MATINAL

Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shivered in my narrow frame.

Tennyson.

The next morning was brilliant and cool, the earth and heavens shining after the rain of the past night. I was dressed long, long before breakfast: it would be so tiresome to wait in my room till the bell rang; yet if I went down-stairs, would it not look as if I wanted to see Mr. Langenau again? I need not go to the library, of course, but I could scarcely avoid being seen from the library if I went out. But why suppose that he would be down again so early? It was very improbable, and so, affectionately deceived, I put on a hat and walking-jacket and stole down the stairs. I saw by the clock in the lower hall that it was half an hour earlier than I had come down the morning before; at which I was secretly chagrined, for now there was no danger, alias hope, of seeing Mr. Langenau.

But probably he had forgotten all about the foolish half-hour that had given me so much to think about. I glanced into the library, which was empty, and hurried out of the hall-door, secretly disappointed.

I took the path that led over the hill to the river. It passed through the garden, under the long arbors of grapevines, over the hill, and through a grove of maples, ending at the river where the boat-house stood. The brightness of the morning was not lost on me, and before I reached the maple-grove I was buoyant and happy. At the entrance of the grove (which was traversed by several paths, the principal coming up directly from the river) I came suddenly upon the tutor, walking rapidly, with a pair of oars over his shoulder. He started, and for a moment we both stood still and did not speak. I could only think with confusion of my emotion when he sang.

“You are always early,” he said, with his slight, very slight, foreign accent, “earlier than yesterday by half an hour,” he added, looking at his watch. My heart gave a great bound of pleasure. Then he had not forgotten! How he must have seen all this.

He stood and talked with me for some moments, and then desperately I made a movement to go on. I do not believe, at least I am not sure, that at first he had any intention of going with me. But it was not in human nature to withstand the flattery of such emotion as his presence seemed always to inspire in me; and then, I have no doubt, he had a certain pleasure in talking to me outside of that; and then the morning was so lovely and he had so much of books.

He proposed to show me a walk I had not taken. There was a little hesitation in his manner, but he was reassured by my look of pleasure, and throwing down the oars under a tree, he turned and walked beside me. No doubt he said to himself, “America! This paradise of girlhood; there can be no objection.” It was heavenly sweet, that walk the birds, the sky, the dewiness and freshness of all nature and all life. It seemed the unstained beginning of all things to me.

The woods were wet; we could not go through them, and so we went a longer way, along the river and back by the road.

This time he did not do all the talking, but made me talk, and listened carefully to all I said; and I was so happy, talking was not any effort.

At last he made some allusion to the music of last night; that he was so glad to see that I loved music as I did. “But I don’t particularly,” I said in confusion, with a great fear of being dishonest, “at least I never thought I did before, and I am so ignorant. I don’t want you to think I know anything about it, for you would be disappointed.” He was silent, and, I felt sure, because he was already disappointed; in fear of which I went on to say

“I never heard any one sing like that before; I am very sorry that it gave any one an impression that I had a knowledge of music, when I hadn’t. I don’t care about it generally, except in church, and I can’t understand what made me feel so yesterday.”

“Perhaps it is because you were in the mood for it,” he said. “It is often so, one time music gives us pleasure, another time it does not.”

“That may be so; but your voice, in speaking, even, seems to me different from any other. It is almost as good as music when you speak; only the music fills me with such feelings.”

“You must let me sing for you again,” he said, rather low, as we walked slowly on.

“Ah; if you only will,” I answered, with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

We walked on in silence till we reached the gate: he opened it for me and then said, “Now I must leave you, and go back for the oars.”

I was secretly glad of this; since the walk had reached its natural limit and its end must be accepted, it was a relief to approach the house alone and not be the subject of any observation.

Breakfast had began: no one seemed to feel much interest in my entrance, though flaming with red roses and red cheeks.

They were of the sex that do not notice such things naturally, with much interest or admiration. They had hardly “shaken off drowsy-hed,” and had no pleasure in anything but their breakfast, and not much in that.

“How do you manage to get yourself up and dressed at such inhuman hours?” said Mary Leighton, querulously.

“You are a reproach to the household, and we will not suffer it,” said Charlotte Benson.

“I never could understand this thing of getting up before you are obliged to,” added Henrietta plaintively.

But Sophie seemed well satisfied, particularly when Mr. Langenau came in and I looked down into my cup of tea, instead of saying good-morning to him. He did not say very much, though there was a good deal of babble among the others, principally about his music.

It was becoming the fashion to be very attentive to him. He was made to promise to play in the evening; to bring down his books of music for the benefit of Miss Henrietta, who wanted to practice, Heaven knows what of his. His advice was asked about styles of playing and modes of instruction; he was deferred to as an authority. But very little he seemed to care about it all, I thought.