"A letter from my guardian. This is indeed an event. A year ago he wrote me a long letter of advice, touching my studies, and giving a world of counsel regarding my deportment. That cold, half-dictatorial, half-fatherly letter, seemed forced from his heart by a sense of duty. This is brief, elegant and kind. He is satisfied with my progress at school, and hears with pleasure, of the improvement in my person—this means, probably, that I am not near so plain as he fancied me. They tell him I have a sort of fire and animation of the countenance, more effective than perfection of outline could render me. I wonder if this be true—of course it is impossible to judge of one's self in a point which depends so much upon the feelings. There is no animation in a hurried or tedious toilet, and the beauty he speaks of is never given back by the mirror. To my vision, now, this is a rather dull and uninteresting face. I wonder if it ever does light up into anything like beauty. Some one must have said this to my guardian. Could it have been the young heir of Neathcote? He did not seem to look at me at all, when he called at the school and I was frightened to death by his great, earnest eyes; if my guardian proves half as imposing, I shall be afraid to look up in his presence.
"There is something strange in the situation of my guardian. He is considered one of the most eloquent men in America, and by his marriage with the widow of a cousin, three or four times removed, is the master of great wealth. But every dollar of it came by his wife, on whom the son was left entirely dependent as he is now. They tell me that General Harrington is a liberal step-father and gives the young man no reason to complain, but it seems a little hard that all his father's great wealth should have been swept into the possession of a comparative stranger; for, though these two men bear one common name, and are remotely of the same blood, they met for the first time at the wedding out of which sprang these present rather singular relations.
"There is another strange thing about this. Mrs. Harrington can only dispose of the property by will. She has no power to alienate it during her life, but can bequeath it where she likes. So if the General should outlive her, this young man may be utterly disinherited; a hard case it seems to me, for the lady is very gentle and yielding, so devoted to her handsome husband, that his faintest wish is a law to her. All this has been told me from time to time, leaving such an impression of injustice on my mind, that I fairly began to pity the young man before I saw him. But after that, the idea of pity never entered my mind. Millions could not enhance the nobility of his presence, or make him one shade more interesting. His mother is said to be very beautiful. She should be, she should be! But how foolishly I am writing about a person whom I have never seen but once, and who seemed to have taken no interest in that meeting, except to give me a letter from his Step-father, which will alter my whole course of life. The young gentleman himself is only passing this way on his travels westward.
"So, I am to start at once, now that my education is completed—completed; I like the term—as if education were not always progressive, rounded off by death only. Well, at least, I am grateful to leave this tiresome routine of lessons, and yet there is something of mournfulness in this abrupt entrance into life.
"I have just opened the window, and would gladly look forth upon the morning. But this screen of Cherokee roses hangs before me like a curtain, shedding fragrance from every fold. In parting its clusters with my hands, tenderly—for to my fancy, flowers are sensitive and recoil from a rude touch—the dew that has been all night asleep in their heart, bathes my hands with its sweet rain, and through the opening comes a gush of odor from the great magnolia that reaches out its boughs so near my window, that I could lean forth and shake the drops from those snowy chalices, as they gleam and tremble in the bright air.
"What a beautiful world is this. The very breath one draws leaves a delicious languor behind it, a languor that falls upon the senses and gives back to the whole being a dreamy quietude that makes the mere effort of existence an exquisite enjoyment. And yet there is a feeling of strange loneliness in it all. It is pleasant to be happy, but oh! how more than pleasant to have some one near, to whom all these charming sensations can be expressed. I think one is never quite content alone, but then who ever is really content?
"How exquisitely pure every thing seems; my little chamber here, with its delicate matting and snowy draperies, looks like the nest of a ring-dove, it is so white and quiet. The sweet visions which visit me here are melodious as the warbling of the young bird, when the early morning wakens it, as the dawn has just aroused me.
"I have been now three days beneath my guardian's roof. Dear Neathcote, I love it already for its singular beauty! I shall never forget the strange feelings which crowded my bosom, as the carriage passed through the park gates and rolled slowly up the broad avenue. I threw open the window and leaned out with the eagerness of a child to catch a sight of my new home. When, as a sudden turn in the road brought the front of the mansion in full view, I shrunk into my seat again, trembling from a vague fear, which had as much of joy as pain in it.
"I grew fairly dizzy and faint with excitement, as the carriage paused before the entrance, and I saw my guardian waiting on the steps to greet me, standing up so stately and proud, with his wife by his side, her sweet face lighted up with a sort of friendly curiosity, to see what her unknown visitor would be like.