Part 19 (2/2)
Here, one afternoon, a fortnight after the departure of his friends, sat Edward Houstoun with Lucy at his side. They had lingered till the sunlight, which had fallen here and there in broken and changeful gleams through over-arching boughs, touching with gold the ripples at their feet, had faded into that
”mellow light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
Edward Houstoun held a book in his hand, but it had long been closed, while he was engaged in a far more interesting study. He had with a delicate tact won his companion to speak as she had never spoken before of herself--not of the few events of her short life, for these were already known to him, but of the influence of those events on feeling and character. Tenderness looked forth without disguise from the earnest eyes which were fastened on her, as he said, ”You say, Lucy, that you have found friends every where, have met only kindness, and yet you weep--you are sad.”
”Do not think me ungrateful,” she replied. ”I have indeed found friends and kindness--but these give exercise only to my grat.i.tude--stronger, tenderer affections I have, which no father, or mother, or brother, or sister, will ever call forth.”
”Nay, Lucy, were you not adopted by my father, and am I not your brother?”
A glance whose brightness melted into tears was her only answer.
”Fie! fie! tears again? I shall have to scold my sister,” said Edward Houstoun. ”What complaint can you make now that I have found you a brother?”
Lucy laughed, but soon her face grew grave, and, after a thoughtful pause, she said, ”I believe those cannot be quite happy who feel that they have nothing to do in the world. Better be the poorest drudge, with powers fitted to your station, than to be as I am, an idler--a mere looker-on at the world.”
”Why, Lucy! what else am I?”
”You! You, with fortune to bless, and influence to guide hundreds!
What are you? G.o.d's representative to your less fortunate fellow-creatures--the steward of his bounty. Oh! be sure that you use your gifts faithfully.”
Lucy spoke solemnly, and it was with no light accent that Edward Houstoun replied--”You mistake, Lucy--you mistake--I am in truth no less an idler than yourself--a looker-on, with no part in the game of life.
To the Lady Houstoun belong both the fortune and the influence.” A mocking smile had arisen to his lip, but, as he caught her look of surprise, it pa.s.sed away, leaving a gentle gravity in its place, while he continued--”Do not think I mean to complain of my mother, Lucy. She has been ever affectionate and indulgent to me. She leaves me no want that she can perceive. My purse is always full, and my actions unrestrained. I suppose I ought to be happy.”
”And are you not happy?”
”No, Lucy, no! There has long been a vague restlessness and dissatisfaction about me--and, now, your words have thrown light on its cause. I am weary of the perpetual holiday which life has been to me since I left the walls of a college. I want to be doing--I want an object--something for which to strive and hope and fear--what shall it be, Lucy?”
”I have heard Mr. Merton say that no one could choose for another his aims in life, but were I choosing for myself, it should be something that would connect me with the minds of others--something by which I could do service to their spiritual beings. Were I a man, I should like to write books--such books as would give counsel and comfort to erring and sad hearts--”
Edward Houstoun shook his head--”Even had I an author's gifts, Lucy, that would not do for me--I must have action in my life--”
”What say you to the pulpit?”
”The n.o.blest of all employments, Lucy--but it is a heavenly employment and needs a heavenly spirit. I would not dare to think of that. Try again--”
”The law? Ah! now I see I have chosen rightly--you will be a lawyer--a great lawyer, like Mr. Patrick Henry.”
”You have spoken, Lucy--and I will do my best to fulfil your prophecy. I may not be a Patrick Henry--two such men belong not to one age--but I may at least hew out for myself a place among men, where I may stand with a man's freedom of thought and action. The very decision has emanc.i.p.ated me--has emboldened me to speak what a moment since I scarcely dared to think--nay, turn not from me, beloved--oh how pa.s.sionately beloved! Life has now its object for me, Lucy--your love--for that I will strive--hope--whisper me that I need not fear--that when I have a right to claim my bride--”
When Edward Houstoun commenced this pa.s.sionate apostrophe, he had clasped Lucy's hand, and, overcome by his emotions and her own--forgetting all but his love--conscious only of a bewildering joy--she had suffered it to rest for one instant in his clasp. It was but for one instant--the next, struggling from him as he strove to retain her, she started to her feet, and stood leaning against the trunk of the tree that overshadowed them, with her face hidden by her clasped hands. He rose and drew near, saying, in low, tremulous tones--”Lucy, what means this?”
”Mr. Houstoun,” she exclaimed, removing her hands from her face, and wringing them in pa.s.sionate sorrow--”how could you speak those words?”
”Wherefore should I not speak them--are they so terrifying to you, Lucy?”
”Can they be otherwise, since they must separate us for ever? Think you that the Lady Houstoun would endure that the creature of her bounty should become the wife of her son?”
”I asked, Lucy, that you would promise to be mine when I had won a right to act independently of the Lady Houstoun's opinions.”
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