Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 59

"'Well,' I answered, 'this is what I mean, when I finished reading that book, it made me restless, unhappy--discontented with everything around me.'

"'That is, perhaps, because you did not understand it.'

"'But goodness is so simple, I can understand that always.'

"'I grant you, but human life is not all perfection; unfortunately, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced on this earth, and there is nothing picturesque enough in a dead-level of goodness to interest the reader through an entire story. To attempt that, would be like painting a picture without shadows. Your real author understands the force of contrasts.'

"'But a book which has so little of the virtuous and pure in it, yields up this power of contrast, by letting no sunshine into its pages,' I said. 'The fault of this work is, that it dwells too entirely on the dark pa.s.sions.'

"'Then you condemn it?'

"'No, indeed, the pictures are too grand, the pa.s.sions too strongly portrayed for that. The author, whoever he is, must be a man of powerful genius. I only wish he had softened his pictures and let in a few of the gentler sentiments.'

"'And so do I.'

"He spoke with emphasis, closing the book. Then I noticed that a flush was on his face, and he cast the volume from him with a gesture of dislike.

"'You know the author of that book?' I said on the impulse.

"'Yes, lady, I know him well--some day he shall be made the wiser, by learning your opinion.'

"'Oh, I hope not. It was rash, perhaps altogether wrong. I am no critic, and only spoke as the book impressed me.'

"'That is criticism,' he answered, 'and I dare say correct, but the volume is hardly worthy of so much consideration. The author is too much honored, that you have read it at all.'

"I was about to answer, when Mr. Dennison rode up in his carriage, and seeing my companion, waved his hand with that cordial welcome so universal in the South. The moment he appeared, I felt chilled, and took up my embroidery, knowing well that no more conversation that I could join in, would be offered that day.

"Certainly, Mr. Dennison is a handsome old gentleman. As a father, one might be very proud of him, but now a strange feeling comes over me at his approach. I turn from his elaborate elegance of speech and manner with a wish for something fresher. Cora is not more my slave than I could make him, but the task of perpetual fondness is too much. Oh, if he had only adopted me!"

CHAPTER LXVII.

OUR FIRST VISITOR.

"Mr. Dennison descended from his carriage and came forward with more haste and animation than was usual to him. He was evidently delighted to see his guest.

"'Why, Lawrence, is it you; when and how did you reach us?' he said, extending his hand.

"'Half an hour ago, by rail and steamer,' answered the gentleman, meeting Mr. Dennison half-way, and shaking hands with him.

"'Made the acquaintance of my wife, I see?'

"As he spoke, Mr. Dennison glanced smilingly toward me.

"'Oh, yes, I think so; if this young lady is your wife.'

"The gentleman hesitated in some confusion. I think he had taken me for Mr. Dennison's daughter.

"The old gentleman turned suddenly red, and laughed a little unnaturally.

"'My wife, yes, almost a bride yet, but we are making her blush. My love, this is Mr. Lawrence, of New York, one of the best friends I have.

You must take him into especial favor for your husband's sake.'

"I am sure there was color enough in my face then. Why will Mr. Dennison constantly drag that odious word, husband, into everything he says? Does he think I can ever forget it?

"We sat down in company, enjoying the cool shadows of the veranda. All my pleasure was at an end; the conversation turned upon stocks, railroads, and mining. I gathered from it that Mr. Lawrence was a stock-broker or something of that kind, and that Mr. Dennison was connected with him in an enterprise for which money was to be supplied.

Once or twice I caught the stranger looking at me while my husband conversed, but I was occupied with my embroidery, and did not seem to notice him; perhaps he was admiring the contrast between the pure white of my dress and the gorgeous richness of the worsteds in my lap.

"While they were talking, Mr. Dennison insisted that I should sit closer to him, and more than once he placed his hand on my work and prevented me going on with it, as if I had been a child. This annoyed me. After all, one does not care to be so obviously exhibited as 'the old man's darling.' It is embarra.s.sing when the fine eyes of a man like that are upon you.

"After dinner that day, Mr. Dennison stole off to a low divan in the library for his half-hour of sleep. I usually occupied my own room at this hour, but as I went that way, our guest came in from the veranda, where he had been smoking a cigar, and laughingly entreated that I should not leave him alone.

"I ran up-stairs, threw a black lace shawl over my head, Spanish mantilla fashion, and joined him. It was sunset, and all the beautiful landscape lay wrapped in a veil of purplish mist, through which trembled a soft golden glow that brightened all the west, and shimmered through the tree-tops like flashes of fire.

"We walked on through the delicious atmosphere, to which the perfume of innumerable flowers gave forth their sweetness, as they brightened under the soft dews that had just began to fall.

"Unconsciously, we turned out of the oak-avenue and walked toward a pretty pond, or miniature lake, which lay to our right, sheltered by one live-oak and a cl.u.s.ter of magnolia-trees, from which the blossoms brought to me that morning had been cut. A shrub-like species of the magnolia grew around the pond, hedging it in with great white blossoms, and the sedgy borders were aglow with wild flowers. It was not yet time for the water-lilies to be in blossom, but in some places their large green pads covered the lake with patches of glossy greenness, while a light wind rippled through them, stirring the waters like ridges of diamonds between the trembling leaves.

"How beautiful it was! The birds were no longer musical, but we watched them fluttering through the leaves and settling down in safe places among the rushes, while the sweet stillness of the closing day fell upon them.

"My hand rested on the arm of our guest; he was talking earnestly, and his eloquence thrilled me with sensations unlike anything I had felt before. There was unmeasured poetry in every word he uttered. We had, I do not know how, got on to the subject of that book again, and he was defending it in language warm, fervid, and startling, as the story itself. My hand shook on his arm; a new idea had seized upon me, and against my own will I spoke.

"'You wrote the book,' I said, 'I know it by your language. I can read the fact in this defence.'

"'And you will like me no longer. You will condemn me as you have that poor volume,' he answered, turning suddenly, and looking into my eyes with the glance of an eagle.

"'Condemn you!' I said. 'What, I?'

"'But you condemn my book?'

"'No, I did not. To question a thing, is not to condemn it.'

"'But the doubt wounds me. You might have found sympathy for much that the book contains. It should appeal to a heart like yours.'

"He held my hand firmly in his clasp. How it got there, I do not know. I struggled a little to free it, but his fingers closed around mine like a vice.

"'Say that you will read my book again.'

"'I will. Nothing could prevent me now.'

"'And you will read it with a new inspiration?'

"'After this conversation, yes.'

"'That is, for one day you will think my thoughts, and give them fresh beauties as they pa.s.s through your own vivid imagination.'