Fashion and Famine Part 30

"Now I am changed, you would say--now I am a different person--older, firmer, more self-possessed; yet it is only a few months ago. I may seem older and less timid--for in this little time I have thought and suffered--but then, I was more worthy of your love, for I had not learned to distrust my oldest friend. Like you, I have struggled against suspicion--and like you, I have failed to cast it forth. It has withered your gentle nature--mine it has embittered."

"Ah! but you had not my temptation. It was not his own mother who poisoned your mind against him."

"His mother? I did not know that either of his parents were living."

"That quiet, cold lady; the woman whom you have seen here! Did he never tell you that she was his mother?"

"He never even hinted it!" said Robert, greatly surprised.

"She told me so with her own lips: she warned me against him--she, his mother."

"Indeed!" said Robert, thoughtfully. "Yet with what coldness she received him!"

"It is not her nature," answered Florence, and her eyes filled with grateful tears. "To me, her kindness has been unvaried; there is something almost holy in her calm, sweet affection: but for this I had not been so unhappy. Had I detected prejudice, temper, anything selfish mingled with her words, they would never have reached my heart; but now, I cannot turn from her. With all her stately coldness she had something of his power--I dare not doubt her. But I will not believe the warning she gave me."

Robert walked up and down the room. New and stern thoughts were making their way in his mind. Grat.i.tude is a powerful feeling, but it possesses none of the infatuation and blindness which characterizes the grand pa.s.sion. Suspicions that had haunted his conscience like crimes, were beginning to shape themselves into stubborn facts. Still he would not yield to them. Like the gentle girl, drooping before his eyes, he dared not believe anything against William Leicester. Humiliation, nay, almost ruin, lay in the thought.

CHAPTER XIV.

A WEDDING FORESHADOWED.

When her heart was all dreary and burdened with fears, Hope came like a seraph and touched it with light, Like suns.h.i.+ne or rain-drops it kindled her tears Till they trembled like stars 'mid her soul's quick delight.

Florence had taken up her pencil again, but still remained inactive, gazing wistfully through the lace curtains, at the little fountain flinging up a storm of spray amid flowers gorgeous with autumn tints and the crisp brown that had settled on the little gra.s.s-plat.

Notwithstanding the dahlias were in a glow of rich tints, and the chrysanthemums sheeted with white, rosy, and golden blossoms, there was a tinge of decay upon the leaves, very beautiful, but always productive of mournful feelings. Florence had felt this influence more than usual that morning, and now to her excited nerves there was something in the glow of those flowers, and the soft rush of water-drops, that made her heart sink.

If the autumn and summer had been so dreary, with all the warmth and brightness of suns.h.i.+ne and blossoms, what had the winter of promise to her? Spite of herself she looked down to the thin, white hand that lay so listlessly on the paper, and gazed on it till tears swelled once more against those half-closed eye-lids. "How desolate to be buried in the winter, and away from all----" These were the thoughts that arose in that young heart. The objects that gave rise to them were flowers, autumn flowers, the richest and most beautiful things on earth. Thus it often happens in life, that lovely things awake our most painful and bitter feelings, either by a mocking contrast with the sorrow that is within us, or because they are a.s.sociated with the memory of wasted happiness.

As Florence sat gazing upon the half veiled splendor of the garden flowers, she saw a man open the little gate, and move with a slow, heavy step toward the door. The face was unfamiliar, and the fact of any strange person seeking that dwelling was rare enough to excite some nervous trepidation in a young and fragile creature like Florence.

"There is some one coming," she said, addressing Robert, who was thoughtfully pacing the room, with a tone and look of alarm quite disproportioned to the occasion. "Will you go to the door, I believe every one is out except us?"

Robert shook off the train of thought that had made him unconscious of the heavy footsteps now plainly heard in the veranda, and went to the door.

Jacob Strong did not seem in the least embarra.s.sed, though nothing could be supposed further from his thoughts than an encounter with the young man in that place. Perhaps he lost something of the abruptness unconsciously maintained during his walk, for his mien instantly a.s.sumed a loose, almost slouching carelessness, such as had always characterized it in the presence of Leicester or his protege.

"Well, how do you do, Mr. Otis? I didn't just expect to find you here!

Hain't got much to do down at the store, I reckon?"

"Never mind that, Mr. Strong," answered the youth, good-humoredly, "but tell me what brought you here. Some message from Mr. Leicester, ha!"

"Well, now, you do beat all at guessing," answered Jacob, drawing forth the billet-doux with which he was charged. "Ain't there a young gal a-living here, Miss Flo--Florence Craft? If that ain't the name, I can't cipher it out any how!"

"Yes, that is the name--Miss Craft does live here," said Robert. "Let me have the note--I will deliver it."

"Not as you know on, Mr. Otis," replied Jacob, with a look of shrewd determination. "Mr. Leicester told me to give this ere little concern into the gal's own hand, and I always obey orders though I break owners.

Jest be kind enough to show me where the young critter is, and I'll do my errand and back again in less than no time."

"Very well, come this way; Miss Craft will receive the note herself."

