Part 4 (1/2)
”Gabriella,--is it you? How glad I am to see you!”
That clear, distinct, ringing voice!--I knew it well, though a year had pa.s.sed since I had heard its sound. The three years which made me, as I said before, a _wiser child_, had matured my champion, the boy of fifteen, into a youth of eighteen, a collegian of great promise and signal endowments. I felt very sorry when he left the academy, for he had been my steadfast friend and defender, and a great a.s.sistant in my scholastic tasks. But after he entered a college, I felt as if there were a great gulf between us, never more to be pa.s.sed over. I had very superb ideas of collegians. I had seen them during their holidays, which they frequently came into the country to spend, das.h.i.+ng through the streets like the wild huntsmen, on horses that struck fire as they flew along. I had seen them lounging in the streets, with long, wild hair, and corsair visages and Byronian collars, and imagined them a most formidable race of beings. I did not know that these were the _scape-goats_ of their cla.s.s, suspended for rebellion, or expelled for greater offences,--that having lost their character as students, they were resolved to distinguish themselves as dandies, the lowest ambition a son of Adam's race can feel. It is true, I did not dream that Richard Clyde could be transformed into their image, but I thought some marvellous change must take place, which would henceforth render him as much a stranger to me as though we had never met.
Now, when I heard the clear, glad accents of his voice, so natural, so unchanged, I looked up with a glance of delighted recognition into the young student's manly face. My first sensation was pleasure, the pleasure which congenial youth inspires, my next shame, for the homeliness of my occupation. I was standing by a beautiful bubbling spring, at the foot of a little hill near my mother's cottage. The welling spring, the rock over which it gushed, the trees which bent their branches over the fountain to guard it from the sunbeams, the sweet music the falling waters,--all these were romantic and picturesque. I might imagine myself ”a nymph, a naiad, or a grace.” Or, had I carried a pitcher in my hand, I might have thought myself another Rebecca, and poised on my shoulder the not ungraceful burden. But I was dipping water from the spring, in a tin pail, of a broad, clumsy, uncla.s.sic form,--too heavy for the shoulder, and extremely difficult to carry in the hand, in consequence of the small, wiry handle. In my confusion I dropped the pail, which went gaily floating to the opposite side of the spring, entirely out of my reach. The strong, bubbling current bore it upward, and it danced and sparkled and turned its sides of mimic silver, first one way and then the other, as if rejoicing in its liberty.
Richard laughed, his old merry laugh, and jumping on the rock over which the waters were leaping, caught the pail, and waved it as a trophy over his head. Then stooping down he filled it to the brim, gave one spring to the spot where I stood, whirled the bucket upside down and set it down on the gra.s.s without spilling a drop.
”That is too large and heavy for you to carry, Gabriella,” said he.
”Look at the palm of your hand, there is quite a red groove there made by that iron handle.”
”Never mind,” I answered, twisting my handkerchief carelessly round the tingling palm, ”I must get used to it. Peggy is sick and there is no one to carry water now but myself. When she is well, she will never let me do any thing of the kind.”
”You should not,” said he, decidedly. ”You are not strong enough,--you must get another servant.--I will inquire in the village myself this morning, and send you one.”
”O no, my mother would never consent to a stranger coming into the family. Besides, no one could take Peggy's place. She is less a servant than a friend.”
I turned away to hide the tears that I could not keep back. Peggy's illness, though not of an alarming character, showed that even her iron const.i.tution was not exempt from the ills which flesh is heir to,--that the strong pillar on which we leaned so trustingly _could_ vibrate and shake, and what would become of us if it were prostrated to the earth; the lonely column of fidelity and truth, to which we clung so adhesively; the sheet anchor which had kept us from sinking beneath the waves of adversity? I had scarcely realized Peggy's mortality before, she seemed so strong, so energetic, so untiring. I would as soon have thought of the sun's being weary in its mighty task as of Peggy's strong arm waxing weak. I felt very sad, and the meeting with Richard Clyde, which had excited a momentary joy, now deepened my sadness. He looked so bright, so prosperous, so full of hope and life. He was no longer the school-boy whom I could meet on equal terms, but the student entered on a public career of honor and distinction,--the son of ambition, whose gaze was already fixed on the distant hill-tops of fame. There was nothing in his countenance or manner that gave this impression, but my own morbid sensitiveness. The dawning feelings of womanhood made me blush for the plainness and childishness of my dress, and then I was ashamed of my shame, and blushed the more deeply.
”I am glad to see you again,” I said, stooping to raise my br.i.m.m.i.n.g pail,--”I suppose I must not call you Richard now.”
”Yes, indeed, I hope and trust none of my old friends will begin to Mr.
Clyde me for a long time to come, and least, I mean most of all, you, Gabriella. We were always such exceedingly good friends, you know. But don't be in such a hurry, I have a thousand questions to ask, a thousand things to tell.”
”I should love to hear them all, Richard, but I cannot keep my mother waiting.”
Before I could get hold of the handle of the pail, he had seized it and was swinging it along with as much ease as if he had a bunch of roses in his hand. We ascended the little hill together, he talking all the time, in a spirited, joyous manner, laughing at his awkwardness as he stumbled against a rolling stone, wis.h.i.+ng he was a school-boy again in the old academy, whose golden vane was once an object of such awe and admonition in his eyes.
”By the way, Gabriella,” he asked, changing from subject to subject with marvellous rapidity, ”do you ever write poetry now?”
”I have given that up, as one of the follies of my childhood, one of the dreams of my youth.”
”Really, you must be a very venerable person,--you talk of the youthful follies you have discarded, the dreams from which you have awakened, as if you were a real centenarian. I wonder if there are not some incipient wrinkles on your face.”
He looked at me earnestly, saucily; and I involuntarily put up my hands, as if to hide the traces of care his imagination was drawing.
”I really do feel old sometimes,” said I, smiling at the mock scrutiny of his gaze, ”and it is well I do. You know I am going to be a teacher, and youth will be my greatest objection.”
”No, no, I do not want you to be a teacher. You were not born for one.
You will not be happy as one,--you are too impulsive, too sensitive, too poetic in your temperament. You are the last person in the world who ought to think of such a vocation.”
”Would you advise me, then, to be a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, in preference?”
”I would advise you to continue your studies, to read, write poetry, ramble about the woods and commune with nature, as you so love to do, and not think of a.s.suming the duties of a woman, while you are yet nothing but a child. Oh! it is the most melancholy thing in the world to me, to see a person trying to get beyond their years. You must not do it, Gabriella. I wish I could make you stop _thinking_ for one year. I do not like to see a cheek as young as yours pale with overmuch thought.
Do you know you are getting very like your mother?”
”My mother!” I exclaimed, with a glow of pleasure at the fancied resemblance, ”why, she is the most beautiful person I have yet seen,--there is, there can be no likeness.”
”But there is, though. You speak as if you thought yourself quite ugly.
I wonder if you do. Ugly and old. Strange self-estimation for a pretty girl of fifteen!”