Part 2 (1/2)

I did not think Mr. Regulus capable of so much unkindness. He has cancelled this day a debt of grat.i.tude.”

”My poor Gabriella,” she again repeated, laying her delicate hand gently on my head. ”I fear you have a great deal to contend with in this rough world. The flowers of poesy are sweet, but poverty is a barren soil, my child. The dew that moistens it, is tears.”

I felt a tear on my hand as she spoke. Child as I was, I thought that tear more holy and precious than the dew of heaven. Flowers nurtured by such moisture must be sweet.

”I will never write any more,” I exclaimed, with desperate resolution.

”I will never more expose myself to ridicule and contempt.”

”Write as you have hitherto done, for my gratification and your own.

Your simple strains have beguiled my lonely hours. But had I known your purpose, I would have warned you of the consequences. The child who attempts to soar above its companions is sure to be dragged down by the hand of envy. Your teacher saw in your effusion an unpardonable effort to rise above himself,--to diverge from the beaten track. You may have indulged too much in the dreams of imagination. You may have neglected your duties as a pupil. Lay your hand on your heart and ask it to reply.”

She spoke so calmly, so soothingly, so rationally, the fever of imagination subsided. I saw the triumph of reason and principle in her own self-control,--for, when I was describing the scene, her mild eye flashed, and her pale cheek colored with an unwonted depth of hue. She had to struggle with her own emotions, that she might subdue mine.

”May I ask him to pardon Richard Clyde, mother?”

”The act would become your grat.i.tude, but I fear it would avail nothing.

If he has required submission of him, he will hardly accept yours as a subst.i.tute.”

”Must I ask him to forgive me? Must I return?”

I hung breathlessly on her reply.

”Wait till morning, my daughter. We shall both feel differently then. I would not have you yield to the dictates of pa.s.sion, neither would I have you forfeit your self-respect. I must not rashly counsel.”

”I would not let her go back at all,” exclaimed a firm, decided voice.

”They ain't fit to hold the water to wash her hands.”

”Peggy,” said my mother, rebukingly, ”you forget yourself.”

”I always try to do that,” she replied, while she placed on the table my customary supper of bread and milk.

”Yes, indeed you do,” answered my mother, gratefully,--”kind and faithful friend. But humility becometh my child better than pride.”

Peggy looked hard at my mother, with a mixture of reverence, pity, and admiration in her clear, honest eye, then taking a coa.r.s.e towel, she rubbed a large silver spoon, till it shone brighter and brighter, and laid it by the side of my bowl. She had first spread a white napkin under it, to give my simple repast an appearance of neatness and gentility. The bowl itself was white, with a wreath of roses round the rim, both inside and out. Those rosy garlands had been for years the delight of my eyes. I always hailed the appearance of the glowing leaves, when the milky fluid sunk below them, with a fresh appreciation of their beauty. They gave an added relish to the Arcadian meal. They fed my love of the beautiful and the pure. That large, bright silver spoon,--I was never weary of admiring that also. It was ma.s.sive--it was grand--and whispered a tale of former grandeur. Indeed, though the furniture of our cottage was of the simplest, plainest kind, there were many things indicative of an earlier state of luxury and elegance. My mother always used a golden thimble,--she had a toilet case inlaid with pearl, and many little articles appropriate only to wealth, and which wealth only purchases. These were never displayed, but I had seen them, and made them the corner-stones of many an airy castle.

CHAPTER IV.

And who was Peggy?

She was one of the best and n.o.blest women G.o.d ever made. She was a treasury of heaven's own influences.

And yet she wore the form of a servant, and like her divine Master, there was ”no beauty” in her that one should desire to look upon her.

She had followed my mother through good report and ill report. She had clung to her in her fallen fortunes as something sacred, almost divine.

As the Hebrew to the ark of the covenant,--as the Greek to his country's palladium,--as the children of Freedom to the star-spangled banner,--so she clung in adversity to her whom in prosperity she almost wors.h.i.+pped.