Fashion and Famine Part 29

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 a.s.sumed, "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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion which marked the features of that n.o.ble 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.sion 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 embarra.s.sed--a mere boy--now----"