University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
The two Cupids.

The warm hearted Mr. Lee, when he came to
learn the particulars of the transaction recorded in
our last chapter, hugged Highfield in his arms, called
him his son; and came very near letting out the
secret of his long cherished intentions to his daughter.
He then fell upon the corporation, that unfortunate
pack-horse, on whose back is saddled all the
abominations which petulance conjures into existence,
or the itch for scribbling, lays before the
public.

“Confound the stupid blockheads!” exclaimed
he. “They make laws against flying kites, exploding
crackers, sticking up elephants over people's-heads
for signs, and cumbering the streets with empty
boxes and barrels; and yet, they allow the women
to wear bonnets that frighten horses out of their discretion!
For my part, I don't see the distinction,
not I.”

“But my good friend,” said Mr. Fairweather,
who had called in to make his friendly inquiries—
“I differ with you—I think there is a marked distinction
between a fine lady, and an empty barrel.”

“Oh well, if we differ, there is an end of the argument,”
quoth the other.

“An end of the argument! why it is generally
the beginning.”

“Very well—very well—I have no time to argue
the question now.”

Mr. Fairweather took up his hat, and went away
by himself, pondering in his mind, what could have
come over his old friend. It was the first time, since
he knew him, that he had declined an argument.

Lucia and Highfield met the next morning; the
former languid with her fright, the latter pale, and
stiff with his bruises. Lucia was netting a purse.
She thanked him, in simple, unaffected, heartfelt
terms; for it is only affectation that deals in pompous
phrases. The tears came into her eyes, as she
noticed his wounded hands, and perceived, by the
slight variations that passed over his countenance,
that every motion was acccompanied with acute
pain.

“I shall never forget,” said she, “that you saved
my life.”

“Nor I,” said Highfield, and these two simple
words were all he uttered on the subject.

Lucia was mortified that he should have missed so
good an opportunity of being eloquent. She had
been brought up with people who considered words of
more consequence than actions; and a fine speech,
in celebration of an exploit of heroism far superior
to the act itself. Lucia threw the purse carelessly

into her work basket; and just then, Mr. Goshawk
entered, to inquire how she did, after the accident.
Then it was, that our heroine, was lifted off her feet,
by a flow of inspired eloquence, which cast into the
shade, the manly simplicity of poor Highfield's courage
and self-possession. He spoke of his horror
at her danger—the overpowering feelings that absolutely
bewildered his mind, and prevented his thinking
of any thing but himself, and his intense sufferings.
He detailed his waking thoughts on coming
home; and his terrible dreams, in which he saw her
struggle with indiscribable dangers, and performed
acts in her behalf, that no waking man ever dreamed
of. In short, he made himself out the hero of the
affair, and before he had finished, actually persuaded
Lucia, that honest Highfield was but a secondary
person in the business.

“Behold,” said he, “how I employed the melancholy,
soul subduing hours of the last night; for
you may suppose, I did not close my eyes.”

“Oh, then I suppose you dreamed with your eyes
open,” said Highfield, smiling.

“A man need not shut his eyes to dream, Mr.
Highfield,” quoth Goshawk, pompously. At the
same time presenting Lucia with a perfumed sheet
of paper. She opened it, and read, with sparkling
eyes—

hummed Highfield, as he sauntered out of the
room.

“He has no more sentiment, nor feeling, enthusiasm,
or genius, than—than”—Lucia could not hit
upon a comparison expressive of her indignation.

“Alas! the more happy he!” sighed Fitzgiles
Goshawk. “He knows not what it is to eat the bitter
aloes of disappointed hopes, to dream of impossible
attainments, to stand on tiptoe, catching at incomprehensible
chimeras; to place his heart on
what it dares not contemplate, except at an unapproachable
distance that mocks even the imagination
to despair; to die of disappointments, in what,
from first to last, he knew was out of his reach; to
pass from the sight of men, the light of the sun, and
the perplexities of the world, and leave nothing behind
him but an empty name. Oh! Lucia, pity
me,” cried he, taking her hand.

“I do, indeed I do,” cried Lucia, overpowered
by this picture of mysterious griefs. “I pity, and
would relieve you if I knew how. Only tell me
what is the matter?

