VI.
After seeing Lucy into her aunt's most cheerful parlor, and
seating her by the honeysuckle that half clambered into the
window there; and near to which was her easel for crayon-sketching,
upon part of whose frame Lucy had cunningly
trained two slender vines, into whose earth-filled pots two of
the three legs of the easel were inserted; and sitting down
himself by her, and by his pleasant, lightsome chat, striving to
chase the last trace of sadness from her; and not till his object
seemed fully gained; Pierre rose to call her good aunt to her, and
so take his leave till evening, when Lucy called him back, begging
him first to bring her the blue portfolio from her chamber,
for she wished to kill her last lingering melancholy—if any indeed
did linger now—by diverting her thoughts, in a little
pencil sketch, to scenes widely different from those of Saddle
Meadows and its hills.
So Pierre went up stairs, but paused on the threshold of
the open door. He never had entered that chamber but with
feelings of a wonderful reverentialness. The carpet seemed as
holy ground. Every chair seemed sanctified by some departed
saint, there once seated long ago. Here his book of Love was
all a rubric, and said—Bow now, Pierre, bow. But this extreme
loyalty to the piety of love, called from him by such
glimpses of its most secret inner shrine, was not unrelieved betimes
by such quickenings of all his pulses, that in fantasy he
pressed the wide beauty of the world in his embracing arms;
for all his world resolved itself into his heart's best love for
Lucy.
Now, crossing the magic silence of the empty chamber, he
caught the snow-white bed reflected in the toilet-glass. This
rooted him. For one swift instant, he seemed to see in that
one glance the two separate beds—the real one and the reflected
one—and an unbidden, most miserable presentiment thereupon
stole into him. But in one breath it came and went. So
he advanced, and with a fond and gentle joyfulness, his eye
now fell upon the spotless bed itself, and fastened on a snow-white
roll that lay beside the pillow. Now he started; Lucy
seemed coming in upon him; but no—'tis only the foot of one
of her little slippers, just peeping into view from under the narrow
nether curtains of the bed. Then again his glance fixed
itself upon the slender, snow-white, ruffled roll; and he stood
as one enchanted. Never precious parchment of the Greek
was half so precious in his eyes. Never trembling scholar
longed more to unroll the mystic vellum, than Pierre longed to
unroll the sacred secrets of that snow-white, ruffled thing. But
his hands touched not any object in that chamber, except the
one he had gone thither for.
“Here is the blue portfolio, Lucy. See, the key hangs to its
silver lock;—were you not fearful I would open it?—'twas
tempting, I must confess.”
“Open it!” said Lucy—“why, yes, Pierre, yes; what secret
thing keep I from thee? Read me through and through. I
am entirely thine. See!” and tossing open the portfolio, all
manner of rosy things came floating from it, and a most delicate
perfume of some invisible essence.
“Ah! thou holy angel, Lucy!”
“Why, Pierre, thou art transfigured; thou now lookest as
one who—why, Pierre?”
“As one who had just peeped in at paradise, Lucy;
and—”
“Again wandering in thy mind, Pierre; no more—Come,
you must leave me, now. I am quite rested again. Quick,
call my aunt, and leave me. Stay, this evening we are to look
over the book of plates from the city, you know. Be early;—
go now, Pierre.”
“Well, good-bye, till evening, thou height of all delight.”
