A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Like the gentleman, I suppose, who ate oysters for appetite, but carried his system so far as to induce indigestion.” My joke failed; nobody laughed, and I was overwhelmed with confusion, which I was fain to bury in my strawberries and cream.

      “Let us have a little music, Mary,” said Crofton. “Do you play or sing, Mr. Potts?”

      “Neither. I do nothing,” cried I, in despair. “As Sydney Smith says, ‘I know something about the Romans,’ but, for any gift or grace which could adorn society, or make time pass more pleasantly, I am an utter bankrupt.”

      The young girl had, while I was speaking, taken her place at the pianoforte, and was half listlessly suffering her hands to fall in chords over the instrument.

      “Come out upon this terrace, here,” cried Crofton to me, “and we ‘ll have our cigar. What I call a regular luxury after a hard day is to lounge out here in the cool night air, and enjoy one’s weed while listening to Spohr or Beethoven.”

      It was really delightful. The bright stars were all reflected in the calm river down below, and a thousand odors floated softly on the air as we sat there.

      Are there not in every man’s experience short periods in which he seemed to have lived longer than during whole years of life? They tell us there are certain conditions of the atmosphere, inappreciable as to the qualities, which seem to ripen wines, imparting to young fresh vintages all the mellow richness of age, all the depth of flavor, all the velvety softness of time. May there not possibly be influences which similarly affect our natures? May there not be seasons in which changes as great as these are wrought within us? I firmly believe it, and as firmly that such a period was that in which I sat on the balcony over the Nore, listening to Mary Crofton as she sang, but just as often lost to every sound, and deep in a heaven of blended enjoyments, of which no one ingredient was in the ascendant. Starry sky, rippling river, murmuring night winds, perfumed air, floating music, all mingling as do the odors of an incense, and, like an incense, filling the brain with a delicious intoxication.

      Hour after hour must have passed with me in this half-conscious ecstasy, for Crofton at last said, —

      “There, where you see that pinkish tint through the gray, that’s the sign of breaking day, and the signal for bedtime. Shall I show you your room?”

      “How I wish this could last forever!” cried I, rapturously; and then, half ashamed of my warmth, I stammered out a good-night, and retired.

      CHAPTER VI. MY SELF-EXAMINATION

      Our life at the Rosary – for it was our life now of which I have to speak – was one of unbroken enjoyment. On fine days we fished; that is, Crofton did, and I loitered along some river’s bank till I found a quiet spot to plant my rod, and stretch myself on the grass, now reading, of tender dreaming, such glorious dreams as only come in the leafy shading of summer time, to a mind enraptured with all around it The lovely scenery and the perfect solitude of the spot ministered well to my fanciful mood, and left me free to weave the most glittering web of incident for my future. So utterly was all the past blotted from my memory that I recalled nothing of existence more remote than my first evening at the cottage. If for a parting instant a thought of bygones would obtrude, I hastened to escape from it as from a gloomy reminiscence. I turned away as would a dreamer who dreaded to awaken out of some delicious vision, and who would not face the dull aspect of reality. Three weeks thus glided by of such happiness as I can scarcely yet recall without emotion! The Croftons had come to treat me like a brother; they spoke of family events in all freedom before me; talked of the most confidential things in my presence, and discussed their future plans and their means as freely in my hearing as though I had been kith and kin with them. I learned that they were orphans, educated and brought up by a rich, eccentric uncle, who lived in a sort of costly reclusion in one of the Cumberland dales; Edward, who had served in the army, and been wounded in an Indian campaign, had given up the service in a fit of impatience of being passed over in promotion.

      His uncle resented the rash step by withdrawing the liberal allowance he had usually made him, and they quarrelled. Mary Crofton, espousing her brother’s side, quitted her guardian’s roof to join his; and thus had they rambled about the world for two or three years, on means scanty enough, but still sufficient to provide for those who neither sought to enter society nor partake of its pleasures.

      As I advanced in the intimacy, I became depository of the secrets of each. Edward’s was the sorrow he felt for having involved his sister in his own ruin, and been the means of separating her from one so well able and so willing to befriend her. Hers was the more bitter thought that their narrow means should prejudice her brother’s chances of recovery, for his chest had shown symptoms of dangerous disease requiring all that climate and consummate care might do to overcome. Preyed on incessantly by this reflection, unable to banish it, equally unable to resist its force, he took the first and only step she had ever adventured without his knowledge, and had written to her uncle a long letter of explanations and entreaty.

      I saw the letter, and read it carefully. It was all that sisterly love and affection could dictate, accompanied by a sense of dignity, that if her appeal should be unsuccessful, no slight should be passed upon her brother, who was unaware of the step thus taken. To express this sufficiently, she was driven to the acknowledgment that Edward would never have himself stooped to the appeal; and so careful was she of his honor in this respect, that she repeated – with what appeared to me unnecessary insistence – that the request should be regarded as hers, and hers only. In fact, this was the uppermost sentiment in the whole epistle. I ventured to say as much, and endeavored to induce her to moderate in some degree the amount of this pretension; but she resisted firmly and decidedly. Now, I have recorded this circumstance here, – less for itself than to mention how by its means this little controversy led to a great intimacy between us, – inducing us, while defending our separate views, to discuss each other’s motives, and even characters, with the widest freedom. I called her enthusiast, and in return she styled me worldly and calculating; and, indeed, I tried to seem so, and fortified my opinions by prudential maxims and severe reflections I should have been sorely indisposed to adopt in my own case. I believe she saw all this. I am sure she read me aright, and perceived that I was arguing against my own convictions. At all events, day after day went over, and no answer came to the letter. I used to go each morning to the post in the village to inquire, but always returned with the same disheartening tidings, “Nothing to-day!”

      One of these mornings it was, that I was returning disconsolately from the village, Crofton, whom I believed at the time miles away on the mountains, overtook me. He came up from behind, and, passing his arm within mine, walked on some minutes without speaking. I saw plainly there was something on his mind, and I half dreaded lest he might have discovered his sister’s secret and have disapproved of my share in it.

      “Algy,” said he, calling me by my Christian name, which he very rarely did, “I have something to say to you. Can I be quite certain that you ‘ll take my frankness in good part?”

      “You can,” I said, with a great effort to seem calm and assured.

      “You give me your word upon it?”

      “I do,” said I, trying to appear bold; “and my hand be witness of it”

      “Well,” he resumed, drawing a long breath, “here it is. I have remarked that for above a week back you have never waited for the postboy’s return to the cottage, but always have come down to the village yourself.”

      I nodded assent, but said nothing.

      “I have remarked, besides,” said he, “that when told at the office there was no letter for you, you came away sad-looking and fretted, scarcely spoke for some time, and seemed altogether downcast СКАЧАТЬ