A quiet and most beautiful life was that which Catharine led, in her country home. She was left completely mistress of her own time, with those kind old people, who were always too happy when Elsie was alone with themselves; but with all the resources of enjoyment about her, a strange nervousness possessed the young woman. Notwithstanding the entire frankness of the old people, and the paternal interest with which they regarded her, there was a sort of dignified gentleness about them that forbade any allusion to the subject that haunted her thoughts continually.
How came her husband’s portrait in that library, and what was the secret of its strange effect upon the demented daughter of the house? Why did it hang pendent with hers?
Again and again these questions arose to the young woman’s lips; but they always died upon them unuttered. The subject of this closed library was so completely ignored, it seemed so decidedly cast out from the routine of life among them, that she had no way of introducing it that would not seem forced and abrupt.
Besides, a species of superstition seized upon her, regarding this apartment. Like most sensitive persons, who have suffered deeply, she shrunk from turning back to the painful points of her own experience; and blending these objects, as she necessarily must, with her own fate, the reserve which lay upon all the rest, fell like a mist over her also. This feeling grew with time, till she hoarded her own thoughts upon the subject as if they had been a sin.
But she was drawn with irrepressible attraction toward the room. It was the only place on earth where she was certain of perfect solitude. No one ever visited that wing of the building, or at least ever penetrated so far as the library. The grass around the bay-window grew rank, and uncared for, while the lilac-trees and clustering roses remained leafy and unpruned from year to year, though perfect order reigned everywhere else in the grounds.
Early in the morning, before the family were astir, Catharine always spent an hour or two in the room so full of interest, yet which every one seemed to shun. The picture of her husband upon the wall seemed like a living soul. It had brought back her faith in humanity. It had made her less alone in the world.
A wonderful amount of knowledge may be accumulated, by devoting two morning hours out of the twenty-four to study, and, perhaps, the pleasantest acquirements we possess are those gathered up of our own free will, unaided and, as it were, in secret.
Thus it was with Catharine. With a tolerable rudimental education she found no difficulty in a want of masters, and every day saw her naturally fine mind expand itself with freshly gathered ideas, that gradually consolidated and took the form of knowledge.
Among other things she found a portfolio of drawings, rough studies, and bold, spirited sketches, such as genius throws off as it searches for perfect development, with implements and materials of art, which had long slumbered in disuse. The sight of these things awoke a new desire and a new talent in her. She would learn to paint. She would study hard, and so perfect herself, that some day his portrait should be hers. She would work incessantly till her art should achieve a copy of that. This was all the result she thought of—his picture—nothing more.
Here was an object for exertion. So she went to work, heart and soul, to obtain this shadow of a lost happiness; looking dreamily toward the future when he might learn how faithfully she had worked and thought for him.