University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
IL SEGRETO PER ESSER FELICE.

Mr. Effingham had not gone to the races for the same
reason which had prevented Mr. Ralph Waters from attending
the party at the Hall. The Captain felt an unconquerable
repugnance to break bread under the roof of one who had

stood in such a relation to his brother and his cousin formerly;
practising, unconsciously, the Arabic custom which he
had met with in his travels in the East. In like manner,
Mr. Effingham could not go and smile, and caracole, and
laugh at the joyous festival; it was too diametrically opposed
to his feelings.

We shall perceive more clearly what those feelings were
by entering the Hall on the evening succeeding the races, ascending
the broad pine stairs, and going into Mr. Effingham's
room.

The sun was just setting, and a stream of bright rosy light
streamed through the tall windows on the opposite wall, and
on the occupant of the room, who was seated in a tall carved
chair, such as our ancestors much affected, with that singular
taste for the stately, the grotesque, every thing but the
comfortable, which they possessed—at least in regard to furniture.
Mr. Effingham looked even paler than usual, and
his eyelids drooped, the dusky lashes reposing on his wan
cheek. His hair, free from powder, and hanging down upon
his shoulders, was brilliantly illuminated by the rosy ray, and
the single diamond upon his white hand glittered. That
hand hung listlessly, the arm reposing upon the red damask
cushion, and the other hand supported his cheek.

As he mused, gazing at the bright flood of sunlight, a
faint smile, like the reflection of the moon in water, dwelt
upon his pale lips and in his weary eyes. Then a sigh escaped
from the lips, and the breast heaved.

“Surely I have suffered much in my life,” he said, in a
low voice, with another weary sigh. “The fates seem to
pursue me; they will not permit me to pass any day, unless
it is more or less clouded. What a career mine has been—
how forlorn, how full of sad and unhappy events leaving so
many painful recollections. My boyhood was pure and
happy, and I laughed at care as the child heart laughs at
every thing; incredulous, obstinately hopeful, I saw before
me a long life of merriment, and I was never weary of the
joy which flowed into my heart from the bright world. All
things were couleur de rose. I had an open hand; a generous,
loving nature—I could have taken in my arms the
whole world from pure love and joy. I wandered through
these forests singing; I ran gayly over the breezy hills;

I rode and hunted and lived an existence full of fresh
and vigorous emotions: life to me was one long carnival.
And what a carnival! What lovely masks—what picturesque
and beautiful dresses—how many thousands of flambeaux
seemed to flood the air with their bright flashing
light! I heard wondrous music in every thing,—the trees,
the streams, the very sky was vocal with those voices
which are ever calling, in their clear, soft tones on youth,
and telling it to enjoy! enjoy! enjoy! I loved a pure heart
then—I thought she loved me.”

Another sigh more profound escaped from the pale lips;
the faint sad smile again lit up the face with its twilight.

“Oh yes! she loved me then,” he continued in a murmur;
“that is my pride and happiness, my quiet joy now in
these weary days, when life seems wholly exhausted for me
—happiness gone past never to come back. What golden
hours we passed! Ah! men may talk of the love of children
slightingly, and stroke their beards and say they cannot
feel the sentiment in its full force. It is a fallacy. There
is nothing in after life so wholly pure and strong and grand
as the first love of a boy—as his devotion, tenderness, and
sincerity. In this after-life, our passions come to be matters
of calculation; we look to settlements—we estimate eligibility—of
rank, or wealth, or age. Youth, with its grand
blindness, looks to none of them. It sees but one object in
the world—wants not the money or the station, asks but the
heart!”

He paused: and then went on sadly.

“Yes, those were golden hours—very happy hours.
How beautiful she was! I think there never was such pure
and tender beauty in a human face! I remember, as though
it were yesterday, the child's face beaming on me, while the
birds were chirping in the trees and the brook laughing. I
thought the birds were envious of her singing when she carolled
clearly in the bright fresh morning. She wore a
wreath of roses in her hair, and carried on her arm a basket
full of flowers; how clearly I see all again—well! well!”

And the head drooped pensively again in the waning
sunset.

