“Young faces do not grow pale or bright eyes become troubled without a cause. Grief for your cousin might explain it, but if you have suffered from no grief—”
“My cousin was very kind to me,” hurriedly interrupted Paula. “Her death was very sudden and very heart-rending.”
“So it was;” returned Miss Belinda, “and I expected to see you look worn and sad but not restless and feverish. You have a living grief, Paula, what is it?”
The young girl started and looked down. For the first time in her life she wished to avoid that penetrating glance. “If I have, I cannot talk of it,” she murmured. “I have experienced so much this past week; my coming away was so unexpected, that I hardly understand my own feelings, or realize just what it is that troubles me most. All that I know is, that I am very tired and so sad, it seems as if the sun would never shine again.”
“There is then something you have not written me?” inquired the inexorable Miss Belinda.
“The experiences of this last week could never be written,—or told,” returned Paula with a droop of her head. “Upon some things our better wisdom places a stone which only the angels can roll away. The future lies all open before us; do not let us disturb the past.”
And Miss Belinda was forced to be content lest she should seem to be over anxious.
Not so the various neighbors and friends to whom the lengthened sojourn of one of their number in an atmosphere of such wealth and splendor, possessed something of the charm of a forbidden romance. For months Paula was obliged to endure questions, that it required all her self-control to answer with calmness and propriety. But at length the most insatiable gossip amongst them was satisfied; Paula’s figure was no longer a novelty in their streets; curiosity languished and the young girl was allowed to rest.
And now could those who loved her, discern that with the lapse of time and the daily breathings of her native air, the sad white look had faded from her face, leaving it a marvel of freshness and positive, if somewhat spiritualized, beauty. The print of deeper thoughts and holier yearnings was there, but no sign of blighted hopes or uncomprehended passions. A passing wind had blown the froth from off the cup, but had not disturbed the sparkle of the wine. She had looked in the face of grief, but had not as yet been clasped in her relentless arms. Only two things could vitally disturb her; a letter from Cicely, or a sudden meeting in the village streets with that elderly lady who haunted the Japha mansion. The former because it recalled a life around which her fancies still played with dangerous persistency, and the latter because it aroused vain and inexplicable conjectures as to that person’s strange and lingering look in her direction. Otherwise she was happy; finding in this simple village-life a meaning and a purpose which her short but passionate outlook on a broader field, had taught her, perhaps, both to detect and comprehend. She no longer walked solitary with nature. The woods, the mountains with all their varying panoply of exuberant verdure, had acquired a human significance. At her side went the memories of beloved faces, the thoughts of trusted friends. From the clouds looked forth a living eye, and in the sound of rustling leaf and singing streamlet, spake the voices of human longing and human joy.
Her aunts had explained their position to Paula and she had responded by expressing her determination to be a teacher. But they would not hear of that at present, and while she waited their pleasure in the matter, she did what she could to assist them in their simple home-life and daily duties, lending her beauty to tasks that would have made the eyes of some of her quondam admirers open with surprise, if only they could have followed the action of her hands, after having once caught a glimpse of the face that brightened above them. And so the summer months went by and September came.