And the considerate gentleman bowed; but the frank smile that hailed her genial clasp had somehow vanished, and from the sudden cloud that at that moment swept over the roseate heavens, fell a shadow that left its impress on his lip long after the cloud itself had departed.
An hour or so had passed. The fire was burning brightly on the hearthstone, illumining with a steady glow the array of stuffed birds, worsted samplers and old-fashioned portraits with which the walls were adorned, but reserving its richest glow and fullest irradiation for the bended head of Paula, who seated on a little stool in the corner of the hearth, was watching the rise and fall of the flickering flames.
She had packed her little trunk, had said goodbye to all her neighboring friends and was now sitting on the old hearthstone, musing upon the new life that was about to open before her. It was a happy musing, as the smile that vaguely dimpled her cheeks and brightened her eyes beneath their long lashes, amply testified. As Mr. Sylvester watched her from the opposite side of the hearth where he was sitting alone with his thoughts, he felt his heart sink with apprehension at the fervor of anticipation with which she evidently looked forward to the life in the new home. “The young wings think to gain freedom,” thought he, “when they are only destined to the confinement of a gilded cage.”
He was so silent and looked so sad, Paula with a certain sort of sensitiveness to any change in the emotional atmosphere surrounding her, which was one of her chief characteristics, hastily looked up and meeting his eye fixed on her with that foreboding glance, softly arose and came and sat down by his side. “You look tired,” murmured she; “the long ride after a day of business care has been too much for you.”
It was the first word of sympathy with his often over-wearied mind and body, that had greeted his ears for years. It made his eyes moisten.
“I have been a little overworked,” said he, “for the last two months, but I shall soon be myself again. What were you thinking of, Paula?”
“What was I thinking of?” repeated she, drawing her chair nearer to his in her loving confidence. “I was thinking what wonders of beauty and art lay in that great kernel which you call the city. I shall see lovely faces and noble forms. I shall wander through halls of music, the echo of whose songs may have come to me in the sob of the river or the sigh of the pines, but whose notes in all their beauty and power have never been heard by me even in my dreams. I shall look on great men and touch the garments of thoughtful women. I shall see life in its fullness as I have felt nature in its mightiness, and my heart will be satisfied at last.”
Mr. Sylvester drew a deep breath and his eyes burned strangely in the glow of the firelight. “You expect high things,” said he; “did you ever consider that the life in a great city, with its ceaseless rush and constant rivalries, must be often strangely petty in despite of its artistic and social advantages?”
“All life has its petty side,” said she, with a sweet arch look. “The eagle that cleaves the thundercloud, must sometimes stop to plume its wings. I should be sorry to lose the small things out of existence. Even we in the face of that great sunset appealing to us from the west, have to pile up the firewood on the hearth and set the table for supper.”
“But fashion, Paula,” he pursued, concealing his wonder at the maturity of mind evinced by this simple child of nature, “that inexorable power that rules the very souls of women who once step within the magic circle of her realm! have you never thought of her and the demands that she makes on the time and attention even of the worshippers of the good and the true?”
“Yes, sometimes,” she returned with a repetition of her arch little smile, “when I put on a certain bonnet I have, which Aunt Abby modeled over from one of my grandmother’s. Fashion is a sort of obstinate step-dame I imagine, whom it is less trouble to obey than to oppose. I don’t believe I shall quarrel with Fashion if she will only promise to keep her hands off my soul.”
“But if—” with a pause, “she asks your all, what then?”
“I shall consider that I am in a country of democratic principles,” she laughed, “and beg to be excused from acceding to the tyrannical demands of any autocrat male or female.”
“You have been listening to Miss Belinda,” said he; “she is also opposed to all and any tyrannical measures.” Then with a grave look from which all levity had fled, he leaned toward the young girl and gently asked, “Do you know that you are a very beautiful girl, Paula?”
She flushed, looked at him in some surprise and slowly drooped her head. “I have been told I looked like my father,” said she, “and I know that means something very kind.”
“My child,” said he, with gentle insistence, “God has given you a great and wonderful gift, a treasure-casket of whose worth you scarcely realize the value. I tell you this myself, first because I prize your beauty as something quite sacred and pure, and secondly because you are going where you will hear words of adulation, whose folly and bluntness will often offend your ears, unless you carry in your soul some talisman to counteract their effect.”
“I understand,” said she, “I know what you mean. I will remember that the most engaging beauty is nothing without a pure mind and a good heart.”
“And you will remember too,” continued he, “that I blessed your innocent head tonight, not because it is circled by the roses of a youthful
