Ernest Linwood Part 17

"I will," answered I, calmed by the gentle composure of his manner, "if you will a.s.sert that you do not know already."

"I do not _know_, but I can _imagine_. Edith has betrayed my admiration of that picture. You came to justify my taste, and to establish beyond a doubt the truth of the likeness."

"No, indeed! I did not; I cannot explain the impulse which led me hither. I only wish I had resisted it as I ought."

I suppose I must have looked quite miserable, from the efforts he made to restore my self-complacency. He took the basket from my arm and placed it on the table, moved a chair forward for me, and another for himself, as if preparing for a morning _tete a tete_.

"What would Mrs. Linwood say, if she saw me here at this early hour alone with her son?" thought I, obeying his motion, and tossing my hat on the light stairs that were winding up behind me. I did not fell the possibility of declining the interview, for there was a power about him which overmastered without their knowing it the will of others.

"If you knew how much more pleasing is the innocent shame and artless sensibility you manifest, than the ease and a.s.surance of the practised worldling, you would not blush for the impulse which drew you hither. To the sated taste and weary eye, simplicity and truth are refreshing as the spring-time of nature after its dreary winter. The cheek that blushes, the eye that moistens, and the heart that palpitates, are sureties of indwelling purity and candor. What a pity that they are as evanescent as the bloom of these flowers and the fragrance they exhale!

You have never been in what is called the great world?"

"Never. I pa.s.sed one winter in Boston; but I was in deep mourning and did not go into society. Besides, your mother thought me too young. It was more than a year ago."

"You will be considered old enough this winter. Do you not look forward with eager antic.i.p.ations and bright hopes to the realization of youth's golden dreams?"

"I as often look forward with dread as hope. I am told they who see much of the world, lose their faith in human virtue, their belief in sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good and fair. All the pleasures of the world would not be an equivalent for the loss of these."

"And do you possess all these now?"

"I think I do. I am sure I ought. I have never yet been deceived. I should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, as soon as the truth of those who have professed to love me. Your mother, Edith--and"--

"Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that truth-searching glance which often brought unbidden words to my lips.

"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."

"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"

"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,--even supposing your a.s.sertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if _I_ turn inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have _you_, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling influences which you deprecate for me?"

"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you never been told so?"

"If I have, it required your own a.s.sertion to make me believe it."

"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,--just as much as the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."

I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them unconsciously on the floor.

"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.

"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.

"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."

"I know it; but I can remove the ruins."

I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing coolness his meeting lips.

Oh, starver in the midst of G.o.d's plenty! think of the wretched sons of famine, and be wise.

"You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine, leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms."

He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own image.

"Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the sunbeams,--thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition.

"A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good."

"How so? These are all select works,--golden sheaves of knowledge, gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand."

"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."

"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by the hand of G.o.d, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright."

"Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever thus read?"

I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,--it was so rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the pa.s.sing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that _deep, under chord_, which breathes in low, pa.s.sionate strains, life's tender and pathetic mirror.

"I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's various climes are around and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at your bidding, and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold.

And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human heart are laid bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. But I am detaining you too long. Your languid blossoms reproach me. When you come here again, do not forget that we have here thought and felt in unison."

Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. She started on seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an anxious, troubled look.

"You are become an early riser, my son," she said.

"You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my mother?"

"Certainly; but it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning air would be more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp with the mould of antiquity."

"We have brought the dewy morning within doors," said he; while I, gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Linwood to move, that I might leave the room. She stood between me and the threshold, and for the first time I noticed in her face a resemblance to her son. It might be because a slight cloud rested on her brow.

"You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morning," she gravely observed to me. "It is almost the breakfast hour, and you are still in your garden costume."

My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the fear of her displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left its glow upon my cheek.

"Let me a.s.sist you," he cried, in an animated tone. "It was I who encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, if blame indeed there be. There is a homely proverb, that 'many hands make light work.' Come, let us prove its truth."

I thought Mrs. Linwood sighed, as he followed me into the drawing-room, and with quick, graceful fingers, made ample amends for the negligence be had caused. His light, careless manner restored me to ease, and at breakfast Mrs. Linwood's countenance wore its usual expression of calm benevolence.

Had I done wrong? I had sought no clandestine interview. Why should I?

It was foolish to wish to look at the beautiful flower girl; but it was a natural, innocent wish, born of something purer and better than vanity and self-love.

CHAPTER XIX.