There was a slight stir in the hall,
and Ralph came into Mrs. Harrington’s room followed
by Lina, both brilliant and smiling, as if the conservatory
in which they had loitered away the hours, had bathed
them with the perfume of its blossoms.
“Oh, mamma, it is so pleasant!”
cried Lina, stealing forward and seating herself on
a cushion at Mabel’s feet. “Isn’t
this a beautiful, beautiful day?”
“All days are beautiful to the
light-hearted,” answered Mabel, burying her
hand fondly in the golden curls that fell, a perfect
network of light, from Lina’s drooping head.
“I thought it very dull and heavy this morning;
now, the air seems invigorating as old wine. Still,
I think the day itself has changed but little.”
“Hasn’t it?” questioned
Lina, looking up tenderly through the sunny mist of
her hair. “But you are so much better, and
look so blooming perhaps it is that.”
“Perhaps,” said Ralph,
stooping down and kissing his mother’s forehead,
“it’s because we are all together again;
even this room seems like a desert, when our lady
mother is absent. This should be a gala day with
us; what shall we do, Lina? Crown her with roses,
or bring an offering of fruit and nuts from the hills.”
“I will give her some music,”
answered Lina, springing up and taking her guitar
from a sofa, where it had been lying, neglected and
untuned; “mamma shall have a serenade.”
Lina flung the broad, blue ribbon
attached to the guitar over her neck; and, seating
herself again, began to tune her instrument, with her
pleasant eyes lifted to Mabel’s face.
“Now, what shall it be about,”
she inquired, casting a half-coquettish look at Ralph,
and blushing like a damask rose beneath the brightness
of his eyes. “What shall I sing about,
mamma?”
“Oh, love, sing of nothing but
love, to-day, sweet Lina,” whispered Ralph,
as he stooped down and pretended to adjust the ribbon
over her white neck.
“Shall I, mamma?” said Lina.
“Sing anything that pleases you,” answered
Mabel.
“Then it shall be some lines,
mamma, that I found in an old book in the library,
with the leaves of a white rose folded in the paper.
It was yellow with age, and so were the poor, dead
leaves. I took it to my room, learned it by heart,
and found out that it went by the music of an old
song which Ralph and I used to sing together.
That is all I know about love,” continued the
rogue, with a blush and a glance upward.
“Well, well, pretty torment,
begin,” whispered Ralph, again busy with the
ribbon.
For a moment, Lina’s little
hand fluttered like a bird over the strings of her
guitar; then it made a graceful dash, and her voice
broke forth:
Like a water-lily floating,
On the bosom of
a rill,
Like a star sent back to Heaven,
When the lake
is calm and still;
A woman’s soul lies
dreaming,
On the stilly
waves of life,
Till love comes with its sunshine
Its tenderness
and strife.
Then hope grows bright and
glorious,
Her faith is deep
and strong,
And her thoughts swell out
like music
Set to a heavenly
song;
Her heart has twined its being,
And awakes from
its repose
As that water-lily trembles
When its chalice
overflows.
Then she feels a new existence
For the loveless
do not live!
The best wealth of the universe
Is hers to keep
and give
Wealth, richer than earth’s
golden veins
That yield their
blood to toil,
And brighter than the diamond
lights
That burn within
the soil.
Oh, her soul is full of richness,
Like a goblet
of old wine
Wreathed in with purple blossoms
And soft tendrils
of the vine;
Its holy depths grow luminous,
Its strings are
sweet with tune,
And the visions floating through
it
Have the rosiness
of June.
Oh, she counts not time by
cycles,
Since the day
that she was born!
From the soul-time of a woman
Let all the years
be shorn
Not full of grateful happiness
Not brimming o’er
with love
Not speaking of her womanhood
To the Holy One
above.
Mabel gave a start as the first words
of this melody fell upon her ear, and the slow crimson
stole over her face; she kept her gaze steadily on
the carpet, and had any one looked at her, the sadness
of her countenance must have been remarked. But
the young people were occupied with each other, and
James Harrington sat, like herself, preoccupied and
listening. As Lina broke into another and lighter
air, the two looked up, and their eyes met. The
blush on Mabel’s cheek spread and glowed over
her brow and temples. She arose, and went to the
window.
“You have heard this before,
I think,” said Harrington, following her.
“Yes,” answered Mabel,
regaining self-control; “and always truthful.
I remembered it at once.”
“And the author?”
Again Mabel blushed. “Oh, it was written
years ago.”
“Then you were the author?”
“Oh, yes; why not. I wrote a great many
trifles like that at one time.”
“I knew it; I was sure of it.”
That instant the governess came in,
followed by Fair-Star, who began to plunge and caper
at the sight of his mistress. Agnes looked keenly
at Mrs. Harrington’s flushed face; but, the
covert smile, dawning on her lip, vanished, as she
saw Ralph in the chair his mother had abandoned, bending
over Lina; who sat upon the cushion, trifling with
her guitar, from which, in her confusion, she drew
forth a broken strain, now and then.