Mrs. Sylvester was the only one who remained unmoved. “Lift if up,” cried she, “and let us see if it has sustained any injury.”
Instantly Bertram and her husband sprang forward, and in a moment its glowing surface was turned upward. Who could read the meaning of the look that crossed her husband’s face as he perceived that the sharp spear of the bronze horseman, which had been overturned in the fall, had penetrated the rosy countenance of the portrait and destroyed that importunate smile forever.
“I suppose it is a judgment upon me for putting all the money you had allowed me for charitable purposes, into that exquisite bit of bronze,” observed Mrs. Sylvester, stooping above the overturned horseman with an expression of regret she had not chosen to bestow on her own ruined picture. “Ah he is less of a champion than I imagined; he has lost his spear in the struggle.”
Paula glanced at her cousin in surprise. Was this pleasantry only a veil assumed by this courtly lady to hide her very natural regret over the more serious accident? Even her husband turned toward her with a certain puzzled inquiry in his troubled countenance. But her expression of unconcern was too natural; evidently the destruction of the picture had awakened but small regret in her volatile mind.
“She is less vain than I thought,” was the inward comment of Paula.
Ah simple child of the woods and streams, it is the extent of her vanity not the lack of it, that has produced this effect. She has begun to realize that ten years have elapsed since this picture was painted, and that people are beginning to say as they examine it, “Mrs. Sylvester has not yet lost her complexion, I see.”
A break necessarily followed this disturbance, and before long Bertram took his leave, not without a cordial pressure from his uncle’s hand and a look of kindly interest from the stranger lassie, upon whose sympathetic and imaginative mind the hints let fall as to his former profession, had produced a deep impression. With his departure Mrs. Sylvester’s weariness returned, and ere long she led the way to her apartments upstairs. As Paula was hastening to follow Mr. Sylvester stopped her.
“You will not allow this unfortunate occurrence,” he said, with a slight gesture towards the picture now standing with its face against the wall, “to mar your first sleep under my roof, will you Paula, my child?”
“No, not if you say that you think Cousin Ona will not be likely to connect it with my appearance here.”
“I do not think she will; she is not superstitious and besides does not seem to greatly regret the misfortune.”
“Then I will forget it all and only remember the music.”
“It was all you anticipated?”
“It was more.”
“Sometime I will tell you about the player and the sweet young girl he loves.”
“Does he—” she paused, blushing; love was a subject upon which she had never yet spoken to anyone.
“Yes he does,” Mr. Sylvester returned smiling.
“I thought there was a meaning in the music I did not quite understand. Good night, uncle,”—he had requested her to address him thus though he was in truth her cousin, “and many, many thanks.”
But he stopped her again. “You think you will be happy in these rooms,” said he; “you love splendor.”
She was not yet sufficiently acquainted with his voice to detect the regret underlying its kindly tone, and answered without suspicion. “I did not know it before, but I fear that I do. It dazzled at first, but now it seems as if I had reached a home towards which I had always been journeying. I shall dream away hours of joy before each little ornament that adorns your parlors. The very tiles that surround the fireplace will demand a week of attention at least.”
She ended with a smile, but unlike formerly he did not seem to catch the infection. “I had rather you had cared less,” said he, but instantly regretted the seeming reproach, for her eyes filled with tears and the tones of her voice trembled as she replied,
“Do you think the beauty I have seen has made me forget the kindness that has brought me here? I love fine and noble objects, glory of color and harmony of shape, but more than all these do I love a generous soul without a blot on its purity, or a flaw in its integrity.”
She had meant to utter something that would show her appreciation of his goodness and the universal esteem in which he was held, but was quite unprepared for the start that he gave and the unmistakable deepening of the shadow on his sombre face. But before she could express her regret at the offence, whatever it was, he had recovered himself, and it was with a fatherly tenderness that he laid his hand upon hers while he said, “Such a soul may yours ever continue, my child,” and then stood watching her as she glided up the stairs, her charming face showing every now and then as she leaned on her winding way to the top, to bestow upon him the tender little smile she had already learned was his solace and delight.
It was the beginning of happier days for him.
Book II
Life and Death
XIV
Miss Belinda Has a Question to Decide
“I pray you in your letters,
Othello
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice.”
Miss Belinda sitting before her bedroom fire on a certain windy night in January, presented a picture of the most profound thought. A year had elapsed since, with heavy heart and moistened eye, she had bidden goodbye to the child of her care, and beheld her drift away with her new friend into a strange and untried life. And now a letter had come from
