CHAPTER VI.
"How sweet she looks!" exclaimed a man of nearly my own age--a manmost distinguished in his own land--as we gazed on a young and lovelygirl, near and dear to us both as our own child--soon to become mychild-in-law as she already is in affection. "How sweet she looks!"
The words set me thinking. What was it in which that sweetnessconsisted? Sweetness as of the song of a bird, or the ambrosialbreathing of a flower--sweetness as of an entrancing melody, which hadits solemn sadness as well as its delight--sweetness which carried thesoul on its wings of perfume into the far future, to gather in theland of dreams, with the trembling awe of fear-touched hope, themystic signs of her future destiny. It consisted not in the lovelylines of the features, in the exquisite hues of the complexion,in the beautiful symmetry of the form. But it consisted inthat nameless, unphonetic, but ever lucid, hieroglyph of theheart--expression--expression in form as well as in face--intranquillity as well as in movement--in the undefined and undefinablebeauty of beauties--grace.
"La grace encore plus belle que la beaute."
Grace which no art can ever attain, though it may imitate. Grace whichis the gift of God to the body, to the mind, to the spirit. Gracewhich, in our pristine state, was, doubtless, common to all the three,blending taste, and reason, and religion in one harmony almostdivine--breathing forth from the earthly form in the image of itsMaker, and which lingers yet, and breathes forth still, in the pureand the innocent and the bright.
Such grace was in Edith Prevost; and hard or preoccupied must havebeen the heart that could resist it. She was certainly very beautiful,too, and of that beauty the most attractive. Though so young, herfully-developed form left maturity but little to add; and everyswelling line flowed into the other with symmetry the most perfect.The rich, warm, glossy curls of her nut-brown hair, unstained andunrestrained by any of the frightful conceits of the day, wantonedround her ivory forehead in lines all in harmony with her figure andher features, and in hue contrasting, yet harmonizing, with hercomplexion, in its soft, rich warmth; fair, yet glowing with a hardlyperceptible shade of brown, such as that which distinguishes theParian marble from the stone of Carrara. Then her liquid, hazel eyes,full of ever-varied expression--now sparkling with gay, free joy, nowfull of tender light (especially when they turned upon her father),and now shaded with a sleepy sort of thoughtfulness, when one of herday-dreams fell upon her. There was something, moreover, in hermanner--in her whole demeanour--which lent another charm to beauty,and added grace to grace. Yet it was of a kind difficult to define. Icannot describe it; I can only tell how she came by it.
I have shown that, in early years, she had been educated in a landwhere civilization and refinement were carried to their highest point;but it is necessary to add, that her education there had beenconducted in the midst of the most refined society of that land, andby those in whom refinement had been a quality rather than anacquisition. She had it, too, as an hereditary right: it was in herblood and in her nature; and, until she was nearly fourteen years ofage, everything that father or mother could do was done to cultivatethe rich soil of her mind and her heart--remember, to cultivate, notto alter: it needed no change. Every natural grace remained entire,and many a bright gift was added.
Then suddenly she was transplanted to a scene where all waswild--where there were no conventionalities--where Nature ruled, andwas the rule. She came there exactly at the age when, without losingone particle of that which society could confer that was worthretaining, the mind--the fresh, young mind--was ready to receive apeculiar tone from the wild things around her, a freedom, an innocentcarelessness of the trifles magnified into false importance in a moreartificial state. Feeling, knowing, that she was a lady, that everythought was pure and bright, that every purpose was noble and true,she had no fear of infringing small proprieties; she had no thought ofthat dread bugbear of the multitude, "_what the world would say._"Thus, while habit rendered all refined, and while heart and innocencegave dignity and calmness, she had all the free, frank, heartfulconfidence of untutored nature.
Such was Edith Prevost, and such she appeared to the stranger who hadvisited her father's house. At first, perhaps, he did not comprehendher fully; but he was a man of keen perceptions and a great and nobleheart. Within his breast and hers were those sympathies which are keysto open the doors of character; and he had not been four-and-twentyhours under the same roof before he knew her, and appreciated herentirely. He had seen much of the world, much of society; and perhapsthat which is false and wrong therein had been over-estimated by amind somewhat too clear-sighted for much happiness. At all events, hehad passed through life hitherto heart-whole and untouched with love;and he felt fearless and confident from the experience of security.Thus he boldly made the character of Edith a study; scanned itaccurately, watched every little trait, dwelt upon her beauty and hergrace, and took pleasure in eliciting all that was bright and lovely.Imprudent man! He had never met any one like her before.
She, too, in unconscious frankness, without thought or design, was ledon, by new and fresh association, to open all the treasures of hermind to her new friend, not knowing how they might dazzle; and herbrother and her father both aided, unthinkingly, in the same course.
When Brooks had left them, half an hour was spent in one of thosepleasant after-breakfast dreams, when the mind seems to take amoment's hesitating pause before grappling with the active business ofthe day. But little was said; each gazed forth from window or fromdoor--each thought, perhaps, of the other, and each drank in sweetsensation from the scene before the eyes.
