appeal. “Why need I, then, to answer?” And there was a tear
almost in the liquid voice, as a vision of what her life would be,
should such prove the truth, arose before her mind’s eye.
“Forget _you_! Do you judge me from yourself, Edith, when you say that?”
“Oh, no!” was the impulsive reply of the young maiden, as she hastily
and unthoughtedly now answered him. “Oh, no indeed! But you, Mr.
Lennard, are going to Europe; and you will see there so many, very many
things and persons to make you forget _me_—a _school-girl_—an ignorant
_child_. I was ashamed of myself before you, to think _I_ knew so
little—so very little, and _you_—why you will blush for my ignorance,
and _then_—how could you love me?”
How sweet were those tones, so full of heart-music that he, luxuriating
in them, hesitated to answer, that he might catch even their echo; but
at length came his reply.
“How could I love you! Rather ask, how can—how _could_ I help it. You
are to me, Edith, more perfect than any human being I ever dreamed of or
imagined; so lovely, darling, that when you burst on me first, in your
young, pure loveliness, I was almost in doubt if you, indeed, belonged
to our dull earth. _How could I love you!_”
“What a simple question; yet, how deep in its very simplicity and
artlessness. Yes, Edith, I almost ask myself the same question—how I
could _dare_ to love one so like an angel. I will not suffer myself to
search into my right—lest I say with truth,
‘’Twere as well to love some bright particular star
And think to wed it.’
But, promise that you will love me—that you will think ever of me; and
that when I return you will be my wife?”
“You must ask mother, Ch—Mr. Lennard I mean—Indeed, indeed I cannot
answer you for—do not laugh when I tell you—I am almost frightened
when you ask me such a question; though”—and here the young head, with
its clustering, silken ringlets, bent low as she whispered—“though I do
love you now better than any one in the world. But, let us go to mother,
now, Mr. Lennard,” she quickly added, startled as it were, by her own
confession; and, springing lightly from him, as he attempted still to
detain her with his loving words, and almost nestling down by her
mother’s side, like a truant dove returned, and yet, her heart beating
with the fullness of joy at the sweet knowledge she had thus gained—her
eye lit up with the lore conned from the new page of the book in her
life which she had then learnt. And Charles stood by her, even more
eloquent in his silence than when he wooed her beneath the shadowy, old
tree.
“But they were young; oh! what without our youth
Would love be? What would youth be, without love?
Youth lends it joy and sweetness—vigor—truth,
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above.”