“Then, in the after days, when I came back from Europe,”
he continued, sadly, “I loved her just as before—

but did not find her fill so completely my whole heavens.
Still, it is true she rose for me like a pure, lovely star; but
the hours had drawn on slowly, and other stars had risen
which distracted my attention. Especially that fiery planet
which whirled through its brief orbit and so narrowly escaped
being quenched in blood!”

He looked gloomy for a moment: but very soon the old
sad, weary smile came back as his eyes were raised to a book-case
in the corner. On this bookcase stood two statues:
and by these statues lay some withered flowers. He rose,
took down the withered nosegay, and sat down again in the
same listless way. He looked at them sadly, and placed
them against his cheek with a forlorn smile.

“She gave them to me one afternoon when we were
walking hand in hand in the old garden,” he murmured,
wistfully, “and I told her they were not half so fresh and
bright and purely beautiful as her face. I see her soft, tender
blush—I feel her hand tremble: at that moment life-long
happiness was in my grasp—the brilliant pearl, a pure
loving heart—well: I threw it away! It is gone: another
has enshrined it in his heart.

“Well, this is but one more hope gone—one more memory
to make my days and nights weary, to multiply these
weary sighs. I cannot, do not complain—yet I loved her!
loved her dearly: well, well, it is passed. She will be very
happy: he is a worthy gentleman, a kind heart. She will
not think of me often; I am not what I was. Poor sword!”
he continued, sadly, looking at his weapon lying on the table,
“you and your master have lost edge: you rust wofully.
That master is no longer the gay and laughing cavalier
whispering to ladies, and met every where with smiles—
the proud heir of Effingham, living his life with nothing any
where but those welcome smiles:—like these poor flowers
he has withered; his freshness is gone.”

A low voice singing came from the next room, and Mr.
Effingham recognized Kate's accents. By a singular coincidence,
she was singing, “The flowers of the forest,” that
sweet and plaintive air, which seems to resemble the sighing
of the wind, the murmur of the flowers, the low trembling
of an Æolian harp in a calm evening when the airs are almost
dead.

“Yes, they are gone,” said Mr. Effingham, his head
drooping: “yes! yes! love, youth, every thing rosy, hopeful,
brilliant is gone and withered away: and life has drawn
near no longer any thing but a stern, hard reality. Yes, the
flowers of the forest went away with the autumn—they withered
like these I hold. Withered! that is a strange word—
can it apply to a human heart?”

The tender voice of the child came from the adjoining
room, and the fresh, pure accents pleased and quieted him:
he smiled faintly.

“No, I believe my heart is not wholly withered,” he
murmured, “like my hopes.”

And reclining in the tall carved chair, his sad eyes wandered
to the sunset, waning slowly over the great forest with
a pomp of golden clouds. His face was bathed in the rich
rosy light, and his calm eye gazed steadily upon the blood-red
orb. It was one of those real pictures which surpass
the masterpieces of the greatest painters, and the flood of
light poured upon it like a crimson stream. Strikingly
handsome, pale, thoughtful, with chiselled lips, and long, waving
hair, and rich, elegant costume—the mere externals
would have rejoiced an artist: but no artist could have
caught the sad smile upon the lips; the calm, uncomplaining
sorrow in the eye; the posture so full of calm, almost
languid repose.

As he gazed on the sunset, the shadow in his eyes disappeared
in a degree: his brow cleared up partially; he
sighed, but no longer so wearily with such painful languor.

“Well, well,” he murmured, “there is the sun going
down after running his course honestly, and giving light to
all; warming the earth and quickening the germ within its
bosom. The seed has started beneath this warmth; the
leaves begun to bud; the birds have rejoiced in it, and the
whole universe grown stronger, brighter, fresher since he
rose this morning. And now he sets, quite calmly, having
done his duty—ah! that is Kate's word! Duty? that
is surely something, and it seems that the sun has not
stopped shining ever because clouds interposed and dimmed
him! Why should a man grow faint and murmur then,
and fold his arms and be idle, because the world is not a
fairy land of roses and perfumes—where a sweet do-nothing

reigns? That dolce far niente cannot be the secret of happiness:
I feel that it is not—and I have always laughed at
those Arcadian dreams of shepherdesses and shepherds with
their crooks, making languid love, and sighing and dreaming
the long days away in beautiful woodlands by the murmuring
streams of fancy.

