The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad. Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Somerville were with us; and though the events with which he had been associated had somewhat sobered the doctor's mirthful propensities, the geniality of his character was triumphant over every circumstance.
My father expressed to him the most fervent gratitude for his parental kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt.
"You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe; "and even if you did, and were the debt ten times beyond your grateful appreciation of it, I should consider myself repaid by the privilege of calling you my friend."
No one could speak with more feeling or dignity than the doctor, when the right chord was touched. He told me he had never seen the man he admired so much as my father; and how proud and happy it made me to have him say so, and know that his words were true! No one who has not felt as I did, the mortification, the shame and anguish of believing myself the daughter of a convicted criminal, can understand the intense, the almost worshipping reverence with which I regarded my late-found parent. To feel pride instead of humiliation, exultation instead of shame, and love instead of abhorrence, how great the contrast, how unspeakable the relief, how sublime and holy the gratitude!
CHAPTER LIX.
The snows of winter melted, the diamond icicles dropped from the trees, the glittering fetters slipped from the streams, and nature came forth a captive released from bondage, glowing with the joy of emancipation.
Nothing could be more beautiful, more glorious, than the valley in its vernal garniture. Such affluence of verdure; such rich, sweeping foliage; such graceful undulation of hill and dale; such exquisite blending of light and shade; such pure, rejoicing breezes; such blue, resplendent skies never before met, making a tableau vivant on which the eye of the great Creator must look down with delight.
It was the first time Mrs. Linwood had witnessed the opening of spring at Grandison Place, and her faded spirits revived in the midst of its blooming splendor. She bad preferred its comparative retirement during the past winter, and, in spite of the solicitations of her friends, refused to go to the metropolis. My father and Julian both felt an artist's rapture at the prospect unrolled in a grand panorama around them, and transferred to the canvas many a glowing picture. It was delightful to watch the progress of these new creations,—but far more interesting when the human face was the subject of the pencil. Edith and myself were multiplied into so many charming forms, it is strange we were not made vain by gazing on them.
I was very grasping in my wishes, and wanted quite a picture gallery of my friends,—Mrs. Linwood, Edith, and Dr. Harlowe; and my indulgent father made masterly sketches of all for his exacting daughter. And thus day succeeded day, and no wave from Indian seas wafted tidings of the absent husband and son. No "Star of the East" dawned on the nightshades of my heart. And the raven voice kept echoing in my ear, "Never more, never more." There had been a terrible gale sweeping along the whole eastern coast of the Atlantic, and many a ship had gone down, freighted with an argosy richer than gold,—the treasures of human hearts. I did not speak my fears, but the sickness of dread settled on my spirits, in spite of the almost super-human efforts I made to shake it from them. When my eyes were fixed on my father's paintings, I could see nothing but storm-lashed billows, wrecking ships, and pale, drowning mariners. I could see that Mrs. Linwood and Edith participated in my apprehensions, though they did not give them utterance. We hardly dared to look in each other's faces, lest we should betray to each other thoughts which we would, but could not conceal.