Florence was standing near the window, her bright, eager eyes were turned upon the door, she had overheard Leicester's name, and it thrilled through every nerve of her body.

Jacob entered with his usual heavy indifference. He looked a moment at the young girl, and then held out the note. Robert fancied that a shade of feeling swept over that usually composed face, but the lace curtains were waving softly to a current of air let in through the open doors, and it might be the transient shadows thus flung upon his face. Still there was something keen and intelligent in the glance with which Jacob regarded the young girl while she bent over the note.

Suddenly he bent those keen, grey eyes, now full of meaning, and almost stern in their searching power, upon the youth himself. Robert grew restless beneath that strict scrutiny, the color mounted to his forehead, and as a relief he turned toward Florence.

She was busy reading the note, apparently unconscious of the person, but oh, how wildly beautiful her face had become! Her eyes absolutely sparkled through the drooping lashes; her small mouth was parted in a glowing smile--you could see the pearly edges of her teeth behind the bright red of lips that seemed just bathed in wine. She trembled from head to foot, not violently, but a blissful s.h.i.+ver, like that which stirs a leaf at noonday, in the calm summer time, wandered over her delicate frame. Twice--three times, she read the note, and then her soft eyes were uplifted and turned upon Robert, in all their glorious joy.

"See!" she said, and her voice was one burst of melody--"Oh, what ingrates we have been to doubt him!" In her bright triumph, she held forth the note, but as Robert advanced to receive it, she drew back. "I had forgotten," she said, "I alone was to know it; but you can guess--you can see how happy it has made me."

Robert Otis turned away, somewhat annoyed by this half confidence.

Florence, without heeding this, sat down by the table, and, with the open note before her, prepared to answer it, but her excitement was too eager--her hand too unsteady. After several vain efforts, she took the note and ran up stairs.

Thus Jacob and Robert were left alone together. The youth, possessed by his own thoughts, seemed quite unconscious of the companions.h.i.+p forced upon him. He sat down on the couch which Florence had occupied, and, leaning upon the table, supported his forehead with one hand. Jacob stood in his old place, regarding the varied expressions that came and went on that young face. His own rude features were greatly disturbed, and at this moment bore a look that approached to anguish. Twice he moved, as if to approach Robert--and then fell back irresolute; but at last, he strode forward, and before the youth was aware of the movement, a hand lay heavily upon his shoulder.

"So you love her, my boy?"

Robert started. The drawling tone, the rude Down East enunciation was gone. The man who stood before him seemed to have changed his ident.i.ty.

Rude and uncouth he certainly was--but even in this, there was something imposing. Robert looked at him with parted lips and wondering eyes--there was something even of awe in his astonishment.

"Tell me, boy," continued Jacob, and his voice was full of tenderness--"tell me, is it love for this girl, that makes you thoughtful? Are you jealous of William Leicester?"

Robert lost all presence of mind--he did not answer--but sat motionless, with his eyes turned upon the changed face bending close to his.

"Will you not speak to me, Robert Otis? You may--you should, for I am an honest man."

"I believe you are!" said Robert, starting up and reaching forth his hand--"I know that you are, for my heart leaps toward you. What was the question? I will answer it now. Did you ask if I loved Florence Craft?"

"Yes, that was it--I would know; otherwise events may shape themselves unluckily. I trust, Robert, that in this you have escaped the snare."

"I do not understand you, but can answer your question a great deal better than I could have done three days ago. I do love Miss Craft as it has always seemed to me that I should love a sister, had one been made an orphan with me: I would do any thing for her, sacrifice anything for her. Once I thought this love, but now I know better. There was another question--am I jealous of William Leicester? I do not know; my heart sinks when I see them together--I cannot force myself to wish her his wife, and yet this repugnance is unaccountable to myself. He is my friend--she something even dearer than a sister; but my very soul revolts at the thought of their union. It was this that made me thoughtful: I do not love Florence in your meaning of the word; I am not jealous of Mr. Leicester; but G.o.d forgive me! there is something in my heart that rises up against him! There, sir, you have my answer. I may be imprudent--I may be wrong; but it cannot be helped now."

"You have been neither imprudent nor wrong," answered Jacob, laying his hand on the bent head of the youth. "I am a plain man, but you will find in me a safer counsellor than you imagine--a wiser one--though not more sincere--than your good aunt."

"Then you know my aunt?" cried Robert, profoundly astonished.

"It would have been well had you confided even in her, on Thanksgiving night, when you were so near confessing the difficulties that seem so terrible to you. A few words then, might have relieved all your troubles."

"Then Mr. Leicester has told--has betrayed me to--to his servant, I would not have believed it!" Robert grew pale as he spoke; there was shame and terror in his face; deep bitterness in his tone; he was suffering the keen pangs which a first proof of treachery brings to youth.

"No, you wrong Mr. Leicester there--he has not betrayed you, never will, probably, nor do I know the exact nature of your anxieties."

"But who are you then? An hour ago I could have answered this question, or thought so. Now, you bewilder me; I can scarcely recognize any look or tone about you--which is the artificial? which the real?"