“No, life is not a bower to dally in, to be happy, careless,
in; where all is sunshine. I feel it in my heart, and
trample on that Epcurean philosophy which teaches such a
doctrine. All things work—nature nowhere rests in these
unhappy delights which lap the heart in down and tell us
that the cold wind cannot reach us—that it should not.
That wind—even though it be a storm-wind—is healthy,
fresh, invigorating, like the breeze which stirs the leaves
yonder in the sunset. The sun is going—slowly, gradually
—he has done his duty, and will rise to-morrow to commence
again! Have not men a duty?”

He paused with dreamy eyes gazing upon the sunset.

“I have suffered—I have enjoyed—I have tasted life—
drained some delicious draughts, and been driven delirious
by them,” he continued. “Come, let me see if there is no
way open yet for me to imitate the sun, and do some good
in the world. Poor brain! I fear it is dulled now, and the
heart no longer warm: but I will put away my flowers at
least, and not sigh over the old days.”

He replaced the nosegay on the book-case, and as he did
so, he heard Kate come tripping along the broad passage
singing. But this time it was a merrier song—one of those
laughing ditties which have rung through so many houses,
filling them with the contagious laughter of the singer. Mr.
Effingham smiled, and was pleased to hear the fresh, merry
voice.

“The little chirper,” he said, “merry as usual!”

Kate came running on her tip-toes, and carolling that old
ditty, in which the singer asserts that her lover, who is gone
to the fair, has promised to buy her “a bunch of blue
ribbon;” and if there had been a multiplicity of bunches
of ribbon of all imaginary colors promised to Kate, she
could not have carolled her little ditty with more contagious
merriment.

She stopped at the door, and tapped. Mr. Effingham,

leaning his arm on the mantelpiece, said, “Come in, Kate!”
and his voice was much less sad.

Kate entered bright and sparkling, tripping, and running
on her tiptoes, with her curls flying, and her eyes dancing.

“Oh my goodness! here you are all by yourself,” she
said. “You mustn't be moping, now you know, cousin. I
won't allow that.”

“Pray, what right have you, madam, to command me?”
was the smiling answer.

“I? Why you belong to me, you know. Gracious!”
continued Kate laughing, “did any body ever?”

And the child put her arm round his waist, and drew him
toward the door.

“Come now, cousin, and take a walk with me,” she said.

“I'm rather dull, Katy.”

“You mustn't be.”

“Suppose I cannot help it.”

“But you shall.”

There was no resisting her entreaties, and Mr. Effingham
soon prepared himself for the walk. As they went forth in
the clear, still evening of the month of flowers, the birds
sang overhead, the streams ran merrily, the whole earth
seemed lapped in soft repose. The bleat of sheep came from
the hills, the cattle bells were tinkling as the long line came
slowly back from the pasture, and the wagoners returning
from their work, were singing their rude African songs, and
jesting with each other gayly. Flocks of gay birds were
circling through the sky, and filling the wide air with joyous
carollings. The thousand tranquil noises of a country
evening, gave a light and music to the time which cities never
feel. And then the songs died away through the forest like
a merry laugh; the sheep no longer bleated, but with lazy
lips; the cattle drew near home; and the low tinkle of their
bells was hushed. The birds, too, folded up their wings,
and only chirped occasionally as they went to sleep. The
night had come.

The tranquil hour, and all these quiet sounds, calmed the
sad heart, and made it lighter; and he looked fondly on the
little, bright-eyed face at his side. And Kate burst out joyfully
singing:—

Mr. Effingham gazed at the child smiling, and said:

“I know who is my lark, and I'm glad I am home in my
own country to hear the songs she sings.”

So they returned home through the quiet evening to the
old hall, whose chimneys still glowed in the sunset, and sent
up a golden flood of curling smoke. The dogs rose up and
came to have a romp with Kate. The squire's face was
smiling as he looked up from his newspaper; the house
smiled not less brightly; and his face was sad no longer.

The healthful voice of nature had spoken to his heart,
and he was calm.