“I love, and I despair!”

“Whom?” said Lucia, with a palpitating heart.

“One throned in yon galaxy of stars, brighter
than Venus, and purer than the milky way—one, of
whom I wake only to dream, and dream only to
awake in astonishment at my presumptuous visions.
One so far above the sphere of my aspiring hopes,
that like the glorious sun, I only live in the consuming

rays of her beauty, without daring to look in
the full face of her brightness, lest I should be struck
blind.”

“Why this must be a queen at least,” said Lucia,
blushing with a whispering consciousness.

“The queen of love and beauty,” replied Goshawk,
delighted at his happy rejoinder. They
remained silent a few moments, it being impossible
to descend from the heights of sentimental twaddle
to the level of ordinary matters, without stopping to
take breath by the way.

“Tell me, Miss Lee, tell me what is love,” said
Goshawk at length, with a languishing air.

“I don't know,” replied Lucia, blushing.

“Shall I answer for you?” said Highfield, who
entered at that moment. Lucia started a little, and
Goshawk looked rather foolish.

“Love is a fantastic assemblage of the follies of
childhood and the passions of age. A little, scoundrel
hypocrite, who, while rolling his hoop or chasing
a butterfly, disguises under the innocent sports of a
boy, the most selfish and dishonourable intentions.
He is the deity of professions, disguises, affectation,
and selfishness; is never satisfied unless acting in
opposition to reason, propriety, and duty; and is
pictured a child, because he studies only his own
gratification, and never keeps his promises.”

Goshawk seemed not to admire this sketch, but
for some reason or other, he was not so ready with
a flight as usual. Lucia took up the defence of the
little godhead.

“Oh, what a monster you have made of him!”
said she.

“But there is another and a nobler love,” resumed
Highfield, with more enthusiasm than he had
ever before displayed in the presence of his cousin,
“there is another and a nobler love, the divinity of
rational and virtuous man. A grown up, finished
being, that knows no other wish than the happiness
of its object; that neither lies, nor feigns, nor flatters,
nor deceives; that is neither degraded by
disappointment, nor presumptuous with success;
that, while it respects itself, still pays a willing homage,
and offers at the feet of its mistress what it
never sacrificed to fear or favour, to the claims of
man, the temptations of interest, or the tyranny of
the passions; its own free will and its power of
independent action.”

The tones of Highfield's voice were such as I
have sometimes, but rarely heard, in my pilgrimage
through this world of jarring discords; they were
those that give to nonsense the charm of music, and
to precept the magic of persuasion. He spoke with
a manly simplicity, a chastened feeling, a firm and
settled earnestness, which hypocrisy always overleaps,
and affectation only caricatures. Even childhood
comprehends it, and the votaries of bad taste
at once recognise it for truth. The exertion of
speaking, or it may be the glow of his smothered
feelings, had banished for a moment his ashy paleness,
and brought a fire into his cheek that added to

his natural attractions. He stood with one arm in
a sling, partly leaning against the mantel-piece, and
there was in his whole appearance an evident struggle
between the weakness of his body and the
strength of his feelings.

Neither Mr. Goshawk nor Lucia made any reply.
The former was cowed by the majesty of honest,
unaffected manhood, giving utterance to its feelings
with the simple energy of deep conviction; the latter
felt as she had never felt while Mr. Goshawk was
pouring out his sentimental flummery. She knew
she was listening to one in earnest, who was either
describing what he felt at the moment or was capable
of feeling. “He certainly must be in love with
somebody. Some little red-cheeked, scrub-nosed,
country damsel, I dare say;” and she turned up her
pretty Grecian nose at the poor girl. The perplexity
of guessing who this somebody was, occupied her
some time, insomuch that she entirely forgot Mr.
Goshawk's piece of poetry and his beautiful language.

“I beg your pardon,” said Highfield, “for
coming here to interrupt you and make speeches.
Your father requested me to say he wishes to speak
with you, cousin.”

Goshawk took his leave; Lucia sought her
father, and Highfield his bed; for he was really
much indisposed with his bruises.