The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 33

"He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet.

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but pa.s.sionate desires, he yearned to meet.

Her only could he love with a perfect love--him only could she receive into the depths of her heart--and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it pa.s.s away, its happy l.u.s.tre would never gleam upon his life again.

"How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl.

She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came.

Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near, that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.

The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees.

But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow--

"Hist!--Do you see that bundle under his head?"

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.

"I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocket-book or a snug little h.o.a.rd of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons' pocket."

"But how if he wakes?" said the other.

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded.

"So be it!" muttered the second villain.

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast.

"I must take away the bundle," whispered one.

"If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind."

"Let's take a drink, and be off," said the other.

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn.

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had s.n.a.t.c.hed from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burthened it. Now he stirred--now moved his lips, without a sound--now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber--and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him.

"Hallo, driver! Take a pa.s.senger?" shouted he.

"Room on top!" answered the driver.

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood--all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life, to render foresight even partially available?

LIV. MY KATE.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.--1809-1861.

She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days-- My Kate.

Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face: And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth-- My Kate.

Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke: When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone-- My Kate.

I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer 'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her-- My Kate.

She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side Grew n.o.bler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pull'd at her gown-- My Kate.

None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall; They knelt more to G.o.d than they used,--that was all; If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she went-- My Kate.

The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good: It always was so with her: see what you have!

She has made the gra.s.s greener even here ... with her grave-- My Kate.

My dear one!--when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best: And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart-- My Kate?

LV. A DEAD ROSE.

MRS. BROWNING.

O Rose, who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy t.i.tles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odor up the lane to last all day,-- If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,-- If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,-- If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that 'lit upon thee To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,-- If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-- If pa.s.sing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee, Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold:-- Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!