"I am glad she has so watchful a guardian," said Mr. Regulus, regarding me with his old-fashioned, earnest tenderness. "We hear very flattering accounts," he added, addressing me, "of our young friend, Richard Clyde. He will return next summer, after a year's absence, having acquired as much benefit as most young men do in two or three."
I could not help blushing, for I knew the eyes of Ernest were on me. He could never hear the name of Richard with indifference, and the prospect of his return was far from being a source of pleasure to him. Richard was very dear to me as a friend, and I was proud of his growing honors. Yet I dared not manifest the interest I felt.
Never had I been so supremely happy, as since my reconciliation with Ernest. I felt that he had something to forgive, much to forgive, and that he was magnanimous to do it, considering the weakness with which he struggled. Never had I loved him so entirely, or felt such confidence in my future happiness. Yet the moment the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, it sounded like a prophecy of evil.
Oh that he would transfer to Edith the affections given to me, and then he could bind Ernest to his heart by the sacred bonds of fraternity!
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The few days which Mr. Regulus passed in the city, were happy ones to me. He had never visited it before; and Ernest showed him more respect and attention than I had seen him bestow on other men. I had never betrayed the romance of the academy; and not dreaming that my preceptor had ever been my lover, he tolerated the regard he manifested, believing it partook of the paternal character. Perhaps, had he remained long, he would have considered even this an infringement on his rights; but, to my unspeakable joy, nothing occurred to cloud our domestic horizon during his stay. Once or twice when the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, I saw the shadow of coming events on the brow of Ernest; but it passed away, and the evil day of his return seemed very far off.
I could not regret Margaret's departure. There was so entire a dissimilarity in our characters, and though I have no doubt she cherished for me all the friendship she was capable of feeling, it was of that masculine cast, that I could not help shrinking from its manifestations. Her embraces were so stringent, her kisses so loud and resounding, I could not receive them without embarrassment, though no one but Ernest might be near.
The evening before she left, she was in an unusually gentle mood. We were alone in my chamber, and she actually sat still several moments without speaking. This was something as ominous as the pause that precedes the earth's spasmodic throes. I have not spoken of Margaret's destructive propensities, but they were developed in a most extraordinary manner. She had a habit of seizing hold of every thing she looked at, and if it chanced to be of delicate materials, it often shivered in her grasp. I do not wonder poor Mrs. Harlowe trembled for her glass and china, for scarcely a day passed that her path was not strewed with ruins, whose exquisite fragments betrayed the costly fabric she had destroyed. Now it was a beautiful porcelain vase, which she would have in her hands to examine and admire, then an alabaster statuette or frail crystal ornament. If I dropped a kid glove, she invariably attempted to put it on, and her hand being much larger than mine, she as invariably tore it in shreds. She would laugh, roll up her eyes, and exclaim, "shocking! why this could not be worth anything! I will let it alone next time."
I cannot say but that these daily proofs of carelessness and destructiveness were trials of the temper and constant gratings on the nerves. It was difficult to smile with a frowning heart, for such wanton disregard for the property and feelings of others must pain that nice moral sense which is connected with the great law of self-preservation.