Each thought of the other, I have said; and when such is the case, howinfinite are the varieties into which thought moulds itself!
Walter paused and pondered upon the stranger's state and objects;asked himself who he was; what could be his errand; how, why, he camethither. Major Kielmansegge he knew him not to be. A chance word hadshown him not only his rank and station, but had shown also that therewas a secret to be kept--a secret to which his imagination, perhaps,lent more importance than it deserved. He was an English peer, theyoung man knew, one of a rank with which, in former years, he had beenaccustomed to mingle, and for which, notwithstanding all that hadpassed, and lapse of time, and varied circumstances, he retained anhabitual veneration. But what could have led a British peer to thatsecluded spot? what could be the circumstances which, having led himthither, had suddenly changed his purpose of proceeding onward, andinduced him to remain a guest in his father's cottage, in a state ofhalf-concealment? Could it be Lord Loudun, he asked himself, thecommander-in-chief of the royal forces, whose conduct had been soseverely censured in his own ears by the man just gone?
Youth always leaves a thousand things out of calculation, and darts atits conclusions with rapidity that overleaps the real end; and thus,what with the military bearing, the secrecy, a certain degree ofreserve of manner, and an air of command, he argued himself into thebelief that their guest was certainly the general of whom they hadheard so much and knew so little; without at all considering howunlikely it was, that so important a command should be intrusted toone so young. It did not, indeed, raise the stranger in his esteem, orin his regard, to believe him to be Lord Loudun; for this nobleman hadnot won the goodwill of the people of the province, nor secured theirapprobation. They had perhaps expected too much from his coming, andhad been bitterly disappointed by the result.
Edith thought of his rank and station not at all. Some of his wordslingered in her ear, and afforded matter for the mind to work with.They were not such as she had heard for long. They were differenteven, in some respects, from any that she remembered. There wasnothing light in them, nothing frivolous; but, combined with the toneand manner, they gave the impression that they sprang from a minddeep, powerful, self-relying, cultivated and enriched by study andobservation, and full of activity and eagerness. She might inquirewhat sort of heart was united with that mind; she might be doubtful ofit; for she had not much experience, and she knew not how often men,i
n mere sport, or to elicit the shy secrets of woman's heart, or foridle vanity or light caprice, utter that which they do not feel,affect a character they do not possess, and often inferior to theirown.
She did not make up her mind hastily, however. Indeed she had not yetsufficient interest in the object of her thoughts to care much aboutmaking up her mind at all. She thought him a very handsome and a veryagreeable man, sufficiently odd, or different from the common run, toexcite some interest, yet with an oddity in no degree offensive; butthat was all. She knew that he had only come for a day, and that,though some accidental meeting with Sir William Johnson had inducedhim to protract his stay, it would probably only be for a day or twolonger. Then he would go: his shadow would pass away from the floor,and his memory from her mind--she thought.
Accident! Who is there that believes in accident? On my life, itrequires more faith to conceive such a thing as accident than tobelieve in the divinity of Juggernaut. The only reason why any man canimagine such a thing, is because he sees not the causes which bring topass the event which he calls an accident; and yet he perceives thehands of a clock move round the dial, without beholding the springsand wheels, and never dreams it is by accident that the bell chimesnoon. Let any man look through the strange concatenation of event withevent, through the course of his own life, and dream of accident, ifhe can.
It was not by accident that Lord H---- and Edith
Prevost met there. It was for the working out of their mutual destiny,under the will of God; for, if there be a God, there is a specialProvidence.
"This is very lovely, Miss Prevost," said the young soldier, when thelong meditative lapse was drawing to a close; "but I should think thescene would become somewhat monotonous. Hemmed in by these woods, thecountry round, though beautiful in itself, must pall upon the taste."
"Oh, no!" cried Edith, eagerly; "it is full of variety. Each dayaffords something new; and every morning's walk displays a thousandfresh beauties. Let us go and take a ramble, if you have nothingbetter to do, and I will soon show you there is no monotony. Come,Walter, take your rifle and go with us. Father, this is not your hour.Can you never come before the sun has passed his height, and see theshadows fall the other way?"
"Mine is the evening hour, my child," answered Mr. Prevost, somewhatsadly; "but go, Edith, and show our noble friend the scenes you somuch delight in. He will need something to make his stay in this dullplace somewhat less heavy."
The stranger made no complimentary reply, for his thoughts were busywith Edith, and he was, at that moment, comparing her frank,unconscious, undesigning offer to lead him through love-like woods andglades with the wily hesitations of a court coquette.
"Perhaps you are not disposed to walk?" said Edith, marking hisreverie, and startling him from it.
"I shall be delighted," he said, eagerly, and truly, too. "You mustforgive me for being somewhat absent, Miss Prevost. Your father knowsI have much to think of, though, indeed, thought at present is vain;and you will confer a boon by banishing that idle but importunatecompanion."
"Oh, then, you shall not think at all while you are with me," returnedEdith, smiling.
And away she ran, to cover her head with one of those black wimplesvery generally worn by the women of that day.